The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

  Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan

  YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE GODSON BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS DA VO’S LITTLE SOMETHING WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER THE DAY OF THE GECKO RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ

  ROBERT G.

  BARRRTT

  The Boys from

  Binjiwunyawunya

  This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.

  First published 1987 in Pan by Pan Books (Australia) Pty Ltd This edition published by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market St, Sydney

  Reprinted 1990, 1991, 1992 (twice), 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2003, 2005, 2007, 2008, 2009

  Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1987

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Barrett, Robert G.

  The boys from Binjiwunyawunya

  ISBN 978 0 330 27165 3.

  EPUB ISBN: 9781743548981

  I. Title

  A823.3

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  DEDICATION

  Ex painters and dockers and old SP bookies aren’t bad blokes — and neither is my Uncle Artie in South Melbourne.

  This book is dedicated to him.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author is donating 10% of his royalties to be divided between Greenpeace and The Aboriginal Inland Children’s Mission.

  CONTENTS

  THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA

  ST KILDA KOOLER

  The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

  Price Galese rarely if ever got a full-on case of the shits. He might get a bit stroppy when he was tired now and again and again. But the shits. Hardly ever. There wasn’t really a great deal for the suave, silvery haired casino owner to get the shits about. He was a millionaire several times over. He owned a mansion in Vaucluse, had a charming, attractive wife and three fine sons. His string of thoroughbred racehorses kept winning like it was going out of style, much to the grief of every rails and SP bookmaker in Sydney. And his gambling casino — the Kelly Club — staffed with employees who literally loved him, was almost a licence to print money. Apart from that, he was a doyen of Sydney society, idolised by the church, charities and just about every other citizen of that rather large, bustling city between Newcastle and Wollongong known affectionately as ‘The Old Steak and Kidney’. So what reasons would Price Galese have to get the shits?

  Naturally, in his line of work he’d have to get rather serious now and again when different things were on his mind... like having to order a hit, chase up a defaulting punter or sort out a dicey cop or politician. But these little ‘business matters’ were generally sorted out pretty smartly, with a minimum of fuss, and Price would soon be back to his ever-smiling, urbane, likeable self. However, this particular Saturday night in the Kelly Club office after closing time, it was obvious to the small group of trusted employees gathered around him for an after-work drink, that Price had a dose of the shits something good and proper. His jaw was clenched tight and his dark brown eyes were glowering as he spun the dial on the safe after closing it. And when he flopped down in the padded leather seat behind his desk and took a sip of his Scotch and soda as he scowled at nothing in particular across the highly polished oak top, his normally happy face looked about six feet longer than the Great Wall of China.

  There was silence for a few moments after Price sat down. George Brennan glanced across at Eddie Salita, sitting in the corner absently picking at his nails, then over to Billy Dunne sipping on an Old Grandad and Coke next to Les Norton, who was seated comfortably with his eyes closed as he savoured the delights of his second chilled stubbie of Fourex. Actually George had noticed over the last couple of nights that something seemed to be eating at Price, but they’d been busy and he was a bit toey about asking him. But it was quiet in the office now, the week was over, and with only Price’s closest employees grouped around him George decided to put it on him.

  ‘Price. Is everything all right old mate?’ he asked quietly.

  Price Galese glanced over at his manager, then just as quickly looked away again. ‘Yeah, everything’s sweet George.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes George. I’m sure.’

  Billy Dunne decided to put his head in as well. ‘Yeah, bullshit Price. Something’s on your mind. What is it?’

  ‘I just bloody well told you. Nothing. Jesus, what’s up with you blokes?’

  Finally Price caught Norton’s eyes, which were now half open and giving him one of those ‘Come on. Don’t piss in our pockets. We know you better than that’ kind of looks. Staring back at the big, red-headed doorman for a moment, he raised his hands, palms up, before slapping them down on the edge of his desk as he shifted his gaze across to Eddie Salita.

  ‘Yeah. Righto,’ he sighed loudly. ‘I suppose I might as well tell you what’s going on. Eddie knows, so you boys may as well know, too.’

  ‘That’s a bit more like it,’ smiled Les. ‘Now what’s up?’

  Price glanced around the room before taking in a deep breath and exhaling it angrily through his nose.

  ‘I’m being shafted boys. Blackmailed. Getting it well and truly shoved right up my arse and taken to the cleaners. And when I say blackmailed — I mean just that. Fuckin’ blackmailed.’

  There was an astonished silence for a few moments before Les spoke. ‘Who the bloody hell’s doing this?’ he asked in disbelief as he sat upright in his chair.

  ‘Who?’ replied Price. ‘A dirty, rotten bloody Aborigine in Redfern — that’s who.’ Price glared around the room at the three speechless faces in front of him. ‘Yeah that’s right,’ he continued. ‘An Abo. I’m being shafted by a rotten fuckin’ boong. And I don’t like it one little bit.’

