Adios Bondi Noir

By David Moor

Adios Bondi Noir is an urban crime fiction novel with sand between its toes, liberal doses of humour and plenty of heart, the story woven in and around Australia’s most famous beach. Kris Lowry, surgeon and committed surfer is about to head off to Sumatra for a well earned surfing holiday when his best friend Jake appears on his doorstep. The last time that happened it went badly for Kris and after a couple of years he’s still paying for it. Within forty eight hours Kris’ life has turned upside down, he has half a million in used bills sitting like a time-bomb in his hospital locker, people around him are being kidnapped and criminal kingpin Alan Green will stop at nothing to get his blood. Then things really start going bad. This genre bending novel is an irresistible mix of humour, crime, surf, sex, caffeine, hit men, cops, motor scooters and murder. It’s fast, funny and smart, and it steams home with all the energy and pace of a perfect Bondi right hander. "Adios Bondi Noir establishes David Moor as a significant writer on our landscape. Snappy, stylish, warm-hearted, this is a first novel not to be missed." Elizabeth Farrelly: Author, Opinion Columnist, Sydney Morning Herald.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781742843902

Book preview

ONE

Jake was feeling good as he stepped out of the aircraft that had just carried him from the City of Angels across the wide blue Pacific. He stood as tall and straight as a Viking without having to try. He was lucky that way. It had been two years since he left Australia and despite the wreckage he had left behind at that time, it hadn’t crossed his mind that things when he returned, would be anything but cool. The past was done, he couldn’t influence that, so he wasted no time being concerned about it. The future represented a field of infinite possibilities, so he believed it made no sense to worry about anything in that domain. To Jake Lundman, stress, anxiety and worry were largely theoretical concepts.

So he was untroubled by the appearance of two Australian Federal Police officers at the top of the air bridge ramp at Sydney International Airport. Jake was chatting to a young woman called Ellie and helping her to walk straight when he spotted them. She was an account manager from Saatchi’s and had spent the flight from LA sitting in the business class cocoon next to him, wondering if she had ever seen eyes as blue. She decided she hadn’t. She drank when she was nervous and until now had not realised how plastered she was. She had given him her business card with her home number and two mobile numbers written on the back, the last one followed by a little x.

Jake had no reason to expect that the Feds should be waiting for him but the two pairs of eyes were locked on to him with such purpose that in an instant, and with the benefit of some experience, he knew that he was their man.

Ellie, he said, pausing as they neared the police, I see my boys are waiting for me, so I’ll have to leave you here.

Dr Lundman? the shorter officer asked.

Just a second, guys, he replied. It was nice meeting you, he said, shaking her hand. Good luck with the campaign and hopefully we can catch up some time.

He turned to the Feds and with a fraternal pat on the short cop’s shoulder, said, Let’s go guys, a big smile creasing up his suntan.

This way, sir, replied the taller one. He turned and nodded politely to the young woman. As she weaved off to passport control Ellie was wondering what kind of mathematician is met by his personal team of Federal Police officers? An important one, she thought, and yes, one that she would like very much to catch up with some time.

The police didn’t ask Jake if he had had a pleasant flight, nor did he expect that. They led him through two security checkpoints and into a small, windowless room with a table and four chairs, one of them occupied by a tall man with short, unnaturally dark hair. He was possibly in his sixties, maybe older, with a face that looked like it had been slept in, the left side drooping slightly. His feet were up on the desk. His cowboy boots, crossed one over the other, had been resoled in thin black rubber, the left one worn through with a hole the size of a watch face. He was leaning back reading a James Lee Burke paperback.

Hey fellas! he called, snapping the book shut and slamming it on the desk. You found our man! Thanks. Good job. We’ll be fine for now. Can I give y’all a call in a couple minutes? he asked, getting to his feet.

Yes, sir, we’ll be right outside whenever you’re ready, replied the short one as they turned, closing the door behind them.

Nice boots, son, he said, nodding at Jake’s feet. Texas?

Oklahoma. Benny’s Boots, replied Jake.

Oklahoma City, how bout that? That’s where I was born and raised. He shook his head. Looks like real soft leather, and that stitching there’s old school, the genuine article. Course me, I got this thing for snakeskin. Crocodile too, but these ones are snake.

He pulled both trouser legs up above his knees revealing legs that were white, hairy, and surprisingly muscular. Fact they’re rattlesnake skin, Jake, given to me for my birthday by the Governor o’ Texas. I put these babies on, I swear I feel like I’m part reptile, and this might sound strange, but I like that feeling, Jake, I really do. Gets me back to my roots or sump’m.

