Sadly, it was because of Edwin that Les was out walking in the afternoon. Flamboyant Edwin had unexpectedly committed suicide. There had been a church service, now all Edwin’s surfing friends had just held a moving ceremony near the middle of Bondi Beach. Over eighty surfers formed a circle on their surfboards about a hundred metres out from the shore, where they scattered Edwin’s ashes over the still, blue water. Les had taken his camera with him and got some nice photos; including a couple through the zoom lens of super-fit Serina in a red bikini, holding the urn.
It was a mystery to everybody why Edwin topped himself because he was a young man who appeared to have everything going for him: good looks, money, a beautiful girlfriend. What also had people talking was the bizarre way Edwin had done it. Evidently, he’d paddled out at South Bondi, wrapped a leg-rope with several lead-weights tied to it around his neck, then just slid off his surfboard. Nobody noticed until his unmistakeable surfboard with the big rainbow on the bottom started ‘tombstoning’ and a couple of surfers dived down and brought him to the surface. The lifeguards got Edwin to the beach in their rubber ducky where the paramedics tried to revive him. But it was too late.
After their escapade in Port Stephens, Les and Eddie thought they might have smelled a rat. Edwin’s parents put on a bit of a turn at the service too, saying their son had fallen into bad company which caused his death. Les and Eddie discussed this on a couple of occasions over a beer at the refurbished North Bondi RSL. But they ended up letting it slide. Oddly enough, Les had been down the beach the day Edwin committed surfboard Hari Kari.
It was a fine Saturday morning and Les was walking round to the bogie hole at Ben Buckler to go snorkelling. He was with a diver–photographer he’d met through Warren, named Ray Bissett. Ray was a jovial, balding, Bondi boy who was also an accomplished artist and cartoonist. Les liked snorkelling around North Bondi or the bogie hole with a disposable, underwater camera, taking photos of colourful little fish or whatever was around, and one day in the bogie hole a huge, silver salmon swam right up to him. The ocean was clear and Les caught the sun shining through the water behind the fish and fluked several photos that were good enough to appear in National Geographic. Les had one blown up poster size and it now took pride of place on the loungeroom wall at Chez Norton. Ray had brought his camera along and this particular Saturday morning he was going to show Les some of the intricacies of underwater photography as Les was thinking of investing in an expensive camera and housing.
The water didn’t look all that clear as they walked around the rocks at North Bondi. But it was calm enough. However, when they got round the front of Ben Buckler, the wind was pushing a heavy north-east swell through the bogie hole and past the point that was getting bigger and rougher all the time. After watching it for a while, Ray suggested they brush the bogie hole and just fartarse around in front of the boat sheds. Les agreed. They headed back, only to walk straight into a scene of complete pandemonium when they got to the Big Rock.
A group of scuba divers were standing around the Big Rock; some looked exhausted, others were yelling and pointing. One was screaming for help while he dragged in another scuba diver who was floating on his back. Someone jumped in the water and helped him get the unconscious diver onto the rocks. Then the first diver, an instructor, started screaming and pointing out to sea saying another diver was missing. Not realising the swell was rising, a dive school had gone out and one diver had almost drowned. Another had drowned and was still out there floating around on the bottom. Ray snapped off several photos as they watched, then the rubber duckies from the surf club arrived and next thing the place was swarming with paramedics, police, the police rescue squad, and before long a helicopter appeared overhead. There was nothing Ray or Les could do and it was fast turning into a complete shitfight of voyeurs, rescuers and milling scuba divers. Ray took a few more photos and they decided to leave; Les didn’t bother taking his underwater camera out of the wrapper. Ray’s car was parked up near the bus terminus. Les said he’d walk home; he’d give Ray a ring and they do it again when conditions were better.
Les set off along the beach thinking he’d have a quick swim on the way. By the time he reached Bondi Surf Club another helicopter was circling the point and two police boats had arrived. Then, as he got to the south end, Les was surprised to find another drama being played out on the wet sand.
