Guns 'n' Rose (30 page)

With the screams and curses of wounded and fighting men hanging in the air along with gun shots and the whiz of shotgun pellets flying around the carpark, Les crouched back down between the old motorbike and the car next to it and looked for an escape route. He didn't fancy running into the hotel and being stuck inside with all the screaming patrons; even then he'd have to sprint through a perimeter of fighting bikies and there was a chance he'd walk into a baseball bat, stop a knife or get shot in the back. Forget trying to find a cab. No taxi would come within cooee of the place at the moment. What about the limo? Hah! Even if he knew the number, Jimmy's mobile, along with his bag, had been blown all over the carpark. And the limo driver would be thinking the same as the cab drivers. It
looked like a long walk or run back to Terrigal.
If he
could get out. Then Les noticed whoever owned the old motorbike had left the keys in it when they ran off. That'll do. I haven't ridden one for a while, but I can learn again. What kind is it? The old bike was all sparkling chrome and shiny black leather and paint, and when Les saw what was written along the side in gold paint he couldn't believe his eyes.
NORTON
850
COMMANDO
. He looked up at the sky. It was truly the prophecy. He curled the stockwhip round his neck, straddled the Norton and looked for the ignition. There wasn't one. It was a true man's bike. He flipped the jets, turned on the ignition, kicked the stand back and jumped on the kick start. Nothing. Just a cough and he felt as if he'd dislocated his knee. Then Les remembered—you don't jump all over these old sweethearts. You tickle them more with your toes. He hit the starter a bit softer with the ball of his foot and bingo! The old Norton roared into life with a sweet, even note that crackled straight out the twin exhausts running along the sides. Les gave it a couple of revs, backed it out a bit, kicked it into what he was certain was first gear and hit it. Not ready for so much power, Les thought he was riding a Saturn space rocket and skidded and slewed across the grassy median strip, nearly losing it and scattering several bikies in the process. One Red Back was a bit slow, so Les went straight over him, breaking both his legs. He thumped the bike over a couple of dead bodies, then ducked under a swinging baseball bat as he heard a couple of shots behind him and a whizzing sound go past his head. But whether Les had been shot or not, he didn't know. He was
going that fast he'd probably outrun the buckshot and in barely seconds he'd grabbed the brakes and skidded to a halt before the roundabout at the end of the street. There wasn't that much traffic. Everybody was probably still in a log jam at the back of the hotel or too frightened to go to their cars. Les eased the throttle this time, took a right at the roundabout and, with the wind streaming through his hair, the stockwhip jammed against his chest and his shirt flapping behind him in the breeze, high-tailed it towards Terrigal as the first motorbike burst into flames outside the hotel.

Only that he'd just got one of the biggest frights of his life and on top of seeing what happened to poor little Jimmy, Les would have enjoyed the ride home. The old Norton had a ton of grunt and handled like a charm once you got used to it. Losing his sunglasses in the melee and not being able to protect his eyes didn't help much either. Les slewed his head from one side to the other as the wind whipped at his face and hair. He switched the lights on just as a police wagon screamed past in the opposite direction, its siren howling and lights flashing. Les hit the throttle and easily went past an old Kombi wagon. After that it was just a few more bends and he took the right turn to Price's house. Just back from the corner, he switched off the lights, cut the engine and coasted quietly up to the garage. He kicked the stand out, opened the garage door, then pushed the Norton inside and closed it again behind him. After standing the bike up again at one end of the garage, Les threw the whip over the handlebars and went inside.

Norton's adrenalin was still pumping and his hands
were shaking slightly when he stood in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. It was the same glass Jimmy had been using before they left. Even though his face felt like it had been sand-blasted, his hair was plastered against his scalp and his eyes were red and sore, Les still couldn't quite believe what he'd just seen and been through. He went into the bathroom, switched on the light and looked at himself in the mirror and was surprised to find flecks of dried blood across his cheeks and tiny nicks in his ears. Either shards of flying glass had cut him or some stray shot-gun pellets had just grazed him and in the madness going on around him, he hadn't felt it. Whatever it was, he'd certainly been lucky again. The face staring back at Norton looked shocked, strained and grainy, not a good look at all, and inside, Norton's stomach and chest were a volcano of heaving emotions, almost making him physically sick. However, Les didn't need a beautician or an Alka-Seltzer. What Les wanted was to get out of there and back home. And the sooner the better. He finished the glass of water and started gathering his things.

