Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker: A Les Norton Novel 8
Author: Robert G. Barrett
Date: 1994-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; General; Mystery & Detective
Description: NOW AN ABC TELEVISION DRAMA STARRING DAVID WENHAM AND REBEL WILSON Les Norton's Hawaiian holiday should have been just like in the tourist brochures. Balmy days, blue seas, palm trees swaying in the moonlight. And it would have been if Les had have minded his own business. But what are you supposed to do when a cop you know and an old friend are in trouble? Especially at Christmas?The detective was okay. But Norton's old friend turned out to be the biggest brothel owner in America, Madam to the Stars. Through her, Les met Mitzi Moonkiss; he also met the Japanese Yakuza, lesbian geisha girls an
Publisher: Macmillan Australia
Rights: All rights reserved

Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan

YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS
THE REAL THING
THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA
THE GODSON
BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS
DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING
WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE
AND DE FUN DON’T DONE
THE DAY OF THE GECKO
RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT
GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ

ROBERT G.
BARRETT

Mele Kalikimaka
Mr Walker

As usual, the author is donating part of his royalties to Greenpeace.

This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.

First published 1994 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney

Reprinted 1995, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008, 2009

Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1994

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

Barrett, Robert G.

Mele kalikimaka Mr. Walker.

ISBN 978 0 330 35607 7

I. Title II. Title: Mele kalikimaka Mister Walker.

A823.3

Typeset in 10/13.5 pt Times by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

This book is dedicated to a couple of Bondi waxheads, Kevin Brennan and Brad Mayes. Unfortunately the boys are with us no more, but as a sign of respect, Brad Mayes’ board hangs on the wall of the Windsor Castle Hotel in Paddington.

The author would like to offer his deepest thanks to the following people for their friendliness and assistance in getting this book together.

Officer Rick de Ruiter, MPO-M. 11. Honolulu Police Department. Lieutenant Allan Napolean, in charge of homicide, HPD. Major Mike Carvalho, Narcotics/Vice Division, HPD. Doug Tanaka, Investigative Operations Bureau, Narcotics/Vice Division, HPD. Major Boisse P. Correa, Central Patrol Bureau, HPD. Detective Senior Constable Gerard Dutton, Forensic Ballistics Unit, New South Wales Police Service. Constable First Class Derryn Borg, NSW Police Service.

And Tanya Stein in Sydney for the dance instructions.

‘Righto, Warren. Now run all that rattle you were muttering about earlier in the week by me again.’ Les Norton looked directly over his cup of coffee and the breakfast table at the top of Warren Edwards’ head. ‘And maybe a little slower this time.’

Norton’s flatmate looked up uninterestedly from his newspaper for a second time, then turned another page. ‘And just how slow do I have to run it for a wombat like you to understand?’

‘Not all that slow, home boy,’ nodded Les. ‘But just slow enough. It appears I could have a financial interest in this, and I’m a little curious.’

It was the usual Sunday morning at Norton’s house in Cox Avenue, Bondi. Les and Warren were in their tracksuits, having breakfast — eggs, toast, brewed coffee, whatever. The Sunday papers were spread over the table and some FM music was drifting quietly into the kitchen from the stereo in the loungeroom. Les had worked for Billy at the club the night before. Billy had gone down the south coast with his family for a week. Another easy night. Warren had taken his latest squeeze home earlier, Annie, a sub-editor on some women’s glossy magazine — because she had to go out to Penrith to see her sister. It was getting on for Christmas and well into summer, though going by the weather outside — cool, cloudy with a gusty sou’easter blowing and a chance of rain that night — you wouldn’t think so. So apart from a couple of things here and there, life was continuing pretty much the same as normal at Chez Norton.

Les had got back from Jamaica okay and made it on time to Aunt Daisy’s funeral. The family was rapt when he showed them the photos and told them about what he’d discovered over there, then after all the drunken festivities when the wake finally wound down he returned to Sydney. In confidence he showed Price the gold cross he’d snookered and Price offered him a small fortune for it on the spot. But Les preferred to hide it somewhere safe for the time being; it would always be there if Price or someone else wanted it. Another event that had happened was that DD had got in touch with him from Taree and returned to his life for a few days. The drama with her family was still going on, but DD had unloaded the pot she’d found and set herself up with an aerobics centre. ‘Taree Two Thousand’ she called it and it was firing on all cylinders. DD was fit enough when Norton first met her, but now that she was running a gym she’d turned into a human dynamo — as Les shortly discovered when DD came down to Sydney to buy some more gym equipment at an auction. Five days she stayed with Les before driving back to Taree the previous Saturday with one of the girls who worked for her and a pretty torrid five days it was too, especially in the porking department. However, there was a bit more to it with DD than just that, and now that she was gone Les found himself thinking about her quite a bit, particularly when he’d be sitting around the Kelly Club at night when it was quiet. In fact, if it hadn’t have been for DD’s ratbag family, Les might have gone up to Taree and given it some sort of a go. In the meantime life had to go on and on this particular breakfast occasion Les and Warren weren’t about to discuss women, the coming of Christmas or what was making the headlines in their Sunday papers. During Norton’s absence, Warren had received part of a modest inheritance, which he’d now turned into a sizeable investment which Norton wanted to discuss a little more fully. But more out of curiosity than anything else, as he’d told Warren earlier.

‘Okay, Les,’ said Warren, folding his Sunday paper, ‘now what is it rattling around inside that empty biscuit tin you call a head that’s worrying you?’

‘Well,’ replied Les, taking a sip of coffee and placing his cup on the table, ‘you’ve bought yourself a two-bedroom home unit at Randwick — double garage, two balconies, close to the shops and with quite a good view of the park. All very nice indeed, I might add. I’ve driven past a couple of times and checked it out.’

‘That’s right,’ conceded Warren. ‘I’ve made a small investment.’

Les nodded. ‘And this… small investment of yours, you’ve laid new carpet, put in some curtains and a fridge and you’ve rented it out already.’

‘That’s right,’ conceded Warren again. ‘A nice Australian schoolteacher and his equally nice dental nurse wife. A lovelier couple you’d never wish to meet.’

Norton stared at Warren impassively. ‘So how come you don’t want to live in it?’

Warren stared back just as impassively. ‘Because I don’t want to.’

‘But… wouldn’t you be better off? A big, comfortable unit, you’re the governor, come and go as you please. You could drag all your splurters back there and play your Terence Trent Darby and k.d. Lang CDs till you go blue in the face. What’s —’

‘Let’s just say I love living here in Bondi with Uncle Les.’

‘You… love living here, Warren?’

‘Yeah, it’s tops. And you’re a really wonderful, sensitive, new age guy, Les.’

‘A really wonderful guy, eh?’ Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘You’re not starting to develop any homosexual tendencies towards the landlord by any chance, are you, Warren? Your office is just round the corner from Oxford Street.’

‘Homosexual tendencies? In other words, do I want to root the landlord?’ Warren appeared to think for a second. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Les. If you were a sheila and it was raining dicks, you’d get hit with a flat vibrator and have to pay for it.’

Les nodded. ‘Fair enough. So porking the landlord’s got nothing to do with it.’ He reached under his Sunday paper and pulled out two opened letters addressed to Warren which Warren had left near the phone. ‘I don’t suppose these would have anything to do with it either?’ He jabbed an index finger at the letters. ‘Negative gearing, eight per cent reducible. And what’s this fuckin’ company, Steady Edwards and Associates? At this address?’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Warren, snatching back the two letters. ‘Big deal. I formed a company, got hold of a deceased estate at the right price and hocked myself up to the arse to get it. And I’m still here at Chez Norton’s paying rent. It’s as simple as that. Drink your coffee and let me read my Sunday paper in peace.’

Les shook his head expressionlessly. ‘No, Warren. I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that at all, old mate.’

‘What do you mean?’ Warren eyed Les a little suspiciously.

‘What I mean is, Warren, you’ve kicked a giant, enormous goal here and the one being shafted is me.’

‘Shafted? How the fuck could anyone shaft you? You’ve still got your school money and your first pair of thongs.’

‘Well,’ conceded Norton, ‘maybe not shafted so much. But I do have my own certain financial obligations to cover, plus my negative gearing. And I’m only getting a few nights here and there at the club now.’

‘What do you mean, your negative gearing?’

‘Namely you. One extremely negative boarder. So, in the light of due circumstances, I’m putting up the Clark Kent.’

‘Oh no!’ howled Warren. ‘Not the fuckin’ rent. You can’t. I’m strapped to the boards as it is.’

‘Five bucks a week.’

‘No way. Not even five pesetas.’

‘All right. Well, what about a dollar a week? Surely you can afford a lousy fuckin’ dollar?’

‘A dollar a month,’ said Warren defiantly. ‘That’s the best I can do. And that’ll probably send me to the fuckin’ wall.’

Les shook his head and stared disconsolately into his coffee. ‘And they reckon round here that I’m a hard man. I’m buggered if I know.’

Underneath, however, Les was quite pleased to think Warren had kicked a bit of a goal, and he was even thinking of loaning the high-flying advertising executive some money if he’d stretched things out too thin. Of course, this didn’t mean Norton couldn’t take some sort of a rise out of Warren in the meantime. The big Queenslander just had to. Warren on the other hand had a fair idea how Les would react. He was on a good thing staying with Les, and saving heaps, so he knew the landlord was entitled to give a bit of cheek at times. Nothing Warren couldn’t ever handle, of course, and on this occasion he knew Les would have some sort of a go at him, so Warren made sure he had something to come back with.

‘You know, I tipped you’d put on some sort of drama over this, you big sheila,’ said Warren. ‘So I’ve arranged something for you as a bit of a square-up. Something I reckon you’ll love.’ Warren’s eyes seemed to narrow. ‘And it’s all free, Les. Your favourite colour.’

Norton’s eyes seemed to narrow slightly also. ‘Free? Like what, Warren?’

‘Les, how would you like a week in Hawaii? Over and back Business Class with Qantas, and a four-star hotel room in Honolulu, right on the beach at Waikiki? And all on the house.’

Norton’s eyes narrowed some more. ‘Let me get this straight, Woz. A week in Honolulu, first-class accommodation and travel? And it won’t cost me a zac?’

Warren nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ll fly over with you, say goodbye when we land, then fly back with you a week later. I’ll be staying out on one of the other islands.’

Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘Isn’t Hawaii part of America?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Warren.

‘And after all that shit I went through in Florida, you’re wanting me to go back there? That’s it, Warren. Get fucked. And it’s an extra five dollars a week like I said. Backdated to last month.’

Warren threw back his head and laughed. ‘I knew you’d still blow up. You’re unbelievable. But that’s the deal. And I’m going over next Sunday anyway.’

‘Next Sunday?’

‘That’s right. It’s a contra deal. Another agency owes our agency a favour and I happened to pick it up. A double ticket to Hawaii for a week, so I’m on my way next Sunday. Aloha and goodbye. Or see you later and I’m glad I ain’t ya. Please yourself.’ Warren resumed sipping his coffee.

Les continued to stare at Warren and absently took a sip of coffee too. ‘Did I tell you I know a cop in Honolulu comes from round Bondi?’

‘That fireman’s mate who stayed here during the police olympics when his hotel stuffed up? I was in Melbourne on a shoot or something.’

‘Yeah. Mick Reinhardt. I was going to call in and see him on my way back last time, but all I ended up doing was ringing him when I changed planes in Los Angeles.’

‘I only met him for a little while on the last day he was here. But he seemed like a good bloke.’

‘He is,’ agreed Les. ‘He said if ever I was in Hawaii to call in and see him and he’d look after me.’

Warren made a gesture with one hand. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t offer.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Woz,’ Les sipped his coffee before it started to go cold, ‘why don’t we finish breakfast and read the papers and we can discuss the matter further when we clean up?’

‘Good idea,’ said Warren, reopening the Telegraph. ‘I was just getting into a good article on schoolgirls and sex.’

Norton shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum, Warren. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Yeah, I know. But check these two blondes out in the softball uniforms.’

They took their time finishing breakfast and reading the papers. Les was glancing through different articles here and there, but mainly he was thinking about this free trip to Hawaii. Although he wasn’t all that keen, the idea did have its good points — there wasn’t a great deal doing at the moment, the weather had been pretty ordinary and a change of scenery would take his mind off things. Plus a blurb around Hawaii with Mick could be a bit of fun. After Mick had gone back, Les had found out a few things about him from some of his mates down the beach.

Les had got to meet him through a fireman and, like a lot of other blokes who get stuck for accommodation or whatever, he stayed at Chez Norton for a few days. He’d been nicknamed ‘Lionheart Reinhardt’ from his surfing days in Bondi because he was afraid of virtually nothing. If the waves were twenty feet high Mick would be the first one out and without a wetsuit. If he was spearfishing and the water was full of sharks, Mick would grab his speargun and fight a Bronze Whaler for a Morwong. Rock climbing, kayaking down rapids, riding mountain bikes, et cetera, Mick thrived on it. Fighting wasn’t in his nature, but his father had been a boxer and shown Mick how to throw a left over the top, so if it came to a bit of organised fisticuffs Mick was in there too. He left Australia to travel the world surfing, but Hawaii was as far as he got, and he ended up joining the police force. Being one of those naturally fit blokes who didn’t smoke and only drank lightly he got into other sports, which was how come he came back to Australia for the police olympics, and to see his parents, who had moved to the country.

Mick was about as tall as Les, though not as big in the shoulders and arms. He had brown hair parted roughly on the side, a square jaw and chin, and a thick nose, which had been bent a few times but never broken, set under a pair of buoyant hazel eyes. In the few days Les had got to know Mick, he found him to be one of those good-humoured, straight-up blokes you couldn’t help but like. Les introduced Mick to some other cops he knew, put on a bit of a barbecue for him one day, and a good drink and rapport was had by all. So catching up with Officer Reinhardt of the Honolulu Police Department could be a bit of a laugh. Another funny coincidence — Hawaii had come up in conversation down the beach about a week ago. A very small-time crim from round and about had got caught with some okey-doke and several dud credit cards, so the judge gave him a short holiday for his troubles. It was rumoured, however, that the crim’s ex wife, whom he’d brassed for just about everything when they got divorced, had kicked some sort of a giant goal in Hawaii. In desperation the crim tried to get in touch with her for a snip, but she brushed him completely. Some of the blokes were trying to figure out who his ex wife might have been, but she came from somewhere round the St George area. A bit of an idea entered Norton’s head, but he didn’t bother to say anything.

By the time Les and Warren had finished breakfast and cleaned up the mess, Norton had made up his mind. He was sick of the weather, and moping around the house without the star boarder to have a mag to wouldn’t be much fun. What did he have to lose?

‘Righto, Woz,’ said Les, wiping his hands on a tea towel near the sink. ‘You’ve got me. I’m going to Hawaii.’ ‘I thought you might,’ smiled Warren. ‘You’d be mad to knock it back.’

‘Yeah, another week putting up with seppos won’t kill me. And I s’pose I could do with a few more T-shirts.’

‘You’ll have a good time,’ winked Warren. ‘Hawaii’s a good spot.’

‘It couldn’t be any worse than bloody Florida.’

Warren explained one or two things, like the procedure with the tickets, the name of the hotel Les would be staying in and how they would be flying out at ten-thirty the coming Sunday morning. He didn’t elaborate on where he’d be going or who he’d be staying with.

‘So what’s doing tonight?’

‘Tonight, Woz? I might go down to the Diggers and get into a bit of Harlem Shuffle. I still reckon they do the best version of “Great Balls of Fire” in recorded history.’

‘You goin’ on your own?’

‘Yes. And on foot.’

‘Annie’s coming back later. She’s got a girlfriend dead set fancies you. I reckon you’d be a walk-up start.’ ‘Thank you, Warren. But at the moment I need another root like Australia needs more blowflies.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Warren. ‘I noticed DD didn’t take any prisoners during her short stay here. She was certainly some woman.’

‘You can say that again, Woz,’ Les nodded back. ‘You can say that again.’

The afternoon went smoothly, as did the evening at the Diggers. The Shuffle pumped and Les boogied around by the bar with different blokes, their wives and girlfriends. There were a few overs but Norton was content to get horrifyingly drunk and get into the music. He also got a few laughs when he said he was off to Hawaii the following Sunday. Tony Nathan, the surf photographer, happened to be there and also happened to overhear that Les was off to Honolulu. So he arranged for Les to take a camera case over for a journalist who was over in Hawaii covering the Triple Crown surfing contest on the North Shore. He’d pick the camera case up at Norton’s hotel. Les agreed, before staggering off into the night and home to bed.

The week at the club went as smoothly as usual, with nothing even remotely resembling a drama. The only thing Les had to put up with was George Brennan slinging off now and again that Les had turned into a jetsetting yuppie — Florida and Jamaica one minute, Hawaii the next. However, Les assured George, Price and anyone else interested that if the trips hadn’t been freebies he wouldn’t be going within a bull’s roar of Kingsford Smith Airport. In fact, Les was adamant his one trip away only made him realise that Australia was the best country in the world, despite the idiots running it. But Norton also added that anyone who would knock back a free a la carte trip to Hawaii would be an even bigger mug than George Brennan, hard as that was to imagine.

Before Les knew it, Saturday night, a few late drinks, and the week was over. He’d rung Mick, got everything he needed packed, and it was Sunday morning, and he and Warren were wearing jeans and T-shirts and in a taxi running a little late to catch Qantas F4 to Honolulu.

Naturally there was a slight glitch when they got there. A computer had thrown a wobbly, along with the baggage conveyor belt, so the bags were delayed going onto all the aircraft. But after changing some money they still had to wait on the plane, where they sat around like stale bottles of piss for an hour along with all the other passengers. However, after Les’s last trip, upstairs in Business Class with plenty of room, no cigarette smoke and two obliging stewards to take care of you, was a breeze. Les read the Sunday papers, drank orange juice and chit-chatted now and again to Warren sitting alongside him, when, before he knew it, it was chocks away and they were soaring off into the wild blue yonder.

All up the eight- or so hour trip was a breeze. Les had a couple of cold beers to follow the hot towels then it was time for lunch: grilled fillet of scarlet perch. Warren opted for the lamb short loin with minted cucumbers. Then it was settle back, read a magazine or two before a Whoopi Goldberg movie, which you listened to through decent headphones. The movie hardly seemed to finish when it was time for supper: spinach gnocchi with tomato and pimento sauce, followed by walnut tart. While they were eating and drinking Les tried to pump Warren for a bit more information about where he’d be staying, but all Warren would reply was that he was staying with a friend at a friend’s home on the big island. He’d tell Les a little more when they compared notes on the flight home. Oh well, thought Les. Mine’s not to be nosey, I suppose. Though Warren did seem to have this half-smug look on his face all the time that got under Norton’s skin just a little. Before Les had time to think too much on this, he’d read the Sunday papers again, had a couple of coffees and it was time to buckle up once more as they descended into Honolulu. It was just after eleven-thirty Saturday night and they’d left on Sunday morning. Amazing how we do it, Les chuckled to himself as the jumbo jet’s huge tyres squealed and they smoothly touched down on the tarmac.

Getting off the plane and through customs was a breeze also compared to the shitfight at Los Angeles. They filed into a couple of small buses that took them the short journey to the baggage area; while they waited to board Les noticed it was warm, quite windy and it had been raining. Next thing they went down some stairs beneath a rainbow-coloured sign that said ‘Aloha. Welcome to Hawaii’ and into the customs area and lanes with shiny, chrome rails and chains. The other passengers were mostly young surfie types with their girls, or the usual easy-going Aussie tourists on holidays. The airport staff wore blue floral shirts, caps, and blue trousers; the customs and security officers wore neat blue uniforms and they mostly looked a cross between Maoris and Japanese. But they were all extremely polite and efficient; Les had his documents filled out properly and before he knew it he was standing with his bags and Warren outside in the Passenger Pick-up and Put Down area underneath a huge concrete overpass.

‘Well, I’ll see you back here on Saturday night, Les,’ smiled Warren. ‘Don’t forget, we leave at one-thirty Sunday morning.’

‘Yeah, righto, Woz,’ answered Les, still a little confused. ‘So which way do you go?’

‘That way.’ Warren nodded to his right.

‘Okay. So how do I get in touch with you?’

Warren shook his head. ‘You don’t have to. I’ll get in touch with you.’

Mildly frustrated, Les shook his head too. ‘Fair dinkum, Warren. What is this? The Ipcress File or some fuckin’ thing? What’s going on?’

Warren was still smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Les. It’s all sweet. I’ll be in touch. Now there’s a cab over there. Good luck.’

‘Yeah, righto. You won’t forget to ring us, will you?’

‘I will, Les. No worries.’

They shook hands, Warren disappeared wherever it was he was disappearing to and Les piled into the back of some monstrous blue Chevrolet taxi that was like a Cadillac.

‘Where to?’ asked the driver. He wore a plain shirt and a floppy gaberdine hat, and looked Hawaiian.

‘The Regency Hotel, Waikiki. It’s on Kalakau Avenue.’

‘Okay, buddy.’

The taxi took off smoothly, Les settled back into the soft leather seat and tried to see what he could see. What Les mostly saw through the misty rain was gigantic American-style freeways and highways and heaps of gigantic American cars — at least this time Les was used to sitting on the wrong side of the car and driving on the wrong side of the road. Now and again he could make out signs with strange Polynesian-sounding names: Kamehameha Highway, Kaluaopalena, Kanakanui, Waiakamio. They must’ve named all the streets round here after a Maori football team, mused Les. Whether the driver was giving him the tourist runaround Norton didn’t know and the driver definitely wasn’t a member of the Hawaiian debating team. It wasn’t until they came into some kind of downtown area full of stores and highrises that he finally spoke.

‘I’ll take you past all the decorations.’

‘Yeah, righto,’ grunted Norton, half wondering what the driver was on about.

They merged onto a flat, wide road with trees and more highrises when suddenly the whole place lit up as if covered with millions of fireflies. Every tree, pole and building was covered with rows and rows of tiny multicoloured lights. They looked not only spectacular as they glowed quietly in the dark but absolutely beautiful. Spread right across one high building in huge red neon letters was written ‘Mele Kalikimaka’.

‘What’s that mean?’ pointed Les

‘Merry Christmas,’ replied the driver.

‘Oh yeah. Right,’ answered Les, trying to hide both his ignorance and the fact that he’d clean forgotten it was almost Christmas. ‘Well, Merry Christmas to you, mate.’

‘Thanks. I thought you’d appreciate the decorations.’

The light rain eased off and the taxi finally eased in with the other cars onto Kalakau Avenue, a wide road that ran one way towards Diamond Head. Now it was car rentals, restaurants, traffic lights and nonstop highrise hotels with shopping arcades underneath. Norton was somehow reminded of Surfers Paradise. The traffic was fairly solid and every now and again a blue and white police car would drift in amongst the other cars and taxis. Les got a glimpse of darkened ocean on his right, what looked like a police station, then the name of his hotel next to another one-way street on his left. The driver took the next on the left, went round a fairly big block, back into the one-way street, then pulled up in the driveway of a typical monster American hotel chain with ‘Regency Hotel’ above and a parking area directly across the road.

Les took his bags and got out, gave the driver a twenty and briefly watched him motor off. There was no lei, no red carpet, no girl in a grass skirt with a ukulele. Not even a porter in a uniform. Norton gripped his bags and trudged up a small flight of stairs into the foyer, where he noticed it was around one in the morning and he’d forgotten to set his watch. He did that while he waited for the girl in a grey and pink uniform to finish whatever she was doing so he could book in. The hotel appeared nice enough. More Christmas decorations around a fountain and garden next to a closed bar with a small stage. There were shops around the lobby and an arcade with more shops sloped down towards what Les surmised must be the ocean side of the hotel. The girl looked Japanese, spoke American like a newsreader for CNN, then blinked as Les placed his documents on the counter and tried to explain in good old Australian about his booking. Then he eased back into second gear and the girl checked everything bar the size of Norton’s wozzer while she clicked away at a computer and did her best to give the impression that she was looking forward to staying up all night listening to tourists, especially almost incomprehensible Australians. But there was no great drama, Les got his key, half a smile, and was pointed towards the arcade that led down to the lifts. Aloha, now piss off. You’ve got bugger-all luggage and you’re a big enough Aussie to make it without a porter.

The arcade led down past more shops and a car rental into another foyer facing a flowered rockery and fountain with the hotel complex towering up around it. The six lifts were tucked away to the left, past a couple of tired-looking security guards in blue uniforms who gave Les a once up and down as he trudged by. It was quiet and apart from one or two Japanese couples in shorts there was no one around. The lift at the end was waiting, Les stepped inside and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor. The doors opened onto a lobby that smelled strongly of some oily, perfumed disinfectant. Les checked the numbers on the wall then turned left past doors to a laundry service and an ice machine.

Norton’s room was down the very end of the corridor and the lights were on when he stepped inside. It was big enough — a clothes closet on your left as you walked in and the bathroom on your right, with a small fridge, and a digital safe under the sink. The main room had two double beds, a table, TV, a desk and a small radio and phone next to a lamp between the two beds. There was no main light, just lamps hanging or standing everywhere. The decor was mainly yellow and brown. A set of brown curtains opened onto a small balcony that would have given a sensational view of Diamond Head only it was blocked by another monstrous highrise. Another set of curtains near the far bed opened to give an uninterrupted view of both Diamond Head and the inky night-time blue of the ocean. Les gazed down for a few moments and could make out the beach, an open-air pool, streaks of traffic going past, but very few people walking around beneath the streetlights on the opposite side of the road. Les drew the curtains, tossed his bags onto the bed nearest the hallway and noticed there was no bar fridge. This suited him in a way, but at the moment he felt like a nice cold beer and a walk to stretch his legs after the journey; he didn’t particularly feel like going straight to bed on his first night in Honolulu and he didn’t have to meet Mick till ten in the morning. Les emptied his shave kit out in the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face then found a blue cotton shirt in his bag that wasn’t too crushed and wore it hanging out over his jeans and T-shirt. After punching six numbers into the digital safe — his house number and postcode in Bondi — Les snookered his traveller’s cheques and whatever, then, without bothering to even comb his hair, set out, still sweaty and crumpled from the plane trip, to have a cool one and maybe check out Waikiki on Saturday night.

The courtyard straight in front of the lifts led past a smattering of portable chairs, tables and poster ads for different sporting gear, an entertainment area behind the fountain and some more shops on the right. There was a hotel restaurant called the Carvery, a mini supermarket opposite called an ABC store, then a short walk straight out onto Kalakau Avenue. Diamond Head was on the left, the shops and hotels on the right; Norton headed right. It wasn’t the greatest night — the streets were wet, it was cloudy, kind of warm with great gusts of wind bursting down the streets.

Les trudged by a McDonald’s, World Gym, Burger King and various other shops with an ABC store about every fifty metres. The beach on the left ended, then it was all hotel highrises, arcades and streetlights above more streets named after Maori football teams. The other punters on the streets were mainly Japanese, either in couples or small posses, lots of loud young men, a cop in black every now and again plus the usual denizens of the night you see in any tourist trap anywhere in the world. A quick perusal gave Norton the impression that Waikiki was a cross between Surfers Paradise, Kings Cross and Tokyo. Now and again, reasonably attractive women of all shapes and sizes, though predominantly with big boobs, would appear out of doorways or on corners, smile syrupily and say, ‘Hi, honey. Need some company?’ There were a few blacks, but mainly blondes, either in minis with low-cut tops or lycra bicycle shorts that tight round the crumpet you could read their horoscope for the next three weeks. They zeroed in mostly on the older punters and the Japanese men. But when they saw Les they not only completely brushed him, they almost recoiled in horror. Isn’t that nice? mused Norton. I can’t even get a root off the local molls if I want one. Surely my head isn’t that rough? Bugger it anyway, he thought as another buxom blonde turned away from him. You can stick all your old fannies in your arse. If it comes to a pinch I’ll have a three-bags-full and save my money.

Les trudged on past some department store called Liberty House, the crowd thickened slightly, then at a set of lights he spotted what looked like a bar of some description just around the corner from a Burger King opposite where Les was standing. There was a solitary doorman at the entrance downstairs and out on the street above him a sign said ‘Bison Jacksons’. Les started to cross the road. As he did, he noticed another doorman and another bar called ‘Mahias Grill and Cabaret’ directly opposite. The first doorman, in a white Bison Jacksons T-shirt, gave Les a smile and Norton trotted upstairs.

The stairs doglegged up one flight into an alcove with a few video games and a dartboard. In front of that was a counter stocked with Bison Jackson’s T-shirts, caps, mugs and other souvenirs. Inside was parquet floors, stucco walls and a fairly spacious, haphazard set-up of two bars under low ceilings with a scattering of stools and seats against some walls with the toilets next to each other in one corner and a band banging away in the opposite corner. American college pennants hung from the ceiling and framed surfing and sports hero posters, along with framed bric-a-brac and ads for everything imaginable — Wild Turkey, Matilda Bay Wine Cooler, Old Grandad — vied for space on the walls. There was even the cover of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch stuck between a poster of Jim Everett and Muhammad Ali, which was alongside another bar sign that said ‘Liquor Up Front — Poker in the Rear’. It looked like your typical tourist-type bar that every young punter hits to get pissed and try to score a root. What was mainly on Norton’s mind, however, was a nice cool one; and the cooler the better. There was a bar almost as you walked in. Les got a bottle of Budweiser and took a hefty swallow; it was deliciously cold but didn’t have a great deal of taste. Norton took another swallow and moved across near some empty tables almost in front of the Gents toilets to check out the band and the punters.

The four-piece band, called Surf Psycho Frenzy, were loud and pretty ordinary — a sort of cross between Nirvana and the Doors. At the moment they were disembowelling ‘Roadhouse Blues’ loud enough for Jimmy Morrison to hear in France, where he would have been rolling over in his grave. There weren’t many girls there and those that were were no oil paintings — either squashed into old blue jeans or squeezed into cheap cotton dresses. The blokes were a bit dweeby looking too, though at that time of the morning they were probably half pissed. Most wore jeans and T-shirts with baseball caps jammed on their heads and were either half wrestling with each other or standing around blowing bubble gum. They were all fairly fit looking though and somehow seemed to resemble each other with country-fried, corn-fed faces, wispy moustaches and hair shaved close to their skulls so their ears looked like wing nuts. Then Les noticed a tattoo on one dark-haired bloke’s arm — a rope and anchor and the words ‘Semper Fidelis. US Marines’. Jarheads, Les nodded to himself. Eddie told me about these peabrains from Vietnam. Les knocked his Budweiser off and got a bottle of Millers, which was just as cold but had a little more flavour.

The place wasn’t all that crowded and there was nobody standing near Les and nobody seemed to notice him — they were all too interested in the band, which was doing grievous bodily harm to Creedence Clear Water’s ‘Before You Accuse Me’. Les took another swallow of beer, almost emptying half the bottle, and was thinking he might have another one when some tall, thickset bloke, wearing grubby jeans and an equally grubby blue T-shirt, shoved his way moodily out of the crowd heading for the Gents. The bloke had untidy brown hair and an untidy moustache stuck on a sour, half-drunken face and although Les moved aside the bloke still ignorantly bumped Norton hard enough to spill beer all over his arm.

‘And I thought John Wayne was dead,’ remarked Les testily, wiping beer from the sleeve of his shirt.

Moustache spun around and glared. ‘You say something, buddy?’

‘Yeah. I said I thought John Wayne was dead,’ repeated Norton. ‘But evidently he’s not. He’s had a frontal lobotomy, grown a moustache and is living in Hawaii.’

Moustache bunched his fists and glared menacingly down at Les. ‘What did you say about the Duke, you limey sonofabitch?’

Norton didn’t know why he did it, he just did; possibly it was some sort of reflex action. He bent slightly at the knees, dipped his shoulder and slammed Moustache in the mouth with a left hook that was pure gold. The belligerent American’s eyes rolled, his shattered jaw swung open, blood bubbled down over his chin and several teeth clattered onto the floor as his knees gave way and he toppled back straight through the toilet door which closed neatly and quietly behind him. It was that quick and beautifully executed not one person seemed to notice. Whether they did nor not, Norton wasn’t interested. He finished the rest of his beer in a swallow, eased his way politely through the crowd and fell in behind a couple who were walking slowly down the stairs.

Now why the fuck did I do that? Les asked himself as he stood for a moment outside. He shook his head. Buggered if I know. Then a horrible, crooked grin spread sardonically across the big Queenslander’s face. But, Jesus, it felt bloody good. Especially when that silly big mug finished up in the shithouse where he belonged. One thing Norton did know, he didn’t feel like going straight back to his room, and with his adrenalin up just a little he felt like at least one more cold beer. There was music coming from the bar across the road and it didn’t look all that crowded. Norton strolled briskly across the street between a couple of cars, smiled at the T-shirted doorman, who smiled back and pointed him towards a girl in black seated behind a till just inside the door. Les cheerfully paid the three dollars and stepped up to the bar.

‘Mahias Grill and Cabaret’ was different from the other place. Just one bar ran along to the right as you walked in, with stools in front of it, and facing this were some long, bench-type tables with more stools then two or three steps up to another lounge area full of chairs and tables that looked out onto the street. There was a small dancefloor and stage at one end, and back from this was a giant screen video showing surfing films. A mural of old Hawaii covered the lounge area wall, ceiling fans rotated languidly in the cigarette smoke, and there was a smattering here and there of potted palms. A couple of blonde waitresses in floral lap-laps and white tank-tops drifted around the tables looking after the punters who were mainly Hawaiians and seemed a little more mature than the crowd across the road. Les tipped them to be locals in there for a late drink and the music. Mahias was a little plain, but it was air-conditioned and all up not too bad a place for a drink. Les ordered another Millers, plus a nip of vodka, and sat down at the bench table just in time to see Ross Clarke-Jones come hurtling down some wave at Sunset Beach that had to be at least six hundred feet high to a driving rock soundtrack.

The beer was for Norton’s thirst, the vodka for some cuts on his knuckles where he’d slammed Moustache in the teeth. If there was one thing Les had learnt being a bouncer, a good way to get blood poisoning was from some other mug’s teeth. He took a mouthful of beer then discreetly poured vodka over his knuckles, wiping it in with his hanky. It stung a little, but Norton much preferred a few seconds of mild pain than having his hand puffed up like a cane toad for a week or more while a doctor pumped you full of antibiotics. Satisfied the cuts were cleaned out, Les resumed sipping his beer and watching the video. He was getting into some good surfing and thinking it might be time to order another cool one when he noticed the girl on the till and the doorman watching something across the road. Moustache was being helped down the stairs of Bison Jacksons by a bouncer and a couple of patrons. He had a towel wrapped around his face and although he was being supported round the waist and shoulders he was still a very sick boy — every now and again his legs would go on him and his head would flop backwards or loll from side to side. The bouncer left them out the front and the two patrons helped Moustache over to Kalakau Avenue to get a taxi or whatever. Well, thought Les, chuckling to himself as he took a mouthful of beer, I mightn’t be having the most exciting night in the world, but I’m having a better one than somebody else around here. But what’s that old saying? You shouldn’t laugh at other people’s misfortune. Heh, heh, heh! Not muckin’ fuch. Les finished his beer, the waitress brought him another one and just as he started on that the video screen went blank and the band started.

They were five-piece, counting the lead singer on conga drums, called themselves Tropical Honey and played a kind of laid-back, reggae rock with an Hawaiian steel guitar influence and all in all were pretty good. The punters obviously thought so — they’d scarcely hit the first two bars when the dancefloor filled with overweight Hawaiians getting down and doing their level best to get back up again. Les was enjoying it all — the cold beer, the band, the dancers — when he was joined at his table by two drunken marines. Both had dark hair and wispy moustaches, both wore jeans and T-shirts and one had on a baggy, green sports coat. Not only were they pissed, they were at the stage of telling each other what great blokes they were and they’d be true-blue pals till the day they died. They ordered beers with tequila slammer chasers which they’d skol like real men then burp and heave as their eyes rolled drunkenly around inside their semi-shaved heads. If that wasn’t annoying enough they were sitting right in Norton’s road so they effectively blocked his view of the band and the dancers. Green coat was at the end of the table on Norton’s right, his mate almost opposite, so every time they leaned across the table to slap each other on the back or whatever, Les had to keep moving his head. And every time Les would zig, they’d zag. They weren’t the least bit interested in the band or the music and when Les gave them a bit of a tired look, they glared back at him as if he shouldn’t even be at their table and he ought to piss off. Les kept moving his head from side to side like a speeded-up tortoise till after a couple of songs it started to give him the shits. The easiest and simplest thing to do would be to move to another table. However, after a few beers and the incident across the road Norton wasn’t in an easy or simple mood and again he wasn’t sure why he did it, he just did.

With his hands resting in front of him next to his beer, Les waited till the two jarheads started slapping each other on the back again, then very casually he reached beneath the table with his right leg, hooked his instep under the rung of the jarhead opposite him’s stool and pulled up. The stool gave way and with a yelp of surprise the marine closest to him dropped his beer and toppled backwards against the wooden railing behind him before crashing down onto the floor. Again Les was quick and sneaky and again no one saw a thing, not even the jarhead in the green sports coat. But being drunk and a fearless US Marine, he had to put on some sort of belligerent act to defend his pal and Norton happened to be closest.

‘Hey, motherfucker! I saw that!’ he bellowed. ‘You pushed my buddy.’

Les was still seated with one hand on the table and the other round his beer. ‘What are you talking about, you flip?’ he replied indignantly. ‘I never even moved.’

Green coat rose from the table and slammed down his bottle of beer. ‘You lying sonofabitch!’ he howled. ‘You pushed him. I saw your goddamn arm move.’

Les was almost going to laugh, but shook his head with disgust instead. ‘Oh go and get yourself fucked,’ he said, and without even getting up, reached across the table and punched green sports coat in the face.

It wasn’t so much a punch, more a push with Norton’s fist. But it was enough to knock the drunken jarhead back over his stool, split his lip and sit him heavily on his arse. Still seated and oblivious to the punters starting to take an interest in what was going on, Les peered over the table at his second effort when the first marine lurched to his feet, his eyes spinning giddily around in his head. He looked at his mate on the floor, looked at Norton, then his eyes began to bulge out and his stomach started heaving. Les was wondering what the poor silly mug was going to do when he gulped in a breath and let it all go.

‘Oh, you dirty fuckin’ cunt!’ roared Les, jumping to his feet as about a gallon of vomit splattered down in front of him. Most of it splashed across the table, but enough got on Norton’s shirt and some down the front of his jeans. Enough to give Les the shits. Rocking unsteadily on his feet, the marine looked like he was going to heave again, but before he got a chance Les reached over the table and gave him a crisp backhander that sat him back down on his arse right where he’d been in the first place. With most of the punters watching avidly now, Les stood there staring at the vomit all over him and wondering how he was going to get it off when the tall bouncer on the door hurried over joined by a more solid one who came from over by the dancefloor.

‘Hey, what’s going on here, man?’ he said. He wasn’t coming on heavy, just doing his job.

‘What’s going on!?’ howled an indignant Norton again. ‘I’m sitting here minding my own bloody business and these two drunken imbeciles start spewing all over me.’ Les pointed to the two marines lying on the floor. ‘Have a look at them. They’re pissed out of their minds.’

