Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  Les followed Vincent over to the carousel without saying anything. Vincent seemed to expect this. Norton’s bag arrived, Vincent picked it up and Les followed him out to a white Ford LTD and got in the back. The weather was cloudy and cold and it looked like there had been some light rain. Vincent didn’t say anything as they left the airport. Les thought it might be best if he did the same and peered out the window.

  After the smog, traffic gridlocks and high rise of Sydney, Adelaide was like a big country town. Long flat roads, roomy wooden houses and plenty of parks and trees. A sign ahead said BURBIDGE ROAD A–6 CITY. Further on Les noticed a nice old hotel with a verandah round it called the New Market. Before long they were in the city. Vince turned this way and that, then came out on a wide, straight road divided in the middle. There were office blocks on the right and railway lines on the left. Behind the railway lines was a park with a river running through it. Vincent turned left into a curved driveway and pulled up in front of the Adelaide Grande.

  The hotel looked quite swish. Thirty storeys high, plenty of chrome and glass, neat gardens and a split-level restaurant out the front. On the right was a casino. Vincent got Norton’s bag from the boot and gave it to a porter with a brass luggage trolley then opened Norton’s door.

  ‘I’ll see you at five-thirty on Sunday, Mr Ullrich,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. See you then, Vincent. Thanks,’ replied Les.

  ‘Enjoy your stay in Adelaide, sir.’ Vincent got back in the LTD and drove off.

  ‘Just the one bag, sir?’ asked a porter in a black vest.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This way, sir.’

  Les followed the porter into the lobby. Inside was even more swish than out. A ring of marble and gold columns rose out of a shiny parquet floor and circled a set of marble stairs with brass railings, leading down to a ballroom and function centre. The lifts were on the left next to a spacious bar called the Torrens Room. Just round from this were the doors to a sundeck overlooking the river, then an open doorway to a large dining room. To the right from the main entrance was the concierge, then behind a barricade of shiny black marble was the reception desk. Les followed the porter to reception. Checking in was automatic drive again. An extremely pleasant woman in a blue suit soon fixed everything with a minimum of fuss. Les signed in as C. Ullrich, Clovelly Road, Sydney, and was given his key and charge card. He then checked with the concierge about the car. No problems. Avis was straight across the road, the car was available at nine, bring it back to the hotel and it would be valet parked for him. Les followed the porter across to the lifts and even though Les would have made two of him, he let the porter carry his bag and they swooshed up to the twenty-third floor.

  As he stepped out of the lift, Les walked to the windows at the end of the lift lobby to check out the view. On the right was the park and the river, ahead in the distance was the ocean and to the left a ring of hills surrounding the city. Walking to his room Les looked down two floors onto the Regency Club, a tastefully furnished, lovely green area with a bubbling fountain, servery and a bar where Gary had said the continental breakfast was on the house. Les couldn’t wait for breakfast.

  After the Medlow, Norton’s room was like a home unit with a fabulous view over the city, the casino, and all the way to the distant hills on the left. There was a queen-size bed, a TV, ample furniture and wardrobe space and a marble bathroom with a shower and spa. The mini-bar was well stocked with assorted booze, chocolates and nibblies. And to think I would have settled for a room at the Y, Les chuckled to himself. He gave the porter two dollars and got a bottle of Heineken from the mini-bar. While he sipped that, Les unpacked then checked out the hotel directory and the room service menu. He had another look at the city as he finished his beer and noticed the clock radio: Adelaide was half an hour behind Sydney. It just gets better. Now I’ve got thirty minutes up my sleeve. Les lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and wondered what to do. The bed was very comfortable and Les lay on it longer than he intended. Another minute and he would have dozed off. He got up, splashed some water on his face and took in the view over the city again. Why don’t I go for a walk? Check out beautiful downtown Adelaide. I won’t get much chance tomorrow. Or Sunday. Les threw his leather jacket on and got the lift to the lobby.

  He walked past the entrance to the casino and turned left at the old railway station. Les hadn’t gone five metres before he tensed up. Three uniform cops were standing just inside the station. Les watched them out the corner of his eye, but they didn’t appear to notice him. Shit! This is ridiculous, he told himself, I’ll finish up in the rathouse. Les went right at King William then strolled past an office block and a group of girls huddled on the footpath, puffing desperately at their cigarettes. They were all dressed in black or purple with long dark hair and chalk-white skin. Very different to the girls at Bondi.

