Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

The bloke shook his head. ‘No, mate. What?’

  Les shoved the pipe between the bloke’s legs. ‘I’ll come back and audit you.’

  Les could see the poor bloke was seconds away from crapping his pants as well as pissing himself. He wiped the hair and blood off the pipe on the bloke’s tracksuit top and left him.

  The taxi drivers were watching Les as he came up the stairs. Les tucked the piece of pipe under his arm, but he thought one driver saw it. When Les got to his car, the piano man and his mate were pounding the life out of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Don’t Stop’. Les opened the door and threw the piece of pipe on the passenger seat. Whether any of the cab drivers took any notice as he drove past, Les wasn’t sure. A couple of kilometres down the highway, Les opened the window and flung the piece of pipe into the bush. He wound the window back up and drove to the hotel.

  Back in his room, Les packed his jeans away and changed into his blue tracksuit. He got a little bottle of Jim Beam from the mini-bar, poured it into a glass, topped it with water and swallowed some. It went down well, so Les swallowed some more. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the silent TV. What just happened should have had a funny side to it; especially when the skinny bloke piddled himself. But Les wasn’t laughing. He was worried. And he felt like kicking himself in the arse. I knew I should have stayed home. There’s cops looking for me all over the state. But no. I have to go to a fuckin pub and get into a fight. I need rooting. Les took another mouthful of bourbon. When those heroes drag their sorry arses off to hospital, the doctor or the nurses are going to call the police. Then there’s those taxi drivers. They couldn’t miss me. And I’m sure one of them saw me with that iron bar. Shit! My only chance is if they don’t go to hospital before I get out of here tomorrow. Yeah, right. If they don’t get their heads stitched up they’ll bleed like stuck pigs all night. Les looked at his bags packed and ready to go. I should piss off now. But where am I gonna go? I can’t hang around Sydney or my place. I can’t win. I’m fucked if I stay here. And I’m fucked if I go home. Les caught his reflection in the mirror next to the bathroom. You’re a nice goose, Norton.

  He finished the first bourbon and had another. The second one settled him down a little. Yeah, but surely those hillbillies wouldn’t say anything after I drummed it into that dill’s head about their hydro system? They couldn’t be that stupid. No. I think I’m pretty sweet. And by the time the cops sort all the shit out, how are they going to find me? They could if they wanted to. But I reckon they’d have better things on their minds than a bunch of wallys getting a belting. They’re probably local hoods anyway. Les took another sip of bourbon. Yeah. I think I’m drama queening here just a bit. That’s me, Les Norton aka Bette Davis. He caught his reflection in the mirror again. You dill. Les was about to switch the TV on when there was an urgent knock on the door.

  Norton’s blood went cold, and this time he did start to panic. Ohh shit! They’re here already. Fuck! How did they find me so quick? God! What am I going to do? He looked at the window. It was a ten-metre drop. Don’t answer the door? The cops’d smash the fuckin thing in. Les was trapped. There was only one thing he could do. Answer the door and face the music. Bugger it. Two days he’d lasted. Two lousy, bloody days. And just when it looked like there might have been a tiny light at the end of the tunnel. With a heart full of lead, Les opened the door.

  ‘Mr Forrest McNamara?’ It was a woman.

  Les gave a double blink. ‘Yeah. That’s me.’

  ‘My name is Odessa Hatfield. I’m a friend of Blythe Selby’s.’

  ‘You are? Well … come on in, Odessa. Tell me what I can do for you.’

  Totally flabbergasted, Norton stepped aside to let the young woman in. She was almost as tall as Les, with straggly auburn hair combed up at the back. Her face was strong, with a firm mouth and wild green eyes and totally devoid of make-up. A thick black cardigan hung loosely over a maroon dress clinging to her whippy body and across one shoulder was a small leather sling bag. Clutched in her hands was a manuscript. It wasn’t far from stepping inside to the mini-bar near the end of Norton’s bed, but by the time she got there, Les noticed Odessa had a shapely arse with a swing like a new back door.

  Odessa turned around, her chin up, a look of defiance on her face. When she spoke her voice was firm yet eloquent. ‘If I’ve barged in on you like this Mr McNamara,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. But Blythe told me you’re looking for poets.’

