High Noon in Nimbin Read online

  DEDICATION

  I want to dedicate this book to two footballers,

  Andrew Johns and Wendell Sailor. Not because I’m a

  rugby league nut or I’m a particular fan of theirs, but

  these two men took a bit of a fall and got hammered

  unmercifully by the media only for being who they

  are. Yet they took it on the chin and bounced back

  bigger and better than ever. I think this is full-on

  Australian and highly admirable. Onya boys.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About The Author

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I imagine everybody’s wondering why I’m late getting a book out this year. Well, I’ve had a few ups and downs and other things on my plate. I won’t go into any great detail here. But everything is explained on my website along with a heap of photos from the waxhead wedding of the year and others taken in Nimbin. I’ve also posted a photo some diggers sent me from Iraq, of them aboard a new super-stealth helicopter the Australian government is ordering. It’s highly classified and I’ll no doubt get myself into all sorts of trouble for publishing this photo; either ASIO will assassinate me or the CIA will whisk me off to Guantanamo Bay. But these are just the things I do for my readers and I like to live dangerously. There’s also photos of me wearing some kit I got sent from an adjutant librarian in Afghanistan in exchange for two boxes of my books. I look pretty cool.

  Again I have to apologise to all the people who wrote to me and haven’t got a reply yet. I do my best. But there’s just so many letters and because of the ups and downs this year I haven’t had a chance to reply to all of them. But now that the book’s finished I’m slowly but surely ploughing through them and you should get a reply. However, if you miss out, don’t worry. I read and appreciate every letter I get. And didn’t I get some letters from my WA readers with ideas for a story set over there. Thank you to all the sand gropers. I’ll do a Les Norton in WA one day for sure. I’ve got enough ammunition for ten books.

  A lot of people send me manuscripts they’ve written hoping to get published. To be honest, there’s not a great deal I can do except give them a quick read then pass them on to my editor. And so far she hasn’t uncovered the next J.K. Rowling or Dan Brown. She hasn’t even uncovered another Barbara. But don’t give up. If you think you’ve got a half readable book in you, have a go.

  There’s a lot of different music in this book and I don’t mean to come over as some kind of musical snob. But it’s all good foot stompin, get-down rock ’n roll and, being a grumpy old man, I have to admit I can’t stand that doof-doof house music. It gives me carbuncles. All the CDs I bought mostly at JB HiFiat Erina Fair. They’ve got a great selection. I thoroughly recommend Lucy De Soto and the Phantom Blues Band. You’ll have a hard time trying to find those two Doors albums they did after Jim Morrison died, but if you can they’re well worth it. Ray Manzarek on piano is a pure genius.

  I suppose I should apologise to two good friends of mine, Tony Nolan and Sean Doherty. These two blokes did me an immeasurable favour and I repaid them by stitching them up in this book. But what would you expect from a miserable old dropkick like me? And it was all done in the very best of taste.

  To all those people wanting Team Norton T-shirts and caps, I’ve still got plenty. But some types are a bit thin on the ground. Plus my regular screenprinter has disappeared into the jungles of Vietnam with all the CD-roms. Rather than send an assassin after him in a patrol boat to terminate him with extreme prejudice, I’ve found another bloke. I got some more printed. But he’s flat out setting everything up. So put your phone number in with your order and we can get back to you if we haven’t got the T-shirt you want. Or you can put in another preference. I can also get books if you’re having trouble finding them. Same price as the T-shirts and caps: $30.00 postage paid. And seeing I’m such a good bloke, I’ll even autograph them for you. Unfortunately we can’t do overseas orders.

  Well, that’s about it, folks. I hope you enjoy High Noon in Nimbin. It was a hard one to write and I’m sorry it was late arriving. But everything is explained on my website. Nevertheless, I think it turned out all right. Now all I have to do is try and write another one. Thanks for your support. You’re the best.