  After unexpectedly seeing the wallopers, Les felt like something soothing. A Jack Daniels or a coffee would be nice. He sprung a health bar that was all bright colours and vinyl stools called the Boost Juice Bistro. Les ordered a shot of wheatgrass and a Brain Boost. Carrot, beetroot and apple with ginseng and ginkgo. The wheatgrass tasted exactly like licking the blades on a lawn mower, but you got a slice of lemon for a chaser. The brain booster was delicious and went down splendidly. It might have been Norton’s imagination, but as he strode off, his head did feel clearer and there seemed to be an extra kick in his step as he crossed King William Street to check out Rundle Mall.

  Les found himself walking down a long flat mall crammed with shops on either side and entrances to arcades and malls with more shops. There were crowds of shoppers and groups of unfamiliar mall hangers amongst the shoppers. Skinheads wearing black T-shirts with Korn, Fear Factory, Witchery and Crypt on the front and pale-skinned Gothic chicks wearing dark dresses and layers of weird dark make-up who looked like they’d just flown in on broomsticks. Fruit barrows and paper stalls were scattered along the middle and near one fruit barrow were several bronze pigs, one on its haunches eating out of a garbage tin. Les wished he’d brought his camera.

  There were plenty of music shops catering mainly for thrash and grungeheads. Les had a look in one. It was all dark and mysterious with dark and mysterious-looking staff. On a bookshelf was a whole section on Wicca, Paganism, Ritual Magic, Goddess Studies. I wonder if I could get The Beach Boys Greatest Hits in here and a few Barbara Cartlands. I don’t think so. Les crossed an intersection and now it was hotels, restaurants and sidewalk cafes. The mall ended near a gift shop selling cute little portable fountains. Les crossed over and came down the other side. It was much the same, except for the ubiquitous McDonalds and the usual kids, with faces full of pimples, that like to hang out the front. Les walked back to where he started, crossed over from the mall and found himself in Hindley Street.

  Traffic drove back and forth and now there was a noticeable sleaze. Head shops, disposal stores, adult book shops, triple-X videos, video games arcades, Wild Night Review, takeaway food shops, tourist trap hotels. Bigger and better Gothic shops. Strip joints. Hello, thought Les, I’m home. I’m back at the Cross. All that’s missing is a few hundred assorted hookers and junkies.

  Although he knew he shouldn’t go near it, something about the local police station fascinated Les and he had to have a discreet look. There was only one young cop in there with his head down and his window was shaded by a venetian blind, so his view was restricted. What fascinated Les was the other window. It was covered in posters for missing persons. MISSING. MISSING. CAN YOU UNRAVEL THE MYSTERY? DO YOU HAVE A CLUE IN MICHAEL’S MURDER. REWARD. DISAPPEARANCE. SUSPECTED MURDER. There were photos of at least forty missing people, most of them young girls. Not counting all the Murder–Reward posters. Christ, thought Les, that’s a lot of missing people for a small city. Then he remembered he’d heard a few stories about South Australia. They had some good murders and things in Crow Eater Territory. It wasn’t long ago they found eight bodies stuffed in barrels in an old bank vault.
They still hadn’t found out what happened to the three Beaumont children. I’ll bet there’s a few Jeffrey Dahmers and Charles Mansons running around out there, mused Les. What about all those Witchcraft shops? And those spooky looking Gothics?

  There was one bright light in Hindley Street, a music shop called The Blue Note. It had the best selection of blues and rock ’n’ roll music Les had ever seen, plus Latino and Cuban and all that. There were blues bands Les had never heard of. The proprietor was a friendly young bloke wearing a stars and stripes vest with his hair combed across his forehead in two thick bangs. He offered Les assistance. But how was Les going to tell him that if he wasn’t going to gaol on Monday he’d have bought half his shop out? Les browsed round for a while, drooling over the CDs and told the bloke he’d be back.

