You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (4 page)

Les and Billy were standing out the front watching a couple of hookers having an argument up the road when Les asked Billy if he was hungry.

‘Yeah, to tell you the truth I am a bit,' replied Billy.

‘You fancy a couple of George's shasliks?'

‘Ohh, mate, I'd kill for one of George's shasliks right now.' George was a Greek who ran a take-away food bar across the road from the Crest Hotel and just round the corner from the Kelly Club. He always looked after the boys, gave them extra-big serves and no matter how busy he was he'd always serve them straight away so they could get back to work.

‘How many you want?' asked Les.

‘Two, and an orange juice. Here, you want the money?'

‘No, I'll get 'em. You get 'em next time. I'll be about five minutes. You be right here?'

‘Yeah, sweet. Just keep away from those two molls on the corner.'

Norton smiled and turned quickly off up the street. He'd just got round the corner when up weaved Chuck Wallace putting on his drunk act, his hangers-on about 50 feet down the road.

Chuck looked exactly like what he was, a visiting Californian. He had on blue denim jeans, a blue denim shirt, cowboy boots and enough turquoise and silver to fill a Spanish armada. He lurched drunkenly up to Billy, his thumbs hooked in the front of his jeans.

‘Hey, muscles, what's the story? You gonna let me in here or what, baby?'

Billy looked at him and smiled good naturedly. ‘Sorry, baby, I can't let you in with jeans on, and I think you've had a few, haven't you?'

‘Had a few what, man, a few screws, a few tokes, a few snorts, what?'

‘A few too many drinks old son. I'll tell you what. You go home, get a pair of pants and sober up a bit and we'll see about letting you in then eh, fair enough?'

Wallace took a quick look over his shoulder and winked at the hangers-on from the film crew. They were standing there grinning, waiting for the action to start. He started towards Billy.

‘Man, I'm coming into your goddam place whether you like it or not.'

Billy put his hand out and gently pushed the American back. ‘Come on matey,' he said. ‘Don't be silly and don't get yourself hurt.'

Wallace dropped the drunken act and stepped back. ‘You're the one that's gonna get hurt, cocksucker,' he hissed. And with that he drove a side thrust kick into the unsuspecting Billy Dunne's chest, the heel of his cowboy boot cracking two of Billy's ribs. Billy grunted with pain as Wallace followed up with a right hook kick to the side of his face and a back fist to the other side. Billy was stunned. There was nothing he could do. He clutched his broken ribs with his right hand, tried to ward off the punches and kicks with his left. Wallace had him pinned up against the wall helplessly and was raining kicks all over Billy, laughing sadistically the whole time.

The hangers-on had edged forward a bit for a better view, urging the American on and laughing their heads off at the beating Billy was taking when Norton strolled nonchalantly around the corner gnawing at a shaslik through the open top of a paper bag. As soon as he saw what was going on he dropped the food and drinks and ran towards his helpless mate.

‘Hey, what the fuck's goin' on here?' he yelled.

One of the hangers-on saw him coming and screamed out, ‘Hey, watch out behind you, Chuck!'

The American left Billy and spun round to face the enraged Norton charging down the street towards him.

‘Well what have we got here?' he sneered, ‘bad guy number two, come to poppa motherfucker.'

He faced side on to Norton in a typical fighting karate stance and as Les got within range he fired out what was probably the best kick he'd ever thrown in his life. It was a ripper, the side of his foot turned slightly in, the heel out, and it went out in a perfect straight line about a hundred miles an hour, full of power and venom. Perfect.

Unfortunately, they should have warned Chuck about two things when you're street fighting in Australia. Never fight in high-heeled shoes and always watch out for dog shit on the footpath. And that's what brought him undone: as he threw the kick he skidded just slightly in about a medium-sized dog's turd
and what should have been the kick of the year just missed Norton's face by about half an inch. Chuck was suddenly in an awful lot of bother.

Norton grabbed the cuff of the American's Rodeo Drive designer jeans and flipped him straight up on his back. It was so quick he never had a chance to break his fall and his head hit the footpath. Stars spun before his eyes. As he scrambled to get up Les crouched slightly and drove a short, powerful right straight into his face. The Yank's nose filled with blood, his eyes filled with water and 20 years of martial arts training went straight out the window. Norton's adrenalin was starting to pump now.

