The Real Thing Read online

  He was lost in all sorts of confused thoughts as he strode morosely along the windy street. On one hand he was absolutely ropeable to think that some little creep had almost killed him and looked like getting away with it. On the other hand he was grateful that he was alive. He looked up at the banks of grey clouds scudding across the sky and although he wasn’t a fully religious man winked a quick thanks to whoever was out there looking after him.

  The little grocer’s shop was closed when he reached it, but he noticed a few pieces of eggshell and dried yolk were still stuck to the footpath out the front. He stopped for a moment and idly kicked at it with the toe of his sneaker. Jesus, that was close, he said to himself, as a few butterflies gave a quick flutter in the pit of his stomach. I know what I am gonna do though. I’m gonna have a couple of beers when I get to the Junction and possibly a nice double brandy. He proceeded to the Tea-Gardens hotel in Bronte Road.

  Outside the pub he stopped and changed his mind about going in. There were a couple of half-pie mates of Billy Dunne’s — thieves — whom he didn’t particularly go much on sitting just inside the door, and he knew if he went in he’d probably have to talk to them. No I won’t go in there. I’ll duck over to Billy the Pig’s and barbecue myself a nice slice of rump. Besides, they don’t have a bad drop of Toohey’s New in the public bar and I know one of the barmaids. I can have a bit of a mag to her. He turned and started walking towards Grace Bros.

  Just outside the main entrance he noticed a police paddy-wagon parked up on the footpath. The sight of it suddenly jogged his memory. Oh shit, he groaned, stopping to slap his back pocket again. I still haven’t paid those friggin’ parking fines. He stood there for a moment and heaved a great sigh of exasperation. Christ, I just left the bloody police station too. Bugger it! As he started walking again he could see two uniformed policemen escorting a young girl out of the side entrance to Grace Bros. next to the travel-agency. She was young, with blonde hair, stockily built, wearing jeans and a leather jacket not unlike Les’s, only brown. A thick, red woollen scarf was wrapped round her neck, and slung over her shoulder was a large leather bag, the same colour as her jacket. Hello, thought Norton, looks like Grace Bros. has caught another hoister. As he drew closer to the young girl, dwarfed between the two policemen, he got a good look at her face and, although she was wearing a bit of a defiant smirk, he recognised the small nose, china-blue eyes and freckles. It was Margaret, the seventeen-year-old daughter of one of the croupiers at the Kelly Club — Bob McKenna. Norton was only a few metres away as the big sergeant, a grizzled old cop in his fifties, started to unlock the back of the cage.

  ‘Hey Margo,’ he called out. ‘What’s happening?’

  Margaret looked up, a little embarrassed, to see who was calling her name: when she saw it was Norton her eyes immediately lit up.

  ‘Oh Les,’ she cried. ‘Les, can you do us a favour? I’m in trouble. Can you come up and bail me out? Me old man’ll kill if he finds out.’

  The two cops ignored Les. He watched the younger one help her up into the cage. ‘Yeah righto Margo,’ said Norton. ‘I’ll sort it out. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks Les,’ was the muffled reply as the old sergeant closed the door on her and locked it. He handed the keys to the young constable who walked up to the driver’s seat. Norton followed the slower moving sergeant round to the other side.

  ‘Hey sarge,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘what’s the young girl done?’

  The old sergeant half turned to Norton stoney-faced, almost ignoring him. He looked at Norton for a moment before opening the door. ‘She got caught shoplifting. We’re taking her up to Waverley to book her.’

  ‘All right if I come up and bail her out?’

  ‘You can do what you like when we’re finished booking her.’ With an audible grunt and a great effort the old, grizzle faced sergeant heaved himself up into the front of the paddy-wagon.

  ‘You couldn’t give us a lift up there could you?’ asked Les.

  The sergeant closed the door and glared down at Norton. ‘What do you think this is — a bloody taxi?’

  ‘No,’ replied Les, ‘but I’ve just bloody walked down from up there.’

  The old sergeant turned and ignored Norton muttering something like ‘piss-off you prick,’ under his breath. Norton was about to turn away when the young constable — an up-and-coming footballer with Easts — recognised Norton from his days with the club.

