For Your Pleasure & Questionable Behaviour

By Thomas James Taylor

Poker machines—harmless amusement devices provided for your pleasure and relaxation in almost every pub and club across the country? It has been argued so. They can take your spare change, perhaps your wages. They could take your car or even your house. For John Edwards, however, the stakes quickly and unexpectedly became much higher!

Questionable Behaviour
When two small-time crooks reluctantly agree to work off their debt to Eddie (Nails) Madden—the local drug peddler and would-be crime boss of the area—they soon learn that things aren’t quite as they were led to believe. Morris is nobody’s fool, possessing a keen understanding of human nature and an inherent sense of natural justice. It will require a good deal of intelligence and a measure of cunning, too, if events are to be steered toward a favorable outcome. But then there’s his buddy, Spider.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543408263

Thomas James Taylor

Tom Taylor was born near Morphett Vale, South Australia, on Dec, 1st, 1954, and was raised on the family farm, Thrush Grove, which was established during early colonization of the state, and lived there with his family until 1977. Possessing a penchant for adventure, he has embarked on several working tours of Australia, which, together with his rather wide-ranging and sometimes harrowing experiences, has provided him with a rich source of material from which to draw inspiration. In 1983, he retired from work-a-day life and began writing, as much to satisfy his creative bent as to delve a few of the many subjects which had always interested him. "The whole question of existence, being human and living in a world of seemingly limitless possibility is far more food for thought than I could digest in several lifetimes," he says. Tom presently resides near the coast, south of Adelaide, sharing life with his partner, Janet, and is currently busy as a musician while preparing his next three paperbacks for publication. His agile mind and quirky sense of humour are capable of imbuing new interest into almost any subject, and his irresistible curiosity and fascination with life translates into compelling story-telling. Let those who have become disenchanted, cynical and jaded by every-day existence be heartened. Here are a new set of glasses through which to view your universe.Mauve-coloured glasses!

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QUESTIONABLE

BEHAVIOUR

&

FOR YOUR PLEASURE

by Thomas James Taylor

Copyright © 2018 by Thomas James Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/10/2018

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

777376

*****CONTENTS*****

BOOK 1

QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOUR

UNEXPECTED VISITORS

TIME OUT

UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES

JUST A BEER WITH A FEW FRIENDS

DOIN’ THE BOLT

BOOK 2

FOR YOUR PLEASURE

BOOK 1

QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOUR

UNEXPECTED VISITORS

The morning sun slanted in through a narrowly opened venetian blind; bright shafts piercing the gloom, bending against angular objects resting on the living room floor. Two portable television sets, three video recorders, a portable CD-player, a lap-top computer, a small pile of gold and silver chains, some with pendants attached, a coin-jar three quarters full and a scatter of notes totalling around nine hundred dollars. A pizza box containing crusty remains. Against one wall a television set delivered a picture unaccompanied by sound; an athletic-looking couple grinning inanely, demonstrating the ease and fold away convenience of treadmills while a wooden company agent recited her spiel and the TV personality chipped in with practised witticisms. A low hiss filled the room, issuing from the speakers of a stereo system, alive but idle, with tiny red and green lights gleaming in the shadows beneath the window. And over the steady hiss, the wheezing and snoring of two sleeping forms. With his face pressed to the couch and one arm draped to the floor lay Morris, his six and a half foot length leaving his feet protruding well past the armrest. Long, ginger hair and beard framed his frowning countenance, a look suggesting that some unresolved concern nettled, even during sleep. The blue jeans, lace-up boots and black cotton shirt that he wore accounted for the extent of his wardrobe, if not for the actual number of items in it.

Sideways in the room’s one armchair slept Spider, a pale, wiry-looking individual. His bald pate held a light, oily sheen of perspiration. Eyebrows, almost comically, arched steeply above the dark orbits of his eyes while an aquiline nose gave a slightly predatory aspect to his features. His feet dangled over the arm of the chair above the black thongs he had let fall to the floor before submitting to sleep, dressed in the jeans and navy blue singlet which were his common apparel … year-round. With his head thrown back and mouth open wide, his eyes darted rapidly beneath dark lids as he dreamt of nymphs skiing naked down snow-covered slopes, himself in fervent pursuit.

It was hot. Outside, the neighbourhood was quiet, stark beneath a brilliant blue sky and blazing sun. The street in front of number seven was deserted. A hot breeze swirled dust and litter in the gutter while a shimmering heat haze rose from the bitumen, distorting stobie-poles, footpaths, fences and houses along Clovelly Avenue, as if all was in the process of being melted down into one, homogeneous, sticky puddle.