The food in the fridge could stay there, along with whatever was in Jimmy's room; Price could sort that out through the week and the old motorbike in the garage too. The booze went with him because Les knew as soon as he got back to Bondi he was going to have the one; and one more and another one after that.

He turned off all the lights, made sure the house was secure then went out to the garage and slung his bags on the back seat of the car along with the whip. That was definitely going with him. The stockwhip had
probably saved his life. Trying to be as cool as he could, Les opened the garage door, quietly backed the Berlina out and locked the garage door behind him. After one last look at the house, Les slipped the T-bar into drive and split for Sydney. He was going past the high school and almost at Terrigal Drive when he remembered the box of machine guns was still in the boot. Shit, Les cursed to himself. What should he do with the fuckin' things? If he took them back to the house he'd have to stuff around finding a place to hide them and if the cops came round they still might find them. If they pulled him over… Pulled him over? Any cops in the area, on or off-duty, would only have one thing on their mind at the moment. A quiet gentleman driving a nice new sedan in the correct manner wouldn't get a second look. It turned out Les was right about cops. As he went past the Avoca turn-off there were heaps of them; along with ambulances, fire engines and media crews, and all heading in the one direction. Les settled back a little and motored on past Brisbane Water. He climbed the hill out of Gosford and was going past the turn-off to Kurrirong Juvenile Justice Centre, where the whole sorry saga started, when Les switched the radio on, pushed some buttons and somehow managed to find 2GB.

The brawl was news all right. It was news, more news, world news and news in between the news. There were on-the-spot interviews with police, ambulance drivers, paramedics, firemen, eye-witnesses. Already the press was calling it ‘the Broadwater Bikie Massacre'. The further Les drove, the higher the body count rose. By the time he got to Jolls Bridge it was 27
dead and 31 injured. All gang members except for one innocent bystander; an unidentified male standing by the bottle shop. Police had cordonned off the area and made 100 arrests. I know who the unidentified bystander was, thought Norton. And with the wallopers running around arresting everyone in sight, you can bet that's where I'd be now if I hadn't got away. Les switched the radio off and went to slip on a tape, but found he couldn't handle any music. His nerves were on edge, he still felt sick, and every time a police car or ambulance would go screaming past he'd get a knot in his stomach. He kicked the Berlina back to overtake a car towing a boat and, although his mind was going every which way at once, he tried to kick a few things over in his head.

Bloody Jimmy. He'd been psyching himself up ever since Les had mentioned bikies on Saturday night. Whatever those Tarheels did to his mother, he sure wanted to get square. All the time he was walking around the hotel with the whip, he had that gun in his bag. And as soon as he saw them he jumped up and started blazing away. And he wanted Les to see it too. Maybe he was on a death wish? Maybe the Jack Daniels sent him off. Every time he had a JD and Coke he went a bit spare; bashing and abusing women. Well, he got square, all right. And where did it get him, in his Kirk Douglas,
Falling Down
outfit? Dead. Blown to pieces on a hotel driveway. Norton shuddered at the memory. Kirk Douglas. Michael Douglas. Whatever. Like father, like son. Stuffed if I know. Anyway, he's gone now, poor bastard. And I'm only lucky I didn't go with him. Then as Norton drove on in silence, his
runaway mind took another tack. A slightly more suspicious one. It's funny how Uncle Price and Uncle George never mentioned nephew Jimmy to me before. And how they told me he was only in the nick over a bit of pot when really it was for outboard motors. That's no big deal, I suppose, but I only found out when I offhandedly asked Jimmy. And it just seems a bit of a coincidence all this going down the same time they got him out. Jimmy could have been doing it on his own, but I just wonder if Price had something to do with it? Him and Eddie. Eddie doesn't mind dealing in guns. And they both like a shifty earn now and again. Shit, we all do. It wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Norton caught his face in the rear-vision mirror as he watched a car's headlights coming up behind him. I'm getting a feeling there's more to this than meets the eye. I'm also getting that feeling I've been had—again. Norton's eyes narrowed as he slowed down for the lights at the Hornsby turn-off and he started thinking about some of the people he'd met at Terrigal and some of the things they said. The lights turned green and Les was still thinking as he joined the other traffic on the Pacific Highway. By the time he was approaching the Harbour Bridge, Les thought he might make one stop before Bondi and catch up with a few old friends.

