‘Oh come on. Turn it up.’
‘Turn it up my arse,’ snorted Yarrawulla. ‘Heaps of mugs like you tumble in and think they’ve got the interests of our people at heart. Balls. They wouldn’t give an Aborigine the time of day. You won’t get your head on TV sticking up for Abos.’
‘All right. I just...’
‘Hypocrites. They give me the bloody shits,’ continued Tjalkalieri. ‘One of the only blokes in this country who’s fair dinkum about helping Australian Aborigines is Peter Garrett.’
‘That bloke out of Midnight Oil?’
‘Oh you do know bloody something Les. That’s a change.’
Then it was on. Somehow, just looking for a joke, Norton had unsuspectingly touched a nerve with the boys, especially Tjalkalieri. And it wasn’t funny. They sat on the lounge very sourly, gesticulating amongst themselves and arguing in their native tongue. Then Tjalkalieri reached over and abruptly switched the TV off, after which you could have cut the air with a knife.
Christ, what have I done, thought Les as he sat there in the almost inflammable silence. Every now and again one of the boys would mutter something under his breath to the others and they’d all glare murderously at the blank TV. Norton couldn’t ever remember seeing the boys in such a foul mood. What he’d said was only meant as a joke, and a very mild, back-handed one at that. He didn’t dream it would be so provocative. But evidently those lesbian protesters had rubbed the boys right up the wrong way, especially where it concerned their people.
After about five minutes or so of uncomfortable silence Norton had had enough. He thought it might be a good idea if he got out of the room and left the boys alone for a while.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I, ah... might go for a walk for a few minutes. Get a can of Coke or something. You blokes want anything while I’m up the road?’
There was an almost imperceptible shaking of heads and more sour looks followed by continuing silence.
‘All right. Well I’ll only be about fifteen minutes or so. I’ll see you when I get back.’ The door clicked quietly and he was gone.
Norton didn’t see anybody else in the hotel as he trotted down the stairs and when he got out on the footpath he had a quick look in the bar. There was no sign of Bailey and no more than half a dozen people in there. The streets were quiet also. A few cars swishing past and that was about it. Satisfied it would be safe to leave the boys alone in their room for a while, Les started walking; straight up Regent Street.
I don’t know about a Coke, he thought, as he trudged along in the soft glow of the neon signs and shop lights. I wouldn’t mind a beer after that little caper. Should’ve had one in the bar, I suppose, but I might’ve bumped into the owner and I sure don’t feel like talking or trying to crack jokes with anyone at the moment.
After he’d crossed the next intersection and got a bit further down the street, Les noticed a couple of people standing beneath a red canvas awning in a lane off to his right. In the darkness he could just make out the words Redfern RSL. Hello he thought, the local ‘rissole’. That’ll do just nicely. I’ll have a couple of schooners and a lash at the pokies. Wonder if I can get in wearing my tracksuit and joggers. Round here? Can’t see why not.
Just like the Kelly Club, he laughed to himself as he stepped under the small, canvas awning and through the wood, panelled door. Don’t think it’ll be quite the same clientele though.
Apart from a woman using a red phone in the foyer there was no one else around and no one at the reception desk. A red and brown carpeted hallway, flanked by a large photo of the Queen, led inside, so he followed that along to what appeared to be the main bar.
It was a typical, fair-sized RSL bar, with poker machines around the walls and another circle of machines in the middle. There was a restaurant selling Asian food plus a menu of hamburgers, pies and chips for the local plebians. In front of him were a blank video screen and a small stage with a sign on it — ‘Lester And Smart Next Show 9 p.m.’ Les didn’t think he’d bother staying for the floor show. The place was happily noisy, however, fairly crowded with boozy, casually dressed whites and almost the same number of Aborigines. No one approached Les for membership as he stood there, so he eased himself through the drinkers, the rattle of the poker machines and the cigarette haze, finding an uncrowded spot right in the corner of the bar. There didn’t appear to be any Fourex on tap or in the fridges, so he settled for a schooner of Tooheys new. A skinny tired-looking barman had it in front of him pretty smartly and it was cold and crisp and hit the spot almost straight away. Norton downed most of it and got ready to order another.
