Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (19 page)

Norton hung up and couldn't help but laugh out loud. Well, I reckon that might've put a cat amongst the
pigeons, he mused. Or a cat among the rats — whatever the case may be. Norton got up, made a fresh cup of coffee, came back to the phone and once again studied the clipboard. So, that's phase one of Operation Blue Seas completed. Now, what about phase two? This time Les got the Sydney Yellow Pages. He let his fingers do the walking till he found what he was looking for: The Seven Gypsies Restaurant at Enmore.

Norton had met an unbelievable number of people since he came to Sydney from Queensland, mainly through working at The Kelly Club. Some he wished he'd never met, others he was glad he had. Grigor Ciotsa sort of fell into a grey area. Les first met him when he was driving a delivery truck for a meatworks in Ultimo. Grigor had not long migrated to Australia from Romania and he used to hustle Scotch fillets and rumps and stuff in the restaurant trade. This was just a temporary use so he could cement himself as a good Aussie citizen before getting into what he was best at: in Grigor's case, moving drugs, stolen cars, insurance scams and — his speciality — arson. Before he came to Australia, Grigor Ciotsa was a captain in the Romanian Securitate — an explosives expert. He must have read the writing on the wall and got out of Romania years before all the shit hit the fan there, with the fall of the Ceacescu dictatorship and got his brother Vaclav out to Australia not long afterwards.

Grigor got out of hustling meat long before Les got into football and working on the door at the Kelly Club, which was where he bumped into Grigor again. By now Grigor and his brother had well and truly established themselves in the Sydney crime scene and, like most crime figures, didn't mind getting into a bit of heavy gambling to wash away a bit of black money. And what better place to do it than the Kelly Club? It was well run, the mugs didn't get in, only the cream of Sydney's underworld frequented the place and whenever Grigor, Vaclav or their heavies lobbed up to splurge a few grand, Grigor's old compatriot from the meatworks was on
the door to greet them and send them straight up the stairs with a laugh and a joke thrown in. For all his rotten villainy, Les didn't mind Grigor, even if he was one of those schizoid types who could laugh and joke with you one day, then think nothing of it if he had to blow your head off the next. But there were two things that really cemented Les to Grigor and his brother, and they happened barely a month apart.

On the first occasion it wasn't all that much. Grigor's brother left the club early one night, leaving Grigor to punt on almost to the death and head home very drunk with about fifteen grand in his kick. Les and Billy offered to put Grigor in a taxi but, full of piss and bravado, he said he was going to have a meal and a coffee with some friends. After the club closed, Les and Billy walked to their cars. As was usual at that time of the morning Norton was feeling a bit peckish, so he decided to walk back up to the Cross and get a lamb yeeros. It was lucky for Grigor he did, because just before he got to the main road he saw the Romanian ambling drunkenly towards him with four young hoods right behind like a pack of wolves getting ready for the kill. They pounced on Grigor and even though he wasn't doing too bad, considering how drunk he was, his luck was fast running out until Norton lobbed on the scene. Between Les and Grigor, who was now on his feet, the four hoods were wishing they'd never been born, let alone come up the Cross that night — particularly when Grigor pulled out a knife and wanted to cut their throats. But this time Les bundled him into a cab and wouldn't take no for an answer.

The following night, Grigor was back at the club with a couple of his heavies, and two thousand dollars was shoved in Norton's hand whether he wanted it or not.

Helping someone out in a fight is a pretty good favour, but for a bloke like Les it was almost taken for granted — he'd done it that many times he'd lost count. But the thing that really cemented Norton to the Ciotsas happened two or three weeks later.

It was a late-summer Sunday afternoon on Bondi Beach with not all that many people around. Norton was walking arm in arm along the water's edge with some British Airways hostess he'd met somewhere, doing his best to act the romantic lover with the sun going down, the waves breaking on the sand, and the seagulls in the air. They just happened to be at the south end of the beach at the same time as Vaclav, who was there with his wife and four year old son. Vaclav had walked up to the car for something, leaving his wife on the beach. She turned her back for barely a second and kids being kids, the little boy jumped in the water, and was washed out by a wave into the rip that always forms at South Bondi between the rocks and the baths. Norton saw the woman screaming and the kid's head bobbing out to sea in the rip. The nearest boardrider was fifty metres away so, without thinking, he plunged in, drifted out with the rip, grabbed the terrified kid, got him up on the rocks and carried him back to his mother. Vaclav was walking back and heard all the commotion and could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Norton carrying his son back to his wife who was yammering away in Romanian at the top of her voice. Really it was no big deal. Lifesavers and beach inspectors did more spectacular things hundreds of times every weekend and barely got thanks, let alone any recognition for it.