  Robert G. Barrett

  It was a dirty, rotten, low-down thing to do. It was callous and it was mean. It was wanton and shameful and despicable bordering on repugnant. Besides that, the victim of this loathsome deed belonged to an endangered and protected species, making the insidious act an environmental atrocity. Certainly nothing to be proud of. And Norton knew it. However, instead of showing any remorse, pangs of conscience or a sense of shame for his part in the vile, reprehensible crime, the big redheaded Queenslander was grinning from ear to ear. Laughing. Singing, even. But what would you expect from a ruthless low-life thug working on a door in Kings Cross?

  The whole unseemly incident revolved around a poor inoffensive little green tree frog that had set himself up somewhere around the fountain in Norton’s backyard during the mating season. Les had never managed to lay eyes on the frog, but he nicknamed him Fabio. Happily ensconced at Chez Norton, Fabio used to spend the evenings sending out his sweet love song to any female frogs in the hood who might be interested in dropping by for a bit of conversation and company. Or to put it in the great Australian vernacular, Fabio was trying like mad to get himself a root.

  Fabio would generally start serenading around nine in the evening, then go through non-stop till sunrise. Fabio’s idea of a love song was to puff up a large membrane of flesh under his chin then explode it with a resonating ‘PWOP’ that could be heard a block away. He’d work Norton’s backyard till midnight, then move down the side passage between Norton’s bedroom and the house next door on the right that belonged to Norton’s new and likeable architect neighbour Ross and his wife Polly.

  Both Ross and Polly had a green thumb and together they’d put a flower-filled rockery in their bricked-off front yard along with a small fountain, gnomes and other things. A wrought iron fence with a couple of holes in the bottom separated the two houses and Fabio figured if he couldn’t pull a sheila at Les’s, he might find one next door. Entice her through the fence back to his bachelor pad at Chez Norton, throw some Barry White on the stereo, knock up a jug of margharitas and then toss her up in the air.

  Unfortunately, female frogs were very thin on the ground in Bondi and despite his endless serenading, Fabio was having no luck with the ladies at either venue. Also unfortunately for Fabio, he could have chosen a better spot than Chez Norton to operate. Fabio and his serenading was now giving the owner a full-on, galloping case of the shits. A case of the shits that was getting worse all the time.

  When Fabio was serenading in the backyard it wasn’t so bad and only sounded like a faint ‘pwop’ in the distance. But when Fabio set himself up outside Norton’s bedroom, it was no different to someone bursting a paper bag beneath the side window every ten seconds—ruining Norton’s sleep, giving him bags under his eyes and driving the big Queenslander into a frenzy. And the noise seemed to get louder as the night wore on.

  Les tried ear plugs. But they’d end up falling out and they made the insides of his ears itch. He went out with a baseball bat to smash Fabio’s head in, pots of boiling water to scald him, and plastic containers of hydrochloric acid to burn hi
m. But Fabio tap danced too fast in the darkness for Les and Norton couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the green demon let alone get his hands on him. Because of the noise and the risk of ricocheting bullets, Les stopped himself from grabbing a gun and emptying a few clips in Fabio’s direction. But he was seriously considering getting a stick of dynamite and concocting a story about unknowingly crossing a team of nutters in Kings Cross who wanted him dead; bad luck about the collateral damage to his bedroom and Ross and Polly’s front yard. But Les had to do something. Fabio was turning Norton’s life into a living hell and it was only a matter of time before he put Les in a straightjacket.

  There was only one answer: Les had to organise a hit on Fabio. A contract killing. And although it was going to the ultimate extreme, calling in one of Sydney’s deadliest hitmen to take out a frog, it had to be done. So on a cool Monday morning in Bondi, halfway through autumn, Norton picked up his land line and phoned Eddie Salita.

  ‘Yeah hello.’

  ‘Eddie. It’s Les.’

  ‘Hey, Les. How are you, mate?’

  ‘Not bad. Hey, Eddie, did I leave my sunglasses in your car?’

  Misplaced sunglasses was a code they used at the Kelly Club. It meant a deadly serious situation had arisen. Murder was in the air. Drop everything and get to the source ASAP.

  There was a brief pause on the line. ‘Yeah. I think you did,’ replied Eddie. ‘You home now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll see you in…twenty minutes.’

