Mystery Bay Blues Read online

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Judge Michael Finnane

  in Sydney.

  A percentage of the royalties from this book

  is being donated to:

  The Wombat Rescue and Research Project

  Lot 4, Will-O-Wynn Valley

  Murrays Run NSW 2325

  and Avoca Surf Club.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Other Books by Robert G. Barrett

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  What can I say? I gave Les Norton a year off, now he’s back, bigger and better than ever. And nicer. Les might have been a bit of a dropkick in Leaving Bondi and a few Christians wrote in castigating me because he porked the girl from Victor Harbor while she was asleep. But if Les hasn’t turned out to be a good bloke again in this one, I’ll go back on the dole. He just rides off into the sunset at the end: then turns around and rides back again. I think you’ll enjoy Mystery Bay Blues. I know I enjoyed writing it and had a great time in Narooma doing the research. What a top place. In fact I’m going back for the blues festival again this year and catch up with Neil Mummie and Rhonda. It’s the best three days and nights of rock ’n’ roll in Australia. They don’t call it the friendly festival for nothing. Hey! It was worth writing a book about.

  I have to thank all the people that came up to say hello on The Ultimate Aphrodisiac book tour. It was fantastic. Look up my website. You might see yourself there. Like the woman that came up to me in Lismore with the top of her dress full of baby possums. And what about Edith? Who drove all the way from Grenfell to Grafton to say hello and get some books signed. She was so nice I was in tears. We’ve been trying to contact her through the Grafton paper, but we can’t. Anyway Edith, if you read this, write to me. There’s some presents waiting for you.

  The feedback from The Ultimate Aphrodisiac was all positive. Some people said it was my best book. Some even said it was the best book they’d ever read. For a grumpy old fart of an awther I was flattered, I can tell you. I’ve also been doing my best to answer all your letters and I’m catching up. But the other day I found a full box I’d put aside to take down to Narooma with me and forgot all about them. So some replies might be a bit slow coming. But I’m doing my best and I love hearing from you. It makes my day.

  Now, all you people wanting Team Norton T-shirts, caps and those red-hot women’s tank tops that are causing a sensation: because The Ultimate Aphrodisiac was late coming out due to that 9-11 NY event, a lot of people still don’t know the book is out there and they don’t know the possum lady isn’t with me anymore or that I’ve moved Team Norton up to Terrigal. People are still writing to the old address at Tamarama. So here’s what’s going on if you want Team Norton gear: to save paperwork, there’s no faxes, order forms or Visa. Just write down what you want and your size on a piece of paper and sent it to Psycho Possum Productions, PO Box 382, Terrigal NSW 2260, with a cheque or money order. T-shirts are $35.00. The tank-tops and caps are $36.00. And all the older medium size T-shirts are $25.00, including postage and the good old GST. We’ll probably be doing a T-shirt for Mystery Bay Blues. And I’m culling a few T-shirts because there’s too many titles. There’s no more bum-bags, gift packs and other junk. Just T-shirts and caps. But check the website to see what’s going on.

  There’s still plenty of caps and T-shirts available. However, make sure you put a phone number in with order in case there’s any drama. The only help I’ve got at the moment are some blokes sent to me from an employment agency up my way, who told me they were refugees from an orphanage in Rwanda. They don’t speak very good English and they’ve got no arms, so they bundle the parcels up with their feet. One bloke’s got both no arms or legs. His name’s M’Bunti. But everybody calls him Mat. All he can do is lick stamps. They’re all a bit slow and I’ve got a feeling they’re illegal immigrants. But shit! What can I do? They work almost for nothing and it stops people calling me an insensitive racist.

  I’ve been getting a lot of photos from readers wearing Team Norton T-shirts all over the place — from Gallipoli to North Queensland. So I’m going to start putting them up on the website. I spoke to the powers that be at HarperCollins and, to those who send the best photos, we’re going to send a couple of good books. I might even get the orphans to ‘kick in’ a free T-shirt. Also, The Ultimate Aphrodisiac will be out in the small size paperback soon. Don’t buy one if you’ve already got the big size. But check out the photo in the back of me and Johnny Johnson and you’ll realise why I said Johnny Johnson was so happy to see me. It’s a classic. And about those surf things I was going to make, I’ve decided to give it a miss. They’re a good idea. Just too much work involved.

