Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 5

  Bloody hell, thought Norton. Poor little bastard. Three years in this dump, he’s half a cripple nearing the end of his life and what’s he got to show for it? A lousy suitcase full of old clothes. Well, at least he’s going somewhere decent. Then a guilty thought struck Les. What if Hoppy didn’t have that sister in Newcastle? He was going to toss him out on the street. Les swallowed hard and looked at the little caretaker standing there putting on his cardigan.

  ‘What about the rest of your stuff?’ he said, nodding to the kitchen.

  ‘Like I said, Les. It’s all yours.’ Hoppy smiled at Norton. ‘You’re gonna need it, mate. You’ve got alimony payments and all that coming up. I remember my divorce. I know what the bastards are like.’

  Les gave the little caretaker a soft smile. ‘Ohh, that’s what I meant to tell you. The estate agent said to give you this. I think it’s a bit of a square-off from the owner.’ He fished into his jeans and pulled out two hundred dollars which he handed to the caretaker. ‘Better than a poke in the eye with a chopstick.’

  ‘Well, bugger me!’ said Hoppy, staring at the money. Then he laughed. ‘This proves one thing for sure. Whoever the owner is, he couldn’t possibly be a mate of the agents. ’Cause those two pricks wouldn’t give you the steam off their shit.’

  ‘You still want that lift into Central?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Olsen. ‘Let’s go. And don’t even drive past the agent’s. If you hadn’t come round I wouldn’t even have closed the door behind me.’

  Norton picked up the ex-caretaker’s suitcase, switched off the light and led him out towards the car. As they got to the front, Olsen stopped in the doorway, unzipped his fly and pissed all over the front of the flats.

  ‘You’re the caretaker now,’ he winked at Les. ‘You can clean it up.’ He zipped up his fly and followed Les over to the old Ford.

  On the way into town, Hoppy gave Les the key to his flat and the storeroom. There was no master key to any of the other flats but he did have a key to flat five; the bikie had left it with him when he put his stuff in the storeroom. He told Les when the garbage went out and one or two other things. All in all nothing for Les to get too enthused about. Then they were at Central.

  Olsen said there was no need for Les to help him with his bag, there’d be a train before long and he wanted to sit on his own and have a couple of beers and read the paper while he waited. They shook hands. Les wished Olsen all the best in Newcastle and Olsen wished Les all the best with his new job at Blue Seas and hoped his divorce worked out okay. Then as if by magic, the little caretaker was swallowed up in the crowds of other country travellers coming and going with their suitcases among the platforms at Central Railway.

  Norton sat in his car for a moment and had a think. There wasn’t all that much to think about, except that he was now another two hundred down the drain. He started the car and for some reason headed back to Blue Seas Apartments.

  Well, me old mate Hoppy sure travelled light and didn’t believe in too many luxuries, mused Les, as he had a bit of a browse round the ex-caretaker’s flat. There was nothing in the wardrobe except a few coat hangers and an old copy of the Herald. The remains of some coffee sugar and detergent sat in the kitchen and the fridge contained a bit of milk, margarine and half a tomato. There was no TV, no radio and no blankets. Then again thought Les, he probably knew he was splitting and got rid of all that, if there was any, before he left. He had a quick look out the kitchen window into the backyard: there was still no one around and he hadn’t noticed anybody when he came in. Norton left the fairly dismal scene and decided to check out the storeroom.

  The key fitted and there was a light switch near the door. The storeroom was windowless, gloomy and just as grimy and dusty as the laundry, with possibly more cobwebs and dead flies. Boxes of old newspapers and bottles Uttered the floor along with some paint tins and dried-up brushes. A battered empty suitcase and a couple of empty overnight bags sat in one comer near a yard broom, a rake, a mop and bucket and an old push mower. Up against a wall was Jimmy the bikie, or late bikie’s motorbike. Les was expecting a Harley Davidson or a BMW; instead he was surprised to find a rusting old BSA Bantam resting on its forks, the wheels and flat tyres behind it. Christ, thought Les, when was the last time I saw one of those? Old Tom, the postman back in Dirranbandi, that’s right, he used to get round on one. Wonder what a big, bad Sydney bikie was doing with an old BSA Bantam? Norton ran his hand over the handle bars and empty saddlebag. Probably restoring it. He shook his head. The remains of the gutted motorbike seem to fit in perfectly with the whole cheerless scene. Les switched off the light and left.

