You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (21 page)

‘Not too bad,' said Murray, chewing it slowly in front of Les. ‘Nowhere near as stringy as dingo. It's a bit fatty actually. Here, you want a bit?' He reached for the bag in the back.

‘No thanks,' said Les quickly.

‘Suit yourself,' shrugged Murray, wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand as he chewed away on the piece of german shepherd.

‘Christ,' said Les, looking at his brother in disbelief. ‘I'd hate to be around your place during a full moon.'

‘Full moons.' Murray threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Full moons don't worry me mate,' he said as his eyes narrowed evilly. ‘What about yooou? Awooo. Ow ow owoooo.'

Murray started howling fiendishly out the window of the car and from the back Grungle joined in, in a ghastly, bone chilling, unholy unison with his master.

Les looked at the pair of them and slowly shook his head. ‘Just drop me off down the Bondi will you?' he said.

 

 

 

‘Well, that's the last of them.' Billy Dunne turned to Les and nodded his head as the remaining few gamblers shuffled out the door of the Kelly Club and drifted slowly off into what was left of the night. He slammed the heavy steel door, slipped the bolts and turned the two deadlocks. ‘Not too bad,' he said checking his watch. ‘Just on ten to four. Let's go up and have a couple of drinks.'

‘Reckon,' said Norton as they started walking back up the stairs.

‘It's your week off next week too,' said Billy giving Les a friendly punch in the back.

‘My oath.'

‘S'pose you're lookin' forward to it.'

‘Wouldn't you be?'

‘Yeah, you're right.'

The two doormen had worked it with Price Galese for one of them to have every second week off for the next four weeks. A friend of theirs, Big Danny McCormack, a wharfie who used to do a bit of part-time door work, had got into a bit of trouble and needed some money to square things off with the coppers and pay a lawyer to avoid going away for a little holiday courtesy of Her Majesty. He'd managed to find that but just as he did one of his five kids got heart trouble and needed an operation urgently, so he had to find some more money. Les and Billy found out and knowing how Big Danny hated having to accept charity offered him the extra work at the Kelly Club. Price was agreeable, provided the boys didn't go too far away and it was only four
weeks, as he liked to have his ace men around all the time. At the same time it suited them down to the ground. Between tips, their wages, the money they didn't spend by not going out and the slings and racing tips Price kept giving them they had enough money to take every week off for the next 50 years. But the job was that good and Price was such a gem of a bloke they rarely took any nights off, so naturally enough they were looking forward to the chance for a bit of a break.

They were still talking when they got to the top of the stairs and started walking across the quiet blue cigarette haze of the casino towards Price's office. Les called out to a group of waitresses and croupiers who were still seated around a table talking, laughing and having a few staffies. ‘Let us know when you want to leave and I'll come down and let you out. All right?'

‘Righto Les,' several of them called back as the two doormen knocked lightly and entered the office.

Les and Billy sat around inside drinking and talking quietly while Price and George Brennan got the money counted and nearly gave themselves a hernia each trying to jam it in the safe.

‘Why can't they open the bloody banks on Sunday?' cursed Price Galese as he finally got the safe door closed and gave the combination tumbler a spin. ‘Lazy pen-pushin' bastards, they don't want to do any work at all.'

‘You can't work on the Sabbath,' said Les. ‘You're a Catholic Price, you should know that.'

Price stood up and gave Norton a filthy look. ‘You've got an answer for everything, Les, haven't you? You bloody big Queensland hillbilly.' He winked at George then got them all another drink. ‘Good health lads,' he said raising his glass.

They sat around drinking and cracking jokes till about 4.30am, then they all filed out. Les and Billy waited out the front while Price locked up. When he was satisfied it was all secure both got either side of him and walked him carefully to his car where they all said goodnight. Saturday night at the Kelly Club was over for another week.

