‘Anyway Ross,’ said Norton. ‘We’ll just shoot our swags in the car and I’ll fix you up.’
‘When you’re ready George.’
They put their gear in the boot, being especially careful with the bag containing the bone and the Tjuringa boards. Then Tjalkalieri got in the front and the others in the back, winding all the windows down quickly because although it was quite sunny now, after five days being locked up out the back of the pub in all kinds of weather, the inside of Norton’s old Ford smelt like bath night in an English boarding house.
‘Righto Ross,’ said Norton, dipping into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘This should make us square.’ He handed the hotel owner $500 plus the key to the room.
Bailey slipped the money straight into his own pocket without bothering to count it. ‘Thanks George. I hope everything suited you.’
‘Couldn’t have been creamier,’ replied Norton, climbing in behind the wheel. ‘They’ve never had it so good.’ He smiled at the others, whose faces reflected about as much expression as the statues on Easter Island.
‘Well, make sure you have a safe trip home.’ Bailey leant his hand on the roof above Les and absently tapped it. ‘And take it easy. I lost one of my good customers last night. I don’t want to lose any more,’ he added, with a bit of a chuckle.
‘How was that Ross?’ asked Norton, starting the motor and giving it a gentle rev as it idled.
‘One of my regulars had a heart attack just up the road last night. Poor bastard. He was only forty-three too.’ Bailey peered into the car at the others. ‘You blokes might’ve known him. Percy Kilby? He ran the Aboriginal affairs office just over the road.’
Tjalkalieri shook his head. ‘Can’t say as I have. What about you blokes?’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Yarrawulla.
‘Me neither,’ added Mumbi.
‘Oh well, doesn’t matter. Funny thing though. He was only in here on Saturday having a drink. Said he had the flu bad but he’d managed to shake it.’ Bailey shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just goes to show, eh. You’re drinking with a bloke on Saturday. Then you’re going to his funeral on Thursday.’
‘Yeah. That’s the way it goes Ross,’ nodded Norton. ‘You’re a rooster one minute, a feather duster the next. Anyway. We’ve got to go. We’ve got some more filming to do.’
‘Yeah? What are you doing now?’ asked Bailey.
‘An Aboriginal kung-fu movie’ replied Norton.
‘Fair dinkum. What’s it called?’
‘Enter the Flagon.’
‘Oh. That sounds all right. Anyway, I’d better let you go. I might see you again George. See you fellas. Nice meeting you.’
The boys smiled thinly back at the owner as Norton reversed out then drove over to the entrance of the parking area. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to stay for the funeral,’ he asked as they waited for the traffic in Regent Street.
‘Not particularly,’ replied Tjalkalieri.
‘Funny thing,’ said Norton slowly. ‘I only just saw an Aboriginal funeral going past the balcony this morning. I thought it might’ve been his.’
‘How did you know it was an Aboriginal funeral?’ asked Mumbi unsuspectingly.
‘The first four garbage trucks had their lights on.’
Cracking up inside at his two corny jokes and the stoical looks on the faces of the others, Norton laughed like a drain all the way to McDonalds.
Les sat the boys down against the window facing Oxford Street, then got them everything they wanted. Big Macs. Quarter pounders with cheese. McFeasts. French-fries — stacks of them. Gallons of Coca-Cola. Ice cream sundaes. Apple pies. Anything they wanted and more. Even Les had a Big Mac and a thick shake and some French-fries. The boys were laughing and giggling like three little kids as they tore into all the fast food. They were equally fascinated at what, to them, were some very strange looking people walking past and getting on and off the bus just in front of the window.
‘You sure you wouldn’t like some party hats?’ asked Les, as he watched a giggling Mumbi rip into his second quarter pounder with cheese. ‘Maybe the manager might find some little cakes with hundreds and thousands on them for you.’
‘Good thing you mentioned hundreds and thousands honkey,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘Because you’re just about to fork out fifty big ones.’
‘Plus the 17.5 per cent loading,’ laughed Yarrawulla.
‘The only loading you three cheeky little pricks’ll be getting is when I load you onto that bloody plane out at Mascot.’ Norton washed the last of his hamburger down with orange juice. ‘Anyway. The bank’s only over the road. I may as well go and get the money, then I can piss you off.’