  Well, that’s about it folks. By the time you read this, the Narooma blues festival will be all over and I’ll be having a bit of a holiday down Avoca, keeping an eye on all the girls keeping an eye on the Les Norton boat crew, while I’m wondering what I’m going to write next. Probably another Les Norton. Though I’ve got an idea for a book called Maroubra Girl. It’s about a racehorse. We’ll see what happens. Again, thanks for all your letters and your support and I’ll catch up with you in the next book. In the meantime, keep checking out my website. You don’t know what might turn up on it.

  Robert G. Barrett

  Yes, thought Norton, as he stepped right from Campbell Parade, Bondi into Hall Street. You might know how to hand it out, but you sure know how to kick a man in the nuts too. Don’t you, boss. Les stopped for a moment to look upwards and smile mirthlessly at the sky before continuing steadily towards Cox Avenue and home. It was a pleasant Tuesday afternoon in early spring and Les was in a pair of green cargos, a white T-shirt, cap and an expensive pair of brand new trainers. Despite the day and his new trainers, Les wasn’t striding out in the sunshine. He wasn’t dragging his feet either. He was just walking along steadily. Very steadily. Thanks again to Eddie Salita. And just when everything was going along absolutely swimmingly.

  The harrowing business with the Gull’s movie was well and truly behind him now. In all the smell and confusion, the Trough Queen had simply run out of Waverley police station and disappeared never to be seen again. The police searched his unit but so far hadn’t found any incriminating evidence. So whether the Trough Queen did the deed could not be proved conclusively. Nevertheless, it did seem more than a little odd, vanishing from a nicely furnished unit and a top rating radio program. Subsequently, police were rather keen to find the Trough Queen so he could help them with their investigations. Not that Les gave a stuff whether the wallopers found him or not. Les was as free as a bird. He’d even had his fifteen minutes of fame. A flicker on TV and a photo in the papers with a few words saying ‘Bondi Waiter Cleared On Murder Charges’. Alongside ‘Mysterious Disappearance Of Radio Announcer Has Police And Friends Puzzled’.

  Now, Les was just another innocent man wronged and his good name almost ruined due to the bunglings of the NSW police. In fact the big Queenslander was so aggrieved and full of self-righteous indignation over what had happened, he was thinking of suing the police for malicious arrest and post-operative, traumatic, something or other. But, balancing that against all the villainy Norton had got away with in the past, he decided to cop it sweet. And speaking of villainy: while all this rattle was going on Les had the money he’d stolen washed quicker than a cup and saucer. He gave it to his accountant who changed it into Euros. She then bought shares over the net in some French IT company, resold the shares and bought into a Belgian IT company. Sold the shares again and cashed them back into Euros, changed the Euros into
Hong Kong dollars, then US dollars. Before finally changing them back into Australian dollars. Somehow, amongst all the confusion between the internet, share traders and money changers working out what a Euro was, let alone how much it was worth, when the money got back to Les — all quite legally washed, folded and dried — another two thousand had fallen in, as well as his accountant getting her whack. Les was laughing.

  Roxy had done the right thing in Adelaide also. Due to her drugged state and the trauma she’d been through, all she could recollect in her statement to the police was that a tall man named Conrad had saved her, then brought her back to his hotel before driving her home the next day. The police checked the hotel register along with an identikit photo from Roxy, and found no trace of Conrad Ullrich either. However, Roxy was able to identify the ratbags who’d kidnapped her, who were promptly arrested and were now awaiting trial. And Les didn’t have to appear in court. Roxy also got her fifteen minutes of fame. She sold her story to a newspaper for thirty thousand dollars; now she was in line for another fifty thousand in reward money. So Roxy was laughing too.