  Outside, Les noticed it was getting dark and took a glance at his watch. Across the road was a lane leading down to the Grande. There was a hotel on one corner with an enclosed verandah around the top and an unused picture theatre on the other. Les crossed Hindley Street and walked down, passing a dirty little alley on the left with a skip bin out the front. Further down on the right was the foyer of another glitzy hotel that ran down to a bar on the corner. Les had a quick peek in the window as he went past. It looked all right; black furnishings and shiny chrome fittings. But not many customers. Les waited for the traffic then jogged over to the Grande.

  Back in his room Les sucked on another Heineken and stared out the window as the lights came on across the city. Now what will I do? he asked himself. I know, there’s a heated pool downstairs and it doesn’t close till nine. Why don’t I have a mullet and bream. I tossed my Speedos in before I left. Les changed into his black swimmers and got a white bathrobe out of the wardrobe. He took a nice fluffy towel from the bathroom and barefooted it for the lift down to the pool.

  The pool was on the third floor, down a corridor and in the open. When Les stepped outside, the wind felt like it was coming straight from Antarctica. Shit! I don’t know if this is such a good idea, he shivered. No wonder I’ve got it to myself. When he dropped his robe the wind flayed him like an icy whip. Oh well, here goes nothing. Les bolted across the sundeck and plunged straight in. It might have been cold out, but the water was beautiful. At least ten degrees warmer. Even though the pool was only fifteen metres long, Les started doing laps like he was Ian Thorpe. Freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke any stroke or style you like. It was great and the water seemed to wash away his cares. It was almost like he was in Adelaide on holidays. Les flopped around, duck dived, lay on his back and spurted water in the air. Soon he noticed people looking down at him from the rooms above. Evening everybody, grinned Les, then pulled his Speedos off, rolled over and mooned the surrounding windows. Would you like another look? Sure you do. Les rolled over again and spread his freckly, white cheeks. There you go. What do you reckon that is? A cut or a burn? Les flopped around a while longer then got out and climbed back into his robe. He tossed his towel over his shoulders and dripped water in the lift all the way to the twenty-third floor.

  Back in his room, Les showered and shaved and changed into his back-up tracksuit, a dark blue Brooks. He got a bottle of Hahn premium from the mini-bar and studied the room service menu. Les picked up the phone and ordered hoummos, taramasalata and toasted pita bread plus a Caesar salad with Cajun chicken for starters. Lamb rack with mashed potato and vegetables for mains. And coffee and bread rolls. The person at room service told Mr Ullrich it should be there in thirty minutes. Les flopped back on the bed, swivelled the TV round and watched Seinfeld. It wasn’t a bad one: Kramer is a theatre guide, Elaine shows a bit of cleavage and George gets dressed up as Henry the Eighth. Les was still laughing over a bottle of Hahn when his meal arrived. He gave the waiter two bucks and got stuck into it over Adelaide’s version of the 7.30 Report.

  Les couldn’t knock the food. It was delicious. The vegetables were steamed to perfection and the lamb was tender. The Caesar salad was exceptional. Les bored in then put the trolley out on the landing, saving the hoummos for a late-night snack. He started flicking through the TV guide. There wasn’t much on the commercial channels and SBS were having another racist witch hunt. A doco about the Vietnam War on the ABC looked interesting. Les got his map out and went over it again while he waited, when the phone rang. It was Gary Blair from Travelabout.

  ‘Gary,’ said Les. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Gary. ‘I just thought I’d ring up and see if everything was okay. All part of our after-sales service.’

  ‘Thanks, Gary. No, everything’s as a bean, Gary. The driver picked me up okay. The hotel’s the grouse. In fact I’ve just been for a swim in the pool.’

  ‘You’ve been swimming? What’s the weather like down there?’

  ‘Cold and cloudy. But the pool was heated.’

  ‘It’s pouring bloody rain up here.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’

  ‘Hey, I just thought I’d tell you, Les. The reason that bloke never picked up his ticket. The poor bastard got run over.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘A motorbike collected him near Rose Bay golf links. He died on the way to hospital.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘So you won’t have to worry about Mr Ullrich wanting his room back.’

  ‘Jesus, Gary. I hope this isn’t some kind of omen. Like the Twilight Zone and he turns up delivering my room service or something.’

