Still Riding on the Storm Read online

  ‘Jesus Christ, Eddie!’ Les said accusingly. ‘What happened back there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ answered Eddie, almost indifferently.

  ‘Just what I said. Jesus! I’ve never seen nothing like that in my life. Where’s Rayburn’s fuckin’ head?’

  Eddie gave a sinister little chuckle. ‘Buggered if I know,’ he shrugged. ‘But I bet it ain’t sitting in Martin Place on the end of a pole.’

  Norton shook his head in horror as the outskirts of Centennial Park loomed in the darkness on his right. ‘What did you bloody use on him? The Hyde Park cannon?’

  ‘No. This.’

  Eddie unzipped the overnight bag and took out what looked the biggest hand gun Les had ever seen. It resembled a US Army 45, only it was stainless steel with a black handle. There was a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel and above the rear sighting area was a black, metal cylinder attached to the left-hand side of the gun.

  ‘What’s bloody that?’ asked Les.

  ‘That,’ answered Eddie, cradling the weapon and trying not to show his contempt for Norton’s ignorance of modern-day weapons technology, ‘is a Sig Sauer P-220 .45. With an attached suppressor.’

  ‘And what’s that thing on top?’

  ‘The thing on top is a Diode FA-4 Laser Sighting System.’

  Norton remembered seeing something like it on TV once. He shuddered slightly as he also remembered the tiny red dot appearing on Rayburn’s nose, before his head was sprayed all over King Street.

  ‘I got it about a month ago. I’ve been sighting it in on those rats under Bronte Cemetery. I’ve been breaking my neck to see how it works properly. And Rayburn came along just at the right time.’

  Eddie thumbed a catch and removed a magazine of bullets from the handle. ‘Of course, I bodgied things up a bit,’ he said, holding one of the bullets up to Les. ‘The old exploding round trick, Ninety-nine. Drill a hole in the top, add a few drops of mercury, bit of ground-up glass. Seal it with candle wax —’ Eddie pointed a finger at Les, then made like he was squeezing a trigger, ‘— and pow! Bob’s your uncle.’

  Norton couldn’t help but give Eddie a look of distaste. ‘You’re off your fuckin’ head.’

  Eddie returned Norton’s look with a sinister chuckle. ‘I don’t know that I’m off my head. But I know one bloke that’s definitely off his.’

  Somehow Les failed to see the humour in Eddie’s joke. ‘Anyway, you lied to me, Eddie. You pissed right in my pocket and fed me a whole lot of shit.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. All I said was, don’t worry about me. You won’t even see me. And you didn’t — right?’

  Norton heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Anyway, that’s it for me. No more. Ever. Find yourself another fuckin’ stooge.’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Eddie. ‘If that’s the way you feel. But I got something for you.’ He put the gun back in the bag, then pulled out a bulky manila envelope and handed it to Les.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s the five grand that sheila was supposed to give Rayburn. It’s yours.’

  Norton looked at the envelope like it was poison. ‘No, stick it in your arse. I don’t want it.’

  ‘Okay. Please yourself.’ Eddie left the money sitting on top of the overnight bag. He unzipped his leather jacket slightly, then leaned back against the upholstery and smiled over at Norton.

  ‘It’s a pity you’ve lost your bottle, Les. I might have had something else for you. I know where there’s three million dollars worth of gold Krugerrands sitting near a river in Laos about ten clicks in from the Vietnam border. The CIA left it behind during the war and I’m the only bloke who knows where it is.’ Eddie continued to smile at Les. ‘I’m going to get it back one day. All I need is one good bloke. A third of that would have been yours.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if there’s 50 million dollars sitting there. I’m not in the slightest bit interested.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Apart from the click-clack of the windscreen-wipers and the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof, they drove through Bondi Junction in silence. This left Norton to ponder on the night’s events. It couldn’t have gone over much easier. But it was still a horror show and something Les would see in his mind’s eye for the rest of his days. And there would be more to come yet. The killing wouldn’t make the morning papers, but it would sure as hell make the afternoon editions and be on TV. There was very little chance of the police proving anything; even if they were all that interested. Rayburn had made plenty of enemies and he was much better out of the way for all concerned. And Eddie had certainly made an example of him like he said, for any other mugs that might have come along trying to pull the same caper. But he couldn’t have done it without Les. The Queenslander had earned his keep. His eyes kept flicking back to the five grand still sitting on top of the overnight bag. In the end it was much too good to resist.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said to Eddie. ‘I’m taking that five grand. I earned it.’ Les picked up the envelope and stuffed it in the inside of his jacket.

