‘Bad luck, mate.’
‘Yeah,’ Les sipped the last of his tea. ‘So what about you, Pie? What’s your John Dory? Surely you’re not moving dacca down here. It’s semi legal. They give the stuff away with green stamps.’
‘I know. The bastards,’ answered Pie. ‘No. I need some cash in a hurry. So I came down to do a little business. Now I’m on my way back to a Sleaze Ball in Zetland with a thousand caps of Ebeneezer.’
‘A Sleaze Ball and a head full of eccy,’ said Les. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t come along and join in the festivities.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Les,’ said Pie. ‘Someone told me you were very partial to a Sleaze Ball. I even heard you were the Trough Queen.’
Les turned slowly to the Pieman. ‘You heard I was the — what?’
‘The Trough Queen. The Trough Monster. The word’s out it’s you, Les.’
Les stared at the Pieman. ‘Tell me more about this — Trough Queen, Pie. Who is he?’
‘No one knows, Les. It could be a she. I reckon it’s you. But whoever it is, it’s been a legend in the urinals at Sleaze Balls the last few years.’
‘Why? What’s this Trough Queen do?’
‘The only way to find out, Les,’ smiled Pie, ‘is to go to a Sleaze Ball and hang out in the brasco. And take a torch with you.’
Norton’s demeanour was calm, but his mind had kicked into overdrive. ‘Say I wished to purchase a ticket to this Sleaze Ball in Zetland, Pieman. How would I obtain one?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ replied Pie. ‘It’s a Sunday night special, it’s been sold out for months. I happen to have one because of my … business activities.’
‘You want to sell it to me?’ asked Les. ‘You won’t need it if you’re just dropping off a bundle of disco biscuits.’
‘True,’ answered Pie. ‘But tickets are as rare as rocking-horse shit. Any donut puncher worth his sequins would kill to get one. If I was to sell you mine,’ Pieman patted the inside pocket of his leather jacket, ‘I’d have to charge you the full black-market price.’
‘How much is that?’
‘Five hundred dollars.’
‘You got me.’ Les pulled out the thousand, whipped off five hundred dollars and handed it to the Pieman. ‘Come on. Give me the ticket.’
‘Jesus! You are keen, Les.’
Pie pocketed the money and handed Les his ticket. It was black in a black envelope. Embossed in silver on the front was a likeness of Oscar Wilde and the words Take A Walk On The Wilde Side.
Les turned it over in his hand. ‘How do I know this isn’t a forgery, Pieman?’
Pieman pointed to the likeness of Oscar Wilde. ‘There’s a magnetic strip at one end. They’ll run it through a scanner to make sure. Believe me, Les, that’s one hundred per cent kosher.’
‘For five hundred fuckin bucks it’d want to come straight from Tel Aviv.’
Pie rested his hand on Norton’s knee. ‘And don’t worry, Les. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thanks, Pie,’ said Les. ‘Now fuck off while you’re still in front.’
Pie gave Norton a wink. ‘It’s been a business doing pleasure with you, Les.’ The Pieman got up and vanished amongst the other passengers as quietly as he arrived.
Les put the ticket in his backpack, took out the photo he stole from Knox’s house at Medlow Bath and started thinking. He put the photo away, got another cup of tea and was still thinking when it was time to board the aircraft.
Mr Ullrich got another nice smile as he was shown to his seat. Les buckled in and stared straight ahead. He was still staring straight ahead when the plane took off. A few minutes into the flight Les ordered a can of VB. Another two cans of VB later and Les was still staring straight ahead and thinking. He was thinking that much he even knocked back the evening meal. By the end of VB number three, Les was starting to think maybe he hadn’t been barking up the wrong tree after all. Just barking at the wrong boat. And the nucleus of a plan had formed in Norton’s mind.
It wasn’t much of a plan and it was pretty risky. The risky part involved sneaking back to Chez Norton and getting his car. Followed by some very risky skulduggery at this Sleaze Ball. And even if he did pull the plan off, the end result would be no more than a bone to throw the two cops who pinched him. Then he was going to have to spend Sunday night in gaol. But this was his last roll of the dice. He’d pretty much stuffed things up in the Blue Mountains and South Australia. What else could go wrong? And once again, what was the alternative? Thirty long years in the puzzle. Les stared out the window at the stars etched into the inky blackness of the night sky and the clouds below tinged with silver in the moonlight. He was going to give it a go. That money falling in and bumping into the Pieman in Adelaide had to be an omen. Maybe Roxy’s guardian angel had flown in?