But to Vaclav and his wife, both non-swimmers, it was the most heroic deed they'd ever seen, and to them Norton was Indiana Jones, Tarzan and The Man From Snowy River all rolled into one. And when Uncle Grigor, the Don Corleone of the Romanian community, found out that Norton had not only saved his neck, but his loving nephew's life as well, it was a different matter altogether. It was almost a ceremony when he and Vaclav called round to the Kelly Club to thank him through the week. Les refused to take the money they offered, but the way Grigor put it, Les was now almost part of the family, and if he didn't give the Romanian a chance to show his gratitude in some way at some time,
it would be an insult to Grigor's standing in the Romanian community. In Grigor's words, he owed Les Norton a debt of honour in blood. A debt that must be repaid.

Les knew that Grigor worked out of his restaurant at Enmore, which was little more than a front for his nefarious deeds, and tipped that he'd be there early in the week. He laughed to himself as he dialled. Oh well, Grigor, old buddy, old pal, you want to repay a debt of honour? Norton's laughter turned into a shrewd smile as he heard the phone ringing at the other end. This could be your big chance. And honour is honour.

‘Hello,' came a thick, guttural voice.

‘Could I speak to Grigor, please?'

‘I am not sure he is in,' the voice said carefully. ‘I will look. Who calls please?'

‘Tell him it's Les Norton from the Kelly Club.'

There were heavy footsteps, a door slammed, more heavy footsteps then a cheerful, foreign voice boomed down the phone. ‘Les Norton, my friend! My very good friend. How are you, Les?'

‘Pretty good, Grigor. How's yourself?'

‘Excellent, excellent. One hundred per cent. I hear of the trouble you are having at the club. A bad thing this.'

‘Yeah. It's a bit of a bummer, all right, Grigor,' agreed Les. ‘But that's the way it goes.'

‘I would like to think you are ringing me for a job, Les Norton. Straight away I can do something for a man of your calibre.'

‘No, Grigor. But thanks for the offer.'

‘It is my pleasure — as you know, my good friend.'

‘Actually, Grigor, I wanted to see you about something entirely different.'

‘Yes?' answered the Romanian slowly, starting to get the picture already.

‘I'd like to call over and see you if I could.'

‘That is no problem — I would prefer that. I am not a man who likes to discuss, shall we say, personal matters over the phone.'

‘Yeah. Not these days anyway. Could I come over tomorrow?'

‘Of course, my friend. What time?'

‘Say... eleven tomorrow morning?'

‘No problem at all. Would you like to join me for lunch? We do an excellent Chicken Dniester at my restaurant.'

‘No, just a cup of coffee'll do, thanks Grigor.'

‘Then I shall look forward to your visit tomorrow, my friend. You know where it is?'

‘Yeah. Enmore Road. Just down from the pub.' ‘Tomorrow at eleven, then, Les.'

‘See you then, Grigor.'

Well, that's the start of phase two, thought Norton, staring absently at the phone after he'd hung up. For better or for bloody worse. Now what will I do for the rest of the day? Will I have a feed or a run?

No, bugger it. I'll have a run, then cook something for tea and annoy the shit out of that little bastard Warren when he comes all hungover and crook tonight. Parties behind my back... Sorry Les, but I thought you were dead — taking advantage of the landlord like that. What a hide.

Norton had a run along Bondi Beach and a swim then spent the rest of the afternoon deep in thought as he pottered around the house. By the time he'd got a corner cut of topside baked and the vegetables done Warren was home looking exactly how Les hoped he'd look: tired and still a bit seedy.

‘So? said Norton, sitting in the kitchen sipping a can of lemonade. ‘The Great Gatsby's home. What's doing tonight, Gats? Another party?'

‘Please, Les,' replied Warren, heading straight for the fridge and the mineral water. ‘I've had a cunt of a day at work. I'm totally fucked, and I'm not in the mood for any verbal repartee.'

