Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker

by Robert G. Barrett

  It was big, taking up all the corner, two storeys of stucco concrete in three shades of brown with a red, Spanish-style roof. There was an abundance of well-manicured trees, flowers and shrubs, and security cameras around the walls protected it from the street. From where he stood Les could see the other palm-tree dotted houses with their private beaches a couple of hundred metres away and beyond that more reefs running into the windswept ocean. The whole area smelled of money, comfort and style and if Honolulu had a Vaucluse this was it. There was a white, double wrought-iron gate across the driveway, solid enough to stop a Panzer Division. Norton got his bag from the car and walked over. The gate was built to keep out nosey parkers, but peering through the grilles, Les could see a man in white trousers and a blue floral shirt running a hose over a bronze Mercedes. The bloke was black and an absolute monster. Six feet four, twenty stone at least, a barrel chest with a paunch underneath and arms like two cedar logs. He had a flattened nose and the ear on one side of his head would have looked all right sitting on a plate with corned beef and white sauce. Les tipped him to be either a wrestler or an ex gridiron player. He caught Norton’s eye and stopped what he was doing for a second.

  ‘Hey, mate!’ Les called out. ‘Can I see you for a minute?’

  The monster dropped the hose and ambled over. When he got to the gate he almost took up one side. ‘You want something, buddy?’ he asked, in a deep, growly voice that was almost expressionless.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Norton. ‘Could you tell Andriana Hazlewood there’s a Mr Les Norton over from Australia would like to see her.’

  The monster shook his monster head once. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘That’s what I said, friend. Miss Hazlewood ain’t seeing no one today. This week. Ever.’

  ‘But I’m a good friend of hers from Australia. I gotta see her.’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re the Lord Jesus Christ selling five-dollar shoes. Miss Hazlewood ain’t seein’ no one. And she particularly mentioned Australians.’

  ‘She did?’

  The monster nodded his head again. ‘That was the lady’s exact words.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Right on, brother. And that’s what you gonna be in if you don’t get the fuck out of here and stop wasting my time.’

  ‘Shit!’ Les looked at the monster again, who wasn’t smiling one little bit. There was no way of getting through the gate and if you did the monster waiting on the other side would probably tear you apart then eat you. Plus, if Norton wasn’t wrong, underneath the blue floral shirt he was carrying a rather large gun. Maybe it was the look on Norton’s face, maybe it was his aftershave. Maybe the monster was hoping Les wouldn’t go away so he could come outside and rip his spleen out. But the big man seemed to hesitate for a moment.

  ‘All right, fair enough,’ said Les quickly. ‘But could you do me just one favour?’ The monster didn’t move. ‘You’ve got an intercom over there. Get a message to Miss Hazlewood. Say to tell Fenwick it’s the Tripeman. Hang on, I’ll write it down for you.’ Before the big man had time to think too much, Les had whipped out a biro, written it down on a piece of paper and handed it to him through the gate.

  The monster blinked at the message then blinked up at Les. ‘Okay, I’ll see she gets the message. But if it comes back nil vibes, I’m coming out there and you’re gonna eat it. Plus the rag top on that shitty little convertible you got out of.’

  Norton nodded his head and stood his ground. ‘Okay, mate, fair enough.’ If Andriana Hazlewood was who he thought she was that message would get through. If she wasn’t, and the monster came back out smoking, Les could bolt for the car, get it going and run over him. The monster walked off.

  Les paced up and down the front for a few minutes, then he thought he saw the bloke walking back across the driveway. Next thing the gate swung open about a metre and the monster nodded for him to come inside.

  ‘Don’t know who you are, Tripeman, but you sure must know something.’ He closed the gate behind Les with a clang and locked the bolt. ‘Just before we go any further, brother, I’ll take a look in your bag.’

  ‘Sure,’ answered Les.

  The big man went through Norton’s overnight bag, then very professionally patted him down. ‘Okay. This way.’