The two bouncers looked at the jarheads on the floor, looked at the sour-smelling vomit all over the table, looked at each other, then looked at Les who glared back at them. ‘What sort of joint are you running here? And have a look at me.’ The two bouncers noticed the lumps of fast food or whatever marinated in tequila slammers clinging to Norton’s shirt and jeans and wrinkled their noses. ‘You’re lucky I don’t sue you,’ Norton howled again. Les was going to take a mouthful of beer, but noticed there was vomit all over the bottle. Instead he gave the two bouncers a filthy look and stormed off before they could make up their minds whether to throw him out, apologise, or what. Before he left, Norton loomed angrily up in front of the girl on the till. ‘And give me back my three dollars,’ he demanded, pointing to his awful-smelling clothes. ‘Unless you want to bloody well clean this up.’ The girl gave Norton a double blink and handed him a five dollar bill. ‘Thank you,’ said Les, with brittle politeness, and stomped out the door.

The wind was still gusting down the streets running into Kalakau Avenue and every now and again it would force great sheets of rain before it, adding to Norton’s mood as he trudged through the thinning crowds. It wasn’t supposed to have worked like this.

After a couple of streets, Les took his shirt off, folded it and carried it in his hand. Luckily, if that was the appropriate word, most of the vomit was on his shirt and only a few pieces had landed on his one pair of jeans. However, if the local molls didn’t want to know him before, now, as Norton came trudging moodily down the street, half soaked, his shirt in one hand and smelling of sour spew, they just about threw rocks at him and ran screaming into the night. Consequently Norton wasn’t the happiest tourist in town when he got back to his room with no food, no drink and no one to have a whinge to.

Blue fuckin’ Hawaii, Les cursed to himself as he climbed out of his wet, dirty clothes. Yeah, that’d be right. The only blue I’ve seen so far is the ones I’ve been in. He switched the bed radio on to some FM station and got some laid-back, Island song he’d never heard. With that playing he went into the bathroom, got under the shower and, using a hotel shampoo for detergent, washed his shirt and hung it on the fold-up clothesline over the bath. The bits and pieces on his jeans he was able to sponge off, then he draped the jeans over a chair on the balcony to air and left the door open to get some breeze in his room. The best Norton could do for a drink was a glass of cold water, which he sipped as he stared morosely out the bedroom window at the practically deserted avenue below. Fair dinkum, how the fuck did I let Warren talk me into coming to this prick of a joint? What would I be doing back home now? Saturday night. No, it’d be Sunday night. I’d be down the Diggers getting pissed and listening to Harlem Shuffle and having a good time. At least I wouldn’t be getting chundered on. And where is the little prick anyway? Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Yeah, pig’s arse. Les took another sip from his glass of water then let go with a great yawn. Suddenly Norton felt tired and heavy. Aah, fuck it. I’m going to bed. He turned off the radio and all the lights and with just his jox on crawled beneath the sheets to find the big double bed lovely and comfortable, the sheets fresh and the pillows quite scrunchable. Oh well, yawned Les, burrowing his head into the pillows, I suppose things could be worse. Despite not being in the best of moods Norton soon found himself snoring peacefully.

Norton had never seen or heard so many planes. The sky was black with them. Japanese Zeros strafing the jumbo jet he was on with rocket and cannon fire. He and the other waist gunner were blazing away with their 50 cal. machine guns, the shells rattling and clanging as they piled up around them, but they hardly hit one. The flight stewards were calmly walking up and down the aisle, handing out hot towels and coffee, while seated next to him Warren was filling out his US entry form. Another Zero roared straight towards him, guns blazing as the bullets tore through the jumbo jet’s interior. It was that close Les could see the pilot’s face. It was a US Marine in a green sports coat. Norton squeezed the trigger on his machine gun and it jammed. Sweat formed on his brow as the Zero roared right up to the edge of the plane. The pilot couldn’t miss. This was it.

‘What the fuck…?’ Norton blinked his eyes open and looked up at the strange ceiling.

The roaring, throbbing sound filled the room. What the? Norton was confused; he had half an idea where he was, but not what was going on. The Japanese aren’t bombing Hawaii, are they? That was Xmas 1941. The rumbling, throbbing roar got louder and the whole building seemed to be shaking. Les wiped his eyes, got out of bed and drew back the curtains overlooking Kalakau Avenue. Although there were great banks of clouds belting across the sky it was warm and sunny enough and the million dollar view right up to Diamond Head and beyond was worth every cent. Filling up the entire street below were hundreds upon hundreds, possibly over a thousand, monstrous Harley-Davidson motorbikes, straddled by equally huge bikies, a great number of whom were carrying pillion passengers. At the moment they were stopped for some reason and the roaring and revving of the huge chrome and black metal machines had to be heard to be believed. Shit! I don’t know what this is, thought Les, but I gotta go down and have a look. He climbed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, threw his camera and towel into his overnight bag and hurried for the lift, arriving in the foyer after picking up several Japanese tourists with cameras on the way down.

The foyer was thick with Japanese in jogging gear standing around the wooden tables Les had seen the night before. All the signs were in Japanese except one banner that said ‘Saucony Welcomes Runners to the Honolulu Marathon’. Les strode past them straight out into the street, where he put on his sunglasses and joined the crowds of people lining the footpaths. The countless throbbing machines were still stopped and the noise at street level was almost deafening. Some bikies had their club colours on, most wore black leather, some wore bandanas and pigtails like a lot of fat Willie Nelsons. There were quite a number of women bike riders and a sprinkling of motorbike cops. Just about every bike had a doll or a teddy bear perched either over the handlebars or on the pillion seat. Even with the coloured dolls the scene still had an air of sinisterness or menace about it and it wasn’t some half-baked imitation back home, this was the real thing. A living, breathing army of monstrous fat seppos on their Harleys.

Les got his camera and joined another army of Japanese whose cameras were blasting off rolls of film as if their lives depended on it. They all had the super expensive models and Les only had his new instamatic, but with the zoom lens Les felt sure he was getting some great photos — especially of one redhead straddled across a monster blue Harley. She was all in black and silver with buckskins and had a bandana with an American flag design around her forehead and a pair of mirror sunglasses perched on top. Tied to her pillion seat was a huge, fluffy pink and yellow Sesame Street doll. Les stood around burning off almost a roll of film till the bikies thinned out to a draggle of pinko, commie faggots on Hondas and Suzukis bringing up the rear. They slunk past and Les crossed the road to have a swim and a look around.

Almost in front of his hotel was a big, open-air swimming pool. A stormwater drain and footpath formed one wall which ran out to sea, a few metres at the front of which a bunch of noisy, happy kids were catching small waves on boogie boards. There was more beach after this then what looked like a boarded-up public pool under repair, a hotel on the water and a huge park split by a road that ran up to Diamond Head. Skinny palm trees and different tropical trees dotted the park and shallow reefs ran out into the blue ocean over which small swells gently broke into the offshore wind. To the right was another smaller pool, then more beach, a public amenities and a caged-off area next to the police station Les had seen the night before which was packed with monstrous old Malibu surfboards. The beach narrowed here to a path that led past more highrise hotels built to the water’s edge and in the distance a low mountain range sloped down to the sea. Surfboards and skis dotted the reefs and every now and again an outrigger canoe or a catamaran full of tourists would cruise through the congestion blowing an airhorn. Along the footpath were concrete shelters full of elderly locals playing cards and chess and amongst them sat a number of scrumbo backpackers eating food out of tins. The main road now swarmed with stretch limousines and the usual chrome-drenched American land yachts. The footpath swarmed with mainland American tourists in the worst check outfits imaginable. But the crowd was mainly Japanese, walking or jogging in brightly coloured running outfits, determined to have a good time on their annual five days’ holiday, no matter how miserable the exercise made them or how much they had to bust their arses to do it. Judging by their little round beetroot-red faces, Norton tipped they’d all finish up the happiest tourists either in the local cardiac ward or the morgue.

Les walked down onto the sand, past a cluster of old, open-air showers that were just nozzles pouring out water, stripped down to his Speedos, and leaving his bag next to an orange lifeguard tower waded out into the biggest pool and dived in. The water was warm, the day reasonably sunny, but the strong offshore wind seemed to keep the temperature down. Les ended up doing six laps, having to stop now and again to avoid squashing several bunches of Japanese squawking and laughing as they floundered around splashing water over each other, before getting out and doing a few stretches near the railings by the showers. One thing Les did know when he dried off, he was getting peckish and couldn’t possibly wait till ten-thirty when he and Mick were meeting for breakfast. Something light would go well.

There was an ABC store directly across the road; Les crossed over and walked in. It was nicely air-conditioned and sold everything from booze to batteries, and all at rock-bottom prices — if you were Kerry Packer. Les bought some papaya, a carton of orange juice and a chicken sandwich from the fridge, then walked up to McDonald’s to get a takeaway coffee. Norton couldn’t believe McDonald’s. The staff were all Japanese-Hawaiians, about two feet high, with heads that round they made Bert Newton’s look like a butter box. Seated around the tables, stuffing themselves with french fries swimming with ketchup and yammering away at the tops of their voices, were the horriblest fattest excuses for human beings Les had ever seen. They looked and sounded like some alien vegetable creatures from Mars or beyond. Christ, shuddered Norton. I hope this isn’t the way Australia’s heading. He shook his head almost in disbelief, got some tiny containers of milk and sugar and retreated to his room.

The papaya and chicken sandwich were okay; the coffee was probably what killed Les Darcy and Phar Lap. Les decided to eat out on his balcony, catch a bit of breeze and listen to the small ghetto blaster he’d brought with him. The music was much of a muchness and Les was thinking of throwing on a tape when a song finished and some DJ said, ‘You’re listening to AM Stereo 83. KIKI. The oldies channel.’ Next thing Johnny Rivers’ ‘Mountain of Love’ came burbling out the speakers. Oh, bugger it, this’ll do, shrugged Les. He ate his sandwich and drank in the view. When he’d finished, Les took the radio inside, got cleaned up and sorted out his gear. He was putting some iodine on his knuckles to Aretha Franklin warbling ‘Chain of Fools’ when the phone rang.

‘Is that you, Mick?’

‘No,’ came a voice at the other end. ‘It’s Duke Kaha-namoku. You want to come surfing?’

‘Yeah, righto,’ chuckled Les. ‘Just give me five minutes to get my boardshorts and find some wax and I’ll be right down. How are you, Mick?’

‘Fine, Les. How’s yourself? The trip all right?’

‘Good as gold. Where are you?’

‘In the lobby by the elevators.’

‘Okay. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes. Unless you want to come up.’

‘I’ll wait here for you. It’s nice and cool.’

‘Righto, Mick. See you in a couple of minutes.’

Les got into a pair of Levi shorts and a white Mambo T-shirt, turned off the radio and walked down to the lift, finishing up with about half a dozen Japanese girls on the way down, the tallest of whom would have come up to Mickey Mouse’s knee. Mick was standing near the fountain wearing shorts and a blue floral shirt. Apart from needing a haircut, he hadn’t changed since Les had seen him in Australia, although as he walked over smiling there appeared to be a shadowy tiredness edged in with the laughlines around his eyes.

‘Les. How are you, mate?’ he said, emphasising the ‘mate’ as he offered his hand.

‘Not too bad — mate,’ replied Les, doing the same. ‘Good to see you again, Mick.’

‘You too, Les.’ They shook hands and checked each other out for a moment. ‘So you cracked it for a freebie to Hawaii?’ said Mick, remembering the things Norton had told him on the phone. ‘What’s the room like?’

‘Pretty good. Got a top view.’

‘Where did you say your mate Warren was?’

‘On the big island, wherever that is. Staying with some friends or something.’

‘And you’re on your Pat Malone?’

‘Yeah. It’s a bummer. Apart from one ugly big walloper, I don’t know a soul. Except for this surfie who’s gonna ring me and pick up a camera case. He’s covering some surfing contest over the north shore.’

‘You should take a ride over there and check out the other beaches. This is just touristville round here.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘I didn’t know whether I’d landed in Surfers Paradise or Tokyo.’

Mick pointed to the signs and the Japanese swarming around the wooden tables along the wall. ‘The Honolulu Marathon’s on this weekend. Thirty thousand Japs fly in and try to kill themselves in the heat.’

‘So I noticed. Hey, what were all the motorbikes in aid of this morning? There were hundreds of the bloody things out the front.’

‘That,’ Mick chuckled a little derisively. ‘That’s the annual Bikers For Christmas rally. They all get together for one day of the year and donate a toy for the kids out at the army barracks. It’s good for their image.’

‘Then for the other 364 days of the year they go back to killing each other, dealing dope and burning sheilas?’

‘Exactly, Les. Only over here it’s called gang-banging.’

‘Yeah, right. Anyway, what do you want to do for breakfast?’

Les suggested they eat in the hotel; the food would probably be good and they could charge it to his room. However, Mick said there was a good breakfast place — ‘Bennies’ — just round the corner and across from the park. His girlfriend was waiting there with a table. Norton agreed and they started walking through the lobby out into Kalakau Avenue. It was only a short walk past another highrise and a few shops, then it was right on the corner of Kalakau and Kapahulu — a wide boulevard that ran past the park and zoo towards the mountains. As they strolled along in the sun they chitchatted about things in general. Mick said he’d worked till after midnight the previous night. Les said he was a bit tired after the flight so he just went for a walk and finished up in Mahias having a few beers and listening to the band before he hit the sack. He didn’t mention belting the three blokes. The conversation was lighthearted and Les got the impression that Mick liked it if any Aussies he knew dropped in and said hello. Les also got the impression that at times Mick seemed a little distant, vague even, as if there was something on his mind.

They rounded the corner and Les followed Mick up a flight of stairs into the lobby of a restaurant that was again mainly Polynesian decor. A long counter and stools faced the stairs, the dining area angled off to the right, there were chairs and tables in the centre, and red vinyl booths ran round the walls. Outside over the avenue was a balcony but almost the whole restaurant gave you a pleasant view of the ocean. It was quite crowded with more overweight Americans stuffing themselves with anything that could be drowned in maple syrup, gravy, or some kind of sauce guaranteed to bung on calories. The only difference Les could notice between the vegetables seated at Bennies and the ones at McDonald’s was that the Bennies lot weren’t quite as noisy and they seemed to be dressed a little better. At a table near the balcony and to their right a girl waved.

‘There she is,’ said Mick. Les followed him over.

Mick’s girl was Hawaiian and quite pretty with long black hair and dazzling white teeth emphasised by her smooth brown skin. She was wearing a green and white floral dress and a touch of blue mascara round her walnut eyes; resting on the table next to her handbag were a pair of tiny hands tinged with red nail polish.

‘Les, this is Kia.’

‘Hello, Kia,’ said Norton, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too, Les,’ smiled Kia, giving Norton a quick once up and down. ‘So you’re the Aussie guy Mick stayed with in Australia? The bouncer?’

Les noticed Mick smile a little self-consciously. Les just smiled. ‘“Crowd behavioural supervisor” is the politically correct term, Kia.’

Kia nodded, letting her eyes rest on Norton’s iodine-stained knuckles. ‘You still look like a bouncer.’

‘Anyway, grab a seat,’ said Mick, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Yeah, righto.’ Les sat down on Kia’s left with Mick on her right closest to the balcony.

The waitress arrived with the menus, ice water and a percolator of coffee. The menu was a full-on, glossy reproduction of the usual American breakfast nosh. Pancakes, bistro steaks, Portuguese sausage, hash browns, et cetera. Norton gave it the once-over then looked at the vegetables stuffing themselves around him and suddenly didn’t feel all that hungry. What he did fancy was a bowl of Weetbix, muesli and chopped-up mango and banana with a little bit of raw sugar. But if he ordered that in here they’d probably have him terminated by the CIA as a pinko, commie subversive. It made no difference to Mick and Kia. They ordered bacon, sausage, omelettes, pancakes, more eggs, the works. Oh well, mused Les. When in Rome. He ordered Portuguese sausages, eggs over easy, hash browns, tomato and extra toast.

‘Tah-mait-oh is a separate order,’ said the waitress.

‘Good. Then bring me a whole plate of tah-mait-oh,’ said Norton.

It turned out Kia was a schoolteacher. She and Mick lived together and were getting married in April. She also couldn’t stay long when they’d finished breakfast because she had private classes starting at twelve-thirty teaching Japanese students English. Les was a little curious how Mick came to be in the police force. Mick said when he got his green card it was either that, the fire brigade, or the council, and he fancied doing the physical for the police force where he blitzed the field — then found he truly enjoyed the work, although Les thought he heard him mutter ‘sort of’ to Kia, who gave him what seemed like an understanding smile and squeezed his arm.

The food arrived and Les was surprised the way Kia tore in for a fairly small girl. Her omelette was already drowning under about two metres of gravy, but she still added around half a bottle of every sauce on the table, mopping up what was left with toast. Mick wasn’t far behind. Norton’s sausages were just okay but the eggs ran into the hash browns like a big, greasy, yellow puddle. He just picked here and there, mainly eating his tomato and toast and drinking his coffee. It was still quite pleasant chit-chatting away about not much in particular. Kia was a nice girl with a slightly cynical sense of humour, which she needed because Mick still had plenty of Bondi in him. Yet despite the pleasantries Les still felt Mick seemed a little strained at times and it wasn’t just from working the night before.

They finished the last of the toast and jam and Kia had to get going. Norton said he’d pay the bill and Mick could leave the customary tip. Outside they walked across to the park where Kia had left her car — a white Toyota.

‘Well, it was truly nice meeting you, Kia,’ said Norton.

‘You too, Les. And thanks for the breakfast.’

‘My pleasure. We might do it again before I go back.’

‘So where are you off to now, Mick?’

‘I gotta go pick up my pay. What time’ll you be home?’

‘Around five. I got two big classes this afternoon.’ Kia pointed a finger at Mick. ‘And don’t forget, we have to do some Christmas shopping tonight.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Goodbye, Les.’

‘Mele Kalikimaka,’ winked Norton.

Kia’s smile was dazzling. ‘Hey, you too, Les.’

Les watched her drive off then turned to Mick. He was completely expressionless and Les decided to put it straight on him. ‘Hey, Mick, have you got something on your mind?’

Mick seemed to think for a moment. ‘You noticed?’

‘Noticed? Mate, you’re miles away half the fuckin’ time. Nothing like when you stayed at my place.’

The policeman’s face was taut. ‘What are you doing now, Les?’

‘Not much,’ shrugged Norton.

‘Okay. Let’s take a walk by the park. We can work the meal off and I’ll tell you what’s going on.’

‘All right. Suits me.’

They crossed Kalakau and began walking amongst the other strollers and joggers along the promenade. A few cloudbanks had drifted over but it was still quite sunny and the offshore breeze refreshing. Mick had his hands stuffed in his pockets as if deep in troubled thought. After they’d walked a dozen or so metres he spoke.

‘Les, I’ve been tossed what they call in America a curved ball.’

‘You mean someone’s bowled you a googly?’

‘Exactly.’ Mick caught Norton’s eye. ‘Have the boys back home told you anything about me?’

‘I know about the Lionheart Reinhardt thing.’

‘Yeah, right. You see, I’ve just got that much energy at times I can’t help myself. And that’s what happened when I joined the cops. I made that many arrests they almost had to build another gaol. Fair dinkum, Les, I had charge sheets longer than the dead sea scrolls.’

‘A regular Dick Tracy.’

‘Hah! I made him look like a Bow Street runner.’ Mick smiled openly now, obviously glad to be getting something off his chest to someone he knew from home. ‘Well, I had nothing else to do and that’s what they were paying me for. Plus I thought I was making a good impression. So I just charged in, guns blazing, more or less. Fair dinkum, I arrested hookers, pimps, clients, dope dealers, revheads, jaywalkers. Fishing without a licence, whistling in the pictures. Anything.’

‘Square dancing in a roundhouse?’

‘Mate, I even arrested a dwarf for growing up. But you see, there’s a few little pricks whose fathers are high up in the HPD, and they play on it. You know — my daddy’s Captain or Major so and so.’

‘Yeah, same as home,’ nodded Les.

‘But that made no difference to Sheriff Reinhardt. The other blokes are a bit laid back, but if anything it made me even keener.’

‘I’m proud of you, Mick. Even if you’d have tried the same caper back home we’d have probably had you shot or your legs broken, I’m still proud of you.’

‘Thanks. Anyway, I nicked this little dropkick whose old man’s right up in the HPD. The little shithouse, though. He’s stealing cars, breaking into houses, he belted an old lady over in Niu Valley. And the last time I collared him he pulled a fuckin’ switchblade on me.’

‘All he probably needed was a bit of counselling?’ suggested Les dryly.

‘Yeah, I gave him counselling. I broke his arm, four of his ribs and got him three years in the slam. Then pinched his fuckin’ mates, whose fathers are local big shots too, and got them a year each.’

‘Good on you.’

‘Yeah.’ Mick gritted his teeth. ‘Doing the right fuckin’ thing. So anyway, the powers that be decided Bondi’s answer to Wyatt Earp needed cooling off. So they gave me a new beat and a new assignment. Around Diamond Head.’

Les pointed to the mountain in front of them. ‘You don’t have to climb the bloody thing every day, do you?’

‘I wouldn’t want to. They also gave me a partner who should be in a nursing home. In fact, he’s off right now with his prostate and heart trouble. Now I’ve got this beat and right in the middle of it is a sheila making a squillion running high-class hookers through travelling brothels and I can’t bloody pinch her.’

‘Why fuckin’ bother? Christ! Just do what any self-respecting cop back in Australia would do. Put a gun to her head and say, “Give me my whack, you fuckin’ moll, or you’re off.” And get her to put it straight in a bank account under a bodgie name. That’s a bonus, Mick. You’ve killed ’em.’

Mick gave Les a thin smile. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that over here, Les.’

‘It doesn’t?’ Norton was genuinely surprised.

‘No!’

They walked past the old shutdown swimming pool, and then under some metal scaffolding that had been formed into a canopy of thick vines by several trees growing along the side of the promenade. They paused for a moment to let a group of Japanese joggers sweat and pant their way past.

‘You see, not only is this rotten bloody sheila nicknamed “the Madam to the Stars”, she’s also a fuckin’ Australian.’

‘An Aussie?’ Norton felt like cheering. ‘Unreal.’

‘Yeah. She tries to kid everyone she’s a pommy, but she’s as Australian as Four’n Twenty pies. Plus she’s a real cheeky bastard and I’d give me left nut to nick her.’

‘An Aussie tart running a trap in Hawaii?’ Norton grinned. ‘This is great, Mick. Tell me more.’

‘Hah! That’s not even half of it.’

Norton didn’t know whether to feel sorry for Mick or what. What he’d just told him didn’t exactly sound like the end of the world and the thought of a true-blue Aussie woman running brothels in Hawaii appealed to the big Queenslander’s sense of humour. For the sake of diplomacy, however, he decided to sympathise with Mick a little. Plus, all up, Mick was just a good cop trying to do his job.

‘So what do you mean when you say you can’t pinch her?’

‘When I said she was called the Madam to the Stars, nearly all her clientele are film directors, producers, movie stars, politicians, publishers. The odd senator and governor.’

‘Any judges, or the “odd” high-ranking police officer?’

Mick gave another thin smile. ‘What do you think? And the bitch has got a little black book with all their names in it. And a big box full of photos.’

‘Ooohh.’

‘Yeah. So if I do nick her all this shit’s gonna come down on me. They’d literally have me shot. And when I do make an attempt just to get a case going or bring her in for questioning, I get fucked over all along the line. And she knows it too. Which shits me, Les, because I’m straight up. I just want to do my job.’

‘That little black book isn’t helping things though.’

‘Then if I do say, “Ahh, fuck it” and don’t bother, and the FBI stick their head in — which is looming up on the horizon — and they finally pinch her, knowing the feds they’ll say I was covering up for her because she’s an Australian. She’s only got to say, “Yes, I was paying him off”, and, bingo! I’m up shit creek without a paddle.’

‘And a hole in your boat.’

‘But if you think that’s good, Les, try this one.’ Mick stopped and stared directly at Norton. ‘Right in the middle of all this rattle I’ve got a serial killer running around necking hookers. Mainly hers.’

‘You’ve what!?’

‘I’ve got some ratbag, fuckin’ United States Marine, a fuckin’ jarhead, running around stabbing molls with a bayonet.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Yeah. And they’re trying to cover this one up too. It doesn’t look good for the tourism industry. You know, they want happy, smiling hula girls with leis and grass skirts. Not some nut carving sheilas up with a knife. Plus the marines have just closed ranks and want to do their own investigation. They say it’s a military matter and it’s not one of them anyway.’

‘How many has he killed?’

‘Six. Five of hers and one street hooker.’

‘Shit! He’s not fucking around.’ Les suddenly flashed back to the pros avoiding him on Kalakau the previous night. He probably looked like a soldier with his shortish hair and build and the way he was striding along the footpath in search of an ale. Word would certainly be out amongst the working girls and they definitely wouldn’t be taking any chances. ‘So how do you know it’s a marine?’

‘The weapon. A standard issue M6 bayonet. Plus he’s a strong fucker. He only stabs them the once, right in the heart. But he jams the blade up that hard he smashes and slices straight through their ribcages or sternums breaking the bones.’

Norton shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yeah. But apart from the other rattle, I’d like to catch this bastard. I’m not all that rapt in jarheads. And I sure as hell hate nutters running around killing women, even if they are hookers. Which is why I want to have a word with this Aussie sheila.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Andriana Hazlewood.’

Les shook his head. ‘Can’t place her. What’s she look like?’

‘I’ve got one lousy photo of her back at my office. And that was taken by a newspaper on the mainland.’ Mick stared at Norton again. ‘What are you doing now, Les?’

‘Not much, I don’t suppose.’ As soon as he said that, Les got a feeling he should’ve kept his mouth shut.

‘Why don’t you come back to the station with me for a while? I gotta pick up my pay. And I can show you what’s going on.’

‘Yeah… righto. Why not?’ There were people on the beach, the sun was out and the water looked blue and inviting. Police stations never did much for Norton at the best of times and he could think of a lot better places to spend his time on a holiday in Hawaii. Still, Mick wasn’t a bad bloke; Norton still had almost a week to go and it would be something to talk about back home.

‘Come on. I’m parked just down near Bennies.’

They walked back to Mick’s car, which was a blue Buick of some make and model. But it was about the same size as the taxi Les got from the airport. Mick had picked up noticeably now, obviously happy at getting a few things off his chest. When he switched on the radio Les noticed it was the same station he’d been listening to in his room. The Dixie Cups were warbling ‘Chapel of Love’ as they drove along Ala Wai Boulevard, passed the canal, then crossed a small bridge heading towards the police station on Beretania Street.

For a Sunday the traffic was still fairly heavy and although Mick pointed it out, Norton almost missed it because of the trees and Xmas decorations that almost obscured the sign above the front saying Honolulu Police Department. It was a big, cream, three-storey building on the corner of Hale Makai and Beretania, with steps and green railings out the front, set into a gentle green slope with enough trees and shrubs to make a nice park. Opposite was a gallery, some other small office blocks and a long, single-storey building with a sign saying ‘Goodwill’ above the door. Going by several racks of old clothes in the window Norton tipped this to be some kind of St Vincent’s store or whatever. They cruised past to where the sloping park separated the main building from an underground parking area that looked almost like a bomb shelter. Mick turned left, stopped at a boom gate, showed his ID, then drove inside, where he manoeuvred the Buick into a parking spot and switched off the engine.

‘This way, mate,’ he said, opening his door.

‘Yeah, righto,’ answered Norton, doing the same.

The parking area was huge and there were plenty of people driving or walking around. Now and again a huge Harley-Davidson would rumble past carrying an equally huge cop straddled across the seat all in black with a white helmet and dark sunglasses, just like in the movies. Mick seemed to know everybody and everybody seemed to know him; they’d wave and call out and Mick would do the same. Mick clipped a photo ID onto his shirt as they walked across to a solid metal door where he slipped a card into a slot. The door swung open and they stepped through.

Inside was bright, modern, air-conditioned and carpeted, with fluorescent lighting overhead. It was neither garish nor spartan and reminded Les of most office buildings he’d been in — except this one smelled new and swarmed with cops of both sexes in neat black uniforms. As soon as they spotted Mick their faces would seem to light up and it was all:

‘G’day, mate.’

‘Ger day, mate.’

‘Good day, mate.’

‘Gar day, mate.’

‘Gur day, mate.’

To which Mick would smile and reply:

‘G’day, Stan.’

‘G’day, Vince.’

‘G’day, Wes.’

‘G’day, Yolanda.’

‘G’day, Rodrigo.’

There was also a fair bit of banter and camaraderie, obviously because Mick was the only Australian cop there. But Les detected that Mick was pretty popular all round, which would probably be because of his sporting abilities and the fact he was a straight-up bloke who would back his fellow officers to the hilt. No doubt the word was also out that Mick was getting the shitty end of the stick with his Diamond Head assignment and they were taking the piss a bit there as well.

Les followed Mick along one corridor, then into another and another, past offices, closed doors and partitioned-off areas, into another partitioned-off area with a woman sitting at a desk surrounded by filing cabinets. They greeted each other then Mick went to a filing cabinet, flicked through some envelopes before pulling one out which he checked, then he smiled over at Les.

‘At least I’m drawing some overtime, cruising around Diamond Head trying to see what I can see.’

‘Something,’ nodded Les.

‘Come on, this way,’ said Mick, pocketing his pay envelope.

They walked down another corridor, past a gym, then turned left at a water bubbler into another corridor. The police station had a good feel about it and an air of not being a bad place to work. The other thing that struck Les was how neat and tidy all the cops were in their shiny black shoes, crisp white T-shirts and black uniforms with creases sharp enough to slice rump steak. Not like some of the cop shops Les had been to in Sydney, where they flopped around in daggy blue shirts, their guts hanging out over daggy blue pants that slid over old riding boots topped off with a half pie cowboy hat clamped on their melons. Another corridor took them into an enclosed courtyard full of trees, indoor plants and Hawaiian and American flags, where Mick pushed a button next to a lift. There were more smiles and ‘g’days’ from the passing cops, the lift opened and they went up one floor.

Another corridor led past a sign saying ‘Narcotics and Vice’ to another that said ‘Homicide’. ‘This is it,’ smiled Mick.

They turned into a small office with green carpet and light green walls. There were about six desks and swivel seats, computers, filing cabinets pinned with mug shots and corkboards on the wall pinned with more mugshots. There was a photo enlarger, a fax machine, phones, more filing cabinets with plants and personal effects sitting on them, and other police paraphernalia that you’d find in just about any police station in any big city anywhere in the world. Seated at a desk on the right in a red floral shirt was a tall, dark-haired detective about thirty something, with a neat moustache and an easy smile.

‘Hey, Iron Head,’ he drawled, in a typical, slow American voice as they walked in. ‘How are you… mate?’

‘G’day, Honesto,’ Mick smiled back. ‘How are you goin’, mate? Hon, this is a mate of mine from Australia. Les Norton. Les, this is one of Honolulu’s finest. Honesto Figueroa.’

‘G’day, Honesto,’ said Les, offering his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, mate.’

‘Hello, Les.’ The other cop shook Norton’s hand and his smile got wider. ‘Christ! Another Aussie in the place. One’s more than enough. And this one talks even worse than you do.’

‘Get out. You seppos just don’t know how to speak the Queen’s English, that’s all.’

‘At least we don’t talk through our noses all the time.’ Honesto gave Les a wink then turned back to Mick. ‘So, you having another look for Mr Walker, are you?’

‘Yeah. He’s about due to go off again.’ Mick moved across to a desk with his name on it and riffled through a couple of memos.

‘Well, I’m going for a coffee.’

‘Yeah. Good idea,’ replied Mick absently.

Honesto stood up and Les was surprised how tall he actually was. ‘Nice talking to you, Les. How long you here for?’

‘About another week, Honesto.’

‘I might see you before you go back. Enjoy your stay in Hawaii.’

‘Thanks, Honesto. I’m sure I will.’

The tall detective moved across to the door; as he got there he turned around. ‘Hey, Iron Head. Don’t forget to be nice to your Aussie girlfriend out on Diamond Head. You never know when you might need a root yourself. Isn’t that what you Aussies call it?’ He gave Les a wink and strolled off, laughing at his own joke.

‘You see what I gotta put up with?’ said Mick, making a gesture with his hands.

‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘But they all seem like a pretty good bunch.’

‘They are,’ agreed Mick. ‘I couldn’t work with better people.’ Mick flicked a couple of memos across the table. ‘It’s just bad luck I’m lumbered with all this shit. Anyway, pull up a chair.’

‘Yeah, righto.’ Les got a swivel seat and sat down alongside Mick.

Mick produced half a dozen manila folders from a filing cabinet, spread them across his desk and was about to open them when the phone rang. Les didn’t try to overhear the conversation. He stared down blankly at the folders, then, glancing up as a couple of cops walked past in the corridor, began to wonder just what he was doing there.

‘Right,’ said Mick, putting down the phone, ‘here’s what’s happening. Or, as we like to say, a profile on our alleged suspect, whatever.’

He opened up the folders, spreading a number of colour photos in front of Les. Les stared grimly down at the photos of six young women laid out on tables in a morgue. Even in the white stillness of death and with their eyes closed Les couldn’t believe how pretty five of them were. It was a macabre feeling for Les because somehow he thought he shouldn’t feel that way. But he just couldn’t help it. Five of the girls were Asian, with blonded hair and smooth, brown skin. They all looked about sixteen and had petite faces and pouty lips, rather like a young Brigitte Bardot. What type of Asian the girls were Les couldn’t guess as the blonde hair threw him off — Japanese, Thai, maybe Cambodian? The sixth girl, however, wasn’t all that pretty. She was black, skinny, closer to thirty and her tizzy afro hairstyle made her look just like a cheap hooker. While Les was looking at the first lot of photos, Mick pulled out some other closeups of the fatal wounds. Where the blade had gone in there was a neat gash about two inches wide. But around the gash was this awful bruising, or ‘severe haemorrhaging and trauma’ as Les noticed was typed on a report next to one of the photos. The Asian girls were all dark-skinned, but even on the black girl there was no mistaking this vivid blue patch about four or so inches square. It was roughly the same size and shape as a man’s fist. Apart from that, and a smaller bruise on each girl’s jaw, there were no other mutilations.

‘So how long’s this been going on, Mick?’ asked Les, picking up one of the photos for a closer look.

‘A bit less than a year. Five of the girls are Korean, the other one came from New York. She was found dumped in a doorway near the Kapalama Military Reserve. The others were all found near the stairs in their apartment buildings.’

‘They must’ve been taking whoever it was back to their flat for a bit of porking?’ suggested Les.

‘It looks that way,’ nodded Mick. ‘Then they got a bit of something on the side.’

Les took another look at one of the wounds and chuckled at the typical police black humour. ‘Is there any sort of pattern to the killings, Mick?’

The cop shrugged. ‘Only that there’s always been a full moon. But —’

‘And what’s with this… Mr Walker?’

Mick handed Les another closeup photo of one of the girls’ faces and a magnifying glass. ‘These are out of that photo enlarger. But if you look closely at the bruises near their chins, you can make out “SF”, and a piece of rope and an anchor. That stands for the marine motto: “Semper Fidelis”. What he does, after he stabs them, is belt them on the jaw and leave his calling card. Like the Phantom does with his skull ring. You know… Phantom… Mr Walker. “Ghost who walks.”’ Mick shrugged a smile. ‘It’s just a silly nickname we made up.’

‘Yeah, right,’ nodded Les. Examining the photos Les could make out something similar to the tattoo he saw on the bloke’s arm in Bison Jacksons. ‘Have you got any idea what this goose looks like? Have any… witnesses come forward?’

Mick pushed over an identikit photo. ‘A caretaker and a couple of women said they saw someone who looks a bit like that hanging around. But they were pretty unreliable. And there’s about a million mugs around look like him.’

The surly face and moustache also reminded Les of the bloke he had belted in Bison Jacksons. But he declined to say anything for the time being. ‘One thing I’ve noticed, Mick, all the stab wounds are neat and perfectly horizontal. They’re not all over the place or on any sort of angle. You know what I mean?’

‘That’s because of the way he comes in.’ Mick picked up a plastic letter opener with ‘HPD’ along the side, held it in a thrusting grip, with his thumb along the blade, and lunged it towards Norton’s chest. ‘See what I mean? Only this guy really belts it in hard. You saw the trauma around the wounds.’

Les moved the letter opener away from his chest with an index finger. ‘Yeah, right.’

They mulled over a few more things about the killer and went through the photos again and Les agreed that Mick certainly did have a nice nutter on his hands and the sooner he had him locked away the better it would be all round.

‘So how about showing us what you got on this Aussie madam. What’s her name? Angela…?’

‘Andriana Hazlewood.’ Mick pulled out a thinner file, opened it and slid the contents across to Les. ‘That’s her. That’s her address and that’s the number of her answering service. Which is about all I’ve got on her. I’ve tried to see her and her lawyer more or less told me to fuck off. I fronted her at a shopping mall one day and she more or less told me the same and that she’d have me up for harassment. I was lucky her bodyguard didn’t break me in half as well. He’s a fuckin’ monster.’

Norton shook his head. ‘I can’t…’

Mick nodded a thin smile. ‘I know just what you’re thinking, Les, but the law over here is different. They’ve got that many laws against harassment and entrapment, especially if you’ve got money and good lawyers. I’ve practically got to have a one hundred per cent waterproof case going to ask her what time’s the next bus, let alone drag her in for questioning. And she covers her tracks like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Yeah, fair enough.’ Les flicked through the file then pulled out a black-and-white photo. It was a woman in her late twenties wearing an expensive-looking pleated dress with auburn-blonde hair bobbed slightly under her chin. She was wearing sunglasses and was turned side-on to the camera, but she had this unmistakable cheeky smile on her face. The photo was taken at a flower show in San Francisco of all places. Les looked at the photo, then looked again at the smile and gave a double blink. ‘What did you say this sheila’s name was?’

‘Andriana Hazlewood. Why? Do you know her?’

Les thought for a second then shook his head. ‘No. She just looks a bit like a sheila on TV back home, that’s all.’

‘They all look like someone on TV, don’t they?’ Mick folded his arms and breathed a kind of exasperated sigh. ‘To be honest, Les, I’m not that mad keen to nick her. But I’d just like her to get to the shithouse out of my hair before the FBI put their head in. You know — pack up your brothel, lady, and get the fuck out of Dodge. But I would like to have a mag to her about this nutter killing her hookers. That naturally have no connection whatever to her.’

‘Yeah, I understand, Mick. It’s a bit of a bummer. How long’s she been here?’

‘About two years. She calls herself a yacht designer. She’s got a fuckin’ green card, she’s got money to prove it, she’s even one hundred per cent kosher with the Internal Revenue Service. If you didn’t know better, you’d say she was a solid citizen.’

Les stared at the photo. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘She looks like just another well-groomed businesswoman doing her best.’

‘Yes, doesn’t she?’ answered Mick thinly.

