The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (25 page)

‘Go for your life.' Norton handed Price the skin pouch. ‘Don't lose them, though, will you?'

Price didn't say anything. But after another look at the stones he put them back in their pouch and tucked it carefully into the fob pocket of his trousers.

They sat around talking for another twenty minutes or so before Norton said that he might make a move. Price meanwhile hadn't said a great deal. His mind seemed to be somewhere else and every now and again he would subconsciously run his fingers across his fob pocket. Finally Les stood up and said goodbye, saying he'd see them at the club tomorrow night.

Norton bought a couple of pizzas on the way home and waited for Warren, who arrived around six, all ears and all excited at seeing Les. About twenty minutes later he'd got less information out of Norton than Price and Eddie had. So what exactly the big Queenslander had been up to for the last five days was still a mystery to him. But knowing Les's line of work he reluctantly copped it sweet.

Wednesday wasn't too bad a day. The light cloud cover and the onshore breeze had taken the edge off it for a day on the beach, but it was ideal for training and Norton was up and roaring at six. He ran eight laps of Bondi, then did an hour in the gym, hitting the heavy bag with left and right combinations that loosened half the tiles on the roof and frightened every starling out of the building plus the blocks of flats across the road. He topped this off by borrowing a surf-ski and paddling six laps of the beach. By ten-thirty the two kilos he'd put on were gone, and so was Norton.

He went straight home, decided to skip breakfast and held out for lunch instead, which consisted of a slice of rump about as thick as a house brick swimming in a lake of mushroom gravy surrounded by a mountain range of mashed potatoes. Plus enough tossed salad to feed Southern California. Normally Les had a sleep for an hour or so late in the afternoon before going to work. But with all that food inside him he could hardly move, so he lay down on his bed like a blue-ribbon hog at the Easter Show and crashed out till four o'clock.

Blinking groggily, he got up, yawned and stretched for a few moments before splashing some cold water on his face in the bathroom. He then drifted slowly into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. He was sitting in the lounge room quietly sipping it, not fully wide awake and still a little stiff and sore when the phone rang. He blinked at it for a few seconds before picking up the receiver. It was Price.

‘Is that you Les?' he almost barked.

‘Yeah. How are you Price?'

Price didn't answer straight away. There was a laboured pause as if he was having trouble getting the words out. ‘Listen. Where did you say you got those two pieces of rock from?' he finally managed to blurt out.

‘Off those three mates of mine,' yawned Norton. ‘I told you didn't I. They gave them to me as they got on the plane.'

‘And they told you they were lucky stones?'

‘Yeah,' yawned Norton again. ‘Something like that.'

There was another pause and more laboured breathing. ‘You know what they are, don't you? You great red-headed galah.'

‘No,' shrugged Les. ‘What?'

‘They're two pigeon-blood fuckin' rubies. That's all.'

Norton yawned again. ‘What are they?'

Price sighed heavily on the phone. ‘Fair dinkum. It's like talking to a brick bloody wall. You don't know anything about gemstones do you?'

‘No,' replied Les. ‘Not really.'

‘No. I didn't think you did. You bloody wombat. Bloody lucky stones. I took them down to Consolidated Diamonds this morning. Got the boss there to have a look at them, knowing a dubbo like you would be arsey enough to fluke something like this. He split them, cleaned them up a bit and bloody near fainted. They're two eighteen-carat, pigeon-blood rubies. They could be worth anything. At least $30,000.'

‘Did you say pigeon blood Price?'

‘Yeah. That's what the best rubies in the world are called. It's a real dark, deep rich red.'

‘So that's what the boys meant,' chuckled Les.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Bloody lucky stones,' snorted Price. ‘You... boofhead. They're two of the best rubies I've ever seen in my life.' Norton shook his head and took a sip of coffee. Despite Price's outburst he still wasn't fully wide awake and a lot of this was still going in one ear and out the other.

‘Hey but hold on a second, Price,' he said. ‘There's no rubies in Australia. Is there?'

‘That's what I'm getting at, you imbecile. They're as rare as rocking-horse shit. These'll be the first of their kind ever found here.'