A few doors up from the Kelly Club was a driveway with a sign across the shutters saying
STRICTLY NO PARKING. 24 HOURS A DAY. OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
. Les drove straight up to the sign, turned off the motor, and got out of the car. After having a quick look around while he stretched his legs, he opened the boot, took the wooden crate out and laid it on the ground.
For its size, it wasn't as heavy as Les thought and how many guns and whatever were in it, he could only guess. He locked his bags along with the whip in the boot, took the crate by the two rope handles, then walked up to the Kelly Club and knocked on the door. Billy opened it. Standing behind him eating a sandwich was Danny McCormack.

‘Les, what are you doing back already? Shit, what's in the box?'

‘Chocolate Surprises,' replied Les, as Billy closed the door behind him. ‘Is Price here?'

‘Yeah, they're all up in the office. Kerry's keeping an eye on things.'

‘Good.' Les walked across to the stairs. ‘Hello, Danny.'

‘G'day, Les. I thought you weren't working tonight.'

‘I'm not. I just stopped by for a sandwich.'

‘Yeah, I don't blame you,' Danny nodded enthusiastically. ‘The smoked salmon and onion chutney's unreal.'

‘If you've got a minute later, Billy, come upstairs.'

‘Yeah… all right.'

Norton manhandled the wooden crate up the stairs and into the casino. Being early it wasn't very crowded. A couple of punters looked up momentarily, saw who it was, then went back to their cards. Kerry, the dark-haired hostess, wearing a smart green dress, smiled over from the other side of the room; Les smiled back then walked across to the office, knocked on the door, carried the crate inside and closed the door behind him.

George was seated to the right of Price's desk, Eddie was sitting on the lounge, Price was standing in the
middle showing Eddie something in the Sunday paper. George was wearing a dark blue double-breasted jacket, Eddie his favourite black leather jacket, Price looked his usual immaculate self in a light grey suit and matching silk tie. They all looked up at Norton's knock, then gave a double blink when he walked in and placed the wooden crate on Price's desk.

‘Les, how are you, mate?' said Price. ‘What are you doing back so soon?'

‘I had to cut the holiday short. Hello, George. G'day, Eddie.'

George looked as surprised as Price. ‘Les, what a pleasant surprise.'

‘Christ,' said Eddie. ‘What happened to you? You look like you've just been bashed and raped by Aeon Flux.'

‘What happened? I'm glad you asked, Eddie.' Before Les could start to come up with some sarcastic answer, Price threw the Sunday paper on the lounge and started jumping up and down excitedly, yelling out to George.

‘He got them. He got them. Les, you're a bloody genius.' Price threw his arms around Norton's shoulders and kissed him on top of the head. ‘What a guy. What a bloody guy.'

Les pushed Price away—not roughly, but firm enough to make him sit down on the lounge next to Eddie. ‘I got them, eh?' Les said through clenched teeth. ‘
I got them
? You were in on this.'

‘Well, yeah.' Price looked at George and Eddie. ‘I mean, we all—'

‘You were all in on it.' Norton's anger was starting
to rise. ‘You low bastards. I should have known. You bastards.'

Eddie looked puzzled. ‘Les, what's—?'

Les ignored him. ‘All right, let's just see what you got for your fuckin' blood money.' Before any of the others could say or do anything, Les went to a closet in the office corner that held some tools and other odds and ends. He found a hammer, dropped it and picked up a small pinch bar. Still grim-faced, he walked back to the crate and jammed the pinch bar under one of the pine boards.

‘Les, what the fuck are you doing?' yelled Price. ‘Christ, take it easy.'