The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yeah Melbourne’s all right,’ chuckled Eddie. ‘Apart from Vietnam, I couldn’t think of a nicer place to shoot someone and bury the body.’

  ‘You’ll see some good-looking women down there Les,’ added Price. ‘And well dressed too. The best clothes in Australia come from Melbourne. I still get most of my suits and shoes from down there.’

  ‘Price is right about the clothes,’ giggled Billy. ‘They certainly like to dress up down there. You even wear a coat and tie to go and have a shit. Don’t let them catch you sitting on the crapper with only your underpants on. They’ll never talk to you again.’

  ‘Look,’ said Norton, draining his can of Fourex, ‘let me sort the joint out for myself. All I know is, I’ll be there till Sunday. I’ll do this silly fuckin’ TV commercial and whether the place is good or bad, I’ll just cop the money and run. Now,’ Les got to his feet, ‘anyone want a drink while I’m up?’

  There was a chorus of laughter and orders and Norton started pottering around behind the bar.

  ‘Hey while you’re on the subject of money, film star,’ said George Brennan slowly. ‘You’re forgetting a little something aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s that George?’ replied Norton, his head stuck in the bar fridge.

  ‘That team of poofs from up Bondi Junction play the Tigers this Saturday. You still want to have a bet?’

  ‘Ohh yeah. That’s right. The semi-finals start this weekend. Whoever loses gets the arse till next year.’ Norton spread the various drinks across the bar and began adding the splits. ‘Yeah I’ll have a bet with you mate. How much?’

  ‘How game are you? You’ve been bagging Balmain all year.’

  ‘I dunno,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Hundred bucks?’

  ‘Why don’t we make it five?’

  ‘Five hundred,’ said Les. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Come on,’ goaded Brennan. ‘Show a bit of ticker. It’ll be the last game of the year for one of them. I know which one too.’

  Norton thought for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, you fat cunt. Why don’t we make it an even thousand. Any-thing to shut you up — once and for all.’

  ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear that?’ George rose in his seat and looked excitedly around the room at the others. ‘Ebenezer Scrooge wants to back Easts for a thousand bucks. You’re all witnesses.’ He turned back to Norton. ‘Righto you miserable big Queensland bastard. You’re on.’

  ‘No sweat George,’ replied Norton casually. He still had a thousand of the money he’d found, plus the money he’d earn on the weekend. So he wouldn’t really miss it. And Easts were a good chance to squeak in against Balmain anyway.

  ‘Fair dinkum,’ said Price, shaking his head as Les handed him his Dimple Haig and soda. ‘A thousand bucks on a game of bloody football. You blokes are off your bloody heads.’

  George turned to Price. ‘How much did you have on Kelly Girl last Saturday?’

  ‘Fifty thousand each way.’

  Brennan raised his Bacardi and grapefruit juice. ‘The defence rests,’ he smiled.

  They hung around drinking and cracking jokes till well after four. Everyone, including George, wished Les all the best in Melbourne and they’d see him next week. Then they closed up and went home.

  Beside lecturing Les all the way from Bondi to Mascot when he drove him out to the airport the following evening, Warren also gave him his last-minute instructions on what would happen when he arrived in Melbourne. A girl named Pamela would be waiting for him at the Ansett counter; she knew what he looked like and she would drive him to his motel and fill him in on the Melbourne end of it.

  ‘Now for Christ sake Les,’ Warren pleaded as they pulled up in the parking area, ‘don’t get into any trouble down there. I’m begging you. Just be cool.’

  ‘Jesus you’re a fuckin’ old sheila Woz. From what they tell me, Melbourne’s the most conservative place in the world. I’ll be one day doing this ad and that’s it. There’s no chance of me playing up tonight because it’s a six o’clock start tomorrow. And there’s no chance of me getting drunk, because I wouldn’t drink that shit you’re advertising if they held a loaded gun to my head. What could possibly go wrong?’

  ‘Knowing you, Les. Anything. So cool it — okay?’

  ‘Ohh arseholes.’

  Norton picked up his bag and they began walking across to the departure terminal. ‘Hey just tell me one thing Woz,’ he asked.

  ‘What’s that Les?’

