Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Read online

  Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

  Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan

  YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS

  THE REAL THING

  THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA

  THE GODSON

  BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS

  DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING

  WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE

  AND DE FUN DON’T DONE

  THE DAY OF THE GECKO

  RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT

  GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ

  ROBERT G.

  BARRETT

  Mele Kalikimaka

  Mr Walker

  As usual, the author is donating part of his royalties to Greenpeace.

  This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.

  First published 1994 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 1995, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008, 2009

  Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1994

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Barrett, Robert G.

  Mele kalikimaka Mr. Walker.

  ISBN 978 0 330 35607 7

  I. Title II. Title: Mele kalikimaka Mister Walker.

  A823.3

  Typeset in 10/13.5 pt Times by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  This book is dedicated to a couple of Bondi waxheads, Kevin Brennan and Brad Mayes. Unfortunately the boys are with us no more, but as a sign of respect, Brad Mayes’ board hangs on the wall of the Windsor Castle Hotel in Paddington.

  The author would like to offer his deepest thanks to the following people for their friendliness and assistance in getting this book together.

  Officer Rick de Ruiter, MPO-M. 11. Honolulu Police Department. Lieutenant Allan Napolean, in charge of homicide, HPD. Major Mike Carvalho, Narcotics/Vice Division, HPD. Doug Tanaka, Investigative Operations Bureau, Narcotics/Vice Division, HPD. Major Boisse P. Correa, Central Patrol Bureau, HPD. Detective Senior Constable Gerard Dutton, Forensic Ballistics Unit, New South Wales Police Service. Constable First Class Derryn Borg, NSW Police Service.

  And Tanya Stein in Sydney for the dance instructions.

  ‘Righto, Warren. Now run all that rattle you were muttering about earlier in the week by me again.’ Les Norton looked directly over his cup of coffee and the breakfast table at the top of Warren Edwards’ head. ‘And maybe a little slower this time.’

  Norton’s flatmate looked up uninterestedly from his newspaper for a second time, then turned another page. ‘And just how slow do I have to run it for a wombat like you to understand?’

  ‘Not all that slow, home boy,’ nodded Les. ‘But just slow enough. It appears I could have a financial interest in this, and I’m a little curious.’

  It was the usual Sunday morning at Norton’s house in Cox Avenue, Bondi. Les and Warren were in their tracksuits, having breakfast — eggs, toast, brewed coffee, whatever. The Sunday papers were spread over the table and some FM music was drifting quietly into the kitchen from the stereo in the loungeroom. Les had worked for Billy at the club the night before. Billy had gone down the south coast with his family for a week. Another easy night. Warren had taken his latest squeeze home earlier, Annie, a sub-editor on some women’s glossy magazine — because she had to go out to Penrith to see her sister. It was getting on for Christmas and well into summer, though going by the weather outside — cool, cloudy with a gusty sou’easter blowing and a chance of rain that night — you wouldn’t think so. So apart from a couple of things here and there, life was continuing pretty much the same as normal at Chez Norton.

  Les had got back from Jamaica okay and made it on time to Aunt Daisy’s funeral. The family was rapt when he showed them the photos and told them about what he’d discovered over there, then after all the drunken festivities when the wake finally wound down he returned to Sydney. In confidence he showed Price the gold cross he’d snookered and Price offered him a small fortune for it on the spot. But Les preferred to hide it somewhere safe for the time being; it would always be there if Price or someone else wanted it. Another event that had happened was that DD had got in touch with him from Taree and returned to his life for a few days. The drama with her family was still going on, but DD had unloaded the pot she’d found and set herself up with an aerobics centre. ‘Taree Two Thousand’ she called it and it was firing on all cylinders. DD was fit enough when Norton first met her, but now that she was running a gym she’d turned into a human dynamo — as Les shortly discovered when DD came down to Sydney to buy some more gym equipment at an auction. Five days she stayed with Les before driving back to Taree the previous Saturday with one of the girls who worked for her and a pretty torrid five days it was too, especially in the porking department. However, there was a bit more to it with DD than just that, and now that she was gone Les found himself thinking about her quite a bit, particularly when he’d be sitting around the Kelly Club at night when it was quiet. In fact, if it hadn’t have been for DD’s ratbag family, Les might have gone up to Taree and given it some sort of a go. In the meantime life had to go on and on this particular breakfast occasion Les and Warren weren’t about to discuss women, the coming of Christmas or what was making the headlines in their Sunday papers. During Norton’s absence, Warren had received part of a modest inheritance, which he’d now turned into a sizeable investment which Norton wanted to discuss a little more fully. But more out of curiosity than anything else, as he’d told Warren earlier.

  ‘Okay, Les,’ said Warren, folding his Sunday paper, ‘now what is it rattling around inside that empty biscuit tin you call a head that’s worrying you?’