  ‘Yeah. We sure are,’ replied Les. ‘Are you a poet?’

  ‘Yes,’ asserted Odessa.

  ‘Unreal,’ said Les. ‘So … what have you got for me, Odessa?’

  ‘This.’ Odessa thrust her manuscript at Norton.

  Les took the manuscript and looked at the title, Silicone Thoughts and Plastic Dreams. ‘Are these all your original works, Odessa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. All right. Well why don’t you relax and make yourself a drink while I read one.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr McNamara.’

  Odessa flustered nervously round the mini-bar and made herself a scotch and water while Les fumbled around opening her manuscript, still not quite sure what he was doing. Odessa watched intently as Les sat on the bed and chose a poem at random. It was called ‘Muriel’s Milk Box’.

  Talk to me in lecherous detail,

  my heart demands it.

  Is there cream,

  yoghurt,

  Lite-White,

  Ricotta.

  I swim in a sea of masochistic love,

  with chocolate sharks,

  and raspberry stingrays.

  Les closed the manuscript and looked at Odessa. Odessa stared back challengingly.

  ‘Well. What do you think?’ she said. It was a demand as much as a question.

  ‘What do I think?’ answered Les. ‘I’m not sure how to put this, Odessa. But you’re definitely in the same league as Blythe Selby.’

  ‘I am?’ Odessa gave Les a double blink.

  ‘Reckon. Of course I’ve only read one poem. But hey …’ Les made an open handed gesture.

  ‘So you like them?’

  ‘Of course. They’re great.’

  Odessa fell back against the mini-bar. ‘Oh, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.

  Les smiled serenely at Odessa. ‘But I do have to ask you something, Odessa, before we continue.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mr McNamara?’

  ‘Are there any poems in here about sex?’

  Odessa shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘I’m trying to keep sex out if it. At this stage.’

  ‘Fair enough, Odessa,’ nodded Les. ‘What about blow jobs?’ Les tapped the manuscript with an index finger. ‘Is there any chance of finding a polish in here?’

  Odessa’s green eyes flashed. ‘Mr McNamara,’ she smiled. ‘There’s a sheila in there could suck a medicine ball through a didgeridoo.’

  Les nodded cognizantly. ‘Did Blythe mention my company’s contractual arrangements? Half the advance initially. The rest on publication.’

  ‘Blythe told me everything,’ said Odessa. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Excellent,’ beamed Les. ‘Now, why don’t I join you in a drink and I’ll read another poem.’

  ‘Do that, Mr McNamara.’

  Les made another bourbon and found his hands were shaking slightly. What just happened was an astonishing, almost unbelievable turnaround. He had a mouthful of bourbon and settled down at one end of the bed. Odessa cradled her scotch and sat at the other. Les chose another poem at random. It was called ‘Prismatic Impulsiveness’.

  Moonbeams and rainbows,

  nailed her to a wall of proclamation.

  But despair and scandal

  would never be the sword of righteousness,

  in the hands of the separatists.

  Nor reticence,

  the slings and arrows

  of the nebulous ungodly.

  Les closed the manuscript and looked at Odessa. ‘I don’t think I need to read any more, Odessa. Ju
st give me your phone number. And I’ll tell you how you can contact me.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Odessa. ‘Oh, I’m so glad I was brazen enough to call around.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Les.

  She wrote down her phone number and address and her phone number at work. Odessa lived in Blackheath and worked for the council. Les gave her the same phone number he gave Blythe and told her to contact him through Mr Edwards.

  ‘So there you go, Odessa,’ said Les, placing her phone number in his wallet.

  ‘You’re on your way. I can envisage dual readings. You and Blythe.’

  ‘This is amazing,’ said Odessa. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

  ‘It sure is,’ winked Les. ‘Now, Odessa,’ he said, undoing his tracksuit pants, ‘there’s some other contractual arrangements need to be taken care of. I’ve got a silent partner who’d like to get involved in this deal.’ Les whipped out Mr Wobbly and gave him a couple of shakes. Mr Wobbly raised his head up to see what was going on and liked what he saw. ‘He’s in public relations. You know anything about public relations Odessa?’

