For a sparkling summer afternoon on Bondi Beach at the beginning of February, it wasn’t too punishingly hot, and wearing a grey T-shirt hanging out over a pair of Levi’s shorts, Les Norton was smiling happily as he walked from North Bondi RSL Club in Ramsgate Avenue back to North Bondi Surf Club. After an easy Friday night at the pickle factory, he’d met Billy Dunne down the beach earlier for a training session with two off-duty army boys they’d become friends with. Nothing spectacular, just a lazy six laps’ jog on the soft sand, followed by a four-lap paddle on the skis, swim a lap, then walk back to the north end. Some days they’d put the pressure on, most days they opted to do it slow but steady. Today was one of those days. After they all got cleaned up, the two diggers went their way, leaving Les and Billy to enjoy a steak lunch at the ‘rissole’ washed down with mineral water and coffee. Billy’s wife Lyndy had picked Billy up outside the RSL, leaving Les with a short stroll back to the surf club where he’d left his latest pride and joy chained to the white fence running along the north side of the surf club.

The apple of Norton’s eye was an old blue Europa ten-speed pushbike with cow-horn handlebars he’d found when he was driving past a garage sale in Coogee. After paying a bloke even older than the bike thirty dollars for it, Les took the old Europa to a bike shop at Clovelly where, for another seventy dollars, he got the handlebars changed, the brakes tightened, and had the cheese-cutter seat swapped for one more suited to his ample backside. So for a hundred dollars, Les finished up with a fairly good ten-speed that suited him down to the ground. Parking along Bondi Beach, if you could find a spot, cost an arm and a leg, and the moment your meter ran out, the rangers were on you like flies on shit. Subsequently, Les left his car at home most of the time and walked. And even though the fifteen-minute walk from Chez Norton down to North Bondi wasn’t Heartbreak Hill, it was much quicker by bike with an easy pedal home via Roscoe Street. And if he was ever unlucky enough to get his bike stolen, although it would be a pain in the arse, Les was only out a hundred bucks. Nevertheless, Norton always chained his bike up securely, just in case there happened to be a citizen out there who needed it to ride back and forth between Waverley Courthouse and the nearest methadone centre more than Les needed it to ride down to the beach and back.

So besides starting off well, Saturday was turning out to be an excellent day all round. In fact, Les was in that good a mood as he got ready to ride home for an afternoon nap, he was actually looking forward to work that night so he could renew a spirited conversation he’d been having with Billy about the coming football season. Bloody Billy, smiled Les. How could you live in the Eastern Suburbs and follow St George?

After crossing the grass, Les was still smiling and whistling happily out of tune as he walked up the side of the surf club. But the smile on his face evaporated as fast as the whistling stopped when he got to his bike. It was still standing where he’d left it all right, and his green helmet was still attached to the handlebars. However, the front tyre was flat. Flat on the ground.

‘Ahh, fuck it,’ groaned Les. ‘Wouldn’t that give you the shits.’ Norton’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you can bet some smartarse has let the bloody thing down too.’

Les lifted the front wheel of his bike and spun it slowly around. Just near the valve, a small piece of rusty nail was stuck in the tyre.

‘Bugger it,’ scowled Les. He plucked the piece of nail out of the tyre, looked at it for a second then tossed it onto the grass. ‘Just my bloody luck.’

Now what to do? Les pondered. He didn’t have a puncture kit, and if he had he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Pushing his bike home wouldn’t be much joy either; as well as looking and feeling like a dill, he’d probably bugger up the rim. No. The only answer was to leave the bike where it was, walk home, come back with his car, then put the bike in the boot and take it over to the bike shop in Clovelly before it closed. With a bit of luck they’d have the tyre repaired by tomorrow. After adjusting his cap and sunglasses and shrugging his backpack more comfortably across his shoulders, Norton headed for Campbell Parade.

