The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘So?’ Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘I still don’t.’

  There was silence for a few moments then George got up dabbing at his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what, Les,’ he said while he was getting drinks all round. ‘Are you fair dinkum about going out there again rather than pay a fine?’

  ‘Bloody oath!’ Norton nodded his head enthusiastically, slipping Billy a wink at the same time.

  ‘Well next time, see if you can get a cell with some dirty old lag doing life.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘’Cause while you’re there, you can get him to root some sense into that empty big red head of yours. Fifty-three bloody dollars. Fair dinkum — you are a wombat Les.’

  Norton smiled and copped it sweet. And with the big Queenslander the butt of a few more jokes they stayed drinking till four-thirty then locked up and went home.

  Apart from Billy giving a young drunk a backhander on Thursday night and Les having to cop a bit of a bagging every now and again, the rest of the working week went smooth as honey. Les and Billy did their training in the daytime and Warren was too involved in his agency’s new campaign, getting home late every night, for Norton to see much of him either. George Brennan’s football team, the Balmain Tigers, had just lost their third game on the trot and looked like missing out on the semis, so Norton had a little bit of ammunition to fire back at the overweight manager. Although George lived near Bondi Junction he originally came from Rozelle and was still a red-hot belligerent one-eyed Tiger supporter and loathed it whenever his team lost. However, Norton wasn’t really in the mood for any verbal jousting when they finished work on Friday night. He still had his promise to keep to Bernie Cottier early that morning so he left the others to have a drink without him and came straight home.

  Bernie was all smiles at Waverley Oval when Norton arrived, still a little tired from not enough sleep and still a little hungry from not enough breakfast. The big prison guard had taken a slight advantage of the situation also. Besides Bernie’s team there were three others, plus a horde of parents and the other coaches. By the time Norton finished talking, lecturing, shaking hands with parents and teaching the kids his way of tackling, plus getting tackled about one hundred times himself and watching the teams go through their paces afterwards, it was getting on for one when they finished. Then Bernie and the other coaches insisted on shouting Les a few beers at the bowling club across the road, where they ended up swapping old football yarns and swallowing schooners till three. Norton generally didn’t like drinking through the day, especially if he had to go to work that night, and he wasn’t all that pleased with himself when he arrived home around four still tired and still hungry. The Kentucky Fried Chicken he’d bought on the way home was a bit greasy too; but he tore into it and crashed out till six-thirty.

  It was just as well Warren wasn’t home when Norton got up because with his headache and indigestion Les was about as much company as Frankenstein as he stumbled half asleep between the bathroom and the kitchen. It was just as well there was no trouble at work that night either, because Norton would have been about 50–1 on to thump first and ask questions later. In Price’s office after work the big Queenslander was almost nodding off over his first can of Fourex as he told the others about what sort of a day he’d had with Bernie and the kids and all that.

  ‘So. It’s been a bit of a big week for me,’ he concluded, after finishing his beer. ‘In fact I might make this one cobbler’s.’ He tossed the empty can in the office tidy, stretched and yawned. ‘About the only thing I’ve got to look forward to is knowing that Easts will beat Penrith. And Manly’ll flog the shit out of Balmain.’

  ‘You want to make a bet on that, bloodnut?’ cut in George Brennan quickly.

  ‘No.’ Norton gave his head a tired shake. ‘But I will have a bet with you next week, when Easts play that motheaten team of yellow tabby cats you’re silly enough to follow.’

  ‘You’re on son. You are on,’ said George.

  ‘Anyway,’ Norton got to his feet. ‘I am dead-set stuffed. So I’m gonna hit the toe. I’ll see you on Wednesday. I’ll give you a ring early on Monday about training Billy.’

  ‘Righto mate.’

  There was a chorus of sympathetic goodbyes and goodnights and Norton left.

  Well thank Christ that’s over he thought as he trudged slowly and wearily to his car. I am absolutely stuffed. If they threw a pillow and blanket down on that dirty footpath, I reckon I could doss there and not move for ten hours. He reached his car and got his keys out.

