Ned Kelly’s name wasn’t really Ned Kelly, it was Edmund Stewart. But at a young age Edmund had taken such a liking to the stories of the renowned bushranger Ned Kelly that his friends had started calling him Ned.
Although most Australian men liked to think of themselves as some reflection of the famous outlaw, Ned took to imitating him, even to the point of sending a pair of bullock testicles to the wife of a man he was feuding with. A life of contempt for authority and petty crime led people to call him Ned Kelly, and the name stuck.
Lester pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window. It seemed that just when things were running smoothly, some irritating problem had to crop up.
Lester had come a long way from his humble origins in the cutback of New South Wales. At age nine he’d arrived in Australia from England with his family. His father, a sheet-metal worker, had taken advantage of liberal immigration policies in the immediate post-World War II period. The Australian government had even paid passage for the whole family.
Early on, Lester had gravitated toward learning. He saw it as his ticket out of the sapping dullness of the vast Australian interior. In contrast to his brothers, he thirsted for knowledge, taking correspondence courses to supplement the meager schooling available in his tiny hometown. His studies had led him to medical school. From then on he’d never looked back. Nor did he tolerate hindrances. When people got in his way, he stepped on them.
“Watchagot?” Ned asked as he came through the door. Behind him was Willy Tong, a slightly built but muscular Chinese man.
Ned kicked the door shut with a resounding thump, then sat on the arm of the couch. He was not a big man, but he exuded toughness. Like Carstans, he wore shorts along with a shirt and tie. On his sleeve was sewn the logo of the security department of the clinic. His face was tanned to a lined, leathery texture. He looked as if he’d spent his entire thirty-eight years in the desert sun. Above his left eye was a scar from a knife fight in a pub. The argument had been over a pitcher of beer.
Lester was chagrined to have to resort to such men. It was a bore to have to deal with the likes of Ned Kelly. Yet occasionally it was necessary, as it was at present. Lester had met Ned purely by accident when he was in his last year of medical school. Ned had come into the university hospital with one of his many gun shot wounds. During the course of his recuperation, they’d become acquaintances. Over the years Lester had used Ned for various projects, culminating in his being hired as head of the clinic’s security department.
“We have a couple of women interested in that article by Williams,” Lester said.
“It was the same article that brought that gynecologist from L.A. here. Do you remember? It was about a year ago.”
“How could I forget,” Ned said with a sinister smile curling his lips.
“He was the poor man who had that awful auto accident.
Remember him, Willy?”
Willy’s eyes narrowed as he smiled broadly.
“These women were talking about finding Williams,” Lester said.
“I don’t want that to happen.”
“You should have let me take care of Williams way back when,” Ned said.
“It would have saved a lot of trouble.”
“He was too much in the spotlight at the time,” Lester said.
“But let’s not worry about that now. Now we have to worry about these women. I want something done, and I want it done before they dredge up any more information on TB salpingitis.”
“You want it to look like some kind of accident?” Ned asked.
“That would be best,” Lester said.
“Otherwise, there will be an investigation, which I’d prefer to avoid. But can you manage an accident when there are two people involved?”
“It’s more difficult,” Ned admitted.
“But certainly not impossible.
Be easy if they rent a car. Yanks are lousy left-hand drivers.”
He laughed.
“Reminds me of that gynecologist. He almost killed himself without our help.”