‘Yeah? Not like last night, when you were running round here like Jack the lad, wrecking my beautiful house?'

Warren ignored Les and poured himself a glass of Hepburn Spa.

‘You hungry?' asked Les.

‘Yeah, I am, actually.'

‘Well I've got a nice roast of beef in the oven. Why don't you get changed and have a shower and shitty old Les the Landlord'll have it waiting on the table for you when you come out.'

Despite himself, Warren couldn't help but smile. ‘Have you honestly been off the drink all week?'

Norton nodded and held up the can of lemonade. ‘And I'm still off it too.'

Warren shook his head. ‘Jesus! I wish I had your willpower.'

‘Yeah, well that's it, ain't it? Some of us have, and some of us haven't. Go on, go and have a scrub before I change my mind and send you down for a pizza.'

They ripped into the roast beef, cleaned up and settled back to watch the Monday night movie. Ironically, the movie was an old John Wayne thing about Red Adair the firefighter. Norton could barely conceal his amusement and would have loved to have said something to Warren. Instead, he was in bed not long after Warren, around eleven.

Tuesday was warm, bright and sunny with the summer nor'easter barely rippling the ocean when Norton got out of his car at North Bondi for a run at seven o'clock. He wanted his head nice and clear for what he had to do that day, so he jogged eight laps of the beach deep in thought, had a swim, then a cold shower on the promenade.

He was home when Warren surfaced just after eight; and although the young advertising genius was in decidedly better shape than the previous morning, he still mumbled and stumbled around the house getting his shit together. Norton put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, got some eggs and coffee into Warren and had him ready for work by nine.

‘Jesus! Roast beef for tea last night. Poached eggs this morning...' Warren smiled and jangled his car keys at Les, who was still sitting in the kitchen reading the paper. ‘If you weren't such an ugly, miserable big cunt it'd be almost good having you back home.'

‘Just remember what I said, Woz,' replied Norton, without looking up from the paper. ‘One scratch on those Hunters And Collectors albums... Just one, tiny scratch...'

Warren blew Les a kiss from the kitchen doorway. ‘I'll be home about five-thirty Mum. Don't bum my dinner.'

Norton cleaned up in the kitchen, made another cup of coffee and went through the paper again. Before long it was ten and he went into the lounge room to the phone. He dialled Bonnyrigg, recognising the voice at the other end. ‘Is that you, Mick?'

‘Yeah, this is Mick,' came the surly reply.

‘I thought it was. This is Mr Smith the caretaker. How are you mate?'

‘You can knock up with the fucking around, pal. Get to the point. What do you want?'

‘Jeez, we are titchy this morning, aren't we? Okay, Mick. Like I said, a hundred grand.'

‘There's no way we can come up with a hundred grand.'

‘You can't? Jesus, what a lousy, low lot of bikies you bunch are. Well, how much have you got?'

‘Fifty.'

‘Fifty! Fuck off. It'll take fifty grand just to recarpet that beautiful home unit you ruined. Come on, Mick. Get fair dinkum.'

‘Fifty. It's the best we can do.'

‘Bloody hell!' Norton thought for a moment or two. ‘I'll make it seventy-five. And that's the best I can do.'

‘Jesus...'

‘Come on, Mick. That's my last offer or I go to the wallopers. Like a good, concerned citizen should.'

There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line then a hand went over the phone and Norton had an idea Mick wasn't alone in the house.

‘All right!' Mick's voice came back. ‘Seventy-five.'

‘Good man. Now, I'll tell you what we'll do. You know that garage on the corner opposite the flats?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'll meet you there tomorrow morning at ten-thirty sharp.'

‘All right.'

‘How many of you'll be there?'

‘Four of us. We'll be in a blue, 1967 Ford.'

‘Okay. I'll be waiting on the comer at ten-thirty. And don't get too many funny ideas.'

‘We'll see you in the morning. Ten-thirty,' came the inimical reply.

Well, that's that, thought Les, after he hung up. A bit of luck, and I should have a nice seventy-five in the bin tomorrow. He stared at the phone for a moment. But I trust those crankheads about as far as I could place-kick a dead walrus. Should I take some help with me? He drummed his fingers on the coffee table. No, the less people know about all this the better. I think I know what to do.