Before Les knew it, the lights of Sydney were spread out below the plane and they began making their descent. The pilot circled the plane then they bumped down at Kingsford Smith Airport.
‘Goodbye, Mr Ullrich,’ smiled the young lady flight attendant, as they filed off.
‘Thank you,’ replied Les, and strode down the corridor.
He took a left straight onto the moving walkway as a uniform cop went by. His adrenalin now on the rise, Les looked straight ahead and kept moving till he got to the baggage carousel. There was the usual wait then his overnight bag came round with the other luggage; Les picked it up, feeling for the edges of the briefcase on the bottom. With his overnight bag in one hand and his backpack in the other, Les walked out to the taxi rank. There were about ten taxis and twenty punters. Les ducked and dived and pushed and shoved a little rudely before jumping in the back seat of the first cab he found empty.
‘Bondi Beach, driver. Cox Avenue.’
The taxi took off and the driver smiled in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Hello big Les. What’s doing, mate?’
Les stared back at the rear-vision mirror. ‘Bananas. I didn’t know you drove a cab.’
‘I don’t normally. But I’m doing a bloke a favour. And I need the cashhhhh.’
‘Christ! I think the last time I saw you was at the game,’ said Les.
Nobody knew Bananas’ last name. His first name was Louie. And everybody knew him as Lou Bananas. He was a dumpy faced, dumpy built, balding bloke with Italian parents who came from Coogee and ran bars. He once worked at the Kelly Club for a while. Lou was a likeable bloke with a dry sense of humour and an abbreviated way of talking. His main claim to fame was four daughters he called Bananarama and his love for a punt and a dollar.
‘So where have you been hiding, ’Nanas?’ said Les.
‘I’ve been managing a pub in Taree,’ replied Lou.
‘What was that like?’
‘They all got two heads and question marks on their foreheads. I stuck it out till I got back to civilizaish. Evench.’
‘Fair enough, ’Nanas,’ said Les.
‘So how have you been, Les?’ asked Bananas, as they stopped in the traffic coming out of the airport. ‘Nice photo of you in the paper early in the week. If your melon hadn’t been covered up, I would have thought it was Brad Pitt.’
‘Thanks, Bananas,’ said Les. ‘You know I didn’t do it, don’t you?’
‘Oh, of course, Les. Bombs aren’t your go. You just pulverise people with those big fists of yours.’
‘Exactly, Lou. I hate violence.’
They headed for Mascot and Les started thinking again. It had to be an omen. First the money. Then the Pieman. Now Bananas. This could be just what he was looking for. It meant not having to go back to Bondi and get his car.
‘So you’re chasing a dollar, Lou?’ said Les.
‘Get four daughters, Les, and see if you don’t chase a dollar.’
‘How would you like to earn five hundred bucks for about an hour’s work, Bananas? Cash.’
The sudden glow in Bananas’ eyes shone back at Les from the rear-vision mirror like twin laser beams. ‘Did you say cashhhhh?’
‘Of
course.’
‘What do I have to do, big Les? Nothing too ridic?’
‘No. Instead of going to Bondi, Take me to a Sleaze Ball in Zetland. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Bananas. ‘Lachlan Street. I’ve been dropping freaks there all night. It’s roaring.’
‘That’ll be the one,’ said Les.
‘I didn’t know Sleaze Balls were your go, Les. How long …?’
‘Get stuffed, Bananas. All you got to do is wait out the front. I’ll be thirty minutes at the most. Here,’ Les gave Bananas the other five hundred dollars he had in his jacket.
The sparkle in Bananas’ eyes was like a pair of headlights on high beam. ‘Sensaish. Thanks, Les.’
‘That’s all right,’ Les picked at his chin for a second. ‘On the way, stop at one of those dollar bargain joints. I want to buy something.’
‘There’s one in Kingsford, should still be open,’ said Bananas.
