The Wind and the Monkey
ISBN: 0732267072

Chapter One

Whether it was the offhand way Eddie Salita asked the question or just the casual way the question seemed to come out of nowhere, Norton wasn't quite sure. But there was just something about the question, that if it didn't quite make Les overly suspicious, it somehow managed to get the big, red-headed Queenslander's antenna up.

It was the Monday night of an ANZAC Day long weekend and the boys were all seated in Price Galese's office at the Kelly Club, having an after-work drink. Price was sitting at his desk, a vision of sartorial elegance in a grey suit and blue tie, sipping a Scotch and soda. Eddie was on his right in a black leather jacket and black jeans drinking Mount Franklin and ice, and on Price's left George Brennan was in a slightly crumpled blue suit and matching tie sipping Vodka with lemon and Hepburn Spa. Facing the others were Les Norton and Billy Dunne dressed in leather jackets and dark trousers, guzzling heartily on cold bottles of Eumundi Lager. They'd been there about an hour or so, talking and joking about different things, mainly funny incidents that had occurred in the club, when the conversation seemed to momentarily lapse. That was when Eddie slipped the question in.

'Hey Les. Did you ever get your PADI?'
Norton shook his head. 'No.'
'How come?' asked Eddie.
'I don't know. I just lost interest,' replied Les.

Norton's attempt at getting his PADI, or scuba diving ticket, was a bit of a sore point with him actually. Being a keen snorkeller, he joined a dive class at Clovelly one summer with getting his PADI in mind. He ticked off all the questions and answers getting about sixty per cent of them right, then it was time to gear up for their first dive; five in the class plus the instructor. They got to Clovelly pool, where it was drizzling rain, unbearably humid and the water absolutely filthy. Les clambered into a two-piece, full-length, 5mm wetsuit with what seemed like enough equipment to land on the moon. A scuba tank, a BCD jacket with tubes and gauges hanging off it everywhere, his mask and snorkel, a lead belt big enough to anchor the HMAS Parramatta and a pair of flippers you could waterski on. His lead belt kept slipping to one side, along with his scuba tank. His mask and wetsuit were full of sweat and Les felt like he was suffocating. And even though he was only standing up to his waist in water he still couldn't see the bottom. So Norton, more or less politely, told the instructor to stick his dive class up his arse, got out of his gear, dumped it in the back of the dive truck and drove home happy to remain a common, or garden type snorkel sucker.

'Oh well,' nodded Eddie. 'It don't really matter that much, I suppose.'
'No. I don't suppose it does,' replied Les slowly, his antenna still up and rotating a little.

There was silence in the office for a moment or two, then Price spoke. 'Okay, now what's this about you wanting to take a week off from work? Just piss off and leave us all in the shit when we're busy.' The silvery-haired casino owner shook his head from over his glass of Scotch. 'God strike me, you're good. As if life isn't just one big holiday for you as it is.'
'Yeah, pig's arse,' replied Les. 'In fact I wouldn't mind a month off to tell you the truth. But a week'll do. I just want to get away for a while. Recharge my batteries.'
'Fair enough,' conceded Price. 'In fact you've been looking a bit ocean liner ever since you got back from Cooktown.' Price smiled round the room. 'I reckon the big bludger got up to something up there and he's not letting on. A bit of heavy tooling or something.'
Les shook his head. 'No. It was just the heat and all that driving. It's caught up on me.'
'Driving?' exclaimed George Brennan. 'What are you talking about, you cunt. You flew up and back – business class.'
'Yeah. But I had to drive to Cooktown. In the wet season.'
'Wet season?' George shook his head. 'I don't believe it.'
'So?' said Price, when George had finished. 'I suppose you've got plenty of money to blow on a holiday?'
'No.' Les shook his head emphatically. 'In fact I'm shorter than Toulouse-Lautrec's little brother at the moment.' Price shook his head sadly.
'Shit! That's no good.' The casino boss looked at Les for a moment. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. How would you like a week at Shoal Bay?'
'Shoal Bay?' Norton's eyebrows knitted. 'Isn't that up in Port Stephens? The other side of Newcastle?'
'That's it,' nodded Price. 'My darling wife owns a block of units up there. There's one vacant at the moment, and it's all yours for a week if you want it. Twenty seconds from the beach. Two minutes from the pub. Fully self-contained and rent free. What do you reckon?'

