Leaving Bondi Read online

  ‘No. I might walk. I want to pick a couple of things up at the shop.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Righto. See you then, Eddie.’

  Eddie drove off towards North Bondi. Les had another look at the catering van then walked back to Gould Street. So much for my first day on the wonderful film set. Bloody hell! What’s the world coming to?

  When he got back to Chez Norton, Les put the groceries away then changed into his old training gear, wrapped a sweatband round his head and went for a lap of Rose Bay Golf Links and back, finishing in the backyard with what felt like a half-a-million sit-ups. Les was in a funny mood while he was exercising. One half of him was dirty on what he’d just seen on the film set. The other half was laughing at the square up coming the next day. After a shower, Les threw a steak under the griller, nuked some vegetables then settled back for a quiet afternoon at home. He wrote a letter to his parents, washed the car, and by the time he’d tidied up and farted around the house the day was over. Les could have watched the news. But instead he thought he might call into the Toriyoshi, say hello to the Gull and congratulate him on the first day of filming. Les changed into a pair of jeans and a grey Toriyoshi T-shirt Ray had given him, put his gaberdine bomber jacket on and strolled down to Campbell Parade. The Gull was on the phone, wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and jeans, when Les arrived at the restaurant. Les gave him a wave through the window, then bought two bottles of Stella Artois, placed them on a table out the front and gave Ray a nod to let him know there was a cool one waiting for him when he was ready. The Gull was out in a couple of minutes.

  ‘That was Monique,’ he said, joining Les at the table. ‘She can’t find her key.’

  ‘She’s a blonde,’ winked Les. ‘Give her a break.’

  Ray couldn’t help himself. He was absolutely beaming when he picked up his beer. ‘Well, what do you reckon, Les?’ he said. ‘Leaving Bondi. It’s a happening thing, baby.’

  ‘It sure is, Ray. I came down today and had a look. Congratulations, mate.’ Les clinked his bottle against Ray’s.

  Ray clinked his back. ‘Thanks, Les. And thanks again for investing your money in it.’

  Les made a magnanimous gesture. ‘Hey. What else could I do?’

  Ray shook his head. ‘I swear to God, Les. A lot of my blood, sweat and tears went into that movie, man. And me nearly going over the gap a couple of times.’

  ‘Down and out in Gullsville.’

  Ray nodded. ‘Yep. Fat city. No soles in my shoes. And no strings on my banjo. But not now, Les. The Gull’s back in town.’

  ‘Drinkin’ TNT. And smokin’ dynamite. Good luck to you.’ Les clinked the Gull’s bottle again. ‘Hey how come you’re not doing the catering on the movie, Ray? That would have been a nice little earn for you.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘I couldn’t be bothered making that many pork balls, Les. I’m flat out here.’

  ‘Fair enough. So who’s doing the catering?’

  ‘Kreative Katering,’ replied Ray. ‘Spelt with a K.’

  Les snapped his fingers. ‘I think I know the bloke who runs that. I used to work with him at Pyrmont. Skinny nosed bloke with a skinny chin. Wears a beard. Do you know him?’

  ‘Sort of,’ replied Ray.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I can find out for you. I got a call sheet under the counter, I’ll get it.’

  ‘That’s all right, Ray. You don’t have to.’

  ‘Won’t take me two minutes,’ said Ray, rising from the table. ‘Besides, you’re a major investor.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ smiled Les. The Gull walked inside the restaurant, Les had another swallow of beer and looked up at the night sky. Does it always have to be this easy, Boss? Honestly. Where’s the challenge? Where is the challenge?

  Ray came back out with what looked like a small filmscript printed on blue paper. He placed it on the table and flicked through the first few pages. ‘Here it is. Kreative Katering. Albert Knox, Proprietor.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Les. ‘Knoxie. I must call in and say hello.’

  Suddenly some people began to arrive, so Les finished the rest of his beer. ‘I’d better make a move, Ray. You’re starting to get busy.’

  ‘Hey. Stick around, Les. Have another beer.’

  ‘No. I only called down to say hello. And to offer my congratulations.’ Les offered his hand. ‘Good on you, Ray. You’ve killed ’em.’

  Ray shook Norton’s hand. ‘Thanks, Les. And thanks for coming down. It’s always great to see you, man.’