  The car parked in front of him was a huge blue Mercedes with a personalised numberplate: AG something-or-other. As he stepped between the two cars Norton noticed one of the rear tyres on the Mercedes was flat. Well at least I’m having a better night than him he mused. Shit! Fancy trying to change a flat tyre right now. I’d leave the bloody thing and get a cab home. As Les stepped between the two cars, an object, almost invisible in the gutter, caught his eye. He reached down and picked up a black leather wallet — and a very fat one at that. Norton put it straight in his pocket. Good thing I picked that up he thought. Lying around in the Cross it’d only finish up in some junkie’s arm. It’s a wonder it isn’t in there already. He started the car and headed home.

  Warren’s door was closed and there were no women’s shoes or handbag in the loungeroom when Norton climbed out of his tuxedo into his tracksuit, so he figured the little bloke must’ve had a quiet night. With the kitchen radio playing softly in the background Norton made himself a mug of Ovaltine. Now I wonder who this bloody thing belongs to he yawned as he sipped his drink and examined the contents of the wallet.

  It opened with a driver’s licence belonging to a Mr Abraham Goldschmidt of Birriga Road, Bellevue Hill, on one side, and a photo of a smiling overweight man standing next to a smiling overweight woman and two smiling overweight boys on the other. The men were wearing yamulkas and standing in front of a menorah candelabrum.

  Well, well, well Norton chuckled. This wallet belongs to one of God’s chosen people. And a goyim has found it. My my. Doesn’t God work in mysterious ways.

  A further examination of the wallet revealed several business and credit cards. A card from a synagogue and several others written in Hebrew. It also revealed $1,650 in cash.

  Norton chuckled to himself again as he counted the money for the second time. The good Lord certainly does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? One minute I’m in Long Bay cutting out a lousy $53 parking fine. Now I’ve got $1,650 in cash. But the thing is, should I keep it? Norton drummed his fingers on the table and sipped his Ovaltine for a moment or two. Well, he mused, I look at it this way Abe Goldschmidt, old buddy old pal, I’m not anti-Semitic. But if you can afford a new Mercedes with personalised number plates, and a Bellevue Hill address, you won’t miss $1,650. Besides, what were you doing in filthy Kings Cross at four a.m.? Trying to change a flat tyre and your wallet fell out? Yeah, pig’s arse. Tooling around on the side’d be more like it. And you with such a fine wife and sons too. No, Abraham old mate. Keep this money is what the Lord Jehovah tells me I should do. And let this be a bitter lesson to you too — a heartless adulterer is what you are.

  Now, thought Norton, smiling happily at the stack of banknotes. What’ll I do with it? I certainly don’t need any clothes. I don’t get much chance to wear what I’ve got as it is. I just bought a bloody compact disc player. S’pose I could get a few CDs. The hum of the refrigerator suddenly cutting in over the radio made him switch his gaze in that direction. Down one side of the fridge Warren had stuck a long poster-type calendar for a record shop in San Francisco he’d brought home from the agency. Every day of the year was numbered and around one particular day, which was next Monday, was a circle with a number of arrows pointing to it. Next to it was printed, ‘The Big Day’. That’s right. Norton snapped his fingers. Monday’s Warren’s birthday. That’s what I’ll do. We’ll get a couple of sheilas and I’ll shout Woz out for dinner. And hang the expense.

/>   Despite his tiredness, Norton was beaming as he rinsed his cup and put it in the dish rack. Yeah. First thing Monday morning I’ll put Abe’s wallet in the mail and shout Woz to a grouse feed for his birthday. A heart of gold I’ve got. He yawned and headed for bed, where his last thoughts before he fell asleep were, Jesus I’m a terrific bloke. I really am you know. Les felt like a bit of extra sleep so it was well after lunch when he got out of bed. The Sunday papers on the kitchen table and a couple of dishes in the dish rack told him Warren was up and gone. A quick look out the back door told him it wasn’t going to be much of a day either. After a cup of coffee he had a run on Bondi to shake off his tiredness, then just pottered around the house taking it easy.

  He popped a pork and veal roast and some vegies in the oven around three and by the time it had cooked Warren was back home.

  ‘You going to the Sheaf tonight Woz?’ asked Norton over dinner.

  ‘No. I think I’ll brush it,’ replied Warren. ‘I got to get up early again tomorrow. What about yourself?’