  ‘How come they’re shooting this silly bloody thing in Melbourne. Yet all the organising seems to be done in Sydney. It just doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘Les,’ replied Warren. ‘That is just one of the intricacies of advertising. I’ll explain it to you when you get back. In the meantime Les, all you have to do is take the money and run.’

  Norton gave the side compartment on his travel bag a pat where Mousey’s map was folded up inside the road map. ‘Yeah. I guess you’re right mate,’ he smiled.

  They had time for two drinks in the departure lounge. The next thing Norton was winging his way to Melbourne.

  Norton was struck a bit of a body blow on the plane trip down. No Fourex. But there was an abundance of Victoria Bitter and Tooheys and as he was in the first-class section it was free. Consequently Les was in a pretty good mood when they touched down at Tullamarine. Whistling and smiling to himself, he picked up his travel bag from the conveyor belt and with that in one hand and his small overnight bag in the other, he headed for the Ansett counter.

  A tallish woman in her late twenties was standing there and straight away Norton tipped she was the one he had to meet. She was strikingly attractive, in a heavily but tastefully made up sort of way. Long dark hair parted on the side and flicked casually across one eye billowed across the top of a loose-fitting silver and black patterned trouser suit that seemed to conceal what to Norton looked like quite a full-breasted figure.

  A smile creased the corners of her dark brown eyes as she saw Norton approach. ‘Hello,’ she said pleasantly. ‘You must be Les.’

  ‘Yeah. Are you Pamela?’

  She nodded and extended her hand. Les shook it briefly and it was a warm, firm handshake.

  ‘So. How was the flight down?’

  ‘Good,’ replied Norton. ‘You no sooner seem to be on board than you’re here.’

  ‘That’s good. Well, if you’d like to follow me out to the car, we’ll get going? Do you want a hand with anything?’

  ‘No. I’m right thanks.’

  ‘Okay. No worries.’

  Norton followed her out of the terminal across to the parking area where a shiny red XJS Jaguar was sitting. Pamela unlocked the doors and Norton threw his bags on the back seat.

  ‘What sort of work do you do on this ad Pamela?’

  ‘I’m Mr Leishman’s secretary. He owns the agency. This is his car.’

  ‘Not a bad heap,’ smiled Les. ‘There must be some dough in advertising.’

  ‘The agency does all right.’ Pamela started the motor and they moved off.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Norton, sounding a little surprised. ‘It doesn’t seem like a bad night. I was expecting it to be freezing.’

  ‘I know. It’s only early spring and we’ve had a heatwave the last couple of days. It’s almost unbearable. But they’re expecting a big storm on Sunday that should cool things down.’

  ‘I don’t know about it being unbearable,’ said Norton. ‘But it’s not too bad.’

  Pamela smiled at Les. ‘And what do you do in Sydney, Les? Are you an actor or some sort of a stuntman or something?’

  ‘Hardly,’ laughed Norton, easing his neck into the headrest. ‘I got this thing more or less by accident.’

  As they cruised comfortably along the straight, wide streets that make up the sprawling flat suburbs of Melbourne, Norton told Pamela what he did for a living and where he lived. How Warren tipped him into the ad, including the last-minute casting, and how he told the three bosses at Wirraw
ay Advertising what he thought of their line. He could have lied to her and told her anything. But he thought what would that prove? Besides, he was still revved up from all the free booze on the plane, and the way the stories were coming out by the time they reached downtown Melbourne and crossed the Yarra into St Kilda Road, Pamela was laughing unashamedly and enjoying Norton’s easy-going company.

  ‘It certainly sounds like you and your friends lead a pretty good life up there in Sydney,’ she grinned.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right. Can’t complain.’

  ‘Fair enough. My word, you’ve got a good tan for this time of the year.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a spot behind the Pavilion at Bondi where we, sit on our fat arses of a day. It’s out of the wind and you sort of stay brown all year round. You should see some of the other blokes. They look like they just come down from New Guinea.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got a good life up there Les.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be dead for quids Pamela,’ winked Norton.

  They followed the traffic down Fitzroy Street, then turned into a wide, palm-tree dotted boulevard. A marina full of boats and a vast expanse of inky blackness beyond that told him they were near the ocean. From what he could see in the darkness, it reminded Norton a little of Brighton le Sands and Botany Bay in Sydney.