‘Grab us another chocolate sundae each before you go,’ said Mumbi.
Les did; then walked up to the bank.
Norton only had to wait a couple of minutes before he was ushered into Mr Sturgess’ office. The manager didn’t ask too many questions, Norton signed a couple of documents to close the account, there was a brief handshake, and before long he was back out in Oxford Street with the remainder of the cash in his overnight bag, holding onto it tighter than a rope-ladder. Before he went back to get the others Les took a small note pad and biro from a side pocket in the bag and did a bit of quick adding and subtracting.
After taking out Murray’s $10,000, the pilot’s $9,000, the hotel bill, the AWEC sling and various other expenses, there was around about $75,000 left. Of which the boys were to get $50,000. Leaving $25,000 — Norton’s whack if he wanted it. Not a bad earn for being stuck in a hotel room with three cheeky Aborigines for five days. And he thought it would take closer to three weeks. Not that it had been the best five days in his life. Far from it. But in that time he’d developed an affinity with the boys that had never been there so completely before. And at one stage the three cheeky little bludgers had laid their lives on the line for him. He was convinced they were sincere about that. Norton absently tapped the biro on the pad for a few moments before putting it in the bag and walking back to McDonalds.
The boys were still at the window, surrounded by paper cups and food wrappings and laughing like drains at two punks arguing over something just out the front. A pimplyfaced girl in an oversize leather jacket, tartan miniskirt and holed black stockings tucked into a pair of boots that looked like they belonged to Mammy Yokum. Her boyfriend, or whatever, looked pretty much the same except that the rips in his trousers were held together by thin chains. Both their acne-riddled faces were topped by gelled up, spiked red hair that made them look like a couple of floating mines.
‘Jesus, Les,’ said Mumbi as he walked in and noticed what they were laughing at. ‘What bloody tribe do they belong to?’
‘They don’t belong in a tribe, Mumbles,’ smiled Norton. ‘They belong in a zoo.’
‘A circus’d be more like it,’ said Yarrawulla.
‘You wouldn’t have to worry about buying them a clown’s outfit,’ added Tjalkalieri.
They watched the two punks arguing till they were eventually joined by another pair; just as pimply and just as ugly. Finally Les spoke.
‘Well. If you’ve had enough to eat and you’ve seen enough of the sights in beautiful downtown Bondi Junction, we might get cracking, eh.’
‘Yes. I think that might be a good idea, Les,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘We’ve certainly eaten enough. And we’ve certainly seen enough to last us for a long time.’
‘Binjiwunyawunya’s never looked so good, eh?’
‘Never,’ the three of them chorused.
They walked down to the car and headed for the airport. Norton took his time driving out to Mascot. The weird five days, with their bantering and roasting, were over now and soon it would be time to say goodbye to three old friends he’d known and respected all his life. When he’d seen them again Les didn’t know. But he hoped it might be soon and in more comfortable, relaxed circumstances. A week or two out at Binjiwunyawunya after the smog and noise of Sydney would be unbelievable to say the
least.
‘If you blokes want to wait here, I’ll race up and get the pilot. I won’t be a minute.’
‘Righto Les.’
There was a general nodding of heads and the boys waited in the flight facilities hangar with their bags while Norton rattled up the stairs to the Boomerang Aviation office. Sheehan was in his usual position, sitting beneath the window at the end of the office. He must have finished whatever bookwork he had to do because he had his feet up on the table and was reading a copy of Hustler. He looked up when Norton knocked and walked straight in.
‘Well, if it isn’t me old mate George,’ he grinned cheekily, dropping the magazine on the table. ‘How are you?’
‘Not too bad squadron leader,’ replied Les just as cheekily. ‘We ready to scramble are we?’
‘We certainly are boss. I’ll just grab my logbook.’
Kingsley picked up a leather briefcase and followed Norton down to where the others were waiting in the hangar.
‘Hello fellas,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How’s it going? Looking forward to going back home?’
The boys nodded and smiled.
‘Well, if you want to grab your gear, you can follow me and we’ll get on board.’
