Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘What a lovely quinella,’ said Les.

  ‘The way it’s structured, if anything happens to production, they each get two thousand five hundred dollars a week for up to six months. Then another hundred thousand. Plus their original investment back.’

  ‘Nice work.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Gerry. ‘The premium was fairly stiff. But it’s quite clever how they worked it. If Leaving Bondi never gets off the ground, it’s in their best interests. And it’s doubtful now it ever will. So they’re laughing.’

  Les nodded and gritted his teeth. ‘Laughing. Like a pair of hyenas.’

  ‘Sorry Les. But … that’s show business.’

  ‘Yeah. Like no business I know. Okay. Thanks for that, Gerry. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Anytime Les. Bye.’

  Norton replaced the phone and lay back on the bed. So. Max King and Simone Mitchum, eh. Maybe one of them did it? It certainly added another angle to the dangle. King especially. All those radio do-dads on the film set. King could slip a remote control device in amongst them, make sure he was safe, then detonate the bomb. And no one would know. His arse was covered and with their money from the insurance policy, he and Simone could go on to make more award-winning movies. But how could you prove it? Not easily. Still. It was something to go on if nothing eventuated in Adelaide. Les smiled bitterly. Not for me though. My lawyers — hopefully. I’ll be in the nick. Anyway. What now? Les swung his feet over the bed. Get cleaned up and have a feed in the restaurant. Then have a quiet one at home and pack my bags ready to split in the morning. I suppose I’d better ring the maitre d and inform him Mr McNamara will be dining alone tonight.

  Les took his time having a shave and a shower then got dressed again. Outside it had stopped raining, but the wind had picked up and it was still bleak and cold. He had a read, but half the time he kept thinking about his predicament and the room started to get that gaol feel about it again. It certainly was a nice mess he’d got himself into. Eventually he switched on the TV. The reception was awful. But a repeat episode of Seinfeld got Les going again. The one where George’s mother catches him with a full hand going alone and starts running around screaming: ‘My son’s a pervert. My son’s a pervert.’ Still laughing, Les threw his leather jacket on and walked down to the restaurant.

  Angelo wasn’t on. Instead Les got a fair-haired woman in a black suit. She was extremely charming and polite. But when it came to bow and scrape, she wasn’t in the event compared to Angelo. Les got a nice table facing the door and looked at the menu. What he had the night before tasted that good he ordered the same; plus a Hahn Premium, coffee and bread rolls; hold the sweets. Like the previous night, the meal was delicious. Les put it on his tab, gave a tip and left. He paused momentarily in the Kurrajong Room, but didn’t feel like sitting on his own listening to Super Hits of the Twenties and Thirties. So he went straight to his room.

  There was nothing on TV; and if there had been, the reception was that bad it wouldn’t have been worth watching anyway. Les opened The Portable Beat Reader. He’d finished all the Bukowski and Kerouac. And after half a page of Joyce Johnson, Les felt it’d be more fun beating his meat. He closed the book and stared out the window again into nothing except cold and darkness. It wasn’t much of a night. But Les felt anything would be better than sitting around like a battery hen. What did it say out the front of that hotel yesterday? Piano man Thursday night? Why not go and have a couple of quiet beers and check it out. If I keep my head down I should be all right. Les zipped up his leather jacket and walked out to the car.

  Not a great deal was happening in Katoomba when Les got there. A few taxis were parked in front of the tunnel to the railway station, one or two people were walking by and that was about it. He parked the car on a bus stop right outside the Kensington and walked up the front steps.