  ‘You too, Ray. I might see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you then, Les.’

  Norton got up and left, leaving Ray to look after his customers.

  Back home, Les got another beer from the fridge and settled back in front of the TV. Albert Knox. That shouldn’t be too hard to write on top of a cake box. Les slipped on a video Warren had brought home from the advertising agency. Analyze This with Robert de Niro and Billy Crystal. Les was still laughing when he went to bed. What’s a sandwich that ain’t fattening? A haf a sandwich. Beautiful. Just beautiful. In ten minutes Norton was snoring like a baby. Tomorrow was definitely going to be another day.

  Les was out of bed by seven; feeling good and looking forward to the day. Outside it was pleasant enough again; mild, a bit of an offshore breeze and sunny. Les got cleaned up, had some coffee and a mango smoothie then decided to get his exercise out of the way early. He got back into his training gear again and did the Rose Bay Golf Links, sit-ups in the backyard ghastliness, same as the day before. By the time Les got that over, scoffed some poached eggs and read the paper, it was ten-thirty and the doorbell was ringing. It was Eddie, wearing the same tracksuit as the day before, carrying a white cake box in his hands, sealed with Sellotape.

  ‘G’day, Eddie,’ Les greeted him. ‘Come on in.’

  Eddie followed Les down the hallway into the kitchen. ‘Did you find out the bloke’s name?’

  ‘Yes. Albert Knox.’

  ‘Good old Knoxie, eh. Well done, Les.’ Eddie placed the cake box on the kitchen table.

  ‘So that’s it.’

  ‘Yep. That’s it,’ replied Eddie, looking proud of his work. ‘One exploding shit cake to go.’

  Les gave the cake box a perusal. ‘So how does it work?’

  Eddie shrugged. ‘It’s mainly a lot of fuckin around with electrical tape. And I can tell you one thing, Les. I’m not over rapt in the smell of my own shit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eddie. I’ve been on the wrong side of your farts at work.’

  ‘But it’s just a thundercracker from Chinatown with a shortened fuse. A matchbox, matches and a mousetrap. The hard part’s slowing down the spring on the mousetrap.’ Eddie looked at his watch. ‘I’ll show you how you do it one day back at my place. But believe me, Les. These work a treat.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, mate.’

  Eddie cursed. ‘Bad luck I won’t fuckin be there to see it go off.’

  ‘You won’t?’

  ‘No, bugger it. I’ve got to go over the north side and I don’t know when I’ll be back. But when you give it to the cook, hang around and take some photos. I want to see them.’ Eddie gave Les a wink. ‘And don’t piss yourself when you see what happens.’

  Les smiled back at Eddie. ‘I’ll try. But I can’t promise you anything.’

  Eddie stayed while Les printed the cook’s name on the cake box in blue texta colour. He told Les the thing was safe and couldn’t go off unless you opened the lid. But keep it upright, don’t drop it or knock it around too much. Les promised to obey Eddie’s instructions to the letter.

  Eddie drove off, leaving Les in the kitchen staring at the cake box. What a weird bloke, thought Les, looking at the cook’s name written across the top. I wonder why he did that? Either he’s dirty on the world, or there’s just some people on the set he wants to get at. Maybe Max King. I wouldn’t blame him there. I’ll find out someho
w over the next few days. In the meantime, Albert’s Karma at Kreative Katering is going to katch up with him. Les looked at his watch. Now, what would be the best time to deliver it? I reckon … about one o’clock. That gives me time to go to the bank, pay a few bills then get to the set when they’re all having lunch. That way, everybody will see the cook get splattered and I can mingle in with the crowd. I’ll use the telephoto lens first for some action photos then get a few close-ups. The cook won’t have a clue who it is, either. Les chuckled to himself. And next day, me and Eddie’ll send him a postcard. We called in to see you. But you were shitfaced so we left. Love, Thelma and Louise. Les changed into a pair of jeans, a green T-shirt and his Bugs Bunny cap, got his credit cards and whatever else he needed and drove up to Bondi Junction.

  Everything went surprisingly easy. He had no trouble getting a parking spot and the queues weren’t long. He was back home in time for a cup of coffee and a biscuit before going to the film set. That done, Les picked up the cake box, slung his camera over his shoulder and set off for Campbell Parade.