Les thought for a second or two. ‘Hey, Mick. Would you mind if I photocopied some of this? I’d like to take it back home and show it to a couple of those cops you met around my place. They’d be rapt in all this. You never know, they might even be able to help you.’

‘Sure. Help yourself. In fact I got an HPD cap I promised one of them. You can take it back with you.’ Mick stood up. ‘While you’re doing that, I might go take a leak. You know how to work the machine over there?’

Les stood up also. ‘Yeah, no worries.’

Mick must have bumped into someone he knew in the toilet because Norton had plenty of time to photocopy all he needed on the hookers, plus the photos of Andriana Hazlewood and all Mick had on her. He even had time for a mag with Honesto, who’d returned from having his coffee. But the tall cop couldn’t seem to understand a word Les was saying; he just smiled, nodded his head and got into a deep conversation on the phone. Eventually Mick came back holding a black HPD cap, which he put in a paper mailer along with Norton’s photocopies. By now Les hinted that he’d seen enough of police stations for the day and wouldn’t mind getting back to his hotel and the beach. They said goodbye to Honesto, who waved back over the phone, and before Les knew it they were in the car, Martha Reeves was bouncing through ‘Jimmy Mack’ and Mick had taken a left somewhere, heading back through the Sunday afternoon traffic to Kalakau Avenue.

‘Well, that was the HPD, Les. What did you think?’

‘Not bad,’ replied Norton. ‘That Honesto’s got a good sense of humour. Though I suppose he’d want to with you around.’

‘Yeah,’ smiled Mick. ‘I’ve managed to liven things up a bit.’

‘So what’s doing anyway, Mick, apart from work? I wouldn’t mind getting out and having a drink with you one night.’

‘Me too, mate. I’m keen. But the thing is, you’ve landed at a prick of a time. With the Christmas holidays and my partner off sick, I’m doing all these weird shifts. Plus, I’m managing to knock up a bit of overtime. Which comes in handy.’

‘What you really mean, Mick, is that you’re busting your arse off getting no social life while you try to do the work of two men.’

‘Exactly,’ grinned Mick. ‘But this Friday night I’m sweet.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Mick was in a much better mood when he stopped outside the beachfront entrance to Norton’s hotel. Even though he didn’t know Les all that well, just talking to him and getting a few things off his chest had been like a tonic. He explained his movements and where he’d more than likely be and gave Les the number of his mobile and any other phone number Norton might need to get in touch with him or leave a message. Mick was looking forward to Friday night and showing Les around Honolulu.

‘Well, that was good, Mick,’ said Norton, shutting the car door behind him. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

‘If I get a chance I’ll call round for a coffee. But don’t forget, along with all this rattle I gotta try and get some sleep. And spend a bit of time with Kia. You know what they’re like.’

‘I understand perfectly, mate.’ Norton paused for a second. ‘Hey, Mick, how bad do you want to talk to this Andriana Hazlewood?’

‘Pretty bloody bad. Why?’

‘Oh nothing.’ Norton tapped the mailing bag on the windowsill. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

‘Les —’

‘I’ll ring you. Go on, piss off. You’re blocking the traffic.’ Les waved Mick off and walked into the lobby.

Back in his room Les tossed the mailer on the spare bed; he’d spent longer at the police station than he thought because the room had been made up and the day oddly seemed almost over. It was. Les hadn’t accounted for Hawaii not having daylight saving. Doesn’t it get late early, he mused. This time yesterday it was only…? Yes, whatever. At the moment Norton felt like a bit more exercise and no thinking. There were a million things swarming around in his head that were absolutely none of his business and which he’d be better off forgetting about; and there was no better way of forgetting about things than to go snorkelling. You’re too busy diving up and down, looking at fish and thinking about sharks, to worry about anything else. The reefs across from the hotel looked blue and inviting as the late afternoon sun added a golden touch to the turquoise of the ocean. Les tossed his diving gear in a bag, changed into a pair of thongs and went straight back downstairs.

The tide was out and gently lapping against the swimming pool wall as Les walked around. Then he put his fins and that on and eased himself in on a small swell. The reason the water looked so clear from his window was because it was only shallow, a few feet deep at the most. Surprisingly the water was a little murky, but there were plenty of colourful fish and other things to look at and for winter the water was delightful. Les swam out to a big metal buoy in front of the pier, then dived up and down, getting a fish’s eye view of the kids on their boogie boards. He snorkelled around a bit more then got out and found that although he was feeling happy and relaxed as he stood with some other tourists under the showers near the railing, he was also starting to think again. There were definite things to do and get if he was going to make his week in Hawaii even more pleasant.

Back in his room, Les had a shave then changed into his jeans and a blue polo shirt, then he went back downstairs to the ABC store, where he bought some fruit juices, milk, cereal and other odds and ends to either nibble on or drink while he was in his room. Norton also bought a six-pack of Millers Dry, a bottle of Bacardi and a bottle of Grape Crush, stopping by the ice machine on his floor to fill one of the small buckets provided. Satisfied his room was now sufficiently stocked up, Les had a bottle of beer then decided it was time for a feed. The hotel restaurant-diner called the Carvery had looked okay when he walked past. Norton caught the lift down again and decided to sample it.

The Carvery was roomy, well lit and fairly crowded with well-heeled tourists from all over the world, though mainly Japanese. There was a long winding buffet stacked with salads and cold cuts, which curved around to the hot dishes, casseroles, satays, et cetera, and two chefs carving roast meats. Les got a stack of salad, roast beef, a bit of veg and a table by a window, then topped his meal off with buttered fresh bread rolls and endless coffee. The food was quite good and the waitress’s smile as nice as the coffee — nice enough for Les to leave a substantial tip. A walk after the meal would have been nice too, but the wind had come up, it wasn’t all that crash hot outside and Norton figured he’d had enough exercise for the day. Les decided to go to his room, put his feet up with a cool one and mull a few things over, then maybe go out later and have a sniff around Waikiki on Sunday night.

There was a desk in the corner near the window. Les poured himself a large Bacardi and Grape Crush, sat the radio at one end, opened the mailing bag, threw the cap on his bed and spread the contents over the desk. He flicked the small ghetto blaster on and a DJ said, ‘Stereo 83. KIKI. Golden oldies and good time rock ’n’ roll. Comin’ at ya.’

As Chubby Checker belted out ‘The Hucklebuck’, Les stared at himself in the mirror above the desk and said, You’re not Hercule Poirot or Jessica bloody Fletcher. You’re Les Norton. You’re here on a brief holiday and this is none of your business. But something didn’t gel. Something did gel, of that Les was almost certain, but something else just didn’t. Norton took a lengthy sip of his drink, sat down and turned to the photos of the murdered prostitutes.

Norton stared at the closeups of the wounds and the bruising. Whoever the marine was doing the killing, he was a strong bastard all right. To drive the bayonet right in to the hilt, and do that much damage with one blow, he’d have to be. But it didn’t seem to work that way. And if it did work that way the bloke was a monster.

Les shook his head and flicked through the photos while more music played, and he managed to finish his first delicious. He got up and made another. While he was up, Les got a large clasp knife from his bag, opened it and, holding it as if it was a bayonet, stood in front of the mirror. He then made a lunge at his heart and sternum, trying to stab his reflection, the same as Mick had done back at the police station. All the stab wounds were a perfect, horizontal cut. To do that the killer would have to twist his wrist around. And also to smash the girls’ bones and inflict that much bruising you’d almost break your wrist. Unless, as Les had surmised, the murderer was a monster. Maybe doing it backfist style would give you more force? Les slashed the knife across backwards. There was more power, but it was also more difficult to make a horizontal cut. And besides that, all the bruises appeared to be in the shape of a man’s fist. Les tried holding the knife through his fist. That didn’t seem to work either. He lunged at his reflection from another angle. But that way would go close to breaking your thumb. Les took a pull on his drink and had a look at the bruising on the girls’jaws. If the killer was as big and strong as everyone thought, he’d more than likely break their jaws or at least tear the flesh. These were almost like they’d been tapped in. Les shook his head and finished his drink. There were a lot of ifs and buts with Mr Walker. Like, what was a boofhead marine doing back at an apartment with a high-class hooker? The black scrubber maybe, but high-class ones? Les made himself another drink, folded up his knife, then sat back down. And talking about high-class hookers, he turned to the photocopies of Andriana Hazlewood.

So you’re the notorious madam to the stars, are you, sweetie? Norton raised his drink to the photo of the well-dressed blonde with the smartarse smile. Despite the sunglasses there was something there besides some unknown Aussie sheila running brothels in Hawaii. He checked what Mick had on her — just her address and the number to an answering service and not much else. Despite this, a smile crept across Norton’s craggy face. There wasn’t much, but what there was was enough. The photo would do.

Les stood up, moved across to the window and stared out at where the inky blue of the ocean was splashed with silver from the moon and stars. The lights of several cruise ships twinkled in the distance and it was that clear now Les could see the popping of flashbulbs coming from along the decks. This was all definitely none of his business, and any normal person would have stuck to themselves on a free trip to Hawaii, seen the sights and copped it all sweet. But? Norton raised his glass towards the dark silhouette of the mountain in the distance. Tomorrow, after he’d hired a car, Les was taking a drive out to Diamond Head and calling in on the mysterious Andriana Hazlewood for a cup of coffee. More than likely he’d get told to piss off. But if he didn’t, the cup of coffee could be a hoot. So here’s looking up your old address, Andriana. Or your new one. Les downed his drink and smacked his lips. Now, what to do tonight?

Norton didn’t particularly want to have a late one, but a few beers in that second bar from last night wouldn’t hurt and the band was good. Those two jarheads more than likely wouldn’t be there and if they were they probably wouldn’t recognise him. Stiff shit for them if they did. The bouncer on the door? Les couldn’t see any drama there. And if there was, he’d just go somewhere else. Les put the photocopies back in the mailer, poured himself another delicious and listened to the radio for a little while, then headed out for a couple of beers.

The weather had cleared up and Kalakau Avenue was pretty much the same as the night before: swarming tourists, mainly Japanese, noisy, would-be studs on the make, hustlers, stalls selling cheap T-shirts, cops — either on foot or driving around in tiny white mopeds — and the usual hookers who avoided Les like the plague the moment they laid eyes on him. At least now Norton knew it wasn’t because of his looks. The only difference tonight was a dedicated mob of black hot gospellers, preaching to a crowd that had formed on the footpath outside Liberty House. Les had seen black gospel singers on TV and in films, but never in the flesh, and they blew him out. There was one big, happy, black man in a white shirt and tie, seated at a small, portable organ, surrounded by about six men wearing the same and six or so soberly dressed women. All they were doing was clapping their hands and singing choruses to the man on the organ, yet the rhythm and energy they generated was amazing. There was that much beat and soul in their voices you wanted to jump up and start dancing — especially if you had several stiff Bacardis pumping through your bloodstream like Les had. The big man rose from the organ and started jumping up and down and running backwards and forwards in front of his fervent, eye-rolling followers, everyone singing perfectly at the top of their voices. Then, after the applause had died down, they’d stop singing and the big man would go into his spiel praising Jesus to the skies while his followers would back him up with plenty of ‘Oh yeah! Uh huh! Right on, brother! Hallelujah!’ It was the full-on, showbiz, Bible-bashing hype, but it was great. So great, Norton almost got carried away in the arms of the Lord and wanted to join in with one from his schooldays: ‘I don’t care if it rains or freezes, I am safe in the arms of Jesus. I am Jesus’ little lamb. Yes by Jesus bloody Christ I am.’ Then he decided the Norton religious fervour might not go over too well with the soul brothers. He stayed for another couple of songs, till the curse of the demon drink overpowered his soul, and then headed off to the bar he was looking for.

Les decided to put his head in Bison Jacksons first, mainly to get a T-shirt because he liked the one the bouncer was wearing with the goofy-looking bison on the front. There was a small crowd of blokes at the entrance, laughing and carrying on, and tonight it was a dollar entry going towards some charity. Les dropped a buck in a large tin and went upstairs.

The T-shirt and souvenir counter was closed and you could have been the ugliest woman in the world and still got yourself a man in Bison Jacksons that night. It was nearly all men, mainly jarheads, nodding and boogying drunkenly to the same band who were slowly torturing to death Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’. There wouldn’t have been more than a dozen women in the place and the best sort there you wouldn’t have taken to Taronga Park Zoo and fed to the yak. Oh well, thought Les. I’m here now, I may as well have the one, I s’pose. He bought a bottle of Millers and drank it near the top of the stairs. The band was woeful, the crowd very ordinary and it was smoky and boring all round. Les downed his beer pretty quickly and left. But not before he was watched intently by two marines standing near the band, one with a fat lip, the other with a slight black eye and a bruised back. They stared at Les standing near the stairs then watched him from the windows as he crossed the street and walked into Mahias.

There was a different bouncer on the door and the girl on the till scarcely looked up as Les handed her the three dollars, went straight across to the bar and got a bottle of Millers. The place had roughly the same size and shaped crowd as the night before and there was just a friendly looking couple seated where Les had been the previous night; he pulled up a stool and sat a little down from them just as the band started. Tropical Honey were again quite enjoyable to have a cold beer to and this time Norton’s view wasn’t blocked by two drunken wallies. He finished his first beer, ordered another, then another, and got into the music, almost asking a fat Hawaiian girl two tables away for a dance. The beers were going down that well and Les was enjoying himself so much that at first he didn’t notice about a dozen fit-looking blokes, some with wispy moustaches, slip into Mahias in ones and twos then stand casually around the bar behind him. Two stood a little further down and watched him in the mirror as they ordered beers and tequila slammers.

Maybe it was a sixth sense, or just his instinct from working at the Kelly Club and noting people’s mannerisms, but Norton soon got the feeling he was being watched. He didn’t let on, but Norton’s antennae went up about two metres and a small squirt of adrenalin sluiced round in his stomach. The thought of seeing the two marines he’d arse-upped the night before had occurred to Les so it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting something. He just didn’t think they’d bring half the regiment with them. There was a mirror in a column almost in front of him. Les snuck a quick glance and there they were at the bar. There was no mistaking their dweeby heads — especially the one who had been wearing the green sports coat and who was now sporting not quite a matching fat lip. Haven’t I seen you in my dreams? mused Norton. He took another quick glance at green coat’s team. Game bastards, you and your dopey-looking mate, though. Aren’t youse?

Norton realised he was up shit creek. Forget the heroics, there were just too many of them, plus they were fit, knew plenty of tricks and were mad keen to have an easy victory kicking the shit out of one poor sucker. Les might snot a couple on the way to the door, but the rest would soon overpower him and it would only take them about five minutes, if that, to turn Norton’s holiday in Hawaii into a week in hospital on a drip. Retreat was the order of the day and forget about coming back for a square-up; the jarheads could have this part of town. In the meantime, though, the band was still pumping, the beer was still cold, no need not to keep enjoying yourself.

Norton stood up and boogied boozily around his table, smiling down at the young couple, who smiled back. He boogied over to the bar, with his drink still in his hand, shaking the bottle in time to the music, seemingly oblivious to the marines watching him intently. Just near the bar, Les stopped and offered the nearest jarhead on his left a drink. The marine, thinking Les was a bigger goose than ever, smirked to his friends around him and took Norton’s proffered bottle. As he did, Les took his thumb out of the neck, after having shaken it solidly on the way over, and it burst all over the jarhead and his mate next to him, covering them in white froth. They cursed with surprise, then it was exit stage right for Les. He bolted for the door, but as he did the girl on the counter appeared out of nowhere, bumping into Les hard enough to send her sailing over the till and Les sprawling in a heap out the front. Les stared up at the doorman and knew he’d get no help out of him. Cursing loudly for losing his momentum and his flying start, Les scrambled to his feet and took off right towards Kuhio, which ran parallel to Kalakau, and into the street where his hotel was. It would be no good running down the main street; if the jarheads didn’t catch him in the crowds, the cops would probably shoot him, thinking he was a thief. Plus, with a bit of luck, there’d be plenty of darkened doorways and parking lots he could hide in. Les skidded right again into Kuhio and hoped the guards at the hotel had guns and that one of these nutters chasing him wasn’t Mr Walker. As he sprinted across an intersection Les could hear the marines shouting and their shoes hitting the footpath perilously close behind him.

Les heard a voice behind him call for the others to fan out and surround him. Shit, isn’t this good? They’re going the whole army bit now. Les was belting along all right, but going on his arse out the front of the bar had lost him his edge and the half-dozen beers or so swirling around inside his stomach weren’t helping things any. It was getting to be tough going. A bit further on the street darkened a little. Les came to a low wooden wall running along the street that was part of a parking lot. There were a few cars in the lot and a sandstone wall at one end. Les vaulted over the fence, ran down one end and hid against the wall while he got some of his breath back. Norton was now feeling hot, sweaty and dirty. He was also starting to feel very angry and he was also sick of running. Righto, boys, he cursed to himself. You want to play soldier, do you? Les bent down, picked up a handful of dirt and smeared it into the sweat round his face and on his arms. Okay, he hissed, getting back up. Let’s play then — Dirranbandi style.

Eddie had taught Les that in situations like this you have to blend in, make it hard for whoever it is to find you and try to reverse the situation, giving yourself the element of surprise. Then, if you’re any good and you know what you’re doing, the rest is up to you. At least the marines chasing him didn’t have guns. Kuhio was on Norton’s left and standing up against the darkened wall in his blue top and jeans with the dirt caked over his face he couldn’t be seen. Les heard voices then saw two marines climb over the fence into the parking lot.

‘Let’s see if the sonofabitch is in here.’

‘I hope he is, cause I’m gonna whip that sucker’s ass.’

Standing perfectly still against the wall hardly breathing, Les watched them checking around the cars as they walked towards him. When they were about six feet away Les stepped out.

‘Excuse me, chaps,’ he said politely, ‘can I help you at all?’

The two marines were almost in front of Les and completely taken by surprise. Les simply hit the one on his right with a murderous left hook that splattered his nose right across his face, then belted the other one with a short right that smashed his jaw like a Sao biscuit. They were both out on their feet, but before they dropped, Les grabbed them by the collar and belted their heads together a couple of times good and hard. They dropped silently onto their backs in a tangle of arms and legs; just to make sure they weren’t going anywhere Les banged his heel into their groins a few times, leaving them in need of something more than a rupture belt.

Norton left them snoring and moved across to the opposite corner of the parking lot. Another two marines had come in over the far fence looking for their buddies, because Les could now hear them calling out. There was a block of condominiums on the far corner with more across the street and there was a little more light. But half walking and half crouching silently amongst the cars Les was still almost invisible. The two marines called out to their buddies again as they came towards Les. When they were just a few metres away Les stood up from behind a car.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, very politely again, ‘could you help me find my keys? I seem to have dropped them somewhere.’

Unsuspectingly, the two marines walked over to Les, a little to his side. Les did much the same. He hit the first one with a withering left hook that Les knew was okay because as well as feeling the jarhead’s face pulverise Les felt all the cuts on his fist open up again. The other one went to make a move, but it was just a bit too late. He walked straight into a looping right that ripped his mouth to pieces. He gave a tiny sigh of pain and started to sag. As he did, Norton stepped back and snap-kicked him under the floating rib with his left foot then belted him across the temple with another short right just as he hit the deck. When Les turned to the other marine he was surprised to find him still half on his feet hanging onto the outside mirror of a car behind him. But not for long. The big Queenslander sunk a left rip into his chest, almost stopping his heart, then doubled up with a left uppercut that just about put the marine’s nose right up through the top of his close-shaved, jar-shaped head. Satisfied these two weren’t going far either, Les decided to leave the carpark and lurk in a darkened doorway. He snuck back out onto Kuhio as just a little light rain started up.

By staying low and keeping to the shadows, Les was able to sprint ahead then find concealment in the darkened doorway of a seedy tenement. Across the road he saw two marines walking past and ahead in the distance he thought he saw another two. Les peered into the gloom around him. There were the usual things: garbage tins, cartons of bottles, bundles of papers, et cetera. There was also a pile of wood. Les had a closer look to find it had once been an old table. There was a leg on top about a metre long, dowelled at one end and squared off almost like a club at the other. Les picked it up and waited. Before long two more marines walked past.

‘Where did the motherfucker go?’

‘Sonofabitch! He’s gotta be round here somewhere.’

Norton let them go past a few metres then stepped up behind them with the table leg half under his folded arms. ‘Excuse me, are you looking for someone?’

The two marines turned around and stood there for a second, long enough for Les to swing the table leg back with his right arm, fair across the right-hand marine’s forehead, splitting his skull open. With almost the same movement Les swung the table leg back, across the other one’s jaw. There was an awful crunching sound of wood hitting bone. The marine’s jaw shattered and in the dark it wasn’t hard to see several white teeth tumble out and roll on the footpath. As they hit the deck Norton belted them a few more times with the table leg across the head and kidneys; they twitched a couple of times then lay still, the blood now starting to ooze across the footpath. Satisfied they wouldn’t be doing too much either, Les tossed the table leg into a garbage bin and headed for his hotel, which he knew wasn’t too far away now.

Les knew there was another parking lot next to a church on the corner near his hotel. If he could make it there he was safe, even though the marines’ ranks had been thinned somewhat. He found the parking lot and sure enough there were two more marines standing in the middle amongst the cars. By now Les was sick of playing soldiers, he just wanted to get to his room and get cleaned up. He charged straight up to the two jarheads to find it was the original two he’d belted in Mahias the night before. They didn’t look too happy when they saw an awfully angry-looking Les Norton coming at them and realised they were standing there on their own. Before they could make a move Les kicked the one who had been wearing the green sports coat straight in the balls. He gave a little shriek of agony, then Les hit him with two left uppercuts that just mangled his face to pulp. He plopped straight down on his backside, holding his groin, then pitched forward onto his face. He looked quite unusual the way he sat there, almost like he was in a yoga position, except for the blood pouring out from under what was left of his face. His mate must have been either still a bit sick in the stomach from the night before or too scared to move. Les walked over and kneed him in the balls hard enough to just about cripple him for life. He went to scream but Les grabbed him by the front of his shirt and crunched two solid headbutts into his face, moving his nose up near his left eye. There was nothing more needed doing. Les dropped him next to his mate. Goodnight, girls, and sweet dreams, Les muttered to himself.

There was no one much around and the caretaker had dozed off in his booth. Norton strolled briskly across the street to his hotel and left the night behind him. In the foyer it was a bit quiet and he hardly got a second look anyway. Most of the blood had soaked into his dark blue polo shirt and the rest on his jeans and face was covered by the rain. He made it to the elevators okay and went straight to his room.

This is getting to be a bit of a habit, thought Les, as he stripped off, filled the bath, then tossed his clothes in and watched the blood start staining the water. When the bath had filled a little he got under the shower and washed the rest of the dirt and mud from his face and body. He left his jeans and shirt to soak a little longer, dried off, wrapped a towel around him and poured himself a rather stiff delicious. Wasn’t that a lot of fun? he laughed grimly to himself as he washed the cuts — old and new — on his knuckles with Bacardi and sucked his breath in over his teeth as he liberally applied the iodine. In a way I’m bloody lucky to be here — another couple of seconds outside the bar and those cunts would have had me. Dopey bloody bitch. Where did she come from? Outside, Les suddenly heard the wailing of sirens echoing up through the surrounding highrises. He raised his glass in their general direction and grinned. Sorry, boys, but you’re gonna have to tap-dance just a little quicker than that to catch this little digger. Fuckin’ American Marines. Good thing I was too young for Vietnam. I know who I’d’ve been shooting over there.

He switched on the radio and got ‘Lightning Strikes Again’ by Lou Christie, then sipped some more of his drink, looked at the mailer sitting on the desk and had a think. There wasn’t a great deal to think about except that Mahias and Bison Jacksons were off-limits for the rest of the week. He took another sip. The week in Hawaii wasn’t quite turning out as Les had envisaged — fights, madams, dead hookers, serial killers. Blood and vomit all over the place. Oh well. He took another swallow. It’s not as if it’s been boring. And I may as well follow up that other rattle.

Now that he’d settled down and his nerves and adrenalin had stopped racing Les started to feel quite tired. He finished his drink then went into the bathroom, cleaned the purple Grape Crush out of his teeth and hung his clothes up. A few minutes later he’d turned off the radio and the lights and was in bed with just a sheet over him. His last thought before he dozed off was that he hoped he didn’t get woken up by chattering machine guns and Japanese Zeros again. Before long Norton was snoring soundly.

Norton woke up around eight in the morning, feeling pretty good, to find it was another fairly nice day outside, with a few clouds being pushed around by the same wind. His clothes had cleaned up all right, so he got tidied up, had a bit of cereal and also found that by mixing orange and guava juice together it goes a funny purple colour and tastes very good. He sipped several glasses of this out on the balcony, while the golden oldies station dished out ‘Mashed Potato Time’ by Dee Dee Sharp, looked at where his view of Diamond Head was blocked by the highrise across the street and figured out what to do. He had another look at the contents of the mailing bag; there were definitely things to be done. In the meantime, however, a bit of exercise wouldn’t go astray. But who wants to go jogging with thirty thousand other people in the heat? A nice long swim would be the go.

Les found his goggles, got into some old gear then went downstairs and did a lazy ten laps of the outdoor pool. There weren’t many people in the pool and as he ploughed along Norton pondered whether he was doing the right thing. He was still pondering this as he got under the outdoor shower and even when he returned to his room over more orange and guava juice. He was still pondering at the counter of Ala Moana Car Rentals in the hotel foyer as he waited next to a young Japanese couple. By the time the Hawaiian attendant in the pink floral shirt served him, Les had decided he probably wasn’t.

Norton ended up hiring a Ford Mustang convertible for a week. Although he only had six days to go it worked out better that way and cost around $300 US with insurance against everything including a nuclear attack. Les paid for it with his VISA card. Next thing he was in a minibus out near the hotel driveway waiting to get driven to the car hire depot, along with the Japanese couple and several loud, fat seppos from Wis-karn-sarn. As he sat in the minibus Les looked over at the parking lot where he had belted the last two marines and noticed it was next to a fairly large white church that went down to Kalakau Avenue. Opposite were more shops belonging to the hotel complex. The driver got in and they cruised off in air-conditioned comfort, taking pretty much the same route Mick did past the Ala Wai canal; only instead of going up and over the bridge they cut down some street back into Kalakau, pulling up in the lot of Ala Moana Car Rentals. It was big and spacious and reminded Les of a car yard.

After signing some more forms in another office Les found himself back outside, looking down at a low, sleek, metallic grey convertible with a rack on the boot, trying to figure out how to get the hood down. The trick was two little clips up beside the windshield. After that it was simply push a button here, a button there, then the electric windows hissed down, the roof hummed back over the boot and the sun poured in. Even after being flogged half to death by every tourist to hit Ala Moana Car Rentals, the engine kicked straight into life and sounded good. In fact the whole little car felt okay and after his earlier experience driving in America, Norton was full of confidence as he slipped the Mustang into drive and eased in amongst the other traffic on Kalakau Avenue.

The traffic was fairly heavy and, once again, not only did the silly bloody Americans drive on the wrong side of the road, but in Hawaii they only have one set of traffic lights facing you at the intersections and they’re on the opposite side of the road. Les almost skidded into a couple of cars at one intersection then had to reverse back a few metres and sit there like a bit of a wally. However, the other drivers could probably see that he was just another dopey bloody tourist and didn’t bother to abuse him; they simply stared at him like he was an idiot. While he tried to ignore them behind his sunglasses Norton switched on the radio and couldn’t quite believe it when he got the same oldies station and blasting out of the four-way speakers came ‘At the Hop’ by Danny and the Juniors. Now Les not only felt like a dopey tourist driving a rental, he felt like an Elvis impersonator sitting in a Cadillac convertible — all he felt was missing was the wraparound sunglasses and the white, sequinned cape.

The traffic finally took off, Les eased in with it again and this time it was no sweat. The road was wide and even though the Mustang felt a little low compared with the other cars, his view was good and Les had no problems weaving in and out through the lanes. In fact, Norton was feeling quite the toff as he cruised along with the breeze in his hair and the radio going. Nothing wrong with this, he thought, as he kicked the Mustang back into second and zoomed past a taxi to take a left into Paokalani then round the block and back to the hotel. As he pulled up in the driveway Norton thought, if James Bond can do it, why can’t I? He got out of the Mustang and as the attendant in a light blue Hawaiian shirt came over handed him the keys.

‘I’d like to valet park this, please.’

‘Certainly, sir. What’s your room number?’

The attendant was around twenty with a cheeky sort of smile. He explained to Les exactly what he had to do. Les slung him a dollar, walked across to the foyer and filled in another form, then went up to his room.

What Les felt like as he pulled off his sweaty T-shirt was a nice strong cup of coffee; unfortunately, however, there was nothing in the room to make it with. Oh well, he chuckled to himself, you never know. I might get a cup up the road. He put the radio in the bathroom and whistled happily along to ‘He’s So Fine’ by the Chiffons as he climbed under the shower. This time Les gave himself a full-on detail: hot shower, close shave, the hotel shampoo and conditioner, Xeryus patted onto his face and Norsca under the arms. The works. There was an iron in the wardrobe so he pressed a pair of dark blue cotton trousers he’d thrown in plus a maroon silk shirt with a blue design and topped this off with his shiny black, Cuban heel R.M. Williams riding boots. Standing about two inches taller, Les gave himself a couple of once up and downs in the mirror. He was about to adjust the collar on his shirt and shook his head. No, mate. It doesn’t get any better than that. He sipped some more orange and guava juice, had a quick look at the contents of the mailing bag, checked the map he’d got at the car hire, then placed them all in his overnight bag, along with his camera. He had another quick look round the room to check that he had everything then turned off the radio and went back downstairs.

The young attendant gave Les a bit of a once up and down in his new clobber as Norton showed him the form from the hotel. Les then went across to the parking lot and got the car. The hood was up, Les left it that way as he took a left onto Kalakau and wound down all the windows; it was only about a ten-minute drive to where he was going. He turned on the radio at a set of lights then when they turned green drove into Kapiolani Park going towards Diamond Head.

The park was wide and sparse and swarming with brightly coloured joggers, mainly Japanese. Les cruised along with the ocean on his right, past a smaller, but nice-looking hotel called the Kalimani, then a fountain on his left, then turned into Diamond Head Road, which soon began to climb steadily. There were initially houses on either side covered in blue bougainvillea and other colourful shrubs and flowers, then there was nothing but sparse, treeless granite cliffs on the left and a long granite wall winding up on the right with the ocean beyond that. Les drove past some sort of lighthouse station and further on a lookout area then a couple of kilometres or so further was another lookout area. The view was quite spectacular so Les pulled up, got his camera out and took some photos of several windsurfers doing some unbelievable manoeuvres in the stiff offshore winds gusting over the blue reefs. It was postcard stuff all right — the breeze, the towering cliffs, the reefs, the colours. But Les had other things on his mind. He got back in the car, checked the map again and drove on.

The road descended now, with expensive-looking houses on either side surrounded by tropical trees, till Diamond Head Road came to a park, passed it and became Kahala Avenue. Right off the park another road dipped down through more sumptuous houses built a few hundred metres back from the ocean; this was Kula-wani Place. Les drove down a couple of hundred metres or so, checking the numbers on the surrounding mansions. The one he was looking for was on a corner on the right. Les parked on the opposite side of the road, switched off the engine and checked the house out.

It was big, taking up all the corner, two storeys of stucco concrete in three shades of brown with a red, Spanish-style roof. There was an abundance of well-manicured trees, flowers and shrubs, and security cameras around the walls protected it from the street. From where he stood Les could see the other palm-tree dotted houses with their private beaches a couple of hundred metres away and beyond that more reefs running into the windswept ocean. The whole area smelled of money, comfort and style and if Honolulu had a Vaucluse this was it. There was a white, double wrought-iron gate across the driveway, solid enough to stop a Panzer Division. Norton got his bag from the car and walked over. The gate was built to keep out nosey parkers, but peering through the grilles, Les could see a man in white trousers and a blue floral shirt running a hose over a bronze Mercedes. The bloke was black and an absolute monster. Six feet four, twenty stone at least, a barrel chest with a paunch underneath and arms like two cedar logs. He had a flattened nose and the ear on one side of his head would have looked all right sitting on a plate with corned beef and white sauce. Les tipped him to be either a wrestler or an ex gridiron player. He caught Norton’s eye and stopped what he was doing for a second.

‘Hey, mate!’ Les called out. ‘Can I see you for a minute?’

The monster dropped the hose and ambled over. When he got to the gate he almost took up one side. ‘You want something, buddy?’ he asked, in a deep, growly voice that was almost expressionless.

‘Yes,’ smiled Norton. ‘Could you tell Andriana Hazlewood there’s a Mr Les Norton over from Australia would like to see her.’

The monster shook his monster head once. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘That’s what I said, friend. Miss Hazlewood ain’t seeing no one today. This week. Ever.’

‘But I’m a good friend of hers from Australia. I gotta see her.’

‘I don’t care if you’re the Lord Jesus Christ selling five-dollar shoes. Miss Hazlewood ain’t seein’ no one. And she particularly mentioned Australians.’

‘She did?’

The monster nodded his head again. ‘That was the lady’s exact words.’

‘Shit!’

‘Right on, brother. And that’s what you gonna be in if you don’t get the fuck out of here and stop wasting my time.’

‘Shit!’ Les looked at the monster again, who wasn’t smiling one little bit. There was no way of getting through the gate and if you did the monster waiting on the other side would probably tear you apart then eat you. Plus, if Norton wasn’t wrong, underneath the blue floral shirt he was carrying a rather large gun. Maybe it was the look on Norton’s face, maybe it was his aftershave. Maybe the monster was hoping Les wouldn’t go away so he could come outside and rip his spleen out. But the big man seemed to hesitate for a moment.

‘All right, fair enough,’ said Les quickly. ‘But could you do me just one favour?’ The monster didn’t move. ‘You’ve got an intercom over there. Get a message to Miss Hazlewood. Say to tell Fenwick it’s the Tripeman. Hang on, I’ll write it down for you.’ Before the big man had time to think too much, Les had whipped out a biro, written it down on a piece of paper and handed it to him through the gate.

The monster blinked at the message then blinked up at Les. ‘Okay, I’ll see she gets the message. But if it comes back nil vibes, I’m coming out there and you’re gonna eat it. Plus the rag top on that shitty little convertible you got out of.’

Norton nodded his head and stood his ground. ‘Okay, mate, fair enough.’ If Andriana Hazlewood was who he thought she was that message would get through. If she wasn’t, and the monster came back out smoking, Les could bolt for the car, get it going and run over him. The monster walked off.

Les paced up and down the front for a few minutes, then he thought he saw the bloke walking back across the driveway. Next thing the gate swung open about a metre and the monster nodded for him to come inside.

‘Don’t know who you are, Tripeman, but you sure must know something.’ He closed the gate behind Les with a clang and locked the bolt. ‘Just before we go any further, brother, I’ll take a look in your bag.’

‘Sure,’ answered Les.

The big man went through Norton’s overnight bag, then very professionally patted him down. ‘Okay. This way.’

The driveway was more a courtyard of rust-coloured paved bricks. This led across to a double garage and a solid oak door embossed with bronze dragons, above which was a short tiled roof supported by four marble columns. Landscaped lava flowerbeds ran up to the columns, and hanging from the open-air roof were a number of indoor flowers and several bronze and shell mobiles. The big man thumped once on the door which soon opened to an attractive Asian maid in a black uniform.

‘This way please, sir,’ she said.

The big man disappeared as Norton stepped inside and had a quick look around. The house was furnished mainly in jade, white and a kind of soft mustard, and had plain beige carpet. Although the house was fully air-conditioned, ceiling fans spun silently, just rippling an abundance of tall indoor plants. It was split level with stairs going up, and on the other side of the sunken lounge facing him Les noticed a spiral staircase out on a verandah with a sparkling blue swimming pool behind it. All the furniture was pastel-coloured, comfortable and expensive-looking. There was a black TV and stereo stand against one wall, paintings, silk fans and bronze plaques hung on the other walls, and on just about every table sat a jade or onyx lampstand. Two ceramic cheetahs were at the top of the short staircase where Les stood and at the bottom was a family of solid onyx cats. The house had a kind of Asian feel about it. But whatever the feel it was all very tasteful and all very expensive. The maid motioned for Les to go down the stairs into the sunken loungeroom.

Sitting on a white lounge with the pool behind her was the same blonde in the newspaper photo only she was wearing a sheer, cinnamon-coloured woollen dress with an orange, carved coral necklace. Her blonde hair bobbed over a pair of diamond earrings and this time without the sunglasses there was no mistaking those hazel eyes and the smartarse smile — which turned into a wide grin when she saw Les coming down the stairs.

‘Les bloody Norton,’ she said, getting up and walking over. ‘As I live and breathe.’

‘Andrea bloody Hayden,’ replied Norton. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’

‘You big shit.’ The owner jigged up to Norton and threw her arms around him. ‘Jesus, it’s good to see you.’

‘You too, Andrea.’ Les squeezed her in return. ‘It’s always good to see an old friend.’

Andrea gave Les a big sloppy kiss on the lips then stepped back with his hands in hers and looked up at him. ‘You look so well, Les. And I still can’t believe it.’

‘I can’t quite believe it either, Andrea,’ smiled Les. ‘And you look pretty good yourself, you little shit.’ Norton let his eyes run round the room. ‘You don’t look like you’re starving either.’

‘How the bloody hell did you find me?’

‘Just asked the first Aussie cop I bumped into where you were and he did everything but draw me a map.’ An odd look flashed across Andrea’s face. ‘How about making us a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on.’

‘Coffee you got,’ said Andrea enthusiastically. ‘Come on, grab a seat on the lounge.’ She led Norton over to where she’d been sitting and they sat down next to each other. ‘Les Norton.’ Andrea kept shaking her head. ‘I still can’t bloody believe it.’

‘It’s me all right,’ said Les. ‘The Tripeman.’

Andrea laughed out loud. ‘I nearly died when I got that message. You stupid bugger. And don’t ever bloody call me Fenwick again, either.’ Andrea Hayden, alias Andriana Hazlewood, notorious brothel keeper and madam to the stars, laughed out loud again.

Andrea called the maid back and got the coffee organised, then she and Les started rabbiting on like a couple of old mates who hadn’t seen each other for ages. Which was pretty much what they were. Les had met Andrea at a party in Sydney not long after her divorce and taken her out for a while. She was on the rebound and still a bit gun-shy, but Les found her to be a very funny woman who had never lost her personality, despite what she’d gone through. Always cracking corny jokes or trying to do equally corny impersonations. They got into each other’s pants one night after about a gallon of daiquiris back at Norton’s place. But Andrea still didn’t want to get involved for a while and both agreed it was more drunken, wretched lust than anything else — even if a jolly good time was had by all concerned and Andrea went off like a Belfast car bomb. Les still took her out now and again because he enjoyed her company and being older than him and better educated Les learnt a few things along the line as well. Half knowing her dopey ex husband Wayne, Les never mentioned anything much about her to anyone and they remained good friends till she sort of vanished off the scene and the last he heard from her was when she dropped him a postcard from Hawaii. It was her ex husband’s name coming up down the beach that made him think of her and just a coincidence that Mick had a small file on her. The Tripeman thing came about when Les used to ring her up at the bank and ask for ‘Fenwick’ after a bank clerk he’d seen in some old movie on TV. And when Andrea found out Les was a bouncer and didn’t manage a smallgoods factory like he said, she reckoned he was full of tripe and nicknamed him the Tripeman. It was a silly thing between them they used to joke about.