Les took the big bag and they followed Sheehan over to the plane. Kingsley climbed aboard and let them hand the bags up to him. He figured they’d all want to say goodbye, so when what little there was was loaded he left them on their own.
‘I’ll go and warm the engines up, George.’ He winked at Les before he disappeared inside the plane. ‘You’ve got a few minutes yet.’
‘Righto wing commander. And this fella here’s got your money,’ he added, resting his hand on Tjalkalieri’s shoulder. ‘He’ll fix you up when you land. Okay?’
‘No Cloncurries George.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment as the boys smiled at Norton and he smiled back at them.
‘Well. What can I say?’ he finally said, the smile on his face breaking into a huge grin. ‘Just what can I bloody well say?’
‘Yes,’ grinned back Tjalkalieri. ‘That’s about it Les. What can you say?’
‘I can’t say it was the best five days I’ve ever spent. But... it’s definitely got to be the most memorable.’
‘Yes. It certainly was different, old fella. Wasn’t it?’ said Yarrawulla.
‘It certainly was,’ agreed Norton. He stared at his three Aboriginal friends for a few seconds, then slapped his hand hard against his thigh. ‘I hate to have to say this. But I’m gonna miss you three little pricks.’
With the grin back on his face bigger than ever, Norton shook hands with each of them. And the handshakes were warm and firm and lasted quite a bit longer than your normal handshake.
‘I’ll tell you what Les,’ chuckled Mumbi. ‘We’ve got to admit. We did everything we could to stir you up.’
‘Fair dinkum. Did you?’ replied Norton innocently. ‘Well I’d never have noticed.’
‘You noticed all right,’ replied Yarrawulla. ‘In fact at one stage there I thought you were going to choke Chalky.’
‘Now would I do a thing like that?’ grinned Norton.
The boys were about to say something when the two engines whined and kicked over, sending a dusty blast of propwash swooshing over them. They moved a little away from the plane to escape the wind and noise.
‘Anyway,’ said Norton, having to raise his voice a little over the noise of the engines. ‘It’s all over now. And to show there’s no hard feelings. Here.’ He opened his overnight bag and took out a small, black plastic bag which he handed to Tjalkalieri. ‘There’s your fifty grand. Plus that fuckin’ loading you’ve been whingeing about.’
Tjalkalieri studied the bag of money for a second, then bounced it up and down in his hand as if he was weighing it mentally. ‘Exactly what do you mean by that, Les?’
‘There’s about $75,000 there Chalky. Plus the four grand you’ve got to give the pilot. Bit of a bonus for you.’
‘But... just a second Les,’ protested Tjalkalieri. ‘Didn’t you say something in the hotel, that what was left after paying us and all was to be your share?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugged Norton. ‘But who gives a shit. I couldn’t really tike it and I’d only end up giving it back to Price. Not that he’d want it. So you blokes may as well have it. Price won’t miss it anyway. He takes ten times that on a good Saturday night.’
‘Jesus, Les,’ said Tjalkalieri, awkwardly expressing the sentiments of the others.
‘Anyway,’ said Norton, nodding towards the plane. ‘I just saw the pilot wave to me. So I reckon it’s time to go boys.’
They shook hands briefly again when Mumbi’s face broke into a huge grin. He looked at the others for a moment, then back at Norton before he spoke.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if we didn’t think of you either. In fact we brought you down a little present too. We’ve just been waiting for the right opportunity to give it to you. And I reckon this is it.’ He put his hand in his tracksuit pocket and handed Norton a tiny leather pouch made out of emu skin. ‘There you go, Les. A present from the boys.’
Norton opened the pouch and inside were what looked like two pieces of clay-covered gravel about the size of sultanas. He tipped them into his palm and studied them curiously for a few seconds.
‘What are these?’ he asked, looking at all three of them. ‘Lucky stones,’ smiled Tjalkalieri.
‘Lucky stones?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What am I gonna do with them?’
‘Keep them. They’re lucky,*’ said Yarrawulla.
‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Norton. ‘If you blokes say they’re lucky they’ve got to be. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.’