  The big Queenslander was whistling cheerfully as he strolled past the Toriyoshi and through the school gates. The two wardrobe girls were standing near the gate in their multi-coloured clothes and dyed hair. They’d just finished a joint and picked up on Norton’s vibe.

  ‘Hey. Someone’s in a good mood,’ said one, with cherry red hair teased up around her head like a big red broccoli.

  ‘On a day like this,’ smiled Les, ‘you’d have to be in a good mood.’

  Her friend with jet black hair full of dark blue streaks and coloured beads, noticed the cake box. ‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Albert the cook’s,’ replied Les. ‘I baked this for him myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the dark-haired girl. ‘He should like that.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ smiled Norton. ‘He’ll get a bang out of this, I guarantee it.’ Les left them and walked towards the chairs and tables on the grass. He was a little disappointed to find there weren’t many people around. One or two film crew, a couple of voyeurs, the ubiquitous Japanese tourist armed with a video camera and the cook’s dark-haired assistant, back wiping the tables. Still whistling cheerfully, Les gave the Japanese tourist a smile and a cheeky bow of his head as he went past, straight up to the girl wiping the tables.

  ‘Excuse me, is Albert around?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied the girl, pointing to the blue van. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘What time are you serving lunch today?’

  ‘One-thirty. They’re behind with the shoot. So they’re having a late wrap.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  Les walked over to the van, tapped on the counter and placed the cake box on it.

  ‘Parcel for Albert Knox,’ he called out.

  ‘What?’ A lean pink head appeared from behind a wall oven.

  ‘Parcel for Albert Knox. You don’t have to sign anything. See you, mate.’

  Norton quickly turned and walked off, looking for somewhere to hide while he waited for the cook to open the cake box. The cook, however, was in one of those moods where he didn’t have time to be stuffed around. He saw the cake box with his name on top and tore it straight open. Les had just got to the edge of the grass when he heard a muffled explosion and a loud curse. Shit, that was bloody quick. Les laughed and turned around to aim his camera. Next instant, there was a deafening blast and the catering van disintegrated in a spiralling ball of orange flames and a billowing cloud of thick black smoke. Instinctively Les threw his arms across his face as the steps at the rear of the catering van sailed over the school fence before smashing into the back of the bus stop and pieces of metal, wood and fibreglass rained down all over the front of the school, showering the parked trucks and cars with burning debris. The cook, minus one arm and half his face burnt away, was blown through the side entrance at the right of the van, along with the fridge and parts of the stove. Looking like a wobbly mess of charred meat in the remains of his smouldering clothes, Knox was dead before he hit the ground.

  His ears ringing like a burglar alarm, Les tried to gather his senses as people started running from everywhere. Some carrying fire extinguishers, others had blankets, most were just startled people from the film crew or bystanders wondering what had happened. By rights, Les should have stopped and offered assistance. But something told Norton the best place for him was out of there. Holding his camera, Les pushed through the people coming in the school gate and walked home as fast as he could.

  Back at Chez Norton, Les poured himself a bourbon and ice and with his ears still ringing from the explosion, flopped down in the lounge room dumbfounded. He took a slug of bourbon and tried to get his thoughts together. Jesus bloody Christ! What the fuck did Eddie put in that cake box? Les had another sip of bourbon and shook his head. No, he told himself. No way. There were definitely two explosions. I know I heard the first one. It was just a bit of a bang. Then that other fuckin thing went off. Bloody hell! Les sipped some more bourbon, feeling it burn down his chest and into his stomach. Maybe the thundercracker set something else off? Like those Elgas tanks. No. Les shook his head again. I’ve heard tanks go. It’s a different sound. That was gelignite or some kind of explosive. Les reflected into his glass and was forced to realise the only possible explanation: somebody had let a bomb off in the catering van at the same time he’d bowled up with his firecracker. But why? The cook might have been a low bastard doing what he did. But it wasn’t worth killing him for. Was it? Christ! What a lousy, fuckin coincidence. I don’t believe it. Then a thought hit Les and it didn’t warm his body like the bourbon. It chilled him to the bone. What if somebody saw me leave that parcel there? Saw me leave the parcel? About six bloody people saw me. Those two weird-looking sheilas for a start. The cook’s assistant. That Jap with the camera. And anybody else that was there. See me? Fuckin hell! They couldn’t miss me. Les stared anxiously at the phone. I think I’d better ring Eddie.