  Well, thought Les, standing out in the light of the foyer, while I’m on the subject of bikes and bikies I may as well check out whatever’s left in the alleged late Jimmy baby’s flat. There was still no one around as Les trotted up the stairs, but he thought he could hear a radio playing in flat four.

  The two bedroom flat was a corridor as you walked in with a bedroom on the left then the bathroom, the lounge room, another bedroom off it and the kitchen adjacent.

  Norton didn’t know what to expect when he stepped into flat five but he sure as hell wasn’t expecting what he found. It was complete chaos. The flat had been tipped upside down and absolutely wrecked. It looked like one of those scenes in a movie where the drug squad hits a place and gives it a thorough going over, except flat five had been methodically almost destroyed. It didn’t appear as if there’d been a great deal of furniture in the lounge in the first place, but what was there, was smashed and splintered. Posters had been ripped from the walls, the carpet was torn up and even the cheap curtains had been yanked down. Then Les noticed the dried blood spattered across the white walls of the lounge room. It was the same in the kitchen. Every cupboard and drawer had been tipped out, ransacked and smashed. Cutlery, plates and what few pots and pans there were were strewn all over the floor and even the fridge and stove had been ripped apart with rotting, mouldy food and water from the ice-cube trays spread amongst the debris strewn all over the kitchen floor.

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’exclaimed Les. ‘What the fuckin’ hell?’ He’d never seen anything like it.

  Same in both bedrooms; there was more blood on the walls showing up as rusty, dark stains on the old brown carpet. The wardrobes were smashed and even the mirrors had been shattered and tom off their hinges. Someone had smashed up the beds then taken to the mattresses with a knife, spreading kapok and springs amongst whatever already littered the floor. A dressing table in the front room looked as if some maniac had attacked it with an axe.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Les.

  The bathroom was the same only they’d torn apart the sink and ripped down the medicine chest above. They’d even kicked in the sides of the bath and torn out the shower fittings. Worst of all was the amount of congealed, browning blood all over the bath. An attempt had been made to wash some away but what was left showed the sheer ferocity of the attackers.

  ‘Shit!’ said Les.

  Norton walked slowly through the carnage double blinking. He’d seen some sights in his time, but nothing quite like this. And to think he owned it. It was fairly obvious what had happened though. Jimmy’s bikie pals had come around looking for something — more than likely drugs. They’d started to bash some information out of the hapless Jimmy and, going by the amount of blood in the bathroom, they’d overdone it and killed him and then taken the body away, just like old Hoppy had said.

  Norton toed his way through the shoes, shirts, jeans and other torn clothing that littered the floor; an old brown sports coat even had the shoulder pads cut out. Whatever it was they were looking for, thought Les, they were sure keen to find it. And now I gotta clean all this fuckin’ shit up. Not today though. Then Norton’s eyes darkened. One thing’s for certain. If ever I find the cunts that did this, I know who else’ll be getting cleaned up.

  He was still shaking his head and staring at the havoc around him when he heard it. At first it
sounded like a squadron of bombers flying low overhead, vibrating down one wall and coming in through the open window of the flat. Les had heard the sound before, though not so much in Sydney. But he knew where this was coming from and who was behind it. He had a last look around him, then closed the door and walked up to the roof.

  It was the hippies from flat six all right. There were three of them, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle, out of it blowing for all they were worth into their didgeridoos. But unlike the hippies Les had seen up in Yurriki, who were clean and fairly tidy, these three made your average park wino look like Trent Nathan. Their hair was like greasy rope, the soles of their feet were absolutely pitch black and even from where he was standing Les could smell BO that bad you could have photographed it. They wore filthy sweatbands and equally filthy tie-dyed T-shirts and singlets hanging out over crushed velvet pants. The main reason they were crushed velvet was because they’d never seen an iron since the day these chats had more than likely flogged them off some clothesline.