Cold blooded? Jake asked.

Could be, he said. JP Schwartz, said the American extending his right hand and shaking Jake’s with a no-nonsense, firm, single pump. Everyone calls me JP so you can too, son.

Jake Lundman, he replied, but I sense you already knew that. Mind if I sit?

Hell no! Go ahead Jake. We’ve got a couple things to talk about anyways. JP parked himself back in his chair, pulled a crumpled pack of Camel plains from inside his coat pocket and withdrew a slightly bent one, placing it in the corner of his mouth. Haven’t had a smoke in seven years Jake. Damn! I miss it every day. I gotta buy a couple new packs every month or so on account o’ the cigarettes kinda fall to bits from being pulled in and out of the pack so much. I’m doin’ pretty good though. I figure, hell, I don’t have to give up the cigarettes, I just have to give up smokin’ ‘em.

Jake nodded. Makes sense, he said.

What passport you using today Jake? he asked, the tip of the unlit cigarette bouncing up and down with every syllable.

Danish. He pulled it out of the back pocket of his jeans and put it on the table. JP’s brow creased and he blew a stream of air noisily between his lips.

OK. Those fucking Danes, may the Lord excuse my tongue, are a touchy bunch o’ mothers. In that case, you’re not really here. Well it’s like this Jake, you’ll be working for us for a little while. That is, if you want to of course.

I have a choice? he asked.

Oh, Jake. This is America, you’ve always got a choice, he said, looking hurt.

Australia.

What’s ‘at son?

I’m not trying to be smart, JP, but unless I’m mistaken, this is Australia, replied Jake.

Good point, Jake, very good point, but officially you’re not here, least not yet, so really you’re still in the USA or somewhere else, I don’t give a shit. Anyway, we’re all on the same side, son. You see, you know that trouble you got mixed up in with that television preacher, what was ‘at show called again?

‘Yo Jesus.’

That’s the one. He sucked on the cigarette. Well I know it wasn’t really your problem. Thing is, the IRS might never have caught up with Reverend Baxter if he just kept his pants on and kept on delivering the message o’ the Lord, he said. There’s nothing like getting caught with a, what was she, thirteen, fourteen-year-old girl to attract all sorts of attention no matter who you are. Course a fourteen-year-old boy probably would have bin worse, least where I come from it woulda bin, but when you got a national TV show you’re in a dozen kinds o’ strife! Now my sister Mandy in Okie, she flat out could not believe it when it all came down. She’d watch ‘Yo Jesus’ on the TV and she’d send the money and sing the songs, Jake. She thought he was a living saint, and that wife of his, what was her name, Sue-Ellen or sump’m?

Bobbie-Sue obliged Jake. Her real name is Esther.

Whatever. Well Mandy thought she was an angel. JP Schwarz shook his head slowly. Damn! We both know she’s no angel but the Lord bestowed upon her some heavenly parts! He laughed hard at his own joke, a big unselfconscious laugh.

In fact the IRS had Reverend Baxter in their sights long before he was busted with the little blonde singer from Des Moines. Yo Jesus Corporation had neglected to declare a mountain of taxable income, and although Reverend Matthias Baxter believed that his finances were between him and God and had nothing to do with those devil worshiping cocksuckers on Capitol Hill, that isn’t how Internal Revenue saw it. When he was exposed as a low down fornicator and child molester, they seized the moment to jump on him.

Of course you know ‘em better ‘n me Jake. I don’t just mean the heavenly parts, I mean the Baxters, but the thing is the Feebs still can’t figure out where all the money went and you, Jake, you were the computer guy. He paused, closed his eyes and drew hard on the cigarette, sucking the pretend smoke deep into his lungs. It’s not as good without the fire on the end, but it’s better than you’d think.

The cigarette went back to the corner of his mouth and started bouncing again as he went on, Now they’ve got enough on the reverend to keep him away for a few years but the IRS wants the money, Jake, they don’t just want the man. Those fellas get a hard-on just thinkin’ about that sort o’ cash.

I’ve already told them everything I know. It was a strange gig for me. He was about to launch his big online prayer service. I did fix up some security bugs, and I worked pretty closely with them doing some predictive modelling for a little while, that was my main job, but that’s as far as it goes. He shrugged his shoulders. It was a three month contract that just stretched out a bit. I was still at M.I.T. while I worked for the Baxters.

