You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (13 page)

‘Go on, eh?' replied Norton.

‘Yeah. Not like you, you lucky bludger. That nice big house, the pool, all on your own. At least you got a few days of peace and quiet.'

‘Yeah, it was just great.'

‘Anyway you can always go back up again I suppose if we get another break.'

‘What was that?'

‘I said, I suppose you'll be heading straight back up again if we ever get another break.'

‘Billy,' replied Les slowly. ‘If Price ever offers me two weeks of peace and quiet in Terrigal again, you know what I'm gonna do?'

‘What?'

‘I'm going straight to the nearest travel agent and book a fortnight in Beirut.'

The garish neon lights blending in around them as Kings Cross started to come to life on Saturday night added a distinct touch of surrealism to the whole scene.

 

 

 

When Les Norton first came to Sydney and settled in Bondi, he lived in the usual variety of places new settlers to the Eastern Suburbs generally live in. Boarding houses, hotels, sharing flats and houses with other people, flats on his own, etc, till finally after working a year at the Kelly Club he bought an old semi-cottage in Cox Avenue, Bondi. Though Norton didn't actually buy the house out of shrewd judgment or a masterly plunge in real estate; it was almost given to him on a plate.

A couple of Painters and Dockers, hit men, came up from Melbourne to do a job on a night club owner at the Cross, and not being the two brightest hit men in the business they got Price Galese mixed up with the bloke they were supposed to neck. Naturally enough it was the last job they ever did; or in this case tried to do. About a week after botching their contract they finished up wired to a couple of Holden gearboxes, feeding the snappers at the bottom of Port Phillip Bay; their heads and torsos well and truly ventilated with rather large holes. Which a .38 calibre revolver at close range is apt to make.

Their bungled attempt was made outside the Kelly Club early on a Thursday night as Price was walking back to his car. Norton, being born and bred in the bush and the son of a spiritually minded mother, had this uncanny sixth sense that always seemed to tell him whenever something wasn't quite right. So even though it was early and still relatively quiet he decided to walk Price up to his car.

‘You're a bit of an old sheila at times Les, aren't you?' said
Price to his big doorman as they sauntered slowly along the footpath in Kelly Street.

‘Ah, I just felt like stretching me legs to tell you the truth,' replied Norton laconically. His narrowed eyes darting all over the street.

As they got to Price's Rolls, Norton noticed the unusual way a dark blue Valiant seemed to cruise directly towards them. Saw the glint of a gun barrel reflected in the neon lights around them and flung himself in front of Price; badly bruising him but undoubtedly saving his life as a fusillade of automatic weapon fire slammed into the Rolls, shattering two windows and blowing away the outside rear vision mirror.

Norton stopped two bullets, one through the shoulder another through his thigh. They were only superficial and luckily he wasn't hurt very badly at all, but as far as Price was concerned he owed the big red-headed Queenslander his life and did everything he could to make it up to him.

However, Norton stubbornly refused to accept a thing. He offered him half a million in cash. Norton refused to take it. He offered to buy him a new home. Norton still said no. A trip overseas, his wages doubled and a share in the casino. But nothing could break Norton's pertinacious resolve. All he'd say was, ‘That's what you're payin' me for, ain't it?' shrug his big, broad shoulders and smile.

This annoyed the absolute shit out of Price. He owed Norton his life and wanted desperately to repay him; so he cooked up a scheme with his brother, one of Sydney's leading barristers, to sell Les a house. Price knew Les only lived in an old flat in Bondi and he was always saying that if he ever got enough money together he'd like to buy a house of his own. So Price bought the old semi, nothing too flash of course as he didn't want Norton smelling a rat, and got the message back to him through his brother that there was a deceased estate up for sale and if he got in lively he'd pick it up for around $10,000. Price would guarantee him the finance.

Now Norton might not like to accept charity but when it came to the chance for an earn or a bargain there was none smarter, and having a reputation for being so mean he wouldn't lead a blind grasshopper to a lawn Norton had no qualms whatsoever at making a hustle because some poor old pensioner had kicked the
bucket. As far as Les was now concerned Price's favour had been returned, Price felt a lot better and Les was absolutely jubilant. He finally had a home of his own; and he'd got it under his own steam.

