You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (6 page)

‘Sorry I tilted your machine, fellahs,' he said. ‘Here,' he dropped a few 20
coins with a rattle on the glass top of the machine, ‘have a couple of games on me.'

Then without so much as another word Les turned and slowly, nonchalantly strolled out of the silent shop towards his car and for the first time that day, since he had his treasured boots stolen, the merest suggestion of a smile creaked slowly, icily across his craggy red face.

Sydney on a clear winter's day is without doubt the prettiest city in Australia and arguably the prettiest in the world. At the back of Bondi Junction, near the microwave tower in Botany Street is the highest point in the city. If you stand up there on a mild clear winter's morning and look west, you can see right over Centennial Park, straight across the monotonous plains of the western suburbs and all the way to the alluring eucalypt sapphire haze of the Blue Mountains. It's this distinct blue haze, caused by the vapour given off by millions of eucalyptus trees, that gave the beautiful Blue Mountains their unique name.

On these clear, cool winter's days, the chilly south-west winds sing their mournful song as they sigh relentlessly down from the Blue Moutains, pushing the few tufts of grey cloud scattered
around the sky like pieces of steel wool, over the loveliest harbour in the world and finally scatters them, like a mother bird saying goodbye to her fledgling chicks, through the magnificent Sydney Heads and out into the endless aquamarine of the Tasman Sea.

Norton loved these early winter mornings, they were one of the few things in Sydney he liked; days like this you wouldn't be dead for quids, Norton used to joke to himself.

Though his night job gave him few opportunities to get up early, when he could Les would rise at dawn, drive down to Centennial Park and go for a good long run.

After the noisy, smoky, sometimes hostile atmosphere of the Kelly Club and the neon gaudiness of the Cross and its seedy denizens the uncrowded green beauty of Centennial Park was almost a revelation to him. Sometimes as he'd belt along the edges of the ponds in the early morning mist, scattering the water hens and ducks near the banks, he'd close his eyes and for a few seconds imagine he was back running around the river banks near Dirranbandi, but all too briefly.

It was one of these cool winter mornings in Centennial Park about six or so weeks after Les had had his boots stolen; he still hadn't quite got over getting his good boots pinched but at least he was learning to live with it, and Tommy Butterworth had promised to get him another pair as soon as the opportunity arose.

He'd been running in the park for about half an hour, he'd done two circuits, now he was criss-crossing, just running anywhere, stopping every now and again to do 20 or so push-ups and a few sit-ups then continuing on his way. He would do this for roughly an hour or so. He preferred to run in the more deserted parts of the park, away from the usual running routes and the other people; the less people he saw when he was running the more he liked it. He'd belt along these out-of-the-way trails, brushing any overhanging branches aside with his arms, jumping over logs or stumps; any clearings he came to he'd sprint across, taking in great draughts of cold air and letting it out behind him in huge billowing clouds of steam which would hang in the crisp winter air momentarily till they'd disappear in the wind.

Les was pounding along in this manner, hardly a worry in the world feeling great, the cold air stinging his sweat-stained face.
He was running along a narrow trail and spotting a small sheltered clearing up ahead, decided to take it in one great leap. He picked up speed and as he got to the edge of the clearing threw his hands forward to take off in a mighty leap, but his foot caught on something and instead of arching gracefully through the air, Les sprawled forward to culminate in a noisy, spectacular somersault of dirt, twigs and grass, landing flat on his back near the other side of the clearing. He lay there for a second or two, slightly dazed, then let out a mighty oath.

‘Jesus fuckin' Christ,' he roared. ‘What the fuckin' hell was that?'

Gingerly he picked himself up, stood there for a moment rubbing his hip and inspected the damage; he'd skinned both knees and his elbow but nothing was broken or sprained. He turned to see what it was he'd tripped over.