Les looked at Price for a second or two. Norton had heard a few good things about Port Stephens and he'd always wanted to check the place out. He'd be a complete mug not to take up an offer like this. 'Okay Price,' he said. 'You've got me. Thanks a lot.'
'For you, Les, me old china plate, it's a pleasure.' Price smiled benevolently around the office. 'Fair dinkum. Am I a good boss or what?'
Les raised his bottle. 'You'll get no argument from me on that. Thanks again.'
'You'll like it up there,' said Eddie. 'It's the grouse. Good fishing. Beautiful beaches.'
'Yeah, I've heard a bit about it. Warren goes up there now and again.'
'I've just been up there for a few days myself,' said Eddie.
'You have?' Eddie nodded. 'Yeah. In fact I might even go back and join you for a couple of days.'
'You what?' Norton's antenna started to rotate. 'Listen, hang on a second. When you go back somewhere and join people for a couple of days, certain citizens around that certain somewhere have a tendency to disappear. Never to be seen again.' Les turned to Price. 'Righto. What's going on? I should have known this was too bloody good to be true.'
'Bloody hell,' said Price. 'Talk about a suspicious, ungrateful bastard. I don't believe it.'
'Yeah, well I didn't quite come down on the back of a turnip truck from Dirranbandi last week,' said Les. 'Though I'm sure certain people in this room think I did.'
'Okay Eddie,' sighed Price. 'You tell him what's going on.'
'Thanks,' grunted Norton. 'Allright,' said Eddie. 'I'm going up there to get rid of a crooked cop. A detective.'
'Oh is that all.' Les gestured round the room with his beer. 'I mean, doesn't everybody go for a holiday and put a few bullets in a cop while they're doing nothing else? Go on, Eddie.'
'It's not quite like that, Les,' said the little hitman. 'In fact, what I got lined up is pretty cool. And anyway, you don't have to put your head in if you don't want to. You're having a holiday.'
'Yeah, terrific.' Les went to the bar for another beer and got everybody else who wanted a drink one while he was there, then sat down again. 'So who's the lucky member of NSW's finest that's going ta-ta's? Am I allowed to know?'
George Brennan spoke. 'A low, dirty, miserable arse called Fishcake Fishbyrne.'
'That's right,' said Price. 'You know the prick.'
'Jack Fishbyrne. Yeah I know him,' nodded Les. 'I seen his rotten melon on TV a couple of times through the week.'

Through his job and whatever, Les had had the occasional run in with Detective Fishbyrne. The last time he saw Fishcake however was on the six o'clock news. The black and white video camera was hidden in the dashboard of the car and there was Fishbyrne receiving a nice fat roll of notes from another cop driving, who'd turned supergrass.

'That's him allright,' said Price.
'So what's Detective Fishbyrne done to deserve a couple of bullets in his fat, ugly scone?' asked Les.

George swallowed some more Vodka. 'He's off work on stress leave at the moment before he gets dragged in front of the ICAC. The thing is he's got a bit of shit on Price and the rest of us that could go down rather nastily if it came to the pinch.'
'So he wants some money to keep his mouth shut?' said Les.
'That'd be our boy Fishcake,' said Billy Dunne, over his fresh bottle of Eumundi Lager.
'And I refuse to give the sour-faced, fat prick another zac,' said Price.
Les pointed with his bottle. 'Which, I imagine, is where young Edward comes in.'
'That's right,' said Eddie. 'But it's not like you think.' Eddie smiled a completely villainous smile. 'What I've got lined up is a ripper. It's foolproof. And you might even get to meet an old mate of ours again.'
'Terrific,' said Les. 'I can't wait.'
'Yeah, but like I said, you don't have to put your head in if you don't want to. I can handle it on my own allright.' Eddie gave Les a brief once up and down. 'In fact I'd probably be better off without you getting your big, fat arse in the road all the time.'
'Thanks.' Les swallowed some more beer. 'No Eddie. Seeing as I'm going to be up there I may as well hang around and make sure you don't fuck everything up.'
'Exactly mate,' smiled Eddie. 'And don't think for one moment I don't appreciate it.'
'That's the spirit,' said Price. 'What a guy.'
'Yeah, that's me,' said Les. 'Everybody's mate.'
George winked up from his Vodka. 'Hey. This'll be a good chance for you to flash up the freeway in that grouse new car of yours.'
'Yeah,' laughed Billy. 'The deceased estate.'
'Deceased estate.' Price had to laugh too. 'I love it when he tells people that's how he got it.'
'Well it was,' pleaded Les.