  ‘Where are we Pamela?’ he asked, peering curiously out the window.

  ‘St Kilda. That’s Port Phillip Bay out there.’

  They turned up some small side street, did a U-turn and pulled up in front of a classy-looking motel overlooking the ocean. A discreet red, white and black neon sign out the front said St Moritz Motel. It was only a couple of stories high but wide, with plenty of tinted windows, sandstock bricks and white balconies covered in lush green vines facing out across the bay.

  ‘This looks all right,’ said Les.

  ‘It’s the best motel in the area and very private,’ replied Pamela. ‘Besides. It wouldn’t be very civil to put a big star like you in the YMCA for the night, would it?’

  ‘I’d be exceptionally pissed off if you did, Pamela,’ said Norton, reaching over for his bags.

  ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’

  ‘No. She’s sweet.’

  ‘No worries.’

  An automatic door opened and Les followed Pamela into a tastefully and expensively furnished foyer. Thick, brown carpet, matching furniture, lush indoor plants and a nice collection of paintings and mirrors around the walls. A haughtily attractive woman, not unlike Pamela only more into her thirties and with her thick dark hair bobbed up at the back, was standing at the desk. She was wearing a colourful, three-piece woollen outfit, the extra long knitted top tied in the middle with a matching sash. Behind her a younger girl in a black uniform was working at a switchboard.

  ‘Les. This is Mrs Perry, the owner,’ said Pamela. ‘Mrs Perry, this is Mr Norton.’

  Mrs Perry gave Norton a very heavy once up and down. She blinked a couple of times and stared at him for a moment before answering. ‘Why hello Mr Norton,’ she smiled, gushing just a little. ‘Pleased to meet you. You’re the gentleman from Sydney down to do the television commercial.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Norton, returning her smile.

  ‘Well I hope you have a very pleasant stay with us.’

  ‘I’m sure I will Mrs Perry. Your motel looks very nice too.’

  ‘Why thank you Mr Norton,’ she breathed, with more fluttering of the eyelids.

  ‘Well I might leave you to it Les,’ said Pamela, exchanging an even look with the motel owner. ‘I’ve got quite a bit more running around to do tonight. You know it’s a six a.m. start tomorrow.’ Norton nodded again. ‘So we’ll probably call you at five-thirty. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But it might be an idea if you got an early night. It’s going to be hectic tomorrow.’

  ‘To tell you the truth Pamela,’ smiled Les. ‘I was up early myself this morning and I’m pretty rooted as it is. I intend doing just that.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Pamela held out her hand. ‘I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.’

  Norton gave her hand a quick, warm shake. ‘See you then Pamela. Nice to have met you.’

  ‘No worries.’ Pamela exchanged another even look with Mrs Perry, smiled thinly at her then disappeared out the door.

  As he watched her leave Norton swore he could feel two eyes burning holes in the back of his neck. He turned around and Mrs Perry was staring at him like he was a TV set tuned to her favourite program.

  ‘If you’d like to follow me Mr Norton,’ she cooed, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries Mr Norton.’

  Light background music was playing when they stepped inside the lift for the short ride to the first floor. Admittedly the lift wasn’t very big, but if Mrs Perry had stood any closer to Les she’d have been inside the fob pocket of his jeans.

  ‘So you’ve just flown in, Mr Norton,’ she said as the door closed.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Norton. ‘Only about half an hour ago.’

  ‘And what do you think of Melbourne?’

  Norton looked at her for a moment as the door swished open again. ‘You’ve got nice roofs.’

  He followed her down a carpeted hallway to room 19. Mrs Perry unlocked it, switched on a light, and Les followed her inside.

  Norton couldn’t help but be impressed with the room. It was beautiful. A huge, pink double bed pushed against one wall and, facing it, a matching suede ottoman with a full-length wall mirror above it, reflecting oil paintings on every wall and indoor plants beneath them. There was a kitchenette and a bar with a stereo. A remote-control colour TV sat on pure white carpet that thick you almost needed a dog-sled and a team of huskies to drag you over it. Mrs Perry moved across to the balcony and drew the curtains to reveal the darkness of Port Phillip Bay, broken here and there by the flickering lights of fishing boats dotted against the blackness like distant campfires.