In the distance, the sound of traffic. A seaside suburb of Noarlunga, Christies Beach was a popular weekend destination in summertime, or served, at least, as a passing- through point for weekend motorists headed for the southern coast, away from the denser crowds of suburban Adelaide beaches. Cars of every size, shape, vintage and state of mechanical repair flowed along Beach Road, the town’s main business centre, where tourist-reliant shopkeepers cluttered the sidewalks with inelegant signage in attempt to catch the collective eye of prospective customers, desperate to cash in on the influx of weekend pleasure-seekers with wage-packets opened.

At the coast, where Beach Road met The Esplanade, those intending to visit generally turned right, then to begin the often arduous task of finding a vacant parking space. A frustrating endeavour, it occasionally led to heated disputes with others likewise engaged, each insisting they had spotted the space first. Fist-fights in such incidences were not unheard of.

On particularly busy days local residents sometimes found themselves prevented from leaving their homes, stymied by vehicles whose owners, apparently transcending reason, deemed it necessary to park across their driveways, the offending vehicles being smartly towed away by a city council, happy to generate the extra revenue.

To turn left at The Esplanade led over the bluff to Port Noarlunga and on to the numerous beaches further south. Along this route the more youthful motorists were want to cruise, stereo systems blaring out the latest of musical offerings, tossing out fast food packaging and soft drink containers along the way, in cool and carefree abandon.

Against the southbound flow of traffic travelled a white LTD Ford. Behind the wheel sat a man by the name of Edward Madden, aka Mad Eddy, aka Nails. His face was well tanned behind mirror sun-glasses, his dark hair cropped short. In the air-conditioned interior of his immaculately maintained car he wore a lightweight sports jacket over a white T-shirt, blue jeans and white sneakers.

Entering the outskirts of Port Noarlunga he leaned across to turn down the stereo which played his favourite Kevin Borich tape, retrieved the cigarette he had placed behind his ear just before departure and lit up.

At Ward Street, adjacent to the Port Noarlunga Hotel, he swung left and halfway along the short street he pulled up at the front of a white, stucco-finished house with a verandah running along its full length. Half a minute later a very large man of Polynesian extraction emerged into the daylight.

Spider’s snow nymphs proved swift and infuriatingly elusive. No matter how much he willed himself forward at ever greater speed, he was no match for the nubile beauties who seemed to be mocking his efforts as they descended the slope in easy, fluent arcs, their taut, plump buttocks wiggling tormentingly before him.

A thump on the arm woke him instantly. His eyes sprang open to find Morris looming over him, a sardonic grin drawn to one side of his face.

What you moanin’ about?

Eh, what? Spider muttered, annoyed and trying to gather his wits.

All that groaning. You dreaming about chicks again, you dirty bastard?

No, he protested innocently. It was, er … I don’t remember now.

Never known anybody so tail crazy, Morris continued, ignoring the denial. "Except maybe for Tassie Pete, and I don’t even like to think what happened to him."

What? Spider righted himself in the armchair. What happened to Tassie Pete?

Morris shook his head ruefully and walked of in the direction of the kitchen. You don’t want to know.

Unexpectedly, he found what he had gone for on the kitchen table; a small, metal film canister lying open and empty, spoons, syringes and other paraphernalia scattered around.

Spider! he called, staring angrily at the evidence.

Spider entered the kitchen behind him, his singlet off and slung over one shoulder. Fuck it’s hot, he expressed emphatically.

Fuck that, said Morris, turning to face him. What the bloody hell is this? He hooked a thumb in the direction of the table. Tell me you didn’t finish off the dope last night. Spider spread his arms, nonplussed. Me? Man, don’t you remember? We finished it about three thirty this morning. Both of us. There wasn’t much left and we figured we’d just do it and score again today.

Morris thought for a moment. There was a vague memory … Fuck it, he said at last, and went to the refrigerator for a beer. I feel like shit. He popped open the tab and Spider watched as he gulped the lot down in one go.

Does that really help?

Doesn’t hurt. Morris reached for another. Want one? Spider shrugged. Why not?

He didn’t usually drink this early, but already he felt the slight unpleasantness that told him he would need another fix quite soon. Is it hot, or is it just me?

It’s hot, Morris confirmed, handing him the last beer. And we got to get our butts into gear today.

The two of them returned to the lounge room where Spider switched on the light to better inspect the night’s haul. Morris turned off the television set, and reaching into the bottom recess of the cabinet it sat on, pulled out a hookah and a bowl containing a small amount of cannabis. Spider stood with arms folded. We did alright. Better unload this lot before the list goes out. Glenelg?" he suggested.

By Glenelg, he meant the suburb, and the pawnbroker who ran a shop there on Jetty Road.