  ‘Hey,’ he called out, with a bit of a smile, ‘are you Les Norton?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you nearly get shot in a hold-up this morning?’

  ‘Yeah. Just down from the station.’

  ‘I thought it was you. We’ve been out looking for the kid. They still haven’t found him.’ Norton nodded his head as the young constable turned to the sergeant. ‘I know this bloke sarge. He’s all right. You want to give him a lift up?’

  The old sergeant looked at Norton and at the young constable. He took off his hat and placed it above the dashboard. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he mumbled reluctantly and opened the door.

  ‘Good on you fellas — thanks a lot.’ Norton climbed up next to the old sergeant and closed the door after him.

  The young constable driving put his hat on the dash also, backed the paddy-wagon a little further onto the footpath, did a half U-turn, then headed up Oxford Street to turn left into Bronte Road. Sitting in the front of the wagon, Norton could see why the old sergeant was reluctant to let him in; he made Jackie Gleason look like he’d just got out of Changi. Every time they turned in the traffic he almost crushed Les to death up against the door. When he wasn’t getting squashed Norton started up a bit of conversation mainly about the shooting earlier, thinking that if he sweetened things up with the sergeant he might go a bit easy on Margo’s bail. The old sergeant, like most New South Wales cops when they get to know you, dropped the horrible mask they’re forced to wear in public and started to warm up a bit to Norton, thinking it was quite funny him nearly getting shot and Detective Simmiti’s story back at the station about the description of the suspect Mr Malouf the grocer had given them.

  ‘They’re not very nice things those guns, are they? Especially when they’re being fired at you,’ said the old sergeant, as a great surge of laughter rumbled up from his huge stomach and rippled through the mass of double-chins under his face.

  ‘You can say that again,’ replied Norton earnestly. ‘I bloody near shit myself I can tell you.’

  The old sergeant started laughing again. ‘Even the thought of it upsets my stomach,’ he rumbled, giving his vast expanse of stomach a pat. ‘Oh shit,’ he chuckled, ‘now you’ve done it.’

  The old sergeant broke wind in the loudest, most reprehensible manner Norton had ever heard. It sounded like somebody ripping a double-bed sheet in half.

  ‘Oh, not a-fuckin’-gain,’ groaned the young constable, as he hurried to wind down his window. ‘Jesus, you stink, you rotten fat bludger.’

  ‘Hey, don’t talk to your superior officer like that,’ chortled the sergeant, but he was laughing so much he had to wheeze the words out. Then, right on top of Norton’s empty stomach, the obnoxious odour of the old sergeant’s previous night’s schooners and curried lamb chops, hit Les in the face like a punch, making him gag and frantically wind down the window in a panic.

  ‘Oh Jesus, that’s off,’ he spluttered, quickly shoving his head out into the cold air. ‘What have you been eatin’? Tinned rat?’

  ‘Get out,’ laughed the old sergeant. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘Not bad?’ protested Norton. ‘You’re kiddin’. It’d scorch the husk of a coconut.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ said the young constable, his whitened face still stuck outside the window.

  ‘Christ, why didn’t I walk? Open the back door I’ll get inside with the girl.’

  The old sergeant chuckled to himself thinking it was a great joke, broke wind again and laughed like a drain all the way to the station. />
  ‘I’ve been framed Les. Fair dinkum,’ said Margo, a bit of a smirk on her face as the two, now serious, policemen took her out of the back of the paddy-wagon.

  ‘Margo, shut up,’ said Norton, holding his hands out in front of him. ‘Just go in with the police, get your fingerprints taken, and when they’re finished with you I’ll be waiting at the desk.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ Margo’s jaw dropped and the smirk disappeared from her face.

  Norton nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s right Margo, fingerprints. This isn’t a game you know.’

  Margo was dumbfounded and blinking as they led her into the station and out the back to the cells to be processed. She emerged about twenty-five minutes later still trying to wipe the ink off her fingers and looking like she’d just swallowed cyanide.