  Les hung up and stared at the phone. ‘Fabio,’ he said, a sinister smile edging around his tired, darkened eyes, ‘with a bit of luck, you are a dead frog hopping.’

  Les got up, went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of cold milk. Then, still wearing his old black trackies and daggy grey sweatshirt, returned to the loungeroom, sat down and ruminated on life while he waited for Eddie.

  All in all, life was pretty good. When his face healed up, Les borrowed Billy’s Holden station wagon and drove back to Terrigal, where he met Marla and had a delightful lunch at the Haven, promising to see her again as soon as things quietened down in the motel trade. Warren was back in Surfers Paradise shooting a TV commercial for some white-shoe developers, and although the boarder had stitched him up in the search for Bodene’s film script, Les finally saw the funny side of it and decided against boiling Warren in rancid chicken fat; although the 1930 penny turning up out of the blue certainly sweetened things up a lot. Beatrice said it was worth at least $35,000. But outstanding rarities like that you just didn’t sell. So Warren’s girl got Les a certificate of verification, had the old coin insured and locked it in her safe for him. Leaving Les still wedged behind the eight ball in his search for a lazy fifty to dump his old Holden and buy the hybrid German car he fancied—unless he wanted to cut into his stash buried in the backyard. But Les would sort it out somehow. Of course there was always the odd glitch in life. In this case, like everybody else at the Kelly Club, Les was temporarily laid off.

  A film company had approached Price to use the front of his club during the day for a crime series being shot in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs called Gut Feeling. Price liked the irony of it all and also liked the nice little earner the film company had offered him. Unfortunately, the stunt driver for an action scene was like the idiot on The Fast Show. He lost control of a flatbed Holden roaring down Kelly Street and ploughed straight into the front door of the club, smashing the foyer to pieces, breaking both his legs and setting the stairs on fire. Only for the quick arrival of the fire brigade, it was lucky the Kelly Club and the buildings on either side didn’t go up. While Les and the others were laughing fit to bust and pasting the newspaper clippings in their scrapbooks, Price blew a gasket before settling down and suing everybody concerned for damages, loss of income, post traumatic stress disorder and anything else he could think of. The end result was, Les and Billy would be back at work in a brand new foyer with new carpet and a better door, and Price would be around another million in front. When it came to turning shit into Chanel No. 5, nobody could get within a bull’s roar of the dapper, silvery-haired casino owner.

  Another glitch, if you could call it that, was that Les had received an invitation to a wedding between Steve ‘Deadline’ Deverell, the waxhead editor of a surfing magazine called Off Shore, and his girlfriend Ninety-Nine, two people Les had got to know through Tony Nathan, aka Steelo, the surf photographer. Steve had a deadly sense of humour behind a pair of mercurial dark brown eyes, and with his shaved head and square jaw, always reminded Les of Jason Statham from the Transporter movies. Steve got the nickname Deadline because he preferred surfing to work and was always on deadline. His girlfriend Saretta got the nickname Ninety-Nine because she looked a lot like Maxwell Smart’s good-looking assistant, right down to the prominent cheekbones and shiny brown hair. They’d been together three years and had two lovely little daughters so Steve decided to tie the knot. The wedding was on Wednesday at Wallis Lake just north of the Myall Lakes near Forster on the New South Wales north coast. Go up Tuesday. Come back Thursday. And Les for the life of him didn’t want to go. It wasn’t the drive, or knowing Steve’s waxhead mates would drive him crazy with their ‘unreal tubes man’ and ‘ohh those waves were filthy man’ or ‘that last session was really sick man’. Or being billeted for two nights in a holiday apartment at Blueys Beach with snail’s pace Tony Nathan. Les simply hated weddings. At all the ones he’d been to, the guests were generally married couples and Les, the perennial bachelor hanging around on his own, always felt like a Jew with a piano accordion at a Hitler Youth rally. However, Les couldn’t get out of it because he pretty much owed Steve Deverell his life. More than that, Deadline saved Les the ignominy of having his big boofhead splashed all around Australia on prime-time TV.

