Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (26 page)

So if it was a woman doing the killings: who? Back to the fight in the lift. Mitzi. It had to be her. The way she was throwing that knuckle duster around like it was going out of style. She'd be able to do the same thing with a bulky signet ring and her boyfriend was a martial arts expert; you could bet he'd have taught her plenty. Plus, she was Andrea's accountant. All the girls would know her and trust her. She'd probably drop them off at home now and again or call round, and
bingo
! Have this in the chest to remember me by, girls. The ‘I love Andrea' bit could be another ruse. When it comes to telling lies, women can be just as good as men. Better.

Which was why Norton was relieved, as much as he was surprised, when Liu came walking along the bridge; and it made more sense. She was a driver for Andrea. She'd also know all the girls and be trusted with them. Drop them off, call around, whatever. ‘Hello Liu. What are you doing round this way?'
Whack!
The ring she used was sitting on her finger where she lay in the lagoon. The ruse. Which was more than likely why she killed the cheap black hooker — one who probably hung around with military personnel. Another ruse. The killings in alphabetical order? Maybe Liu liked to do it that way. More than likely coincidence. Possibly the two Takushi brothers owed Andrea some kind of honour, or they had to save a certain amount of face because of their father. Possibly they were just trying to put the frighteners on her early in the piece hoping Andrea would fold up her tent and vanish into the night. Then they could take over. But Andrea was either too dumb, too cheeky or making too much money to want to leave just yet. So it was time to get rid of her. Maybe for the two brothers' own purposes. Maybe before the FBI arrived, nicked everyone and put a stop to the whole caper. Remorse for the girls murdered? That'd be right. They'd be just so many lumps of meat to the Yakuza.

As for Liu herself, she was just a raving psychopath. Whether she liked to kill during full moons, Norton wasn't sure. But she looked that close to a werewolf when she was standing on the bridge it didn't make any difference. Les nearly shit himself. And any normal, rational person would have just put on the old ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' and walked away. But instead she started snarling and foaming at the mouth
and going off her brain. Not that she had far to go — an ex-lesbian geisha girl and frustrated figure skater with half the dots missing on her dominoes, who couldn't even crack it for a job as a hooker. She'd have more hang-ups than a string of dry cleaning shops. The perfect recruit for young Takushi and ultimately the perfect killing machine. Who probably revelled in her work anyway. And she'd be that dirty on Andrea underneath, she'd have probably killed her for nothing when the time came. Like tonight. Maybe Takushi gave her the nod at the Green Giraffe. Maybe she'd been following Andrea around for months, trying to get her somewhere alone and away from Monroe. Maybe Monroe was in on the scam. Who knows? But tonight was the perfect night for murder. Just bad luck Les the old friend and Constable Plod the enemy had to come stumbling along and stuff everything up. It's always the way.

And that was about it. Aloha Hawaii and fuckin' goodbye. Norton opened his eyes and noticed they were approaching the airport. One thing for sure, Les promised himself, I'll never watch another bloody James Bond movie as long as I live. It was one of those stupid films made me think about going to Jamaica. And thinking about another one almost got me killed over here. In fact, that's it all around. No more movies, no more TV, no more nothing. I'm staying home and I ain't going nowhere. It's not worth the effort. Les smiled a little as he felt his wallet in his jacket pocket with Andrea's cheque inside. At least I finished up with enough for a drink. Yeah. A vodka martini. Twist of lemon, shaken not stirred. And talking about plots and spies, there
should be another plot about to unfold tonight. The mysterious whereabouts of one Warren Edwards.

Norton looked out the window at the planes taxiing around the tarmac as they drove into the airport. I reckon I know exactly what that shifty little turd's been up to. He's been up to something he wanted to skite about in his own sweet time. But he didn't want to get sprung. Yeah. Les laughed to himself. Now it's all blown up in his face, so to speak. But the thing is, how do I let Warren know I know what he's been up to? Without letting him know I know what he's been up to? And without bubbling his toady little rort at the same time? One would have to use the utmost discretion. But there has to be a way.