Yeah, I know ‘bout that, and I know you worked very closely with Mrs Baxter, Jake, and I can’t say I blame you. Fact I’d like to do a little work with her myself! Woman like that has her needs. Isn’t that right Jake?

Jake wondered what pathway that piece of information had taken to get to JP Schwartz.

And you had that cute little thing in Cambridge goin’ at the same time too. Corinne, wasn’t it? Graduate student working on number theory, whatever that is. Got a little one on one time with the visiting professor. You got a talent son.

He was starting to make a point.

Thing is, there could be enough to put you away too Jake. Not that it really matters. You know, if there isn’t enough, then hell, we can just make it up! It’s not like we haven’t done that before. Fact we’re pretty good at it. But I really don’t want to do that to you Jake, so there’s your choice. You can work with us, and believe me this is important work, and we’ll forget about your position in the Yo Jesus mess, or you can go back and get into the ring with the Feebs. I gotta say, Jake, we’re a lot more fun than the FBI. Fact we’re a fucking non stop circus by comparison. Forgive my filthy, freakin’ tongue, Lord.

Sorry JP, but who is ‘WE’? asked Jake. Who do you work for?

I’m workin’ for the big guy. He paused and looked for a flicker of understanding from Jake’s face. The Lord, Jake, I’m working for the Lord. He gestured with his index finger towards a circular air conditioning duct above him, the surrounding white ceiling panel stained by a halo of fine grey dust. Least I like to think I am. But the Lord doesn’t pay my Amex, Jake, that’s the United States Government does that. I’m called a Special Attaché, son. I’ll admit it too, I like being special. I got the defence secretary on my speed dial and I hunt deer with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Hell, I was in ‘Nam with the Secretary of State! I’m a well connected son of a bitch.

So what would you want me to do for you JP? asked Jake.

Well… he drawled, you’ll be familiar with the fight against global terrorism, son.

Heard about it.

It’s the main game right now, Jake and we’re doing about as good as a high class hooker in Gary Indiana. Ever been to Gary Indiana?

Never.

Lucky. Find a hooker still got her front teeth there and you found someone just driving through.

I’ll remember that.

Anyway, Jake, we’d like you to lend a hand in the fight against global terrorism. We need to borrow some of your special mathematical skills for a while, that’s all. Put ‘em to good use. JP Schwartz beamed the cold-blooded smile of a happy reptile. See Jake, you’re special too! Doesn’t it feel good?

TWO

Enzo Gaspari was sitting in his TV chair, feet up, watching his beloved Italy beat France in the World Cup in Germany. He had watched the match twenty-six times already, which afforded him the opportunity to shout instructions to the players and get instant results.

Don’t pass across field, Mario, there’s too many bloody frogs, kick it to… That’s right! Good boy! Now across to Caprese and see if that bloody pansy can get it in this time!

Enzo’s short term memory had been waning for some years, so each viewing had a kind of freshness about it, yet the repeated exposure to the sequence of events enabled him to anticipate the plays like a fairground psychic.

He heard the knock at the front door just as France was awarded a penalty that triggered the same invective from Enzo each time he saw it.

You bloody French bastard! he yelled at the television get up you bloody bastard, you need your mama to help you eh? YOU NEED YOUR BOYFRIEND TO HOLD YOUR BLOODY HAND?

He pointed the remote control at the TV and hit the pause button hard with his thumb while thrusting his hand toward the screen, convinced that only a decent muscular effort would propel the signal as far as the television. He took the weight on his good knee while he pushed himself upright.

Bloody leg! he said, taking the weight on his feet. With a deep distrust of doctors, each one held personally responsible for the death of his wife, he had steadfastly refused to have surgery on his arthritic knee for the past fifteen years so that now the articular cartilage had worn away completely and bone was rubbing cruelly on bone, keeping him in constant pain. His innate crankiness was tempered in his youth by his enjoyment of a joke and a beer, but age had hardened his demeanour as well as his arteries, and with pain his constant, toxic companion, he had become pissed off with everything and everybody, all the time.

Another knock, louder this time.

Jussa minute! he yelled. Bloody impatient bastards, he muttered as he struggled along the hallway, wincing with the pain.

He opened the door to a large man with greasy black hair combed straight back from a hairline that started just above his eyebrows. Enzo had to look up until his neck hurt in order to see his eyes. He was dressed in a black suit over a dark grey shirt with a dense plume of chest hair filling the vee of his shirt like a furry cravat. The mingling of his body odour and pungent cologne was a combination that could peel paint.