  Les flew Roxy to Sydney. She stayed at Chez Norton for a couple of days, then they both flew to Coffs Harbour and booked into the same resort Les had stayed at with Perigrine. Les hired a car and they both had a lovely time swimming, snorkelling and taking in the sights. Porking, drinking expensive cocktails and eating that many lobsters their eyes started poking out on stalks. Then Roxy went back to Victor Harbor and threw in her job to concentrate on her novel. They kept in touch. But between the conspiracy of distance and Roxy immersed in her work they didn’t see as much of each other as they would have liked. But Roxy wasn’t interested in any men at present and was quite happy seeing Les when she could. Les felt very much the same way about Roxy. One day — he told her, when she was kissing him goodbye at Adelaide airport — you just never know, Roxy. You just never know. Now Roxy was in Perth before heading for Broome to research another part of her book. And Les was in Sydney, back at the Kelly Club and training like a man possessed on his days off. Maybe it was knowing he wasn’t going inside that gave Les a new lease on life. Maybe it was Roxy. But Les just had this wonderful feeling of freedom and fitness; along with being unexpectedly cashed up. Then, everything came to a shuddering halt.

  After all the drama Eddie had caused him with his exploding cakebox, Les reckoned the little hitman should shout him the other pair of stabilising binoculars. That was okay by Eddie. He even tossed in a spare pair of inversion boots he’d got from the same villain. They were pretty much like the ones Sylvester Stallone used in the Rocky films. A pair of rubber-lined metal tubes, with a hook facing backwards, that you clamped round your shins. Then you swung up onto a bar and hung upside down like a fruit bat doing sit-ups or whatever took your fancy. Les had a chin-up bar in the sunroom which was ideal. He’d only had the inversion boots a week and he loved them — hanging upside down stretching his spine and everything else.

  One afternoon Les came home from a run jumping out of his skin and decided to play Batman for a while. He clamped on his inversion boots, swung up on the bar in the sunroom and started swaying back and forth and jigging around. He did a stack of sit-ups then started doing press-ups, pushing and shoving and clapping his hands in between. It was a hoot and Les was loving it. Until Les felt a stab of pain in his lower back. It didn’t worry him all that much until he climbed down. Then the stab of pain suddenly turned into searing, gut-wrenching agony and Les could hardly move. The best he could manage was to roll around the floor with what felt like a burning arrow sticking out of his back. It was frightening and Les didn’t know what he’d done. But he was almost paralysed, sweating with pain and convinced he’d broken his spine and would never walk again.

  Somehow he got to the phone and pulled it onto the floor where the only person he could get was Warren. Going by the urgency in Norton’s voice, Warren came straight home from the office. It was definitely no laughing matter. But when Warren found Les all grey-faced and crawling round the floor like a carpet snake with a ruptured hernia, Warren laughed that much he nearly threw his own back out. With Les bent over and barely able to move, Warren got him into his Celica and off to a chiropractor they knew in Rose Bay: Bernie Trelaw. Bernie could hardly see and wore Coke bottle glasses. But he had amazing feeling in his hands and people swore by him. Bernie got Les on the table and after a bit of prodding and pushing told Les he’d slipped a disc. Slipped it almost into another postcode. And if Les thought the pain was bad before, when Bernie started on him Les almost fainted. Bernie cupped one hand under Norton’s chin, another round his knees, then Bernie stuck his own knee in Norton’s back and bent him backwards like he was a longbow as he worked his disc back in. Les didn’t bother about stoically holding everything inside and showing how tough he was. He swore and screamed and cursed Bernie all the way back to Bernie’s hometown of Grenfell. After twenty minutes of indescribable misery, Les got off the bench to find his back didn’t hurt as much. He still couldn’t stand up straight; that would take several more visits, and even then Les was as stiff as a board. But the improvement was remarkable.