The limo pulled up at the terminal and Les piled out with his bags, to be relieved of the fare and a tip by the driver, then to be relieved of another tip by some skinny bloke in a cap with a trolley who took his bag over to the Business Class Check-in Counter. Honolulu Airport looked different from the departure side and it was quite strange catching a plane so late at night and in another country. Les had a look around while the girl checked his ticket and it was much the same as any airport anywhere, he surmised — people running around or queued up at counters, high concrete walls and windows, planes coming and going. The girl was as efficient as she was polite. Les got through without any problems and after that it was a fairly lengthy walk along the concrete corridor, past people sleeping on the floor or benches or walking around like zombies waiting for their flight. Norton rounded a corner, took a small lift up a floor or two and stepped out into the foyer
of the Captain's Lounge, where his ticket was checked and he was allowed in.

The Captain's Lounge was very how's-your-father. The smokers were roped off into their area when you walked in then it was a serving area and two large lounges with comfortable chairs and nice tables with a TV in one if you wanted it. There was a table full of nibblies and next to these a table full of Australian magazines and papers and a fully stocked bar and fridge; just help yourself. The place was about two-thirds full of passengers either quietly chatting, drinking or reading the papers. But no sign of Warren. Oh well, thought Les. If he makes it, he makes it. If not, more room for me to spread my legs out. In the meantime, there's no need for me to suffer. Les placed his overnight bag at a table next to some bloke reading the
Bulletin
then made himself a super strong, super hot Bloody Mary, picked up a copy of the
Telegraph Mirror
and sat down.

Les had just made it to page 13 when some good style of a bloke in a crisp Qantas uniform walked in and introduced himself as Wing Commander Dunk or something, the Flight Services Director. He said they'd be leaving shortly, they'd be told when to board the aircraft, the flight would be most pleasant, they'd arrive in Sydney on time, did everybody have enough food and drink? were the magazines up to scratch? and how's all the family back home?

Well, that was jolly decent of him, thought Les. Good old Qantas. Isn't it nice to know someone cares? Les finished his drink and got through a few more pages, when it was time to go. He picked up his bag and joined the queue. There were only about three people behind
him when there appeared this strange commotion at the entrance. It was Warren, looking exactly like someone who had just escaped from or got blown up in a volcano. His face was blistered, his hair was singed and one eyebrow was almost gone. His jeans were scorched and dirty, his white T-shirt equally dirty as well as wrinkly and streaked with BO, and he was wild-eyed and crazy-looking. He reminded Les of a cross between some soapy backpacker and Wile E. Coyote when he gets blown up by his ACME brand dynamite in the Roadrunner cartoons. Definitely not the type of person who should be standing in the Captain's Lounge and flying Business Class.

‘Warren?' said Les, as his flatmate approached, ‘it is you — isn't it?'

‘No, it's fuckin' Red Adair. Who do you fuckin' think it is?' cursed Warren.

‘All right, Woz,' replied Norton. ‘Settle down. There's people around.' He gave Warren an amused once up and down. ‘So what happened to you?'

‘Ohh what do you think happened to me? Have a fuckin' look. Christ!' Warren noticed the queue had just about disappeared. ‘Ohh, fuck it,' he said. ‘I got time for one bloody beer.' He went to the fridge, tore the ring-pull from a can of VB, downed about a third of it and belched. ‘Shit! Did I need that.'

‘Evidently.' Les watched his flatmate rip into some more VB, till there were just the two of them left in the lounge. ‘So are you going to tell me what you've been up to, Woz?'

Warren shook his head. ‘Don't worry about it. In fact, if anyone asks you what happened over here, say
I was with you all the time. And you had to leave early. You got crook or something.'

‘I had to leave. All right, Warren. Whatever you say.'

Warren got to the last of his beer. ‘So what have you been up to anyway?' he said, switching the subject.

‘Not much,' shrugged Norton. ‘Never had time, did I? Just sat around the hotel pool, reading a book.
Age of Consent
.'