  ‘No. It’d be freezing out the back there tonight. I’m going to stay home and watch TV.’

  ‘Hey Woz.’ Norton paused for a moment to give his mate time to look up from his food. ‘It’s the big day for you tomorrow — isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s your birthday isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. How did you know?’

  ‘Well you’d have to be blind to miss it. It’s written on the side of the fridge in letters eight feet high.’ Les chuckled at the self conscious smile on Warren’s face. ‘So what are you doing for your birthday?’

  ‘Dunno really. I’ve been that busy at work the last couple of weeks, it just about slipped my mind.’

  ‘How would you like to go out for dinner? I’ll shout.’

  Warren’s jaw hung open and he dropped his knife and fork by his plate. ‘What was that again Les?’ he blinked.

  ‘How about we get a couple of sheilas and I’ll shout us all out for dinner?’

  Warren kept blinking. ‘Please Les. Not while I’m eating. You’re starting to make me giddy and I’ll end up being sick.’

  ‘I’ll even buy some French champagne.’

  ‘French champagne? Shit! Did someone break a chair over your head last night? That stuff costs money. Besides, you reckon you hate the frogs for letting off atom bombs in the Pacific.’

  ‘I do. They’re cunts, and they always will be. But seeing as it’s such a momentous occasion, and you’re me mate, I’m willing to bitterly swallow my pride and get a few bottles.’

  ‘Bloody hell. All right Les, you’ve got me.’ Warren looked at Norton a little suspiciously for a moment. ‘You’re not going to take us down to the No Name are you?’

  ‘No. I’ll shout you to the best fish restaurant in Sydney.’

  ‘Zino’s?’

  ‘You got it baby.’

  Zino was the Italian mate of Gary Jackson, Norton’s sometime fishing partner. He was a bloody good cook, and being a fisherman himself and having Gary on side, if the fish were any fresher they’d swim off your plate.

  ‘Okay Les,’ Warren nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re on. Who’re you going to take?’

  ‘I’ll give Lou a ring.’

  Lou was Louise. A tall copper-haired New Zealand barmaid Les had met at a barbecue. Lou was no oil painting but she had one of those inquisitively happy faces that was compensated for by a figure that would have stopped John F. Kennedy’s funeral. Like a lot of New Zealand country girls, she also had a bubbly, cheeky personality that Norton dug — always calling him ‘fella’ and never his name. Except when he’d do something dumb; then she’d call him a big dill pickle. In fact if it hadn’t been for Norton’s night job and Louise wanting to do a bit more travelling, there was a good chance they would have been seeing a lot more of each other than they were. Both in and out of bed.

  ‘So you’re going to bring big Lou are you?’

  ‘Yep. What about yourself?’

  ‘Probably that sheila that was last month’s Penthouse Pet. Lisa — with the blonde hair.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Norton tossed Warren a wink. ‘So, mate. It looks like it could be a good night, tomorrow night.’

  ‘It sure does Les,’ agreed Warren, still not quite sure about Norton releasing all the money. ‘It sure does.’

  And it was. Billy called round early in the day to go training and Les told him about finding the wallet. On the way to the gym he dropped it in the post box with a note saying: ‘Dear Abe. You left your wallet at my flat. Thanks for the drink and Yom Kippur. Love Deidrie.’ After training he starved himself all day and when they hit Zino’s at eight he was growling like a polar bear. They had a few drinks with the girls earlier, and on departing Norton left three bottles of 68 Pol Roger in the fridge and took three with him plus a bottle of Tasmanian 1977 Heemskerk Chardonnay. Warren nearly went into a trance.

  Zino knew Norton through Gary and he liked the big Queenslander. As soon as they walked in the door they were given the best table and treated like long-lost relatives from the old country. The wine flowed and to describe Zino’s cooking on the night as good would be like describing the Mona Lisa as not a bad drawing. Barbecued king prawns. Tasmanian scallops and mussels in white-wine sauce. Lobster. Blue swimmer crabs. A filleted snapper dish in garlic and some other wine sauce that almost brought tears to their eyes. Then there were pancakes smothered in cream liqueur and fresh strawberries. They all got roaring drunk, including the owner, and cut into ‘Santa Lucia’. That’s ‘Amore’. And the whole restaurant, including the staff and Zino’s Filipino wife, ended up singing Warren a happy birthday.