A crowd had gathered next to a rubber ducky where two paramedics were frantically trying to revive someone. Les didn’t stop to rubberneck. But he did have a look as he went past and got a shock to see the person in the black rashy they were trying to revive was Edwin Everton. Les couldn’t help but stare for a moment or two, before he continued down to the end of the beach. He left his gear on the sand, then dived in and just floated in the shorebreak, trying to get his head around what he’d just seen; especially poor Everton, blue-faced and belly up on the beach. It was an eventful day and certainly made the evening news. And it was certainly something to talk about that night at the Kelly Club, where Les made a macabre joke about getting two deaths for the price of one.
But, that was then and this was now. Edwin was gone, Les had a sore back and life went on. Les stopped for an apple at the fruit shop next to the butcher’s, then proceeded up Hall Street thinking it would be nice to get out of Bondi for a few days. No particular reason. Just a change of scene. Book into a nice resort again somewhere and lie around the pool all day drinking piss and getting his back massaged. Les finished his apple just across the road from the Hakoah Club and stopped. He might have had a rotten, sore back, but that wasn’t going to stop the big, red-headed Queenslander from doing his good deed for the day.
A little old lady in a floppy, blue linen hat was trying to cross the road. A shock of white hair stuck out from under the hat and a blue cardigan was buttoned up almost to her chin over a pair of grey slacks and white bowling shoes. She could have been anywhere from ninety to a hundred and fifty, was stooped, and might have reached Norton’s armpit if she was lucky. From behind a huge pair of glasses Les could read the worry on her dear old face.
‘You having a bit of trouble with the traffic there, sweetheart?’ said Les, ambling up alongside her.
The old dear recoiled a bit at first and clutched her handbag tighter. Then she sensed Les meant no harm. ‘Yes. I have trouble seeing sometimes,’ she replied. ‘And the traffic frightens me.’
‘Well have no fear. Big Les is here,’ smiled Norton. ‘Just get on my arm and we’ll have you across the road in no time.’
‘Oh thank you so much, young man. That would be wonderful.’
‘No worries.’
The LOL took Norton’s arm and they proceeded across Hall Street. Les could scarcely believe how frail and light she was. It was like a bag of air hanging on his arm. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked her.
‘Into the club. I meet my friend Vera there every Tuesday afternoon for a nice cup of tea. And maybe a little cream cake.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Les.
‘Vera’s Polish,’ said the old lady. ‘She lost her husband during the war.’
‘Oh. That’s no good. You been friends long?’
‘Over forty years.’
‘Yeah? Isn’t that great.’ Les walked the old lady to the steps of the club and gently removed her arm. ‘There you go, sweetheart. Now don’t go shoving all your money through the poker machines while you’re in there.’
‘You needn’t worry about that,’ assured the old lady. ‘Though sometimes on pension day, Vera and I might put a few shillings through.’
‘Well, I s’pose a few “shillings” won’t hurt,’ smiled Les. ‘Bye bye. And take care now.’
‘I will. And thank you very much again, young man,’ said the old lady, then entered the club.
Norton waited for the traffic and walked back across the road; he felt that good he almost burst into a run. Having all that strength and being able to help somebody so weak. Then Norton’s face clouded over when he reached
the footpath and thought of the low excuses for human beings that prey on old ladies like that; bashing them and taking their handbags. Les shook his head moodily. If ever he came across an old lady being mugged and caught the dirtbag doing it, the police would definitely have him up on another charge and no getting out of it. One hundred percent guilty of choking someone to death; then ripping their head off and dumping it in the nearest garbage tin. Les was wondering how many years a bleeding heart would make sure he got for that when he heard a voice to his left.
‘How much did you get out of her bag, Les? Enough for a slab of piss and a couple of pies?’
Norton’s eyes narrowed menacingly as he turned around to where the voice came from ‘What?’ he replied slowly.
Standing a couple of metres away was a lean figure, medium height with lank, dark hair falling over a pair of sunglasses perched on a lean face. The figure was wearing jeans, trainers and a black cotton jacket over a black T-shirt with SUN RECORDS on the front.
‘The Zap,’ Les nodded carefully. ‘What are you doing in Bondi? You low life, little piece of shit.’
‘Hey. That’s not very nice, Les.’
‘No. And neither’s brassing me for two hundred dollars. You prick of a thing.’