  ‘Jesus Les,’ she said walking up to Norton waiting for her at the counter. ‘They photographed me and everything, like I was some sort of criminal.’

  ‘Well what do you think you are?’ replied Norton. ‘Shoplifting’s not a game Margo. It’s thieving.’

  ‘Yeah, but it was only a lousy pair of jeans. I mean that’s not a real crime — is it?’

  ‘It is if you get caught Margo.’

  The old sergeant who’d driven them up to the station read Margo her bail conditions but there was no laughing and joking now. Margo signed the blue transcripts binding her over to appear at Waverley court in a fortnight and Norton paid the bail — $150. Margo nervously put the receipt in her purse. Les thanked the old sergeant and they went outside.

  Margo was still ashen-faced as they stood outside the court-house trying to find a bit of shelter from the biting sou’-wester. ‘Jesus what do you think will happen now Les?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, you’ll front court when it says, then it’s up to the beak,’ replied Norton. ‘Is it your first offence?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well you won’t go to jail but you’ll probably get a fine and a bond. Being your first time up you could get off on a 556A but you’ll still have a record of it against you.’

  ‘Mm.’ Margo stared at the ground for a moment. ‘Do you reckon I might be able to talk the judge out of it Les? I could tell him I had the flu and I’d been taking antihistamines and I didn’t know what I was doing. I know what,’ Margo’s eyes lit up, ‘I’ll tell him I had PMT and I was all upset and I was on my menstrual cycle. That oughta work.’

  Norton shook his head and gave Margo a tired smile. ‘Margo the beak won’t care if you were on a Yamaha 250. They’ve heard it all before. You’re just gonna have to take your lumps and cop it sweet. But just make sure when you front you take a good lawyer.’

  The smile faded from Margo’s face. ‘Do you know a good one Les?’

  ‘Yeah my bloke. Graham Cameron just up in Charing Cross. He’s about the best there is. Ring him up and tell him you know me. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks Les.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Norton paused for a moment and looked at Bob McKenna’s usually cheeky young daughter: standing in the cold with all the cheek taken out of her he couldn’t but feel a little sorry. ‘Margo, I got to get going mate. I’d give you a lift home but my car’s in the garage. Have you got enough for a cab?’

  ‘Yeah I’m right thanks Les. It’s only just down Bronte.’

  ‘Okay. Well I’ll get goin’ mate. Are you sure you’re all right now?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for everything Les.’ She reached up and gave Norton a kiss on the cheek. ‘Just don’t say nothin’ to dad, will you?’

  ‘No Margo. Not a word.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you later Les. Thanks again.’

  ‘That’s all right. See you Margo.’

  Norton watched her walk towards Charing Cross, then with a slow shake of his head turned and started back towards Bondi Junction for the third time that day. Jesus, have a go at the time he said to himself as he took a look at his watch. Quarter past bloody one — and I still ain’t had nothing to eat.

  Norton’s stomach was growling like a pack of pine-wolves as he strode along Bronte Road past the still-closed grocer’s shop. As he crossed Birrel Street the bitter sou’-wester whipping up the hill felt like it was going to go straight through him. The cold was making him hungrier adding to his increasing disgruntlement.

  Christ, hasn’t it been a lovely day, he thought. I’ve almost been killed, I’ve had nothing to eat, I’m half frozen and now, thanks to Margo and that old reffo sheila I’m 200 dollars lighter. Plus Chicka’s going to relieve me of another 250 and another 80 dollars for those parking fines.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he groaned out loud as he stopped abruptly and slapped the back pocket of his jeans again. I still haven’t paid those bloody things and I’ve been past the cop-shop three bloody times. Right, well that’s it.

  He punched his open hand, turned on his heel and headed back towards Waverley police station, grimly determined I’m gonna pay these bastards of things once and for all before they drive me fuckin’ mad.

  Norton’s face was a mixture of hunger, cold and sheer annoyance, gritting his teeth and retracing his steps along Bronte Road. The fines, even apart from having to fork over the eighty dollars, were now getting to be a pain in the arse: this time he was going to get them out of the road once and for all and nothing was going to stop him.