For a Saturday afternoon there wasn’t all that much traffic or many people around and Les was thinking lightly about this and that as he strolled along in the sun. He’d missed out on a huge earn in Torquay. But the money did go to a good cause: the orphanage. However, Les felt Mrs Setree could have given him some sort of a guernsey on the front page of the Melbourne Age instead of saying she and her daughter had found the paintings. On the upside, Roxy had rung him from WA saying she’d almost finished researching her book there and was thinking of calling into Sydney for a few days before she left for the Northern Territory. And Amazing Grace had invited him down to Narooma for a bit of R and R, as soon as she got back from Melbourne where she was lining up a chain of shops to sell her T-shirts. Yes, boss, smiled Les, winking up at the sky as he came to the roundabout at the corner of Wairoa Avenue and Bondi Beach Public School, I can’t complain too much. Things are bumping along all right.

And talking about things bumping along. Who should Les suddenly see bumping past the school in his battered white Ford Laser but Benny the Beak, his old Jewish landlord. There was no mistaking Benny’s bald head barely poking up behind the wheel and if there was a worse driver in Sydney, nobody knew who it was, but Benny would be right behind him in a tight, photo finish. Being a rotten driver wasn’t Benny’s only attribute. He rarely wore his seat-belt, hardly ever used his blinkers and was too stuck in his ways to buy a car with an automatic gear shift. Subsequently, Benny was always stalling the engine or sending other drivers wild with his erratic turns. Benny should have lost his licence years ago. But Benny’s God smiled on him and somehow Benny never got so much as a parking ticket.

Oddly enough, even though Les had taken Benny to the cleaners over a flat he once rented from him, Les finished up on friendly terms with Benny, and if ever they spotted each other at the Hakoah Club in Hall Street and Benny was on his own, they’d join each other for their meal or coffee. Les would tell Benny about things at Kings Cross and Benny would regale Les with tales about when the Russians invaded Hungary. Like the time he got shot in the leg throwing a Molotov cocktail at a Russian tank. Now here was Benny bumping merrily along and sure enough, he stalled the car when he slowed down for the roundabout. Les was about to yell out at Benny and ask him what he was doing driving a car on Saturday, when he noticed a silver Ford Falcon right up Benny’s rear, booming out American gangsta rap. Inside were four westie hoons of Middle Eastern appearance wearing black tracksuits with their baseball caps on back to front; the driver bipping his horn impatiently for Benny to move. But the more the driver bipped his horn, the more flustered Benny became till finally he flooded the motor.

‘Come on, you cunt,’ bipped the hoon driving. ‘Move your fuckin arse.’

‘Yeah. Move your arse, man,’ the hoon sitting behind the driver shouted out from his window.

Benny kept trying to start the engine. But the more the driver behind tooted his horn, the more exasperated Benny became. Les watched on with amusement at Benny’s predicament and disgust at the hoons’ attitude. Then Benny put his arm out the window and waved for the hoons to go round him. But with Benny’s pudgy little hands it didn’t look that way to the hoon behind the wheel.

‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t give me the finger, you cunt, or I’ll break your fuckin arm.’ Benny waved another gesture for the driver to go round. ‘What? Fuck you!’ yelled the hoon behind the wheel, slipping off his seat-belt and getting out of the car.

With the other hoons egging him on, the driver stormed up to Benny’s old Laser then wrenched the door open and dragged little Benny out by the collar of his crumpled white shirt. After shoving Benny up against the front mudguard he then punched him flush in the face with a hard right. Benny didn’t know what hit him. He tumbled back across the bonnet then fell down and hit the back of his head on the road, knocking himself unconscious. As blood started oozing out from under Benny’s head, the hoon walked round and, to the cheers of his friends in the Ford, started kicking the motionless Benny in the ribs. Les could hardly believe what he was seeing.

‘Hey. Piss off, you idiot,’ he shouted. Dodging traffic, Les ran across the road and pulled the hoon off Benny. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You fuckin hero.’

The hoon glared at Les. ‘Fuck off, cunt. This has got nothing to do with you.’ The hoon gave Les a shove in the chest. ‘Piss off.’