The Zap was Frank Zammit. A part-time musician who surfed and played keyboards in various rock bands around the Eastern Suburbs. When he wasn’t doing that, Frank did what a lot of other blokes from Bondi did for money. His best. Frank was about thirty and when he was younger, grew a thick moustache and a line of fuzz under his bottom lip like Frank Zappa. And with his skinny face and black hair Frank uncannily resembled the zany American musician. Naturally he got nicknamed Zappa, which soon got shortened to The Zap. A friend of Warren’s once stayed at Chez Norton for a few days and ran up a fair phone bill along with the food and other incidentals. When the time came for him to leave, and in a bit of hurry, he couldn’t weigh in. So he gave Warren his surfboard: a near new, DHD, Joel Parkinson signature model. Warren offered it to Les, Les didn’t want it, so he sold it to Frank for two hundred dollars. The Zap absconded to Hawaii a week later. The last Les heard of Frank, The Zap had tried to move some dope on the North Shore in the wrong territory and got a ferocious pummelling from the Black Shorts. He was lucky they didn’t shoot him. Now here he was, back in Bondi and still in hock to Les for two hundred dollars.
Frank made an open-handed gesture. ‘Les. That money I owed you. That was just a matter of bad timing. That’s all.’
‘Owed?’ answered Les. ‘Owe is the word, Frank. Not fuckin owed. And talking about timing. How much time do you think it would take for me to break all your ribs down one side? Say both sides.’
‘Not long, Les,’ sweated Frank. ‘That’s for sure. But Les, I’m sorry. I really am.’
Norton shook his head and and started to take off his watch. He was only foxing, but it was fun watching Frank sweat. ‘No Frank. You’re not sorry. But you soon will be.’ Les dropped his watch into his pocket. ‘And not so much as a fuckin postcard from Hawaii either. Let alone my two hundred. That’s what hurt, Frank.’
Frank took his sunglasses off and put them in his pocket also. If he was going to get some more black eyes there was no use getting his good Ray Bans smashed as well. He made a defensive gesture. ‘Now hold on a minute, Les. Before you start. Maybe we can strike a deal here.’
‘A deal,’ echoed Les. ‘I’d deal with the merchant of fuckin Venice before I’d deal with you.’ Les cocked his chin. ‘Nevertheless Frank. What’s your deal?’
‘These.’ Frank whipped a manilla envelope from his jacket and handed it to Les.
Norton recoiled. ‘What’s this? Drugs?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Frank. If you’re offering me dope in a main street in Bondi in the middle of the day, fair dinkum, I’ll drag you over to the Hakoah Club, run you through the nearest twenty cent poker machine, and feed you to the Jews. You greasy little turd.’
‘It’s not bloody dope,’ said Frank. ‘Read what’s on the front of the envelope.’
Gingerly, Les took the envelope and read what was near the left hand corner: Great South Coast Blues Festival. He opened it and took out what looked like three movie tickets. ‘Tickets?’ said Les.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Frank, enthusiastically. ‘It’s a long weekend this weekend and there’s a big blues, rock ’n’ roll festival at Narooma. Thirty bands. Three days and nights of non-stop rock ’n’ roll. Those tickets are worth over a hundred each. You like music, Les. This’d be right up …’
Frank kept talking away, thinking the more he talked the longer it would take before Norton started raining left hooks and short rights to his scrawny head and body. On the other hand, Les was half interested and he’d forgotten it was a long weekend coming up.
‘Hang on, The Zap,’ interjected Les. ‘Before you start getting too carried away. Are these tickets kosher?’
‘One hundred and ten percent,’ exclaimed Frank. ‘On my delicatessen’s life.’
‘Yeah?’ Les had another look at the tickets.
‘Think on it, big Les,’ said Frank. ‘Pulverising me might be good in the interim. But it’s not getting you your two spot back. This is a beautiful way out. And believe me, Les. Being a muso, it breaks my heart letting them go.’
Les studied the tickets for a moment or two more then slipped them into the right side pocket of his cargos. ‘All right The Zap,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘I’ll take these and we’ll call it square.’
With huge beams of relief shining from every pore on Frank’s face, he took Norton’s hand in both of his like he was shaking hands with the Pope. He was a split second away from genuflecting. ‘You’re a good man, Les,’ he said. ‘Like I just witnessed with that poor old lady a moment ago.’
