The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (11 page)

A minute or so later Eddie's happy, and at the same time excited, voice came on the phone. It was obvious he was more than interested in how things were going.

‘G'day Les. How are you mate? I heard you got your mates down from Bindi... where ever it is. How's it all going? Everything sweet?'

‘That's what I'm ringing about Eddie. I need some advice.'

Les still didn't explain fully what was going on for the time being, but he told Eddie how he needed to get a sample of Percy Kilby's blood. He didn't say why; Eddie could try and guess a reason if he wanted to. But he promised he'd fill him in on everything before much longer. The wiry little hit man thought for a few seconds before answering.

‘I was just thinking. We had a situation like this once back in Nui-Dat. We had to get a positive ID on an ARVN colonel who we suspected was a VC regular. And we had to do a blood test without him knowing it. I'll tell you what to do. What sort of watchband have you got?'

Norton absently hooked his index finger under his watchband and gave it a flick. ‘One of those stretch, stainless-steel ones. You know, metal-flex or whatever you call them.'

‘Perfect. Can you get hold of a small file?'

‘Yeah. I've got one of those three-cornered ones in the boot of the car.'

‘Right. Well I'll tell you what you've got to do.'

With the phone glued to his ear, Norton listened intently to Eddie while a smile formed on his face which didn't take long to turn into a huge grin. Eventually he knew everything he needed and hung up, thanking Eddie and promising once more he'd keep him informed of developments. Five minutes later Norton was sitting in a chair in front of the others, his watch in one hand, and filing away at the edges of the watchband with the other. He wasn't saying anything, just sitting there filing away, a look of amused determination on his face.

‘Just what the hell are you up to?' asked Yarrawulla.

‘Mind your own bloody business,' replied Norton. ‘You've got your ancient secrets. I've got mine.'

‘Fair enough,' chuckled Tjalkalieri, who with the others kept staring at Les with fascinated amusement.

After a while Norton stopped his filing, ran his finger along the edge of the watchband and gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘That ought to do,' he said with a nod of his head. Then he slipped his watch back on; only instead of slipping it back on to his left hand, as was customary, he slid it onto his right. With the others still silently watching him, he unzipped his overnight bag and pulled out one of the bundles of money, peeling off $250 which he stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans.

‘There's about ten grand in that bag,' said Norton, zipping it back up. ‘If you guys want any just help yourselves. And your fifty's there any time you want it.'

‘That's okay Les,' smiled Tjalkalieri. ‘We've got some money. You can pay us when we finish the job.'

‘Okay, suit yourself. Anyway,' Norton started to tidy himself up as he stood there facing the others, ‘I'm off to see your mate Kilby and try and get your blood for you.'

‘You're going over now?' said Mumbi.

‘Like Chalky said, Mumbles. The sooner you get this done the sooner we can all get out of this shithouse. See you when I get back.' Norton closed the door behind him and once more jogged down the dusty stairs to the foyer and out the front door.

The big Queenslander was expecting the interior of the AWEC office to be pretty much like the dilapidated building it was
housed in. But inside it wasn't all that bad. Bright and reasonably tidy, the front door faced a solid wooden desk with a covered electric typewriter sitting on it in front of a swivel chair and a number of metal filing cabinets. These in turn faced an inexpensive brown cotton ottoman with a small magazine-strewn coffee table in front of it. Several leafy pot plants were propped up in the corners and several posters — land rights, anti-apartheid, plus a framed one of Malcom X — adorned the walls. To the right of the desk was another door with PRIVATE KEEP OUT written on it, and sitting on the edge of the desk was a tall, rangy Aboriginal man sporting a fresh crewcut, grey tracksuit pants and a matching sweatshirt. Going by the scar tissue around his eyes and a nose even more flattened than usual, Norton couldn't picture him as being Percy Kilby and tipped him to be either an ex-boxer or a footballer. And probably one of AWEC's thugs. The man on the desk glanced up from the
Greyhound Recorder
he was reading and gave Norton a quick once up and down.

‘Yeah?' he said expressionlessly.

‘Oh hello,' said Les, politely and clearly. ‘I was hoping to see Mr Kilby. Is he in by any chance?'