The coffee arrived on a silver tray that sparkled like an ice cave, along with some tiny chocolate wafer truffle things that melted in your mouth. Les waffled on about how he still worked for Price, how Warren had tipped him into the free trip to Hawaii, how he knew Mick Reinhardt and this was his second trip to America. Although he was doing most of the talking, Les soon got the impression Andrea was a bit like Mick — rapt in seeing a friend from Australia and also dying to get something off her chest. Les poured himself another cup of delicious Kohna coffee and decided it might be time to lob the ball over into Andrea’s court.

‘So that’s about my story, Andrea, old sausage. Here I am, and there you are.’

‘Yes. Here we both are. And it’s so good to see you, Les.’

Les nodded. ‘Yep. I feel pretty much the same.’ Les took a long, slow sip of coffee and looked at Andrea over the top of the cup. ‘So what’s your story, Andriana Hazlewood? It’s not a bad moniker you thought up either.’

‘My story?’ purred Andrea innocently.

‘Yeah.’ Les looked around him. ‘Last time I saw you, you were working in a bank driving an old Toyota with a stuffed gearbox. Now this. You don’t buy houses like these selling hot-dogs outside the SCG. What’s your story, Fenwick?’

Andrea sipped her coffee delicately, staring right back at Norton. ‘And just what do you think my story is, Les?’

‘You’re runnin’ some sort of knockin’ shop.’

Andrea blinked, recoiling slightly with shock. ‘How dare you. I’ll have you know I’m a Sexual Liaison Provider.’

‘That’s what I said,’ nodded Les. ‘You’re a bloody old madam running a doss house.’

Andrea tossed back her head then reached over and slapped Norton on the knee. ‘Exactly, Les,’ she chortled. ‘And making a fucking motza.’

Les cast his eyes around the opulent furnishings. ‘I thought business might’ve been all right.’

‘All right? Les, I only wish some of my girls had another pair of legs. I’d open up on the big island.’

‘Half your bloody luck,’ answered Norton, as he watched Andrea bouncing around on the lounge. ‘So now that we’ve got that settled, how did you get into the rort?’

‘How did I become a madam?’ Andrea took a sip of coffee then seemed to settle down into the fluffy white cushions. ‘It’s not that long a story. But it’s a story.’

‘Well, come on. You can tell me. We’re old mates.’

Andrea seemed to get a faraway look in her eye. Here it comes, thought Norton. The whole sordid saga. I must be the local Australian shoulder to cry on. But underneath, Les was more than a little curious to know how fairly innocent bank clerk Andrea Hayden suddenly became Andriana Hazlewood, notorious madam to the stars.

‘You know, Les, I originally came here for just a ten-day holiday. A lousy package tour. Anyway, during my holiday I had a nasty incident with a yank bloke. A very nasty incident.’

Les noticed the humour momentarily evaporate from his old friend’s face. ‘Do I detect a bit of… sex without seduction here, Andrea?’

‘Exactly, Les. And a black eye thrown in. But don’t worry, it ended up costing this mug plenty. I know who got screwed best in the end.’ Andrea smiled thinly. ‘Funny thing, he got killed not long after in a car accident. Along with his wife. So here I am with all this money and I fall in love with a priest.’

‘A priest?’

‘Yeah, James. About the best bloke I ever met in my life. So I arrange to overstay my visa, next thing he gets killed.’

‘What…?’

‘He was standing on a bridge not far from here and this bastard stabbed him.’ Andrea’s eyes went very soft for a few seconds. ‘Actually, it was about this time when it happened. Just before Christmas. I always… I always remember.’

Les could see that the priest still had a place in Andrea’s heart. He thought that it might be an idea to delicately change the subject. ‘That’s no good, mate. So what happened then?’

‘What happened then? Well, I’m in Hawaii trying to get over a divorce. I’ve been here five minutes and I get raped, then I get my heart broken. I’ve got all this money and there’s nothing much waiting for me back in Australia. I’ve sworn off sex, men, booze and thinking things can only get better. Then I get run over.’

‘You what?’

‘I got run over. By this fucking stupid old Jap who shouldn’t even have been driving a car.’

‘Were you hurt?’

Andrea’s mouth formed a thin, sardonic smile. ‘Not as much as I made out. Anyway, I’m off to the hospital and I’ve got this old prick bang to rights because I was on a pedestrian crossing. But it turns out he’s a Godfather in the Yakuza. You know what that is, Les?’

Les nodded. ‘Like a Japanese Mafia.’

‘Right. Now this old rooster knows I’m putting on a bit of an act, but he can’t really do much because he’s in the wrong — plus he’s run over a woman and there’s all this honour and face-saving shit they go on with. So he offers me a quarter of a million bucks to cop it sweet.’

‘Shit! That was okay.’

Andrea nodded slowly. ‘In a way. I could have sued him for millions if I’d have wanted to go through the courts and all that shit. Plus, at the time I didn’t have a green card and I would’ve had to do it flying back and forth between Australia. Of course I didn’t let on.’ Andrea smiled thinly again. ‘I learnt a few things from that arsehole Wayne before I got my divorce. So I um and ah a bit and the old bloke for some reason takes a bit of a shine to me. And being an old gangster right down to his toenails, he’s made me an offer.’

‘To set you up in the brothel business?’

‘Exactly,’ beamed Andrea. ‘I’ll tell you how it all works. It’s the best rort going.’

‘Obviously.’ Les could now see Andrea was rapt in getting all this off her chest to someone she knew. Pretty much like Mick. Les was quite rapt too getting the story from the other side. And with Andrea, the surroundings were a lot better than an office at the HPD.

‘You see, Les, half these houses around here are empty. They’re owned by rich Japs who might only stay here one or two weeks a year. They’re just investments. So this old Godfather arranges it all for me, with the owners’ consent, of course, to use the houses as, like, travelling brothels. I keep moving the festivities from place to place. Which is one reason the cops can never catch me.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It is. Now the girls are all Korean. Old Takushi lined them up too. They all come from this one big fishing village near Seoul and they’re all glamours. It’s something in their breeding gives them these sensational figures and they look so young. I got girls working for me that are almost thirty and they look about fifteen.’

Norton flashed back to how young and pretty the girls in the photos looked, even though the shots were taken in a morgue and under harsh lights.

‘I blonde their hair, tart them up with the grouse makeup, and the punters love them. Plus, and this must be in the breeding too, they’re the best little roots in the world.’

‘Fair dinkum?’

‘Are you kidding, Les? I have to have a doctor and an ambulance on standby. They’ve given over twenty of the punters heart attacks.’

‘What a way to go.’

Andrea winked. ‘I look after the punters, though. As well as them getting the best roots in the world, I lay on all the grouse food, piss, drugs. Whatever their little hearts desire. And charge them accordingly.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘I rotate just on a hundred girls with fifty here all the time. And each one makes me around two grand a week after exes.’

‘Bloody hell!’

‘That’s what I said when I made my first million. Next thing I’d made another one. And before long…’ Andrea waved an arm in the general direction of the house.

‘Beats working in the bank, Fenwick.’

Andrea smiled and winked at Les. ‘Plus I don’t have to worry about slinging the cops.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. They’re all squeaky clean. Like silly fuckin’ Reinhardt. But even if they could pinch me, they don’t want to.’

‘The little black book?’

‘You know about that?’ Andrea shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, Les, if you knew who some of my punters were and what they like to get up to, it’d curl your toenails.’

‘I suppose it would.’

Andrea gave a little sigh. ‘In a way, that’s what’s going to bubble the rort. You see, originally this was just supposed to be for all Takushi’s rich mates, and some other rich Asian shifties. And don’t worry, there was enough of them to go around. But before long word got out about the good times to be had at Aunty Andri-ana’s, and next thing I start getting all these mainland yanks from Hollywood, New York, Washington, wherever, all cashed up and all wanting in on the rort. And I’m not going to knock back a quid. Their dough’s as good as any of Takushi’s dingbat mates. So I let them in, made sure that they all had a good time, and made sure I got a little something on them while they were at it. Cheerleader outfits are very popular with congressmen. Film stars and directors are more partial to French maid’s outfits and school uniforms.’

Norton gave a little chuckle. ‘And what’s the Godfather, this Takushi, think of you bringing in all the extra business?’

‘He doesn’t.’ Andrea rolled back her eyes. ‘He’s dead too.’

‘Shit! What happened to him?’

‘He had a bloody heart attack.’ Andrea shook her head in despair. ‘Everyone I meet seems to toss tails. I’m like the bloody angel of death.’

You’re not wrong, thought Les. And we haven’t even got round to the murders yet. ‘So what happens now?’

Andrea shrugged. ‘Well, I haven’t quite got the protection I had. Takushi’s two sons have taken over the old man’s business interests and they’re letting things slide for the time being. Not being on the mainland helps. But…’

‘Mick reckons the FBI are about to put their heads in.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Andrea. ‘I heard that. They’re a different kettle of fish altogether. They’d love nothing better than to raid one of my soirees and find some congressman tied to a bed, covered with cherry jello and getting his bat sucked by a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys.’

Norton had to shake his head. ‘So how long do you reckon before the shit’ll start hitting the fan?’

Andrea shrugged again. ‘I’d like to think another year. Even six months. But, like I said…’

Les looked directly at Andrea. ‘And right in the middle of all this you’ve got a serial killer knocking off your girls.’

Andrea’s hazel eyes flashed dark with anger. ‘Yeah, the bastard. You know about him too, do you, Les?’

Les took the mailer from his overnight bag, opened it up and spread the contents on the coffee table. ‘Mick took me down to the HPD and I got these while I was there.’

Andrea shook her head as the anger in her eyes melted into sadness. ‘God! Poor little Sum Lin. Little Wu Tae.’ Andrea stared at the photocopies, then her expression changed. ‘Christ! Who’s the black scrubber? She’s not one of mine.’

‘Her name’s there. I think she comes from Chicago.’

‘Pepper Pebble Rock? Have a go at her tits. The nipples look like manhole covers.’ Andrea shuddered. ‘You wouldn’t give that to your dog.’

‘Mr Walker didn’t think so.’

‘Is that what they’re calling this creep?’ Andrea glared at the photocopies. ‘I’ll give him fuckin’ Mr Walker if I ever get my hands on the prick.’

‘You got any idea who it might be, Andrea?’

Andrea shook her head. ‘They reckon it’s some marine. I had a bit of trouble with some of them early in the piece, but that was only for annoying the girls down the beach.’

‘You ever thought this wombat might be angling towards you through your girls? You know, trying to put the frighteners on you first? Then, crunch! Me and Mick had a good talk about this and it was one idea he put up.’

‘I had thought of that,’ agreed Andrea. ‘But I carry a handgun with me most of the time. And I got Monroe out the front. A dinosaur wouldn’t get past him. Not that he’s with me twenty-four hours a day. And not that I want him with me twenty-four hours a day. He scares me half the time. The bloody earth shakes when he’s walking next to you.’

The coffee was still warm. Les poured a fresh cup and nibbled on another chocolate truffle. ‘You know, Andrea, the main reason Mick wants to talk to you is about this Mr Walker arsehole.’

Andrea looked up from the photocopies. ‘Fuck him. He’s still a cop.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean, Andrea. But, believe me, he’s got just as much shit coming down on him over all this as you have. Probably more.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’

Les smiled and shook his head. ‘He’s not even all that mad keen to nick you. He can’t anyway, more or less.’

‘I know,’ nodded Andrea. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘In that respect he just wishes you’d fold up your tent and move on. Which you’re gonna have to do sooner or later. But in the meantime, he just wants to have a word with you about this killer.’

‘It’s probably one of his copper mates and he’s just trying to cover up for him.’

‘I thought you said they were all squeaky clean.’ ‘They are. But they all still like a root.’

‘Don’t we all? What about the night I was forced to rape you myself?’

‘I remember it well, Les,’ smiled Andrea. ‘You tied me up with strips of wet newspaper. I was powerless to resist.’

‘You just brought out the animal in me, Fenwick.’

Les and Andrea went over the photos, talking about different angles and things, with Andrea still adamant she didn’t want to talk to the police, she had her own methods, and Les trying to convince her she should. Half the time Les wondered why he was bothering — none of it was his business and he was only there for a week’s holiday. But something wasn’t right and this Mr Walker character needed to be sorted out. Finally Les tapped the photos with an index finger.

‘Okay, Andrea. If you don’t want to see Mick, that’s fair enough. I don’t really blame you keeping away from the cops. But if you won’t do it for yourself, I reckon you at least owe it to little Sum Lin, or whatever her name is.’ Les looked Andrea right in the eye. ‘Or at least the other girls you’ve got working for you. The ones that are left.’

Andrea stared right back at Norton and her hazel eyes narrowed. ‘You can be pretty convincing at times, Les, can’t you?’

A half smile spread over Norton’s face. ‘How do you think I was able to get into your miserable pants, you rotten little thing.’

Andrea continued to stare at Les for a few minutes. Her eyes were still narrowed and the expression on her face didn’t change one bit. Les soon got the feeling this wasn’t Andrea Hayden, his old friend, staring at him. This was Andriana Hazlewood, hard-nosed millionaire businesswoman and well-connected criminal. Who, as Norton said earlier, didn’t get where she was by selling hot-dogs outside the SCG.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Les,’ she finally said. ‘Tell Reinhardt I’ll meet him nine o’clock this Wednesday morning at the Kalimani Hotel. We’ll have breakfast. You know where it is?’

Les nodded. ‘Yeah. I passed it on the way here.’

‘Tell him to come on his own and park outside. And I want you there too.’

‘Okay. No worries. Mick’ll be rapt.’

‘And tell the miserable prick he can pay too. Charge it to the HPD.’

‘As good as gold, Andrea. We’ll do breakfast. I’ll make sure the bill gets paid and a lovely time is had by all.’

Andrea continued to stare at Les. ‘Okay. Now that’s all cleared up, how long did you say you were here for? You go back Saturday night?’ Les nodded. ‘Except for Wednesday morning I’m flat out for most of the week, but I want to have a drink with you before you go back. Maybe Thursday night. In the meantime, what are you doing tomorrow?’

Les shrugged. ‘Not much. I was thinking of taking a run over the North Shore. I got to drop a camera case off to some bloke at a surfing contest.’

‘I’ll send someone round to keep you company.’

‘You’ll what?’

‘I’ll send someone over to look after you and make sure you don’t get lost. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning there’ll be a knock on your door. And you can tell me about it when I see you on Wednesday morning.’

Norton was a little at a loss. ‘Okay,’ he nodded. ‘I could do with a bit of company, to tell you the truth.’ Les decided it was about time he got something off his chest. ‘All I’ve done since I’ve been here is fight silly bloody marines.’

Andrea screwed her face up. ‘There was something on the news about a brawl in Kuhio last night. Some marines got beaten up pretty bad by a mob of pommy soccer hooligans. You weren’t in that, were you?’

‘Forget the pommy soccer hooligans,’ scoffed Les. ‘Try one terrified Australian hooligan trying to get home without getting his head kicked in.’

Les told Andrea what happened on both nights and Andrea cracked up. ‘Christ! You haven’t bloody changed, have you?’ she said, almost wiping tears from her eyes.

‘Probably not,’ agreed Les. ‘You certainly have, though.’

‘Touché,’ smiled Andrea. ‘Hey, talking about getting away by the skin of your teeth, I’ll tell you a funny story. I nearly got brought undone in a big way about a year ago. I was going to open a house up on the big island where your mate Warren’s staying. You know, keep this one on the sly just for all the rich yanks from the mainland. I got onto this place owned by an old Hawaiian who’s never there and I sent someone over to check it out and make an offer and all that. So what does the goose I send over do? Goes to the wrong bloody house. There’s this fifteen-year-old girl there, not a bad sort, and he thinks she’s part of it, so he gives her the whole spiel. It turns out she’s Arden French’s stepdaughter and it’s his joint.’

‘That nark from “The French Report” who never shuts up about pervs, paedophiles and anyone caught having a root out of the missionary position?’

‘Yeah, him. His bloody stepdaughter’s gone along with it, sucked my bloke right in, then told her stepfather and he’s come thundering out with a film crew, hoping to do a big exposé. I managed to knock it all on the head and he couldn’t trace me. But he was here for nearly two weeks sniffing about. It was bloody close.’

‘Christ! Imagine the beat-up he’d get out of something like that. He’d run it for a month. “My holiday home invaded by hookers and pimps.” “My stepdaughter’s life in danger.” “My secret agony.” Blah-blah-blah!’ Les started to laugh. ‘What’s he say at the end of his show? “C’est la vie.” He’d have given you c’est la vie all right.’

‘Yeah. Say no bloody more. The little shit.’ Andrea winked at Les. ‘So I never quite got to open up on the big island, Les.’ Andrea then opened her legs a little and winked at Les. Les reached over, ran his hand along her thigh and gave it a squeeze, making her giggle like a schoolgirl.

They talked and laughed some more about old times and different other things. They’d had enough coffee so Andrea got the maid to bring some iced mineral water. She told Les how she’d scammed her green card and managed to get a fair bit of money out of the country. She still kept in touch with home and she knew about her ex going to gaol. Which was one of the reasons she told Monroe to keep an eye on any Australians that might come round, just in case it was Wayne or one of his mates trying to put a snip on. Andrea laughed at the photo in the paper. Her and old Takushi were at the flower show just buying some bonsai trees of all things and a photographer just snapped a photo of her for a society column.

Although Andrea was laughing and kidding about a lot, Les sensed that this was mainly from bumping into an old friend and having a bit of gossip. Underneath all the pizzazz Andrea had plenty to worry about. Her Godfather was dead, this nutter was murdering her girls and if she got too greedy and the FBI swooped on her she was looking at a good ten years or more and losing everything she had. Little black book or no little black book. Her purple patch had to end sooner or later. But seeing Les was a bit of a tonic and she was looking forward to seeing him on Wednesday with Mick and later on again one night before he flew back to Australia.

Eventually it was time for Les to go. Andrea gave him a quick tour of the house, introduced him to the maid, Shu-Yi, then walked him out the front and introduced him to Monroe, with instructions that if Les called round or rang up, he’d know who it was and to treat the honoured guest from Australia accordingly. The monster was all smiles and kind of apologetic now for being so gruff before. When they shook hands he didn’t quite crush Norton’s, but almost wrenched his arm out of its socket instead. As Les rotated some feeling back into his shoulder, he wondered what might have happened to the last bloke who nicknamed Andrea’s massive bodyguard Marilyn.

‘Well, Fenwick, thanks for the coffee,’ smiled Les. ‘It was terrific seeing you again.’

‘You too, Les, you big spunk. I’ll see you on Wednesday morning.’ Andrea grabbed Les and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. But not that quick that she didn’t find time to slip the tongue in. Then it was a last wave as the gate closed behind him and the next thing Norton was in the Mustang heading back up Diamond Head Road towards his hotel.

Well how about that? Les chuckled to himself as he came down into Kapiolani Park. I was right. It was her. And just as mad as ever. A bit of a grin spread across the big Queenslander’s face. I wouldn’t mind giving her another one, either. There’s still something about her turns me on. And what a bloody story. I wish I’d thought to take a couple of photos. I’ll get some on Wednesday morning. Hah! Wait till I tell Mick. He’ll shit himself. Les was still a bit up in the air when he dropped the Mustang off in the driveway and caught the lift to his room.

Les got out of his Sunday best and back into his jeans shorts and a clean white Eumundi Lager T-shirt. The day was just about shot and he was figuring what to do with himself. He was dying to ring Mick, but he’d probably be having a kip with the answering service on. He’d catch him at work that night. The water still looked okay from his window, with the sun dancing over it, but he’d already been for one long swim and didn’t particularly feel like snorkelling around the same shallow reefs again. A cruise round in the ragtop with the wind in his face would be a bit of fun, and there was a big shopping centre he’d heard about at a place called Ala Moana, which wasn’t very far away. Les got his overnight bag, locked the room, then, after cashing a couple of traveller’s cheques at the foyer, slung the attendant another dollar and found himself back in the Mustang with the hood down, making a left into Kalakau Avenue.

With all the rattle of the day running around in his head, Les cursed himself for not bringing a tape with him to play. ‘Monster Mash’ by Barry Boris Pickett was okay. But KIKI was starting to sound like some radio station where all the old records went to die. It was okay though cruising along in the ragtop, and it wasn’t hard to get around. The traffic was fairly heavy, with cars going everywhere all on the wrong side of the road. But the roads were wide and there were a lot of one-way streets — if you took a wrong turn you just kept going round in circles on the wrong side of the road till you found your way again according to the road map. Les drove alongside a canal, past monster highrises, hotels, and hundreds of shops and restaurants till he zoomed up over a bridge across a canal and there was the entrance to Ala Moana Park on his left, running past the blue waters of Mamaia Bay. Then, on the other side of the massive six-lane he was on, split down the middle by an equally huge median strip, loomed Ala Moana shopping centre on the right, covered in Christmas decorations. Les cruised in and had no trouble finding several parking spots, probably because your average American would find the going a bit tough having to walk about seventy-five yards, then up two small flights of stairs to the nearest escalator. Les didn’t bother putting the hood back up. It wasn’t his car and if anybody wanted to steal it they could have it; he’d just catch a cab back to the hotel and hire another one. With his bag over his shoulder and his VISA card burning a hole in his pocket, Norton strode cheerfully off towards the nearest escalator.

The mall was all bright and glitzy, festooned with red and green Christmas decorations and swarming with people of all ages, shapes and sizes strolling around doing their Christmas shopping. There were interesting little shops everywhere for you to spend your money in and a few spacious department stores: J.C. Pennys, Liberty House, Sears, and others if you had any money left over. There was also a store full of Walt Disney paraphernalia and a bigger one, Warner Bros World, stacked with souvenirs and clothing for every character in the Bugs Bunny show, and while you were shopping you could watch non-stop cartoons playing on a giant screen TV. Les drifted around and was just about to attack with his VISA card when he heard all this racket coming from below. He got an escalator to the bottom level, getting off near an open-air stage where about thirty hula girls in grass skirts and palm frond headdresses were going for it in front of half a dozen Hawaiian men banging on these drums like their lives depended on it. The girls were all quite pretty and dollied up with make-up and the oldest would have been about fourteen. Les whipped out his camera and started firing off a few photos. I hope that nark from the big island Andrea was talking about isn’t around, Les chuckled to himself as he banged off some more photos. Be nice if he saw me here watching all these schoolkids. He’d probably devote an entire show to me. But the young girls certainly knew how to hula and Norton wasn’t the only one taking photos and applauding loudly. They took a break and Les decided to go shopping.

He ended up buying a whole lot of T-shirts he didn’t need, joggers, sunglasses, caps and jackets from both the Disney store and Warner Bros World and a whole heap of other stuff. In the end he was loaded up like a Russian babushka coming back from a food queue so he went back to the car and stashed the lot in the boot. Bloody hell, what have I done? he thought as he slammed down the boot lid. I’ll never get it on the plane and I’ve another five days to go yet. Shopping was thirsty work, however, and now it was time for a beer.

The dining area was on the same level as where Les had seen the hula girls. It was just a huge square area full of blue and white chairs in the middle surrounded by dozens of takeaway food shops selling mainly Asian food. The decor was white columns and dark green tiles on the floor with kind of blue sails hanging from the ceiling in amongst all the red and green Christmas decorations. Despite all the cooking smells Les wasn’t that hungry; between the heat and stuffing himself with truffles and coffee at Andrea’s house his appetite was dulled. But not his thirst. One entrance to the food area that faced the ocean side of the mall had a spaghetti shop on one corner that sold beer. Les bought a can of Coors, found a seat and settled back to watch the punters.

There were plenty of whites and blacks, but mainly they were Japanese or Chinese Hawaiians, and no one was starving. One bloke in shorts, along with his wife in a blue muu-muu, waddled past and both had backsides big enough to sell advertising on. Most of the men wore shorts, T-shirts and Elmer Fudd caps; the women favoured ankle-length floral dresses with pearl or shell necklaces. Some women, mainly the Japanese, had faces flatter than the bottom of an iron. Others had round, fat little faces and fat little hips that reminded Norton of goldfish or budgerigars. They also had this odd, knees bent, shuffling way of walking. The ones sitting around him seemed to be doing what Americans seem to do best — stuff themselves with food after drowning it in a hundred different sauces. Les couldn’t say much for the perv: there weren’t many good sorts at all. But it was interesting enough and there were things to laugh at and before Norton knew it he’d knocked over five cans of Coors and he was getting a bit pie-eyed. Shit! I got to drive back to the hotel, he remembered, as he squeezed the last few drops out of can number five. I’m likely to get behind the wheel of that Mustang and think I’m Evel Knievel. Les didn’t feel like another cup of coffee, but a walk in the park before the sun went down might freshen him up a bit. He dropped the last can in the nearest bin, went back down the stairs and when there was a break in the traffic, jogged a little unsteadily across the road.

The park was a lot bigger than Les had first noticed — about one and a half kilometres long and a good half a kilometre wide. A two-way road with a low sea wall ran round the ocean, which appeared to be a lagoon on one side with a marina full of yachts on the left, and a headland dotted with tall palm trees ran out to the ocean on the right. Further down to the right were more palm trees and a beach sheltered by a shallow coral reef. The park itself was full of odd-shaped trees and reminded Les a little of the Domain near the art gallery in Sydney. A lagoon full of tiny fish meandered through the middle, running beneath two small bridges. One bridge was narrow cream-coloured concrete with a green railing and ran towards the sea. The other was wider cream-coloured concrete formed into two small arches pinched in the middle and scalloped on the outside. It was built facing a bus stop about fifty metres in from the main road and looked quite pretty standing beneath the shade of several trees spreading up from the surrounding greenery. There were hardly any people around as Les strolled about the numerous trees getting some fresh air. He stopped near the second bridge to watch a school of small fish making ripples in the shallow canal as they fossicked around for food and thought he wouldn’t mind coming back to the park one day to take a jog around it then go for a swim and have a feed across the road at the mall. He was surprised there weren’t more people about taking advantage of the park, it looked that pleasant. He had one more look around then strolled back to the car.

The drive back to the hotel in the heavy traffic all going on the wrong side of the road was a bit of a challenge for Norton, especially with five cans of beer under his belt. But he got there okay. The only thing was, as well as making him feel a bit drowsy, the beers had also put the edge back on his appetite. After he’d dropped the car off with the attendant, then unpacked what he’d bought back in his room, Norton decided to attack the Carvery again; it was handy, the food was good and plenty of it and Les was feeling too lazy now to walk anywhere. He had a quick shower to freshen up, changed into a clean T-shirt and caught the lift to the lobby with a couple of pods of unsmiling Japanese gnomes.

There was about the same number of diners as before spread round the Carvery. Les slipped into a little bit of terrine and salad to get going. Then had a plate of roast beef and vegetables with a sour cream and mustard sauce, then tried some braised pork dish with a sweet chili sauce — all washed down with orange-passionfruit juice. This sat fairly well with Les. But to make sure, he had several small, crisp bread rolls and coffee, plus two fat slices of chocolate devil’s food cake. After that, Norton wasn’t going anywhere. He rarely went out on a Monday night anyway and figured Monday night in Waikiki, even at Christmas, would be like Monday night anywhere. A good night to stay home and watch TV.

Maybe it was a bit of jet lag or something catching up with him, but back in his room Les found himself yawning constantly and looking forward to putting his head down. He switched the TV on with the sound down, made himself a rather large Bacardi and Grape Crush and switched on the radio. With some documentary about volcanoes on the box and ‘Duke of Earl’ by Gene Chandler wobbling out of the little ghetto blaster, Norton sat down, mulled over the day’s events and some of the things Andrea had said to him. Especially the fifty thousand dollars she’d offered on the sly to some of the local heavies if they brought the nut who was killing her girls back to her, either dead or alive. Not a bad little earner, as Arthur Daley might say.

Several drinks later Les had resigned himself to the fact that there was as much chance of him finding out who Mr Walker was by next Saturday night as there was of Fred Nile leading the Gay Mardi Gras up Oxford Street, dressed as Dr Frankenfurter out of the Rocky Horror Show. But there was something about these killings that kept playing on Norton like an itch he couldn’t scratch. For a start, he had suspects. The first bloke he belted fitted the description of the one suspect Mick had. He was more than likely a marine and a morose big prick like that would be just the kind of nut who would enjoy killing women. He’d be a typical seppo fruitcake with sexual hangups and the coincidence of Les belting him the first night he was in town could be some weird twist of fate. A bit of ‘Twilight Zone’. Les hummed to himself, Dah-dah-dah-dah, Dah-dah-dah-dah. Then he had suspect number two. It would take a monster to inflict those wounds on the girls. What was standing behind the gate at Andrea’s house? Also, he was a driver and bodyguard. The girls would trust him enough to let him get close to them, even into their apartments. Then what did Andrea say, half meaning it, that it was probably a cop and Mick covering up for him? It was a possibility. Some frustrated cop couldn’t get to Andrea, so he kills her hookers instead. What about this partner of Mick’s who was off sick? Even Mick himself. Andrea treated him like shit, as did the HPD, to a certain extent. And Mick got these mad bursts of energy. Les shook his head as he sipped his drink and stared absently at the TV. Buggered if I know, he mused. And I’m buggered if I know what I’m doing putting my head into this in the first place. I’m here on a holiday. Then Les thought it might be an idea to ring Mick before either he got too tired, too drunk or plain forgot. He got Mick on his mobile parked somewhere near Diamond Head.

‘Mick. How’s it goin’, mate?’

‘Hey, Les. How are you doin’, buddy?’

‘Not bad. What are you up to?’

‘Nothing much. Looking for a bloke who likes to visit the area now and again and take things from people that don’t belong to him. They’re sometimes referred to as burglars.’

Mick said that things were pretty much the same on his beat, only worse. His partner was still off sick, some other cops were off on their Christmas vacation and he was back in uniform cruising around, filling in for some other cops who were in Waikiki on the lookout for these soccer hooligans who had beaten up some marines the night before. But things were generally pretty quiet on his beat and Mick was glad Les had rung to break the monotony.

‘Well, I might just have something for you, Mick, to liven things up a bit,’ said Norton. ‘What are you doing at nine o’clock this Wednesday morning?’

Mick thought for a moment. ‘Nothing much. I can pretty much work my own hours after Tuesday.’

‘How would you like to join Andriana Hazlewood and myself for breakfast at the Kalamani Hotel?’

‘What the…? What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve sweetened it up for you. She wants to meet you.’ Les could sense the change in tone in Mick’s voice and he could picture the look on the cop’s face when he finished. ‘So that’s the story, Mick. She’s an old mate of mine. I used to take her out back home. Wait till you meet her, though. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’ Les crossed his fingers a little at the last few words. If Andrea got a roll on she just might tear strips off Mick.

‘Surprised?’ Mick paused. ‘I’m a bit more than bloody surprised. This is unbelievable. Fuckin’ hell!’

‘Don’t worry, Mick,’chuckled Les. ‘It’s all sweet, son. And I got a feeling there could be a good result all round.’

They talked a little longer, with Mick still scratching his head. He would have come over to see Les then, but he couldn’t get away. Mick said he’d see Les in the morning, but Les said he was busy all day and maybe the night too. But he’d ring Mick some time during the day or he’d catch him at work again in the night.

‘So if I don’t get a chance to catch up with you tomorrow, I’ll see you for sure on Wednesday morning.’

‘For sure. Hey, Les. I have to thank you, mate.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, Mick. Ms Hazlewood said you’re paying the bill. See you Wednesday.’

Norton hung up and resumed staring at the silent TV as ‘The Rain The Park and Other Things’ by the Cowsills jigged out of the radio. Well, there you go, he smiled, taking another sip of Bacardi, then yawning. That’s all sorted out. Now what’s on this silly fuckin’ TV before I put my head down? I’m knackered. He switched off the radio and turned the volume up slightly on the television set.

There appeared to be about ten channels on the box and all of them dreadful. Four were still showing documentaries about Hawaii and volcanoes. The rest were all US news and talkback shows crammed full of advertisements, and if the hosts talked any slower they would have stopped altogether. Lori Bishop and Chuck someone or other. With names like that Les gave them the immediate flick. Then it was some fat, greenie-bashing redneck called Rush Limbaugh, who looked like a runner-up in a pie-eating contest. Andy Anderson from Chicago in a pair of fireman’s braces. In the middle of this was a Barry Manilow concert. Les flipped another channel and got some black in a white jacket called Arsenio Hall. The whole show was nothing but hype and bullshit, with the audience carrying on when he arrived on stage like it was the second coming of Christ. At least Arsenio lives up to the first syllable in his name, mused Les, as he flicked to another channel and got a wog in a white shirt, this time called Joe Piscopo, who arrived on stage to almost drown in more hype and bullshit. ‘Thank you for comin’ down! Allll-riigghhhtt! Yeah!’ The shows were pumped full of that much inane garbage they made ‘Tonight Live’ with Steve Vizard look like ‘Four Corners’. Les flicked to the Conan O’Brien show, which was all cynical, smartarse New York comedians telling gags that went over Norton’s head. Les flicked back to the droning documentaries for a few seconds then with a resounding ‘Get fucked!’ turned the TV off. Les looked at the radio. No, he couldn’t for the moment handle any more Fats Domino, Percy Sledge or Ben E. King and the Drifters. Maybe it was a little jet lag catching up, but what Les wanted was a good night’s sleep. Plus he had company arriving in the morning.

He yawned his way through cleaning his teeth, turned off the lights and crawled into bed with a sheet over him. It had been a pretty good day. And tomorrow might even be better. I wonder just what this ‘company’ is, he smiled to himself. It could be anything. And knowing bloody Andrea, you can bet there’ll be some sort of a catch. Probably Monroe’s big brother and he’s a drag queen. Anyway… Les gave out one cavernous yawn and before long he was snoring peacefully.

After a good night’s sleep, Les woke up around seven, feeling on top of the world. Outside, the sun wasn’t fully up and there were a few clouds around, but there was no sign of rain and it looked like being another nice day. He did a few stretches, had some orange juice and cereal then got into some old gear, grabbed his towel and goggles and caught the lift to the foyer. There weren’t that many people in the lobby and outside just the usual early morning traffic: delivery trucks, taxis, et cetera, along with the usual joggers panting up and down Kalakau Avenue. There were a few surfers out on the reefs but no one at all in the open-air pool. The wind was a little brisk and the water cool after sitting there all night, but Les soon eased himself in and knocked over a lazy eight laps, mulling different things over in his head as he watched a few small fish darting around on the sandy, slightly muddy bottom. After some more stretches and about fifty chin-ups on a wooden beam supporting one of the shelters, he had a cold shower and went back to his room. The cereal earlier was okay, but after all that exercise Norton was now starving hungry. He still wasn’t sure who or what the company was going to be or whether they’d feel like eating. No matter what, Les wasn’t waiting. Still in his old gear Les caught the lift back down to the Carvery, where the cooking smells on the way up told him they were serving breakfast.

The early morning crowd was about half the dinner team, all chewing away to the rattle of knives and forks, sipping coffee while some read newspapers. Norton had some more cereal, plus a stack of fresh fruit, scrambled eggs and bacon with coffee and toast. There was no mad hurry so he took his time eating, then after one last cup of coffee caught the lift back to his room.

Feeling even better now, Les changed into a clean pair of blue shorts and a light blue Quiksilver T-shirt Tony Nathan had given him as a bribe for taking the camera case to Hawaii, then settled down to wait. He was sitting at the table, flicking through the contents of the mailer again, deep in thought about things that weren’t his business, while Wilson Pickett was boog-a-looing out of the radio, when a soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Just a little apprehensively, Les stuffed the photocopies back in the mailer then walked over and answered it.

‘Are you Les Norton?’

Les nodded and muttered a very slow, almost inaudible. ‘Yeah.’

‘Andriana told me to come round and see you. I’m Mitzi Moonkiss.’

Mitzi was wearing blue denim shorts and a loose-fitting orange top, split across the neck to reveal one beautiful brown shoulder. She was carrying a denim overnight bag and came up roughly to Norton’s chin. She was Asian, with crimped blonde hair, a sweet pink smile and the deepest, most beautiful brown eyes Les could remember seeing, tinged slightly with blue liner. Her figure was firm with a cute little pair of boobs and a pair of dainty little Nikes and white socks sat on the bottom of the two lovely brown legs that glowed from sunshine and body oil. No matter what, Mitzi was one beautiful girl and not a day over sixteen. Norton stood framed in the door, giving her any number of once up and downs.

‘Well, can I come in?’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Les, with awkward enthusiasm. ‘Yeah, sure. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not expecting someone else, are you?’ Mitzi asked politely.

Norton shook his head and closed the door. ‘Put it this way, Mitzi,’ he said, watching her shapely backside going to the bedroom, ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting you. Anyway, I’m Les, Mitzi. Pleased to meet you.’

Mitzi delicately accepted Norton’s hand and his gentle handshake. ‘You too, Les. Andriana’s told me a few things about you.’

‘All good I hope,’ smiled Les.

‘Yes, all good,’ smiled Mitzi. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘Well, that’s… good. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Mitzi continued to smile. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

Les pulled a chair out; Mitzi placed her overnight bag on the table then sat down with her back to the sundeck and crossed her lovely brown legs. Still a little lost for words, Les kept giving Mitzi once up and downs that almost made his mouth water. In fact, it was all Norton could do to keep his eyes off her. Bloody hell, he thought happily. Andrea’s sent me round a young hooker. They’re not generally my cup of tea. But, Christ! No wonder those rich mugs pay a fortune to get in the cot with these ones. She’s bloody gorgeous. Les gave a little chuckle inside. Well, good on you, Andrea. And I’ll bet this is on the house too. Looking at Mitzi’s legs and smouldering eyes Les felt like eating her there and then, starting with her dainty little fingers and working his way down to what you could bet would be ten dainty little toes. Still, he thought, no need to go like a bull at a gate. I got all day yet.

Mitzi seemed to sense Les staring at her. ‘You did say you weren’t expecting someone else?’ she said.

Les shook his head and laughed quietly. ‘When Andri-ana said she was sending someone round to keep me company, I was half expecting Monroe. You’ll be a lot easier to get in the car than him.’

‘Actually he drove me round to your hotel.’

‘Monroe doesn’t drive just Andriana around?’

Mitzi shook her head. ‘Not that I live far from here. Just over in Kapahulu.’

Les nodded slowly. ‘Right. So how do you like working for Andriana? Or Ms Hazlewood.’

‘It’s good,’ replied Mitzi. ‘I like her.’

‘And how do you like being a working girl?’

Apart from the sweet smile, Mitzi’s Asian face was still somewhat inscrutable. Then even the smile seemed to fade. ‘How do I like being a what?’

‘A working girl.’ Les made a gesture with his hand. ‘You know. An LJ. A sausage roll.’

Mitzi stared expressionlessly at Norton. ‘I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about. I’m Ms Hazle-wood’s accountant.’