The following Monday morning Les was relaxing in the backyard of his house in Bondi. Although he wasn't short of a dollar he shared the house for next to nothing with a bloke he'd met through work, Warren Edwards. Working such unorthodox hours, Norton liked to have someone there to keep an eye on
things. Also Warren, who looked like and had the personality of a young, fair haired David Niven, worked in an advertising agency where he seemed to know more good sorts than Hugh Hefner, so every now and again he'd throw Les a bone; and though Warren was a diminutive sort of bloke with a bubbling personality, whereas Norton could sometimes be classed as a taciturn 15 stone brute, paradoxically they got on quite well together.

The warming rays of the mid-morning sun were just starting to fill Norton's backyard as he sat there on his banana chair reading the paper and sipping his third mug of tea. How good's this, he thought, no work till Thursday week. What a ripper. Unexpectedly the phone rang, disturbing his relaxation. Who the bloody hell's this? he thought as he reluctantly heaved himself off the banana chair and walked into the lounge.

‘Hello,' he barked gruffly into the receiver.

‘Hullo Les. It's Warren. What are you doing?'

‘Well, I was sitting in the backyard relaxing. Why?'

‘Listen, you got next weekend off, haven't you?'

‘Yeah,' replied Norton cautiously.

‘How would you like to do a TV commercial?'

‘A TV commercial? Oh don't give me the shits.'

‘It's a hundred percenter.'

‘A what?'

‘You've got to talk in it. You've only got to say half a dozen words. Jesus, even a Queensland hillbilly like you could string six words together.'

‘Keep that sort of talk up and I might string six of your vertabrae together, you skinny little prick.'

Warren laughed on the end of the line. ‘It's a beer commercial.'

‘Yeah! What sort of beer?'

‘Bowen Lager.'

‘Bowen Lager? Never heard of it.'

‘No, it's a new one they're putting on the market. Listen, it's worth three thousand bucks if you get it.'

‘Three grand!' The cash register inside Norton's always-keen-for-an-extra-dollar mind suddenly rang up that amount. ‘What do I — ah, have to do?'

Warren started laughing on the other end of the line. He could read Norton like a book. ‘Listen, it's simple.'

He explained to Les how his agency was looking for a big, red-headed Aussie looking bloke to play the part of Bluey Riley, a Queensland cane cutter. All Bluey had to do was walk into the pub with his mates looking thirsty and mean, say a few words about Bowen Lager and drink a few beers. The ad was being shot in Brisbane, they'd fly him up and back first class, put him up in a top hotel and give him an expense account. He'd leave late Saturday afternoon, shoot the ad Sunday and be back in Sydney Monday morning. The cheque would arrive about a week later.

The idea certainly appealed to Les. Three grand, free piss and a chance to stand on beautiful Queensland soil and breathe beautiful Queensland air again. ‘All right. I'll have a go,' he said. ‘What do I do?'

‘Grab a pen and paper. I'll tell you.' Warren gave Les the address of the agency and told him to be there no later than 1.30pm for the casting. ‘You got that?'

‘Yeah. No worries.'

‘Right, good luck. I should be home about six, I'll tell you how you went.'

‘Okay, thanks Woz. I'll see you tonight.'

Norton made himself a fresh mug of tea and returned to his banana chair, a half smile on his big rough face. Funny if I got the thing, he thought, the folks back home'll get a laugh. But the $3000 interested him more. He lay there for another hour or so then decided to get changed.

He put on a clean T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. There was no need to shave, he thought, but he did run a plastic ‘bug rake' through his scrubby red hair. He gave himself a quick check in the bathroom mirror then drove to Bondi Junction and caught a train to Martin Place; a few minutes later he was standing among the passing shoppers outside the advertising agency in George Street. Yeah, this is it all right, he thought to himself as he checked the address Warren had given him over the phone. Dudley, Dunk, Fenwick, Scrartinvitch and Crutchsnack Advertising Consultants. Another quick check of the directory in the foyer said castings and inquiries, third floor. He got behind some other people and filed into the lift.

The lift doors swished open and he walked out into a large, cool, green carpeted room with a small marble fountain gurgling in the middle around which he could see several other people
seated haphazardly against the walls. A long narrow corridor seemed to run off into nowhere and next to this a bored looking peroxide blonde, wearing about six coats of make-up sat tapping away at a typewriter.