Well this isn’t too bad, he thought, propping himself up on his elbows with his back to the bar after the second schooner arrived. And it sure is nice to get out of that room for a while. He took another huge slurp of his schooner. I’ll finish this, get another and run a few bucks through the pokies.
Norton was almost lost in pleasant thoughts as he leant against the bar checking out the heads on the locals. Although he wouldn’t be able to stay too long, it was good to get a break out of the room away from the others and in a place where no one knew him and he could lean back and enjoy the pleasure of his own company over a nice, cold beer. He took another hefty swallow. And there’s nothing wrong with the Tooheys on tap either.
But unbeknown to Les there was one person in the club that did know him. A tall Aborigine in a tracksuit similar to Norton’s had been watching him intently, almost from the moment he had ordered his first beer. He was standing off to Norton’s left, where the bar cornered round in front of the Men’s Toilets, drinking with two other Aborigines from the local football team — one about the same size, the other shorter but more solid. He said something to the two men who looked over at Les, nodded grimly, then looked away again. The tallest one turned slightly side on to Norton while he sipped his beer but never took his eyes off him.
So, thought Frank, Vernon Stroud the chartered accountant, eh? Or is it Les Norton? Price Galese’s so-called bloody heavy. Well you don’t look so heavy to me, you red-headed goose. And you’re right out of your territory. I think we might just be having a little word or two before the night’s over. And it won’t be about donations for South bloody Africa either.
Norton finished his schooner and placed the glass on the bar.
‘Same again mate?’ said the barman.
‘Yeah. But make it a middy this time will you? And take it out of that. I’m going for a leak.’ Norton nodded to some change on the bar and moved towards the toilets. That beer’s nice all right he thought. But shit! It goes through you like a packet of bloody Epsom Salts. Easing himself through the other drinkers, Les still didn’t notice the three pairs of brown eyes watching him stealthily but intently as he entered the toilets. They gave him a minute or so then Frank nodded to the other two and they followed him inside.
Alone in the men’s room, Norton had just finished and was standing in front of a long mirror above a row of hand-basins, while he rinsed his hands and splashed a bit of water on his face. A movement to his left caught his eyes and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he immediately recognised Frank. A quick surge of adrenalin hit the pit of his stomach. The sour look on Frank’s face and the way his two associates were swarming behind him like a pair of hungry barracudas told Norton something wasn’t quite right. Casually, he moved to the roll-towel on his right, pulled it down, and acting blasé, began drying his hands. Frank and his mates moved a little closer to Les, surrounding him yet not quite crowding him. Frank stood in the middle with his arms folded.
‘How’re you goin’ there mate. All right?’ sneered Frank, menace dripping off his every word.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ replied Norton breezily. His back was to Frank who couldn’t see his eyebrows bristling as he continued slowly wiping his hands.
‘How’re all the chartered accountants these days?’
Norton looked at Frank quizzingly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t think I know what y
ou’re talking about.’ He finished drying his hands and turned to face the three of them.
‘Don’t give me the fuckin’ shits,’ continued Frank. ‘You know what I’m talking about, you prick. You were snooping around in our office the other day with your shitpot $250. Weren’t you. Les Norton.’
At the sound of his own name, Norton couldn’t help but look surprised. How the bloody hell did he find out who I am, he thought. But it was too late now. The game was definitely up.
‘You’re about as much a fuckin’ chartered accountant as what I am,’ hissed Frank. ‘You’re one of Price Galese’s bumboys aren’t you? Come over to try and put the frighteners on Perce.’
Norton didn’t say anything. He just stood there rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, his eyes moving across the three faces in front of him as he sussed out the situation and set himself up.
‘So you think you’re gonna put shit on us do you,’ Frank continued. ‘Well you’re in the wrong part of town. Arsehole.’