There were half a dozen pawnbrokers and second-hand merchants that they used in and around the city. All were reasonably accommodating – that is if they provided suitable I.D. there were no questions asked – but they were mindful not to transgress the tacit condition, not to frequent one business too regularly, thereby minimising the odds of police proving culpability on the part of the proprietor should things go awry.

Glenelg it is, Morris agreed. Let’s hope he takes the lot. In that case we’ll go on to West Beach and see if we can’t score off Max.

Spider gave a quizzical look. I thought Max was busted.

Max gets busted on a regular basis. Not officially though, if you know what I mean.

The blank look on Spider’s face indicated that he had no idea. Morris took a breath.

Max got busted, big time, a couple of years back. Like he was supplying half the users in the city via the dealers who scored off of him, you know? The aspiring drug squad members of the day, the ones looking to climb up through the ranks, realised that if they took him out of the picture, in one fell swoop they’d be halving the necessity for their own positions. Back then the Government was cutting back on everything … Still are! But by stopping Max they realised they might be cutting their own throats, see? So, what the coppers did, they offered him a deal … rolled him over. A lesser charge, a word in the prosecutor’s ear, and the beak lets him walk.

He got off? Spider’s eyebrows jumped high in surprise. No, not off, Morris explained gravely. "On, as in on the hook. And there ain’t no gettin’ off unless the coppers let him off. Not likely.

"Max sells as much dope as he wants, unmolested … sanctioned if you like. The coppers make more busts through him than they could ever hope to on their own. Good arrest rates equals continued employment and even promotions. Just enough junkies at large to keep the show on the road. As for his occasional arrests, well, it’s not hard to work out, is it?"

Spider had listened to the explanation very carefully, his expression, however, indicated there was some uncertainty. What? he asked.

It’s a farce. Bogus. A sham! Listen, mate … Anyone arrested for dealing smack as many times as him should not still be in business, let alone walking the streets. I’m telling you, those so-called busts are a put-up job, designed to maintain his credibility in the game.

Spider whistled through his teeth. Max is a rat?

A survivor might be a better description, Morris hedged, brought the pipe to his lips, set light to the green wad stuffed in the cone and drew hard.

Why would you do business with a rat? Spider wanted to know. But Morris was busy filling his lungs with smoke and couldn’t answer.

While Spider waited, from the front door there came an odd scratching sound, much like a dog scratching to come indoors. Only they didn’t have a dog… He went to investigate.

The instant he turned back the latch Spider found himself being thrust backwards by the door, a huge Polynesian man doing the thrusting. Unsure whether to run or fight, he waited ambivalently. Morris had risen quickly from the couch – to do what, he wasn’t sure. A great cloud of smoke burst from his lungs in a sudden fit of coughing; air now his primary concern.

Behind the Polynesian came Edward Madden, cool and calmly collected as he stepped into the room, a Cheshire cat grin broadening as he slipped off his sun-glasses.

Hello, lads, he addressed them pleasantly, and his eyes immediately fell to the collection of cash and goods occupying the centre of the floor. Hey, I’m impressed. You know, I was just telling Lokki here what an enterprising pair the two of you are, and how unusual it is for you not to pay me on time … Morris. There was menace in his tone. Morris was still coughing hard and unable to respond. His eyes streamed tears and seemed about to pop from their sockets. He was forced to sit back down on the couch and wrap his arms around his chest in effort to regain composure.

Madden ignored his plight, instead crouching beside the booty and picking out a gold chain and locket which had caught his eye.

Lokki, meanwhile, suggested to Spider that he might like to sit beside his friend – this by way of a nod – to which he agreed without prolonged deliberation.

I like this, Madden intoned expressively, affecting delight as he let the small locket swing at the end of the chain. Oh, yes. You know, I think this would go just fine with Gloria’s new green dress. That okay, Morris? He glanced to Morris who by now was beginning to breathe easier.

Thanks, mate.

He slipped it into his pocket as he stood and went to the vacant armchair, seating himself in a leisurely manner. He brought his fingers together to form an arch just below eye-level while regarding Morris and Spider sitting side by side on the couch.

I was about to give you a call, Eddie, Morris managed. I’ve got nearly all the cash I owe you. We were about to convert this lot into readies. Should have it by three o’clock I’d say.

Madden nodded unconcernedly. You’ve done quite well. Let me guess what area… Willunga perhaps?

Aldinga, Spider volunteered, keen to preserve the congenialities.

Madden chuckled. "Poor old Aldinga, eh? Whenever will the government provide adequate policing down that way? It really is a shame. Mostly retirees, aren’t they. Work all your life, dutifully paying taxes, and what consideration are you given at the end of it? I’m surprised there’s any meat left on the old carcass. Thought it was