Norton looked at Mitzi, looked out the window for a split second, then looked back at Mitzi. ‘Right! Yes. Of course. You’re the accountant.’

Mitzi continued to stare at Les. ‘What exactly did you think I was?’

‘Think?’ Les blinked once or twice while his mind started tap-dancing at a thousand miles an hour. ‘Well. The… the marine architect.’

‘Marine architect?’

‘Yeah. You know. Andriana’s got that… those boatbuilding interests. You’re her accountant. You should know what I mean.’

Mitzi nodded very slowly. ‘I think I know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well. I’ve got a mate… a friend, back in Australia, who’s building a yacht. Andriana was going to get this girl… Kia… to drop some plans off for me to take back.’ Les looked at his watch. ‘She said if she wasn’t here by eight-thirty she couldn’t make it. I thought you might have been her… running late.’

Some expression returned to Mitzi’s face. An impassive blink. ‘Oh. I see.’

‘I thought you might have been an accountant anyway.’

‘Why’s that?’

Les pointed to Mitzi’s face. ‘I can see the marks on the bridge of your nose from your glasses,’ he said weakly.

Mitzi subconsciously massaged the top of her nose. ‘Actually, I had to do some reading this morning.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ Les clapped his hands together. ‘Well, now that we’ve got that sorted out, can I get you something, Mitzi? You don’t mind me calling you Mitzi, do you? Ms Moonkiss sounds a bit… you know?’

‘Mitzi’s fine,’ she nodded.

‘I’ve got no coffee. And I think it’s a bit early to start hitting the turps. Would you like some fruit juice?’

‘Thank you, Les. That would be very nice.’

‘Coming right up.’ Les gave Mitzi an oily smile and retreated to the bathroom.

Shit! How about that, thought Les, as he got some ice from the fridge. She’s an accountant. Trust bloody Andrea. I knew she’d pull some kind of a trick on me. The cheeky little bastard. But what a good sort anyway. Andrea must’ve got her straight out of school. And if she’s just a pen-pusher, I wonder what those other girls must look like in the flesh. Les mixed up two glasses of juice and went back into the bedroom.

‘There you go,’ he said, handing Mitzi a glass. ‘I call these “purple people eaters”. They’re not bad.’

Mitzi took a delicate sip. ‘Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you.’

Norton sat down opposite Mitzi and decided it might be an idea to stop perving on her. He’d already nearly made a dill of himself and Mitzi was obviously a very cool and intelligent young lady. A little respect now would be well in order. ‘So what did Andriana tell you about today, Mitzi? All she said to me was she was sending someone around to keep me company. But I am over twenty-one. I don’t need someone to hold my hand.’

‘Andriana said you’d hired a car and you were taking a drive over to the North Shore. She told me to see that you got there okay and take you out for dinner afterwards. Then we could both go and have a few drinks later, if you wanted to.’

‘Sounds all right to me.’ Norton’s smile was warm and genuine. ‘And thanks very much for going to the trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

Les was rapt. Just going out for the day with Mitzi would be sensational. And you never know — if he behaved himself there was a chance he might get another lash before he left. ‘You got any places in mind?’

‘Oh, a couple.’

‘Rightyo!’ Les took another sip of fruit juice. ‘So how long have you been Andriana’s accountant?’

Mitzi stared impassively at Les for a moment. ‘Oh, for a while.’

‘So you’d know a fair bit about Andriana… Ms Hazlewood?’

‘A bit. Yes.’

‘Then why don’t we drop this Andriana Hazlewood sheizenheimer, and call her Andrea.’

A wry smile crept across Mitzi’s inscrutable oriental face and flickered in those two beautiful brown eyes. ‘Yes. Why not,’ she nodded slowly with a quiet laugh.

‘Right,’ Les smiled back, happy now that they seemed to be on more even terms. He took another sip of fruit juice. ‘So, tell us a bit about yourself, Mitzi. But before you do, there’s something I’ve got to ask you, if you don’t mind. How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-seven. Why?’

Norton picked his jaw up off the floor and put it back on his face where it belonged. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he just about mumbled. ‘You don’t look anywhere near it, that’s all.’ What else could Les say?

Mitzi originally came from a small town in Korea called Yinchee, before moving to Seoul so she could attend university. She finished university in San Francisco, where she met Takushi’s two sons. She moved to Hawaii because she had relatives here and it was old Takushi who introduced her to Andrea. Mitzi had been with Andrea since day one and knew everything about her, including what Andrea had told her about Les. Naturally she knew exactly what Andrea was up to, how much she was worth and how she was covering her arse. She also knew that the bubble was going to burst eventually, especially with Andrea’s Godfather gone, and had advised her it was about time she got into something else. For her own good as well as everybody else’s. Les reiterated about how he knew Andrea, how he came to be in Hawaii and told Mitzi pretty much what he’d told Andrea, pointing to the mailing bag with the photocopies sitting on the table. Mitzi was trying not to let on too much, but being a woman she had to have a bit of a gossip, and once again, Les was a shoulder to lean on and an ear to chew, as well as seeming to be a likeable, easy-going sort of bloke. However, judging by the way Mitzi spoke about Andrea at different times, Les could see that as well as having a sort of admiration for her, she genuinely liked Andrea and the way Andrea treated her and others and was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. After a couple more cool fruit juices, Mitzi seemed to be warming up to Norton even more.

‘You know, Les, Andrea’s a shrewd businesswoman. But at times she can be so damn vague.’

‘Vague? How do you mean, vague?’

‘Blasé might be a better word. I mean, she just carries on in the middle of all this like it’s some sort of joke. It’s almost as if she gets more of a kick out of stirring people up than she does from the money she’s making.’ ‘Andrea’s always been a bit of a stirrer,’ smiled Les. ‘Maybe she’s just got things on her mind. The cops and all that.’

‘Forget the cops for the time being. Andrea wants to watch her back.’

‘You mean all the killings?’

‘Exactly,’ Mitzi nodded quite worriedly. ‘They’re starting to get scary, Les. But Andrea just says, “No worries. It’s all sweet.” Or, “I’ve sweetened it all up.” Or something like that.’

‘That’d be her,’ Les smiled again. He looked at Mitzi over his fruit juice for a moment. ‘What do you think of all these murders? Have you got any ideas who the bloke… the guy, is?’ Hello. Here I go again, thought Les. Sticking my big silly head in. I must be a frustrated bloody detective.

Mitzi shook her head, blowing air out over her lips. ‘I don’t know, Les. It’s weird. Really weird.’

‘Why’s that, Mitzi?’

‘Well. Because I come from the same village as all the girls, I’ve had to go down and identify the bodies, then get them sent home. Which is no big deal. I’m just an accountant who happens to come from the same place. And between the local cops and the marines, no one’s pushing it all that much. Except —’

‘Mick. The Aussie cop.’

‘Yeah. Actually, he’s an all right guy. Anyway, one day I ran all the girls’ names up on a computer, and as well as being strong the guy knows all the girls’ movements, where they live… and he must be able to speak Korean.’

Norton’s ears started to prick up. It might have been the frustrated cop in him. Maybe it was the fifty grand. ‘Tell me more, Mitzi,’ he said avidly.

‘Well, you must know how we Koreans have names like “Yik Ah Sun”, or “Roh Lan Kim”. I used to be called Mit Mu Kow, but I got sick of every yo-yo calling me Mitzi Moo Cow.’

‘Yeah, I can sort of dig that, Mitzi,’ chuckled Les, shifting his eyes to the ghetto blaster for a second. ‘I sometimes think all Korean politicians are named after old rock ’n’ roll songs. You know, Doo Ron Ron, Sha Na Na. Wop Bop Bop. Sorry if I’m being a little culturally insensitive there, Mitzi, old sausage. But they do.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean, Les.’ Mitzi returned Norton’s smile. ‘But so far all the girls, except for that damn black one, have been killed in alphabetical order.’

‘Interesting,’ Norton nodded slowly.

‘And you know what the next initial is, Les?’ The big Queenslander shook his head. ‘H. For “Hazlewood” or “Hayden”. Take your pick. There’s a Ho and a Han on the books, but they’ve gone back home. I reckon the next name on the killer’s list is Andrea.’

‘Shit! You could be right, Mitzi.’

‘I’m sure I’m right. There’s more to this than some kook marine that’s murdering the girls.’

‘That’s what I reckon.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yakuza was behind it. They’re ruthless enough. Takushi’s gone and there’s a lot of money involved. Plus they got all these weird rituals and things.’

‘It’s a thought.’ Norton drummed his fingers on the table.

‘And right in the middle of all this, Andrea just goes blissfully on about her ways. She should be more careful, for crissake!’

‘She told me she carries a gun. And she’s got Monroe to look after her. I couldn’t see anybody getting past him.’

‘But she just roams off at times. Never tells anybody where she is. She’s crazy. Especially with all this going on.’ Mitzi looked directly at Norton. ‘I’m scared for her, Les.’

Les nodded sincerely. ‘I don’t blame you, Mitzi. I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to her either.’

They talked for a while longer about different things, with Mitzi generally switching the conversation back to Andrea. Les showed her the photocopies and Mitzi was able to identify the girls easily; the photo of Andrea in the paper she’d seen before. More golden oldies oozed out of the radio and although Mitzi didn’t appear to have the greatest sense of humour in the world it was quite pleasant sipping fruit juice with her; at different moments it was almost like they’d been drinking. However, it wasn’t getting any earlier and Les suggested it might be an idea if they made a move. Mitzi agreed. Les got the plastic camera case, plus anything else he thought he might need, and shoved it all in his overnight bag. Mitzi took a towel from hers and slung a small leather handbag over her shoulder. Then they caught the lift downstairs.

It was a different driveway attendant, but Les still got the same smile, and he noticed the attendant giving Mitzi’s legs and backside a good going over as he opened the car door for her. Les slung him a dollar, climbed in the other side and put the hood down, then drove out from the hotel and pulled up with the other traffic waiting for the lights on Kalakau Avenue. He looked at the radio for a moment. No. The golden oldies had to cease. Gene Pitney, The Regents, Freddy Cannon. Maybe if you were a western suburbs housewife full of valium. Norton pulled a tape from his pocket and slipped it into the cassette.

‘Do you know the way?’ asked Mitzi.

‘I got a fair idea,’ replied Les.

‘I can show you anyway.’

‘Righto.’

The lights changed and as Les turned left into Kalakau Avenue, Lee Kernaghan slipped nicely into ‘The Outback Club’. Yes. This sounds a lot bloody better, thought Les. A bit further on they turned left again into Kapahulu and Paul Norton zipped into ‘They’re Getting Away with Murder’. Yes, Les chuckled to himself. This sounds appropriate. Mitzi directed him to go left there, get into that lane, go up some ramp, watch the truck behind him. Then with The Cockroaches boogying into ‘Kiss You Tonight’, they went down some other ramp into the H1, heading for the North Shore.

Considering Honolulu wasn’t all that big, the freeway was huge, with giant trucks and yank gas guzzlers going everywhere. Sitting down low in the small convertible the noise was fairly horrendous so Les slipped the side windows up. Flogging the guts out of the Mustang and not worrying about the speed limit would have been a lot of fun, but Les noticed the convertible didn’t have any roll bars and being decapitated in an accident wouldn’t be much fun at all. So Les just cruised along, taking his time and not taking any risks. Besides, the more time he took, the more time he had to look at Mitzi’s lovely brown accountant’s legs.

Between the noise and the music they didn’t talk all that much. Mitzi seemed happy enough tapping along to the cassette and being out in the sun for the day with someone different who was a friend of Andrea’s. Les cracked a couple of feeble jokes and even got a couple of feeble laughs. Les got a good view of Pearl Harbor and all the outlying suburbs as they cruised past, then the H1 became the H2 going towards Wahiawa.

It was rolling hills, trees and greenery, then near Wahiawa the H2 ended at Schofield Army Barracks and became just a double road. Les noticed soldiers in uniform walking around or on pushbikes; there were houses and playgrounds for kids and now and again a HUM-VEE would rumble past with aerials poking out everywhere. They crossed a narrow bridge, came up a rise, then all Les could see for miles was rows and rows of pineapples sitting in the red soil. Millions of them, for as far as the eye could see. It was dead flat and looked like someone had dug up the Nullarbor Plain and filled it full of pineapples. He saw a sign saying ‘Dole Pineapples’, then a railroad crossing and more pineapples. After a few more miles of pineapples the road narrowed and what little traffic there was slowed for some roadwork, then Les noticed a few small sugar cane fields along the side of the road, and about three miles ahead of him the ocean. It was quite windy and the water was a blue-grey with countless white horses being pushed over the reefs by the gusty tradewind. The wind appeared to be neither offshore nor onshore but coming from the side. As they got a little closer Les could see these rugged, grey headlands looking sinister and treacherous, plumed as they were with white spray from the choppy seas. A sign said ‘Kaiaka Bay’ and another pointed to Haleiwa. Mitzi pointed Les in that direction.

Now it was all old, dusty, wooden houses and shops, nothing like the concrete and chrome bustle of Waikiki. There were art galleries, restaurants and surf shops and Les wasn’t quite sure whether the place had an untouched, rustic ambience about it or whether it was just decrepit and rundown and would be better off being bulldozed. A sign outside a stall on the right caught his eye. ‘Conch Shells For Blowing.’

‘I don’t need one of those to make me blow,’ he said to Mitzi, knowing it would go straight over her head.

‘Neither do I,’ she answered, without taking her eyes off the road.

Norton was a little admonished. Hello, he thought. Hasn’t the conversation suddenly taken a lower tone. The dirty little tart.

They drove past more shops and old wooden houses, a park with a war memorial and different little bays and beaches. Les saw a sign saying ‘Chuns Reef’, then the road curved down and another sign said ‘Waimea Bay’. I got to have a look at this, thought Les. There was a break in the traffic so he drove straight in.

The carpark was about a third full. Les got his overnight bag and they walked across to the beach. There was an open shower next to a stone change shed and a clump of palm trees, cliffs behind, jagged reefs sticking out of the water on the left and a headland with more palm trees and about a six foot wave half a kilometre or so out to the right, and the whole place reminded Les of Bronte. Same size, same shape, the only things missing were the stormwater tunnel and a couple of thousand Greeks barbecuing sides of lamb. Just past the lifeguard’s tower on the right was a pretty lagoon surrounded by lush green hills, where about a dozen kids with shovels were digging a long ditch to empty it out. Les didn’t bother to ask why, although it seemed like a pretty dumb idea because the lagoon looked quite beautiful. He looked at Mitzi, who shrugged her shoulders and shook her head also. Oh well, thought Les. Knowing the mentality of your average young wax-head, if they weren’t wrecking the lagoon they’d only be burning down the nearest building or kicking over all the Otto-bins. The wave on the point was mushy and a bit slow, but the beach had a six foot shore break slamming down into the coarse sand. The water, however, looked blue and inviting; Les dropped his overnight bag and stripped down to his Speedos.

‘Wait here, Mitzi,’ he winked. ‘I’m going to show these local yokels how it’s done.’

Without waiting for a reply, Norton charged down the beach and dived under the next wave, not quite managing to avoid getting sucked back and dumped heavily on his arse in an explosion of swirling white foam and gritty brown sand. With water and sand pouring out of his nose and ears, Les managed to clamber to his feet, only to get bowled over on his arse again. With more sand and salt water pouring out of him Les got to his feet as another shore break loomed up. This time he managed to dive deep and hard, breast-stroking underwater till he surfaced well out the other side. It was only a matter of seconds before another shore break loomed up. One kick and Les was on it. It was kind of like getting burst out of a water tank, then having a dump truck full of wet sand tipped all over you. Les got smashed into about a foot of water, but was able to duck his chin in, roll and breakfall so he didn’t get spread over the beach like a squashed cane toad.

‘Hey! How good’s this!’ he yelled, to no one in particular, then turned around and dived another one.

Up on the beach Mitzi watched him and shook her head, while a few metres to Norton’s left a bunch of young grommets were doing pretty much the same thing. And if they could do it, so could the big, would-be grommet from Australia. Les got chundered into the sand by another six waves, then dripping water and sand walked up and stood in front of Mitzi.

‘There you go, Mitzi,’ he grinned. ‘At least when I get home I can say I surfed Waimea Bay.’

‘I was watching you out there, Les,’ she said, ‘and you were just like a little boy.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Les shrugged a little self-consciously. ‘But I wasn’t doing any harm. And it was fun.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that, Les,’ Mitzi smiled. ‘It’s good to see you still have some of the little boy in you. That’s a good sign in a man. I like it.’

‘Oh. Well, one thing I can tell you, Mitzi, this little boy’s got that much sand up his khyber, it’s coming out through his ribs. How about walking up to the shower with me?’

‘All right, surfer Joe.’

‘That’s me,’winked Les. ‘Kahuna Norton. The bronzed wonder from down under.’

‘Down under what? The table?’

Norton looked at Mitzi for a second. ‘I think you’ve been hanging around with Andrea Hayden for too long.’

The water poured straight out of the shower nozzles and was quite cool. But it was very refreshing and Les felt pretty good after he got all the sand out and changed back into his shorts. Mitzi sat up on a picnic table and watched him with her arms folded over her knees.

‘I should have gone for a swim myself,’ she said.

‘Well go on. I’ll wait for you. But watch the shore break. You’ve got more places to pick sand out of than me.’

Mitzi wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe when we get to Sunset.’

‘Okey-doke.’

Les took a few photos of the beach, a couple of Mitzi, then they climbed into the Mustang and got back onto the Kamehameha Highway.

There were a few more houses now as they drove through Pupukea and past Banzai. The road was fairly straight with plenty of long, windswept beach and reefs on the left, then there were cars parked everywhere and it was a little like the circus had hit town. Les slowed up for the traffic as they passed a cluster of tents, marquees and scaffolding on the left from which some Californian accent came droning out over a PA system above what sounded like some scratchy old Doors music. There were police cars, other cars with official insignia plastered all over them and pick-ups clustered around the marquees, people swarming everywhere and cars parked bumper to bumper on either side of the road. Just past the contest area a small gully on the left separated the road they were on from another street full of houses that ran along the beach. About half a kilometre or so further along Les parked the car and decided this time he might put the hood back up. They got their gear, crossed the small gully and walked back past the houses to the contest area.

Sunset reminded Les a bit of Long Reef or a couple of beaches he’d seen around Coffs Harbour. The beach itself angled down to the water and wasn’t very wide, with thick green hills behind and reefs at either end and running out the front. The surf was about six feet, lumpy and all over the place due to the howling cross wind and Mitzi agreed with Les that it wasn’t the best of conditions for a surf contest. But with waxheads, the show must go on. There would have been five or six hundred punters walking about or lolling around on the sand, looking cool and off shore amidst the usual mass of TV cameras and telephoto lenses positioned along the water’s edge like batteries of field artillery. Right in the middle was the stage and judges’ tower, with a sign underneath saying ‘Coors Light Triple Crown of World Surfing’. There were other tents and seating areas and stalls selling souvenirs and drinks. Les got two cans of Hawaiian Sun, an Orange Passionfruit, which was half cold and tasted like flat, sweet cordial, and a program. Blonde surf bunnies like in the magazines were very thin on the ground. Most of the girls looked like Sumo wrestlers or earth mothers and it wasn’t long before Mitzi was getting a few once up and downs from the local waxheads hanging cool to the same scratchy Doors music Les had heard driving past. There was a sudden commotion on stage and Les suggested they get a spot on the sand and see what was going on.

The droning voice Les had heard driving past belonged to some American with a ponytail and sunglasses who was now introducing a clean-cut American in crisp and yummy T-shirt and shorts who was the announcer from some radio station. He in turn introduced the four contestants for the final: two Hawaiians, a Tahitian and an Aussie. Go the Digger, thought Norton. After introducing the contestants, the MC went for the in-depth interview. Each interview was about as deep as the lid on a tin of Ovaltine and although Les was no rocket scientist he was pretty certain the four waxheads on stage didn’t do any brain surgery or discover new compounds and elements between surfing contests either. The MC almost needed a cattle prod to get their names out of them, although the lone Aussie did come out with a couple of laconic quips that unfortunately went over the heads of the gathered seppos. Next thing a helicopter hovered into view, the rescue team gathered as the four contestants walked down to the water’s edge with their boards, a hooter sounded and it was on.

How they judged a surfing contest Norton for the life of him didn’t know although according to his program it went by length of ride, manoeuvres, wave selection and style. No matter what, there was no doubting the contestants’ stamina and courage, paddling out a good half kilometre through a wind-blasted rip and what looked like a fairly treacherous undertow. Although he’d been doing a fair bit of swimming Les conceded he wouldn’t have liked to have been dropped out there with a boogie board or whatever and no fins and told to do his best.

The two Hawaiians had the place wired and were obviously doing the best of the four; at least, they were catching most of the waves. The Tahitian kept getting washed into the reef to the right and the Australian only got a handful of waves, though the ones he did get were screamers. Les and Mitzi watched intently, along with the oohs and ahhs from the crowd and the hype from the commentator, and both agreed the winner would be one of the Hawaiians. Then the hooter sounded again, the helicopter flew off and the four contestants surfed or paddled their way back in. Les and Mitzi followed the crowd back to the stage for the placings.

The Hawaiians took out the first two places, then came the Aussie with the Tahitian running fourth. Cameras flashed, the TV cameras rolled and the same MC went for some more in-depth interviews. He may as well have tried to interview four jam donuts. But it was all very off shore and hang ten or five or whatever and the crowd loved it, cheering and clapping both the winner and the runners-up. Not being a surfer, most of it went over Norton’s head and he couldn’t quite appreciate the grandeur of it all. In fact, the most Norton had to do with waxheads was argue with them when he’d be swimming between the flags at Bondi and they’d be running over him, then abusing him in the process. Norton was firmly convinced that if they put a set of flags on the dark side of the moon some waxhead would want to surf between them, firmly convinced that that was where the best waves were. He and Billy Dunne and various others got sick of arguing with them in the end and just dragged them off their surfboards and gave them a good drowning, like so many unwanted kittens.

In the euphoria of it all and the heady smell of perfumed board wax and tanning lotion, Norton almost forgot the main reason he was there: the camera case. He asked Mitzi to wait there for a few moments, then he went to one of the official tents and asked for the person Tony Nathan told him to see. He was pointed to a good style of a bloke about five nine, with brown hair and sunglasses and a bag over his shoulder, carrying a mini-recorder and writing something down in a notebook.

‘Excuse me, mate,’ said Les. ‘Are you Noel Edgeworth?’

The bloke looked up and smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Are you Les Norton?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Les. ‘Tony Nathan asked me to give you this.’ Les reached into his overnight bag and pulled out the plastic camera case.

‘Oh, fuckin’ unreal, mate. Thanks a lot.’ Noel offered his hand. ‘I gotta take some photos out at the Pipeline on Thursday and I’d have been stuffed without this.’

‘That’s all right, Noel. No worries.’

Noel looked at the camera case then put it in his bag. ‘Tony rang me and said you’d be over. You’re staying at the Regency in Waikiki. Right?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Les.

‘Me and a couple of the boys are coming into town for a drink, either tonight or tomorrow night. I’ll give you a ring and we’ll get out and shout you a few drinks.’

‘All right,’ answered Les, trying not to sound reluctant.

‘Probably tonight. But tomorrow night for sure.’

‘Terrific,’ lied Les. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ That’s all he needed — a bunch of drunken waxheads hanging off him while he had a chance of the lovely Mitzi being around. Even if Noel did seem like a nice sort of bloke.

‘Anyway, Les, I got to take some photos and do a couple of interviews. But I’ll ring you tonight. Thanks again for bringing this over. Unreal.’

‘That’s okay, Noel. I’m glad I came out. It was… unreal.’ They shook hands again and Les walked back to Mitzi.

‘Did you get everything done?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Now they’re threatening to come round and have a drink with me.’

Mitzi smiled a perfect row of white teeth framed in a delicate pink mouth. ‘I might go in for a swim. It’s fairly safe down in front of those rocks.’

‘I might just join you, Mitzi. I wouldn’t mind another swim myself.’

They walked down to the place Mitzi pointed out, where the full brunt of the surf was stopped by a reef. There was still plenty of swirling white water but no pointing shore break like there was back at Waimea Bay. Les got down to his Speedos again and beneath her top and shorts Mitzi was wearing a one-piece, black lycra costume, which sat her boobs up like two lovely firm peaches and fitted her so snugly round the crumpet the costume must have come in an aerosol can. Despite the warm water lapping round his ankles, a slight shiver crept up Norton’s spine. Bloody hell, he muttered to himself. I’ve got to stop looking at Mitzi like she’s some kind of sex object. But what are you supposed to do when they get around in outfits like that? Sign yourself into a monastery? Again the water was delightful and they frolicked around happily, diving up and down, jumping over waves and just having a good time in general. Les kept his hands off Andrea’s accountant, but when Mitzi got knocked on her dainty little behind a couple of times he helped her back up and a couple of times when the current caught her Mitzi grabbed for Norton’s hand. Even with the undertow dragging her, Mitzi still seemed to weigh almost nothing in Norton’s grip and once again evil ideas formed in his fertile mind, which Les was forced to hurriedly dismiss.

After a while they got out, picked up their clothes and walked up to the showers. If Mitzi was getting a few once up and downs before in her shorts, this time, standing under the open-air shower with her costume clinging to her like a second skin and her nipples almost shredding their way through the lycra, she had the local waxheads’ tongues hanging out over their beating chests like 1970s paisley ties.

‘Well, that was fun, Les,’ she said, running a towel back through her hair after they’d put their clothes on. ‘I really enjoyed myself.’

‘Yeah. I don’t know, Mitzi,’ replied Norton. ‘I was watching you at times, and you were just like a little girl.’

Mitzi walked up to Les, stood on her toes and poked her boobs in his chest. ‘I am only a little girl.’

Les shook his head. ‘No you’re not. You’re just a boring old fuddy-duddy accountant.’

An odd kind of smile appeared on Mitzi’s inscrutable, oriental face. ‘Andrea warned me about you.’

‘Yeah, I’m inscrutable. Come on, pen-pusher to the stars. Let’s head back to the car.’

They eased their way through the crowd and Norton didn’t quite know what to think when Mitzi gently slipped her arm in his.

Back at the convertible, Les started fiddling around with the clips that held the roof. ‘This time I wouldn’t mind going back the other way,’ he said.

‘Down the windy side of the island?’ answered Mitzi.

‘Yeah. It looks a bit longer on the map, but maybe we can stop and get a couple of beers or something.’

‘Sounds fine by me.’

Norton started the engine, switched on the cassette and with the Harlem Shuffle swinging into ‘Caldonia’ they cruised back along the highway, if you could call it that, heading for the windy side of O’Ahu then on to Waikiki.

Les drove past rows of old houses, a dairy, shrimp farms and other old buildings set amongst the rolling valleys and bushy plains facing the ocean, and he was reminded a little of parts of Queensland or the north coast of New South Wales. The road curved south at Kahuku and Les soon figured out why they called this part the windy side of the island. The wind howled in from the ocean, strong enough to blow the proverbial dog off a chain; when he’d slow down or stop for some traffic Les could feel it gusting over the top of the little convertible. Between the wind and the music Les and Mitzi didn’t talk about all that much, but it was fun driving along with the sun streaming down, and Mitzi seemed happy enough tapping away to the different songs. Les certainly wasn’t complaining.

They stopped at a little store near Kahana Bay and got a couple of bottles of mineral water, which they drank sitting on the bonnet while they watched the wind turning the water over the reefs into a swirling mass of countless white caps. Compared to Honolulu with its concrete and highrises this part of O’Ahu was virtually unspoilt and it was nice to see the developers hadn’t had a chance yet to turn it into another Surfers Paradise or Waikiki. Further on it was towering, granite cliffs gazing out over the ocean and lush jungle, then the traffic seemed to thicken a little and there were more houses. They went up a rise then entered a tunnel where the noise reverberating around the convertible was not only deafening but almost scary — you literally could not hear yourself think, let alone hear Dave Hole going for it on the cassette. They left the tunnel behind and before long were on the outskirts of Honolulu, just in time for the late afternoon gridlock. Eventually they ended up on Kalakau Avenue and the second tape Les put in cut out with another Black Sorrows track just as they pulled into the driveway of Norton’s hotel. Both were laughing and both agreed it hadn’t been a bad day all round as they got the lift back to the room.

‘Well, what do you fancy doing now, Mitzi?’ asked Les, handing her a fruit juice. ‘Even though I’m supposed to be the guest of honour, I’ll leave it to your better judgement.’

Mitzi moved across to the window and the afternoon sun streaming in caught her hair, turning it almost gold. ‘How does this sound?’ she said. ‘The sun hasn’t quite gone down, so why don’t we walk up to the Royal Aloha and have a couple of cocktails? Then go and have a meal somewhere. What do you feel like eating?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a steak, some salad and a great big potato, to tell you the truth,’ replied Les.

‘Allrighty. There’s a steak house not far from there that’s good. After that we can get changed back here and I’ll take you to the Green Giraffe.’

‘The Green Giraffe?’

‘Yes. It’s a nightclub behind Ala Moana. I have some friends who go there. I’d like to introduce you to them.’

‘Okay. You got me, Mitzi. Should I put my dancing shoes on?’

Mitzi flashed another inscrutable yet lovely smile. ‘If the guest of honour so desires.’

Mitzi freshened up a bit, Les threw some water over his face and still in their damp costumes and shorts they caught the lift down to the lobby. From there it was a quick stroll across Kalakau, up past the police station and through the foyer of an older, smaller hotel, painted white and gold, out into the beer garden. There was a bit of a crowd, but plenty of chairs and tables giving a pleasant and relaxing view of the beach, reefs, catamarans, canoes and whatever else was out on the nearby ocean taking advantage of the late afternoon sun.

They sat facing the water, and placed on the table was a small drinks list of exotic cocktails. A waiter in a floral shirt arrived with a bowl of nibblies. Les ordered a Chi Chi, Mitzi went for a Princess Kaiulani Punch. Just after the waiter left, four or five little grey-brown birds, something like a small pigeon, fluttered onto the table, so Les broke up a couple of pretzels and began hand-feeding them while Mitzi watched quietly.

‘Don’t worry, fellahs,’ Les said to one of the little birds nibbling from his hand, ‘you’re safe with me. She only eats dogs.’

‘You know what the most popular song in Korea is, Les?’ asked Mitzi. Norton shook his head. ‘Woking the dog.’

Les was trying to think of something to say when the waiter arrived with the drinks. Mitzi’s was in a tall glass, full of pineapple juice, flowers, little plastic swords and slices of fruit. Les’s was in a fat champagne glass, white and creamy, with more flowers plus a slice of pineapple and a cherry.

‘Cheers, Mitzi,’ said Les, clinking Mitzi’s glass. ‘Here’s to… Well, here’s to hoping everything turns out all right.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Mitzi. ‘I know what you mean. Let’s hope so.’

Norton’s Chi Chi was delicious, and strong. It was just like drinking a lovely sweet smoothie only the top of your head started to lift off. Les had another Chi Chi plus a Mai Tai and Mitzi had a Moana Sands. Before long the sun had gone down and Norton was starting to feel no pain.

‘Mitzi,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, ‘I think it might be an idea if we went and had something to eat. Or they’re going to have to steam my face off the table.’

Mitzi nodded her head and it was more like a jelly wobbling.

‘I think I know what you mean. But they’re easy to drink, aren’t they?’

‘Too bloody easy,’ agreed Norton.

They finished their last drinks and Les went to pay the bill, but Mitzi shook her head. The night was on Andrea — strict orders from the boss lady. Oh well. Who’s to argue with one woman, let alone two, thought Les, and put his money back in his pocket.

The Mamaia Steak and Chop House was about another couple of hundred metres’ boozy walk from where they were, into the lobby of a bigger hotel then the lift up one floor. It was a fair-sized restaurant with comfortable seating and a large balcony looking out over the ocean if you wanted. It was full, so they chose a red leather booth which was in a little from the entrance and close to the bar. There was a salad bar against one wall, a blackboard menu with the specials, with the rest of the menu written on the sides of wooden pineapples placed on the table. The place was fairly casual and in his shorts and T-shirt Norton didn’t feel out of place because the staff were dressed the same. After a skinful of rum cocktails Les didn’t feel like any more booze for the time being and neither did Mitzi, so they both ordered mineral waters with ice and lime. Les went for a New York cut, Mitzi chose Lemon Herb Shrimp with a Scallop Skewer. They piled their plates with salad and blue cheese dressing, then picked at that and chatted and joked away till the mains arrived. Norton’s steak was a boneless sirloin, thick and juicy and tender enough to eat with a spoon. Mitzi’s shrimps were golden and crisp and the scallops were broiled to perfection sitting on a bed of fluffy rice. Norton knocked over his Idaho potato and sour cream with ease and for a petite woman Mitzi was managing to put hers away without too much trouble also. For sweets Mitzi had a slice of papaya tart, Les went for chocolate devil’s food cake again followed by not a bad drop of brewed coffee. After that it was discreet burps and smiles all round, Mitzi paid the bill and more than contented they proceeded back to the hotel.

It was quite dark now and Mitzi had her arm in Norton’s again as they moved around the other people walking along Kalakau and crossed the road. They weren’t quite at the holding hands or stealing kisses stage, but Norton had this feeling Mitzi was warming up to him. Slowly but surely he was gaining her confidence. And you never know — after a few more rum punches or whatever at this nightclub, anything could happen on a balmy night in blue Hawaii. Then Norton’s conscience pricked him. Yes. An old friend does you a favour, sends someone around to keep you company and look after you, and what do you do? Think about getting her drunk so that you can get into her pants. In other words, take advantage of a poor, defenceless little woman. Les looked down at Mitzi happily walking along by his side and shook his head. A man’s got all the principles of a hyena that’s been selling real estate to pay for a course in Law.

They crossed the last street before the hotel, walked through the foyer into the lobby and darted straight into a waiting lift. Les pressed the button for his floor and with Mitzi still on his left they waited for the doors to close. Les couldn’t quite believe it when what should come bowling noisily through the lobby and straight into the same lift but four marines wearing jeans and T-shirts. Two had brown hair, another was blond, and one had black hair and a pencil moustache and looked like he could have been Hispanic. Thinking that they’d followed him, Les immediately tensed up and bunched his fists ready to go into action. However, it appeared they were just a bunch of half-drunk pests looking for someone staying there in one of the rooms. Les and Mitzi watched as the marines garbled amongst themselves about what room whoever it was they were looking for was staying in, till one pushed the button for Floor 18. Then one pushed another button, then another, till among them they pushed every button for every floor, then laughed uproariously thinking it was a huge joke. Great, scowled Les. Now as well as being in here with these imbeciles, I’ve got to put up with them on every floor till we get to mine. And it’ll take a bloody hour. The flips. He looked at Mitzi and shrugged. She looked back up at him and gave a thin, fleeting and understanding smile.

The doors closed, the lift took off and began lurching to a stop at every floor. Generally there’d be a bunch of Japanese tourists waiting there to go down and naturally the marines would pull faces and put shit on the slightly startled Japanese and laugh like drains till the lift took off again. After about three floors of this Les was well and truly sick of them and it was about this time that the half-drunk jarheads noticed him and Mitzi standing behind them.

‘Hey! What’s happenin’, dude?’ a brown-haired one said to Les, demanding more than asking.

Norton shook his head. ‘Not much, mate,’ he replied uninterestedly.

Another marine’s ears seemed to prick up. ‘Hey! Where are you from, buddy?’

‘New Guinea,’ said Les.

‘No he’s not,’ cut in another marine. ‘He’s a goddamn limey.’

‘Whatever,’ shrugged Les.

The lift stopped again at another floor and the doors opened to more Japanese tourists waiting to go down. Momentarily the marines left Norton alone to give the Japanese some more lip. Then the doors hissed shut and the lift took off again.

‘Say, dude,’ said the first marine, ‘shouldn’t your little slopehead gal be out there with her kinfolk lookin’ in?’ The others guffawed while Norton began to seethe.

‘Say, buddy,’ said the one with the moustache, ‘how much does a piece of slope ass like that cost these days? A carton of Luckies and a Zippo?’

The others roared at this remark. Mitzi didn’t appear to see the funny side, however, and by now Norton was ropable. Enough was enough.

‘Hey, you know what we are, buddy?’ asked the other brown-haired marine, staring at Norton glaring back at him. He jabbed a thumb into Norton’s chest. ‘We’re members of the United States Marine Corps.’

‘You don’t bloody say,’ Les replied slowly and deliberately.

‘Damn right we are,’said another. He stared at Norton. ‘And what are you a member of, buddy?’

‘What am I a member of?’ replied Les.

All four marines stared at him as the lift stopped at an empty floor then started up again. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m a member of the Outback Club.’

‘The Outback Club?’

‘Yeah. We don’t back down, and we don’t give up. And right now, you bunch of shit-for-brains, I ain’t livin’ in the land I love.’ Sorry about this, Mitzi, thought Les, looking at the accountant standing quietly in the corner. But here it comes. The ugly Australian.

Les dipped at the knee and slammed a left-hook into one brown-haired marine’s face, which pulverised his nose, mashed his top lip, along with his front teeth, and put him straight out of the fight with blood pouring down his face. Les threw a short right at the one in the corner near the door, but the one going down fell against him and the punch skidded off the marine’s forehead, only stunning him. Then it was on. The other two started into Norton with their fists and knees, along with the other one doing his best as well, and Norton giving plenty back in the way of uppercuts, knees and headbutts. The lift stopped at another floor and this time, instead of getting a gobful of cheek, the Japanese tourists almost shit themselves as the doors opened on this whirlwind of cursing, snarling men, angrily trying to kick and punch the stuffing out of each other. They jumped back like startled hens, clucking and squawking around the lobby, wondering just what the fuck was going on. Les slammed his elbow into one marine’s face then kneed another in the groin as the doors closed again. In the confines of the lift it was all one great mess and by keeping his head down and his chin in Les wasn’t copping all that much damage, mainly thumps around the back and kidneys. The doors opened and closed on another floor of horrified Japanese as Norton smashed and cursed his way from one side of the lift to the other, managing to catch the second marine he’d punched with a nice short left that mangled his lips and splashed blood over a glass-covered poster ad for the Carvery, just before a fist slammed into it splintering the glass. Despite the odds, Norton was beginning to get into the swing of things and felt he was starting to get the upper hand, when the marine with the moustache got behind him, levered his arm under Norton’s chin and put a choker hold on him just as the one on Norton’s right kneed him in the ribs. Uh-oh, gulped Les, as he felt his air being choked off, I’d better get my finger out or I’m in trouble. But it was hard enough fighting the two in front without piggy-backing another while you were slowly being strangled.