  ‘That’s better,’ chuckled Eddie, and gave Les a friendly punch on the shoulder.

  They went a little further, then pulled up for a set of lights at the top of Bondi Road. While they waited for the lights to change, Norton stroked his chin thoughtfully as he stared out of the windscreen. He turned to Eddie Salita.

  ‘How far in from the Vietnam border did you say that box of gold was?’

  Eddie rubbed his hands together and grinned at Norton. ‘Heh, heh, heh!’ It was that sinister little laugh that anybody familiar with him knew he let go when he had something up his sleeve.

  THE WASTED HORIZON

  Ahh yes. How sweet it is, thought Les Norton as he spread his solid frame out on his banana-chair in the backyard of his Bondi semi and began soaking up the mid-morning sun. I wonder what the poor people are doing now, he mused. It was his Monday off. He’d trained hard with his offsider, Billy Dunne, earlier and now it was time to relax before lunch and maybe have a game of handball and a few schooners at the Bondi Icebergs later. He took another slurp on his mug of tea and thumbed through the latest edition of People, absolutely mystified how the magazine could keep coming up with such choice crumpet week after week: especially a two-page spread on a particularly buxom girl from Noosa that almost had him running around the backyard on three legs.

  Unexpectedly, the phone rang. ‘Who the bloody hell’s this,’ he muttered out loud as he tucked the People under his arm, reluctantly heaved himself up off the banana-lounge and tramped into the loungeroom.

  ‘Hello,’ he grunted into the phone.

  ‘Hello, Les. It’s Woz.’ It was Warren Edwards, the bloke who shared his house, ringing from the advertising agency.

  ‘Hello, Woz. What’s up?’

  ‘Mate — have you got anything on tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah, rest. And plenty bloody of it.’

  Warren chuckled into the phone. ‘Do you want to do a part in a movie?’

  ‘What? I ought to wrap the phone round your head you little dropkick.’

  Norton reflected back to the last time Warren had tipped him into a TV commercial and even though he’d got a good earn he remembered all the trouble he’d gotten into and was not the slightest bit interested in backing up for more.

  ‘Now come on, Les. Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Warren, piss off and leave me alone will you.’

  ‘Just hold on a sec, Les, and give me a chance to explain. It’s not like the last time.’

  Warren explained how a friend in a movie production company had rung him up saying they were shooting a movie called The Wasted Horizon starring Australian macho actor and now international heart-throb Stephen Bradley. They needed a heavy in a hurry for a fight scene as something unexpected had happened to their last one.

  The scene was being shot tomorrow in a big old house at Rose Bay, five minutes from Norton’s, four hours’ work at the most — $750. He’d be doing him a big
favour if he could turn up, as his friend was stuck.

  Warren didn’t say he was trying to get into the pants of one of the production girls and this was a way of sweetening things up.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon, Les? It’s gotta be the world’s easiest seven and a half.’

  Norton was still only half interested. ‘Ahh, I dunno, Woz. I’m not real keen.’

  Knowing what a disgraceful perv Norton was, Warren played his right-bower.

  ‘There’ll be a million sheilas there, you know that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stephen Bradley, mate. Sheilas just hang off him like chokos.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My oath. Having a part in the movie you must run on. Even with a head like yours you’ve got to finish up with something. Probably a young starlet.’ Warren crossed his fingers on the end of the line.

  Norton took another look at the girl from Noosa in People. ‘Yeah, all right, Woz. I’ll give it a go — just for you, though.’

  Warren laughed to himself then told Norton the film company’s office was down near the showground, be there at 6.30 and front the stunt co-ordinator.