  ‘I certainly do.’ Odessa moved along the bed. ‘And you know something Mr McNamara? You’re even better looking than Blythe said you were.’

  ‘Call me Forrest, Odessa.’

  Odessa was cool. She kissed Les and let him slip his hand under her dress and give her boobs a squeeze. They were round and firm with hard pointy nipples and her kisses were warm and sweet. It wasn’t long before Norton had a rock hard boner and Mr Wobbly was frothing at the mouth. Odessa gave it a few strokes then slipped her mouth over the knob. Les felt a shiver run up and down his spine as Mr Wobbly started to get very red and angry. Odessa got right into it, adding some discreet moaning and groaning to show she was getting off a bit herself. It wasn’t long before Les was spreadeagled on the bed, his eyes closed, sighing with sweet agony. Odessa hit the vinegar strokes and Les felt like he was levitating above the bed as he let go. Odessa took the lot. Licked her lips and looked around for more. Les collapsed against the pillows; eyes rolled back in his head and his toes twitching.

  Odessa went to the bathroom and came back adjusting her dress. Les pulled his tracksuit pants up and tucked Mr Wobbly back into his little bed.

  ‘I might leave now, Forrest,’ said Odessa.

  ‘Okay,’ replied Les. ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Stay where you are.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You won’t lose my manuscript, will you?’

  Les shook his head. ‘I’ll copy it as soon as I get back to the office. You’ve got other copies just to be on the safe side?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  Odessa gave Norton a kiss. ‘Goodnight, Forrest,’ she smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

  Les smiled back. ‘Me too, Odessa. It’s been a delight.’

  Odessa stepped out the door, closed it behind her, and was gone.

  Les looked at the door for a moment then placed Odessa’s manuscript on the table and stared out the window. Suddenly he felt beat. It wasn’t just driving around and being stuck in the car half the day. Or the beers, the fight and the romp with Odessa. When he heard that knock on the door, Les thought he was gone. When he opened it and it wasn’t the police, the feeling was almost indescribable. Shock, followed by sheer elation. Like diving into a pool full of chilled champagne. Les knew the cops wouldn’t be around now. He could relax. He cleaned his teeth, left his tracksuit on then crawled under the doona and switched off the bed lamp. Norton’s last thoughts before drifting off were that he couldn’t really blame that big bloke and his mates for wanting to sort him out after he’d killed one dog and fractured the other one’s skull. But he honestly didn’t think he’d hit the dogs that hard. And maybe he shouldn’t have smashed the blokes as much as he did. But on the other hand, what would those blokes have done to him if he hadn’t got hold of the iron bar? He probably wouldn’t be walking. And Odessa wouldn’t be getting a contract with Roulette Publishing. Les yawned and jammed his head into the pillows. Anyway, it was all behind him. Tomorrow was another day. And with a bit of luck he’d be in Adelaide and something might turn up. Les yawned again. It wasn’t long and he was out like a light.

  Les was out of bed, washed and in the breakfast room by eight wearing the same tracksuit; not being out to impress, and knowing he was only going to be sitting in his car all morning, he didn’t bother getting changed. He filled a bowl with cereal and fruit and a plate with bacon and eggs, got some toast and coffee and found a table overlooking the Megalong Valley. Outside it was cold and raining again. He didn’t bother turning on the radio or reading the paper. David would only be screaming his name to the rafters and some journalist would be doing the same. Les felt what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. After one last cup of coffee he checked out, and by nine o’clock Les was in his car and heading for Sydney. He’d worked it so he had plenty of time to get home, grab a change of clothes, pick up his tickets and get to the airport, yet not be hanging around long enough for the police to arrest him. If he could make it to the airport Les felt he’d be able to hide in Golden Wing and he’d be all right.