Les fired out some more punches, elbows and knees and tried to jam his thumb in the eyes of the marine choking him. But it was starting to get tough going and already Les could feel his strength beginning to ebb. He tried to get his hands to the fingers round his throat, hoping he might be able to break a couple, but the marine had his hands clamped tight. Norton’s vision was starting to blur. He was about to crouch down, then try to come up in one big, last burst, hoping to shake his assailant off, when for some reason he thought of Mitzi again. In all the confusion he’d almost forgotten about her and her safety; probably because normally a woman trapped in a lift with five brawling men would start screaming. But Mitzi hadn’t so far made a sound. Bent slightly forward, Les peeped out and up over the elbow around this throat and saw Mitzi still in the corner, going through her handbag. Christ! I hope she’s not looking for her fuckin’ make-up, cursed Norton. Another typical bloody woman, Korean or whatever. However, instead of producing a tube of lipstick, Mitzi pulled out a set of brass knuckles, which she slid onto her right fist. She drew back her shoulder and fired out a big straight right. Norton saw her arm go past his head and, although he didn’t see it, he heard the beautiful, satisfying thump of crunching teeth, lips and bone, along with the marine’s curse of pain. The grip around Norton’s neck loosened, Mitzi drew back her arm and gave the marine another one, then he let go completely.

With a great ‘whoosh’ Norton sucked in a huge lungful of air and immediately his strength returned. Full of rage and only having to fight two blokes now, Les tore into the pair of marines with all guns firing. It was a slaughter. To make things worse, after almost decapitating the marine who’d been choking Les, Mitzi now slipped the knuckle duster onto her left hand and joined in the fray, filling what area of the lift Norton had left out with horrible, bone-crunching left hooks that drew blood every time they landed. Now, when the lift doors opened, the Japanese tourists not only saw a big redheaded bloke punching into some other men, but a woman in there going for it as well. And she wasn’t bad either. Mitzi landed a left hook on one marine’s forehead that almost tore his eyebrow off, then as he sank Norton hit him with a left uppercut that jolted him straight out the lift doors into a bunch of startled Japanese who happened to be standing there at the time. Les and Mitzi made a pretty good team. In no time every wall of the lift was splattered with blood and none of it was Norton’s or Andrea Hayden’s accountant’s. And the only time either of them stopped throwing punches was when the lift stopped and they’d fling some unconscious marine out the doors, whether there was anybody standing there or not. By the time they got to the fifteenth floor the lift was empty and all four marines were lying broken, battered and bleeding where they landed on the various floors below them. The lift stopped again, the doors slid open and Les and Mitzi stepped out, with Les waiting behind, ladies first like a true gentleman.

‘Sorry about that, Mitzi,’ he said, as the doors closed behind them and they began walking towards his room. ‘But there’s just some things I can’t bloody cop. And you shouldn’t have to either. Not from mugs like that anyway.’

‘That’s quite all right, Les,’ replied Mitzi, a little seriously. ‘You defended my honour. I was proud of you and felt obliged to help as best I could.’

‘As best you could?’ Les rubbed his throat. ‘Christ! You sure saved my bloody bacon. Thanks, old mate.’

‘A pleasure — old mate.’

‘Where did you get that bloody thing anyway?’

‘This?’ Mitzi wiped some blood off the knuckle duster then dropped it back in her handbag and smiled at Les. ‘We accountants always carry a pocket calculator with us. You never know what intricate calculations we might have to make at times. Especially in my racket.’

Norton shook his head. ‘Christ! Who said accountants were boring?’

‘Anyway, that was nothing, Les. You haven’t seen a real streetfight unless you’ve been in a student demonstration back in Seoul. They make that look like a lesson in hula dancing.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ replied Les, fumbling in his blood-spattered shorts for the key.

Les closed the door behind them, switched on the lights in the bedroom and checked himself out in the mirror. His new T-shirt was just about torn off his back and what wasn’t ripped was splashed with blood, along with his shorts and face. Mitzi didn’t have a mark or a scratch on her except spatters of blood along her arms and in her hair. Poor defenceless bloody woman, reflected Les. Good thing I didn’t get any smartarse ideas on the night. I’d look pretty funny trying to eat corn on the cob with no front fuckin’ teeth. One thing for sure, something a little stronger than a purple people eater was in order right now. He asked Mitzi if she felt like something. She said yes, so Les went to the bathroom and got two Bacardis and Grape Crush together.

‘There you go, Mitzi,’ he said, handing her a drink. ‘And thanks again for saving my neck.’

Mitzi bowed her head slightly. ‘And thank you for defending mine.’

Les watched her take a sip of Bacardi. If he’d been wearing a hat he would have taken it off to her. ‘You’re a tough little woman, Mitzi. I haven’t met too many like you.’

‘You’re not bad yourself, Les.’ Mitzi tossed back her head and laughed. ‘But honestly, Les, that was nothing. When we stormed the Kuro Gu building I watched students being beaten to death by the riot police. We fought with petrol bombs, iron bars, house bricks — anything we could lay our hands on. The air was that thick with pepper and tear gas you could hardly see, and all we had for protection was toothpaste smeared over our skin. I got knocked out three times, had my nose broken twice.’ Mitzi started punching at the air and chanting. ‘Dok Chae Tado! Dok Chae Tado!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Smash the dictatorship.’

‘Oh! Sounds like fun. But I reckon smashing the odd jarhead’s jaw’d be a lot easier.’

Mitzi took another sip of Bacardi and smiled at Les. Although he was looking at her in a new light now, it was obvious from the expression on her face that the mild-mannered accountant’s adrenalin was still pumping a little; she’d also got her rocks off during that fight in the lift. There was definitely another side to Mitzi Moonkiss, and a few things Les would like to have said to her and asked her. For the time being, however, he thought he might let it slide.

‘I might put the radio on,’ said Les, moving across to the ghetto blaster.

‘Why don’t you put another one of those tapes on? I liked that one about the Outback Club.’ Mitzi started mimicking what Les said to the marines in the lift.

‘Yeah, all right.’ Norton got a tape from his overnight bag. ‘It’s on the other side of this one. But this’ll do for the time being.’ He pressed the play button and ‘Cavazally’ by Nathan Cavaleri came twanging pleasantly out. ‘So what’s doing tonight? We still going for a drink?’

Mitzi looked slightly surprised. ‘Are you for real? Of course we are. Drinks at the GG Tuesday night.’

‘Okay. So how are we going to work this out? I reckon you should jump under the shower first.’ Mitzi nodded. ‘And while you’re in there I’ll iron something. Is that place casual?’

‘Jeans and a shirt are all right.’

‘Righto. Do you have to be up early tomorrow?’

‘Not too early.’

‘I got to meet Andrea at nine.’

They chatted and joked while they finished their Bacardis then Mitzi got under the shower and Les ran the iron over a pair of jeans and a dark blue polo shirt; there were a few scratches and welts around his back and if they should start to weep it wouldn’t show. He cleaned up a pair of black moon boots as Mitzi came out of the bathroom with towels wrapped all round her, then it was Norton’s turn.

He tossed his clothes in the bath to soak and the hot water running over his body felt good. There were a few lumps on top of his head and he had a bit of a shiner, plus some stiffness round his throat. But it was mainly bruising round his ribs and his knuckles could have done with some more iodine. A few different things ran through Norton’s mind again while he was shaving, but before long he came out of the bathroom with a towel around him, smelling okay and not feeling too bad at all considering.

Mitzi had changed into a loose-fitting pair of black denim shorts and a grey top cut low enough in the front to show a nice pair of boobs sitting in a delicate black bra. She went back into the bathroom to finish her hair and make-up while Les got changed and when she returned they both looked quite a peach of a pair. Norton wasn’t quite sure, but if he wasn’t mistaken Mitzi was giving him a few inscrutable once up and downs from where she was standing by the curtains in front of the sun deck.

‘Les, I’d like to thank you for a very lovely day,’ she said.

From where Les was standing opposite her voice appeared to have a ring of finality about it, as if she’d changed her mind and was about to say goodbye. ‘That’s okay, Mitzi. I had a pretty good time myself. It was great.’ The big Queenslander got a bit of a surprise when Mitzi stepped across the room, reached up and kissed him softly on the lips: twice. Then just as softly stepped back to where she’d been standing.

‘I mean it, Les. Andrea was right what she said about you. You’re a good man.’

Norton absently fingered the touch of lipstick she’d left on his lips. ‘I don’t quite know what to say, Mitzi.’

‘Why don’t you try picking up the phone and telling them at the desk we need a taxi,’ she smiled.

‘Yeah, righto.’ Les returned her smile. ‘I reckon I can manage that.’ Les went to pick up the phone and noticed the red MESSAGE button was on. I reckon I know who that is. Those waxheads. Or maybe Warren. Whoever it is, Les grinned to himself, they can all get fucked. Norton baby is going out on the town.

There was no drama down in the lobby. They didn’t see any police around or extra security. The management probably cleaned up the mess then hushed everything up, and it was doubtful that the four big, bad US Marines would say they got beaten up by some bloke and his girlfriend after they’d insulted her. If anyone had said anything Les and Mitzi would have denied it anyway. The taxi ride out to wherever they were going was quite pleasant and uneventful also. Sitting in the back Les recognised the Ala Wai Canal again and a couple of other streets. He caught Mitzi’s eye, smiled at her and when she smiled back she slipped her tiny hand inside his. It felt like a small soft flower and it was hard to imagine something like that doing so much damage earlier. Before long the taxi pulled up outside some sort of shopping centre covered in tiny Christmas lighting with a parking station above. Mitzi paid the cab driver and they walked up a couple of steps past a small fountain bubbling away merrily in a neat, landscaped garden.

Inside was a kind of boutique shopping mall with an open-air bar in the middle and various restaurants, clothes shops and other stores radiating from it. There was a fair crowd drinking at the bar or walking around. Les noticed a glitzy disco called ‘Cadillacs’ as Mitzi motioned for them to take the strand going left.

The Green Giraffe was double-fronted smoked glass and had a small area roped off out the front with red velvet where you entered. It was all neon and chrome with naturally a mural of two green giraffes on the windows, a neon sign above saying ‘Green Giraffe’ and had a kind of upmarket feel about it, as did the entire mall. Outside was a knot of punters hoping to get past two huge doormen in dark suits. One of the doormen saw Mitzi approaching and motioned her past the waiting punters. She said something to the doorman, who smiled at Les then ushered them straight through the door.

Inside was dark and smoky yet nicely air-conditioned with mirrors round the walls and a circular bar in the middle surrounded by plenty of plush seating. It was done out in mainly green, blue and black that reflected more shiny chrome. Down one level, left of the bar, was a dancefloor about half full, a DJ pumping out the usual house music, with more stools, tables, et cetera, and a drink rail running round the wall. The place would have fitted more than a hundred comfortably and was about two-thirds full. Mitzi motioned for Les to follow her and as they walked down past the dancefloor he noticed the punters were a mixture of Asian Hawaiians, blacks and whites, all very well dressed, a bit shifty looking and not too young. Seated or standing in the corner, left of the dancefloor, were about ten Asian girls who all looked up as Mitzi entered. There were smiles all round mixed with a bit of hugging and gushing from half of them. They noticed Les and Mitzi introduced him around. Between the noise from the music and the mild confusion, most of the names went in one ear and out the other with Les. But he remembered some of them had western names like Cheryl, Jocelyn and Nevada. Some of the others were called Kop and Liu or Bobi. A waitress appeared and Mitzi ordered a Stinger for herself, and Les decided on a bottle of Millers for the time being. The drinks came promptly and when they did Mitzi excused herself for a moment while she talked about something with some of the girls. While she was talking Les discreetly checked them out.

They were all well dressed in a variety of coloured tops, good jewellery, short dresses and tight designer jeans or stretch pants. They were mostly attractive, but two were absolute stunners with blonded hair and figures like Mitzi’s, only better. The rest had jet black hair, either bobbed or long, and good figures — two were a little taller than the others and one of the taller ones had an exceptionally muscly backside and thighs, which were emphasised even more by a pair of black stretch pants. They seemed like a happy enough lot, moving around to the music while they sipped their drinks. Mitzi must have told her friends about her day with Les and what happened earlier because they kept sneaking glances at him and smiling or laughing and the next thing Les knew he had another beer in his hand and he was one of the chaps. After that, a jolly good night was had by all.

Norton finished his beer, had a Margarita, then switched to bourbon and unleaded. He went to put his hand in his pocket, but Mitzi was evidently running up a tab so he didn’t have to bother. If my friends could see me now, Norton smiled to himself. Sucking up free booze and surrounded by glamours. Does it get any better than this? Some of the girls were interested in Australia and asked Les what it was like and as modestly and unparochially as he could, Les told them everything they’d heard was true and it was the best country in the world. A couple more girls joined them and some blokes the girls seemed to know drifted over and had a dance or two. But no mugs hit on them or tried to hang around. The DJ pulled an old disco favourite out of his date. ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ by Queen and Mitzi looked up at Les.

‘Feel like a dance?’ she said.

Les smiled back at her. ‘Mitzi, I thought you’d never ask.’

Most of the punters on the dancefloor were into the usual disco ducking they’d seen on MTV, waving their hands all over the place, shuffling their feet at a hundred miles an hour then spinning around in circles now and again. Les thought he’d go for a bit of Ciroc. When he’d taken DD out of a night back in Sydney, the girl who worked for her and came down with her generally tagged along as well. She was a Kiwi who’d won a couple of Ciroc contests back in New Zealand. DD was into it and for a joke they got Les going as well. You didn’t have to be Fred Astaire. It was just a mixture of rock ’n’ roll, dirty dancing and a bit of ballroom thrown in as well. But it was heaps of fun, and Les was half drunk and in Hawaii for a good time, not a long time.

Mitzi was light on her feet and Les had half an idea what he was doing. He’d spin her around, she’d bend over backwards then slide up and down his chest as they’d give it a bit of Patrick Swayze one minute, a bit of Bill Haley the next and all pretty much in time to the repetitious house music beat. Mitzi was rapt. Even the other dancers seemed to be getting a kick out of watching the big, lumpy Australian and the lovely little Korean having a good time. After three songs they went back to the others and Les decided he felt like a beer. One of Mitzi’s girlfriends asked Les for a dance, so Norton obliged her and another one. That was fun too. The girls were all stunners and they loved flashing their knickers or shaking their boobs and it was a hoot for Les squeezing their ribs and giving their tight little bums a bit of a pat as he’d bend them over. Then Liu, the one in the black tights with the big behind, came over.

‘Come and dance with me,’ she said.

‘Sure, mate. Why not?’ said Les, putting down his drink.

Liu kept giving off strange vibes and up close she had these wild eyes that were very rounded for an Asian woman and which seemed to burn deeply with an odd, almost sexual, intensity. Not only that, going by her behind, Les expected her to be a bit soft. But she was firm all over and her backside was as solid as rock. She was also exceptionally light on her feet and when Les spun her back she did two full-on splits then slid back up as if it was nothing. Christ! I don’t think I’ll be trying that tonight, thought Norton. Unless I want to fly back to Australia on two seats. But Les also thought he wouldn’t have minded getting into Liu’s pants. There was something about her and with a body as hard yet supple as that you could bet she’d go off like a race riot in LA.

They rejoined the team and another girl asked Les for a dance. But by now Norton figured out they were half pie using him for a chance to show off on the dancefloor, so he politely brushed the idea. Besides, he came with Mitzi and he wanted to stick with her. However, if things didn’t work out so good Les was thinking of coming back to the Green Giraffe and seeing if ‘Liu Liu’ was back in town.

‘So what do some of your girlfriends do, Mitzi?’ asked Norton, over another Bourbon and unleaded.

‘Oh.’ Mitzi sipped another stinger and nodded towards the girls. ‘Those three there work for Andrea.’ Mitzi smiled. ‘They’re hostesses. Nevada and Bobi are models.’

‘What about the one I was dancing with that did the splits?’

‘Liu.’ Mitzi smiled again. ‘Liu’s a bit of a funny one. She works for Andrea too, as a driver. She wanted to be a hostess, even had an operation to get her eyes rounded, but Andrea put her on as a driver. Andrea thinks she’d make a good Wahu.’

‘Fair dinkum?’ Les couldn’t quite believe it.

Mitzi smiled. ‘When she was young she was a geisha girl back in Tokyo. She was also a champion figure skater.’

‘Ah. No wonder she’s so…’

Les was about to finish when he noticed all the girls, including Mitzi, seemed to be looking towards the bar. Les turned around to see what had caught their eye. Walking along the side of the dancefloor towards them was a young Asian man flanked by two Hawaiians who could have almost worn Monroe’s shirts without too much hanging over. The Asian was good-looking and perfectly groomed, wearing an immaculate, dark blue, double-breasted suit with a grey silk tie. The two men with him wore suits with sports shirts and one had his black hair back in a ponytail. The girls all greeted him with a kind of nervous laugh and he bowed his head politely to each one. But although his manners were impeccable and he appeared to ooze charm, whoever the bloke was he had an air of sinisterness about him you could just about cut with a knife.

Mitzi didn’t appear to join in the nervous laughter. She addressed whoever he was by his name, then spoke to him for a short time while the two obvious heavies let their eyes wander impassively around the club, giving Norton a couple of once up and downs as they did. Les stayed where he was, sipped his drink and minded his own business. After he’d finished talking to Mitzi the young Asian man bowed his head again and shook her hand, had a brief conversation with some of the other girls then moved across to Liu. He was half smiling as he spoke to her although Liu appeared very serious and nodded several times during the conversation like she was being obedient. The young bloke smiled, patted her on the shoulder then bowed again. He nodded what appeared to be a signal to the two heavies to say he’d finished his business here then waved his hand almost imperceptibly to a waitress who happened to be hovering nearby. He said something to her, the waitress nodded her head and hurried towards the bar. The young man turned to a couple of girls and said something that made them laugh politely. A moment or two later the waitress returned with three bottles of Moet in ice buckets, along with a number of tall champagne glasses, which she placed on one of the tables. Blue suit dropped a small bundle of hundred dollar bills on the waitress’s tray, smiled at the girls again, said something else to Mitzi, then, with the two heavies flanking him, left as menacingly as he’d entered. The girls all looked at each other for a moment after he’d gone, then started helping themselves to the shampoo. Les stuck to his bourbon while Mitzi poured herself a glass, seemingly just to be in the swing of things with the others.

‘Who was that?’ asked Les, nodding towards the champagne chilling in the ice buckets. ‘The Great Gatsby?’

‘Nagoaka,’ replied Mitzi. ‘One of Takushi’s sons.’

‘Yeah. What’s he like?’

Mitzi nodded slowly. ‘He’s all right. Under the circumstances.’

‘He looked like he was trying to put a bit of work on big Liu baby. Is that his girl?’

‘Liu runs a few errands and things for him now and again.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nagoaka and Andrea get on all right. Under the circumstances.’

Les was going to say something, but changed his mind. The whole thing was starting to get like a B-grade movie. Japanese Godfathers, lesbian geisha girls, serial killers, cops, madams, hookers. Yeah, reflected Les, taking another sip of bourbon, I’m back in America and back in the bloody movies. Oh well, it doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time.

Les and Mitzi danced and drank some more. He had another dance with Nevada and a couple more with Liu to keep her happy. One of the girls ordered some pulped strawberries and Les even had three or four glasses of champagne topped with strawberry, which didn’t go down too bad at all. After a while Mitzi suggested it might be an idea if they got going; his eyes starting to wobble a bit, Les agreed. There were smiles and goodbyes all round then Les and Mitzi went outside where one of the doormen got them a taxi and they headed back to the hotel.

The ride back to the hotel was a bit on the quiet side and Mitzi seemed a little reserved, just staring out the window as if she had something on her mind. Les didn’t actually expect her to start crawling all over him, but she somehow seemed slightly more inscrutable than usual. Maybe the arrival of young Nagoaka on the scene put some sort of bee in her bonnet. Maybe she’s drunk. She had enough stingers in there to kill a box jellyfish. But with her it’s hard to tell anything. Les blinked out of his window. I know I’m drunk, no matter what. It had been a good night and they seemed to have got on famously and there was still a chance he might see her before he left on Saturday.

‘Well, I had a top time back there, Mitzi,’ he smiled at her. ‘Thanks for taking me along.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Les,’ Mitzi smiled back. ‘I did too.’

‘Yeah. It’s been a pretty good day all round.’ Les gazed out the window towards the sky, where a full moon was drifting lazily amongst the stars. ‘And a ripper of a night.’

‘Good.’

It was fairly quiet when they got back to the hotel. Mitzi paid the taxi driver and they caught a lift straight to Norton’s room, where he switched on the lights in the bedroom. Les couldn’t be bothered rummaging around sorting out tapes so he put the radio on and got the Angels singing ‘My Boyfriend’s Back’. Bugger it, that’ll do, he thought. After the last ten house music tracks, one after the other, anything would have sounded good. Mitzi used the bathroom then took her shoes off and put them in her overnight bag. Les thought that wasn’t a bad idea and did the same. Again he apologised that he didn’t have any coffee, the best he could muster up was either more Bacardi or a beer. Or if she wanted to get going that was okay. Mitzi said she might have a beer before she left. Les thought that wasn’t a bad idea either and opened two bottles of Millers. He handed Mitzi one and they sat down at the table facing each other. As he leaned back, the chair cut straight into some of the bruises around his back, making him wince as if someone had just kicked him there again. Now that he’d cooled down some of the souvenirs he’d received in the lift were starting to hurt.

‘Oh bugger this, Mitzi,’ he said gingerly. ‘My bloody back’s killing me. I’m gonna prop myself up on the bed with my feet up. Stay there.’ Les went across to the bed, got all the pillows and stacked them against the wall, then lay back against them. ‘Ohh yeah,’ he sighed. ‘That’s a bit bloody better.’ He raised his beer to Mitzi watching from the table and took a sip. ‘Well, Seoul sister, here’s to university days. May all your riots be little ones.’

Mitzi raised her bottle also. ‘Dok Chae Tado,’ she smiled.

Les took another sip of beer then shook his head. ‘Dunno about the dictatorship, but I’m half smashed.’ Norton took another sip of beer and closed his eyes with comfort as the pillows seemed to soak up the aches in his back. Some other golden oldie oozed across the room from the radio then Mitzi came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Is your back really hurting?’ she asked.

‘Is my back hurting?’ echoed Les. ‘Are you fair din-kum? You try jumping into a lift and punching it out with four horrible mugs and see how your back feels. I reckon you snuck a couple into me with that knuckle duster.’ Les affected a wince. ‘And all because some drunk called you a dingbat. Buggered if I know.’

An odd smile seemed to flicker briefly in Mitzi’s eyes. ‘Very well. Take your T-shirt off and I’ll give you a rub.’

Norton shook his head. ‘No thank you, it’s quite all right. I’ll just sit here and ache.’

Mitzi continued to stare at Norton for a moment or two. ‘Just how sore is your back?’ she said.

Les stared back at Mitzi then smiled. ‘Sore,’ he said. ‘But not that sore.’ Les looked into Mitzi’s eyes for a moment then drew her towards him. If it was okay for Andrea’s accountant to kiss him earlier, then surely it was all right for him to do the same.

If Mitzi had beautiful lips before, now they felt even better. Soft, moist, and tantalisingly sweet. Les placed his hands gently on her ribs and she held him under the elbows. Les was watching her, trying to see what kind of reaction he was getting, but he couldn’t figure out what was going on in those beautiful brown eyes. They just seemed to smoulder beneath the lids like tiny dots of amber fire. Les flicked his tongue over Mitzi’s lips and around the corners of her mouth. Hers came back a second or two later and the hairs on Norton’s neck stood on end. The kissing got hotter and more intense. Les closed his eyes and enjoyed every second of it as whatever music was coming from the little radio seemed to fill the room.

Les slipped his hand under the back of Mitzi’s top about the same time as the rest of her tongue slid into his mouth. The top came off about the same time as Norton’s T-shirt. Les kissed her lips and neck, Mitzi wrapped her arms around his neck and slipped her tongue in Norton’s ear, sending a shiver up his spine. Next thing Mr Wobbly was primed and ready to go, almost kicking the fly out of Norton’s jeans. He slipped her bra off and began gently massaging her breasts; they were like two beautiful firm mangoes, the nipples between his fingers softer than two tiny pink raspberries. Les kissed her breasts and nipples and rubbed the back of Mitzi’s neck with one hand while he worked her shorts off with his other. She was wearing frilly black knickers that matched her bra. Norton’s eyes spun around in his head and they were still spinning when he had his jeans off a second or two later.

Mitzi’s ted sat there like some juicy, tender peach. Les ran his hand over it and it was that soft you’d have thought baby silkworms had just spun it. Les couldn’t help himself, he had to start stroking it. Mitzi writhed around the bed making quiet, moaning sounds. Les kissed her some more and kept stroking away, feeling her ted swelling under his hands. He kissed Mitzi’s lips, her neck, her nipples then slipped her knickers off and as she spread her legs ran his tongue down her stomach and in between her legs. It was pure heaven. Les licked and sucked and kissed away. Next thing Mitzi had his head in a grip of iron. Les went for it, shaking his mouth from side to side, feeling the juice and more swelling beneath his tongue. Mitzi gave a little scream, started pushing herself against Norton’s face, then spread her legs almost across the bed, howled again and let it all go.

Well, thought Les as he came up for air, Mitzi was right when she said she didn’t need conch shells to make her blow. And neither do I. She’d only have to look hard at my dick right now and I’d empty out all over the place myself. To make matters even worse, Mitzi came to life, pulled Norton’s jox off and started giving him a polish that sent him cross-eyed; Norton was now that horny he was almost in tears. She lay back on the pillows and spread her legs again. Les moved on top of her, rubbing her breasts again as he kissed her. Well, if this goes more than ten seconds I’ll give a million bucks to the hospital. But she’s had her rocks and there’s no way I’m going to give myself a hernia. Mitzi’s ted was all moist and there was stuff spurting out of Norton all over the place. He gave a couple of gentle shoves and he was in.

It was like an indescribable, velvet sensation. Les had never felt anything so soft yet firm at the same time. He started stroking away, wondering, does life always get this good? When Mitzi clamped her vaginal muscles around him it felt like Mr Wobbly had just got jammed in a vice. Next thing she started rotating her pelvis like it had a two-stroke motor behind it. Norton’s body shook, his spine rattled and Mr Wobbly didn’t know what hit him. Les tried to do a bit of pumping, but Mitzi had him. She got her legs around him and ground away. Norton thought he was going to go mad, he’d never felt anything like it. Mitzi ground a bit more, Les slammed his eyes shut, sucked in a great lungful of air, then arched his back and let go as Mitzi’s pumping ted sucked everything out of him but the marrow in his bone.

‘Aaarghhh-ooohhh-owhh-grrghh-ohhh!’ The full moon was still shining outside the window. Les got a glimpse of it as he howled with delight then flopped back on the bed alongside Mitzi as she let him go. Norton’s heart was banging like a trip hammer. Somehow he managed to focus for a moment. He reached across, gave Mitzi a kiss then flopped back down on the bed. ‘Jesus! How good was that?’ He managed a smile. ‘I think the pain in my back’s gone. Everything’s gone.’

‘So much for your bad back, huh?’ said Mitzi. She watched Norton, smiling for a moment, then got two towels, placing one over Les and wrapping another one around herself. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said.

‘Yeah, righto,’ panted Les, from under closed eyes.

More music oozed out of the radio and Les could hear the shower running as he lay back on the bed and tried to figure out what had just hit him. How often do you find a girl like that? he asked himself. Not only can she fight like a bag of cats, how good is she in the cot? Andrea wasn’t kidding when she said those sheilas from that village were good roots. There’s not enough Gs in ‘grouse’ to describe it. One thing for sure, I got to see her again. Les was still figuring things out and feeling pretty pleased with himself when Mitzi came back and sat on the edge of the bed. She was in her blue shorts, joggers and a T-shirt. Les was a little surprised. In a way he was expecting to see her in her knickers and bra. Then, on the other hand, he was that destroyed and still half drunk, he probably couldn’t have gone another one right at the moment. It just seemed a little sudden. A bit cut and dry, that was all.

Mitzi ran her hand across Norton’s chest. ‘Thank you again for a lovely day, Les.’

‘No need to thank me, Mitzi,’ he smiled up at her. ‘I’m the one that had all the fun, I reckon. When am I going to see you again?’

Mitzi shook her head. ‘You’re not.’

‘Oh?’ Norton’s heart sank a little. The way she said it seemed odd and made him feel bad. Like he’d done something wrong.

‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Les.’ Mitzi smiled sweetly at him. ‘You were fun. I had a great time. I got a bit drunk and all that, but I do honestly like you, Les.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s good.’

‘I’d also like to think, Les, that what happened tonight happened just between you and me.’

Norton nodded. ‘You have my word, Mitzi,’ he answered honestly. ‘That’s a promise.’

Mitzi kept smiling sweetly, making Les feel worse. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Les. Do you have a girlfriend back in Australia?’

For a second Norton flashed onto DD. ‘No. Not really,’ he said.

‘Well I, no not really, have a boyfriend, who’s over on the mainland at the moment.’

‘I understand perfectly, Mitzi.’

‘And the less you know about him the better, Les. All around.’

‘I think I can dig that too, Mitzi.’ Les looked at Mitzi for a moment then drew her back towards him, gave her a hug then kissed her a couple of times. ‘But let me just say this, Mitzi Moonkiss, and in all sincerity. You’re one of the best women I’ve ever met. And I mean that, Mitzi. From the bottom of my heart.’

Mitzi smiled and shook her head. ‘You know what you are, Les?’ Norton shook his head too. ‘Andrea has this weird expression she uses now and again, which I think I’ve figured out. A “fair dinkum bloke”. Is that it?’ Les nodded. ‘Well, that’s what you are.’

Despite the sudden sadness, Norton’s face broke into a grin. ‘Thanks, Mitzi. You can’t do much better than that. Now, let me take you down to the foyer.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll leave just as I came.’

‘Oh. Well, at least let me walk you to the door.’

Les wrapped the towel around him, got up and took Mitzi to the door and opened it.

‘Well, goodbye, Mitzi,’ he said.

Mitzi gave him one last smile. ‘Goodbye, Les. Aloha.’

‘Yeah. Aloha.’ Les watched her shapely behind going down the hallway, then he closed the door and she was gone.

Well, figure that one out, thought Les, as he picked up what was left of his beer and gazed out the window. You win some, you lose some. But what a good sort. I won’t forget her in a hurry. He let go a huge yawn and suddenly felt all the bruises in his back again. I reckon I might get under the shower myself. And drop a couple of Panadols. I’ve still got a bit of a funny day on tomorrow.

Still feeling half drunk, Les got under the shower, which didn’t sober him up but relaxed him nicely. He yawned a few more times and let the water run over his face into his mouth. There were a couple of things he wanted to think about, but for the moment just couldn’t quite be bothered. He towelled off, put some more iodine on his knuckles then began turning all the lights out along with the radio. There was something playing on his mind, though. Something to do with what happened in the lift. Was it a sense of déjà vu? Or something he’d seen somewhere? One thing for sure, Les winced as he climbed into bed and a couple of bruises on his back told him he should lower himself down a little more gently. Whatever it is, it can wait till morning. And even then, I’m not sure it’s worth it.

The bed was soft, the two Panadols started to cut in and Les closed his eyes. I wonder what breakfast will be like tomorrow? It should be okay. Hope they’ve got grits and hash browns on the menu. Before long Les was snoring peacefully once more.

The booze, the dancing, the sex, and especially the fight in the lift, had taken its toll on Norton, in both body and soul. If it hadn’t been for the phone ringing around seven-thirty Les probably would have slept till lunchtime. He blinked his eyes open, looked around for a moment then reached across and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ he said thickly.

‘Hey, Les. How’re you doin’? It’s Mick.’

‘Oh. G’day, Mick. How’s things?’

‘All right. Did I get you out of bed?’

‘Sort of. I ended up having a few drinks last night.’ ‘Yeah? I ended up getting away about two. So I got some sleep. But I’m doing a doubler this afternoon. So what’s doing? Are we still seeing the lovely Andriana Hazlewood this morning?’

‘Yeah. Nine o’clock at the… Kalahani.’

Mick kind of chuckled over the phone. ‘I still can’t believe how you’ve done this. I tried to ring you a couple of times. I left a message. Where’ve you been?’

‘I was over the North Shore most of yesterday and I got on the piss last night.’

‘Right. So do you want me to come round and pick you up?’

‘Yeah, righto.’

‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you down the main entrance at, say, eight forty-five.

‘All right, Mick. I’ll see you down the front.’

‘See you then, Les.’

Norton yawned and looked at his watch. Well, I suppose I’d better get my finger out. Les rolled out of bed ready to spring into life. Not quite. His back felt worse, his knuckles were sore and there were lumps all over the top of his head. He rolled his head around, stretched his arms and stared out the window at the ocean. Jesus, getting drunk, getting into fights and rooting sheilas is good fun. I must do it more often. Outside, the day reflected Norton’s mood — windy, it had rained through the night with more around, and there were flickers of lightning out to sea. He did a few more stretches then absently switched on the radio and couldn’t quite believe it when he got Buddy Holly hiccuping his way through ‘Raining In My Heart’. It was almost as bad as getting ‘My Boyfriend’s Back’ just before Mitzi gave him the salmon the night before. But it was no good standing around like the proverbial ‘stale bottle of’, feeling sorry for yourself. Les cleaned himself up, got into his old gear and went downstairs for a swim.

Despite it not being much of a day, the traffic was fairly heavy and there were joggers everywhere, obviously taking advantage of the cooler weather. Again there was no one in the pool and the water was a bit on the fresh side; Les managed six laps, each one more punishing than the last. What he needed more than exercise was a good massage and a trip to the chiropractor. However, after a cold shower and a few more stretches by the pool, followed by a hot shower back in his room, Norton felt better and was starting to see the funny side of things again. He climbed into a clean pair of jeans and a green Stüssy T-shirt, then, after sipping several purple people eaters while he mulled a few things over in his head with the radio playing, it was time to go downstairs. Mick was waiting in the car, wearing a pair of blue shorts and a matching Hawaiian shirt. Despite his eyes being a little grainy from overwork, he smiled warmly as Les climbed in the front seat.

‘Hey. How’s it goin’… mate?’

‘All right — mate,’ said Les, clicking the seat belt around him.

‘Well, I have to admit you’ve got me fucked, Les. This sheila hates my guts and treats me like a leper. You’re in town five minutes, and it’s let’s do breakfast at the Kalahani. Buggered if I know.’

Les gave Mick a good-natured slap on the thigh. ‘I’m just a natural-born diplomat. I’m nice. Not some mongrel-headed copper running around harassing people.’ Norton laughed at the look on Mick’s face. ‘No, you won’t believe this, but she’s an old girlfriend of mine. I used to take her out back in Australia.’

The traffic was still heavy, due to roadwork and preparations for all the joggers, so Les told Mick about his relationship with Andrea and their meeting. Even though there was no real need to lie to Mick, Les did hold a few things back Andrea had told him, though he did mention the day with Mitzi and the night at the Green Giraffe, figuring Mick would know her from when she identified the bodies, and Mitzi had mentioned Mick in a good light.

Mick was shaking his head. ‘Shit! You’re not bad, Norton. Coffee and cakes with the madam. Cocktails and dinner with the accountant. You’re oilier than a kerosene lamp.’

‘I told you, Mick,’ said Les, ‘I’m just a nice bloke all round. A lovable guy. Is that what they say over here?’ Mick continued to shake his head, then a kind of smile flickered round his eyes. ‘So how did you go with Mitzi baby anyway?’

‘What do you mean?’ replied Les, with an affected naivety.

‘I mean, did you get your hand on Mitzi Moonkiss’s little minge.’

‘Get out. She’s Andrea’s accountant. We just had a few dances and a few drinks and I met some of her girlfriends at that nightclub.’

‘Just as well you didn’t.’

‘Why? She got the jack or something?’

‘No. Her boyfriend runs a Tae-Kwon-Do academy over in Palama.’

‘He does?’

‘Yeah. Actually Roh’s not a bad guy. Just a bit wild. I pinched him for a bad assault once. He was a goner. But the four guys he put in hospital were assholes and the bar he wrecked was a dump. So let’s just say the case didn’t quite make it to court.’

‘Oh. To tell you the truth, Mitzi did mention your name. She said you were an all right guy. Those were her words.’

‘Yeah? That was nice of her.’ Mick gave a little chuckle. ‘Roh’s not so nice though when he gets stirred up. But you needn’t worry. He’s over in Hollywood at the moment, doing the fight scenes for some martial arts movie. So he won’t find out you tried to get into his girlfriend’s pants.’

Les just nodded. ‘I wouldn’t mind, though. She’s a bloody good sort. So are all her girlfriends.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Mick. ‘Are they what.’

Yes. Well, there you go, thought Norton. Mitzi needn’t worry herself one little bit over me skiting about throwing her in the air. Or vice versa. That’s all I need the way I feel right now — some nutty Hawaiian Bruce Lee wanting to pounce all over me in a fit of jealousy. Les twisted around uncomfortably where the seat belt was cutting into one of the bruises on his ribs.

‘What happened to you anyway?’ asked Mick. ‘You look a bit sore. Mitzi really jump your bones did she?’

‘I did it surfing at Waimea Bay and Sunset,’ answered Les.

‘You what!!?’

Les told Mick he’d hurt his back getting dumped in the shore break at Waimea Bay then skinned his hands on the reefs when he went for a swim with Mitzi at Sunset Beach. It wasn’t Norton’s best day and Mick was right, he wasn’t cut out to be a surfie. They joked about one or two other things, although Mick seemed a little apprehensive, which was understandable. Then the traffic eased, they drove past the old swimming pool Les had noticed with Mick on the Sunday, and the Kalahani Hotel loomed up in front of them.

Les had first noticed the hotel when he drove by it on the way to Andrea’s house. It was yellow concrete and not all that big, built right onto the beach where the park ended and surrounded by palm trees swaying noticeably in the stiff breeze gusting across the reefs in front. A hairdresser’s, a small food store and several other boutique-type shops edged around the park side of the hotel, behind a low concrete wall thick with bougainvillea and other lush, tropical flowers, giving the hotel an ambience and class that could have been the old Hawaii. Les tipped it to be very upmarket and classy inside and right out of range for your average tourist or backpacker; exactly the kind of place where a madam to the stars would come for breakfast. There was a small parking area a few metres in front of the shops, where Les noticed Monroe standing alongside the same bronze Mercedes he’d seen at Andrea’s home. Next to the Mercedes was a vacant spot Andrea’s minder had been saving. He seemed to notice them coming and made a gesture, Les pointed for Mick, who pulled in next to the Mercedes and turned off the motor. They got out of the car to where Monroe was standing at the back of the Mercedes looking very big and very businesslike, wearing neat brown trousers and a yellow Hawaiian shirt. In his right hand was a portable metal detector like they use at airports.

‘Good morning, Mick,’ he said, slowly and politely.

‘Hello, Monroe. How are you?’ replied Mick, just a little stiffly.

‘I’m fine. Good morning, Les.’

‘G’day, Monroe,’ answered Les cheerfully. ‘How are you, mate?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The giant black man held up the metal detector, looking mainly at Mick. ‘You know Ms Hazlewood has obliged you with this meeting today.’ Mick nodded. ‘And it’s strictly off the record and cards on the table.’ Mick nodded again. ‘Okay.’ Monroe ran the metal detector over Mick then patted him down just for good measure. Mick stood there without saying a word. ‘You too, Les.’

‘Sure.’ Les held his arms up and Monroe did the same to him.