  The driveway was more a courtyard of rust-coloured paved bricks. This led across to a double garage and a solid oak door embossed with bronze dragons, above which was a short tiled roof supported by four marble columns. Landscaped lava flowerbeds ran up to the columns, and hanging from the open-air roof were a number of indoor flowers and several bronze and shell mobiles. The big man thumped once on the door which soon opened to an attractive Asian maid in a black uniform.

  ‘This way please, sir,’ she said.

  The big man disappeared as Norton stepped inside and had a quick look around. The house was furnished mainly in jade, white and a kind of soft mustard, and had plain beige carpet. Although the house was fully air-conditioned, ceiling fans spun silently, just rippling an abundance of tall indoor plants. It was split level with stairs going up, and on the other side of the sunken lounge facing him Les noticed a spiral staircase out on a verandah with a sparkling blue swimming pool behind it. All the furniture was pastel-coloured, comfortable and expensive-looking. There was a black TV and stereo stand against one wall, paintings, silk fans and bronze plaques hung on the other walls, and on just about every table sat a jade or onyx lampstand. Two ceramic cheetahs were at the top of the short staircase where Les stood and at the bottom was a family of solid onyx cats. The house had a kind of Asian feel about it. But whatever the feel it was all very tasteful and all very expensive. The maid motioned for Les to go down the stairs into the sunken loungeroom.

  Sitting on a white lounge with the pool behind her was the same blonde in the newspaper photo only she was wearing a sheer, cinnamon-coloured woollen dress with an orange, carved coral necklace. Her blonde hair bobbed over a pair of diamond earrings and this time without the sunglasses there was no mistaking those hazel eyes and the smartarse smile — which turned into a wide grin when she saw Les coming down the stairs.

  ‘Les bloody Norton,’ she said, getting up and walking over. ‘As I live and breathe.’

  ‘Andrea bloody Hayden,’ replied Norton. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’

  ‘You big shit.’ The owner jigged up to Norton and threw her arms around him. ‘Jesus, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too, Andrea.’ Les squeezed her in return. ‘It’s always good to see an old friend.’

  Andrea gave Les a big sloppy kiss on the lips then stepped back with his hands in hers and looked up at him. ‘You look so well, Les. And I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘I can’t quite believe it either, Andrea,’ smiled Les. ‘And you look pretty good yourself, you little shit.’ Norton let his eyes run round the room. ‘You don’t look like you’re starving either.’

  ‘How the bloody hell did you find me?’

  ‘Just asked the first Aussie cop I bumped into where you were and he did everything but draw me a map.’ An odd look flashed across Andrea’s face. ‘How about making us a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘Coffee you got,’ said Andrea enthusiastically. ‘Come on, grab a seat on the lounge.’ She led Norton over to where she’d been sitting and they sat down next to each other. ‘Les Norton.’ Andrea kept shaking her head. ‘I still can’t bloody believe it.’

  ‘It’s me all right,’ said Les. ‘The Tripeman.’

  Andrea laughed out loud. ‘I nearly died when I got that message. You stupid bugger. And don’t ever bloody call me Fenwick again, either.’ Andrea Hayden, alias Andriana Hazlewood, notorious brothel keeper and madam to the stars, laughed out loud again.

  Andrea called the maid back and got the coffee organised, then she and Les started rabbiting on like a couple of old mates who hadn’t seen each other for ages. Which was pretty much what they were
. Les had met Andrea at a party in Sydney not long after her divorce and taken her out for a while. She was on the rebound and still a bit gun-shy, but Les found her to be a very funny woman who had never lost her personality, despite what she’d gone through. Always cracking corny jokes or trying to do equally corny impersonations. They got into each other’s pants one night after about a gallon of daiquiris back at Norton’s place. But Andrea still didn’t want to get involved for a while and both agreed it was more drunken, wretched lust than anything else — even if a jolly good time was had by all concerned and Andrea went off like a Belfast car bomb. Les still took her out now and again because he enjoyed her company and being older than him and better educated Les learnt a few things along the line as well. Half knowing her dopey ex husband Wayne, Les never mentioned anything much about her to anyone and they remained good friends till she sort of vanished off the scene and the last he heard from her was when she dropped him a postcard from Hawaii. It was her ex husband’s name coming up down the beach that made him think of her and just a coincidence that Mick had a small file on her. The Tripeman thing came about when Les used to ring her up at the bank and ask for ‘Fenwick’ after a bank clerk he’d seen in some old movie on TV. And when Andrea found out Les was a bouncer and didn’t manage a smallgoods factory like he said, she reckoned he was full of tripe and nicknamed him the Tripeman. It was a silly thing between them they used to joke about.