  What the hell, thought Norton, as he settled back on his banana-lounge, $750 for four hours’ work and the chance of a root thrown in. A man’d be a mug to knock it back.

  He found the production office at 6.30, fronted the girl on the desk who told him to wait a couple of minutes and the stunt co-ordinator, Ronald Walker, would see him.

  When he came out Norton couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

  Walker was about five-eleven, with fair hair and was wearing a black stuntman T-shirt, a stuntman jacket, a stuntman peak cap, a stuntman belt buckle and even though it was pitch black outside he was wearing mirror sunglasses.

  He swanned over to Les and offered him a handshake with about as much meat in it as a tomato sandwich. Norton felt like he’d just shaken hands with four sticks of asparagus and wanted to belt him on the spot — but he’d promised Warren he’d do the right thing.

  ‘Now — what’s your name again — Les?’ began Walker, in a cool, slow, matter-of-fact voice that grated on Les like wet chalk on a blackboard. ‘This is the scene.’

  Stephen Bradley was the private-eye; he, Les, playing the part of a baddy called George, would take Bradley by the scruff of the neck as if forcing him into a room, before Bradley got the upper hand and flattened George.

  ‘Righto,’ said Norton laconically, looking around the few chairs and tables in the office as Walker swaggered towards him.

  Les couldn’t help himself. As soon as Walker got within range, Les took him by his stuntman belt buckle and the collar of his stuntman T-shirt, lifted him off the floor, spun him around and speared him across the nearest chairs and tables like a bag of onions.

  Walker let out a little shriek and landed in a pile of broken furniture across the other side of the room. He looked up just as Les arrived alongside him and jumped on his stomach with his knees.

  ‘That all right, mate?’ asked Les innocently, but at the same time knowing he’d stuffed everything up.

  Walker’s eyes were sticking out like two golf balls and his face looked like an eggplant as he tried to get some air into his lungs.

  Norton was just about to leave him there when a recognisable voice called out behind him.

  ‘Hey, great stuff. That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for.’

  There in the doorway stood Stephen Bradley. With his dimpled chin and piercing brown eyes, you couldn’t miss him.

  ‘You’re our new George, are you?’ asked Bradley pleasantly, advancing towards Les and offering his hand.

  ‘Well, I don’t know for sure,’ shrugged Norton. He took the leading actor’s handshake which made Walker’s feel like a slice of veal steak.

  ‘I don’t really think so, Stephen.’ Norton turned around as the stunt co-ordinator got up off the floor and glared murderously at Les through the one unshattered lens of his mirrored stuntman sunglasses.

  ‘Oh? What would you know, Ron?’ said Bradley. ‘Half the time you wouldn’t know the difference between shit and blackberry jam if they took the seeds out.’

  ‘Stephen — I must insist. I’m the stunt co-ordinator on this film.’ Walker’s voice was starting to rise and also getting a bit high-pitched at the same time. Norton looked at him askance, starting to get his doubts.

  Bradley ignored Walker, put his arm around Les’s broad shoulders and led him to the front office where he had a few words about what he wanted for the fight scene then told him they’d contact him early tomorrow for the times and locations.

  Behind them, Walker, the ice-cool, ironman stunt coordinator was absolutely so mad he could just spit.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon, Woz?’ asked Norton, as he and his flatmate were getting into a big feed of spaghetti marinara at home that night. ‘I’ve done it again, son. Movie star.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re a bloody marvel,’ muttered Warren, between scoops of pasta. He was a little sarcastic, but underneath he was rapt. This should certainly sweeten him up with the production office girl.

  ‘Just wait till all those young groupies and starlets see me tomorrow.’ Suddenly Norton burst into song. ‘Holleeewood. Da-da-da-da-de-da-da-dum-de-dum.’

  ‘Villawood’d be more like it,’ mumbled Warren.

  The production office rang at eight the next day and at 1.30 Norton was at the rambling old, vine-covered house in Tivoli Avenue overlooking Rose Bay.

  Film crew were scattered everywhere; Norton didn’t know anyone so he asked the first bloke he saw, a grip, where Ronald Walker was.