He picked Wallace up by his shirtfront and slammed him backwards into the wall of the Kelly Club. Two left hooks thundered into his face followed by a lethal short right that pulverised his left ear. He started to slide down the wall of the club. As he did Les brought his knee straight up into his balls. Wallace let out a scream of pain and pitched forward on his hands and knees on to the footpath. The only thing that saved him from complete unconsciousness was his physical fitness and the fact that he had all those years of martial arts training behind him. An ordinary man would probably have been in a coma by now.

Norton paused for a moment to look at the blood-spattered, prostrate Wallace lying at his feet, then turned and walked over to Billy Dunne who was still crouched against the wall of the club, holding his ribs. He put his arm under him and helped him gently to his feet.

‘You all right?' he asked.

‘I've been a lot fuckin' better,' Billy replied painfully.

‘What happened anyway? I was only gone five minutes.'

Billy told him briefly what had happened. Norton didn't say anything, he just stood there for a moment stroking his chin thoughtfully, then turned and walked back to the American who was still on his hands and knees making little animal noises, blood still dripping off his face on to the dirty grey cement footpath.

‘Y'know,' he said, ‘I was watchin' you as I was comin' down the street, you're not real bad with those kicks are you?' Les started to laugh. ‘I used to do a bit of kickin' myself once but it was a bit different to that, anyway here's one I used to do. This is called kickin' for touch.'

Saying that, Les stepped back, swung his right leg and punted Wallace straight in the face like a football, flipping him completely over on his back in a shower of blood, teeth and pieces of lip and gums. He landed in among some old metal garbage tins, out like a light. The hangers-on stood there horrified, not moving; they couldn't believe their eyes.

Ignoring them Les walked back to Billy and put his arm round him. ‘Come on mate,' he said. ‘I'll give you a hand up the stairs.'

‘Thanks Les.'

‘S'pose you'll duck down to St. Vincent's and get them to take a look at you.'

‘Yeah, I think I got a couple of broken ribs.'

‘Your mouth don't look too good either.'

‘I got a few loose teeth.'

‘Then you probably won't want your two shasliks, will you?'

Billy winced and spat a gob of blood on to the footpath. ‘If nobody else wants them, Les, they're all yours.'

‘Thanks mate.'

From the back seat of the Rolls parked directly opposite Price Galese and the member of State Parliament had silently watched the entire performance, fascinated.

‘I say, Price,' the State member finally said, ‘he's quite a willing lad, that chap of yours. What's his name?'

‘Les, Les Norton,' replied Price smiling. ‘Yes, he's a hard man all right, a hard man.'

The headlines in Monday morning's papers said that visiting American actor and martial arts champion, Chuck Wallace, suffered several fractures when he was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver at Kings Cross in the early hours of Sunday morning. All his filming engagements had been cancelled and he would be flying straight back to America as soon as he was released from hospital. The producers and directors were most upset and offered Chuck and all his fans their sympathy, but not everyone was sorry. Actors Equity were quite pleased really. They didn't want the Yank out here in the first place. But that's show biz.

They were the first two of Les's fights that Price Galese saw. There were others, but nothing really worth mentioning: a backhander here, a left hook there, but it didn't take long for Norton's
reputation as 15 stone of red haired, steppin' dynamite, with a very short fuse, to get around. However, Les's reputation as a streetfighter was matched by only one thing, his reputation for his meanness with a dollar bill. When it came to releasing money, Les was tighter than a goldfish's arse. If Norton earnt $400 for the week he'd bank $450, the girls in the Kelly Club said he used to take his money up to the Governor-General every pay day and have it stamped never to be released, and Billy Dunne swore he called round to Les's place one day and found an empty toothpaste tube in a vice in his garage. He also claimed they had a shout in a pub once and when Les pulled a $ 10 bill out his wallet Henry Lawson started blinking at the light.

But Les's philosophy was simple. Why spend it if you don't have to? It was the same with clothes. Apart from his two tuxedos at the Kelly Club and the track suits he'd got from Easts, Norton's wardrobe was as bare as a Scotchman's knee; when and if Les ever went out he looked like an unmade bed. Despite this Les did have one peculiarity, he once forked out almost $300 for a pair of boots.