  He’d almost broken into a jog as he approached an old, badly neglected block of flats just past Mr Malouf’s still-closed grocer’s shop. Suddenly he slowed down. There was something oddly familiar about a figure, the hands stuffed in the pockets of an old, grey, op-shop gaberdine overcoat, walking towards him. Something — but what? It was like just waking up from an extremely vivid dream and, for the hell of it, you can’t remember what you’ve just been dreaming about. As the youth drew near Norton had a peg out of the side of his eye. The youth had his head bowed slightly staring straight ahead at the footpath and although he had the collar of the old overcoat turned up against the cold, the side closest to Les had fallen down — and that’s when the alarm bells started clanging inside Norton’s head. He only got a quick glimpse as they passed but he was certain half the youth’s ear was missing and he could have sworn he saw the twinkle from a gold earring.

  With the butterflies just starting to take off in his stomach Norton slowed right down as the youth went by, then slowly turned round to see him disappear into the old block of flats they’d just passed.

  Norton waited for a moment, a hotbed of emotions, uncertain what to do. Almost positive that he had found the kid who tried to kill him he wanted to race straight up, grab him and sort it out his own way — fuck waiting for the cops. He stared at the run-down block of flats for a moment then ran inside, stopping quietly in the foyer.

  It was quite cloudy outside so he had no trouble adjusting to the light. There appeared to be four flats on each floor, with a threadbare brown carpet running up to a flight of stairs flanked by a row of wooden bannisters. The varnish was chipped and fading on those that weren’t missing. With the tempo of his heart increasing as he nervously stood in the quiet, dim light, he could still hear the youth walking up the stairs. He quickly and silently ran over and climbed halfway up the first flight. From the sound of the youth’s footsteps it seemed like he’d only gone as far as the first floor. Crouching low, Norton climbed to the top of the stairs just in time to see the figure in the gaberdine overcoat disappear into one of the flats furthest from the stairs. He stepped up onto the landing where a quick check of the numbers around him told him it was number eight. He didn’t bother walking any farther but carefully retraced his steps, almost knocking over a sickly looking potted palm sitting in a cheap plastic pot and barely visible in the dim light at the top of the stairs. Outside in the street he stood looking up at the block of flats trying to figure out the junkie’s way of thinking, and what would be the best thing to do.

  It was fairly obvious why the junkie had held up the shop next to where he lived and barely a stone’s thr
ow from the police station. To his heroin-crazed way of thinking he’d probably figured the last place the cops would look would be next door, and he was half-right. The police were scattered all over the Eastern suburbs looking for him — anywhere but a couple of hundred metres down from the station. But what should Norton do? Get Eddie Salita and take the kid out? He liked the idea of revenge. Wait till the kid came outside and do it himself? That sounded all right but he had no bloody car. Or should he just leave it to the cops? While he was standing in the chilly wind, deep in thought, he didn’t immediately notice the light blue Ford Falcon coming along the opposite side of the road.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that your mate Les over there?’ said Detective Simmiti, slowing down.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah it is,’ replied Fred. ‘I wonder what he’s doing back up here? Pull up and I’ll find out what’s going on.’

  As they drew into the kerb Norton spotted them and came running over.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Detective Mooney as he wound down the window.

  ‘I think I just saw that kid from this morning,’ replied Les. ‘Let us in the back out of this wind, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.’

  Inside the car Norton told the two detectives how he came to be up there and how he just happened to come across the kid.

  ‘Are you sure it’s him though?’ said Detective Simmiti.

  ‘Well I think it is,’ replied Les. ‘I couldn’t be certain, but there’s just something tells me it’s him.’

  ‘Something tells you it’s him, eh?’ said Detective Mooney, a sceptical smile on his face. ‘You couldn’t give us any description at all earlier. Now you reckon it’s him.’ He turned to his partner. ‘What do you reckon Len?’

  Detective Simmiti shrugged his shoulders and screwed his face up a little. ‘I dunno. It just seems funny some bloke’d rob the place next door to where he lives and less that 500 metres from a police station. I mean even the most desperate junkies aren’t that stupid.’