There was another pause on the line and Norton could hear Price breathing deeply as if he was trying hard to control himself before he spoke.

‘Now listen, Les,' he said tightly. ‘In all seriousness. I know you don't want to tell me too much about those Aborigine mates of yours. And you won't tell me what they got up to in that hotel room. That's all right. I don't really give a stuff. But surely to Christ, Les, you can tell me where those rubies come from.'

Norton paused for a moment, then chuckled to himself as his thoughts drifted off to a rambling, old wooden house
built into a mountain full of spa water right on the Tropic of Capricorn. Where more than likely at that very moment three wise old Aboriginal men would be sitting on their verandah with their beautiful young girlfriends, watching the Queensland sun go down over their landscaped garden dotted with lily-covered ponds full of tropical fish. The peace and tranquility disturbed only by the noise of the countless native birds. Norton chuckled again as a whimsical smile spread over his face.

‘Price,' he said slowly. ‘I can't tell you that mate. But there is one thing I can tell you.'

Norton let his gaze wander across the lounge room to his open back door. Through his backyard and over the top of the house behind he could see the countless red-tiled roofs of the other houses and the cramped rows of home units and flats. Their silhouettes crowded each other through the car fumes and smog of Old South Head Road towards Bellevue Hill.

‘If they come from where I think they do, it's a bloody long way from here.'

 

 

It was a dud pinch, there was no two ways about it, and Norton was entitled to blow up. But not quite to rant and rave to the extent that he did, and definitely not to make dire threats against the life of a poor, hard-working Highway Patrol officer. Not at eight-thirty on a fine Monday morning in July anyway.

Ordinarily, Norton always liked Monday mornings. After four late nights at the Kelly Club, getting to bed almost at dawn and getting up close to lunchtime, Mondays were almost a revelation to the big red-headed Queenslander. He'd get to bed before eleven on Sunday night, then be up by six the following morning feeling fresh as a daisy. Sometimes, depending on the weather, he'd have a run in Centennial Park, but mostly he'd do a few laps of Bondi, have a workout and a hit on the heavy bag in North Bondi Surf Club — sometimes with Billy Dunne, sometimes without — then top this off with a swim and a shower. He'd get back home around eight-thirty, wait for Warren to leave for the advertising agency, then cook up a monstrous feed of bacon and eggs, chops, toast, muesli or whatever, and take his time eating it over the morning paper. It was a good way to start the week and this particular Monday morning looked like being no different from any other; better if anything.

It was fresh but not cold. The usual westerly wind wasn't up and didn't look like coming up. There was no pollution, not a cloud in the sky and for mid-winter it was almost like early spring. Norton was up, finished his mug of tea and honey and down on Bondi Beach before six-thirty. He did six laps on the hard sand and two on the soft, had a workout in the surf club, almost punching the heavy bag into another
dimension, following this with a swim in what seemed the icy cold ocean to an old Queensland boy like Les. Then he had a long hot shower. He had a laugh and a bit of a mag with some of the old regulars while he changed back into his tracksuit, and after stopping for the paper in Campbell Parade was whistling happily to himself feeling on top of the world as he drove up Lamrock Avenue listening to Mike Carlton on 2GB. Les felt good, great even, and glancing up into the clear blue sky it looked like being a great day too. The last thing he was expecting was to be pulled over by a traffic cop barely half a kilometre from home.

Actually Les noticed the traffic cop heading the opposite way and was somewhat surprised when he did a U-turn a little further down from him. He was even more surprised when he zoomed up behind and absolutely astonished when he briefly hit his siren and flicked his headlight on and off. What the bloody hell's goin' on here, thought a mystified Norton. He wasn't speeding, his seat belt was on, he didn't have his arm out the window, the old Ford's muffler was okay and it wasn't blowing smoke. Oh well, better pull over and see what this wombat wants. It's probably just someone I know. Looking in his rear-vision mirror, Les realised as soon as the cop got off his bike it definitely wasn't anyone he knew; and he also knew, by a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he was in some sort of bother.