  There was one room as you entered, a small bar on the right then a few stairs led up to another room at the back. Chairs and tables dotted the red carpet and bench seats ran round the walls in the first room. The usual booze posters and sepia photos of pioneer days clung to the walls and a set of stairs on one side of the bar ran up to a bistro. Built above the bar was a wooden stage where a bloke on piano was hammering out Elton John’s ‘Benny And The Jets’, aided and abetted by another bloke on a guitar. About forty punters, mostly men, were scattered around both rooms. There were a few attractive girls and three of the ugliest lesbians Norton had ever seen, wearing Levi jackets and gelled mullets. Sitting along the opposite side of the bar under the stage were four young blokes in sweatshirts and baseball caps, sucking schooners and smoking cigarettes. They were hair raiding the musicians and making plenty of noise in general, somewhere between boisterous fun and drunken attitude. Apart from them, everybody else was quietly drinking and the dress code ranged from corduroy trousers to plastic raincoats, tracksuits to black dresses. The only exception was an overweight woman with a face like a pie tin standing at the bar wearing a long grey woollen dress. She had copper-coloured hair, combed into two braids, junky green earrings and wrapped loosely round her neck was a green, tartan scarf. Sitting on the bar was a cheap bottle of sparkling domestic in an ice bucket and she was carrying on like she’d just won lotto. Les edged his way around her and got a middy of VB then found a vacant bench seat and a table. He sat back looking up at the stage and had an enjoyable sip of beer as the two musicians gave it to Neil Young’s ‘Heart of Gold’.

  The first beer went down easy and was just what Les needed. Feeling a slight glow, he walked over and ordered another one, getting a heavy once up and down from the woman with the ice bucket. Les half smiled back at her and returned to his seat. The two musicians got stuck into Stevie Ray Vaughn’s ‘Pride and Joy’. Then the piano man announced they were taking a break and he was going to relieve his bladder. One of the young blokes at the bar held up a half empty schooner glass and yelled up to him.

  ‘Here. Fill this up while you’re at it.’

  All his mates thought it was as funny as all get up and fell about laughing like drains. Les thought it wasn’t a bad call and finished his second beer. He got up for a third and got another once up and down from the woman with the ice bucket. Again Les half smiled back and returned to his seat. Over the top of his middy Les could feel her watching him. Finally, she picked up her ice bucket and walked over.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ she said in a throaty voice that vibrated through her double chins.

  Les looked at her like she had a tarantula crawling over her face. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he answered.

  Tartan scarf plonked her ice bucket on the table in front of Les and crammed her ample backside into a chair. ‘I’m Lareina,’ she said.

  ‘How are you, Lareina?’ replied Les. ‘I’m Marvin.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Marvin.’

  ‘Yeah. Likewise.’

  ‘Are you from round here, Marvin?’

  Les shook his head. ‘Stock and Bingle.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lareina. ‘What do you do out there?’

  ‘I’m a rabbit trapper.’

  ‘Really. I like to eat rabbits.’

  ‘You’d eat anything,’ said Les.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said, you can eat them with anything.’

  ‘Yes. Especially curried.’ Lareina swallowed the glass of wine she brought with her and poured another one. ‘So what are you doing in Katoomba, Marvin?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m here for the Songs of the Wind Festival,’ answered Les.

  Lareina gave a squeal of delight. ‘What a coincidence. I’m a playwright.’

  ‘You’re a what?’

  ‘I write plays.’ Lareina nodded to the bottle of cheap fizz. ‘That’s why I’m celebrating. They’re performing one of my plays this weekend. And I’ve won a grant to write another one.’

  Les looked at her impassively. ‘Fair … dinkum?’

  ‘Yes. It’s called The Sculptured Chrysanthemum.’

  ‘Go … on.’ Les had a mo
uthful of beer and stared at Lareina. Shit! How do I find them? I’ve got to get a T-shirt made with Come and Talk to Me, I Love Idiots printed on the front. And a matching cap.

  Lareina started waffling on about her fabulous play and how Les shouldn’t miss it. She could get him a ticket. Then the musicians returned and started flogging Cat Stevens’s ‘Where Will The Children Play’. While this was going on Les didn’t notice a bloke wearing a disposal-store army jacket, jeans and black Timberlands walk in. He had dark hair and an earring and was walking to the hotel across the railway line when he saw the mud spattered green Berlina out the front of the Kensington. Inside there was no missing Norton’s craggy red head. The bloke got a middy and quietly watched Les from the bar.

  By now Les had had enough of Lareina, and the music wasn’t doing anything for him either when Lareina pulled out a packet of Winfields from somewhere in her dress. She groped around for her lighter, got a cigarette going then managed to knock Les’s beer over when she picked up her glass of wine.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she giggled, blowing a mouthful of smoke in Norton’s face as she flicked ash over the table.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Les. ‘You did me a favour.’ He rose from the table and walked straight out the door to his car.