  ‘Hey, you never know, Les. Adelaide’s a spooky place.’

  ‘Thanks, Gary.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad everything’s all sweet. Anything goes wrong, give me a ring.’

  ‘No worries. Thanks, Gary.’

  Les hung up the phone. Bloody hell! One minute I’m going through a dead bloke’s house. Now I’m staying in a dead bloke’s room and using his name. Not a very nice coincidence. Les gazed absently out the window for a moment. Not much I can do about it though, I suppose. Les got the last Heineken from the mini-bar and settled back in front of the TV.

  The doco wasn’t bad and showed how easily the Vietnam War could have been avoided if the Yanks had used their heads. Instead they blew JFK’s off then managed to kill three million Vietnamese along with fifty thousand Americans. After that there was nothing. Les switched off the TV and stared out the window at the city lights. It was too early to go to bed, and that cooped-up feeling started kicking in again. You know what I should do, he told himself, instead of flopping around after all that food. Go for a walk. Even if it’s just up to that music shop and have another look through those CDs. Yeah. Why not. Les put his Nauticas on and walked out to the lift.

  The bar on the corner had picked up and so had Hindley Street when Les got there. Les stopped outside the empty theatre at the end of the lane and had a look around. Gangs of youths were roaming around in baggy clothes and baseball caps on back the front, swearing and trying to act tough, while packs of hoons cruised up and down the street like sharks in old Kingswoods and Commodores, yelling out at any passing girls. Across the road in front of a Time Zone, gangs of black kids, aged from ten up, swarmed around the footpath managing to swear louder than anybody. Young girls hobbled past in long black boots with high heels, each one wearing a black mini, a black top and five layers of make-up. Mecca appeared to be the hotel and strip joint on the opposite corner. Several lumpy girls in minis and high-heeled boots were bumping and grinding out the front to a blaring disco version of Rod Stewart’s ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy’, trying to entice any passing blokes to come in. Behind the enclosed verandah upstairs, you could be a star for the evening and dance on a little stage placed in full view of the street below. Rod Stewart finished and ‘Bus Stop’ started thumping out from the hotel at a thousand decibels plus. Les walked across to the music store.

  Latino music was playing and the owner was busy behind the counter talking to a South American bloke when Les walked in. Although the shop was crowded, Les managed to earwig the conversation. The customer had just bought some tickets
to an Afro-Latino Fiesta and he and the owner were discussing Latino bands. Les stepped over to the blues section and started flicking through the CDs. There were bands Les had never heard of. Sax Gordon, Red Rivers and the Rocketones, CJ’s Blues Band. Eddie The Chief Clearwater. Blue Katz. It was torture. All that music to be bought and he was going in the nick. Les would have loved to have heard a few tracks. But all the headphones were being used and the owner was playing Latino for the benefit of the people buying tickets for the concert. Les could only take so much. He flicked through the CDs again and left.

  There was a Lebanese takeaway two doors up from the music store with a few chairs and tables out the front. Les walked in and got a bottle of OJ from the fridge. As he paid for his drink, Les inadvertently flashed several one-hundred dollar bills. A young black homeboy standing out the front in a Sweat Hog jacket noticed and hurried back to the Time Zone to tell four of his mates. Les stopped next to one of the tables and downed his OJ, not noticing the severe eyeballing he was getting from five young hoods wearing baggies and floppy beanies. Three were blacks, another was white and the fifth could have been anything from a Yemeni to an Eskimo. The oldest was around fifteen. Les dumped his empty bottle in the nearest bin then sidestepped through the passing cars across Hindley Street and proceeded down the lane. He was level with the skip bin at the alley when he heard a young voice behind him.

  ‘Hey mister. You got a cigarette?’

  Les stopped and slowly turned around. The tallest of the gang, wearing a red beanie, was doing all the talking. The others were grouped behind him, rocking up and down on their toes.

  Les didn’t need a degree in atomic physics to know what their intentions were. ‘Sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘But I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Then give us all your fuckin money. You cunt,’ snarled Red Beanie.

  Norton’s face turned to stone. ‘Get fucked. I’ll give you nothing.’