‘Thank you Frank,’ replied Les. ‘And despite our minor differences, I’ve always considered you a man of principle also.’ Les let go of Frank’s hands. ‘So what are you doing now, The Zap? Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ll shout you one over at the Hakoah. Or a cool one. Name your poison.’
‘Les. Your offer is more than generous. But I have to see a bloke about … about things you have to see certain blokes about.’
‘I understand fully, Frank,’ nodded Les. ‘Well, if you’re going past the Gull’s Toriyoshi and I’m there, I’ll shout you one.’
‘Thanks Les. I look forward to it. I’ll see you later.’
Les watched Frank walk off down Hall Street then continued merrily on his way home. Only a few minutes ago he’d been thinking of getting away for a few days; this could be just what the doctor ordered. Plus he owed Warren a favour. He could offer him the spare tickets. Woz might like to go and take Clover with him. She came from somewhere down there. Les arrived home, put his camera away and made a cup of tea. He took it into the lounge with a few biscuits, sat down and opened the envelope again. As well as the tickets, there was a small brochure.
Frank wasn’t lying about the bands. There was a heap. Both Australian and international. Little Charlie and the Nightcats, Rusty Zinn, Dave Hole, The Blue Cats, Jeff Lang, amongst others. There were even the two bands he’d seen when he was in Cairns white water rafting. And best of all, Jo Jo Zep and The Falcons. Reformed especially for festival. With Wilbur Wilde on sax. Shit! Grooving to the old ‘Honey Dripper’ would be worth the price of admission alone. Les folded the brochure and put it back in the envelope. He was going. Then something dawned on him: where the fuck was Narooma? All Les knew was that it was down the south coast. And where was he going to stay? Being a long weekend in a tourist resort, everything would probably be booked out. It’d be nice driving all that way then having to sleep in his car. That would be real good for his back. Like fuckin hell! Shifty bloody Frank. Maybe this wasn’t such a good deal after all. Then the phone rang and the answering service cut in. Les placed his cup on the coffee table. ‘Hello. Who the fuck’s this?’
‘Les. It’s Warren. Are you there. Are you there, Les? Les. If you’re there, pick up. Les …’
‘Yeah all right. Don’t shit yourself.’ Les walked over and picked up the phone. ‘Yes Warren. What’s up?’
‘Les? Ohh thank Christ you’re there.’
‘For you mate, I’m always here. What’s your problem?’
‘Les. In my room. In the left side drawer next to the computer. See if there’s a floppy disc there, will you.’
‘A floppy disc. Hang on.’
Norton took the remote into Warren’s room, opened the drawer and had a look through the rubber bands, biros, stapling machines, hi-liters and other odds and ends. On a spare mouse pad was a floppy disc. ‘Yeah, there’s one here,’ he said.
‘What’s it say on it?’
Les had a look. ‘On a piece of black it says “Verbatim”. Under that “IBM Format”. And under that in biro it says “NSW Tourism Promo. 2 August”.’
Warren breathed a huge sigh of relief over the phone. ‘Ohh thank Christ! I thought I’d lost the fuckin thing.’
‘Is it important?’ asked Les.
‘Reckon,’ said Warren. ‘There’s two months’ work in there. It’s part of a job we’re doing for the NSW Department of Tourism.’
‘NSW tourism,’ said Les, walking back to the loungeroom and sitting down again. ‘There might be a bone there for me, Woz. I’ve done TV commercials before. And I ain’t doing nothing at the moment.’
‘Les. You’re a fuckin one-eyed Queenslander. Getting you to promote NSW would be like asking a Shi’ite Muslim to sell kosher wine.’
‘I dunno,’ said Les. ‘I can soon be a cockroach if the price is right.’
‘Yeah terrific. So what have you been doing today?’ asked Warren, changing the subject. ‘Shuffling around Bondi, like Marriane Faithfull with an axe-handle stuck up her blurter?’
‘No. Not really,’ sniffed Les. ‘Actually, I’ve had quite an interesting day.’ Les told Warren about the ceremony down the beach then bumping into Frank and getting the tickets for the blues festival. ‘And the tickets are right here in front of me, if you’re interested, Woz.’
Mystery Bay Blues Page 2