‘Okay, gentlemen. That’s fine.’

Monroe placed the metal detector on the roof of the Mercedes and opened the back door. Like the queen alighting from the royal carriage, Andrea stepped out of the Mercedes wearing a dark blue silk tracksuit with Japanese motifs in white running down the sleeves and unzipped in the front just enough to show her boobs thrusting against a pale blue T-shirt with Natalie Cole on the front. Her hair was bobbed and perfect and she wore just the right amount of gold jewellery to go with her gold Piaget watch.

‘Good morning, Detective Reinhardt,’ she said syrupily, and offered her hand.

‘Good morning, Ms Hazlewood,’ he replied, giving her hand a brief squeeze.

‘Good morning, Les,’ she smiled again.

‘G’day, Andrea,’ said Norton. ‘How’s things?’

‘Very well. Very well indeed.’ Andrea gave Mick a hideous once up and down, along with a slow, deliberate blink. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me, Detective Reinhardt, Monroe will lead us into the hotel. I have a table waiting.’ With Monroe by her side, Andrea turned and headed towards the hotel.

Well how about this, mused Les, as they all fell into step behind her. Does my old mate Fenwick know how to set a scene or what? Alexis Carrington couldn’t have done it better than that. He glanced at Mick, whose face was registering a kind of incensed apprehension. Andrea had put him in his place from the word go and the Kalahani was definitely not the place your average honest cop would be seen having breakfast. And definitely not with the richest brothel owner in Hawaii.

The foyer was all shiny beige tiles, soft lights, and plush furniture with expensive tablelamps sitting on equally expensive coffee tables. As soon as they stepped inside, the duty manager and various uniformed flunkies with Liberace smiles seemed to come from everywhere. Monroe waited in the foyer and, like Cleopatra entering Rome, Andrea and her small entourage were led down into an open courtyard which was sitting against the beach and walled off with a white, concrete balustrade. There were colourful flowers and exotic plants everywhere, and two short, thick trees spread a lovely canopy of lush green leaves over the white wrought-iron chairs and tables topped with smoked glass and as dainty as lace. The tablecloths were starched a dazzling white, emphasising a small flower arrangement on each table, and had a white umbrella above. The whole place reeked of opulence and style and as the flunkies sat them down at Andrea’s table, secluded in the corner, right on the beach and away from the other diners, Les was wishing he’d never opened his big mouth and offered to pay the bill. Bennie’s back at Waikiki it definitely wasn’t.

The menus were large and glossy and didn’t bother with the prices. There were four types of bacon, five types of sausage, breakfast steaks, eggs any way you wanted, along with fruits from all over the world, and instead of daggy hash browns, the hotel did Devilled Potatoes Kalahani. Oh well, why not? thought Norton. It still wasn’t much of a day outside so he ordered up big. So did the others. Apart from giving their orders, no one had said anything so far. Mick was still looking apprehensive, Norton just copped it sweet and Andrea kept this demure look on her face like a Cheshire cat that had just drunk all the cream. Three tall glasses of fresh orange juice arrived, complete with ice and a wedge of pineapple stabbed with a cherry on a tiny plastic sword.

Andrea raised her glass to Mick. ‘Well, shitbags,’ she said sweetly, ‘here’s to the biggest, boofheaded, mug copper in Hawaii. How’s things in the wallopers, Dick Tracy? Still pinching cripples in wheelchairs for having too much air in their tyres — you prick?’

Mick raised his orange juice also, scarcely blinking an eye. ‘Yeah, I am actually. And here’s to the fattest, ugliest old fart of a brothel keeper this side of Hotel Street. Still running those slaggy, low molls all around Diamond Head — you cheesy, bargearsed frump?’

Andrea gave a double blink. ‘How dare you refer to those girls as slaggy low molls? I’ll have you know they’re models.’

‘Yeah?’ replied Mick. ‘What do they model? Plasticine? Don’t give me the shits, you miserable-looking old razorback.’

Norton’s jaw dropped for a moment then went back into place. ‘Hey, hang on a second. Whoa,’ he protested. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a friendly get-together?’

‘Friendly get fucked together,’ said Andrea. ‘Rotten low mug, trying to put the squeeze on me and my poor girls.’

‘Put the squeeze on your girls?’ glared Mick. ‘I’d like to put the squeeze round your rotten, fat neck.’

‘Well why don’t you, sweetie?’ purred Andrea. ‘Huh, sweetie?’

‘You bloody well know why,’ answered Mick.

‘Exactly — sweetie.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Les. ‘We’re supposed to be having breakfast.’

Norton was about to say more when their plates of fruit arrived. It all looked that delicious — strawberries as big as your fist, perfect melon balls, neat slices of soft, pink papaya — that Andrea and Mick left each other’s throats alone for the time being to get into it. Nonetheless, as they picked and chewed there was still a thick blanket of tension in the air.

‘This fruit’s all right, isn’t it?’ said Les tentatively.

‘Yeah. Tops,’grunted Mick.

‘Quite refreshing,’ said Andrea, picking daintily at a slice of papaya. She decided to put Mick on the back-burner for the time being and turned to Les. ‘So, what happened? You missed out last night, did you, lover boy?’ she smiled.

Les made a gesture with his hands. ‘I didn’t even try. Besides, she’s got a boyfriend.’

‘You thought I was going to send you over one of my lovely models, didn’t you?’

‘Knowing you, Fenwick, I didn’t quite know what to expect. But there was nothing wrong with Mitzi. She was great. And she’s got some good-looking girlfriends too. Who, I might add, think I’m the hottest dancer and best sort to hit town in years.’

‘Best sort to hit town,’ guffawed Andrea. ‘I’ll bet you were running round on three legs all night too. As usual.’

‘No. Not really,’ said Les.

Andrea looked evenly at Les and nodded slowly. ‘Actually, Mitzi said you were a perfect gentleman. And very polite. Helping her out of the car, and the lift — and all that.’

Les caught Andrea’s drift and nodded back. ‘Yes. Well, it doesn’t hurt to be polite, does it? And talking about polite, why don’t you two both knock all this shit on the head and get fair dinkum. We all know what’s going on and the understanding is, I brought you both together for Mick to talk about the killings. That’s all.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mick. ‘I’ve had it up to here with that other rattle. You can stick your hookers for all I give a stuff. But I’m not copping some whacko running around murdering people. I want to nail this Mr Walker dude, and I don’t care much what I gotta do to do it. You dig?’

Andrea was quiet for a moment, then she nodded slowly again. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I was a bit out of order there, Mick. I apologise. We do have to do something.’

‘Well, thank Christ someone’s showing a bit of brains,’ said Norton, easing back in his seat.

‘Yeah, fair enough,’ said Mick. ‘And I apologise too. I did say a few nasty things then and I know I can get a bit pushy at times.’ He half smiled. ‘And you’re not that fat at all. In fact, Ms Hazlewood, you’re quite an attractive woman — lady.’

‘Why, thank you,’ beamed the madam to the stars. ‘Why don’t you call me Andrea. And I’ll call you Mick.’

‘Okay — Andrea.’ Mick seemed to think for a moment. ‘So what can you tell me — Andrea?’

‘Well, for the moment, Mick, all I can tell you is there’s some very delightful food coming our way. And the way superstud here’s drooling all over the table, it looks like he’s ready to chew the waiter’s arm off when he puts it down.’ Andrea smiled up at the three waiters for a second, then back at Norton. ‘The thing on the right, Les, is called a knife. The other implement is a fork.’

‘Thanks, Fenwick,’ smiled Les. ‘How would you like them both jammed in your khyber?’

Andrea smiled back. ‘How would you like me to call Monroe and get him to sort that out with you?’

Les winked. ‘You’re right, Andrea. I’d look pretty funny riding a pushbike with them both jammed in mine.’

Andrea wasn’t kidding about the food — it was scrumptious. Norton’s breakfast steak was like marshmallow and the devilled potatoes, lightly fried in some tomato, onion and basil chutney, were almost a meal on their own. The good food, pleasant surroundings and excellent service seemed to calm things down even more. Andrea and Mick talked away, through their mains, right up to the coffee and almond croissants. Les kept silent most of the time, although he did put his twenty cents worth in every now and again, adding a couple of things that Mitzi had told him and a couple of theories he’d discussed with Mick back at the HPD. Finally, however, the only things they could seem to agree on was that whoever this Mr Walker cat was, he was cunning, strong, seemed to know all the girls’ movements and appeared to strike on the full moon.

‘So that’s about it, Mick,’ said Andrea, washing a nibble of croissant down with a sip of coffee. ‘I only wish I could help you more. But this bastard’s got me flummoxed as much as everybody else.’

‘And you’ve never got any marines off side or had any dealings with them?’

‘No.’ Andrea shook her head adamantly. ‘My girls wouldn’t go near those poxy jarheads. Besides, they couldn’t afford them anyway.’ She looked at Mick, then seemed to gaze out over the ocean for a moment. ‘Wait a minute. Wait a minute. There was a marine colonel we catered for some time back. But he was retired. He was a big, fit bludger, though, if I remember. I’ll find out who he was. I forgot all about him.’

‘See, that’s what I’m looking for, Andrea,’ enthused Mick. ‘Any little thing like that. He could be our man.’

Andrea seemed to think again for a second. ‘Yeah. But I still reckon it’s some whacko from the barracks around here who just likes to kill women. Like that big yank soldier in Melbourne during the war. They made a movie about it. What was the song he used to sing in a high-pitched voice? “It’s a lovely day tomorrow”?’

‘What about Mitzi’s theory?’ said Les. ‘The bloke’s working his way through the alphabet up to you?’

‘Maybe,’ Andrea shrugged. ‘I can’t see it though. I cover my arse too well. I still reckon it’s a nutter just hates classy girls. Probably because he got a knockback.’

‘The marines have been very guarded, I can tell you that,’ said Mick.

Andrea looked at him for a moment. ‘Remember, Mick, I told you about that fifty grand I put on this dropkick’s head? Well, if you can nail him, that fifty’s yours.’

‘Hey! Hang on a minute,’ protested Mick.

‘Oh look, forget about the bloody HPD for a while, Mick. If you get him the fifty’s yours whether you like it or not. Make a nice wedding present for you and Kia.’ Andrea took amusement from the colour forming in Mick’s cheeks then looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, Mick, I’ve got a million things to do today. And regardless of the fifty, I do feel you should let me pick up the tab.’ She discreetly looked at the bill. ‘Yes, I think you’d both better.’

Without waiting for an answer, Andrea pulled a wad of fifties from a purse in her tracksuit and slid some beneath the docket. Then, after a final sip of coffee, they rose from the table, the head flunkie escorted them up to the foyer, where they collected Monroe and walked round to the parking lot. Back at the Mercedes, Monroe held the door open and waited patiently.

‘Well, Mick,’ said Andrea, offering her hand once more, ‘it’s been a pleasure and I’m glad we got together and worked things out a little more amicably. I’ve got your card and I’ll get Mitzi to go through the files again and I’ll be in touch before the weekend.’

‘Okay, Andrea. I’d appreciate that. And I’m glad you appreciate my position.’ He squeezed her hand warmly. ‘And thanks for breakfast. It was tops.’

‘Like I said, it was my pleasure.’ Andrea looked at Norton. ‘As for you, Les, I’ve got things to do tonight. Things to do. But tomorrow night, why don’t we go out for dinner and afterwards I might show you a bit of real dirty dancing. Ring me first.’

‘Okey-doke,’ smiled Les. ‘I’ll spit polish my dancing shoes.’

‘Goodbye, Mick. Goodbye, Les.’

‘See you, Andrea.’

Andrea slid in the back and Monroe closed the door. ‘I’ll see you guys some other time.’

‘Yeah, righto, Monroe,’ said Les, feeling in a good mood at the way things had worked out. ‘I might even catch up with you for a drink some time.’

‘Possibly.’ An exasperated sort of smile flitted across the big man’s face just before he opened the driver’s door. ‘But definitely not tonight. Tonight I just happens to have the night off, praise the Lord.’

Mick and Les watched the Mercedes pull out of the carpark and move slowly towards Diamond Head, then they got back in Mick’s car and drove to Norton’s hotel.

‘Well, there you go, Mick. What did I tell you? I said things would work out for the best. And I got a feeling she’ll roll up her tent before long and leave you in peace.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, let’s hope you’re right. This retired colonel sounds interesting too. I’d like to have a word with him.’

‘So what are you doing now?’

‘Now? I’m going home to get some more sleep. I’m still half knackered and I’m working a double header later on. The office this afternoon. Then I’m back in uniform and out cruising around in a blue and white tonight.’ Despite his tiredness Mick couldn’t hold back his new-found enthusiasm. ‘But Friday night, I’m taking the night off and you and me are going out to get shitfaced. Shit-fuckin’-faced.’

‘Sounds all right to me,’ winked Les. ‘And, Mick, if I were you and I cracked this case, I’d cop that fifty Andrea’s talking about.’

‘Yeah. It’s a bloody thought,’ agreed Mick a little reticently. ‘And it’s not like I’m taking a bribe. It’s more like a bonus for all the shit I’ve been put through.’

‘Exactly, Mick. Exactly. We’ll make a copper out of you yet.’

Mick dropped Les off at the hotel and told him once more where to get in touch with him if he needed to. Les gave the roof a couple of slaps, said goodbye and watched Mick drive off, then walked around to the lobby and straight into a waiting lift.

Back in his room Les felt good. Even his back seemed to be hurting a little less. It had been a good morning and a good meal and he was contented and feeling quite pleased with himself at bringing Andrea and Mick together. He got a glass of fruit juice and despite it being not much of a day outside, was still feeling pleased with himself when the phone rang. Norton’s eyes narrowed. I bet I know who that is. Fuckin’ Warren. It was the front desk.

‘Mr Norton?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is the desk. We’re confirming your late checkout tonight.’

Les screwed his face up. ‘My what?’

‘Mr Edwards rang to say the suite has been cancelled for the rest of the week. What time would you like to check-out?’

‘Time…?’

‘Yes. Would eleven pm suit you? Eleven-thirty is the latest we can do. We’ve let the room already. As part of the arrangement.’

‘Yeah. Righto,’replied Les vaguely. ‘Eleven-thirty’ll… be okay.’

‘Thank you, Mr Norton.’

Les looked at the receiver in his hand for a moment then put it back. What the fuck was that all about? What the fuck’s Warren up to? The shifty, lying little bludger. Shaking his head, Norton looked at the red message button he’d forgotten about still flashing merrily away on the panel. He picked up the receiver and pressed it.

The first message was from Mick, saying he’d ring back again and if Les wasn’t there he’d ring back at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. The next one was the waxheads. Beauty, Les. Thanks for the favour and they’d call for him Tuesday night. If he wasn’t there they’d meet him at Cadillacs near Ala Moana. Shit! What a shame I missed you fellahs. I had a cunt of a night. The next was a lot more urgent, not as polite, and from Warren sounding excitable bordering on hysterical.

‘Les, it’s Warren. Now listen. We’re flying out on Wednesday night at eleven-thirty. You got that? I’ve cancelled the room. I can’t get to a phone easily, but I’ll ring you eleven-thirty on Wednesday morning. You got that? Eleven-thirty I ring you. Eleven-thirty we fly out. Make sure you’re bloody there.’

Well, that was to the point, thought Les. I’m still buggered if I know what’s going on. This is bloody crazy. Still spinning, Les looked at his watch. Five minutes to eleven-thirty. It must be fair dinkum though. For the life of him, Les still couldn’t figure out what in hell was going on. He turned the radio on and another golden oldie oozed out as he stared vacantly at his gear, wondering if he should start packing. It was weird. The whole bloody thing was weird. Then the phone rang.

It was Warren, sounding like he had his bowels in a knot. ‘Where the fuck have you been, you big goose? The bloody lines are down and I’m on a mobile with about five minutes of fuckin’ battery left.’

‘Warren, what the bloody hell are you going on about? The lines are down? You’re on a mobile? And what’s with this — “we’re flying out tonight”?’

‘Haven’t you read the papers or listened to the radio or watched TV? The bloody volcano’s erupted. Kilauea’s gone off. The first time in ten fuckin’ years and I’m right in the fuckin’ middle of it. I’m lucky I’m alive.’

‘Ohh yeah,’ drawled Les. ‘I saw something about volcanoes on TV. But I thought they were documentaries for the National Geographic or something.’

‘Ohh, you bloody wombat. I don’t believe it. Hang on. Yes I do. Shit! Anyway, that’s it. The holiday’s over. We’re out of here tonight. Qantas is putting on a special flight, so pack your gear.’

Norton gazed towards the window. ‘I dunno, Woz. We only just got here and I’ve been having a pretty good time. What if I don’t want to go?’

‘Don’t then. Book yourself into another room at two hundred dollars US a night. And then it’s another two thousand dollars US one-way Business Class going back. If you can get a flight.’

Norton almost had time for a half blink. ‘What do you want me to do? Meet you at the airport?’

‘Yeah. Ten-thirty in the Captain’s Lounge.’

‘Righto. So what are you up to over there anyway? You sound a bit —’

‘Don’t worry about it. In fact, forget about the whole thing. I might tell you about it one day. Shit! I got to go. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Yeah, all right, you little weasel. I’ll see you at the airport.’

Les hung up the phone once more. Well, that’s it. We’re out of here. So much for my grouse holiday in Hawaii. He got up and strolled over to the window. Ah, maybe it’s all for the best. My back feels fucked. It’s starting to rain again outside. The one sheila I fancied gave me the lemon. Plus, I’m getting sick of fighting those dopey bloody marines. And when it’s all boiled down, that rattle with Andrea is nothing but a pain in the arse and none of my business. And that’s where she can stick it, along with her hookers. Good luck to her and good luck to Mick and all his mates in the HPD. I hope he solves the bloody thing. Uncle Les is off. Aloha and goodbye. And good bloody riddance. And one thing for bloody sure, the next time they get me out of Australia it’ll either be with a cattle prod or at the end of a gun. Bleah! Norton brooded out the window for a few more moments, figuring out what he should do next. The clouds had thickened and there was a light drizzle of rain, so it wasn’t really worth going for a swim or a snorkel. S’pose I may as well pack my gear and get that out the road, he shrugged. Then I might go and do a bit more shopping. Buy a couple of Hawaiian shirts. Les laughed mirthlessly. Something to remind me of my trip to Hawaii besides my sore back.

Still feeling filthy on the world, Les started packing his stuff. It was funny — although he’d only been away a few days, it felt a lot longer. After a while he cooled down a bit and instead of having a good case of the shits, he felt glad to be going home. There was also no need to be so churlish. Andrea was an old friend and Mick was okay. The least he could do was ring up and tell them he was leaving. When he got most of his gear packed away he rang Mick, getting his answering service. Les left a message to say he was flying out at eleven-thirty. Bad luck about Friday night, but he’d try to ring back or ring Mick at work to say goodbye. The next call was the private number Andrea had given him. He got the maid, told her who he was and asked for the lady of the house.

‘Sorry, but Miss Hazlewood is out. No leave message and she no say when she be back.’

‘Well, could you tell her, if you see her, I’m flying out tonight at eleven-thirty.’

‘You driving out tonight at seven-thirty.’

‘No. Flying out tonight at eleven-thirty.’

‘Okay, Mr Norman. I give her message.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been a wonderful help.’

Oh well, thought Les, hanging up the phone. If she gets the message she gets the message. I’ll probably ring her back anyway. He resumed packing the last of his things, changing into his denim shorts and leaving out a pair of jeans and a dark blue cotton jacket to wear on the plane. When he’d finished Les was still at a bit of a loose end as to what to do; he had time to kill, but not enough to do anything worthwhile. A final cruise around Honolulu in the convertible would have been okay, but it was raining on and off. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t feel like getting drunk, and walking up and down Kalakau amongst about a million Japanese joggers and the same number of fat-arsed American tourists wasn’t that much of a turn-on either. Norton turned to the radio as ‘Come Softly To Me’ by the Fleetwoods began seeping through the speakers. It was enough to drive anyone out of the room. I know what I’ll do. I’ll go back to that Ala Moana shopping centre. Get a cup of coffee and see if there’s anything worth perving on and buy a whole heap of stuff I don’t need.

Les got the Mustang from downstairs, and this time left the hood up. He just about knew the way, so the cruise over to the shopping centre was no problem — he even fanged it through the traffic and spun the wheels on the wet road seeing it was his last day in town. There was a parking spot almost where he’d parked before facing the park. Les locked the car, went upstairs and mingled with the swarms of other shoppers. Unfortunately there wasn’t a great deal to perv on — ninety per cent of the punters could have done with a twelvemonth course at Jenny Craig’s. But all the stores were open for business and just loved Norton’s VISA card. In no time he was loaded up with a stack of junk, including two pairs of plastic, gel-filled innersoles and a dollar bill with Elvis Presley on it instead of George Washington. At least he’d got some good T-shirts and caps at Warner Bros World for Murray’s kids and the rest of the family. After stuffing it all into the boot of the car, Les decided it was time to go in search of a nice cup of coffee.

One flight up the escalators and just back from Warner Bros World was a long balcony that backed onto the park where a nice young couple were selling coffee and cakes from a small, open-air stand with a slightly larger awning above. There were plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas and the Kona coffee in large steaming mugs appeared to be very good indeed. It was. Les found a seat overlooking the park and sipped his coffee while he checked out the view and the nearby punters and tried to relax while he killed some time before he left. Yet Norton couldn’t fully relax. Although he didn’t want to admit it, this Mr Walker thing had got right under his skin. Buzzing around inside his head like an annoying mosquito buzzing around in your bedroom and you can’t get to sleep until you either swat it or hit it with a burst of Mortein.

Les finished his first coffee and got another one, then continued to stare out over Ala Moana Park and the little bridges and lagoons he’d seen earlier and the yachts and cruisers bobbing around in the stormy breeze out near the breakwater. The main clues were in those photocopies he’d got from the HPD. But the key to the puzzle had something to do with that fight he’d had in the lift with Mitzi and the four marines. It reminded Les of something he’d done somewhere and some story someone had told him. It wasn’t getting any earlier and Les was on a third cup of coffee when it dawned on him. It was a silly bloody movie and an even sillier bloody drinking session. Les snapped his fingers and looked at his watch. What time would it be in Sydney right now? There’s almost a day’s difference. Late Thursday afternoon? If I get my finger out I might catch him working back. If not, I might get him at home. Norton left the rest of his coffee, hurried down to his car and drove back to the hotel.

Norton’s mind was buzzing as he flogged the Mustang through the afternoon traffic. Other things were starting to fall into place as well and if he didn’t get hold of this bloke in Sydney and get in touch with Mick and it turned out he was right, there was a chance Andrea could get murdered tonight. He dropped the car off in the driveway, got all the stuff he’d bought from the boot and got the lift straight back to his room. As he switched the lights on he noticed the message button glowing on the phone again. He picked up the receiver and it was a message from Mick.

‘Mate, I only just got up. What’s going on? You said you’re going back tonight. This is a bit unexpected. I’m running late for work, but I’ll be there till about seven. I’ll try and see you before you go, but I’m flat out. Ring me at work. You got the number. See you.’

That was the only message. Les looked at the phone, then looked at his watch. There were two cans of beer left in the fridge. He opened one and took a mouthful then got his book of phone numbers plus a biro from his bag and picked up the phone again.

‘Hello, reception. Nerine speaking.’

‘Yes, it’s Mr Norton in room 1512. I’d like to place a call to Sydney, Australia.’

‘Just one moment. I’ll put you through to the operator.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Hello, operator.’

‘Yes. It’s Mr Norton in room 1512. I’d like to ring Sydney, Australia. Here’s the name and the number.’ Norton started to give the girl the details.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat that please and talk a little slower.’

‘Ohh, yeah. I forgot.’ Norton slowed down into second gear so the operator could understand Australian.

‘Thank you. Please hang up and I’ll call you back.’

‘Thanks.’

Les sipped his beer and placed a hotel notepad next to the phone. He had time for another mouthful of beer and a doodle when the phone rang.

‘Mr Norton? Here’s your call to Australia.’

‘Thanks.’ Les took a breath and smiled at the familiar double ring of the phone back in Australia. It gave him a tinge of homesickness.

‘Hello, Police Headquarters. Taskforce Pinewood.’

‘Yes. Could I speak to Detective Gary Stanton please? Extension 3437. I’m ringing from overseas.’

‘Just one moment. I’m putting you through.’

‘Thanks.’ Norton wriggled the biro between his fingers as he waited on the line.

Detective Gary Stanton was seated in an open office about ten times as big as Mick Reinhardt’s with about twenty times the number of detectives and about the same number of uniformed police. Phones were ringing constantly, people were running everywhere, computer screens blinked from every table, there were graphs, maps and charts on every wall, along with newspaper clippings and photos, ordinary photos, identikit photos; there were even computer printouts from NASA satellites spinning around hundreds of kilometres above the earth. Detective Stanton leaned his long frame back in his swivel seat, ran both hands over his lean face, then through his spiky brown hair, looked at the madness going on around him and thought how wonderful it was being a cop. Especially in Forensic. According to the latest headlines in this morning’s papers, they were all corrupt, had false bank accounts all over the place, filed in and out of the ICAC hearings, alongside high-profile lawyers and well-known Sydney racing identities, and just sat around on their arses getting fat like the different detectives seen on TV every night. If only it was true.

Normally Detective Stanton spent his time firing guns into water tanks then retrieving the bullets and casings to peer at them for hours through a comparison microscope looking for lands and grooves or blown up on a video monitor and scaler trying to find individual characteristics. If that got a bit boring, there were always women’s heads hacked off and left in ovens to look at, or bodies in the front seats of cars with a shotgun muzzle under their chin and their toe on the trigger and not much head left at all to look at. Or heavy stroppers hanging from doorjambs who had got their rocks off for the last time with a bit of home fun, autoeroticism. All the niceties in life. The niceties and pleasantries of life that are swept up by people like Detective Stanton so the general public never have to see or deal with them. The ‘easy’ part of the job.

For the last six months, Detective Stanton had been working eight days a week and thirty-four hours a day trying to find some sadistic ratbag who’d been murdering hitchhikers and leaving their bodies half buried in nearly every National Park between Newcastle and Coffs Harbour. When he wasn’t home with his wife and two kids at Bronte, Detective Stanton was roaming up and down the Pacific Highway digging up decomposing bodies or skeletons in rags. When he wasn’t doing that, he was attending post-mortem examinations of skulls riddled with bullet holes and backbones full of knife wounds. Then going over more photos of skulls and backbones, maps and charts and staring at computer screens till almost hypnotised. Then the wife wonders why, when she serves oxtail stew for tea, you get this weird laugh and she has to hide all the knives in the kitchen and the kids have to run into their room and lock the door. But the job did have its moments, especially when you finally cracked that break you were looking for, got the murderer in the dock and proved this is how, where and why he or she did it. It was a buzz. But this case wasn’t a buzz. So far it was nothing but a complete bummer. Nine bodies scattered up and down the Pacific Highway, all killed the same way and practically nothing to go on. And just when you think you’ve got a lead, some bushwalker or jogger finds another body rotting away out in the middle of nowhere. So it’s back out with the camera and notebook, swatting flies and wiping away perspiration in the great Australian outdoors. Yes, the job did have its moments, Detective Stanton smiled mirthlessly as he stared back at his computer screen while the cop two desks away let go with a torrent of bad language as he knocked a cup of hot coffee over his lap. The phone ringing seemed to momentarily cut through the blasphemies.

‘Yeah, hello. Detective Stanton.’

‘Hello, Shifty. How’s things? It’s Les Norton.’

‘Les. Hello, mate. How are you going?’

‘Pretty good. What about yourself?’

‘Oh, you know. The same as usual. Flat out like a dead wombat.’

‘Nose to the ground and arse in the air, eh?’

‘Yeah, something like that. So what are you up to? Where are you ringing from anyway?’

‘You probably won’t believe it, Gazz. Hawaii.’

‘Hawaii? What are you doing over there?’

‘Having a holiday with Warren and today’s the last day. Actually, I was hoping I’d catch you at work. What are you doing?’

‘Still working on those hitchhiker murders. Task Force Pinewood.’

‘That? It’s been nearly six months. Haven’t you caught the cunt yet? What are youse all doing in there? Sitting around picking your arses?’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Les. Sitting around on our dates, playing cards, doing crossword puzzles. It’s great. So what are you ringing me for anyway, Knackers? Has somebody stolen your grass skirt?’

‘No, my grass handbag. Listen, remember that cop I had the barbecue for round my place? Mick, the bloke from Hawaii?’

‘Ohh, yeah. The real fit bloke. Didn’t drink much. Nice bloke.’

‘That’s him. Well, I caught up with him over here — in fact, he gave me a cap to give to you.’

‘Oh beauty.’

‘Anyway, Mick’s up to his neck with a serial killer.’

‘Oh terrific, Les. That’s all I bloody need at the moment. What’s his one doing?’

‘Killing hookers.’

‘Yeah. What with? Kindness?’

‘Not really. A bayonet. Anyway, I’m sure I know something that can help Mick and I want to ask you something, Gary.’

‘Yeah, go on.’

‘Remember we were all pissed down the Diggers one Friday afternoon, about a year ago? We won all those jackpots.’

‘Yeah, I remember all right. It nearly cost me my marriage.’

‘Yeah, right. Well, there was a cop there from up the North Coast, and he told us that story about something he called the “Rhonda Colby” or the “Raisa Klaus murder”, or something. I was that pissed I can only remember bits of it.’

‘Rhonda Colby?’ Gary had to think for a moment. ‘Oh, I remember. The Rosa Klebb killing. The bloke got stabbed in a caravan park in Forster. I remember it because the bloke’s name was Foster.’ Detective Stanton chuckled into the phone. ‘Yeah, I remember it all right.’

‘Well, can you zap that up on a computer and fill me in a bit on the story?’

Ohh yeah, thought Detective Stanton. Anything to break the monotony of what he was doing for a short while. ‘I don’t see why not. Hang on a minute.’

Les thought about the drink at the Diggers again and smiled to himself. He took another mouthful of beer and tapped his biro eagerly against the hotel memo pad as he waited for Gary to come back.

‘Yeah, I got it, Les,’ he said, staring at the computer screen in front of him. ‘The bloke’s name was Albert Arthur Foster. Aged fifty-eight, unemployed, blah blah blah. Yeah, accidental death. He fell on his sword, so to speak. Or in this case a fishing knife.’

‘That’s it!’ enthused Les. ‘But what’s the story behind it again?’

‘The accidental death?’ replied Detective Stanton, a little cagily. ‘Well, as you know, Les, I can’t say a great deal over the phone.’

‘I realise that, Gary. But can you just… you know?’

Gary thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, all right.’

Les listened intently as Detective Stanton ducked and dived, and weaved and wound his way around the story the North Coast detective had told them down the Diggers that afternoon. Les just nodded his head as he held the phone to his ear but it was hard to hide his enthusiasm.

‘So that’s about the size of it, Les. Poor bludger, what a way to go. And let’s just say, Les, it doesn’t pay to fool around with wives… I mean knives… when you’re drunk.’

‘My sentiments exactly, Detective Stanton,’ Les smiled over the phone.

Detective Stanton looked across the room and caught the eye of a detective waving at him and pointing to a graph he and some other detectives were staring at. ‘Les, I have to go, mate. I’m being called.’

‘Okey-doke, Gary. Well, thanks a lot for that. I owe you one. How about I catch up with you for a beer and a pie when I get back? I’ll give you a ring Friday.’ ‘Do that, Les. See you, mate.’

‘See you, Gary.’

Well, there you go, thought Norton, smiling down at the phone. I knew there was something. He took his beer over to the window, sipped it as he stared at the darkened ocean for a few moments, then went over to the photocopies he’d left out on the table along with his radio. That made sense all right. It didn’t say who the killer was and it didn’t necessarily narrow down the field, but it did point out what could possibly be Mr Walker’s ‘modus operandi’ as they say in the wallopers. Les chuckled softly and shook his head. And all because of a silly bloody fight in a lift and an even sillier bloody drinking session.

Norton opened the last can of beer in the fridge, turned on the TV, leaving the volume down, and watched it from the table with the radio playing. The first channel he got had film of the volcano erupting and it was quite spectacular, both the day-and night-time shots. People running everywhere, houses and buildings being engulfed slowly by this advancing wall of molten rock. Clouds of steam billowing into the air as the lava flowed into the ocean. Geysers of red-hot molten rock exploding into the sky from a mountain that looked like nothing more than some monstrous, grey ash-covered slag heap. By contrast, the night shots showed the volcano turning the evening sky into an intensely beautiful, iridescent purplish orange colour, lighting up the sea and the surrounding area for kilometres around. It was nature at its worst yet at its most spectacular. Christ, thought Les, that’s unbelievable. And to think that running around somewhere in the middle of all that is Warren. No wonder he sounded like he was shitting himself. I reckon I would be too. The camera zoomed back to the people coming and going, planes landing and more camera crews arriving for the big event. Norton screwed his face up, edging a little closer to the TV set. Hello, there’s a familiar face. And looking all concerned and dramatic. But that’s only natural. Then Les started to chuckle before finally laughing out loud. Shit! I might not have solved one mystery here just yet, but I think I’ve solved another. The camera then switched to a helicopter flying over the volcano’s crater, through the clouds of gas and smoke tumbling into the sky above a lake of glowing, molten red lava. Les shuddered as he recollected reading how the ancient Hawaiians used to throw virgins into the volcano to appease the Gods. Yuk! What an awful fate. If I was a young Hawaiian tart years ago, I wouldn’t be saving my cherry up for the honeymoon. I’d be getting out and having a root as soon as I left kindergarten. And plenty of ’em. They could say what they liked about me. Anything’d be better than that. Norton sipped his last beer and stared absently at the TV as his mind switched back to Mr Walker. Suddenly his thoughts seemed to be in as much turmoil as the glowing lava boiling away in Kilauea. One thought was what was going to happen to poor blasé bloody Andrea. Another had him hoping above all that he wasn’t right. Anything but that. But it looked bad. Awful bad. Les turned away from the TV and gazed out the window. It was now pitch black. Shit! Where did the day go? Norton suddenly snapped his fingers. Bloody hell! I got to ring Mick. He rose to walk over to the phone when it rang. It was Mick.

‘Hey, Les. What’s the story? You’re leaving tonight?’

‘Mick. I got your message. I was just about to ring you. I must have SPC. Yeah, the whole thing’s fucked up and we’re out of here tonight.’ Les told Mick what was going on and how he had to leave at such short notice.

‘Ah shit! What a bummer. I was looking forward to getting on the piss with you.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ answered Les.

‘I’m stuck here in the office till seven-thirty. Then I’m straight over to Diamond Head, flat out again. My partner’s still off.’ Mick paused for a second. ‘But if you’re not leaving the hotel till around ten, I might be able to call in for a minute. But I don’t like my chances.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Les. ‘I’ll catch up with you next time I’m in town. Listen, Mick, I’ve been in touch with a cop in Australia — the one you gave me that cap for. And I reckon I might be able to help you with this Mr Walker thing.’

‘You? How?’

‘It’s a bit hard to explain over the phone, and you’d probably laugh at me. But I reckon I’m onto something.’

‘Yeah?’ Mick sounded sceptical. ‘I don’t know. But I’ll take your word for it. You haven’t been bad so far.’

‘Trust me, Mick. I’m telling you. Now, you’ve got access to a computer there, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah. I’m staring into one right now.’

‘Right. Well, I want you to look something up for me. Was a priest murdered on a bridge around here somewhere, not too far from Diamond Head? All I know is his first name was James and it wouldn’t have been any more than two years ago.’

‘James? James?’ Mick pondered for a few seconds. ‘Shit! I think I know this one. Hang on, I’ll zap it up on the screen.’

Les could hear Mick clicking away at the keyboard while he waited patiently on the phone.

‘Yeah,’ Mick’s voice came back. ‘Father James Guthrie Conesceau. Male Hawaiian. They buried him with his family on the big island. Aged thirty-seven, et cetera, et cetera. Some nut stabbed him in Ala Moana Park. But hold on, Les. This has nothing to do with Mr Walker. It was a religious nut got him, hearing voices in his head. He’s in the funny farm now. In fact, it was Honesto made the bust. He was in the park looking for a flasher when this whacko pulls out a knife and starts letting all sorts of air into this priest. Poor bastard. He was only standing there feeding the fish.’

‘Where was the bridge?’

‘It wasn’t a bridge. All it says here is that it was a “concrete arch facing a bus stop on Ala Moana Boulevard”.’

‘And when did the murder happen, Mick?’

‘When?’ Mick peered at the screen. ‘Shit! It happened today, actually. Just before Christmas.’

‘But when exactly? Day, night, what?’

‘It was… 9.10 pm, to be exact’

‘Mick, what sort of moon is it tonight?’

‘Moon? Shit! Be lucky if there is one tonight. It was raining and thundering when I came to work.’ Mick flicked a page on his desk calendar with a biro. ‘But if there is, it’d be a full one.’

Norton could feel this sense of urgency starting to rise in him. ‘Mick, this is serious. Where will you be around nine o’clock tonight?’

‘Tonight? Like I told you, around Diamond Head. Looking for a burglar. And I couldn’t give a stuff about Andrea’s travelling bloody brothels.’

‘Mate, do you reckon you could be out at that bridge in Ala Moana tonight around nine? And don’t let anybody see you.’

‘Go out there at nine? Why? I mean, it’s not even anywhere near my area.’

‘I just reckon that’s where Andrea’s going to be tonight. And I reckon there’s a good chance Mr Walker’ll be there stalking her.’

‘Les, come on. Get real.’

‘I am real, Mick. A hundred per cent real.’

‘And what makes you “reckon” Andrea and this Mr Walker dude are gonna be out there tonight?’

‘I… I just got this strong feeling.’

‘You just got this strong feeling. Well, I got a strong feeling this burglar’s going to be out at Diamond Head tonight. And I got an even stronger feeling, if I’m not there when he is, I’ll get an extremely strong kick up the butt from the HPD.’

‘Yeah, I s’pose you’re right,’ sighed Les.

‘Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Mick. ‘If I get a chance, I’ll take a quick cruise over there. And I’ll try and see you before you go. But like I said, don’t count on it. Listen, why don’t you take a run out to Diamond Head and I’ll see if I can meet you somewhere. Give me a bell on the mobile.’

‘I got to take the car back.’

‘Oh! Well, I don’t know what to do, mate. I guess if I don’t get a chance to see you before you go, it’s… aloha.’

‘Yeah, aloha. See you a chip-potater.’

‘Anyway, we’ll see what happens.’

‘All right. See you, Mick.’

‘Okay, Les. See you.’

Les hung up and found himself once more staring at the phone. Yeah, I suppose Mick’s right, he sighed. He’s got better things to do than sneak around some park in the middle of the night just because some half-baked tourist has got a feeling. And the man has got a job to do. As for driving out to Diamond Head in the rain, trying to find some place on a bloody road map just to say goodbye, no thanks. Mick’s a good bloke and all that, but it’s not as if he’s my long-lost brother. But it would be nice if he could get there tonight with his .38 Smith and Wesson or whatever it is they have over here just in case I am right. Shit! Les snapped his fingers again. Talking about the car, I’ve got to take the bloody thing back. I wonder if the office is still open. America? It’d have to be. Les downed the last of his beer, got his receipts and whatever else he needed and caught the lift to the foyer.