Les glowered. ‘What? Fuck you. You would-be homeboy prick.’

Les stepped back and belted the hoon in the face with a wicked short right that busted his mouth open and knocked out two of the hoon’s front teeth. The hoon’s eyes rolled back and he fell over the bonnet, then slid down the front, hitting his head on the bumper bar and landing next to Benny out cold.

A rage of cursing and shouting erupted from inside the Falcon and the other three hoons jumped out to get at Les. Les spun around to face the one that had been sitting behind the driver. But his backpack, with a big wet towel, a bottle of water and other odds and ends inside it, caused him to overbalance and twist his right knee. This didn’t stop him, however, from poking out a quick left jab which the hoon walked straight into, stopping him dead in his tracks and knocking off his black baseball cap. Gaining his balance, Les hooked hard off the jab and the instant Norton’s big fist hit him in the face, the second hoon toppled down on the road, blood bubbling out of his broken nose. When the two remaining hoons quickly realised they had a horrible snag on their hands, they stopped and turned to each other.

‘Fuck this cunt,’ said the hoon who had been sitting next to the driver. ‘See how he goes with a few bullets in him.’

The third hoon ran back to the passenger-side door and reached into the glove box. Before he could get it open, Les sprinted round the front of the car and slammed the door on his arm, dislocating his shoulder.

‘Ohh, shit! My fuckin arm,’ howled the hoon. Les slammed the door on the hoon’s arm again, this time breaking his elbow. ‘Ohh, fuck. Fuck!’ yelped the hoon, clutching his shattered arm as he fell back against the car.

Les turned, the last hoon and gave him a sinister smile. ‘Okay, homeboy. This just leaves you and me.’

The remaining hoon stood his ground then snarled and pointed a finger at Les. ‘I know you, cunt. You work at that club up the Cross. I’ve seen you there.’ The hoon made trigger pulling gestures with his right index finger. ‘You’re dead meat, cunt. Dead fuckin meat.’

‘Yeah?’ replied Les, moving towards the last hoon. ‘Well, you’re barbecued.’

By this time a small crowd had gathered round to watch the action. At the same time what should come cruising down Wairoa Avenue but a white Commodore with two young cops in the front seat. Then seemingly from out of nowhere, a paddy wagon came cruising along Campbell Parade with three more of New South Wales’s finest crammed in the front: two men and a dumpy blonde woman. The Commodore hit the siren and accelerated in the wrong side of the roundabout, the paddy wagon screeched to a stop alongside the two cars and Les suddenly found himself surrounded by uniformed police.

‘Righto. What’s going on here?’ demanded the oldest cop, a florid-faced sergeant who’d been sitting in the wagon.

‘We weren’t doing nothing,’ yelled the fourth hoon, pointing at Les. ‘We stopped for this old guy in the Laser. And this cunt started punching into us. He’s fuckin crazy, man.’

‘Yeah,’ groaned the third hoon, still slumped up against the passenger-side door clutching his right arm. ‘He’s fuckin nuts. Look at my fuckin arm. He just broke it. Ohh fuck! Get me an ambulance.’

‘Bullshit!’ yelled Les, indicating to the front of Benny’s Laser. ‘That big prick in the black tracksuit was kicking into the old bloke. I ran over to stop him. The old bloke’s Benny Rabinski. He’s a friend of mine.’

‘It didn’t look that way to us, sir,’ said one of the young cops who’d got out of the Commodore. ‘As we turned the corner, you were slamming the door against this man’s arm.’

‘Yeah.’ Les nodded to the Ford. ‘Because there’s a gun in there. He was going to shoot me. Have a look in the glove box.’

The young cop reached inside the Ford and opened the glove box. Sitting under some papers was a silver .32 automatic.

‘He’s right, sarge,’ said the young cop. ‘There is a gun in here.’

‘That’s what I told you,’ said Les.

‘Yeah. Cause this big cunt put it there,’ yelled the fourth hoon. ‘He’s trying to set us up.’