Limping back to the other side of the small clearing all he could see was a pile of spread-out newspapers. However, under closer inspection he noticed a scrawny, wizened arm stuck out under the newspapers that seemed to be groping towards an empty wine flagon, and sticking out from under the other end of the newspapers was a pair of skinny white legs clad in a pair of tattered blue pants. But, perched on the end of those skinny white legs was none other than Norton's boots. A bit battered, a bit dirty but unmistakably, unequivocably Norton's $290 iguana lizard skin boots which had mysteriously disappeared in Bondi Junction six weeks earlier.

At first Les just stood there staring, his hands on his hips. With a quick look around the clearing, as if he expected some people to be standing there, he pointed to the boots.

‘Hey, they're my fuckin' good boots!' he roared at the top of his voice.

He knelt down and ran his hands over them, then got back up again.

‘My fuckin' oath they are. What are you doing with them you old cunt?'

The old wino lay there, sleeping blissfully on, ignoring Norton's raving. Norton didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was a hotbed of mixed emotions. On one hand he wanted to tell the world he'd got his boots back and on the other hand he wanted to kick the stuffing out of the old wino for stealing them
in the first place. Then again, the old bloke might have just found them somewhere so he couldn't really pound the soul-case out of the poor old bugger for that. A few questions were in order; he gave the pile of newspapers a sharp kick.

‘Hey you old prick,' he said. ‘Where'd you find those boots?' Still no answer. He gave the pile of newspapers another nudge, ‘c'mon you old cunt, wake up, I'm talkin' to you. Where'd you get those boots? Don't try and tell me you bought 'em.' Still no answer.

Les stood there glaring down at the sleeping form beneath the newspapers, his chest heaving, steam rising off his face as the sweat dripped off his nose and chin.

‘Ah, fuck this,' he said, and gave the newspapers a good hard kick in the general direction of where he thought the old wino's backside would be. Still no answer.

‘Jesus, how much piss did you drink last night?' He gave the wine flagon a kick, it disappeared into the bushes, ‘Yeah fuckin' empty, I thought so.'

He bent down and tore the newspapers off the old wino's face. ‘C'mon you old prick, wake up, I want . . .'

Norton's voice trailed away. He gave a little scream of terror and recoiled in horror, as if he'd just uncovered a tiger snake. For one look at the old man's face, with the mouth frozen in a crooked half-smile, the spittle still glistening on the sides and those two opaque eyes, that stared straight through Les and into eternity, told him one certain thing; he could never wear those boots again.

‘Oh Jesus,' he said as a shudder ran through his entire body, ‘keep the fuckin' things.' Big Les turned and ran for his life.

 

 

 

It was getting on for 11 o'clock on a mild Saturday night in September. The pale blue neon light of the Kelly Club threw an almost translucent glow over the two men in tuxedos standing casually at the entrance; the shorter man was eating an apple, the other was gnawing on a Cherry Ripe bar. The garish neon lights of Kings Cross blending haphazardly in around them added a distinct touch of surrealism to the whole scene.

The shorter man checked his watch for the fifth time in the last hour, a look of mild concern on his face.

‘Price is a bit late getting here tonight,' said Billy Dunne.

Les Norton finished his Cherry Ripe bar, screwed the wrapper in a ball and tossed it nonchalantly into the gutter.

‘What time is it?' he asked.

‘About 11 o'clock.'

‘There was a big meeting on at Rosehill today. He's probably still celebrating.'

‘Yeah, he had two winners.'

‘Good prices?'

‘One was 15/1.'

A smile creased the corners of Les Norton's eyes. ‘There's your answer,' he said.

They stepped back to let a well-dressed party of four into the club, giving each of them a smile and a nod as they entered. As they did, a light brown Rolls-Royce glided majestically up out the front and stopped about 20 feet down from the club.

‘Here he is now,' said Les.

Price Galese stepped out from behind the wheel of the Rolls and walked briskly over towards them. He looked a picture of sartorial elegance in an immaculately cut, blue, three-piece suit which was accentuated by his silvery grey hair. A maroon tie and a solid gold tie-bar with large black opal in it added a touch of discreet class to his attire. He had a strange smile on his face.