Frank had now unfolded his arms and the other two had bunched their fists. Les knew he had about two seconds to make a move.
‘Look mate,’ he said, turning his hands palms up to Frank in a gesture of helplessness, ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Frank was about to say something else before they moved in, when quick as a snake Norton closed his left hand and hooked his massive fist into the face of the solid Aborigine to his right. It caught him flush under the nose, ripping apart his top lip and caving in most of his front teeth. From the shock that ran up his arm Norton knew it was a knockout punch.
As the solid thug yelped and spun along the washbasins before he hit the far wall and dropped to the floor, Les swung a quick short right, hitting Frank on the jaw. He was a bit crowded though and couldn’t get his shoulder properly behind it. It hurt Frank and flung him against the toilet doors, but it didn’t drop him. By now, though, the last hood had swung into action.
As Norton was about to step in and follow up on Frank with a left hook he just detected a movement out of the corner of his eye. He managed to tuck his chin in and move his shoulder up as a solid right thumped in behind his ear and a left caught him above the eye. That was all hood number two had a chance to get in. Norton spied an opening, bent slightly at the knees and let go a monstrous right uppercut that caught the tall Aborigine right under the chin, shattering his jaw like a sledgehammer hitting a housebrick. He let out a little shriek of shock and agony, made a grab for the towel-rack for support and brought the lot crashing down noisily on top of him as his knees went from under him. That now left only Frank, whose confidence had taken quite a dive at the sight of his two friends out like lights on the men’s room floor. But he was tough, fit and an ex-heavyweight fighter; plus he had a slight drop on Norton who was just turning around after dropping hood number two.
Frank tore into Les, throwing lefts and rights which nearly all landed and stung. But one on one, even for an ex-pro it was no match. As soon as he got settled Norton swung a peach of a left into Frank’s face that completely mashed the tall Aborigine’s mouth and made his already broken nose ‘even broker’. A short right, straight after, split open his cheek and flung him back against the toilets. It was almost lights out time for poor Frank. But instead of following through with another barrage of punches Les took him by the front of his tracksuit, moved slightly to one side as he jerked him forward, and in almost the same movement grabbed Frank by the scruff of the neck, shoving him face forward up over the washbasins and into the full-length mirror. Frank’s big, bony forehead split open and sent cracks splintering along the glass at the same time. The linen handtowel was still rolled out all over the floor and as Frank began to slide to his knees, Norton grabbed a length of towel, wrapped it around Frank’s neck and began choking him. With Frank turning blue and gagging for his life, Les dragged him to his feet, spun him around and forced him up over the basins again.
By now Frank’s face wasn’t the most appetising sight in the world. His hair was matted with blood and tears were streaming out of his eyes, running into the blood pouring from his nose and mouth and the wicked zigzag cut in his cheek. ‘Now listen — you fuckin’ yobbo,’ hissed Norton, his eyes about an inch from the barely conscious Aborigine’s. ‘I didn’t come here looking for any trouble. I’m over here for another reason altogether. But if you, or your smartarse boss want trouble, I’ll give it to you. By the container load. You understand?’ Les jerked the towel around Frank’s neck. Kilby’s offsider was in too much pain and discomfort to say anything, but the terrified look in his eyes said the message had got through. ‘Good,’ smiled Norton. ‘Now, Frank, you’re a bit of a mess old mate. I think we’d better get you cleaned up.’
He dragged Frank across to the nearest toilet, pushed him through the door, shoved his head down the bowl and pushed the flush button. Frank coughed and spluttered as Les kept his head down and the smelly water slooshed up his nose and into his mouth, turning a weird purple as the blood blended in with the blue flushmatic. Norton dumped him casually in the cubicle, checked on the other two, who were still snoring soundly, and with a grunt of satisfaction walked out of the men’s room.
With all that noise and shouting, thought Norton, it’s a wonder nobody’s come in to see what’s going on. As he opened the door he saw why. Another Aborigine, big but more overweight than anything else, had been left standing outside to make sure Frank and his two cohorts weren’t disturbed. The blackman didn’t actually turn white when he saw Norton suddenly appear out of the men’s room unscathed. But he certainly went a very milk coffee colour.