‘G'day,' said Les approaching her carefully. ‘My name's Les Norton, I'm here about some booze ad in Queensland.'

She looked up unsmiling and checked a piece of paper behind the desk. ‘Mr. Edwards sent you. Is that right?'

Les nodded his head. ‘Yeah.'

‘Just take a seat. They'll call you shortly.'

He sat down next to a thin, sophisticated looking blonde in a leather mini-dress reading a Vogue magazine. Next to her were two other blondes who could have been her sisters, and across the room were three of the best looking, best dressed blokes Les had ever seen outside of the Kelly Club. Nobody was saying anything but every now and again one would look up, check the others out intensely and look away again.

Christ, thought Les, if these blokes are going for the same ad they're walk-up starts. They make me look like something you see when you're drunk. Can't say much for the sheilas though, they all look like a good fuck and a green apple would kill the lot of them.

He reached over, picked up a magazine off a large tiled coffee table and smiled at the blonde next to him. ‘Just like waiting to see the doctor, ain't it?' he said.

She gave him a bored smile then looked at him like he was something left over from last month's garbage strike. In your arse you skinny turd, thought Les, and started thumbing idly through his magazine.

Before long an overweight, happy faced but obviously gay guy wearing a polka dot bow tie stepped out of the corridor with a clip-board in his hand. ‘Les Norton,' he lisped, glancing round the room.

‘Yeah, mate.'

‘Follow me please.'

‘For a minute I thought you were gonna say walk this way,' said Norton. ‘Be a bit hard in these jeans I can tell you.'

He ignored Les's remark and led him down the long narrow corridor. ‘You're here for the Bowen Lager commercial?'

‘Yeah, something like that,' replied Norton.

‘Mmmh, useful type,' he said looking Les up and down. ‘Should be able to do something there.'

‘Thanks. I'm rapt.'

They stopped outside an already open door. ‘Just go straight in,' said Bow Tie and swished off up the corridor.

Norton stepped into a bright, windowless room with posters all over the walls. Seated around a long velvet ottoman lounge next to a television set with a video recorder on top were three middle aged men and a middle aged woman. The men all wore trendy clothes, trendy hair styles and trendy glasses; the woman looked like a barracuda in an expensive pants suit. Les hadn't got in the door and already she was giving him the same sort of looks Zeke Wolf gives the three little pigs.

The trendy on the end of the lounge closest to Les introduced himself as Maurice McMichaels the director, on his right was Mitchell Buchannan the writer; the other two remained silent.

‘All right Les,' said Maurice McMichaels as Norton sat down in the chair opposite. ‘This is the story. We are promoting an exciting new brand of beer. Bowen Lager. And basically what we want you to do is this.' He stared intensely at Norton, emphasising every word with his hands and spoke slowly and deeply as if he was delivering the Sermon on the Mount.

‘Imagine Les, you're in a hotel bar drinking with all the boys. You've got a beer in your hand.' He handed Norton an empty middy glass. ‘Now. How would you say, “Bowen Lager, it's the beer my friends and I enjoy the most”?'

Norton looked at him incredulously. He could just imagine himself standing in a Queensland bar full of meatworkers, shearers and cane cutters and coming out with a line like that.

He lifted up the empty glass with a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Bowen Lager,' he said. ‘It's the beer me 'n me mates love to drink.' What a load of shit, he thought, I've wasted my time coming here. These dills wouldn't have a clue.

There was complete silence for a moment, then as one they all sat up on the lounge.

‘Would you say that again?' said the director.

‘Bowen Lager. It's the beer me 'n me mates love to drink.'

There was another silence then they all started jumping up and down on the one spot, waving their arms around like a lot of excited school kids.

‘Great, fantastic,' said the director.

‘Absolutely amazing,' said the writer. ‘We'll change the concept of the whole campaign.'

‘Incredible,' shrilled the third trendy. ‘It's just so, so Oz.'

The barracuda was speechless. She just fell back on the lounge and coughed in her rompers.

‘Stand up, Les, and hold the glass near your face,' said the writer. ‘I want to take a polaroid.'