‘Hello boys,' he said lightly. ‘How are you?'

‘Not too bad Price. How's yourself?'

‘All right. Listen,' he took each of them by the arm. ‘Come up the office after work. I want to see you about something.'

‘There's no trouble is there?' said Billy.

‘No, not really. I'll see you when we knock off.' He gave the boys a wink and disappeared up the stairs.

‘I wonder what that was all about,' said Billy.

Les shrugged. ‘We'll find out after work, I s'pose.'

The night was fairly uneventful. A team of drunken sailors came up to cause a bit of trouble; Les belted the biggest one in the mouth, knocking out several teeth and that was the end of that. Billy banged two bikies' heads together and kicked a cheeky drag-queen in the backside and Les went up and had to eject the drunken wife of a Sydney television news-reader. She was out on the town while her husband was in hospital recovering from a hair transplant. This was done very discreetly and she was out the door and still laughing before she even knew what had happened. Just another Saturday night at the club.

Around 4am they had everyone out so the boys went to the office to see Price; knocking lightly before they entered. Price was seated behind his desk next to the club manager, George Brennan; they were doing their best to count a stack of money an East German gold medallist couldn't have pole-vaulted over. At the end of the money sat a shiny blue-black Colt .45 automatic.

‘Come in, boys,' said Price happily. ‘Grab yourselves a drink. You know where it is.'

Billy went for the Dimple Haigh and Drambuie, making himself a nice, tall rusty nail, Les settled for one of the cans of Fourex that Price, knowing the ex-Queenslander's taste, always kept in the fridge for him. Billy gave the liquor cabinet a quick wipe and they sat down in front of Price's desk.

Price turned to his manager. ‘George, leave me with the boys for a minute will you. I won't be long.'

‘Sure,' replied the manager. He picked up the .45, put it in a leather holster under his arm and walked to the door. ‘Don't let Norton drink all the Fourex,' he said with a wink and stepped outside.

‘Well, what's the story?' asked Billy.

Price eased himself back from the desk. ‘The story is, boys,' he said, ‘I'm closing up the club for a couple of weeks.'

‘Yeah,' said Billy. It didn't come as any real surprise to him. Now and again if there was trouble or pressure on from somewhere they'd close up for a while till it blew over or Price had it sorted out. ‘What is it this time?'

‘Ahh, there's a shitpot bloody by-election on for this ward and they reckon that whingeing prick from the Festival Of Light's going to throw some rooster in on a law-and-order campaign. You know what he's like.' Price shook his head sadly. ‘Also,' he added, ‘there hasn't been a decent rape, bank robbery or murder for weeks. Even the kiddy pervs have gone quiet which means the papers will take up the issue.' Price stood up. ‘Where's all the rapists and murderers gone for Christ's sake?' he said waving his arms around excitedly. ‘What's Sydney coming to?'

‘It's enough to give you the shits,' said Billy.

‘You better believe it.' Price waved his hand across the huge stack of money on the desk. ‘I mean, I'm only trying to make an honest living.'

Les chuckled into his beer.

‘Hey, don't laugh,' said Price. ‘I'm fair dinkum.'

‘Ohh, Price, don't get me wrong,' said Norton, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘I know that you're only a small businessman trying to do his best.'

‘That's exactly it,' said Price pointing directly at Les. ‘A small businessman trying to earn a quid and the bludgers want to crucify me.' He sat back down, a look of abject sorrow on his face. ‘Anyway, I'm forced to close for a couple of weeks, so here.' He pulled two stacks of $50 bills out of the drawer and handed one each to Les and Billy. ‘There's a grand each there, that ought to keep you going for the next fortnight. Go for a holiday, have a rest for a couple of weeks. Don't worry about me, I'll just have to go back to being a brokey.'