Mystery Bay Blues Read online

  The whole thing didn’t take a minute. But it was long enough for any women in the place to start screaming blue murder. Les took a quick look at the four blokes lying all over the floor, oozing blood everywhere, and figured it was time for a bit of travelling music. He put his head down and hurried out the same way he came in. When Les got to the bottle shop he started to run. Then he stopped and cursed out loud.

  ‘Ohh shit! My fuckin back.’

  Walking briskly, Les got to the house as fast as he could. He couldn’t see anybody following him, so he opened the front door and switched on the light. He shut the door behind him then walked down to the loungeroom and moved gingerly around. He hadn’t thrown his back out again. But he’d aggravated it. Bugger it, thought Les angrily. Just what I need. Les circled the loungeroom a few times, rubbed at his back then took his beer soaked T-shirt off and tossed it in the shower. He cleaned himself up, put on a dark blue T-shirt then got a bottle of beer from the fridge and went back to the loungeroom. He had a swallow and turned on the stereo. The radio station was playing The Eagles’ — ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling’. Yeah. That’d be right, thought Les. Rubbing at his back again, he took his beer out onto the verandah.

  Les had another swallow and stared balefully at the harbour lights then up at the stars. I’ve deadset got a pumpkin for a head, he told himself. I could have walked away and copped it sweet. Or at worst, just given that old mug a backhander. But no. I had to flatten him. And everybody else. Now, as well as stuffing up my back, you can bet the cops’ll be looking for me. Shit! Les drank some more beer. Maybe I ought to piss off while I’m in front. Les stared into the night and thought about it for a moment. No, fuck it, he told himself. I’m here now. And this house is too good. And after the trouble Clover went to, she’d think I was a nice idiot. He had another, thoughtful sip of beer. No. I’ll just keep my head down and stay away from that one pub. Then blend in with the crowd when it gets here on the weekend. If anyone does say anything, I’ll just say it wasn’t me. Les looked into his bottle. Sounds all right in theory. Norton finished his beer and belched. Anyway, bugger it! I’m going to see the battle of the bands. He turned for the loungeroom, winced and shook his head. Serves me right for being a mug, he told himself as he stepped inside. Les put his cap on, pulled it down over his eyes, then got his camera and headed out the door.

  Going right at the bottom of Browning Street it didn’t take long to climb the hill to the golf course and Les felt the walk was doing his back good. He was convinced the worst thing he could do would be to lie down and let it stiffen up. When he got to the top and went past the clubhouse, Les was surprised at the crowd. There were thousands. Mostly parents with kids or young people between twelve and eighteen. The event was being held in a reserve alongside the golf course. Les walked through a parking area then followed a dirt drive that separated the reserve from the trees, and blended in with the crowd. Next thing a band started up.

  Across from the trees on the other side of the crowd was an outdoor stage. On it, four young girls in hipsters and T-shirts were belting out some kind of grunge rock. The words were totally indecipherable and they possibly knew three chords between them; the drummer sounded like she’d just got her drum kit that afternoon. But they were up there going for it, and what they lacked in talent, they more then made up for with enthusiasm. Les took his camera out and eased his way through the crowd. When he got closer to the stage, Les aimed his camera and took a couple of photos.

  The band stopped and took a bow then began to move off stage. From somewhere an announcer said that was Murdering Mary’s last song, give them a big hand and next up was Frenergetic; to be followed by the fireworks. Les moved back from the stage and watched as four skinny young blokes all in black got up, gave their guitars a quick tune then attacked some song they’d written, racing each other like crazy to see who could finish first. Les took a photo and gave the race to the bass player with blue hair. Frenergetic galloped their way through another song and that was it. Apparently because of a heavy lineup and the fireworks display, each band was only allowed two songs. From what Les had heard so far, that was plenty. He moved to the back of the crowd and was lucky enough to find a milk crate near the trees. He sat down, rubbed the sore spot in his back and watched some kids running around like wild things, waving luminous, plastic tubes in the air. Les was wishing he’d brought a few beers with him when the announcer said it was time for the fireworks. The technicians were positioned between the reserve and the clubhouse and, as soon as the announcer stopped, a star shell exploded over the trees with a loud, whistling bang and a huge shower of pink and green.

