You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (14 page)

The Kiwis in the meantime were chuckling amongst themselves at Norton's non-appearance, it had been over 15 minutes since they saw his face at the window and they were convinced he had dogged it. They were congratulating Big Tiki and laughing out loud when Norton suddenly seemed to materialise out of nowhere at their front gate. His eyebrows were bristling like two red scrubbing brushes and the look on his face would have frightened a bulldog out of a butcher's shop. Their laughter immediately stopped. He glared at the now silent Kiwis on the steps then strode straight up to Big Tiki and turned off the portable stereo; in the abrupt silence Norton's voice sounded like far away thunder.

‘Listen, soul brother,' he snarled right into Big Tiki's face. ‘If you don't stop playing that fuckin' guitar, I'm gonna shove it right up your big smelly black arse and use you for a fuckin' licorice paddle-pop. And I'll shove that fuckin' Third World briefcase up there as well. You understand? You fat heap of shit.'

Big Tiki was slightly taken back by Les's direct approach but he had about three stone and four inches on Norton.

‘We'll soon see about that, fellah,' he snorted, unhitching the guitar and rising to his feet.

Norton stepped back to give himself room and as the monstrous black lumbered to his feet he bent at the knees and drove a ferocious right rip straight up into his solar plexus. The big Maori's eyes bulged out like two boiled eggs as every breath of air was torn violently out of his body. He was instantly paralysed. Norton followed this up with two savage left hooks that mashed Big Tiki's mouth into a nauseating crimson mess, spraying
blood and teeth all across the front yard. Before he had time to blink, a knee thumped viciously into his groin, making his eyes roll with pain and slamming him up against the wooden pillar supporting the front of the house. He would have collapsed on the spot but unfortunately his belt caught on a hook imbedded in the wooden pole to support pot plants. Not being able to fall forward and still paralysed from the first deadly blow to his solar plexus, he just had to stand there and suffer Norton's pitiless rain of punches. And the big red-head wasn't pulling any either.

A short right broke most of his ribs, another opened up a cut above his eye almost half the length of his forehead; a left closed the other one. Christ, thought Norton, as Big Tiki still stood there, what have I got to do to drop this big goose? He unleashed another barrage of hellish punches that almost tore the big Maori's face apart and crumpled his ribs up like balsa-wood. Finally, the weight of Norton's punches wrenched the hook out of the pole and Big Tiki started to totter forward. As he fell towards him Les stepped back and brought his knee up into his face with a deep crunch that moved what was left of his nose six inches across his face. Big Tiki's torture was finally over and he slumped face down on the path unconscious; blowing bubbles in the widening pool of blood oozing out of his face.

‘Now. You cheeky team of Kiwi pricks,' Norton snarled fiercely at the terrified New Zealanders still sitting ashen faced on the steps. ‘You're next.'

He strode over and grabbed the closest two by the hair, banging their heads together violently; a hefty back-hander sorted the other one out.

‘As for you, you poxy looking moll,' he said. Reaching across the others and taking the screaming girl firmly by the hair also. ‘I'm just gonna rape you on the spot.' He held the sobbing, trembling girl in front of him for a moment. ‘Then again you've probably been stuffed by half the Astra Hotel and I'll end up with the jack.' He spun her around and kicked her up the backside. ‘We'll forget about that,' he said. A look of extreme distaste on his face.

‘Now listen, you team of wombats,' he said evenly, walking over to the terrified New Zealanders. ‘All I want is a bit of sleep in the morning. No more. No less. You understand?' They all nodded their heads nervously.

Norton picked up the portable stereo and turned it back on at a moderate volume. ‘There you go. That's heaps loud enough,' he said, placing the huge ghetto blaster down in the pool of blood next to Big Tiki's battered and broken head. ‘See, even your big mate agrees. Don'tcha son?' He gave Big Tiki a nudge in the ribs with his foot but he didn't budge. ‘Oh well. I hope so anyway,' said Norton with a grin. ‘He's too big to argue with.'

Bob Marley was cruising into ‘Oh Woman don't Cry' as the others picked Big Tiki up and Norton hosed the blood off himself in his front yard and soaked his sweatshirt. Five minutes later he was back in bed; the barely audible sound of Bob Marley singing ‘Is This Love' was drifting pleasantly through his bedroom window as he dozed off.