  ‘You mean Ronald Wanker, don’t you?’ was the curt reply.

  ‘That sounds like him,’ smiled Les.

  ‘He’s over there.’ The grip jerked a thumb towards the rear of the house. ‘You can’t miss him. Just look for a bloke with a 10-gallon hat on a 44-gallon head.’

  ‘Thanks, matey.’

  Norton walked to the rear of the house where the camera was set up and the director, Bradley and some others were rehearsing for the next scene. Norton couldn’t miss Walker. He had his usual stuntman outfit on, only he was wearing a huge, black, American cowboy hat with an equally huge stuntman badge pinned to the front.

  As soon as he saw Norton’s grinning face he gave him the sort of look John Wayne would give his son if he told him he was having a sex change operation.

  Stephen Bradley, on the other hand, was all smiles. He introduced Les to the director then told him to go and see the make-up and wardrobe people to get his bad guy George outfit.

  He also told Les to take it a bit easy in the fight scene, too. He’d been on the drink the night before and wasn’t too chipper.

  Norton didn’t disbelieve him. Every time he opened his mouth he smelt like a pig that had been eating rotten turnips.

  Norton got made up, at the same time keeping an eye out for all the groupies and starlets that Warren had promised him. There were none. Not that it would have made any difference; after the outfit they put Norton into he wouldn’t have got a smile from a bus load of bull dykes. Even the makeup girl’s white poodle started barking when it saw him.

  The director, keen to get going, explained to Les what he wanted. They decided to have a few rehearsals — which should have been easy except Walker kept sticking his head in every 10 seconds trying to show everyone on the set how clever he was and at the same time make a fool out of Les.

  After about 10 minutes Norton realised he was an incompetent egomaniac. They stumbled and bumbled around for a while till fortunately someone called lunch.

  Norton didn’t bother to eat, he just picked at some salad and had a mag to the grip guy he’d met earlier.

  He noticed Walker, when he wasn’t swanning around in his stuntman gear, was sitting on his own about as popular as a turd in a bowl of punch.

  ‘Hey, matey,’ said Norton to the grip. ‘Is that stunt coordinator a full quid?’

  ‘A
re you kidding?’ was the reply. ‘He’s gone over on this set like Charles Manson at a Baptist picnic. You got to queue up to hate him.’

  ‘Mmhh, I thought so,’ mused Les, as he watched Walker trying to eat his lunch and smoke a cigar like Clint Eastwood at the same time.

  They finished lunch then all trooped back into the house to start filming.

  The scenes with Les shoving Bradley into the room were done quickly and simply, despite the film star’s hangover, and the fight scenes should have gone the same way but Walker kept sticking his head in stuffing things up and doing his best to make a wombat out of Les.

  After almost half an hour of this Norton could see he was going to be there all day and was starting to get the shits — just a little.

  ‘Stephen,’ trilled Walker, as they floundered around like two old molls arguing over a flagon of brown muscat.

  ‘Those straight lefts are superb. But you, Les — you don’t seem to have a clue.’

  Haven’t got a clue eh, thought Norton. He only worked out four days a week with his offsider at the club, the ex-middleweight champion of Australia. Once a week they worked out with two Thai boxers, so he wasn’t too bad in the feet, elbows and knees department.

  And there were at least 50 would-be tough guys walking around Sydney with their jaws out of alignment, still blowing their noses through the backs of their heads, who could testify whether Norton could throw a punch or not.

  It was time to do something drastic. A little bit of Queensland bush cunning was the order of the day. ‘Yeah, righto, mate,’ he said slowly to the stunt co-ordinator. ‘Let’s try it one more time.’

  The director called action and they got stuck into it again.

  No sooner had they got going when Walker came running in again. Norton shuffled slightly to his left, with his right hand on Bradley’s shoulder, and as soon as the stunt co-ordinator got within range let go a withering left-hook that burst his nose like an over-ripe fig, nearly taking his head off his shoulders.

  The crew gasped. Walker let out a shriek of pain and flew across the room, finally slumping on the floor up against the nearest wall.