  For a small country town, Les was surprised at the fireworks display. It was quite spectacular and seemed to last forever. Great bursts of red star clusters and showers of gold and blue exploded into the night then rained down from the sky. Les had a great view and sat back and was enjoying it immensely. He tried for a couple of photos and smiled to himself as he watched a trail of bursting silver climb into the night. I know what would go well now, he thought. Some of Woz’s pot. Wouldn’t that put some colour into the fireworks? Finally, the fireworks finished with one last spectacular explosion that brought a great roar of approval and applause from the crowd. The announcer said that was it and now it was back to the battle of the bands. Next up was Cybertronical Biped. I think that might be enough for me, thought Les, as another band got up and blasted away into the night. He left his milk crate and drifted off with some of the crowd who’d also seen enough.

  Les walked back to the road going past the clubhouse and paused. To the right was home, bed and safety. But Norton was still stubbornly determined to have a draught beer. There was a street to the left and if Les wasn’t mistaken it was the one that took him into town earlier. Les followed it down then up and, sure enough, just ahead was the main drag and the old wooden hotel on the corner.

  The hotel had a restaurant at the back and Les noticed several punters through the windows before he turned the corner. There was an entrance round the corner off the main road, windows faced the street, and at the end another door led into a gaming area. The usual beer ads covered the blue, timber front of the hotel and above was an enclosed verandah and a sign in white: LAWSON’S HOTEL. The old pub seemed to have a nice feel about it, so Les pushed open the door and walked in.

  Part of the bar angled round to the restaurant, the rest faced the windows and ran down to a makeshift stage at the end. Lights and fans hung from the ceiling and the wood-panelled walls were covered in old photos and framed newspaper clippings. Two attractive girls were working the bar; one wore a white top and had black hair with a flower in it, the other wore a mauve floral top and had brown hair. Behind them, two older men in white shirts and plain trousers were looking at the till. A duo between songs was standing in front of two microphones and a pair of speakers at the far end of the bar. A brown-haired bloke in a red check shirt and holding a guitar was on the left, next to a dark-haired bloke in all black on the right. About a dozen casually dressed people were seated or standing around the bar drinking and laughing. The smoke wasn’t too punishing and Les couldn’t see anybody looking for a fight, so he took a stool near the corner of the bar, facing down to the duo. He put his camera on the placemat and ordered a middy of Tooheys from the barmaid with the flower in her hair. The beer was cold and delicious and just what Les had been looking for. Then the guitar player hit a few notes, the drum machine kicked in and the singer in black started warbling ‘Teddy Bear’. And the duo wasn’t real bad.

  Les sipped his beer and ran his eyes around the bar. He was still a bit edgy, but no one paid him any mind. Two blokes wearing polo shirts walked in and Les stiffened as they looked at him. But it was no more than a cursory glance before they went to the bar and got into a shout. Les finished his middy about the same time as the duo finished ‘Teddy Bear’ and started into ‘It’s Not Unusual’. Les ordered another middy, with a Jack Daniels and ice on the side for a buzz, and found himself
tapping his foot to the music. The duo played ‘Eagle Rock’ and a few punters got up and started dancing; including one of the men who’d been standing at the till and the barmaid in the mauve top. Les got his camera, walked down and took a few photos. He sat down again and ordered another beer and a JD and ice.

  Les was about to take a photo of the barmaid with the flower in her hair when he noticed a woman standing next to him. She had a lean, attractive face with no makeup, inquisitive, hazel eyes and long brown hair parted in the middle. A thick, beige shirt hung over a blue T-shirt getting pushed out by a healthy bust, and the T-shirt hung out over a denim dress, with splits in the side tied by leather laces. Handpainted across her T-shirt were little orange and yellow birds. Les put her age at no more than thirty and figured she was some kind of hippy. He quietly sipped his beer and avoided eye contact.