‘Okay. And have you got a mobile phone?’
‘In the glove box.’
‘Good. I might want to use it later,’ said Les.
‘No worries.’
‘After I’m finished at the Sleaze Ball, Bananas, we’ll probably be going to Waverley Police Station.’
‘The wallopers, Les?’
‘Yeah. I won’t be coming back out. So I want you to take my overnight bag up to the Kelly Club and give it to Billy Dunne. Make sure he gets it. And tell him where I am. Billy’ll know what to do.’
‘Righto,’ said Bananas. ‘Shit! This is all very Mission Imposs, Les. Any chance of an explanaish?’
‘Evench, Bananas,’ said Les. ‘Evench. Now take me shopping.’
Les stared out the window, still not quite sure what he was doing. Whatever it was, he couldn’t finish up in much more hot water than he was already in. From now on, thought Les, I’m just burning my bridges as I come to them. Les was still thinking along those lines when Bananas pulled up on a bus stop in Kingsford outside an el-cheapo store between a Chinese restaurant and a newsagent. Lou waited in the taxi while Les ran inside. Five minutes later he was back with a plastic raincoat, a scarf, a cheap pair of women’s sunglasses, rubber gloves and a Bic lighter. Plus a toy sword made of grey plastic, about the same size as a carving knife. He put the raincoat and sunglasses on then tied the scarf over his head and got back in the taxi.
Bananas couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘What in the fuck are you doing, Les?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Norton. ‘Why?’
‘You know who you look like holding that knife. Don’t you?
‘No, Bananas,’ said Les. ‘Who?’
‘That old sheila in Psycho. The one who did all the murders.’
‘Norman Bates’s mother.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Bananas. ‘That’s her. You’re a dead ringer with the raincoat and the scarf over your head.’
Les checked himself out in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Well, it is a drag scene I’m going to, Bananas.’
Bananas shook his head. ‘You’re kiddin,’ aren’t you? Fair dinkum.’
Bananas cut through Kensington, swung into Dacey Avenue and got a green light near the hotel at Lachlan and South Dowling. He followed Lachlan about half way along then pulled up on the footpath.
‘There it is, Les,’ said Bananas.
‘I know this joint,’ said Les. ‘It’s the old Jaeger Smallgoods Factory. I used to deliver meat here when I worked for Fields.’
‘Yeah? Well the only meat you’ll get in there now, Les, is straight up the blurter.’
The old factory was a long two-storey brick building with a small metal door at this end and a shuttered loading dock at the other. A wall of glass bricks dotted with air conditioners faced the street and along the footpath out the front was a row of black metal posts embedded into the footpath. At the far end of the street was a park and at this end was a spare parts wholesaler. Opposite was a massive block of land that had been levelled to build a housing commission complex. There were no signs on the old building to say what was going on. The only sign of life was half-a-dozen security staff standing out the front in dark blue trousers and matching windcheaters.
‘Okay, Bananas,’ said Les. ‘Wait here for me. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘Hey, Les,’ replied Bananas. ‘Take your time. Enjoy. You might meet the man of your dreams inside.’
‘Keep smiling, Bananas,’ said Les. ‘You’re going to look pretty funny kissing your daughters goodnight with your mouth full of stitches.’
Les got out of the car and walked across to the front door. Although he looked like a nutter, the security staff scarcely gave Les a second look. To them he was just another freak. There was a table near the door with an electronic scanner on it. A burly security man swiped Norton’s ticket then another opened the metal door. Les stepped into a small corridor where a third security man opened another door. Les stepped through and it closed behind him.
Inside was complete pandemonium. At least two thousand people were either milling around or dancing at the speed of light beneath several rotating mirror balls and a bank of Bose speakers pumping out techno house music loud enough to shake the fillings out of your teeth. Lights flickered everywhere and coloured laser beams arrowed through the smoky atmosphere, making criss-cross patterns on a towering row of scaffolding hung with balloons and streamers.