Strangely enough, Norton finished up fairly good mates with the Kiwis after that. They realised they'd been a little out of order and apologised to Norton and Les not being the sort of person to harbour grudges accepted this with a laugh over a few cans out the front one afternoon. In fact it wasn't long after that they invited Les in for a barbecue one Sunday afternoon and he ended up pulling this young Air New Zealand hostess, a really spunking little blonde, and throwing her up in the air. As for Big Tiki, he wasn't quite his old self when he eventually got out of hospital so he went back to Auckland and joined a religious movement.

On the other side of Norton lived the Greek family. Stavros Poltavaris, his wife Despina, their two sons, Nick and Steve, and Stavros's mother; she used to get around dressed in black with a black scarf over her head all the time. Norton nicknamed her Johnny Cash.

Les got to be the best of neighbours with the Poltavaris family and as far as Les was concerned Stavros was a pretty good bloke. He came out to Australia in the early 60s with a spare pair of pants and about two dollars in his pocket. But by sheer hard work he'd managed, after marrying Despina, to own his own home, get a new Valiant every year, send his kids to Waverley College and bring his mother out to Australia; where he was able to keep them all well-fed and comfortable with the excellent wages he earnt as head foreman in a big smallgoods factory out near Botany. He was overweight and over proud of his family and always rabbiting on to Les about how smart his sons were and
how many goals they'd kicked that weekend for Hakoah Juniors. But Norton copped this sweet because if there was one thing Stavros could do, he could organise a barbecue and his wife and mother were two of the best exponents of Greek cooking Les had ever seen. They were always calling out over the fence to him and offering him a plate of souvlakia, or moussaka. Some stuffed egg-plants, honey cakes or spicy little meat dishes rolled up in vine or cabbage leaves.

Every Sunday afternoon Norton would wait till Stavros got his barbecue going, give him about half an hour, then casually stroll down the backyard with a rake and kid to be tidying up the garden. Before long Stavros would call out over the fence.

‘Les, my good friend. Have you eaten yet?'

‘Oh, I had a bit of breakfast this morning thanks, Stav,' Norton would nonchalantly reply. His mouth welling up with saliva at the tantalising aromas coming off the Poltavaris barbecue.

‘Hah. This morning. That is hours ago,' Stavros would exclaim. ‘A big man like you, you must have food. Some meat. Here my friend, try some of this.'

‘Well if you insist, Stav, I suppose I could fit a little something in,' Norton would modestly reply.

The next thing, over would come beautiful shasliks, grilled lamb with lemon, continental sausages, some fetta cheese salad full of big, plump, black olives. For a bloke who wasn't hungry Norton would eat enough for six people.

Stavros never twigged to Norton's subterfuge, or if he did neither he nor any of the family ever let on; but Les always did his best to reciprocate Stavros's genuine hospitality. Some of the fishermen in the boat-sheds at Ben Buckler owed Norton a few favours, so they were always laying a snapper or a few red bream on him, which invariably ended up going over the fence to Stavros and if ever the thieves, where Norton used to drink, ever hoisted any ouzo or zambuka Les would get it at the right price and lay that on the Poltavaris family too. There was no way Les would take an unfair advantage of Stavros's honesty and warm-hearted generosity. He was too good a bloke.

Stavros, however, for all his good points had one glaring fault. A great fat, over-fed, savage, hulking german shepherd dog he owned called King. King was without a doubt the greatest prick
of a dog God ever put breath into; a big dumb bully, but also as cunning as a shithouse rat. It had everybody in Cox Avenue, from the old pensioners across the road and their silky terriers to the postman, terrified. Everybody except Norton that is. It would growl, snap, bark and do its best to try to bite anybody who came within 100 metres of the house. It was spoilt rotten. It had its own carpeted kennel with an electric blanket in winter and a fan in summer, its own monogrammed dish and jacket and it only got the best cuts of beef and the juiciest bones available from the smallgoods factory where Stavros worked. So King, knowing where its bread was buttered, would naturally put most of this snarling, biting act and show of canine devotion on for Stavros's benefit. And Stavros thought the sun shone out of its big, fat hairy arse.

‘By golly Les,' he'd say to Norton over the fence. ‘I've got a champion watch-dog here, you know.' He'd pat King's dopey big head and King would sit at his feet like a good, faithful, loyal companion. In the back of its mind though, it was just waiting for another hand-out of juicy, lean gravy beef.