‘What? Ohh, don’t give me the shits.’

Les momentarily lost his temper and moved towards the fourth hoon. The hoon feigned terror and moved back.

‘I want him charged with assault,’ whined the hoon with the broken arm.

‘Yeah. Keep him away from me,’ said the fourth hoon. ‘Lock the cunt up. He’s fuckin crazy, man.’

‘Crazy,’ hissed Les. ‘I’ll show you crazy. You lying prick.’

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered the sergeant.

‘Ohh, balls!’ said Les.

‘That’s it. You’re under arrest,’ said the sergeant.

‘Under arrest? What for?’ howled Les. ‘I was trying to help Benny. Are you nuts?’

‘I’m arresting you for assault.’ The sergeant turned to one of the cops from the Commodore. ‘Matty. Ring for an ambulance. Dan. Put this man in the back of the Holden.’

‘Ohh, bullshit,’ said Les. ‘I don’t believe this.’

‘Sir. Put your hands behind your back,’ ordered the woman cop tersely.

‘You gotta be kidding,’ protested Les.

The woman cop took out a can of capsicum spray. ‘I said, put your hands behind your back.’

Les closed his eyes and shook his head in despair. ‘Shit!’ he cursed, totally unable to believe his rotten luck.

Before Les knew it, he was handcuffed, bundled through the crowd and sitting uncomfortably in the back seat of the Commodore; outside he could sense people peering into the car at him. Les felt like telling them all to piss off. Instead he stared blankly at the floor of the car in stunned disbelief. One minute he’d been walking along Campbell Parade, minding his own business, the next he was handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police car under arrest for assault. And all for stopping to save an old bloke from getting bashed. Les stared balefully out the car window and up at the sky. Did I say something earlier about not being able to complain? Yeah. Thanks, boss. When you dump on me, you sure do it a-la-carte, don’t you?

The crowd quickly increased. Three ambulances with sirens wailing pulled up and one of the cops started diverting traffic. Les didn’t bother watching all the action. Instead he kept staring at the floor, wondering what was he going to tell Price. Wondering what he was going to tell Warren. And most of all, fucked if he knew how was he going to get out of all this Eliot. If Benny died or finished in a coma, Les was gone. It was his word against four others. And he’d pretty much been found holding a smoking gun. Or in this case, a broken arm.

Eventually the front door of the Commodore opened and the two young cops piled inside. The one on the passenger side picked up the two-way.

‘Waverley. This is 104. We’re coming in with a prisoner.’

‘Copy that, 104.’

The young cop replaced the receiver as the Commodore turned into Campbell Parade and proceeded on to Bondi Road.

‘This is all bullshit, you know,’ Les maintained from the back seat.

The cop driving looked at Les in the rear-view mirror. ‘Save it till we get to the station.’

‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Les glumly.

Before Les knew it the police car had pulled up in Bronte Road outside his home away from home: Waverley Police Station. Les was led inside to the front desk where he was processed and charged with Assault to Occasion Actual Bodily Harm and Affray. With the preliminaries out off the way, Les was relieved of his backpack and it was searched while he was led up to the detectives’ room and told to wait there for a detective who would take a written statement from him.

Just like old times, mused Les, staring around the detectives’ room at the same blue-grey carpet, the same grey filing cabinets and the same dusty windows with the same shitty view. About the only difference from his last visit there was that the pot-plant in the corner looked like it was now ready to throw the towel in and amongst the dog-eared posters on the wall was another one saying COPS ARE TOPS. Yeah, nodded Les. So are the hairs round my arse. Les opted not to ring Price for the time being, instead he just sat there brooding for what seemed like hours before the door opened behind him and he heard a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Les,’ the voice said cheerfully. ‘And how are you on this delightful summer’s afternoon?’

Les looked up as a detective with short dark hair wearing a brown check sports coat and matching trousers sat down at the desk in front of him. Despite his predicament, Norton was able to muster a brief smile.

‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t my old mate Detective Caccano. How’s things?’

‘Very good, thank you, Les.’ Detective Caccano looked at the charge sheet in front of him and smiled. ‘My goodness, Les. Haven’t you been a busy boy today.’ The detective fixed his eyes directly on Les. ‘Care to tell me about it?’

‘You really want to fuckin know?’ answered a disgruntled Les.

The detective looked impassively at Norton. ‘I didn’t come in here to play noughts and crosses.’

Les stared back at Detective Caccano for a moment, sucked in some air and snorted it out. ‘I got a flat tyre on my bike.’

Les proceeded to tell Detective Caccano everything that happened that day, from the minute he met Billy outside the surf club, till the minute he was left in the detectives’ room.

‘And that, I might add,’ concluded Les, ‘is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the fuckin truth. So help me God. Or Buddha or Allah or any other deity you care to name.’

Detective Caccano looked at Les for a moment then smiled. ‘You know something, Les? I tend to believe you.’

‘Good,’ enthused Norton. ‘So how about letting me go?’

Detective Caccano shook his head. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, old mate. Four people are in hospital. One young gentleman of Middle Eastern appearance has even got a broken arm.’

‘He was going to shoot me.’

‘So you say, Les.’

‘There was a gun in the glove box.’

‘He claims you put it there.’

‘Ohh, bollocks!’

‘It’s their word against yours, old mate. A good lawyer would have you on toast.’

‘So what was I supposed to do?’ said Les. ‘Just stand back and let that big mug kick poor little Benny half to death?’

‘Well, you’re not really supposed to break someone’s arm in a car door, Les,’ said Detective Caccano.

‘Hey, how is Benny anyway?’

The detective looked at the charge sheet. ‘Mr … Rabinski is in hospital with a hairline fracture of the skull and a broken rib. He’s still unconscious. But he should be all right before too long.’

Les felt relieved. ‘Well that’s good to know. He’ll clear me.’

‘Possibly. But the person whose arm you broke has charged you with assault. So have the others.’

‘I should have broken his back,’ snorted Les.

The detective smiled. ‘I tend to agree with you, Les. But you know the law. Those smartarses are allowed to abuse you. Rob you. Assault you. Whatever their little hearts desire. And you’re only allowed to react with a minimum or equal amount of force. Then ring for the police.’

‘And they’ll get there in about two hours.’

‘If they’ve got nothing else on and there’s no traffic. My oath they will.’

‘What if you haven’t got a phone?’

‘Stiff shit.’

‘Maybe I should have counselled them,’ Les suggested sarcastically.

‘Even better,’ nodded Detective Caccano.

‘That’s fucked,’ said Les.

‘I agree with you, mate. But it’s also the law.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Look,’ said Detective Caccano, ‘we could be here all night going over this crap. But I believe what you said. And I’ll see that you get bail. Then you’re going to have to sort it all out through the proper channels.’

‘Fair enough,’ replied Les.

Detective Caccano gave Les a wink. ‘I’m certain your friend Mr Galese will arrange something.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I don’t know what. But I sure hope so.’

Detective Caccano looked directly at Norton. ‘I’ll tell you something though, Les. If that little shit said he knows you from the Cross, and you’re dead meat, I wouldn’t go to work tonight. They’ll organise a drive-by for sure. And if they don’t get you there, they’ll find out where you live and have another go.’ The detective shook his head. ‘And there’s not much we can do about it.’

‘Shit!’

‘To be honest, I’d disappear for a while if I were you. At least till this all cools down a bit.’

Les thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. You could be right, I suppose.’

Detective Caccano looked at Les. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Les. But you didn’t get this from me. Okay?’

‘Sure,’ nodded Les.

‘The bloke you claimed was kicking Mr Rabinski is a low-life named Assad Derbas. He’s got a rap sheet longer than the straight at Randwick and he comes from Condell Park. That might help you.’

‘Okay. Thanks a lot.’