  Then Norton realised where he’d seen these three grubs before. It was up at the stalls in Oxford Street, Paddington one Saturday afternoon. Some sheila Les had been taking out had dragged him up there and this mob, plus more, were out on the footpath with a sign saying, Didgeridoo Massage $5. They had one of their team lying down on the footpath as a stooge and were running the didgeridoos over her as she writhed in absolute, bunged-on joy. It was one of the best cons Les had ever seen and only her black stinkin’ feet gave her away. The best part though, thought Les, was that they were actually getting mugs in at five bucks a toss.

  They noticed Les standing there but chose to ignore him as they howled away into the long, wooden pipes. After a few moments, Norton walked over and placed his foot over the end of the nearest hippy’s didgeridoo. He stopped blowing, as did the others, and looked up at Les as though they half expected him to be a cop.

  ‘Hey, what’s the hassle man?’ he said.

  Norton looked distastefully at all three of them, then back at the one whose music he’d interrupted. ‘No hassle, man,’ said Les, sarcastically. ‘I’m the new caretaker.’ Although not actually taking Les to their breast, the hippies did seem relieved that he wasn’t a cop. ‘You got any idea what happened in flat five? And what happened to the bloke that was living there?’

  There was a chorus of. ‘No, man... We didn’t see anything, man. We weren’t here whenever what it is you’re talking about happened, man... Sorry, man... We can’t help you at all, man.’

  What they really meant was they’d seen and heard everything but were too terrified to talk about it. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out. But what was the use of grilling them. They probably wouldn’t be able to tell him all that much. And what they could would come out like a load of shit, anyway.

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ nodded Les. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He left them to their music, or whatever it was, and went back downstairs.

  There was still no one around out the front and as Les walked across to his car he noticed the old blue kombi Hoppy had told him about. It was just as rough and dirty as the people who owned it. There was a pair of rusty roof-racks on top and various environmental stickers on the windows: Save the Whales, Solar Not Nuclear, Stop Japanese Drift Netting. Oh well, mused Norton, the hippies might stink, but at least their hearts are in the right place. He got in the old Ford and headed for Bondi.

  Seeing as he had almost insulted Warren with that horrible mince the night before, Les thought it might be an idea if he got his act together and cooked something a bit decent that night. So he bought a comer cut of topside. He also thought it might be an idea if he stopped being so moody and quit sulking or Warren might start to smell a rat. He’d never told Warren about Blue Seas and he sure as hell didn’t want to bring it up now or what was on his mind.

  While the roast was cooking and Norton was fartarsing around the house he reflected on the day; thinking about it only made the situation worse. Blue Seas was a bigger dog than he had ever imagined — he should have checked it out more thoroughly when he bought it. His tenants or what he’d seen of them so far, were a soapy-looking lot to say the least. And now it looked like there’d been a murder on the premises. So what to do about that? Call the police? Yeah, they’d probably try and pin the thing on him, knowing his record. Flat five would just have to go on hold for the time being. The only bright spot of the day, if you could call it that, was getting the old caretaker out so smoothly. And even that had cost him two hundred bucks. Fuck. What a schemozzle.

  But if anything was wrong that night Warren would never have known. The roast beef was the grouse and Les bubbled away, saying he’d spent the day with some mates playing cards and a bit of snooker and drinking mineral water. Yes, Warren was right, it had been withdrawals Les had been going through the night before. There was no escaping the brilliant, young advertising executive’s amazing powers of perception. Warren rubbed it in and said he’d never felt better in his life and added quite confidently that he didn’t care if he never had another drink in his life. Les added that he only wished he had Warren’s iron backbone and phenomenal resilience. They watched a video Warren had brought home and were both in bed around midnight.