  ‘Christ, there’s nothing wrong with this room Mrs Perry. It’s the grouse.’

  ‘Yes, we like our guests to be happy here Mr Norton.’ Mrs Perry glided across the carpet and stood directly in front of Les, peering deeply into his eyes. ‘You will be happy here. Won’t you Mr Norton,’ she almost crooned.

  ‘Happier than a hunchback that’s just seen another hunchback with a hunch bigger than his Mrs Perry,’ replied Norton.

  Mrs Perry nodded and smiled softly. ‘There’s a fully stocked bar there,’ she indicated with a delicate hand. ‘Champagne in the fridge. A coffee machine. And we always leave a bowl of fresh fruit for our guests.’

  Mrs Perry edged in a little closer to Les. ‘But of course, should you require anything else. Anything. Don’t hesitate to ask,’ she breathed.

  ‘Righto. Just ring for room service do I?’

  ‘No. You ring for me personally.’

  ‘Okay.’ Norton eased back from the motel owner just a little. ‘Say Mrs Perry,’ he asked. ‘Do you run this motel on your own or with your husband?’

  ‘With my brother. I’m divorced.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Mrs Perry gave Les another heavy once up and down, then moved across to the door. ‘Don’t forget Mr Norton,’ she smiled. ‘Anything you want. Just call.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Thanks Mrs Perry.’

  ‘No worries Mr Norton.’

  The door closed softly and she was gone, leaving Les standing there stroking his chin thoughtfully. Is that bloody sheila fair dinkum, he mused. You will be happy here won’t you Mr Norton. Ring for me personally Mr Norton. He gave a bit of a chuckle. Nah. They’re just different down here, that’s all. Christ, imagine if I did have a lash at her and she blew up. Warren’d have a stroke. You’re only in the place five minutes and you tried to rape the woman that owned the motel. Yeah, that’d be my luck. He shook his head, unpacked his bag and changed into a dark blue tracksuit and joggers. Now. Let’s see what they’ve got in the Lightning Ridge.

&nbs
p; There were numerous bottles of spirits and liqueurs on the bar, two bottles of Veuve Cliquot, splits and a couple of dozen beers in the fridge. Some of it was imported, but no Fourex. Les settled for a can of VB. He tugged the ring-pull off and stepped out onto the balcony.

  It was cool but not cold. He watched the cars zooming past on the wide road below and noticed that the marina he’d seen earlier was almost in front of him. There were other buildings near the beach, but at that angle he couldn’t quite make out what they were. Further in the distance he could see what seemed to be some sort of an amusement park. Might finish this, he thought, and go for a bit of a walk. Give my legs a bit of a stretch. It’s only about nine-thirty. He finished his beer and did just that.

  Mrs Perry wasn’t in the foyer but the girl in the black uniform gave Les a smile which he returned as he went past. The door opened and he went down the steps, hesitated for a moment and then turned towards some shops and hotels he’d seen on the way in.

  He hadn’t walked far when he turned a corner into a blaze of neon lights and wide footpaths teeming with people taking advantage of the unusually warm spring weather. After about two hundred metres it reminded Norton of Kings Cross; a little roomier, a little more laid back, but pretty much the same scene. Pizza shops, milk bars, and neon-spattered restaurants. Hotels, motels, rock palaces and amusement arcades. Voyeurs on foot, voyeurs in cars. Skinheads, straights and vacant-looking night types propped in doorways. Christ. I can’t see myself lasting too much longer here he mused. It reminds me too much of work. The only redeeming feature was that the green-and-white numberplates on the cars reminded him a little of Queensland. He paused for a few moments outside a German restaurant full of drunken patrons hiccuping their way through a Nordic drinking song to a German band on stage. Then he strolled on past a hotel called the Duke of Kent and on to a bigger one that seemed to be in the process of being torn down. One bar on a corner was open. He put his head in there but it was full of seedy types you’d expect to see in a seedy hotel in any seedy part of any town in Australia. No thanks thought Norton. I might have one beer in that other pub then hit the toe.