  The coffee arrived on a silver tray that sparkled like an ice cave, along with some tiny chocolate wafer truffle things that melted in your mouth. Les waffled on about how he still worked for Price, how Warren had tipped him into the free trip to Hawaii, how he knew Mick Reinhardt and this was his second trip to America. Although he was doing most of the talking, Les soon got the impression Andrea was a bit like Mick — rapt in seeing a friend from Australia and also dying to get something off her chest. Les poured himself another cup of delicious Kohna coffee and decided it might be time to lob the ball over into Andrea’s court.

  ‘So that’s about my story, Andrea, old sausage. Here I am, and there you are.’

  ‘Yes. Here we both are. And it’s so good to see you, Les.’

  Les nodded. ‘Yep. I feel pretty much the same.’ Les took a long, slow sip of coffee and looked at Andrea over the top of the cup. ‘So what’s your story, Andriana Hazlewood? It’s not a bad moniker you thought up either.’

  ‘My story?’ purred Andrea innocently.

  ‘Yeah.’ Les looked around him. ‘Last time I saw you, you were working in a bank driving an old Toyota with a stuffed gearbox. Now this. You don’t buy houses like these selling hot-dogs outside the SCG. What’s your story, Fenwick?’

  Andrea sipped her coffee delicately, staring right back at Norton. ‘And just what do you think my story is, Les?’

  ‘You’re runnin’ some sort of knockin’ shop.’

  Andrea blinked, recoiling slightly with shock. ‘How dare you. I’ll have you know I’m a Sexual Liaison Provider.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ nodded Les. ‘You’re a bloody old madam running a doss house.’

  Andrea tossed back her head then reached over and slapped Norton on the knee. ‘Exactly, Les,’ she chortled. ‘And making a fucking motza.’

  Les cast his eyes around the opulent furnishings. ‘I thought business might’ve been all right.’

  ‘All right? Les, I only wish some of my girls had another pair of legs. I’d open up on the big island.’

  ‘Half your bloody luck,’ answered Norton, as he watched Andrea bouncing around on the lounge. ‘So now that we’ve got that settled, how did you get into the rort?’

  ‘How did I become a madam?’ Andrea took a sip of coffee then seemed to settle down into the fluffy white cushions. ‘It’s not that long a story. But it’s a story.’

  ‘Well, come on. You can tell me. We’re old mates.’

  Andrea seemed to get a faraway look in her eye. Here it comes, thought Norton. The whole sordid saga. I must be the local Australian shoulder to cry on. But underneath, Les was more than a little curious to know how fairly innocent bank clerk Andrea Hayden suddenly became Andriana Hazlewood, notorious madam to the stars.

  ‘You know, Les, I originally came here for just a ten-day holiday. A lousy package tour. Anyway, during my holiday I had a nasty incident with a yank bloke. A very nasty incident.’

  Les noticed the humour momentarily evaporate from his old friend’s face. ‘Do I detect a bit of… sex without seduction here, Andrea?’

  ‘Exactly, Les. And a black eye thrown in. But don’t worry, it ended up costing this mug plenty. I know who got screwed best in the end.’ Andrea smiled thinly. ‘Funny thing, he got killed not long after in a car accident. Along with his wife. So here I am with all this money and I fall in love with a priest.’

  ‘A priest?’