It took about six weeks for the contracts to be finalised then Les moved in, after brassing his Jewish landlord for exactly that amount of rent. Norton didn't do this out of malice or prejudice; he did it simply to save money and knowing that if you live in Bondi and have a Jew for a landlord it's more or less compulsory for the ‘goyen' to have a go and try to get their own back. Norton always reckoned it was worth ten years of his life just to see the look on Benny Rabinsky's face when he found he'd been taken to the cleaners for around five hundred bucks.

The team at the Kelly Club all contributed a little something towards helping Les move into his new home. Some cutlery, a few gadgets for the kitchen, the girls ran him up a few curtains, the boys all shot in and bought him a washing machine. Price Galese insisted that Les let him shout him a good ottoman lounge and Billy Dunne lined up a couple of willing thieves to have the place carpeted at the right price. In about a week Norton had the old semi looking pretty schmick, it was all nice and comfortable inside and he was just starting to get to know some of his neighbours.

They were a fairly mixed bunch. A few old pensioners lived in the houses opposite. Alongside these were some wharfies, an old SP bookie who still wore a hat everywhere he went and a sleepy looking fireman who did a lot of Yoga. His side of the street appeared to be mainly Jewish migrants of all nationalities and in the houses directly alongside him, a family of Greeks owned one and a mob of noisy New Zealanders rented the other. Naturally enough Norton sorted the Kiwis out first.

Actually the Kiwis weren't a real bad bunch. There were four of them sharing the house, three guys and a chick. The were all working and they were a happy enough, easy-going lot but like all New Zealanders, as soon as they arrive in Australia and get their first flat or house they're not happy unless they're partying 24 hours a day, seven days a week. This didn't worry Norton that much because he didn't get home from work till after 4am, so he'd miss the worst of it. But he did find it a bit punishing when he'd drop off to sleep and they'd start up again about 7.30am. Not
that Norton was a nark when it came to music, he was very partial to a bit of Cold Chisel and he used to love training to AC/DC and Rose Tattoo. Nor was he the kind of bloke who wanted to lie around in bed all day; as long as he got his six hours sleep in the morning and an hour before he went to work he was happy, but this particular lot and their friends didn't even want to let him have that.

He copped it sweet for almost three weeks till finally he arrived home absolutely buggered above five one Sunday morning to find about a dozen drunks sitting on their front verandah sucking on cans of Fosters and banging away tunelessly on a couple of guitars with a Dragon album still blaring on the stereo back in the house. Some empty beer cans in his front yard and several pools of urine where some one had pissed up against his fence didn't cheer him up that much either.

He ignored them as best he could as he went inside, had a mug of Ovaltine and went to bed, but try as he may he just couldn't get to sleep. The noise was right under his bedroom window and the more he tossed and turned, even with his face under the blankets and the pillow over his head, the louder the noise seemed to get. Finally, about 6.30am, he got up, put on a pair of Stubbies and a sweat shirt and decided to go and have a word with them. They didn't even notice Norton come through the gate and stand scowling alongside them, his eyebrows bristling over a pair of bloodshot eyes all puffed up like two cane toads from lack of sleep.

‘Excuse me matey,' he said to the nearest Kiwi banging away on his guitar. ‘Do you think you could quieten down a little so's I can get some sleep? It is getting late you know.'

If the Kiwis had noticed him they chose to ignore him and just kept singing along, sucking on their tinnies.

‘Mate,' repeated Norton through clenched teeth, ‘it's half past six. Do you think you could ease up a bit, I just want to get some sleep.'

‘What's the matter, fellah?' the first Kiwi with a guitar finally said. ‘You don't look very happy. Here, have a beer.' He giggled drunkenly and offered Norton a sip from his can.

‘I don't want a beer, mate. I just want some sleep.'

‘Don't want a beer, mate,' echoed one of the other Kiwis apeing Norton's Australian accent. ‘What sort of an Aussie are
you if you don't drink beer, mate?' The others all laughed uproariously.

Norton could see he wasn't going to get anywhere; they were all too pissed and just a bunch of smart-arses anyway.

‘All right then,' he said ominously. ‘If you're going to play your guitars, the least you could do is get them tuned properly. And I know the quickest way to tune a guitar. Fellah.'

He tore the guitar out of the first Kiwi's hands and smashed it over his head with a hollow splintering of wood and a twanging of breaking guitar strings, leaving it sitting on his head like a big wooden hat. It happened so fast the others still sat there blinking.