  Because of the weather, the drive down was slow and Les didn’t like being a fugitive one bit. Five kilometres the other side of Linden a highway patrol car pulled in behind him and he began to sweat. He kept to the left and drove like Grandma Duck, when the cop suddenly switched on his siren making the butterflies in Norton’s stomach start line dancing. But the cop went round him and pulled over a driver towing a trailer with no brake lights. Les exhaled audibly. That’s it. Time for some music. He found a tape and Jools Holland and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra started tickling the ivories with ‘Travelling Blues’. After that the trip went noticeably smoother. The other side of Penrith, Bob Margolin was cranking out ‘Up and In’ like there was no tomorrow and B. B. King had just belted out ‘Pauly’s Birthday Boogie’ when Les switched off the stereo and came down O’Brien Street, Bondi. He pulled up on the corner of Cox Avenue and Lamrock and peered through the windscreen. He couldn’t see any police cars out the front of his house or the State Protection Unit hiding somewhere. Oh well, thought Les. Here goes nothing. He screeched to a halt outside Chez Norton, grabbed his bags then quickly locked the car and sprinted inside.

  There were two messages on the answering machine. Les didn’t bother to listen to them. It would only be Price or Eddie telling him what an idiot he was and he could do without that. Instead Les rang for a taxi. While he was waiting, he dumped his dirty clothes out of his bag, filled it with fresh ones and whatever else he thought he’d need in Adelaide then changed into a clean pair of jeans and a black Lee Kernaghan T-shirt. A horn bipping out the front told him the taxi had arrived. Les threw his leather jacket on, picked up his bags and Wednesday’s paper from where he’d left it in the kitchen, then made sure the house was locked and ran outside.

  ‘Clovelly Road. Then out to the airport,’ said Les, jumping in the back seat of the taxi.

  ‘No worries,’ replied the driver.

  Les buried his head in the paper, kept quiet and avoided any eye contact with the driver. Gary wasn’t in his office when the taxi pulled up out the front of Travelabout Clovelly. One of the girls working there handed Les his tickets and wished him a good trip. The traffic wasn’t too bad and he was outside Ansett Departures before he had a chance to re-read the sports pages. At the desk it was automatic drive. Mr Ullrich had his bags tagged Priority and was politely told his plane was leaving from gate sixteen. Les couldn’t help the butterflies fluttering a little as he passed through the uniforms at security, but nothing happened. Safely through there, Les stopped at a newsagency and bought a map. Suburban and Regional Adelaide. He took the escalator to Golden Wing, got a smile from the girl at reception when he showed his card, and stepped inside.

  There were a few casually dressed people in Golden Wing, but it was mostly suits waffling into mobile
s or using the phones provided. Les found a table in the corner, made a cup of tea, got a plate of cheese and crackers and a Bulletin and spread his map out. The drive to Victor Harbor looked like a piece of piss. Les saw Mount Compass on the map and from there, Victor Harbor was almost straight down a highway, sitting in a long, wide bay. You can’t tell which way the train went by looking at the tracks, thought Les, and you can’t tell much about a town by looking at a map. At least I know where it is. Les folded his map up, put it in his backpack and read the Bulletin while he kept an eye on the other punters. By the time he had another cup of tea and a few more crackers it was time to board the plane.

  Les had the very front seat to himself and plenty of leg room and one of the flight attendants had dark hair and a pretty good pair of legs in her black stockings. She gave Les a nice smile and a glass of orange juice. She came back to make sure Mr Ullrich’s bag was stowed in front of him and they were on their way. Les had decided to brush The Portable Beat Reader for the time being. He’d read and heard enough nutty poetry to last him a lifetime. Instead he got a book from Warren’s room. Once A Jolly Swagperson by Lawrence Held. Politically Correct Tales For Our Times. Les had just finished ‘The Differently Statured Adult Male of Notre Dame’ when it was time for lunch. Salad with sesame soya vinaigrette and mixed grill with honey carrots and sautéed wild mushrooms. This went down easily with another glass of orange juice and Les picked up his book again. He’d just finished ‘Beauty and the Superficially Non-Humyn Animal’ when the pilot announced they were making their descent into Adelaide. The plane bumped down on the tarmac and a few minutes later Mr Ullrich got another smile as he disembarked.

  Adelaide airport was nowhere near as big as Kingsford Smith. It was only a short walk to the arrivals lounge and standing on the right, wearing a grey uniform, cap and sunglasses, was a driver holding a sign: ULLRICH. Les walked up to him a little cautiously.

  ‘I’m Conrad Ullrich.’

  The driver was about thirty, dark complexioned and looked fit. ‘Thank you, Mr Ullrich,’ he replied pensively. ‘I’m Vincent. I’ll get your luggage.’