  ‘Yeah, James. About the best bloke I ever met in my life. So I arrange to overstay my visa, next thing he gets killed.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘He was standing on a bridge not far from here and this bastard stabbed him.’ Andrea’s eyes went very soft for a few seconds. ‘Actually, it was about this time when it happened. Just before Christmas. I always… I always remember.’

  Les could see that the priest still had a place in Andrea’s heart. He thought that it might be an idea to delicately change the subject. ‘That’s no good, mate. So what happened then?’

  ‘What happened then? Well, I’m in Hawaii trying to get over a divorce. I’ve been here five minutes and I get raped, then I get my heart broken. I’ve got all this money and there’s nothing much waiting for me back in Australia. I’ve sworn off sex, men, booze and thinking things can only get better. Then I get run over.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I got run over. By this fucking stupid old Jap who shouldn’t even have been driving a car.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’

  Andrea’s mouth formed a thin, sardonic smile. ‘Not as much as I made out. Anyway, I’m off to the hospital and I’ve got this old prick bang to rights because I was on a pedestrian crossing. But it turns out he’s a Godfather in the Yakuza. You know what that is, Les?’

  Les nodded. ‘Like a Japanese Mafia.’

  ‘Right. Now this old rooster knows I’m putting on a bit of an act, but he can’t really do much because he’s in the wrong — plus he’s run over a woman and there’s all this honour and face-saving shit they go on with. So he offers me a quarter of a million bucks to cop it sweet.’

  ‘Shit! That was okay.’

  Andrea nodded slowly. ‘In a way. I could have sued him for millions if I’d have wanted to go through the courts and all that shit. Plus, at the time I didn’t have a green card and I would’ve had to do it flying back and forth between Australia. Of course I didn’t let on.’ Andrea smiled thinly again. ‘I learnt a few things from that arsehole Wayne before I got my divorce. So I um and ah a bit and the old bloke for some reason takes a bit of a shine to me. And being an old gangster right down to his toenails, he’s made me an offer.’

  ‘To set you up in the brothel business?’

  ‘Exactly,’ beamed Andrea. ‘I’ll tell you how it all works. It’s the best rort going.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Les could now see Andrea was rapt in getting all this off her chest to someone she knew. Pretty much like Mick. Les was quite rapt too getting the story from the other side. And with Andrea, the surroundings were a lot better than an office at the HPD.

  ‘You see, Les, half these houses around here are empty. They’re owned by rich Japs who might only stay here one or two weeks a year. They’re just investments. So this old Godfather arranges it all for me, with the owners’ consent, of course, to use the houses as, like, travelling brothels. I keep moving the festivities from place to place. Which is one reason the cops can never catch me.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘It is. Now the girls are all Korean. Old Takushi lined them up too. They all come from this one big fishing village near
Seoul and they’re all glamours. It’s something in their breeding gives them these sensational figures and they look so young. I got girls working for me that are almost thirty and they look about fifteen.’

  Norton flashed back to how young and pretty the girls in the photos looked, even though the shots were taken in a morgue and under harsh lights.

  ‘I blonde their hair, tart them up with the grouse makeup, and the punters love them. Plus, and this must be in the breeding too, they’re the best little roots in the world.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’

  ‘Are you kidding, Les? I have to have a doctor and an ambulance on standby. They’ve given over twenty of the punters heart attacks.’

  ‘What a way to go.’

  Andrea winked. ‘I look after the punters, though. As well as them getting the best roots in the world, I lay on all the grouse food, piss, drugs. Whatever their little hearts desire. And charge them accordingly.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘I rotate just on a hundred girls with fifty here all the time. And each one makes me around two grand a week after exes.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘That’s what I said when I made my first million. Next thing I’d made another one. And before long…’ Andrea waved an arm in the general direction of the house.

  ‘Beats working in the bank, Fenwick.’

  Andrea smiled and winked at Les. ‘Plus I don’t have to worry about slinging the cops.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. They’re all squeaky clean. Like silly fuckin’ Reinhardt. But even if they could pinch me, they don’t want to.’