Mr Gaspari. Good to finally meet you. The man held out his oversized hand for shaking, which was duly ignored.

What sort of man’s wear bloody perfume for, eh? It’s so bloody strong it’s hurt my eyes! Whaddya want? I’m not need to buy anything so if you wanna sell something then bugger off! He winced as he stepped back from the door before starting to close it. Bloody leg!

Mr Gaspari, I’m here on behalf of Mr Raj Siddhuta, I believe you need to finalise an agreement you made with Mr Siddhuta, some years ago. May I come in?

Enzo Gaspari looked at this man for a moment.

You from the government? You don’ look like you from the government.

No, sir. I’m from Evergreen Properties. Mr Siddhuta is selling his property to us but we need to sort a little something out with the title. You have got the title haven’t you?

Enzo Gaspari had an abiding distrust for all levels of government. He ran a fruit and vegetable wholesaling business for forty years and all transactions had been made with cash. He only trusted cash. Banks were nearly as bad as the government, the robbing bastards, and the less you had to do with either of them the better off you were. When he sold the property to Raj, he did so for a price that was below market value. He took cash, gave him a receipt and shook his hand but solicitors were not involved because those sneaky bastards were worse than the government and banks put together, and the title was never actually transferred. Enzo had taken the precaution of leaving the property in his will to Raj and knew that he probably should have had the title transferred but with the cash he was bringing home and the amount of tax that he wasn’t paying, he didn’t want to make waves of any kind. It was unorthodox but the two men had shaken hands on the deal and as far as Enzo was concerned that was solid.

I’m eighty-bloody-two, and I know maybe fifteen, twenty good men in all my life. Raj, he is a good man so don’t bullshit with me. He send you here? Because he didn’t tell me you coming. Enzo Gaspari was a blunt man but still sharp enough.

Let me in, I’ll show you the papers, all signed by Raj Siddhuta. Don’t worry, you don’t have to pay anything and you won’t have to deal with the government. He sent you a bottle of grappa The man held up a paper bag as he moved past Enzo into the dark hallway. The door closed behind him, the click accompanied by a curse about a leg.

Enzo Gaspari didn’t like the man but that in itself didn’t set the stranger apart from the rest of the world. There was something else. The man walked through to the television room and on to the kitchen where he found two glasses. He set the manila envelope and the bottle on the counter and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket, opened the bottle without taking it from the paper bag and poured two glasses of the clear liquor. One of them he held with a handkerchief as he walked back into the lounge room. He set the glasses down on the small table next to the television remote.

This will only take a minute Mr Gaspari, just need you to sign these papers. If we do it this way then nobody will bother you again. But first, let’s have a drop of this grappa.

The smelly man had a glass in his hand and motioned to the glass sitting beside Enzo. Enzo looked at the glass, then up at the man.

You no friend of Raj, you bloody bastard. He regarded him with a special loathing. I haven’t had a drink since my wife died. Everybody knows that. Raj, he knows that too. He didn’t sent you, you big bag a shit. Whaddya want?

Enzo, have a drink.

The man was calm; the grappa went down his fat neck like an eight ball in the middle pocket. He dropped the glass into a side pocket of his jacket, then slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a dozen photos. He threw them onto Enzo’s lap. Telephoto shots of Enzo’s three grandchildren playing on a red and yellow swing set in their back yard, and playing with a ball in the park opposite their house. There was a shot of them being dropped off at school and another at a birthday party amongst children Enzo didn’t recognize.

Have a drink Enzo, and sign the papers.

THREE

Jake! My man! How ya doin’ buddy? The only thing a smile like that needed was a diamond set in his left incisor. Jake felt certain that JP Schwartz was a dangerous man, still he found it difficult not to like him.

I’m fine thanks, JP. Where’ve you been? Jake was sitting in the office of Global Standards Corporation where he had been working as a special consultant for six weeks. It wasn’t the sort of place where co-workers socialised, nevertheless he had established a special friendship with two of the women in the office and an ordinary friendship with everyone else. His office was part of a hive of cubbyholes, rooms and workstations occupying all three floors of a building in what was referred to as a business estate on the margins of a light industrial area in Melbourne’s southeast. Global Standards Corporation was not listed in the phone book and the number could not be obtained through directory assistance but the telecommunications equipment in the office was state of the art.