  Surprisingly, Warren had been a great help, coming home from work to take Les to the chiropractor then the doctor for a further check up and pain killers. Nevertheless, Warren did buy a big cigar, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with a false nose and a moustache attached, that he insisted Les wore when he drove the stooped-over Norton around for treatment. Les went along with the Groucho Marx impersonations. But he swore to Warren that as soon as he came good, he was going to buy every Marx Brothers video there was and shove them all up Warren’s arse; along with a harp and a rubber horn. Les’s back slowly started getting better. But both Bernie and the doctor told him to take it very easy for a while. No running and no strenuous exercise of any kind. A little swimming, breaststroking only. Yoga would be good, and long, steady walks. It was frustrating at first. But Les just took the time off from work and got used to it. Warren often joined Les on his walks and sometimes Warren’s latest girlfriend, Clover, would come along too.

  Clover was an attractive, well-shaped brunette with long, soft hair and soft, grey eyes that studied you from behind a pair of delicate, steel-rimmed glasses. She worked for a glassware company and lived in Dover Heights, but had moved to Sydney from a small town on the South Coast: Dalmeny. Warren met her at a wine promotion and they’d been an item ever since. Les liked Clover. She was a cheerful, outdoors girl who liked to get out on her boogie board or go snorkelling. She had a cheeky sense of humour, but good country values and always showed Les respect whenever she was in his house. Consequently, Les never had to take a dump in the sink to remind people the dishes needed doing if Clover ever stopped over at Chez Norton.

  Through Clover, Les got to meet other people. One in particular was a flamboyant, young man about town, or Bondi at least — Edwin Everton. Tall and fit with a big, white smile and a square jaw, set beneath a well-groomed head of thick, dark hair, Edwin was handsome and popular, and a good surfer and tennis player. He ran a small import business, mainly T-shirts and clothes from Asia and South America, and once had a few XXL T-shirts over which he let Les have for a bottle of good bourbon. He called round the house now and again and, like most people, Les quite liked the stylish Edwin.

  However, if Les got on all right with Edwin, he couldn’t cop Edwin’s girlfriend Serina. Serina was very good looking and super fit, with orange Astro-punk hair and cool, green eyes, that looked at you as if you were an electrical appliance on special that she was deciding whether to buy or not. Serina was into skydiving, scuba diving, rock climbing and all that thrill-seeking kind of rattle. She taught aerobics and had moved to Sydney from Narooma, a small town on the south coast. Les wished she’d piss off back down there. For some reason Serina had it in for Les, and if they all happened to be out together somewhere, like the Gull’s Toriyoshi, Serina had this annoying habit of running her hair back, effecting a supercilious smile then quietly putting L
es down by asking him vague questions. Which Les always answered equally as vaguely.

  ‘There’s plenty of other jobs around Les, and you own your own home. How come you still work on a door?’

  ‘Dunno. I can’t figure it out myself at times.’

  ‘You dress reasonably well, Les. And you can run half-a-dozen words together if the wind’s blowing the right way. How come you can’t find a lady?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s got me buggered.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot of people around Bondi. How come you never get invited to any good parties?’

  ‘Dunno. I haven’t got a clue.’

  If Serina wasn’t doing that, she was always inviting Les to jump out of a plane with her, or abseil down one of the pylons on the harbour bridge. Or go scuba diving someplace with a name like Shark Reef. Les would always politely decline the offer; although underneath he would have loved to have told Serina to go fuck herself with a broken umbrella. But for the sake of good manners Les kept his feelings to himself. Les knew Edwin felt the bad vibe. But Edwin would never tell Serina to lay off. He seemed in awe of Serina to the point of fearing her. If Serina said jump, Edwin would say how high? Les figured that despite all Edwin’s machismo and style, he was more than a little pussy whipped. Serina was a strikingly good-looking woman, with a lot of nerve.

  Although both Clover and Serina came from the same area down the south coast, they weren’t close friends. But through Clover, Norton learnt something about Serina that nobody seemed aware of. At least it was never mentioned. Serina got done in WA for conspiracy to import cocaine. She’d been trawled up with a firm who all finished with big sentences. Yet somehow Serina was able to walk. She had vanished overseas for a while, now here she was in Bondi with Edwin in tow, bigger and brighter than ever.