Warren frowned. ‘That's not like you to sit around reading mushy love stories.'

‘Well, like I said, Woz, I didn't have time to do much else.'

‘Yeah,' conceded Warren. ‘Well, I'm sorry about that, Les. But you know, that's how it goes.'

‘Yeah,' agreed Norton. ‘That's how it goes.
C'est la vie
.'

Warren's frown deepened. ‘What did you just say, Les?'

‘
C'est la vie.
It means, “That's life”. It's French, Warren.'

‘French?'

‘Yeah. You know, Warren. Like the bloke says on TV. That's French. That's life.
C'est la vie.
That's all I meant, Woz. Why? What did you think I meant?' Norton gave his flatmate an indifferent once up and down as he turned for the exit. ‘Well, come on, Warren. Don't stand there like a stale bottle of piss. Do you want to miss your flight?'

You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
is the book that launched Les Norton as Australia's latest cult hero.

Follow Les, the hillbilly from Queensland, as he takes on the bouncers, heavies, hookers and gamblers of Sydney's Kings Cross, films a TV ad for Bowen Lager in Queensland and gets caught up with a nymphomaniac on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

In one of the funniest books of the past decade you will laugh yourself silly and be ducking for cover as Les unleashes himself on Sydney's unsuspecting underworld.

 

Les Norton is back in town!

It all began in
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids…
And now there's more of it in
The Real Thing.

Trouble seems to follow Les Norton like a blue heeler after a mob of sheep.

Maybe it's his job.

Being a bouncer at the infamous and illegal Kelly Club in Kings Cross isn't the stuff a quiet life is made of.

Maybe it's his friends.

Like Price Galese, the urbane and well-connected owner of the Kelly Club, or Eddie Salita who learnt to kill in Vietnam, or Reg Campbell, struggling artist and dope dealer.

But, then again, maybe Les is just unlucky.

Robert G. Barrett's five stories of Les Norton and the Kelly Club provide an entertaining mix of laughter and excitement, and an insight into the Sydney underworld; a world often violent and cynical, but also with its fair share of rough humour and memorable characters.

 

‘I wonder who that red-headed bloke is? He's come into town out of nowhere, flattened six of the best fighters in Yurriki plus the biggest man in the valley. Then he arrives at my dance in army uniform drinking French champagne and imported beer like it's going out of style. And ups and leaves with the best young sort in the joint… Don't know who he is. But he's not bloody bad.'

Les Norton is at it again!

Les thought they were going to be the easiest two weeks of his life.

Playing minder for a young member of the Royal Family called Peregrine Normanhurst III sounded like a deadset snack. So what if he was a champagne-guzzling millionaire Hooray Henry and his godfather was the Attorney General of Australia? Les would keep Peregrine out of trouble… So what if he was on the run from the IRA? They'd never follow him to Australia…

Robert G. Barrett's latest Les Norton adventure moves at breakneck speed from the corridors of power in Canberra to the grimy tenements of Belfast, scorching the social pages of Sydney society and romping through the North Coast's plushest resorts to climax in a nerve-shattering, blood-spattered shootout on a survivalist fortress in the Tweed Valley.
The Godson
features Les Norton at his hilarious best, whatever he's up against — giant inbreds, earth mothers, Scandinavian au pair girls, jealous husbands, violent thugs and vengeful terrorists.

If you thought Australia's favourite son could get up to some outrageous capers in
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids, The Real Thing
and
The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya,
until you've read
The Godson,
you ain't read nothin' yet!

 

Okay, so it looks like the Kelly Club is finally closing down — it had to happen sooner or later. And it ain't as if Les Norton will starve. He has money snookered away, he owns his house, and his blue-chip investment — a block of flats in Randwick — must be worth a fortune by now. Except that the place is falling down, the council is reclaiming the land, there's been a murder in Flat 5, and the tenants are the biggest bunch of misfits since the Manson Family. And that's just the good news, because the longer Les owns the Blue Seas Apartments, the more money he loses.

This time Les Norton's really up against it.