‘You a mate of Frank’s are you?’ grintied Les. The Aborigine gave two very short, very quick nods. ‘Well he needs you inside. There’s no toilet paper and he wants you to hold his legs while he does a handstand under the blow dryer.’ The Aborigine blanched even more, gave Norton a double blink, then turned and ran inside.
There was no blood on Les’s face; he’d made sure of that in the mirror as he walked out. Apart from a sore knuckle, a sore ear and a thickening above his left eye, he hadn’t been hurt. For a fairly willing fight with three big men he’d hardly raised a sweat. But he hadn’t lost his thirst. His middy was still sitting on the bar with his change, so he downed that and ordered another, drinking it pretty smartly while he watched the shocked looks on the faces of the small group of men surging around the front and coming in and out of the men’s room. Oddly enough, apart from the goon who’d been left standing outside, nobody seemed to know who did it. But Les surmised that it would only be a matter of time before someone said something. He finished his middy, deliberated on whether or not to get another, then decided to leave.
Walking back to the hotel, Norton’s amusement at the funny side of belting Frank and his mates started to wear off and a few worrying thoughts began to enter his head. Frank was a twenty-four carat mug and deserved to get flattened, there was no two ways about that. And so did his two mates. But from another angle that little incident back at the RSL could cause some repercussions. Price had been adamant that nothing was to happen to Kilby or any of his associates because of the newspapers. And knowing Frank’s type and how they operated there would be no way he would tell the truth about what happened. It would come out more like Norton and a few of Galese’s heavies jumped him outside when he was drunk and gave him a kicking. And now that they’d found out who he was — how they did was still a mystery to Norton — what would Kilby’s reaction be? He’d have to interpret this, along with Les calling into the AWEC office, as Galese trying to put pressure on him. The one thing Price didn’t want. Now Kilby could dig his heels in and demand more money. He could go to the papers with Frank and scream assault and intimidation. It was only their word against Norton’s and Kilby could do any bloody thing. If this bone-pointing thing didn’t work out, and Les was getting dubious about that, he could find himself right up shit creek, without a paddle and with a rather large hole in the bottom of the boat as
well.
Norton’s mood grew gloomier and gloomier as he approached the hotel. And it grew even more so after he’d told the boys what had just happened.
They’d turned the TV back on and were sitting in the same spot watching a Bryan Brown movie when Les walked in. At first they didn’t appear to take all that much notice, but when he explained to them who Frank was Tjalkalieri reached over and turned the TV off and the three of them sat there staring at Les — incredulous, almost horrified looks on their faces.
‘And one of the men you just beat up. This Frank,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘That’s Percy Kilby’s offsider?’
Norton nodded glumby.
‘And he’s in the AWEC office with Kilby nearly all the time?’
Norton nodded again. ‘I imagine so.’
Tjalkalieri turned to the others. ‘Shit!’ he cursed. The looks on Mumbi and Yarrawulla seemed to echo Tjalkalieri’s sentiments precisely.
Norton stared at the three of them for a moment or two. ‘Why, what’s the trouble?’ he shrugged. ‘It’s not going to make any difference to what you blokes are up to... is it?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Les,’ sighed Mumbi. ‘It’s going to make a difference all right. A lot of difference.’
Norton’s jaw dropped slightly. After the other thoughts that had been running through his mind this was all he needed. He stared at them for want of an explanation.
‘You see, Les,’ said Tjalkalieri quietly and seriously. ‘Kilby can draw strength from this.’ He gave a brief, sympathetic smile at the dumb, hurt look on Norton’s face. ‘It’s hard to explain to an outsider. But with Frank in the office all day next to Kilby, and us trying to take away Kilby’s Kurinata, his Kurinata can draw not only on Frank’s pain, but the revenge and hatred that would be inside him for you.’
The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya Page 14