The detective rose from the table. ‘All right. Stay there for a while and I’ll sort your bail out. Then you can hit the toe.’

‘Righto.’ Les watched as the detective walked over and opened the door. ‘Hey, Detective Caccano. Thanks for that. I dead set owe you one.’

The detective gave Les a wink from the door. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

It was getting dark when Les limped out of Waverley Police Station with his backpack. But Detective Caccano was as good as his word and Les was granted bail of his own recognisance to appear back at Waverley Courthouse in a month for a committal hearing on charges of assault and affray. Well, I suppose the first thing I have to do, thought Les, hailing a passing taxi, is get home and give Price the good news. The taxi pulled up and Les climbed in the back. No. The first thing I have to do is go and get my bloody bike.

The taxi pulled up outside Chez Norton in Cox Avenue. Les paid the driver then got straight into his green Berlina and drove to North Bondi. When he walked up the side of the surf club, his bike was still there. But somebody needed Norton’s helmet more than Les did. What a day, scowled Les as he wheeled his bike up to the car. First I get buckled for assault. Now I get my good helmet nicked. Les looked up at the evening sky now peppered lightly with stars. There’s no mercy, is there, eh. No bloody mercy. Les pushed the bike into the boot of his car and headed home.

Once he had his pushbike sitting safely on the back verandah, Les put the kettle on and walked over to the telephone. The answering service was blinking and he had four messages.

‘Les. It’s Price. What’s going on, mate? I just heard your name on the radio. Ring me back.’

‘Les. It’s Billy. I just heard your name come over the radio. You’ve been arrested over some road rage incident. When I left you, you were going to get your bike. What’s going on? Give us a ring.’

‘Les. It’s Eddie. Are you in some sort of strife? Let me know what’s going on. I’ll be here till nine.’

‘You fuckin big idiot. What have you done now, you moron? Fair dinkum. It’s not safe to be out on the street with dills like you around. I’ll ring you back about seven. Hey. I see they’re still referring to you as a waiter. You couldn’t wait in line, you dope.’

Les shook his head. ‘Fuckin Warren,’ he grunted. Where’s the cunt again? Shooting a wine commercial. Les walked into the kitchen. Fancy that little pisshead shooting a wine commercial. It’d be like Dracula shooting an ad for the blood bank. Les made a cup of coffee and rang Price.

‘Price. It’s Les. How are you?’

‘Well, I’m all right,’ answered Price. ‘What have you been up to? I was home listening to the races and your name bobbed up on the news. What’s going on?’

Les took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s not real good, Price, I can tell you that.’

Les told his boss everything that had happened, including getting the name of one of the hoons. Price listened intently and didn’t say anything till Les had finished.

‘Shit! What a drama,’ said Price. ‘And you say this flip Derbas comes from Condell Park?’

‘So I was told,’ replied Les.

‘Sounds like they’re Lebanese.’ Price thought for a moment. ‘Look. Don’t worry too much. Eddie’s got a strong connection with the Lebs. He should be able to work something out. But take the night off. I’ll get Danny to fill in for you.’

‘Righto,’ nodded Les.

‘I can’t see anything happening tonight if you’re not there. But I’ll tell the boys to keep an eye out. Just in case.’

‘Okay.’

‘In fact it might be an idea if you do what that cop said and get out of town for a while.’

‘If you say so, Price. But Jesus. It gives me the shits, having to piss off because four fuckin wogs from the Western Suburbs have got their noses out of joint.’

Price chuckled. ‘According to the news, they’ve got a bit more out of joint than just their noses. One’s got a broken jaw. Another’s got his arm broken in two places. Shit. You don’t muck around, do you?’

‘Ohh, you should have seen what this big prick was doing to Benny the Beak. Benny’s about as big as a penguin.’

‘Yeah. Fair enough. All right. Don’t worry too much. Just take it easy. And I’ll probably see you tomorrow. Don’t bother ringing the others. I’ll sort all that out tonight. But Eddie will get in touch with you tomorrow. Okay?’