‘Yeah. I can see that,' Norton would reply derisively. ‘He's a beauty all right.'

‘And he's savage too, Les, you know. Absolutely scared of nothing. Nothing.'

‘Yeah. He's a gem all right Stav. You're lucky there.'

‘Ohh, don't ever come over the fence Les, my friend. I'd hate for anything to happen. I'd never forgive myself. Never.'

‘Yeah. It'd be awful, wouldn't it?'

‘My word yes. But then again the big fellow seems to get on all right with you. It's amazing.'

‘Yeah. Probably cause I come from the bush, Stav. We sort of got a way with animals. Especially dogs.'

‘Yes it's amazing. He's a killer with everybody else you know. But he seems to leave you alone. Amazing.'

‘Yeah. It just goes to show, eh? He must know I'm a good bloke.'

‘Yes, that's what it is.' Stavros's eyes lit up and he gave King's big boof head another pat as it sat at his feet wagging its huge tail and playing the part of man's best friend to the fullest. ‘He's intelligent, see. He knows you are a good man.'

Norton winked and nodded his head. ‘That's what it is Stav,
he's got heaps of brains, see. Just like his owner. He might even have a bit of Greek in him do you reckon? Can he play one of them bazoukis?'

Stavros threw back his head and roared laughing. ‘Ahh, Les you have the sense of humour. You know what, my friend? I think this calls for a drink.' Stavros was still laughing as he went into the house to get two beers. King followed him inside.

King tried its barking, snarling, biting act on Norton when he first moved in. If it spotted Les in his backyard it would throw itself at the fence as if it wanted to smash through the palings in an effort to get at Norton's throat and poor Stavros would have to grab it by the collar, screaming. ‘Down boy, down King. Easy boy.' And King would sit there behind Stavros, snarling at Les, its mouth drawn back to reveal a row of huge gleaming fangs like a crocodile.

Norton appeared to ignore this. Then about three weeks after he moved in he waited for a while, after Stavros took the family shopping one Saturday afternoon, went down the back yard and as King went into his act he jumped over the fence with a cricket stump and gave the big german shepherd the greatest serve it ever had in its life, nearly turning King's head into mashed potatoes. Before it managed to crawl up under the house and hide, he added several solid kicks in the stomach that had it pissing blood for a fortnight. King tried a bit of long distance barking after that but Norton kept a pile of half house bricks stacked near the back fence and a steady barrage into its ribs soon made it knock that idea on the head also.

So it switched its act back to the people next door till the woman there finally threw a pot of boiling tea over its head one day. King left its immediate neighbours alone after that and settled on terrorising everybody else in the street instead.

Not that Norton had anything against dogs, he had two champion blue heelers of his own back on his father's property in Dirranbandi, and he missed them constantly. But he'd never bring them down to Sydney; dogs stuck in backyards in the city both bewildered and annoyed him, he couldn't see the point in it, but he tolerated them. Though he was standing outside the Flying Pieman one afternoon, getting into a nice fresh ‘depth charge' next to this massive Jewish woman with one of those oversized french poodles. The poodle kept jumping up and trying
to eat Norton's steak and mushroom pie. The woman, instead of pulling her dog into gear, thought this was quite amusing. Finally Norton said to her. ‘All right if I throw your dog a bit?' The woman replied. ‘Yes, certainly.' So Norton picked it up and threw it half way across Campbell Parade, under a bus.

But he'd watch with amusement as Stavros would proudly put King on a lead and walk it snapping and straining around Bondi and up and down Cox Avenue where you had to queue up to hate it. Even Stavros's family didn't like King, especially his mother who invariably had to clean up the giant turds the stupid thing used to leave all over the backyard, and by the animosity he could feel around him Stavros knew deep inside it would probably be only a matter of time before King either got baited, stolen or something happened to it.

After sorting out the Kiwis Norton settled into Cox Avenue cosier than a baby beaver in a toothpick factory. He always stopped and had a bit of a mag to everybody, especially the old birds across the street with their silky terriers, who used to sling him a sponge cake now and again, and everybody seeing him come and go in his tuxedo thought he played in a swing band. Everybody except the old SP bookie in the hat: he woke to Norton's profession in about five minutes.