Being an old Queensland country boy Les loved his R. M. Williams riding boots, as most country people do. They're comfortable, they go with just about anything and if you're a bouncer, the reinforced toe comes in very handy if you have to do a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down someone's ribcage. But the boots that cost Les all the money, he had made in Mexico. A Qantas flight steward named Tommy Butterworth used to come down the Kelly Club for a punt now and again and sometimes he used to wear these calf-length iguana lizard-skin boots he had made in Mexico City. As soon as Norton saw them he had to have a pair. So the next time Tommy got a trip to Mexico he took a pair of Les's R. M. Williams with him for the bootmaker to go on and brought Les back his brand new boots. They ended up costing Les $290 and the night Billy Dunne saw Les cheerfully pay Tommy all that money for a pair of what to him were just cowboy boots, he had to have two Bex powders, a cup of tea and lie down in Price's office for a little while.

But they were a beautiful pair of boots. Entirely hand-crafted from the softest, dark green iguana lizard skin, the inside lined with matching silk, a slight high heel balanced perfectly for comfortable walking, zippered for easy removal and with a
delicate western pattern stitched into the toes, they were almost a work of art. They fitted like a second skin and were without a doubt the softest, most comfortable pair of boots Les had ever worn in his life, and he loved them. Those boots meant more to Les than the Shroud of Turin and the Crown Jewels rolled into one. He cleaned them, polished them, nursed them and at Les's hands those boots got more care and pampering than a royal baby.

Naturally enough, being on his feet just about everywhere he went, those boots would come in for a fair bit of wear and tear and would have to be half-soled and heeled now and again. Of course Les wouldn't let just any run-of-the-mill bootmaker handle his precious boots: whenever they needed attention he would take them to a Jewish family of shoemakers in Bondi Junction, Solomon Coos and Sons. They specialised in hand-made boots and shoes and catered for all the show-business people, and people in general who didn't care how much they paid for a top quality pair of shoes. Price Galese got his shoes made there and Les got to know the son, who was a bit of a playboy, from when he came down the Kelly Club. The old man got to know Les and being a shoemaker from the old school in Europe he would always admire the leather and craftmanship that had gone into Les's boots. He'd personally repair them and only charge a pittance for the work involved.

Les had left his boots in for repair and had to pick them up one busy Saturday morning. Saturday morning in Bondi Junction is madness, there's people and cars everywhere, and after working late Friday night Norton wasn't in the best of moods when he double parked outside Coos' shoe store in Oxford Street and ran inside to pick up his boots.

Solomon Coos was standing at the counter when Les burst in. As soon as he saw Les his face lit up in a big smile.

‘Ah my friend the bouncer,' he said. ‘And how is Mister Bouncer this morning?'

‘Tired and in a hurry, Sol,' replied Les.

‘In a hurry, you young people are always in a hurry.'

‘Yeah, well I'm double parked and it's swarming with friggin' brown bombers out there,' Les jerked his head towards Oxford Street. ‘Me boots ready?'

‘Yes, my friend Les, they're ready.' He reached under the
counter and got Les's boots. ‘There you go, half-soled and heeled. I did them myself.'

Les inspected his boots carefully and ran his big hands gently over them. ‘Yeah, they look all right, what do I owe you?'

‘For you Les, how much?' The old shoemaker shrugged his shoulders, smiled and made a magnanimous gesture with his hands: ‘Five dollars.'

‘Fair enough,' replied Les and fished a crisp $10 bill out of a battered wallet.

‘Your son had a big win last night,' he said as he waited for the change.

‘My son had a big win, my son doesn't turn up for work this morning, my son is a shit.'

‘Oh I dunno,' replied Les as he pocketed the change. ‘It is Saturday . . . maybe he's turned religious. See ya.' He winked and sped out of the shop.

He placed his boots, which Sol had put in a plastic bag, gently next to him on the front seat of the car and joined the smoky, noisy crawl of traffic heading up Oxford Street. He'd got about half a mile when a car pulled out in front of him. Les stopped, threw his old Ford into reverse and quickly backed into the vacant space. Finding a parking in Bondi Junction on Saturday morning is like winning the Lottery. Les had his gas and power bills in the glove box so he thought he may as well get them out of the road and save himself a trip up through the week. It would only take a few minutes.