‘Mr Kilby's busy at the moment,' was the dull reply. ‘You want to leave a message?'

‘Oh! Oh, well yes, all right' said Norton hesitantly and with exaggerated politeness. ‘My name is ... Vernon Stroud. I'm with the ah... Chartered Accountants Against Apartheid. I was hoping to give Mr Kilby a donation on behalf of myself and my colleagues.'

‘Ohh yeahhh.' The tallish Aboriginal swung his legs off the desk and switched on half an oily smile. He'd seen all this before. As far as he was concerned Les was just another trendy white do-gooder wanting to hop on the anti-apartheid bandwagon. So they'd slip some poor dumb Abo a few bucks, then tell all the other trendies back at the office or wherever that even though they were white they were dead-set against apartheid and weren't they wonderful, caring people and not at all racist. Until a family of Aborigines bought or rented a house in their street, then they'd raise hell with the local council to try and get them kicked out. But a hypocrite's money was no different from anyone else's as far as the thug from AWEC was concerned.

‘Well like I said,' purred the man on the desk. ‘Mr Kilby's a little busy at the moment. But if you ah... want to leave the money with me that's okay. I can give you a... ah, receipt for it.'

‘Oh dear,' replied Norton quietly. ‘That's a shame. I'll have to come back, because I wanted to give it to him personally. I've heard so much about him. Oh well, it doesn't matter.' He began to make a slow but nervous gesture for the door.

‘Hey hold on a minute. He might've finished what's he doing. I'll give him a call.' He reached across the desk and hit a button on the intercom. ‘Hey Perce.'

‘Yeah?' was the scratchy reply.

‘There's a bloke here wants to make a donation — in our fight against the regime in South Africa.'

Norton couldn't help but notice the cynicism in his voice at the last statement.

‘How much,' scratched back over the intercom.

‘How much did you want to donate boss?' smiled the man on the desk.

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars. Is that all right?' replied Norton.

‘Two-fifty Perce.'

There was a pause for a second. ‘Send him straight in.'

‘You can go straight in mate.'

The tall Aborigine clicked off the intercom, opened the door behind him, and ushered Les into the other office.

Kilby's office was roughly the same size as the first one, and with roughly the same furnishings. An almost identical ottoman with a coffee table about the same size as the other, the same kind of desk, only minus a typewriter, and the same number of metal filing cabinets. More pot plants filled the corners and a similar number and style of posters hung on the walls — the framed one this time being of Martin Luther King. An Aboriginal land rights flag, red and black with the yellow sun in the middle, almost covered one wall and a stack of cartons with a canvas tarpaulin draped over them almost took up another. Seated behind the desk, on a rather plush looking leather chair, was Percy Kilby.

In his early forties, with neat dark hair going grey around the temples, he was fairly stocky but nowhere near as tall as the other man. Like his mate, he too had a broken nose and scar tissue over his eyes, but not to the same extent. His one outstanding feature, however, was his eyes. Sinister and piercing, they seemed to dart everywhere at once and there was a noticeable hardness glowing from within. Relaxed in his chair, his hands across his chest, fingertips pushed together, Kilby was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a matching collarless beige shirt. He smiled thinly when Les
walked in but didn't bother to get up and didn't bother to offer his hand.

‘So,' he said evenly. ‘You wish to make a donation to our movement, Mr...?'

‘Stroud,' replied Norton, still acting nervously. ‘Vernon Stroud. I represent the Chartered Accountants Against Apartheid.'

‘That's... real nice of you Mr Stroud. Frank, will you get me the donations receipt book.'

‘Sure,' replied the taller man. As he moved towards the door he pushed a swivel chair on castors across to Norton with his foot. Norton thanked him quietly and sat down. Frank was back in a few seconds with a dog-eared receipt book which he placed on the desk in front of Kilby.

‘Now,' said Kilby, picking up a biro. ‘How much did you wish to donate Mr Stroud?'

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars for the time being,' replied Norton, pulling the money out of his jeans and placing it on the desk. ‘We should be able to give your people some more at a later date.'

‘Extremely decent of you Mr Stroud. I'll just make this out to the CAAA. That should be all right eh?'

‘That'll be fine,' smiled Les.