‘Righto. I’ll hear from you and Eddie tomorrow. See you, Price.’

‘See you, Les.’

Les hung up and looked at the phone. Well, I suppose that’s a bit better. At least there’s a chance Eddie might be able to do something. But what a pain in the arse. Those mugs tried to four out me. And got a bit of smack for their trouble. Christ! Why can’t they cop it sweet? Les was deliberating on this when the phone rang again.

‘Les. Are you there? It’s Warren. Pick up the phone, you big sheila.’

Les picked up the phone. ‘Hello, Warren. How are you … mate?’

‘Better than you by the sound of things. What happened? I was listening to the cricket and your name came up on the news. I can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.’ Warren laughed out loud. ‘You’ve done it again. You’re a legend.’

‘Thanks,’ grunted Les. ‘So where are you ringing from?’

‘Beautiful downtown Cessnock. We’re still shooting this commercial for Bogenhuber Chardonnay. We’ll have it wrapped tomorrow morning.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘So what happened? Tell me. I’ve a need to know.’

Les shook his head. ‘Ohh, what the fuck do you think happened?’

Les told Warren pretty much what he could over the phone about the afternoon’s events. Excluding what he knew about the hoon from Condell Park.

‘So that’s about it, Woz,’ said Les. ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All because I got a flat tyre on my bike. Ohh. And when I went back to get it, some prick’s knocked off my helmet.’

Warren shook his head at the other end of the line. ‘Fair dinkum. That’s unbelievable.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘The thing is though, Warren, these blokes are rats. And I have to get out of town for a while till Eddie tries to sort it all out. So while I’m away, you be careful in case they find out where I live and spray the place.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll move in with Clover.’ Warren gave an audible sigh. ‘Gee, it’s good sharing a house with a gangster.’

‘Get out, you little cunt. You thrive on all this drama.’

‘Yeah. Like fuckin hell I do. So where are you going to go?’

‘I dunno,’ shrugged Les. ‘I’d go down and stay with Grace. But she’s in Melbourne. I can’t go home, because it’s flooded out all the way to Moree. I’m not sure what I’ll do.’

‘Listen,’ Warren said seriously. ‘Don’t do anything till I get back. I might have something for you.’

‘Yeah. Like what? A week hiding out in your advertising agency. I’d rather stay here and get shot.’

‘No. I’m fair dinkum. This could be ideal.’ Les heard Warren say something to someone off the phone. ‘Hey. I have to go. I’ll be home about lunchtime tomorrow. Don’t make a move till I get back.’

‘Righto, Woz. See you tomorrow.’

‘See you then … Dudley Do Right.’

Les hung up the phone and took his empty coffee cup into the kitchen. My old mate Warren, he thought. I wonder what he’s got in mind. Norton’s eyes suddenly lit up. Hey! He got me a free trip to Hawaii once. Shit, I’d be in that again. Les put his empty coffee cup in the sink and stared into space. Well, it looks like I’ve got the night off. So what to do? He had a look in the fridge. There wasn’t a great deal in it. Les closed the door. Bugger cooking anyway. I’ll order a pizza, have a shower then watch a video. I don’t think ordering a pizza should be too life-threatening. Les started climbing out of his clothes as he picked up the phone again.

After a shower and a shave, Les changed into a clean T-shirt and shorts. His pizza marinara and garlic bread arrived. Les ate it in front of the TV with a bottle of orange juice then slipped on a DVD — Million Dollar Baby with Clint Eastwood — and watched it while he rubbed his knee with liniment. By the time the movie was over, tears were pouring down Norton’s face and he felt worse than ever. God! What a movie, he sniffled, turning off the TV. And I think I’ve got troubles. Les blew his nose into a Kleenex tissue and tossed it into the kitchen tidy along with the pizza carton. That poor bloody sheila. After cleaning his teeth, Les turned off the lights and climbed into bed. He was that busy crying himself to sleep over the girl in the movie, he didn’t even think about the risk of sleeping in the front room.