  The silence in the already hushed office seemed to double in intensity, if that was at all possible. Not only was it unusual for Price to let go with such an outburst, but to think that someone — an Australian Aborigine of all people — was blackmailing one of the most powerful men in Sydney was almost too astonishing to contemplate. Norton was about to speak when Price cut him off abruptly with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Yeah all right Les, I know,’ he said tiredly. ‘You’ve got a soft spot in your heart for the Aborigines because you grew up with them in Dirranbandi or wherever that joint is you come from. And I’ve got nothing against them either. They’re an unfortunate people. But believe me. This guy is just an out-and-out cunt. He’s shoving the pineapple right up my date. And getting away with it.’

  Eddie Salita could only shake his head and shrug his shoulders helplessly in agreement. Price took another deep breath before slumping back in his seat.

  ‘Anyway,’ he sighed again, rubbing his hand almost
despairingly across his face. ‘Seeing as we’re all here, I suppose I may as well give you boys the whole bloody story.’

  It appeared Price owned a huge block of industrial land — about a hectare — in Lawson Street, Redfern, just across from the railway station. He’d picked it up years ago in a gambling debt. The previous owner, an old SP bookie, had got into Price for a fair bit of money and gave him the deeds as security till he could come up with the readies. Unfortunately for the old bookie, but fortunately for Price, he died of a heart attack at City Tattersalls Club about a week later, so Price finished up with the land. After the funeral he and his lawyer, Sheldon Drewe, checked it out and there wasn’t much on it. An unoccupied smallgoods factory and an old clothing factory that was also abandoned. A couple of dusty, run-down offices were paying a minimal rent along with an old Greek who had an equally dusty, run-down flsh’n’ chip cum hamburger shop. Price intended getting rid of the lot and left the deeds with his lawyer and the rent-collecting in the hands of a local estate agency; but with more important things on his mind he ended up letting the matter slip. This was almost fifteen years ago, but G. J. Coles had recently approached Drewe with an offer, wanting to put a New World Supermarket and community centre on the site. Their offer was $1.5 million and Price couldn’t believe his luck. It was money for old rope as far as he was concerned, so, absolutely jubilant, he issued instructions to sell immediately. There was, however, a snag. The land had to be untenanted and the contract signed no more than a month after Coles made their offer or the deal would fall through as the company was also negotiating for another site in Newtown.

  At first this didn’t seem like any problem. There were only two tenants in what was left of the building, and the old Greek couldn’t believe it when Sheldon Drewe landed on his doorstep with an offer of $25,000 to get out. He was gone that quick he left three pieces of flathead and a battered sav still bubbling in the oil as he and his wife and six kids ran out the door. But the other tenant turned out to be a different kettle of fish altogether.

  A half-caste Aborigine, Percy Kilby, had taken a ten-year lease on the remaining office calling it the Aboriginal Welfare and Entitlement Council or AWEC. In reality it was nothing more than a rort to get money and grants from the State and Federal governments and give Percy a legitimate cover for his illegal activities; which were mainly hot gear, bogus charities, and ripping the government off for whatever he could. Percy had the welfare of his people at heart about as much as Idi Amin cared for the citizens of Uganda. But he was cunning. A good talker and ex-organiser for the militant Builders’ Labourers Federation, he knew just how to manipulate people and blend racism with his people’s drinking and employment problems to suit his own needs. It hadn’t taken Percy long to trace who the owner of his office was, and when he did he just smiled to himself and sat back biding his time. So when Drewe came along with his offer to leave the premises it was like finding that elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Not that Percy was a completely unreasonable man. As soon as he found out about the Coles deal, and knowing that the party making him the offer to get out was rather on the shady side and owner of the biggest casino in Sydney, Percy couldn’t get out fast enough either. Except that Percy wasn’t going to take the offer of new premises for AWEC and $25,000 like the Greek bloke. Percy’s travelling price? Half a million dollars — in cash.

  ‘So that’s about it in a nutshell, boys,’ said Price, making an open-handed gesture. ‘This Kilby’s got me by the bloody short and curlies. And there’s fuck-all I can do about it.’ There was another silence while the boys mulled over what they’d just been told. Then George Brennan spoke.

  ‘What do you mean there’s nothing you can do, Price?’ he said, turning to Les and Billy. ‘What’s wrong with sending our two nice doormen here over to jump up and down on his ribcage a few times. Percy’d soon get the message to piss off.’

  Price just made another despairing gesture. ‘No way in the world, George. Can you imagine the headlines in the papers if I did that: “Casino Operator Sends Thugs in to Bash Aboriginal Welfare Officer”. Right next to a photo of him in hospital, covered in bandages with a couple of drips sticking out of his arms. It’d look terrific wouldn’t it.’

  George nodded his head and gave Price a look of glum approval. ‘Yeah. I see what you mean. But what about Eddie?’

  ‘Hah!’ Price gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. If there was half a chance I could use Eddie, Kilby’d be with his ancestors in the dreamtime right now. About five miles off Sydney heads. No, the bastard told Sheldon that if anything nasty happens to him or he disappears there’s a letter left in his safe and another with his lawyer.’ Price shook his head again. ‘The black bludger’s done his homework all right.’