Les moved away from a set of speakers and got his bearings while he checked out the punters. It was big on micro leather shorts with studs and leather caps and white satin shorts with gold and silver stars on each cheek and G-strings wedged up your backside. There were outrageous drag queens big enough to play front row for the Broncos. Shirley Temples, Xenas, Barbara Cartlands, Tina Turners, Marilyn Monroes, Marj Simpsons complete with towering blue beehives. Groups of Village People were there, along with Boy Georges, boy scouts, girl guides, nurses, nuns, archbishops, rabbis, fairies, pixies. Platoons of elegant Oscar Wildes in velvet and silk mingled with legions of bull-necked lesbians in overalls, spike collars and Brando jackets, ugly enough to scare a herd of warthogs away from a waterhole. Whatever outfit you could think up with the backside cut away and a freshly waxed bum sticking out of it was in there getting down and getting dirty. There was even an Adolph Hitler, an Idi Amin and a Joe Stalin, with their freshly waxed behinds sticking out of their uniforms. And that was only near where Les walked in. Who knew what else you’d find? But there was only one Mrs Norman Bates.
Now if I remember right, thought Les, the shithouse was in that corner down there to the right. In the distance Les could make out a green sign saying EXIT. He started weaving his way through the punters, getting a great giggle when he’d stab the plastic knife around. Les was correct. There was a short corridor to the right and a sign said TOILETS. Les got the rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. The Norman Bates’s mother outfit was a hoot, but it also gave Les head to toe protection from the various creepy crawlies he expected to find in a Sleaze Ball toilet. The open door was just a little further down on the left. Very gingerly, Les stepped inside.
Every light bulb had been broken and it was almost pitch black. The only light was a few faint beams snaking in through a row of dusty windows high above a wall at the far end. Les could make out a row of cubicles on the right and a line of stainless steel urinals on the left. All through the middle was a congestion of seething, jostling silhouettes, sucking, fucking, licking and groping or otherwise happily engaged in all manner of sexual acts. All the lewd activity was accompanied by a chorus of squealing and moaning that hung in the dark along with the almost overpowering smell of body oil and perspiration. Good Lord, thought Les, bumping past a pair of leather clad silhouettes with their hands in each other’s shorts and their tongues down each other’s throats. How off’s this? Les squinted into a cubicle where a silhouette with its shorts down was spreadeagled against the cistern, with another silhouette behind, choc-o-bloc up it and putting in the big ones.
It was all too much for Nor
ton, and besides that, it was too dark. Fuck it! He cursed to himself. Looks like I’ve blown it again, I don’t even know what I’m looking for, and even if I did, you wouldn’t find it in here. No. They can stick this up their arse. They are anyway. Unexpectedly, Les suddenly found himself busting for a leak. Shit. What a time to want to have a piss. Oh well. Les weaved past several darkened figures doing whatever they were doing and stepped up onto the urinal. In the darkness he bumped into someone at his feet.
‘Sorry mate,’ said Les, unzipping his fly.
‘Piss on me,’ said a muted voice from near Norton’s feet.
Les looked down but couldn’t see anything. ‘What?’
‘Piss on me,’ the tinny voice repeated.
Les pulled out the Bic lighter and flicked it on. Sitting in the urinal, with its feet out in front of it and its arms by its side was a ghastly figure, clad in a full-length black leather bodysuit, complete with rubber booties and gloves. Clamped tightly on its head was a hideous black leather face helmet with yellow stripes on the front and a zipper down the back. The mouth was a small mesh grill and the eyes were a pair of dark blue swimming goggles. It was a macabre sight and reminded Les of the repulsive creature they kept locked in the cellar in the film Pulp Fiction — the Gimp.
‘Piss on me,’ the figure in the urinal pleaded again.
‘Sure mate. My pleasure,’ replied Les, whipping out his old boy. ‘Here. Have one on you.’
After three cans of VB on the plane, Les was only too willing to oblige. He pissed all over the figure in the urinal from head to toe, giving whoever it was a real good hosing in its face while he tried to get as much as he could in its mouth. The Gimp revelled in it. Rolling its head from side to side, rubbing its hands across its face and chest and delicately flicking warm, frothy urine from its fingertips. Les gave the figure a final burst in the eyes then shook the last few drops out in its face and tucked his old boy back inside his pants.
‘There you go, mate. How was that?’ asked Les. ‘Enjoy yourself?’
Leaving Bondi Page 20