‘If they don’t bring you any luck,’ grinned Mumbi. ‘Throw them at the pigeons out your way.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Yarrawulla. ‘Make yourself a slingshot and fire them at any pigeons in your backyard.’
The three little Aborigines grinned at each other, then burst out laughing as if they had some private joke going amongst themselves.
Norton continued to study the two pieces of gravel before finally putting them back in their pouch. ‘Lucky stones? Pigeons?’ he said shaking his head. ‘Buggered if I know what you’re on about. But thanks anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘You’ll work it out. Anyway, we’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘Yeah, you lucky bludgers. I wish I was going with you.’
They moved over to the steps where they said their last goodbyes. Kingsley gave Norton a bit of a wave and pulled up the hatch, leaving Les walking back alone to the hangar. He turned around to see three beautiful white grins almost shining at him from the portholes. With a bit of a lump in his throat he waved back then stood there as the Beechcraft taxied out to disappear momentarily amongst the other planes taxiing around. A few minutes later he saw it take off and bank towards the ocean. Subconsciously he gave another wave then headed back to his car.
Just before he started the engine Norton pulled the little pouch out of his pocket and tipped the two pieces of gravel, or whatever, into his hand. He studied them intently for a minute or two before putting them back. So that’s my earn for five days of living like a pig in that sleezy hotel in Redfern eh? He chuckled to himself. Two pieces of blue metal. Oh well, you never know, they might be lucky. ‘I’ll take them down to the paper shop with me on Friday, when I put my Lotto tickets in.
After sharing the one mildewed shower — and not all that often — with three others for almost a week, Norton’s shower at home was like sheer, oppulent luxury. Plenty of steaming hot water. His own special soaps. His own shampoos and conditioners. His own backscrubber. And all Warren’s imported aftershave lotions and deodorants. He took his time in the bathroom, changed into a clean pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, unhurriedly made a pot of tea and some sandwiches for lunch, did his laundry, then pottered around the house doing not much mor
e than just enjoying being back home.
At about half past three, he headed over to Price’s place.
Price’s gardener, cum caretaker, Vince, an ex-sergeant in the Welsh Guards and still ramrod straight despite it being over twenty years since he’d left the army, waved him through the security gates with a smile.
‘G’day Vince,’ said Norton, smiling back at the grey haired, rosy cheeked Welshman. ‘Price is expecting me. Where is he?’
‘He’s out the back by the pool boyo,’ replied Vince. ‘Eddie’s with him.’
‘Righto mate.’
Les cruised up the white concrete driveway to the front of the mansion where he pulled in between Price’s Rolls and Eddie’s Mercedes; Myra’s BMW was nowhere to be seen so he figured she must be out somewhere. The huge front door was open but instead of walking through the house Les cut around the side. Price and Eddie were seated at one of those white, wrought-iron outdoor tables sipping coffee. Price had just got off an extension phone when they both spotted him coming towards them.
‘Hello, here he is,’ beamed Price. ‘The man of the bloody hour. Grab a seat old son, it’s good to see you. We’ve missed not having your big boofhead around the last few days.’
‘Our man in Redfern,’ grinned Eddie. ‘Les Norton. Undercover agent extraordinaire. How are you mate?’
Norton returned their grins and after a brief handshake pulled up a seat facing away from the glare of the swimming pool. ‘Any coffee left?’ he asked, nodding towards the silver pot.
‘Help yourself,’ smiled Price. ‘Eddie only brewed it five minutes ago.’
Price and Eddie were obviously delighted to see Les and were all smiles as they started firing questions at him the moment his bum hit the seat. It wasn’t hard to see they were breaking their necks to find out what had happened in that hotel in Redfern. Especially Eddie. However, the smiles on their faces were well and truly gone about thirty minutes later when Norton refused to elaborate on what had happened back at room 9 in the Thames Tavern. In fact the look on Eddie’s was downright rancorous. Les explained, and in detail, where all the money went. He told them about the fight with Frank and his two mates and about meeting Kingsley. But he wouldn’t disclose where the boys came from, nor give out too many details about the ceremony. Not that he would have told them about the finale in the RSL. No-one would believe that. Les still wasn’t too sure about it himself.
The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya Page 18