  ‘Shit! I see what you mean,’ said George, walking over to the bar. ‘Anybody else want a drink while I’m here?’ There was a general shaking of heads, then continued silence as George made himself a tequila and grapefruit juice and sat down again. ‘Well, what do you intend doing Price? ... What can we do?’

  ‘Ohh I’m buggered if I know,’ Price replied wearily. ‘I’m buggered if I do. He’s got me by the nuts.’

  ‘Why don’t you just give him the half a million and be done with it?’ said Billy. ‘You’re still gonna finish another million in front. It’s not a bad result.’

  ‘What’ roared Price. ‘Give that dirty black shithouse 500 grand. You’re kidding. I’d rather miss out altogether.’

  ‘Yeah but... aren’t you just cutting your nose off to spite your face?’

  ‘Billy. It’s not the money, mate. It’s the principle.’ Price paused to take in the looks he got from his last statement. ‘Well... maybe it is the money to a certain extent,’ he added offhandedly. ‘But that’s still not the point. I absolutely refuse to let some bloody smarty shove it up me for half a million bucks. And I don’t give a stuff whether he’s black, white or purple with pink spots.’

  ‘So what do you intend to do?’

  ‘What do I intend to do? Billy — your guess is as good as mine.’ Price looked up for a second, then buried his face in his hands in annoyance and frustration. ‘Ahh I’m buggered if I know.’

  All eyes focused on Price, his head resting on his hands, his face a picture of abject misery. For all his millions and his occasional villainy, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was too good a bloke to be turned over like that by someone who was nothing more than an out-and-out arsehole at the best of times. And like he said, there was quite a bit of principle involved. If the word ever got out that one of the most powerful men in Sydney had got shafted by an Aboriginal ex-builders’ labourer from Redfern, Price’d be the laughing stock of the Sydney underworld.

  The gloomy silence in the office continued, broken only by the faint ticking of an old cuckoo clock Price had put up on the wall as a novelty. It was almost ten to four. Then the silence was broken by another odd sound and all eyes switched to Les Norton, sitting on his seat with his eyes closed and his head tilted back slightly. From deep down in his throat was coming this low, rumbling chuckle. Every now and again his shoulders would quiver and his body would shake from the pit of his stomach up to his chin as tiny sniggers came from his nose. Billy, Eddie and George continued to stare at Les for a few moments as the rumbling seemed to get louder. Price took his hands away from his face and stared at Norton in open-mouthed amazement before turning to the others.

  ‘Is he laughing?’ he asked, incredulous. The chuckles suddenly got louder as Norton’s chest began to shake like a jelly. ‘Are you laughing, Les? He is. The idiot’s laughing. Can you believe it? He thinks it’s funny. Here I am being rolled for half a million bucks by some cunt and he thinks it’s hilarious. You bloody big imbecile. I always knew you were a wombat — I’m bloody well convinced of it now.’ Price waved his hands in the air and looked up as if he was pleading to a higher authority. ‘Jesus Christ! I don’t believe it.’

  No
rton continued chuckling to himself for a while, then opened his eyes and gave a tight smile all around the room.

  ‘So,’ said the big, red-haired doorman, nodding at each of them including Price. ‘The big, bad Sydney heavies, eh? Some heavies. One poor, skinny spook from Redfern’s put the bustle on you and you’ve all shit yourselves. Fair dinkum, you don’t blame me for laughing do you? One lousy Abo — and he’s got you buggered.’ Norton got up out of his seat and all eyes followed him as he went to the fridge and collected himself a fresh stubbie of Fourex. ‘And you, Eddie.’ Les turned to the wiry, dark-haired figure sitting in the corner. ‘You call yourself a hit man. Hah! You couldn’t hit a bull in the arse with a shovel full of wheat.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ replied Sydney’s deadliest killer, allowing a flicker of a smile to crease the corners of his ice-green eyes. ‘And are you going to tell me you know a better way of getting rid of this Kilby cunt?’

  Norton removed the top from his Fourex and took a swallow. ‘As a matter of fact Eddie,’ he said, belching lightly before dropping the twist-top in the rubbish basket with a rattle, ‘I do.’

  There was silence once again in the plush office, and if anything it seemed to deepen at Norton’s last remark. All eyes followed him back to his seat. Even Price’s anger, especially after Les’s erratic behaviour and the verbal he’d just given all of them, particularly Eddie, gave way to profound curiosity. Price stared intently at the big, red-headed Queenslander sitting, sipping smugly on his fresh drink.

  ‘What do you mean, Les?’ said Eddie, after a few seconds. ‘You do?’

  ‘Just what I said Eddie. I reckon I know a sneak way of getting rid of this Kilby rooster.’

  ‘Are you fair dinkum, Les?’ said Price, now sitting up in his seat with his arms folded across his chest. ‘You’re not just talking through your arse are you? You dead-set reckon you know a way of getting this Kilby prick off my back?’