Kilby scribbled something almost unintelligible in the receipt book, ripped off the docket which he handed to Les and dropped the $250 into a draw of the desk at the same time. ‘There you are Mr Stroud.' He winked. ‘If only there were more people in the world like you — what a wonderful world it would be.'

‘Why thank you Mr Kilby,' beamed Les. ‘That's one of the nicest compliments I've ever had. I can't wait to tell them back at the office.' Norton was all sweetness and light, but underneath he felt like throwing up all over Kilby's polished wooden desk.

Now that they'd got Norton's, alias Stroud's, money, there was a sudden silence in the room that thick you could have cut it with a knife. Kilby and his stooge Frank exchanged surreptitious looks and may as well have had a sign above them saying ‘Okay Stroud, we've got your money. Now how about doing us a favour and pissing off.' After a second or two Les could just about read their minds and figured it was time for him to make his final move.

‘Well Mr Kilby,' he said, getting to his feet and throwing in a bit of a staged cough. ‘Your assistant said you were
quite busy so I guess I'd better get going.' Kilby half smiled an acknowledgement: it was the least he could do for $250. ‘Anyway I must say it's been an absolute pleasure meeting you.'

Norton smiled and offered Kilby his hand. As the AWEC leader begrudgingly extended his across the desk, Norton clumsily knocked the swivel chair with his foot and made an awkward shuffle forward, spearing the underside of his right wrist over Kilby's right hand. The sharpened edges of Norton's watchband scraped across the bony top of Kilby's right hand just behind the knuckles. Not enough to do any real damage but enough to break the skin and make it bleed.

‘Ow, shit!' cursed Kilby, holding his hand in front of him and staring at the thin trickle of blood.

‘Oh dear me. What have I done?' cried Norton in mock horror. ‘Here, let me have a look at that.'

‘No it's all right. It's only a scratch.'

Before Kilby could say another word Norton had taken hold of his hand, whipped a white handkerchief out of the back of his jeans, and was mopping furiously at the slight bleeding. ‘Oh God I am sorry,' said Norton, continuing to dab away with his hanky. ‘My watchband must have done it. Dear or dear I feel such a fool. I am sorry.'

Les managed to wipe off a bit more blood before Kilby snatched his hand away.

‘Don't worry about it,' he said thinly. ‘It's only a scratch.'

Norton stood there looking all stupid and apologetic as Kilby and Frank both scowled at him. ‘I think I'd better get going,' he flustered. ‘I've made a complete fool of myself.' Nobody said anything but Frank opened the door and stared blankly at Norton. Les muttered a quick goodbye and shuffled out. Then, trying not to burst out laughing, he started strolling briskly back up Lawson Street.

‘Christ, what a fuckin' goose,' said Kilby, licking at his hand as Frank closed the office door. ‘Where did you bloody well find him?'

‘He just walked in off the street,' shrugged Frank. ‘I never seen the dill before in my life.'

‘What'd the flip call himself? The Chartered Bumsuckers Against Apartheid or something,' sneered Kilby contemptuously. He took Norton's $250 back out of the draw and dropped it on the desk. ‘At least his money's all right. Cash too.' Kilby looked at the money and gave a chuckle. ‘What do you reckon we ought to do with it?'

Frank reached underneath his sweatshirt and pulled out his copy of the
Greyhound Recorder
. ‘Ronnie Sprod's got that dog going down at Dapto tonight. Rocket Johnny. Reckons it's a moral, and he owes us a favour. It'll be 6–1, too.'

‘Righto.' Kilby slid some of the money across the desk. ‘There's $200. Duck over the TAB and throw it on. We'll have a feed and a drink with the rest.'

‘Beauty,' said Frank picking up the money.

‘Hey, you got a Band-Aid out in the office?' said Kilby, giving the back of his hand another lick.

‘Yeah, there's a packet in the draw. How is it?'

‘It's only a scratch. More annoying than anything else.' Kilby looked up at Frank and chuckled. ‘I don't think it'll kill me.'

Les Norton had a look on his face like a cat that had just drunk a gallon of King Island double cream when he walked back into room number 9 at the Thames Tavern. He'd only been gone around half an hour, and Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla were still sitting on the lounge just as he'd left them.