The office of Ala Moana Car Rentals was closed. Les cursed silently and walked round to the front desk. He made a phone call to the head office from there and got an answering service. He left a message as best he could then made arrangements at reception to leave the car in the parking lot and the keys and receipts at the front desk when he checked out. Any refunds they could send to his address in Australia. If not, stiff shit. Les thanked the girl and went back to his room.

The TV was still flickering silently when he walked in and the radio was still pumping out golden oldies. The weather seemed to have worsened outside. Patches of light rain pattered against the window, helped by gusts of wind rattling the railing on the balcony, and there was violent storm activity out to sea. Les watched more volcano film and weather reports for a minute or two as several claps of thunder rattled above the hotel. Bad luck there was no beer left. But there was enough Bacardi and fruit juice left for a couple of drinks. Les made a delicious, put it on the table after taking a sip and started packing the stuff he had bought earlier in the afternoon, managing to cram it all into his bag somehow. All the time, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about Andrea.

Bloody airhead sheila, he half cursed. You can bet your life that’s where she is tonight. Andrea’s words kept echoing inside his head: ‘I fall in love with a priest. James. The best bloke I ever met in my life. Some bastard stabbed him on a bridge. I got things to do tonight.’ The dopey, lovesick look on her face gave her away. She’s always been a half-baked, bleeding heart romantic. That’s where she’d be, all right — reminiscing old memories. Probably on that bridge throwing flowers or a silly bloody lei in the water. And you can bet your life she’d be dopey enough to go on her own. It’s the perfect night to be alone with your thoughts, playing Wuthering Heights. And for getting necked. Maybe one of the girls drove her out there? Terrific. But she reckons she carries a gun with her. Les shook his head. If I’m right, it wouldn’t matter if she was carrying an M16. Then again, I could be imagining things. Maybe she’s home? Maybe there’s a message. Les walked across to the phone and rang Andrea’s number; he got the maid again.

‘Hello. It’s Mr Norton again. Is Ms Hazlewood there?’

‘No, sorry. Ms Hazlewood not here.’

‘I rang earlier. Did you give her my message?’

‘I write down. But she in, out. Five minutes. Drive off.’

‘Was she on her own?’

‘I no see. I out back near pool.’

Les thought for a moment. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he said, and hung up.

Well, that’s what’s happened. She did the million things, or whatever, she had to do, got rid of Monroe, then ran out the place at a hundred miles an hour to be with her silly bloody memories. She’s probably had to go and buy flowers, then have a few gins somewhere to make her more gushy and sentimental.

Les made another delicious, took it over to the window and stared out over the blackened ocean at the lightning in the distance. He couldn’t help but shake his head. I’ve got a plane to catch, I’m looking forward to going home while I’m relatively still in one piece, and this is none of my business. None of my fuckin’ business. But there’s fat chance of Mick getting out there, and somebody’s got to warn the stupid sheila. Les turned back towards the TV and the car keys sitting on the table next to the radio. Well, I’ve still got the Mustang for the rest of the night. And if I’m going to drive out to Ala Moana, I won’t be needing this. Norton put his drink down on the table, changed into his jeans and blue cotton jacket then caught the lift down to the foyer.

The drive out to Ala Moana was uneventful. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic so Les was able to cruise along at a steady speed; however, he still kept a careful eye out for the other cars on the wet roads and the radio off while he mulled a couple of things over in his head. Like, what am I doing here? I should be relaxing in my hotel before I leave this prick of a joint to catch my plane. He slowed down to turn left into the gates of Ala Moana Park, and slowed down some more for the first speed humps, driving past a row of outrigger canoes arranged along the grass on his right and finally pulling up alongside a small kiosk shop. The only word to describe the scene that met Les when he got out of his car was ‘eerie’. Claps of thunder rattled overhead as the wind bent all the surrounding palm trees towards the sea, and the dull lights from the kiosk and around cast sickly, crooked shadows through the trees and along the pathways. There were only about two or three cars parked along the drive and, apart from Norton, not another soul. Les could make out the tiny, arched bridge in the murky distance and behind that Ala Moana Boulevard and the lights of the shopping centre. Norton gave a double blink. Hovering above the shopping centre was a UFO — a flying saucer. There was no mistaking the shape and the blue and green and red lights as it hovered in the air. Les took another look and it was some sort of restaurant built on a tower above the shopping centre. Shit! I don’t like this, grumbled Les. He was turning towards the bridge, when a strange movement of white made him jump. The wind had got beneath the plastic bin-liners of two mesh rubbish tins, buffeting and rattling them around like two small parachutes. Bloody hell, cursed Norton. What next?

He started walking slowly and quietly towards the little arched bridge, keeping to the shadows, not wishing to announce his presence so he could get on the toe very smartly if things got out of hand, or if he was wrong and looked like making a dill of himself by being there. As Les drew nearer he could faintly hear the traffic hissing past, and he noticed that the tide had come in and that the shallow lagoons he’d seen on Tuesday had risen over halfway up the embankments. Quirky, jumpy shadows kept moving around Norton’s feet from the wind tossing at the trees and the thin glow from the surrounding lights washed the two arches and steps of the bridge a pallid white, giving it an almost sad, forlorn appearance where it spanned the murky waters of the lagoon. Les jammed his hands further into the pockets of his jacket and stood beneath a tree, peering at the bridge. Then he gave a double blink. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He should, but he just couldn’t quite. Standing against the railing, in the middle of the bridge, was Andrea. He hadn’t noticed her at first, but it was Andrea all right, wearing the same tracksuit she had on at breakfast, only she had a dark scarf over her head, tied under her chin, and she seemed to be wearing dark gloves. She was staring into the water facing the roadway with her hands clasped in front of her as if she was praying. Les shook his head. It was hard to believe anyone could be so stupid. Les moved his gaze to something in the water and, sure enough, there was a lei of blue and white flowers being swirled around by the breeze. Les shook his head again. Am I a bloody mind reader or what?

Les stood perfectly still as the wind seemed to die for a moment, and in that brief instant he could appreciate Andrea’s position and the poignancy of the moment. It was tragic to lose someone you love in such a brutal, senseless manner. Les felt glad he was watching Andrea from side-on because you could bet your life ribbons of tears would be flowing down her face and dripping from her chin into the water below. A movement coming up the stairs on the other side of Andrea made Norton tense up. A figure wearing a dark grunge jacket, jeans and some kind of boots came slowly, confidently, along the path and stopped on the bridge a couple of metres away from Andrea. Andrea didn’t seem to notice at first, then, slightly startled, she looked up. Les edged a little closer to the bridge and Andrea’s voice carried over to him in the wind.

‘Oh, hello, Liu,’ she said. ‘What are you doing down this way?’

Liu never moved and didn’t say a word; the wind picked up and swirled her jet black hair as she stared at Andrea. Norton froze.

‘Liu, it’s me, Andriana. What’s the matter? Don’t you recognise me?’

Liu still didn’t reply. She just stared at Andrea. Norton burst out from the trees and screamed at Andrea.

‘Andrea! Get the fuck away from her! Come over here! Now!’

Andrea jumped. She spun around towards Les, back to Liu, then back to Norton again. ‘Les? What the—’

‘Andrea, get away from her!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘That’s the killer! That’s Mr Walker!’

‘What!?’

The look on Norton’s face and the urgency in his voice seemed to spark something in Andrea. She took another look at Liu then began moving towards Les. Les ran across the path and up the stairs, grabbed Andrea roughly by the arm and yanked her back down. Liu came across to the top of the stairs and stared at them. Her face was contorted and her entire body seemed to quiver. Les and Andrea started edging back along the pathway when another movement to their right stopped them momentarily and stopped Liu at the top of the stairs also. It was Officer Mick Reinhardt of the HPD, looking all very policeman in his black uniform, cap and gun, just like in the movies. He came walking almost nonchalantly out of the shadows and onto the pathway.

‘I got here, Les,’ he said. ‘What’s going on? Hello, Andrea.’ Mick turned to Liu standing on the bridge. ‘Who’s the girl on top of the…’

Liu’s entire body shook and her face twisted into this horrible mask of pure rage — eyes bulging, flecks of foam forming round her lips. Watching from the pathway, she reminded Les of one of those old black-and-white horror movies where the moon comes out and Lon Chaney or whoever starts changing into a werewolf. Norton would not have been the least bit surprised if hair had started growing all over Liu’s face and fangs had formed in her mouth. Before Mick could say another word she took a breath, skipped forward a step and did this giant somersault over the stairs, landing as surefooted as a cat right in front of Mick. Les had never seen anything like it. Neither had anybody else. She snap-kicked Mick in the solar plexus with her right foot, making him double up and grunt with pain and shock as his lungs almost collapsed. Liu followed this with a short, jarring right to the jaw. Mick’s legs gave way, his cap fell off and he tumbled sideways into the stairs, banging his head with a horrible, flat thump against one of the pylons. If Liu’s one-two didn’t flatten Mick, that certainly did. He slid down the pylon onto his backside, eyes still half open, but deeply concussed and out like a light. Shit, there goes the cavalry to the rescue, thought Les. I hope Andrea’s got her gun with her and I hope it’s a big one.

Liu raised her left arm and pointed both at Les and Andrea, then moved her head and shoulders around, something like Bruce Lee would do before he’d go off and start to demolish the nearest half-dozen Asian heavies. She banged the heels of her boots together and two steel blades sprang out from the toes of her Colorado Montis. They weren’t bayonets, but stainless steel replicas, and they both glinted menacingly and deadly in the night.

Liu started circling to her right, keeping her back to the lagoon, probably deciding to take Les out first then finish the others. Les was still trying to come to grips with what he was seeing. One minute Liu was on top of the stairs, the next she’d taken out Mick, and now she was shaped up in front of him, knives sticking out from her boots, frothing at the mouth, and above her, this flying saucer hovering in the distance. It was the weirdest, horriblest thing Norton had seen in a while. But it was no good gawking. If he didn’t make a move, and soon, he’d be dead. This wasn’t just some punch-up, get into it street fight. This was the real thing. Win or die. But what could he do? Liu was that fast, if he threw a punch or lunged at her, she’d have one of those blades jammed in his chest before he’d even see it coming. Even if he tried to tackle her she’d sidestep him and land one in his ribs. No matter what Les did, he was going to cop one of those blades, hopefully only in the arm or leg, before he could grab her and maybe choke her or something. However, Liu wasn’t just some woman. She was as strong and fit as any man her size and you could bet she’d know every martial arts trick in the book as well. Norton started to sweat in the moonlight, and his adrenalin was pumping furiously when another movement to his right made him look away from Liu for a split second. It was Andrea. In the confusion Les had forgotten all about her. In fact, Les had forgotten about everything. The only thing on his mind at the moment was self-preservation. Andrea was now standing on the pathway, holding Mick’s .38 Police Special in a combat stance — eyes sighted along the barrel, the hammer back, ready to go.

‘So you’re Mr Walker, are you?’ she snarled. ‘Well, Mele Kalikimaka, Mr Walker. You bitch!’

Andrea pulled the trigger twice, sparks flew from the barrel, but the twin explosions were masked by a clap of thunder and soon blown away in the wind. The first bullet hit Liu in the throat, causing this awful gurgling gasp from her mouth along with a spray of blood. The second bullet smacked into her chest straight through the heart, and she fell backwards down the embankment and into the lagoon. She landed on her back, with half her head and one arm in the water, her right arm resting on her chest and her feet up, with the blades sticking out the toes of her boots still shining bright and deadly in the dull light from the bridge. Liu’s dark hair swirled languidly in the current and apart from that there was no other movement.

‘Nice bit of shooting, Thelma,’ said Norton, turning to Andrea, who was still standing in a combat stance with Mick’s gun in her hands. ‘You sure plugged that danged varmint.’

Andrea dropped her arms and they both walked over to Liu’s body resting in the lagoon. ‘Fuckin’ bitch!’cursed Andrea. ‘I gave her a good job too.’ She walked down the embankment a little to view her handiwork, giving Liu’s body a heavy once up and down, settling on the two knife blades sticking up from her boots. ‘So that’s how she done it, eh?’

‘Yep,’ agreed Les. ‘That’s how she done it.’ Les gave the body a once over himself, noticing a heavy ring glinting on Liu’s right hand. He didn’t bother to have a closer look; he had a pretty fair idea what would be on it.

As they stood there, the wind swirling across the surface of the lagoon picked up Andrea’s lei of blue and white flowers. It drifted and spun across the rippling water before finally resting in the red-stained murk alongside Liu’s head, almost like a wreath. Les and Andrea had a last look then walked back to the pathway. Mick was still slumped up, unconscious, against the stairs, a smear of blood staining the white concrete where he’d split his head open against the pylon.

Andrea looked at him and shook her head. ‘Fearless Fosdick was a lot of bloody help, wasn’t he?’ Then she seemed to think for a moment. ‘Maybe not. Maybe he was, after all.’

She walked across to Mick, put the gun in his right hand with his finger on the trigger, wrapped her hands around his, then lifted his arm up and fired two shots into the air. The smoke quickly dissipated and she left Mick with his hand resting in his lap still holding his gun. The state Mick was in she could have left him holding his dick and he wouldn’t have known.

‘Powder burns, Andrea?’ enquired Norton.

Andrea winked. ‘You’re on the ball, aren’t you, Les? Now it looks like he did it. Buggered if I know what he was doing out here. Probably just followed me around — the prick. But now he’ll be a police hero.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Of course. He’ll put it down to brilliant detective work or something. Get a police commendation. Have a look at him, he doesn’t know whether he’s Arthur or Martha. So he’s not going to argue when he comes to. And the cops won’t. This’ll wrap it all up just nicely. And if it gets down to the nitty gritty, which it won’t anyway, I’m wearing gloves and there’s a gun in my purse that hasn’t been used.’

‘You did bring a gun with you?’

‘Yeah, just a little .380 Backup. That’s why I grabbed boofhead’s .38. Be like using a pea shooter against that ratbag.’ Andrea smiled at Les. ‘Anyway, we’ll work out what to tell the cops by the time they get here. You’ve signed the odd statement or two in your time, Les.’

Norton shook his head. ‘That’s… just it, Andrea. I won’t be here to sign any statements.’

‘You won’t!?’

‘No. I’m leaving for Sydney at eleven-thirty. I have to get to the airport at half past ten. Didn’t you get my message?’

‘I saw something in the kitchen, but I didn’t take much notice.’ Andrea was a little stunned. ‘You’re fair dinkum, Les? You’re going back tonight?’

Les nodded. ‘Yep. Warren’s had to go, and I have to go with him. And, to be honest, Andrea, I want to go. This whole thing is starting to give me the shits. Fights, murders, cops. I can get enough of that back home without coming to Hawaii.’

‘Oh. Oh well. Fair enough.’ Andrea gave Les a bit of a suspicious once up and down. ‘So what are you doing out here anyway?’

‘What am I doing out here?’ Norton stared into Andrea’s eyes for a moment to give his brain time to start tap-dancing. ‘Well, I know it was none of my business, but I sort of mentioned about the priest, James, to Mick. And he told me about how this was where he died and how and when it happened. And let’s face it, Andrea, you’ve always had a big heart and… been a bit of a romantic. So I figured you’d be out here… paying your respects sort of thing. I mean, you did love the bloke. Plus, I was a bit worried about you. And I just couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. And knowing that you were all right.’

‘Oh, Les, you’re so sweet. You really are.’

‘Yeah well, you know me. We’re both just a couple of softies when it’s all boiled down.’

‘Yes, you’re right, Les. We are, aren’t we?’ Andrea squeezed Norton’s hands for a second then looked up at him. ‘So how did you know it was Liu?’

‘I didn’t.’ Les couldn’t be bothered going into all the details and he didn’t have the time. ‘I just saw what I thought was a bloke on the bridge so I yelled out. And she just happened to go off her brain. But I did see her talking to one of Takushi’s sons last night. And Mitzi said she was a bit weird. You can bet she’s a hired killer. And a bloody good one too. Probably works for the Yakuza.’

Andrea’s face tensed. ‘Yeah. That makes sense,’ she nodded slowly.

‘Fair dinkum, Andrea,’ said Les. ‘If I were you, I’d put my cue in the rack.’ He nodded towards Liu lying in the lagoon. ‘You’ve got this thing all squared away and you’re bone lucky you’re still in one piece. You’ve made your money. Between the FBI and the Yakuza, your luck’s going to run out sooner or later. I’d pack my swag.’

Andrea nodded again. ‘Don’t worry, Les. I just happened to say to James tonight, along with my prayers, I might not be seeing him again for a while. But I’d always remember him. Always.’

Les took Andrea’s hand. ‘You’re beautiful, Andrea. Beautiful.’ Les looked into her eyes as a tender moment passed between them. ‘So what about the fifty?’

‘Fifty? What fifty?’ replied Andrea, dropping Norton’s hand.

‘The fifty grand reward.’ Les nodded towards Mick. ‘You’re not gonna give it to him, are you?’

‘Shit no!’

‘Well? What about your old mate?’

‘You!? What did you do? You just happened to be bloody walking past.’

‘Yeah. Just happened to be walking past,’ said Les. ‘I ran up those stairs, dragged you from the jaws of certain death, then stood between you and a crazed killer.’ Norton sniffed and choked back a tear. ‘I was prepared to lay down my life for you. Dead and in my grave I could have been, trying to be your shield and protection. And for what already?’

‘Les, this is a bridge at Ala Moana with Andrea Hayden. Not Waterloo Bridge with Vivien Leigh. Get fucked, will you.’

‘Thanks.’ Les shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a hard woman. Not the Andrea Hayden I used to know.’

A smiled formed on Andrea’s face that tight the words squeaked when they came out. ‘All right, I’ll give you half the whack. Twenty-five grand.’

By contrast, the smile that quickly formed on Norton’s face would have lit up the dark side of the moon. ‘I’m still at the same address in Bondi. But I’ll write it down again before I leave.’

‘Terrific. Anyway, what do we do now?’

‘Well, why don’t we leave Steve McGarrett where he is, get his keys and call the HPD from his blue and white. It’ll be parked up there somewhere. You can say you’ve witnessed a shooting and a police officer’s been hurt. In five minutes there’ll be cops everywhere. The radio shouldn’t be hard to work out.’

‘I got a better idea. Why don’t we walk back to my car and I’ll ring from my car phone. And when the cops arrive I’ll go into a state of shock. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a few minutes. And by the time the cops get any sense out of me and Dick Tracy, you’ll be halfway to Australia.’

‘Good thinking, Ninety-nine.’

‘Besides, I got my chequebook in the car.’

‘Oh, even better. Didn’t I always say you were a princess, Andrea?’

‘Get out of my arse, Les. Come on, before I change my mind.’

Andrea’s car was a white Chevrolet Cavalier with tinted windows. Les waited on the footpath while she fossicked around under the interior light, getting something from the glovebox. She came back out, closed the door behind her and slipped a cheque into Norton’s jacket pocket.

‘I don’t know about what I’m paying my girls, but that’s got to be the easiest twenty-five grand you’ve ever earnt.’

As Les bent to put his arms around Andrea and give her a )kiss several muscles in his back tore plus a rib cartilage. ‘I don’t know, Andrea. I wouldn’t say that.’ Their lips brushed and Les gave his old friend one on each cheek. ‘See you later, Andrea. You look after yourself. And thanks for the —’

‘That’s okay. You look after yourself too, Les.’ Andrea took Norton’s hands and looked up at him for a moment. ‘And, Les… Thanks for being there.’

Les gave her one more on the lips. ‘See you, Fenwick.’

‘See you, Tripeman. Aloha.’

Andrea gave one last brief wave and got back in her car as the wind bowled a thick mist of rain across the roadway. Les jogged to the Mustang, did a quick U-turn and headed straight back to the hotel. He didn’t know what to think as he peered through the click-clack of the windscreen wipers and weaved in and out of the other cars. It had been one weird experience. The funniest part though was the flying saucer. When he first saw it he thought it was the real bloody thing. Norton’s mind was still going all over the place when he pulled up in the hotel driveway and left the car with the attendant.

Back in the room, his drink was still sitting on the table where he’d left it and the ice had just melted. Les tossed half of it down and looked at his watch. By the time he sorted out all the rattle at the desk and got to the airport, it’d be more like eleven than half past ten. He threw some water over his face, ran a towel and comb through his hair, then rang the desk, saying he was on his way down and could they have his bill ready and arrange a taxi for him. Certainly, Mr Norton. Not a problem. Les zipped up his bags, made sure everything was packed and had a last look around his room with the lights on and nothing doing. No TV, no golden oldies, nothing. Just silence and emptiness and rubbish. It hadn’t been the best holiday Norton had ever had. Les smiled at the bed and felt his back pocket. However, there were a couple of pleasant memories. He picked up his bags and hurried down the corridor to the lifts.

A mob of Japanese tourists wanting to change traveller’s cheques arrived at the desk the same time as Norton, so it did take a little longer to check-out than he thought. But he waited patiently until it was his turn. No, Mr Norton. Telephone calls et cetera cannot be charged to the room. Sorry. Les paid with his VISA card, then got a syrupy goodbye and hope you enjoyed your stay in Hawaii. Aloha.

Waiting in the driveway was a white stretch limousine. It wasn’t really a limo, but a huge taxi that doubled as both. So seeing it was a bit quiet on a damp Wednesday night Les got the filmstar treatment. He threw his bags in the back and climbed inside, among about half an acre of air-conditioned, blue velvet comfort.

‘Hey, mate,’ he said to the driver, ‘drive past Ala Moana Park. I want to have a last look at the Christmas decorations outside the shopping centre. You can pick up the H1 the other side of Iwilei.’

‘Yes, sir. No problem.’

Les checked his bags and made sure he hadn’t left anything in the hotel. Passport, wallet, traveller’s cheques, et cetera. No, everything was in order. There was a digital clock just above the radio console in the back. He was running late, but he should make his flight on time.

The driver came round onto Ala Moana Boulevard, crossed the bridge over the canal and drove past the park gates. As they went alongside the shopping centre Les could see two ambulances and two police cars outside the bus stop on the other side of the median strip. There were lights flashing around the tiny arched bridge and another two police cars at the opposite side of the park winking red and blue in the distance. Sirens coming from somewhere heralded the arrival of more.

‘Looks like there’s been some sort of an accident,’ said the driver.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘It’s probably the wet roads.’

‘Can’t see any car wrecks, though.’

‘They’ve probably towed them away.’

Les watched the police lights disappear from the window then turned to the front as the gravity of what he’d just been through sank in. The Norton luck had been with him again. This was more than luck though. It had to be. Les winked up at the night sky. Thanks again, boss. He closed his eyes, gave a sigh of relief then settled down into the comfortable back seat and thought about what it was that eventually led him to Mr Walker.

The first thing that had made him suspicious was the photocopies of the knife wounds and the bruising round the cuts. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to see there was something just a bit odd about them. They all went upwards as if they’d been delivered by a powerful uppercut. Powerful enough to break the bones yet twist the knife around at the same time. Yet the marks on the right-hand side of the girls’ faces were enough to leave the faint indentation of a ring and that was it. A man punching with strength like that would break their jawbones at least. But the thing that got Norton thinking was the fight in the lift with Mitzi. Les had never had a fight in a lift and the only one he’d ever seen was in an old James Bond movie on TV. Les couldn’t remember the name of the movie but he remembered the night he saw it. A girl had invited him round to her unit for a cooked meal, a few drinks and whatever. She was a heavy 007 fan and there was a double-header on the box that night. James Bond didn’t turn Les on all that much. But for a nice meal, nice drinks and a chance for a bit of the other, Norton didn’t mind sitting through a double-header. Or a triple-header for that matter. They both got awfully drunk and that was how it turned out. Anyway, in the follow-up movie Les remembered James Bond also fought some horrible old Dyke with this horrible name and she had some trick thing with a knife in her shoe. Bond either shot her or his squeeze at the time did. But it was a fair while ago and just another 007 flick and at the time Les was more interested in getting his lady friend drunk than what was actually happening on TV. Then later on the woman’s horrible name came up during the drink at the Diggers and it was in relation to the bloke who got killed in the caravan park at Forster. Which was why Les rang his detective friend Gary Stanton; who filled him in over the phone as best he could and it all started to make sense.

When the detective doing the investigation pulled the fishing knife out of the deceased’s chest, he noticed one side of it was sticky. Forensic analysis showed traces of some kind of adhesive, which in itself was nothing. However when the cop was looking around the small caravan he noticed a pair of gym boots belonging to the deceased’s wife, or now widow, and across the toe of one it looked like it had been scraped clean. When he ran his finger across the clean part of the toe it too was sticky. In the boot of the deceased’s car was a roll of gaffer tape. So it was feasible that the deceased’s wife had taped the fishing knife to the sole of her gym boot then kicked it up into her husband’s chest when he came home drunk, instead of her story, which was that he menaced her with the knife, then in a drunken state fell on it. It would be pretty hard to prove one way or another because at the time the poor woman had a broken collarbone and a sprained wrist, along with two black eyes from the last hiding her drunken boofhead husband had given her. Hard to prove, even if the detective did notice a photo on a sideboard in the caravan showing the woman in her younger days as the star striker in a women’s soccer team. And earlier that night, the wife’s sister just happened to be in the vicinity before the accident and just happened to call back for something just after it. So even though the cop did have his suspicions, the bloke was nothing better than a drunken, wife-bashing dropkick, so why bother? He only got what he deserved. But as a private joke, the cop nicknamed the case the Rosa Klebb killing, after the horrible old bag in the James Bond movie, because she had this poisoned knife blade sticking out from the toe of her shoe too, with which she tried to do a job on James. But you have to be up pretty early in the morning to get the better of 007.

So it was possible, surmised Les, that some woman could be murdering those hookers with a knife or something sticking out from the toe of her shoe. The knife wounds suggested it and the bruising around the entry, which was supposed to come from a fist, was also very much the same shape as the toe of a boot. And a woman would just about hit hard enough to leave those marks on the hookers’ faces without breaking any bones. The marine ring could be a ruse to make it look like the work of some psycho in the military with a hatred for women, especially hookers.

So if it was a woman doing the killings: who? Back to the fight in the lift. Mitzi. It had to be her. The way she was throwing that knuckle duster around like it was going out of style. She’d be able to do the same thing with a bulky signet ring and her boyfriend was a martial arts expert; you could bet he’d have taught her plenty. Plus, she was Andrea’s accountant. All the girls would know her and trust her. She’d probably drop them off at home now and again or call round, and bingo! Have this in the chest to remember me by, girls. The ‘I love Andrea’ bit could be another ruse. When it comes to telling lies, women can be just as good as men. Better.

Which was why Norton was relieved, as much as he was surprised, when Liu came walking along the bridge; and it made more sense. She was a driver for Andrea. She’d also know all the girls and be trusted with them. Drop them off, call around, whatever. ‘Hello Liu. What are you doing round this way?’ Whack! The ring she used was sitting on her finger where she lay in the lagoon. The ruse. Which was more than likely why she killed the cheap black hooker — one who probably hung around with military personnel. Another ruse. The killings in alphabetical order? Maybe Liu liked to do it that way. More than likely coincidence. Possibly the two Takushi brothers owed Andrea some kind of honour, or they had to save a certain amount of face because of their father. Possibly they were just trying to put the frighteners on her early in the piece hoping Andrea would fold up her tent and vanish into the night. Then they could take over. But Andrea was either too dumb, too cheeky or making too much money to want to leave just yet. So it was time to get rid of her. Maybe for the two brothers’ own purposes. Maybe before the FBI arrived, nicked everyone and put a stop to the whole caper. Remorse for the girls murdered? That’d be right. They’d be just so many lumps of meat to the Yakuza.

As for Liu herself, she was just a raving psychopath. Whether she liked to kill during full moons, Norton wasn’t sure. But she looked that close to a werewolf when she was standing on the bridge it didn’t make any difference. Les nearly shit himself. And any normal, rational person would have just put on the old ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and walked away. But instead she started snarling and foaming at the mouth and going off her brain. Not that she had far to go — an ex-lesbian geisha girl and frustrated figure skater with half the dots missing on her dominoes, who couldn’t even crack it for a job as a hooker. She’d have more hang-ups than a string of dry cleaning shops. The perfect recruit for young Takushi and ultimately the perfect killing machine. Who probably revelled in her work anyway. And she’d be that dirty on Andrea underneath, she’d have probably killed her for nothing when the time came. Like tonight. Maybe Takushi gave her the nod at the Green Giraffe. Maybe she’d been following Andrea around for months, trying to get her somewhere alone and away from Monroe. Maybe Monroe was in on the scam. Who knows? But tonight was the perfect night for murder. Just bad luck Les the old friend and Constable Plod the enemy had to come stumbling along and stuff everything up. It’s always the way.

And that was about it. Aloha Hawaii and fuckin’ goodbye. Norton opened his eyes and noticed they were approaching the airport. One thing for sure, Les promised himself, I’ll never watch another bloody James Bond movie as long as I live. It was one of those stupid films made me think about going to Jamaica. And thinking about another one almost got me killed over here. In fact, that’s it all around. No more movies, no more TV, no more nothing. I’m staying home and I ain’t going nowhere. It’s not worth the effort. Les smiled a little as he felt his wallet in his jacket pocket with Andrea’s cheque inside. At least I finished up with enough for a drink. Yeah. A vodka martini. Twist of lemon, shaken not stirred. And talking about plots and spies, there should be another plot about to unfold tonight. The mysterious whereabouts of one Warren Edwards.

Norton looked out the window at the planes taxiing around the tarmac as they drove into the airport. I reckon I know exactly what that shifty little turd’s been up to. He’s been up to something he wanted to skite about in his own sweet time. But he didn’t want to get sprung. Yeah. Les laughed to himself. Now it’s all blown up in his face, so to speak. But the thing is, how do I let Warren know I know what he’s been up to? Without letting him know I know what he’s been up to? And without bubbling his toady little rort at the same time? One would have to use the utmost discretion. But there has to be a way.

The limo pulled up at the terminal and Les piled out with his bags, to be relieved of the fare and a tip by the driver, then to be relieved of another tip by some skinny bloke in a cap with a trolley who took his bag over to the Business Class Check-in Counter. Honolulu Airport looked different from the departure side and it was quite strange catching a plane so late at night and in another country. Les had a look around while the girl checked his ticket and it was much the same as any airport anywhere, he surmised — people running around or queued up at counters, high concrete walls and windows, planes coming and going. The girl was as efficient as she was polite. Les got through without any problems and after that it was a fairly lengthy walk along the concrete corridor, past people sleeping on the floor or benches or walking around like zombies waiting for their flight. Norton rounded a corner, took a small lift up a floor or two and stepped out into the foyer of the Captain’s Lounge, where his ticket was checked and he was allowed in.

The Captain’s Lounge was very how’s-your-father. The smokers were roped off into their area when you walked in then it was a serving area and two large lounges with comfortable chairs and nice tables with a TV in one if you wanted it. There was a table full of nibblies and next to these a table full of Australian magazines and papers and a fully stocked bar and fridge; just help yourself. The place was about two-thirds full of passengers either quietly chatting, drinking or reading the papers. But no sign of Warren. Oh well, thought Les. If he makes it, he makes it. If not, more room for me to spread my legs out. In the meantime, there’s no need for me to suffer. Les placed his overnight bag at a table next to some bloke reading the Bulletin then made himself a super strong, super hot Bloody Mary, picked up a copy of the Telegraph Mirror and sat down.

Les had just made it to page 13 when some good style of a bloke in a crisp Qantas uniform walked in and introduced himself as Wing Commander Dunk or something, the Flight Services Director. He said they’d be leaving shortly, they’d be told when to board the aircraft, the flight would be most pleasant, they’d arrive in Sydney on time, did everybody have enough food and drink? were the magazines up to scratch? and how’s all the family back home?

Well, that was jolly decent of him, thought Les. Good old Qantas. Isn’t it nice to know someone cares? Les finished his drink and got through a few more pages, when it was time to go. He picked up his bag and joined the queue. There were only about three people behind him when there appeared this strange commotion at the entrance. It was Warren, looking exactly like someone who had just escaped from or got blown up in a volcano. His face was blistered, his hair was singed and one eyebrow was almost gone. His jeans were scorched and dirty, his white T-shirt equally dirty as well as wrinkly and streaked with BO, and he was wild-eyed and crazy-looking. He reminded Les of a cross between some soapy backpacker and Wile E. Coyote when he gets blown up by his ACME brand dynamite in the Roadrunner cartoons. Definitely not the type of person who should be standing in the Captain’s Lounge and flying Business Class.

‘Warren?’ said Les, as his flatmate approached, ‘it is you — isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s fuckin’ Red Adair. Who do you fuckin’ think it is?’ cursed Warren.

‘All right, Woz,’ replied Norton. ‘Settle down. There’s people around.’ He gave Warren an amused once up and down. ‘So what happened to you?’

‘Ohh what do you think happened to me? Have a fuckin’ look. Christ!’ Warren noticed the queue had just about disappeared. ‘Ohh, fuck it,’ he said. ‘I got time for one bloody beer.’ He went to the fridge, tore the ring-pull from a can of VB, downed about a third of it and belched. ‘Shit! Did I need that.’

‘Evidently.’ Les watched his flatmate rip into some more VB, till there were just the two of them left in the lounge. ‘So are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to, Woz?’

Warren shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it. In fact, if anyone asks you what happened over here, say I was with you all the time. And you had to leave early. You got crook or something.’

‘I had to leave. All right, Warren. Whatever you say.’

Warren got to the last of his beer. ‘So what have you been up to anyway?’ he said, switching the subject.

‘Not much,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Never had time, did I? Just sat around the hotel pool, reading a book. Age of Consent.’

Warren frowned. ‘That’s not like you to sit around reading mushy love stories.’

‘Well, like I said, Woz, I didn’t have time to do much else.’

‘Yeah,’ conceded Warren. ‘Well, I’m sorry about that, Les. But you know, that’s how it goes.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Norton. ‘That’s how it goes. C’est la vie.’

Warren’s frown deepened. ‘What did you just say, Les?’

‘C’est la vie. It means, “That’s life”. It’s French, Warren.’

‘French?’

‘Yeah. You know, Warren. Like the bloke says on TV. That’s French. That’s life. C’est la vie. That’s all I meant, Woz. Why? What did you think I meant?’ Norton gave his flatmate an indifferent once up and down as he turned for the exit. ‘Well, come on, Warren. Don’t stand there like a stale bottle of piss. Do you want to miss your flight?’

Robert G. Barrett
You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids

You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids is the book that launched Les Norton as Australia’s latest cult hero.

Follow Les, the hillbilly from Queensland, as he takes on the bouncers, heavies, hookers and gamblers of Sydney’s Kings Cross, films a TV ad for Bowen Lager in Queensland and gets caught up with a nymphomaniac on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

In one of the funniest books of the past decade you will laugh yourself silly and be ducking for cover as Les unleashes himself on Sydney’s unsuspecting underworld.

Robert G. Barrett
The Real Thing

Les Norton is back in town!

It all began in You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids… And now there’s more of it in The Real Thing.

Trouble seems to follow Les Norton like a blue heeler after a mob of sheep.

Maybe it's his job.

Being a bouncer at the infamous and illegal Kelly Club in Kings Cross isn’t the stuff a quiet life is made of.

Maybe it’s his friends.

Like Price Galese, the urbane and well-connected owner of the Kelly Club, or Eddie Salita who learnt to kill in Vietnam, or Reg Campbell, struggling artist and dope dealer.

But, then again, maybe Les is just unlucky.

Robert G. Barrett’s five stories of Les Norton and the Kelly Club provide an entertaining mix of laughter and excitement, and an insight into the Sydney underworld; a world often violent and cynical, but also with its fair share of rough humour and memorable characters.

Robert G. Barrett
The Godson

‘I wonder who that red-headed bloke is? He’s come into town out of nowhere, flattened six of the best fighters in Yurriki plus the biggest man in the valley. Then he arrives at my dance in army uniform drinking French champagne and imported beer like it’s going out of style. And ups and leaves with the best young sort in the joint… Don’t know who he is. But he’s not bloody bad.’

Les Norton is at it again!

Les thought they were going to be the easiest two weeks of his life.

Playing minder for a young member of the Royal Family called Peregrine Normanhurst III sounded like a deadset snack. So what if he was a champagne-guzzling millionaire Hooray Henry and his godfather was the Attorney General of Australia? Les would keep Peregrine out of trouble… So what if he was on the run from the IRA? They’d never follow him to Australia…

Robert G. Barrett’s latest Les Norton adventure moves at breakneck speed from the corridors of power in Canberra to the grimy tenements of Belfast, scorching the social pages of Sydney society and romping through the North Coast’s plushest resorts to climax in a nerve-shattering, blood-spattered shootout on a survivalist fortress in the Tweed Valley. The Godson features Les Norton at his hilarious best, whatever he’s up against — giant inbreds, earth mothers, Scandinavian au pair girls, jealous husbands, violent thugs and vengeful terrorists.

If you thought Australia’s favourite son could get up to some outrageous capers in You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids, The Real Thing and The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya, until you’ve read The Godson, you ain’t read nothin’ yet!

Robert G. Barrett
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

Okay, so it looks like the Kelly Club is finally closing down — it had to happen sooner or later. And it ain’t as if Les Norton will starve. He has money snookered away, he owns his house, and his blue-chip investment — a block of flats in Randwick — must be worth a fortune by now. Except that the place is falling down, the council is reclaiming the land, there’s been a murder in Flat 5, and the tenants are the biggest bunch of misfits since the Manson Family. And that’s just the good news, because the longer Les owns the Blue Seas Apartments, the more money he loses.

This time Les Norton’s really up against it.

But whilst he’s trying to solve his financial problems, he still has time to fight hate-crazed roadies, sort out a drug deal after fighting a gang of bikies, help a feminist Balmain writer with some research she won’t forget in a hurry, and get involved with Franulka, super-sexy leadsinger of an all-girl rock band, The Heathen Harlots.

And with the help of two ex-Romanian Securitate explosive experts, he might even be able to sort out his investment.

But can Les pull off the perfect crime? Of course — and why not throw the street party of the year at the same time?

Robert G. Barrett’s latest Les Norton novel is probably no more outrageous than his previous ones.

But then again…

Robert G. Barrett
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie

All Norton wanted was a quiet coffee and Sacher cake at the Hakoah club in Bondi, and to be left alone to sort out his troubled love life. How he let notorious conman Kelvin Kramer talk him up to Surfers Paradise for five days, Les will never know. Supposedly to mind KK and his massively boobed girlfriend, American model Crystal Linx, in Australia to promote her latest record. Though it did seem like a good idea at the time. Apart from the President of the United States arriving and Norton’s domestic problems, there wasn’t much keeping him in Sydney.

Norton went to the Gold Coast expecting some easy graft in the sun, an earn and possibly a little fresh romance. Les definitely got the earn. He certainly got the girl. But what Norton got in Surfers Paradise was trouble. In a size 40 Double-D cup.

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5