  Les had got into a massive drink one summer Sunday night at the Bondi Icebergs and woke up sick as a dog the next morning. He couldn’t handle any breakfast, so he shuffled miserably down to South Bondi to have a swim and liven up a little, before pouring several strong coffees down his throat and a packet of Panadeine. As he dropped his T-shirt and towel on the sand, Les noticed the film crew from Bondi Rescue were positioned at the water’s edge with the local lifeguards waiting for some stupid Jap or Eurotrash backpacker to get into difficulties so the lifeguards could paddle furiously out through the break and make a dramatic, action-packed, fully televised rescue. The surf was only moderate so, wearing an old pair of blue shorts, Les plunged in and began lazily swimming and drifting out through the waves and surfers.

  The water was delightful and Les was starting to rejoin the land of the living when he found himself caught in a rip. It wasn’t very strong and Les knew if he just went with it and swam to the side he’d eventually find himself on a sandbank. Les was casually breaststroking along when some bloated lilywhite backpacker on a hired mini-mal picked up a wave and fell off the moment he got to his feet. As he did, he kicked the mini-mal forward and it speared Norton in the ribs, forcing Les to clench his jaw and clutch at his side. The pain felt like when he was sparring with Billy Dunne and Billy would suddenly weave and hammer a left rip below Norton’s floating rib into his liver, stopping the big Queenslander in his tracks. While the backpacker ignored Les and clambered back onto his surfboard, Les held his ribs, hardly able to breathe. Nothing appeared to be broken, but he’d definitely torn a rib cartilage and he was in trouble.

  Just managing to tread water, Les drifted back into the rip where a couple of bigger waves broke over him, tossing him helplessly around in the foam. Another wave broke on him, keeping him under, and in his semi-paralysed, hungover state, Les knew it was either drown or signal for the lifeguards to come and save his sorry arse, then face the embarrassment of his rescue being televised. Les was about to raise his arm when who should come paddling in his direction, sporting a friendly smile, but Steve Deverell. By the drawn look on Norton’s face, Deadline sensed something was amiss, so he paddled straight over and asked Les if he was all r
ight. Les was able to cough and splutter a definite ‘No’. So Steve got Norton’s ample frame onto his surfboard and paddled him into shore, away from the lifeguards and the Bondi Rescue film crew. When he got his breath back, Les thanked Steve profusely and told Deadline he owed him a big one. Get in touch any time and he’d do whatever he could. Now it was time to ante up. Deadline had sent Les an invitation to his wedding, and there was no getting out of it.

  Oh well, thought Les, getting up and taking his empty glass out to the kitchen. Steelo should be on his own, so I can hang out with him at the reception. And if Deadline’s waxhead mates get too punishing, I’ll just make myself scarce. The bottom line is, Steve’s a good bloke and I owe him one. So that’s that. Les rinsed his glass and placed it in the rack just as a staccato knock sounded on the front door. Les glanced at his watch. I think I know who this might be, he smiled. Les walked up the hallway and opened the door.

  Eddie was shuffling around irritably on the welcome mat wearing a blue bomber jacket and a grey T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans.

  ‘G’day, Eddie,’ said Les. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right,’ Eddie replied abruptly, walking straight past Norton and down the hallway.

  ‘That’s good,’ nodded Les.

  By the time Les closed the door and followed Eddie down the hallway, Eddie was standing in the loungeroom glaring angrily at him.

  ‘This isn’t those fuckin Lebanese arseholes again is it?’ he demanded. ‘Fair dinkum. If it is, I’ll ring Big Arse and sort the dopey wog cunts out once and for fuckin all.’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. It’s not the Lebs, Eddie. They’re history. It’s something else.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I want you to knock a frog for me.’

  ‘A frog?’ Eddie’s face turned into a sneer. ‘You don’t mean French Charlie, do you? I know he’s full of shit about being in the French Foreign Legion and you had to turf the pain in the arse out of the club the other week. But if he’s giving you any grief I’ll sort him out. No worries. You’ll have to give me a hand to get rid of the body, that’s all.’