The car belonged to a Lebanese drug dealer from the western suburbs. He was sitting in the back seat at Surry Hills counting some money, when two young gentlemen came up with automatic shotguns and fired twelve shots through each window spreading the drug dealer, his money and his heroin all over the back seat. Norton got onto the car through a young uniform cop who owed him a favour. The immediate family didn't want the car because it was considered unlucky, the police didn't need it any more for evidence and after sitting in the pound for some time with congealed blood and pieces of brain matter splattered all over the back seat it stank to high heaven and nobody in their right mind wanted it. Les was able to get it registered in his name then had it towed to Chicka's Garage where they went over it with a gurney and plenty of disinfectant and put new windows and a seat in the back. For not all that much money, Norton had a late-model, metallic green Holden Berlina that went like a shower of shit with the late owners' four-speaker stereo and amplifier in the boot. Les was rather pleased with himself and apart from a small whiff of brain matter now and again on a hot day it was a bargain; and compared to the mighty Datsun it was like driving a Porsche Boxster. If anybody asked him how he got it so cheap Les told them it was from a deceased estate.

'And yes George,' said Les, finishing his beer, 'it will be a chance to go for a burble up the freeway to Shoal Bay. Where, even though I look like being involved in murder most foul, once that's out of the road, it could be a nice relaxing holiday.'
'Good luck to you, Les,' said Price, raising his glass.

They talked and joked a bit longer. George gave Les an envelope with a brief letter for the estate agent at Shoal Bay plus a couple of weeks' wages and Eddie said he'd fill Les in on all the details of what was about to go down when he got up there on Thursday morning. But not to worry, it would all be sweet. A few more drinks went down and before long the night wasn't getting any younger. They locked up then George got a taxi to Balmain and the rest left in Price's Rolls with Eddie at the wheel. Billy got dropped off first then it was Norton's turn. He said goodnight to Price and told him he'd see him when he got back. Price wished him all the best. Eddie said he'd see Les on Thursday morning. Then Les waved them off as the Rolls did a sweeping U-turn before disappearing up Cox Avenue as he stepped inside his front door. It wasn't a cold night and Les stripped straight off down to his jox and a clean T-shirt before making his way from the bathroom to the kitchen where a mug of warm Ovaltine had soon pinged out of the microwave into his hand. Warren was in Adelaide shooting a TV commercial for Beenleigh White Rum, so Les had the house to himself. He also had access to a case of Beenleigh Rum Warren had brought home from the advertising agency. But Les didn't feel like any more booze. It had been a fairly busy night at work, he was dog-tired and all Norton wanted to do was put his head down, mull a few things over that were on his mind for a minute or two then go to sleep. Before long Les was in bed with the light off staring up through the darkness at some shadows on the ceiling.

What should have been a quiet holiday on his own somewhere was now a week in Port Stephens helping Eddie with a murder. And a cop at that. It would have been nice to just have a quiet break. But knowing Eddie, everything would probably run smooth as a Swiss watch and once Eddie was gone he could relax and enjoy himself. From what Les could gather, Port Stephens was the place to do it. Funny him asking me if I had my PADI though. I wonder what that was all about. Oh well, there were other things on his mind, but it wasn't long before Norton's eyes were starting to flicker. About the last thing he remembered thinking was he'd take six bottles of Warren's rum with him which wasn't a bad drop mixed with pineapple juice; and maybe some of Warren's pot. A few short minutes later the big red-headed Queenslander was snoring peacefully.