  Fuckin fat pain in the arse, Les scowled, zipping his leather jacket up against the cold. I was enjoying that beer. Three would have been just nice, too. He licked his lips. I suppose I can have another one back at the Medlow. He was about to get in the car when he noticed the hotel across the railway line. Why don’t I have one more in there. It’s not that far and some fresh mountain air would be good after putting up with her. They might have some music going, too. Les shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and started walking.

  A tunnel ran under the railway station, and the taxi drivers parked in front of the nearby shops thought Les was an approaching fare and nearly ate him. Les smiled as he walked past and took the steps on his right. An opening to the station went off to the left and beneath a grey metal girder the tunnel ran straight ahead. It was fairly well lit. There were some framed posters on the walls and at the end of the wall on the right was a long mural of an indigo night sky full of stars, viewed from over a row of pine trees. Les gave it a grudging nod of approval as he walked past, then turned right, coming up at a pedestrian crossing leading to the hotel.

  It was a fairly big hotel featuring a small beer garden out the front beneath an art-deco style verandah and windows. A blue awning with Fosters printed on it swung round to the bars on the right. Les crossed over to the footpath and walked in the glass doors at the end. Inside, one long wooden bar curved around to the left to an alcove with a fireplace. On the right was a games room and in front of that a pool room with one unoccupied pool table. Through a corridor was a lounge with a small ticket office next to a door with a sign, BANDS WED AND FRI NIGHTS $3 ADMISSION. The decor was mainly brown and yellow, with old wooden fittings and lights hanging from the ceiling on chrome pipes. The fire in the alcove was going and about fifteen punters were spread along the bar, including three very sour-faced blokes at the games room end wearing dark tracksuits and trainers. Les had a quick look around, then ordered a middy of VB and walked down to the alcove at the other end.

  There was no music and absolutely nothing to perv on as Les sipped his beer and gazed at the fire over a table full of drunks. The crowd was older and more into plain drinking than at the other hotel. It might have been warm and the beer wasn’t all that bad, but it was just too boring. Gazing absently at the fire Les didn’t notice the bloke in the army jacket walk in the same door he did. He went straight up to the sour-faced men in the tracksuits and pointed to Les. Their sour faces suddenly turned even sourer. Well, there’s not much doing here, thought Les. I think I might call it a night. I’d have been better off staying home. No. If it hadn’t been for that wobbegong putting her fat head in at that other place it would have been all right. The music wasn’t that bad, and the beer was good. Les finished his middy, put the glass on the bar and left through the nearest door.

  Walking back through the tunnel, Les stopped momentarily to have another look at the mural and noticed the artist had included a few UFOs in the background. I suppose on those clear nights up this way they’d see a few strange lights in the sky now and again, Les chuckled to himself. Woody should move up here. She’d cough in her rompers if she saw that mural. He’d started walking again when an angry voice shouted out from the end of the tunnel, echoing round the walls.

  ‘Hey, you in the fuckin leather jacket.’

  Les stopped and turned around. ‘Are you talking to me?’ he asked politely.

  ‘You’re the only fuckin one here, cunt.’

  The three men from the bar, plus the one in the army jacket, marched up to Les. The one doing the shouting had dark hair and a flattened nose, pushed into a mean, sallow face. He was the biggest. The man in the army jacket was about medium build and another one on Norton’s right was tall with short brown hair and looked like he might be able to handle himself. The fourth bloke was skinny with a bony face full of acne, and although he was doing his best to look tough, Les felt he was there only to make up the numbers. The four men formed a half circle around Les, who was standing a couple of metres out from the wall.

  ‘What seems to be the trouble fellahs?’ smiled Les, taking his hands from his pockets.

  The biggest bloke glared at him. ‘You were out Medlow Bath today. Weren’t you?’

  Les shook his head. ‘I only just got here a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Fuckin bullshit!’ The big bloke nodded to the one in the army jacket. ‘Jimmy was working out there and saw you parked in Red Gum Road. You were cruising around all day.’