  ‘Did you get any good photos?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. I think so,’ replied Les, a little indifferently.

  ‘Am I in them?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Les gave her a sideways glance. ‘Were you up dancing?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded the woman.

  ‘Then I could have got one of you.’

  ‘I’d like a copy. If that’s all right?’

  Les shrugged. ‘Well, I haven’t finished the roll of film yet.’

  ‘Are you from around here?’ asked the woman.

  Les shook his head. ‘Canberra. I just got here.’

  ‘Oh? Where are you staying?’

  Les started getting suspicious. ‘At that big motel near the post office.’

  ‘The Islander.’

  ‘That’s it,’ nodded Les.

  ‘Are you down for the Blues Festival?’ Les nodded. ‘Maybe you could leave it at the desk for me?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Les.

  The woman smiled. ‘I’m Grace.’

  ‘George,’ replied Les, politely but not over friendly.

  Grace stood there a moment. ‘Okay George. I might see you again before the night’s over.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  Les went back to his beer and watched Grace walk off to join some people near the other end of the bar. She had a shapely behind and her hair bobbed silk-like across her shoulders when she walked. What a bummer, thought Les. Grace isn’t a bad sort. If I was a little more friendly, I might have been half a chance there. But after what happened tonight, I don’t know. A little town like this, she could be a friend of a friend or something and saw the fight. She might even be a cop. Who knows?

  The band finished a fair version of ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ and took a break. Les ordered another beer and a JD and was starting to get a bit of a glow on. He still didn’t drop his guard and kept an eye on the door. But the night was turning out to be all right. Even his back felt better. He took a sip of JD and looked up as a lean, wiry bloke, with a lived-in face, and untidy black hair going a little grey at the sides, walked in the door on his own. He was wearing a black T-shirt with Blondie on the front, a pair of grease-stained, black jeans and scruffy, black gym boots. The bloke nodded to Grace and her friends and the two girls behind the bar then walked round and took a stool near Les. The barmaid with the floral top came over and the bloke exchanged a smile and a few words with her, before ordering a can of VB. He took a long, enjoyable pull on his can of beer when it arrived, then belched into his hand and turned absently to Les. The bloke turned away and looked curiously at his beer for a moment then turned back and stared at Les with an odd, half smile on his face. Les picked up the vibe. It was a look of knowing admiration. The exact look a punter would give some stranger he’d just seen flatten four blokes. Fuck it, Les cursed to himself. I’ve been sprung. Les ignored the bloke in the Blondie T-shirt, but he could feel his eyes on him. Finally the bloke leant over.

  ‘Hey mate,’ he said. ‘I know your face.’

  Les shook his head. ‘I doubt it, me old,’ he answered quietly.’ I’m not from round this way. And I only just got here.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough,’ the bloke nodded slowly, continuing to stare at Les. ‘You’re from Sydney but, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why? What makes you say that?’ shrugged Les.

  ‘I’m a chef,’ answered the bloke. ‘A couple of years ago I was working in a restaurant in Paddington called Forty Four. One of the waitresses didn’t turn up so I had to help on the tables. You were there with another bloke and two real good sorts. And you left a five hundred dollar tip.’

  Les thought for a moment then remembered the night. He was with a notorious drug dealer known as Mullets. Mullets had run out of money one night at the Kelly Club and Les had loaned him a couple of hundred dollars. Which Mullets managed to turn into fifty thousand. Mullets repaid the loan: plus. Then lined up two glamours and shouted Les to dinner at Fourty Four. One reason Les had left the five hundred dollar tip was because Mullets was trying to act low key so he gave Les the cash to pay for the night out. The second reason was that the waitress was absolutely hopeless. She tried her heart out to please them. However, the harder she tried, the more she stuffed things up. But in a crazy, bumbling way. It was like something out of a movie and she had them in stitches all night. So Les left five hundred extra of Mullets’ ill-gotten gains on the table. The girl thought he’d made a mistake and chased them up the street. When Les told her no, that was all right, he was just so impressed with her service, the poor girl burst into tears.