  ‘Well,’ replied Les, taking a sip of coffee and placing his cup on the table, ‘you’ve bought yourself a two-bedroom home unit at Randwick — double garage, two balconies, close to the shops and with quite a good view of the park. All very nice indeed, I might add. I’ve driven past a couple of times and checked it out.’

  ‘That’s right,’ conceded Warren. ‘I’ve made a small investment.’

  Les nodded. ‘And this… small investment of yours, you’ve laid new carpet, put in some curtains and a fridge and you’ve rented it out already.’

  ‘That’s right,’ conceded Warren again. ‘A nice Australian schoolteacher and his equally nice dental nurse wife. A lovelier couple you’d never wish to meet.’

  Norton stared at Warren impassively. ‘So how come you don’t want to live in it?’

  Warren stared back just as impassively. ‘Because I don’t want to.’

  ‘But… wouldn’t you be better off? A big, comfortable unit, you’re the governor, come and go as you please. You could drag all your splurters back there and play your Terence Trent Darby and k.d. Lang CDs till you go blue in the face.
What’s —’

  ‘Let’s just say I love living here in Bondi with Uncle Les.’

  ‘You… love living here, Warren?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s tops. And you’re a really wonderful, sensitive, new age guy, Les.’

  ‘A really wonderful guy, eh?’ Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘You’re not starting to develop any homosexual tendencies towards the landlord by any chance, are you, Warren? Your office is just round the corner from Oxford Street.’

  ‘Homosexual tendencies? In other words, do I want to root the landlord?’ Warren appeared to think for a second. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Les. If you were a sheila and it was raining dicks, you’d get hit with a flat vibrator and have to pay for it.’

  Les nodded. ‘Fair enough. So porking the landlord’s got nothing to do with it.’ He reached under his Sunday paper and pulled out two opened letters addressed to Warren which Warren had left near the phone. ‘I don’t suppose these would have anything to do with it either?’ He jabbed an index finger at the letters. ‘Negative gearing, eight per cent reducible. And what’s this fuckin’ company, Steady Edwards and Associates? At this address?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Warren, snatching back the two letters. ‘Big deal. I formed a company, got hold of a deceased estate at the right price and hocked myself up to the arse to get it. And I’m still here at Chez Norton’s paying rent. It’s as simple as that. Drink your coffee and let me read my Sunday paper in peace.’

  Les shook his head expressionlessly. ‘No, Warren. I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that at all, old mate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Warren eyed Les a little suspiciously.

  ‘What I mean is, Warren, you’ve kicked a giant, enormous goal here and the one being shafted is me.’

  ‘Shafted? How the fuck could anyone shaft you? You’ve still got your school money and your first pair of thongs.’

  ‘Well,’ conceded Norton, ‘maybe not shafted so much. But I do have my own certain financial obligations to cover, plus my negative gearing. And I’m only getting a few nights here and there at the club now.’

  ‘What do you mean, your negative gearing?’

  ‘Namely you. One extremely negative boarder. So, in the light of due circumstances, I’m putting up the Clark Kent.’

  ‘Oh no!’ howled Warren. ‘Not the fuckin’ rent. You can’t. I’m strapped to the boards as it is.’

  ‘Five bucks a week.’

  ‘No way. Not even five pesetas.’

  ‘All right. Well, what about a dollar a week? Surely you can afford a lousy fuckin’ dollar?’

  ‘A dollar a month,’ said Warren defiantly. ‘That’s the best I can do. And that’ll probably send me to the fuckin’ wall.’

  Les shook his head and stared disconsolately into his coffee. ‘And they reckon round here that I’m a hard man. I’m buggered if I know.’

  Underneath, however, Les was quite pleased to think Warren had kicked a bit of a goal, and he was even thinking of loaning the high-flying advertising executive some money if he’d stretched things out too thin. Of course, this didn’t mean Norton couldn’t take some sort of a rise out of Warren in the meantime. The big Queenslander just had to. Warren on the other hand had a fair idea how Les would react. He was on a good thing staying with Les, and saving heaps, so he knew the landlord was entitled to give a bit of cheek at times. Nothing Warren couldn’t ever handle, of course, and on this occasion he knew Les would have some sort of a go at him, so Warren made sure he had something to come back with.

  ‘You know, I tipped you’d put on some sort of drama over this, you big sheila,’ said Warren. ‘So I’ve arranged something for you as a bit of a square-up. Something I reckon you’ll love.’ Warren’s eyes seemed to narrow. ‘And it’s all free, Les. Your favourite colour.’

  Norton’s eyes seemed to narrow slightly also. ‘Free? Like what, Warren?’

  ‘Les, how would you like a week in Hawaii? Over and back Business Class with Qantas, and a four-star hotel room in Honolulu, right on the beach at Waikiki? And all on the house.’

  Norton’s eyes narrowed some more. ‘Let me get this straight, Woz. A week in Honolulu, first-class accommodation and travel? And it won’t cost me a zac?’

  Warren nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ll fly over with you, say goodbye when we land, then fly back with you a week later. I’ll be staying out on one of the other islands.’

  Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘Isn’t Hawaii part of America?’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Warren.

  ‘And after all that shit I went through in Florida, you’re wanting me to go back there? That’s it, Warren. Get fucked. And it’s an extra five dollars a week like I said. Backdated to last month.’

  Warren threw back his head and laughed. ‘I knew you’d still blow up. You’re unbelievable. But that’s the deal. And I’m going over next Sunday anyway.’

  ‘Next Sunday?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s a contra deal. Another agency owes our agency a favour and I happened to pick it up. A double ticket to Hawaii for a week, so I’m on my way next Sunday. Aloha and goodbye. Or see you later and I’m glad I ain’t ya. Please yourself.’ Warren resumed sipping his coffee.

  Les continued to stare at Warren and absently took a sip of coffee too. ‘Did I tell you I know a cop in Honolulu comes from round Bondi?’

  ‘That fireman’s mate who stayed here during the police olympics when his hotel stuffed up? I was in Melbourne on a shoot or something.’

  ‘Yeah. Mick Reinhardt. I was going to call in and see him on my way back last time, but all I ended up doing was ringing him when I changed planes in Los Angeles.’

  ‘I only met him for a little while on the last day he was here. But he seemed like a good bloke.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Les. ‘He said if ever I was in Hawaii to call in and see him and he’d look after me.’

  Warren made a gesture with one hand. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t offer.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Woz,’ Les sipped his coffee before it started to go cold, ‘why don’t we finish breakfast and read the papers and we can discuss the matter further when we clean up?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Warren, reopening the Telegraph. ‘I was just getting into a good article on schoolgirls and sex.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum, Warren. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But check these two blondes out in the softball uniforms.’

  They took their time finishing breakfast and reading the papers. Les was glancing through different articles here and there, but mainly he was thinking about this free trip to Hawaii. Although he wasn’t all that keen, the idea did have its good points — there wasn’t a great deal doing at the moment, the weather had been pretty ordinary and a change of scenery would take his mind off things. Plus a blurb around Hawaii with Mick could be a bit of fun. After Mick had gone back, Les had found out a few things about him from some of his mates down the beach.

  Les had got to meet him through a fireman and, like a lot of other blokes who get stuck for accommodation or whatever, he stayed at Chez Norton for a few days. He’d been nicknamed ‘Lionheart Reinhardt’ from his surfing days in Bondi because he was afraid of virtually nothing. If the waves were twenty feet high Mick would be the first one out and without a wetsuit. If he was spearfishing and the water was full of sharks, Mick would grab his speargun and fight a Bronze Whaler for a Morwong. Rock climbing, kayaking down rapids, riding mountain bikes, et cetera, Mick thrived on it. Fighting wasn’t in his nature, but his father had been a boxer and shown Mick how to throw a left over the top, so if it came to a bit of organised fisticuffs Mick was in there too. He left Australia to travel the world surfing, but Hawaii was as far as he got, and he ended up joining the police force. Being one of those naturally fit blokes who didn’t smoke and only drank lightly he got into other sports, which was how come he came back to Australia for the police olympics, and to see his paren
ts, who had moved to the country.

  Mick was about as tall as Les, though not as big in the shoulders and arms. He had brown hair parted roughly on the side, a square jaw and chin, and a thick nose, which had been bent a few times but never broken, set under a pair of buoyant hazel eyes. In the few days Les had got to know Mick, he found him to be one of those good-humoured, straight-up blokes you couldn’t help but like. Les introduced Mick to some other cops he knew, put on a bit of a barbecue for him one day, and a good drink and rapport was had by all. So catching up with Officer Reinhardt of the Honolulu Police Department could be a bit of a laugh. Another funny coincidence — Hawaii had come up in conversation down the beach about a week ago. A very small-time crim from round and about had got caught with some okey-doke and several dud credit cards, so the judge gave him a short holiday for his troubles. It was rumoured, however, that the crim’s ex wife, whom he’d brassed for just about everything when they got divorced, had kicked some sort of a giant goal in Hawaii. In desperation the crim tried to get in touch with her for a snip, but she brushed him completely. Some of the blokes were trying to figure out who his ex wife might have been, but she came from somewhere round the St George area. A bit of an idea entered Norton’s head, but he didn’t bother to say anything.

  By the time Les and Warren had finished breakfast and cleaned up the mess, Norton had made up his mind. He was sick of the weather, and moping around the house without the star boarder to have a mag to wouldn’t be much fun. What did he have to lose?

  ‘Righto, Woz,’ said Les, wiping his hands on a tea towel near the sink. ‘You’ve got me. I’m going to Hawaii.’ ‘I thought you might,’ smiled Warren. ‘You’d be mad to knock it back.’

  ‘Yeah, another week putting up with seppos won’t kill me. And I s’pose I could do with a few more T-shirts.’

  ‘You’ll have a good time,’ winked Warren. ‘Hawaii’s a good spot.’

  ‘It couldn’t be any worse than bloody Florida.’