‘Now, as for this other one,' said Les reaching over and grabbing the second guitar. ‘It's too big. You could make this into two ukuleles.' He leaned it up against the pillar supporting the roof of the verandah and gave it a forearm jolt, smashing it noisily into two crumpled halves. ‘There you go,' he said brightly. ‘That's much better, isn't it?'

‘Hey. What do you think your doing, fellah?' said one of the Kiwis, starting to rise drunkenly to his feet. Norton gave him a backhander that split his mouth open and dumped him straight back down on his arse. ‘Shut up while you're in front. Fellah,' he said evenly.

‘Oh. One more thing,' said Norton looking at them for a moment. ‘I almost forgot to mention it.' He went inside and walked quickly down the hallway which was littered with empty cans, glasses and wine flagons and stank of stale beer, stepped into the lounge room, over some people crashed out on the floor, pulled the leads out of the speakers and tore the Dragon album off the turntable. ‘As far as I'm concerned,' he said returning to the others out the front, ‘Marc Hunter couldn't carry a note if it had handles. Jimmy Barnes'd play him off a break.' With a few twists of his huge hands he broke the album up like an arrowroot biscuit and dropped the jagged pieces of black vinyl noisily on to the guitar still wedged firmly on the first Kiwi's head. ‘Get into some Cold Chisel. It's much better than this.' For a moment he looked at them sitting there with their mouths open, then rubbed his hands together. ‘Now I'm going to beddy byes,' he said. ‘I suggest you all do the same. Goodnight.' Norton left, closing the gate gently behind him. In five minutes he was in bed and dead to the world.

The Kiwis quietened down considerably after that, though Norton sensed there was something in the wind; but he didn't lose any sleep over it. However it came to a head the following Sunday morning, exactly one week later.

Norton got home knackered about 4.30am, had a mug of Ovaltine and hit the sack. His head was no sooner on the pillow and he was snoring his head off revelling in the new found peace and quiet. About 7.30am his sleep was shattered by some loud reggae music and this other horrible sound which he couldn't identify. All he knew was that it was coming from the Kiwi's house.

‘What the bloody hell's goin' on?' he mumbled angrily, swinging his legs over the bed and rubbing his eyes as he stared numbly at the floor. He stumbled sleepily over to his bedroom window, pulled back the curtain and stared into the Kiwis' front yard.

Sitting on the steps of their verandah, playing an electric guitar and singing at the top of his voice next to a ghetto blaster about the same size as a large suitcase, on full bore, was the biggest Astra bat Norton had ever seen in his life. Whether he was a Maori or a Cook Islander Les couldn't tell, but he was well over six feet tall and at least 17 stone, with arms like tractor tyres and a big ugly scarred head with a mouth like a Murray cod sitting on a neck as thick as a tree stump. Behind him sat the three Kiwis and the girl, sipping on cups of coffee and trying not to laugh. They spotted Les looking through the curtains and went into a huddle.

‘I wonder what our friend next door will do now,' said the girl.

‘I don't think he'll do too much when he sees Big Tiki,' replied one of the boys.

‘Big Tiki'll murder him.'

‘Play it a bit louder, Big Tiki.'

Big Tiki was only too willing to oblige. He turned the tape up another two notches on the ghetto blaster and accompanied it on the electric guitar with his own horrendous version of Bob Marley's ‘Coming in From the Cold'. You could have heard it back in Jamaica.

‘Just as I thought,' growled Norton, letting the curtains fall back into place. ‘A bloody set-up. Oh well.'

He stood there stroking his chin, thinking for a few moments then put on a sweat shirt and a pair of old Stubbies, went to the
bathroom, cleaned his teeth and splashed some cold water on his face and neck. Feeling half awake he sauntered into the kitchen and put the electric kettle on. While it was boiling he started limbering up with a few push-ups, sit-ups and stretches; he wasn't worried about fighting the big mug next door but he could see that he was built like an ox and he didn't expect it to be any pushover, so there was no use in going off half cocked. After the exercises and gulping down a large mug of scalding hot coffee and honey Norton felt almost wide awake; he also felt extremely mean. He finished his coffee, did another 20 sit-ups, then slipped his mouth guard in his pocket and went out to confront the giant Astra bat.