  Back home more champagne flowed, a couple of joints went around and they danced and sang and played the guts out of the latest Midnight Oil and Spy Vs Spy albums. Apart from it being his birthday and the fabulous food, it was still one of the best nights Warren had ever had. Louise kept coming out with all these ridiculous corny down-home expressions. Norton’s usual, bone-dry sense of humour was right up to scratch. And Lisa, the absolutely stunning Penthouse Pet, who was generally just a pretty face at the best of times, came out with a couple of gags that cracked everyone up. It was a great night all right.

  But as Warren settled back on the lounge with Lisa’s head on his shoulder — drunk from the champagne, mellowed out from the pot and getting into the music — he gazed fondly across the lounge room at Norton cuddled up next to Louise and the enigma of it all suddenly hit him. There was a man who’d just spent three days in Long Bay rather than pay a paltry fine. Yet now he’d turned around and cheerfully forked out the best part of $700 on food and drink. And although Norton tried to hide it, Warren saw him leave a fifty dollar tip on the table. Warren continued to stare at his mate in both wonder and admiration and two thoughts dawned on him. Les Norton was one hell of a man. But he’d also never figure him out as long as his arsehole pointed to the ground.

  Norton and Louise were still in bed and Warren was running late for work when he dropped Lisa off at her Watsons Bay home unit on his way to the Paddington agency the following morning. The bright young advertising executive was a bit seedy but in an extra good mood when he breezed into the office just before ten. The faces on the three partners that ran Wirraway Advertising, however, were more like heroin dealers sitting on death row in a Malaysian gaol. They were pure misery. From their neatly trimmed beards down through their collarless shirts and leather jeans to the tips of their alligator skin cowboy boots.

  ‘Hello fellas,’ he said a little hesitantly. ‘What’s... doing?’

  ‘What’s doing Warren? Frank Johnstone’s broke his fuckin’ jaw in a fight last night and can’t do the ad. That’s what’s fuckin’ doing.’

  Warren blinked. ‘Are you fair dinkum?’

  ‘Ohh no Warren. We just made it up for something to fuckin’ do. Of course we’re fair dinkum. The fuckin’ big imbecile.’

  ‘Shit!’ Warren flopped down on a brown ve
lvet lounge chair. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ The partner on the end threw his hands up in the air. ‘Well you’re the fuckin’ executive producer. You fuckin’ tell us.’

  ‘Shit!’ Warren shook his head and stared, crestfallen, at the white carpet. ‘I don’t bloody well believe it.’

  ‘Neither do we.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last night at training.’

  ‘Shit! Have you tried to get someone else?’

  ‘We’ve rung every fuckin’ agency in Sydney. Anyone that even resembles that moron in Melbourne is either doing something else or working on that bloody stupid war movie in Frenchs Forest. We’ve just rung Bedford and Pierce — they’re going to ring us back at eleven. If they can’t find anyone we’re stuffed.’

  ‘But it’s only Tuesday,’ said Warren. ‘We’re not shooting till Saturday.’

  ‘Warren,’ said the partner in the middle. ‘It wouldn’t matter if it was only bloody pancake day. There’s no way we’re going to find someone that looks like Frank Johnstone in that space of time. It took us six weeks to cast that imbecile.’

  Warren nodded despondently.

  The partner on the end leant back on his seat and ran his hands across his face. ‘Ohh Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can you believe this? Johnno might be a bloody big pain in the arse. But he’s unique. He was ideal for that ad. Big but not too big. Plenty of red hair and just enough personality. The contrast between him and the others would have been perfect. Perfect.’

  ‘Perfect,’ agreed the partner on the opposite end. ‘And now the whole shoot looks like going down the gurgler. Where will we find another big red-headed bloke that looks like him? Where?’

  Those last two descriptions hit Warren straight between the eyes. ‘Where?’ he said quietly.

  ‘That’s right Warren. Where?’

  ‘How about I go into my office,’ he said cautiously, ‘and phone around till B and P ring us back.’