  Thursday was pretty much like the day before when Les rose at his usual time; the southerly was still keeping the temperature down but it didn’t seem as cloudy. Again he had another run in Centennial Park and again when he got home Warren had left for the office early. The run, although hard, was enjoyable almost relaxing even and physically Les felt on top of the world after he got cleaned up. He was beginning to come to grips with the situation at Blue Seas. Due to a certain amount of bad luck and no doubt his own negligence, he was stuck with an albatross around his neck. But somehow he’d work that out. He’d have to. He was going to lose money — there was no doubt about that — but no matter what, it wasn’t going to break him. The scene in flat five was a different kettle of fish, however, and a nasty one. He decided it might be best if he made a phone call straight after breakfast, as soon as Isaac Steinberg and Marvin Ringblum opened for business.

  ‘Hello? Steinberg and Ringblum Real Estate,’ said a polite voice.

  ‘Yes, it’s Mr Norton, the owner of Blue Seas Apartments. I’d like to speak to Mr Ringblum, please.’

  ‘Mr Ringblum’s not in at the moment.’

  ‘Mr Steinberg then.’

  ‘Mr Steinberg’s just popped out for a moment. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Yes. Tell him Mr Olsen’s gone and I’ll be doing the caretaking and maintenance from now on.’

  ‘All right, Mr Norton.’

  ‘And tell him the tenant’s moved out of flat five, and not to bother re-letting it at the moment as I want to paint it and re-carpet it.’

  ‘I’ll see that he gets the message. Anything else, Mr Norton?’

  ‘No. That’s all.’

  ‘Thank you. Bye.’

  Norton stared absently at the phone for a few seconds. That was another bloody thing. While flat five was empty it was costing him more money. So the sooner he did get it cleaned up and repaired the better. He drummed his fingers on the table. But a few more days wouldn’t make much difference. In the meantime, he mused, I am the caretaker. So I imagine I’d better do just that. Caretake. He got into an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt he used for cleaning up round the house or working on the car, got a few things from the kitchen and the ghetto blaster from his bedroom and headed for Randwick.

  Old Hoppy hadn’t left the small flat in too bad a condition — it was a bit dusty maybe, but there were no rings in the bath and no lumps of fruit chutney stuck around the sides of the toilet bowl. But you could bet your life there’d be no shortage of fleas and cockroaches and various other forms of suburban wildlife hanging around. With the ghetto blaster going in the background, Norton Baygoned all the cupboards and Pea-Beaued all the carpets and poured bleach down the bath, both sinks, and the toilet bowl. The old gas heater above the k
itchen sink caught his eye. He gave a good, long burst of Baygon underneath it, and all round the back. It was only a matter of seconds and it looked like the old heater was being hit by an earthquake. Then out they came. Cockroaches. Only little ones mainly, but there were virtually millions of them, coughing and spluttering, almost carrying suitcases and their furniture as they staggered out of the heater and fell down the wall into the sink.

  ‘Aiee!!’ cried Les. ‘The evil ones!’ He poured the Baygon into them. ‘Die, evil ones. Die!’ A bigger one staggered across the sink; Les crushed it with a rolled up newspaper. ‘Go to your grave, miserable cur.’ Another big one got the same treatment. ‘Feel my blade, craven dog. Let death be your reward.’

  Parodying the voice of Conan The Barbarian, Les got stuck into the army of cockies, spraying, swatting and scooping them into the sink. Unexpectedly there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  He opened the door and gave a double blink. Standing there was a dumpy little bloke of about sixty, wearing a brown skivvy and blue trousers. Perched on his head was a blue beret and a pair of fat, round sunglasses sat on a fat round nose set in a fat round face. It was all Norton could do to stop from bursting out laughing. The bloke looked almost like Benny Hill dressed as that stupid Salvation Army officer; all that was missing was the arse-about salute. He had a white cane in one hand and on a lead on the other was a pie-eyed, yellow Labrador bitch with a dopey, sloppy grin, a fat backside and a sagging fat stomach. If ever two ‘people’ were made for each other, it was this pair.

  The Beret stared straight through his sunglasses into Norton’s chest. ‘That’s not you is it, Hoppy?’ he said.

  ‘No, mate,’ replied Norton. ‘I’m Les. I’m the new caretaker.’

  ‘Oh!’ Beret shoved out a hand hitting Norton in the chest. ‘I’m Burt,’ he smiled. ‘I live in number three.’

  ‘Hoppy told me about you,’ answered Les, shaking his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Burt.’