The cop didn't just swing his leg off the new BMW, he alighted dramatically, like he was Wyatt Earp dismounting at the Last Chance Saloon in Dodge City hot on the trail of the James gang. He gave his balls a scratch while he stood there, then adjusted his service revolver for a bit more effect. After taking his own sweet time getting his infringements book from the metal saddlebag he swaggered over to Norton's old Ford with a walk that made John Wayne look like Sir Robert Helpmann.

‘What's up mate?' said Norton as he wound the driver's window right down. ‘I wasn't speeding was I?'

The cop stared impassively down at Les. Because of the helmet and sunglasses, Norton couldn't make out his face, but he did notice a sour turned-down mouth topped by a thick ginger moustache. ‘Do you have a letter of permission from the Department of Motor Transport allowing you to drive without your seat belt on sir?' said the cop in a monotone, almost expressionless voice.

‘Seat belt?' replied Norton, screwing his face up slightly.
‘It's on.' Les gave the buckle a tap and strained against the strap to prove his point. The belt restrained him before he could reach the steering wheel.

The cop stared morosely at Les as if he had committed a worse crime by having his belt on, thus depriving him from getting a booking. ‘Mmhh,' he grunted unhappily, ‘it's a bit loose.'

‘Well, I don't like having it too tight,' shrugged Les, half smiling now because he knew he'd done nothing wrong. ‘You can't see out the side windows properly.'

The cop didn't agree or disagree but gave him another dirty look before moving to the front of the car where he gave it a quick once-over and took a note of the licence number. He stood there for a moment then came back to the window.

‘May I see your driver's licence sir?' he asked with brittle politeness.

‘Yeah sure.' Norton dipped into the side pocket of his tracksuit, then remembered he'd left his wallet at home. ‘Ah shit! I've just been for a run down the beach and I didn't want to take my wallet with me. The bloody thing's at home. But I can tell you the number.' Norton recited his licence number to the cop, who wrote it down on the back of his notepad. ‘And my name's Les Norton. I only live just up the road in Cox Avenue.'

Without saying anything, the cop stared at Les for a second before walking back to his motorbike where he picked up the receiver and related Norton's licence number and numberplate back to base to be fed into the computer. Oh well, he's only doing his job I suppose, thought Les as he watched the cop in his rear-vision mirror half sitting on and half standing against his BMW. Still, it would be nice to see that bike fall over and break one of the miserable prick's legs. I wouldn't mind accidentally backing over the other one either.

After a few moments the cop came back to the window. ‘That checks out Mr Norton,' he said.

‘Yeah. That's me all right mate,' smiled Les, trying for half a joke with the still expressionless cop. ‘I'd know me own face anywhere.'

The smile on Norton's face quickly faded as the cop flipped open his infringements book and began making out a ticket.

‘Hey what's goin' on?' asked Les.

‘I'm giving you a ticket for not producing your driver's licence,' replied the cop, almost ignoring Norton as he continued to write away.

‘But I just gave you the number,' blurted Les. ‘I mean. I only live about 500 yards up the road. If you want to follow me up I'll show you. I'll even give you a cup of coffee and a toasted ham sandwich.'

‘You are required by law, sir,' said the cop as he continued writing, ‘to have your driver's licence with you at all times when operating a motor vehicle.'

‘Yeah, but Christ. I only live up the road,' pleaded Les. But it was to no avail. The cop continued to pencil away totally ignoring him. ‘Ohh you're kiddin', muttered Les, and threw his hands on the steering wheel.

‘What was that?' snapped the cop suddenly.

‘I said you're kiddin' aren't you?'

The cop stopped writing and glared down at Les like he was a child molester or a heroin dealer or both.

‘Do you want to argue with me?' he said, his voice rising noticeably. ‘Well do you? Do you want to argue?'

Les looked up at the cop and realised he was in a no-win situation. If he said another word Red Moustache would more than likely start going over his car for defects then he'd finish up having to go over the pits at the Department of Motor Transport and if they didn't put him off the road it would at least cost him a fortune to get things fixed. The cop was obviously only out to get his revenue for the morning and would probably love to do it. Norton clenched his teeth, shook his head and copped it sweet — but inside he was seething. With his hands on the steering wheel he sat there and stared grimly out the windscreen.