  Eddie’s mobile wasn’t answering. Neither was his answering service at home. That figures, thought Les. Lyndy’s taken the kids away for the school holidays so Eddie’s up to something. Fuck it. Les put the phone down and started to pace. The more he paced, the more worried he got. Shit! I’m a good chance of getting a tug over this, he told himself. A bloody good chance. He paced some more. Yep. You can back it in. I’m going to get my collar felt. I know it. And what am I going to tell them? Oh, it was only a cracker in a cake box, officer. Yeah. Righto. Les paced some more. No. This is not good. Not good at all. I’d better make another phone call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yeah. Hello Price. It’s Les.’

  ‘Les. How are you, mate? What can I do for you?’

  ‘Price, I think I’m in a bit of serious bother with the cops. I might need a big favour off you later on tonight.’

  Les didn’t have to spell it out. ‘I understand, Les. What time?’ asked Price.

  ‘I’m not sure. But I’d reckon early tonight.’

  ‘No worries, Les. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Ring me here. I’ll be home all night.’

  ‘Thanks, Price. I appreciate it.’

  ‘You do sound worried, Les.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Don’t be. Just settle back. And ring me when the time comes.’

  ‘Thanks, Price. I’ll get back to you.’

  Les hung up and finished his drink. He didn’t make another one. Instead he switched on the kitchen radio just in time for the dramatic news.

  ‘One person was killed and several others injured in a bomb blast at Bondi early this afternoon. The device, believed to be remote controlled, was set to go off in a catering van on the set of a movie, Leaving Bondi, being filmed at Bondi Beach Public School. Fortunately, the school was closed for the holidays so casualties were kept to a minimum. However, a caterer was fatally injured in the blast and several members of the film crew have been hospitalised. Police have not released any name
s. But they wish to question a tall, solid man, wearing a T-shirt and baseball cap, seen leaving Bondi Beach Public School shortly after the bomb was detonated.’

  ‘Fuckin hell!’

  Les switched off the radio. He’d heard all he needed. A tall, solid man in a baseball cap. That’s me. And it’ll only be a matter of time before they put a name to the face. Yep. I’m off tap. Les stopped pacing. Okay. No need to panic. But you can bet they’ll search the place when they get here. And there’s things to be done.

  Les got the jemmy from the shed and levered up the pile of wood above where his loot was buried. He removed the slab of wood over the hole then got a shovel and filled the hole with earth. After patting the earth down solid, he dumped the pile of wood on top of it and straightened the tarpaulin. It was going to be a bit of a pain in the arse getting to his swag again, but at least now there was less chance of the police finding it. Next item on the agenda was the boarder’s pot. Luckily, Warren had just harvested his plants from the backyard, but he had about half a kilo of juicy heads squashed into a shoe box under his bed. Les took the shoe box out to the kitchen, stood on a chair, moved the manhole cover in the ceiling and hid it in the roof. A thorough search would soon find it, but at least it was better than just sitting under the bed. Warren’s lousy fuckin pot, thought Les, after he put the manhole cover back. As if I haven’t got better things to worry about than that. Like fuck-all chance of me getting bail for starters. Les gathered his money, wallet, credit cards, passport and anything else he could think of and put them in the pocket of his bomber jacket. He didn’t bother ringing his family or Billy Dunne. It was no use alarming everybody for the time being. He’d contacted Price. That was enough. Price would handle it from there. Les could have taken it on the toe and got out of town. But that would only make it look worse and they’d find him sooner or later. No. He had to wear it. It was just plain bad luck. Les had another drink, then made some more coffee and waited. The knock on the door came in the early evening.

  Les opened the front door to find two detectives standing there in sports coats, and a uniform cop in overalls with a Jack Russell terrier on a lead. Both detectives were about the same stocky build; one had dark hair going bald, the other had brown hair cut close to his scalp. The uniform cop was tall with a brown moustache. The dark-haired cop had the warrant.