Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas by Robert G. Barrett Page B

said.
    Norton toed his way through the shoes, shirts, jeans and other torn clothing that littered the floor; an old brown sports coat even had the shoulder pads cut out. Whatever it was they were looking for, thought Les, they were sure keen to find it. And now I gotta clean all this fuckin’ shit up. Not today though. Then Norton’s eyes darkened. One thing’s for certain. If ever I find the cunts that did this, I know who else’ll be getting cleaned up.
    He was still shaking his head and staring at the havoc around him when he heard it. At first it sounded like a squadron of bombers flying low overhead, vibrating down one wall and coming in through the open window of the flat. Les had heard the sound before, though not so much in Sydney. But he knew where this was coming from and who was behind it. He had a last look around him, then closed the door and walked up to the roof.
    It was the hippies from flat six all right. There were three of them, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle, out of it blowing for all they were worth into their didgeridoos. But unlike the hippies Les had seen up in Yurriki, who were clean and fairly tidy, these three made your average park wino look like Trent Nathan. Their hair was like greasy rope, the soles of their feet were absolutely pitch black and even from where he was standing Les could smell BO that bad you could have photographed it. They wore filthy sweatbands and equally filthy tie-dyed T-shirts and singlets hanging out over crushed velvet pants. The main reason they were crushed velvet was because they’d never seen an iron since the day these chats had more than likely flogged them off some clothesline.
    Then Norton realised where he’d seen these three grubs before. It was up at the stalls in Oxford Street, Paddington one Saturday afternoon. Some sheila Les had been taking out had dragged him up there and this mob, plus more, were out on the footpath with a sign saying,
Didgeridoo Massage $5
. They had one of their team lying down on the footpath as a stooge and were running the didgeridoos over her as she writhed in absolute, bunged-on joy. It was one of the best cons Les had ever seen and only her black stinkin’ feet gave her away. The best part though, thought Les, was that they were actually getting mugs in at five bucks a toss.
    They noticed Les standing there but chose to ignore him as they howled away into the long, wooden pipes. After a few moments, Norton walked over and placed his foot over the end of the nearest hippy’s didgeridoo. He stopped blowing, as did the others, and looked up at Les as though they half expected him to be a cop.
    â€˜Hey, what’s the hassle man?’ he said.
    Norton looked distastefully at all three of them, then back at the one whose music he’d interrupted. ‘No hassle, man,’ said Les, sarcastically. ‘I’m the new caretaker.’ Although not actually taking Les to their breast, the hippies did seem relieved that he wasn’t a cop. ‘You got any idea what happened in flat five? And what happened to the bloke that was living there?’
    There was a chorus of. ‘No, man... We didn’t see anything, man. We weren’t here whenever what it is you’re talking about happened, man... Sorry, man... We can’t help you at all, man.’
    What they really meant was they’d seen and heard everything but were too terrified to talk about it. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out. But what was the use of grilling them. They probably wouldn’t be able to tell him all that much. And what they could would come out like a load of shit, anyway.
    â€˜Yeah, righto,’ nodded Les. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He left them to their music, or whatever it was, and went back downstairs.
    There was still no one around out the front and as Les walked across to his car he noticed the old blue kombi Hoppy had told him about. It was just as