Jake was one of only two people in the office who didn’t hold an American passport. There were several internationals though. Two Jordanian born men, one Swedish woman, a svelte Italian grandmother named Loretta, not yet fifty, who was big on leopard skin print and computer hacking, and a Chinese person named Hu, of indeterminate gender, as well as the twenty five or so native born Americans. Jake had been refining algorithms that would enable cyber investigators to more easily detect patterns of funds transfers. He’d also contributed some of the maths solutions to the biometry system that the US Government was working on for installation at all ports of entry. The work was right up his alley and he enjoyed it. Although it wasn’t his specialty area Jake had been working with Loretta crunching numbers to break into bank accounts and personal data and this is what JP was especially interested in. In the last fortnight he had cracked the funds transfers of the three individuals that JP had singled out as persons of interest.

Jake, I can not tell you where I’ve been. However when I was coming back here from wherever that was, I swung by Washington and I can tell you they are very happy with what you been doin’ here. Seems you solved some motherfucker of a maths problem, sorry Lord, that was holding up the Gateway project. Jake had his own office and JP closed the door behind him, pulled up a chair and put a large brown paper bag on the desk. A little something from the Secretary. He paused with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Of the Corporation? Jake asked.

JP rolled his eyes and said slowly, The Secretary of State of the USA, as if talking to a child. That Secretary. We go way back. He said ‘tell him thanks’. They were his very words, Jake. Well open the darn bag son or I’ll be offended on behalf of the entire free world and we’ll have ourselves a diplomatic incident! I mean we might have to go and destabilize Denmark just to let off some goddamn steam!

Jake pulled the bag across the black laminate desktop, opened it and peered inside. He put his hand in and pulled out a cowboy boot.

You’ll never guess, so I’ll tell ya. Buzzard skin. Just feel those goddamn boots boy! Soft as… well probably as soft as Loretta’s milky inner thigh, but only you would know that Jake. He boomed again and Jake wondered if there was anything he didn’t know. The boots didn’t come close.

JP, please tell the Secretary of State they’re very nice. And thanks. Jake worked in bare feet. He put the boots by the side of his desk. He watched JP sit back in his chair and rearrange his face in a manner that he had come to recognise in their few interactions as a cue for something more serious to follow.

Jake, you’ve done pretty much everything we wanted you to do. I don’t understand all o’ this mathematical shit you do, but the people I talk to who do understand it think you’re some kind o’ fucking genius. Shit again! Sorry Lord, give me strength. So as far as the corporation is concerned, they are favourably disposed towards you. This means that pretty soon you’ll be free to leave the company. If you wanna go of course. Jake, you lived in Sydney, you got a car up there?

JP must have known that he didn’t have a car.

No, I don’t.

Can you get one?

Yes, I think so, but it means I’ll need to let a couple of people know I’m here.

Yeah, well, pressure’s off now. How about a little field work for a change? he asked.

Do I have a choice JP?

Hell yes! You know you always got a choice Jake! The Lord or the Devil. Good or evil. To help out willingly on a very small task, or suffer the dire and shitful consequences that will surely follow if you don’t help out. You know how it works, Jake. This is no big deal but I need to keep it between you and me. Not Loretta or Anna Louise or anyone else here or anywhere else. I know you understand.

Uh-huh.

Tell me you understand this Jake.

I understand, JP. Between you and me only.

Good! And tell me, son, you really go all the way with Anna Louise?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. When do I leave J.P.?

Tomorrow. Well?

Jake had been treated very well under the circumstances. He was being paid two thousand dollars a week, a lot less than the going professional rate, but a lot more than he’d get in prison. He was given an apartment to stay in and was picked up each day to come to the Global Standards office. He had been supplied with a new ID including a New South Wales driver’s license in the name of Jacob Charles Perko and a mobile phone. Jake was told that he was discouraged from seeing any of his friends because he wasn’t really here, although it had become clear in the last few weeks that they were no longer terribly concerned about that. He was also told that if he breathed a word of anything that he was doing, or anything he became aware of at Global Standards to anyone, he would simply disappear. This, he decided, was not an idle threat. Other than that, it had been remarkably casual and very friendly.

OK, JP. Is anyone going to shoot at me, poison me or beat the shit out of me? He thought it was worth asking.

Hell no! Least I don’t think so. You just gotta drive your car, collect a package, and leave the rest to us after that. Take a couple weeks holiday, I don’t give a shit where, jus’ so long as you stay out of the way. You’ll be fine. Then we give you back your passport and even give you a new green card just to show there’s no hard feelings. What could be simpler than that? Or fairer?