  Les looked at the bloke in the army jacket. ‘I think Colin Combat needs to get his eyes tested.’

  ‘I don’t need my eyes tested,’ said the bloke in the army jacket. ‘That’s your Berlina outside the Kensington. And that was you out Medlow Bath today.’

  ‘You got me mixed up with someone else,’ said Les.

  ‘We ain’t got you mixed up with no one,’ said the big hood. ‘And I got one dog dead, and another in the vet’s with a fractured skull.’

  ‘Well,’ suggested Les, ‘maybe you shouldn’t let your dogs roam the streets. Keep them on a lead and they won’t get hurt in the traffic.’

  The big hood’s face reddened with anger. ‘They didn’t get hurt in no traffic you cunt. Somebody hit them with something. Something hard. Like this.’

  The big hood reached under his tracksuit with his right hand and whipped out a length of pipe. He raised it above his head then swung it at Norton’s face. Les had been expecting something like this. He moved in closer, caught the hood’s wrist with his left hand, gripped him at the elbow with his right, then twisted left, turning the big hood with him. When the hood’s back was facing the tunnel wall, Les swept his right leg away and banged the back of his head into the wall. He followed this with a smashing right knee into the hood’s groin. The big hood gave a yelp of pain that echoed round the tunnel and dropped the length of pipe. Les let go of him and snatched up the pipe. In almost the same movement, Les backhanded it against the side of Army Jacket’s right knee. Army Jacket gasped in a breath then howled and grabbed at his shattered knee. Before he could howl again, Les gave him an uppercut with the pipe, splitting his chin open and dumping him on his back. Les kept going round in a half circle with the length of pipe and collected the brown-haired bloke across one side of the face, then swung it back across the other. The first blow broke Brown Hair’s jaw, the second one smashed several teeth. Brown Hair clutched at his face as blood started oozing through his fingers, then turned his back on Les and sank to his knees. Les split the back of his head open with a quick rap of the pipe and he pitched forward, unconscious. The big hood was sitting on his backside holding his groin: stunned and in a lot of pain, but still conscious. He looked up at Les and the last thing he saw was the le
ngth of pipe coming towards his face before it crunched into his forehead, splitting it to the bone. Blood poured into his eyes, he let go of his groin and fell back amongst the others, out cold. This left the last bloke looking down at his mates horrified. His poor, skinny, acned face was contorted with fear and a trickle of urine had started running down the inside of his jeans. Les poked the length of pipe at his groin.

  ‘Hello me old,’ said Les. ‘How are they hanging? Long and loose and full of juice?’

  ‘Ohh look, mate,’ begged the skinny hood. ‘I had nothing to do with this. Fair dinkum. I was just sitting in the pub. I don’t even come from round here. I’m from Muswellbrook. I drive a bread cart. I swear, mate. I hardly know these blokes.’

  Les gave the skinny hood a cursory once up and down. ‘You know something? I believe you. You’re just an innocent bystander.’

  ‘That’s right, mate. I’m telling you the truth. Honest I am. You got to believe me.’ The trickle in the bloke’s jeans turned into a torrent. ‘I’ve never lied in my life.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re an honest man,’ said Les. ‘So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.’ The skinny hood yelped with terror as Les jammed the length of pipe up under his chin and pinned him against the wall. ‘Now listen to me, you pimply faced streak of cat shit,’ hissed Norton, his eyes about an inch away from the hood’s. ‘I’m a secret agent with the taxation department. I’m up here looking for an Israeli banker, stole fifty million dollars from the government. So I’m not in the slightest bit interested in you. Or your shitty mates. You listening?’

  ‘Yeah mate. Yeah,’ gasped the bloke. ‘Every word, mate.’

  ‘So tell your friends when they’re back on their feet: keep their mouths shut about what just happened, and I won’t tell the drug squad about their little hydro operation in Red Gum Avenue. You got that?’

  ‘Yeah mate. Every word. No one’ll say nothing.’

  ‘Good. Because I don’t need the paperwork. But if you don’t, you know what I’ll do?’