  Les looked at the bloke and shook his head. ‘Well, that proves it definitely wasn’t me, mate. Because I wouldn’t leave a five hundred dollar tip, if it was to save my life.’

  The bloke smiled and nodded his head. ‘All right. But I know I’ve seen the other bloke’s face somewhere.’

  You’re not wrong there pal, thought Les. Mullets got banged up over a huge shipment and was still on remand in Long Bay. It had been all over the news. Nevertheless, the bloke seemed friendly enough and he hadn’t lamped Les from the fight at the hotel. Plus he was spot on with his assumptions.

  ‘So you’re a chef are you, mate?’ enquired Les.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the bloke, getting into his beer. ‘I work at the other pub down the road. McBride’s. I just knocked off.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Les. ‘I’ve never been in there. What’s it like?’

  ‘All right. I help run the bistro. The food’s really good. And I’m not just saying that because I work there.’

  Les nodded and had a mouthful of beer. ‘Fair enough. I’ll have to come down and put my head in.’

  ‘Do that,’ said the bloke. ‘I’ll look after you.’ He swallowed some beer and laughed to himself. ‘It’s a good thing you didn’t put your head in tonight though.’

  ‘Oh?’ replied Les. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘There was an unbelievable fight in the bar.’

  ‘A blue? In a quiet town like this,’ Les raised his eyebrows. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Four fisherman picked a fight with some bloke and he absolutely creamed them. I came round just after it happened and had to help clean up the blood. It was everywhere.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ Les looked shocked. ‘Who was the bloke? A local?’

  The chef shook his head. ‘One of the barmaids saw him. Said he was tall and skinny. With brown hair and tattoos.’

  ‘That sounds like a pretty good description,’ said Les. ‘And did the police come?’

  The chef laughed out loud. ‘Not for those blokes. It was probably a cop that done it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Norton’s eyes lit up. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘One of the blokes that got belted was Mick Scully. He’s a real old thug. Him and his nephew Morgan just about run the place. They even bashed some cops down at Bermagui. Everybody knows it was them. But no one could ever prove it.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ said Les. ‘He sounds like a nasty piece of goods this bloke — what did you say his name was?’

  ‘Scully. Mick Scully.’ The chef looked pensive for a moment. ‘It would have been a different sto
ry though, if Morgan had of been there.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that?’ enquired Les.

  The chef made a dismissive gesture. ‘When it comes to fighting, Morgan’d beat anyone. He’s unbelievable. Him and his uncle have got half the south coast terrorised. Actually, we were all having a bit of a laugh when Mick copped it.’

  ‘Go on,’ smiled Les.

  The bloke finished his can of VB. ‘I wouldn’t like to be the bloke though, if Morgan gets hold of him.’

  Les shrugged. ‘How’s he going to find him?’ he asked.

  The chef shook his head. ‘I doubt he will. If the bloke knows what’s good for him, he’ll have pissed off out of town by now.’

  Les looked serious. ‘From what you just told me, mate,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I blame him.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the bloke.

  A warm glow started to spread though Norton, and it wasn’t from the Jack Daniels. Suddenly, wonderfully, a whole new vibe had come over the night. There was no heat from the local police. And instead of belting a bunch of drunken fisherman, Les had been right all the time. That bloke in the hotel had mug and bully written all over him. Norton had galloped into town on his white horse, and done a Clint Eastwood. Bad luck about his back. But he preferred that to an assault charge. As for this nephew Morgan, he’d be running around looking for some skinny bloke with tattoos. Norton had done it again.

  ‘So what’s your name, anyway, mate?’ asked Les.

  ‘Olney.’

  ‘I’m Les, Olney.’ Les shook the chef’s hand. ‘And I’ve got a confession to make.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that Les?’ asked the chef.