JP Schwartz’s face was hosting a winning smile. It was lopsided, slightly goofy, almost warm. His eyes though, they were cool and grey as gunmetal.

FOUR

Kris parked the Peugeot on Campbell Parade at the south end of Bondi Beach. The sky overhead was clear, and pale grey. Clouds were assembled across the eastern horizon like a queue of pink dumplings waiting for a morning dip. The offshore breeze was cool on his skin as he pulled his board out of the back of the car. It couldn’t have been blowing more than three or four knots from the northwest, just enough to brush a velvet ripple across the surface of the sea. The sun was not yet above the horizon, but already Bondi Beach was awake and scratching its belly. Kris could see the splash from the early morning crew churning through the laps in the Icebergs pool. He had swum with all the ‘Bergs regulars over the years. Some of them, like his old mate Alexandre, were made of tough stuff and swam there every single day, rain, hail, freezing water or monster hangover. Figures of every shape and size, most of them human or near enough, were propelling themselves one way or another, through the Bondi morning. He could see brisk walkers, amblers, roller bladers, joggers, striders and a bent man wearing jogging shoes and a dressing gown power shuffling in heroic defiance of age. They moved along the waters edge, jogged the soft sand in the middle of the beach, swam like shark bait across the bay, strutted the promenade and struck out along the cliff path to Tamarama and Bronte Beaches. They were in pairs, singles, groups, wore headphones, held dogs on leads, came with personal trainers or boot camp commandants, and spoke foreign languages or English with a colourful palette of accents. Some on the beach watched the sun rise to mark the end of a long night of partying, metabolizing the remnants of ecstasy, coke, dope, alcohol or crystal meth. Two ambulance officers tended to a prostrate form on the grass behind the pavilion, while fifty metres away a lone figure with the body mass of Olive Oyl was doing salutes to the sun. It was a regular dawn at Bondi Beach, the time of day that Kris loved the place the most.

With almost three weeks out of the surf, his vitamin S deficiency was getting serious. The surf had been lousy and he’d been way too busy, so he was relieved to see a three foot swell breaking into very passable right handers off the bank in the south corner. There were only a half dozen surfers on it. That won’t last long, he thought. His old friend, Nick Siddhuta had left a message on Kris’ home phone the night before, saying that it was looking good for the morning and that he’d meet him for a surf at first light. It was a fair bet that he was one of the figures already out at the line up.

It was Kris’ first day off in two weeks, and his first official day of leave from the hospital. He would have surfed today regardless of the conditions just to get some badly needed paddling time into his arms before leaving for the Mentawai Islands of Sumatra in just three days time. He was a methodical guy and liked to prepare properly for his surf trips. Usually he cranked up the swimming regime to four or five times a week for at least a month before he left, and got into the surf as often as possible. Every day, if he could swing it. That way he was prepared, and if the swell was pumping when he got there, he could easily surf eight hours a day and so wring all the juice out of the champagne surf. For this trip, he had done none of his usual training so he felt woefully under done physically, though in every other way he was so ready for it.

Kris had arrived home just before midnight the previous night after putting in another monster day in the operating theatre. He had put in twelve hours straight and was about to go home when a fight over nothing more than a dirty look brought them five stab wound patients. Each one of them was critical, with either abdominal or chest wounds. It was an intense way to finish up before his holiday, but working under pressure was what Kris did best, and it was satisfying. Four out of the five would live with trophy scars to fight another day and they were no longer his problem.

He spotted Nick as he was paddling out. He was the figure out the back who took off on a clean right hander, carved a deep bottom turn sending his board vertically back up the face to snap a one-eighty degree re-entry off the lip. It was a signature move that had been photographed hundreds of times during his days on the pro tour. These days he was just chasing the buzz, not the points. He pulled in to a closeout section and raised his hand to Kris just as the long curtain of ocean closed over him.

Nick surfaced with a grin and pulled his board under his body. It is better to be barrelled and hammered than not be barrelled at all, Grasshopper, he said as they paddled back out together. Haven’t seen you in weeks, China, you must be heading off soon.

Day after tomorrow. There’s still room on the boat, said Kris, stroking hard to keep up with Nick.

"You know I’d love to, but I’ve got some new crew at work I have to sort out. And we’ve got this Bondi Oldschool Surf about coming up. I’m going