‘Shit!’ muttered Norton. ‘How am I gonna get this bloody thing open?’
He stared at it a while longer, as though it was hypnotising him, and yawned again. Les would have kept on yawning and staring at it, but somehow his eyelids seemed to keep slamming shut. He yawned again, then toppled sideways onto the bed and crashed out.
A telephone ringing through a hundred thousand miles of blackness woke Norton around twelve-thirty. Like a robot, he rose from the bed, stumbled out into the lounge room and picked up the receiver.
‘Ummnnh.’
‘Is that Mr Norton the physiotherapist?’ It was an elderly woman’s voice at the other end.
‘No. Yougodthewrongnumber,’ mumbled Les.
‘Oh. I’m terribly . . .’
Norton slammed down the phone and still puffy eyed and half asleep stumbled back into the bedroom and crashed face down on the bed again.
Another phone call woke him around six. Norton felt like a beaten man as once more he staggered out to the lounge room and picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo,’ he croaked.
‘G’day Les. It’s Warren. How are you goin’?’ Warren’s cheerful voice at the other end was a complete contrast to Norton’s tired mumbling.
‘Yeah. All right,’ he replied thickly.
‘You got home okay then?’
‘Mmmhh.’
‘Good trip was it?’
‘Mmmhh.’
‘You didn’t have any trouble getting a cab?’
‘Mmmhh.’
There was silence on Warren’s end of the line for a moment. ‘Are you okay Les?’
‘Mmmhh.’
‘You sound half asleep. You been in bed?’
‘Mmmhh.’
‘Sorry mate. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Azorright.’
‘Look, go back to bed and I’ll see you when I get home tomorrow.’
Norton slumped back on the lounge and stared blankly at the phone for a few moments after he’d hung up. Outside the sun had almost set and the house was getting darker by the minute. It wasn’t getting any warmer either. The whole day had been wasted lying around and Les still felt dismal and half asleep. He knew what was in front of him now. He wouldn’t have the energy to do anything, yet he wouldn’t be quite tired enough to go to sleep. If he didn’t do something he’d sit around staring into space like a zombie till after midnight, then wake up after lunchtime tomorrow. Bugger that, he thought. I’ll take the easy way out.
Due to the inhuman pressures of advertising, Warren kept a couple of bottles of ‘mother’s little helpers’ in the bathroom. Serepax and Normison. Warren would drop a couple now and again if the strain got too much to bear and he couldn’t sleep. Norton might bludge one on the odd occasion if he was a bit overtired from a late night at work. This was definitely one of those odd occasions.
The fuckin’ things are in here somewhere. Norton noticed he was getting a little irritable as he switched on the bathroom light and began rummaging around in the cabinet beneath the basin. He found them behind a bottle of Mylanta and a large packet of Band-Aids. Two of each went down the hatch with a glass of water.
He went into the kitchen and made a toasted cheese sandwich and a mug of Ovaltine. By the time he’d made and eaten that, the tranquilizers were pumping through Norton’s system and his craggy face began to look like a big, red smilebutton. Happy as a lark, he switched off the kitchen light and floated back into the bedroom.
Les didn’t have a worry in the world as he set his radioalarm for six thirty and thirty minutes of music before he went to sleep. The bed felt like it was made out of marshmallow and Les felt like he was made out of jelly. He crawled in and pulled the blankets up under his chin. Ironically, the song playing on the radio was the Boomtown Rats singing ‘I Don’t Like Mondays.’ I dunno about that Norton grinned to himself, I reckon they’re beautiful. It was only a matter of seconds and once more he drifted off into the void. Completely this time.
The morning didn’t get off to that good a start. Somehow, probably because he wasn’t thinking straight from all the tranquilizers, Norton had made a slight mistake setting the radio-alarm. Instead of being woken up to a bit of nice cruising music on 2DAY-FM he’d tuned to 2JJJ and was pounded out of his sleep by the Cramps howling into ‘What’s Inside a Girl?’ At six-thirty it sounded like the end of another ceasefire in Beirut.
‘What the bloody hell’s goin’ on?’ Norton blinked groggily at the radio-alarm for a second or two, then switched it off and buried his face back in the pillow. He could easily have gone straight back to sleep and he knew if he stayed there another couple of seconds he’d do just that. With a superhuman effort he forced himself out of his nice warm bed into the bathroom.
He was still groggy from the pills and stiff from too much sleep. In the mirror his eyes were puffy and the burns on his face had coloured up some more along with his black eye. The missing eyebrow completed a picture of not the best looking man in Australia.
‘G’day handsome,’ he muttered.
A mug of coffee and a few stretches while listening to the radio had him feeling almost wide awake, but there was only one sure way to get the lethargy out of him. He got into his shorts and running shoes and headed for Centennial Park and a workout.
Norton chose Centennial Park in preference to Bondi Beach because he knew a lot of people who trained at Bondi and the first thing each one of them would say when they saw him would be ‘G’day Les. What happened to your face?’ There were quite a number of people running and walking in the park but Les had no trouble getting away on his own. He did two laps, then crisscrossed it several times. A couple of hundred push-ups and sit-ups had sweat running down his face and dripping off his nose and chin. It was a top day, sunny, mild, a light nor-wester ruffling the trees and hardly a cloud in the sky. Norton’s mind, however, was somewhat removed from the weather. All he could think about was the old strongbox and what was in it. Keen to get back home, Les pushed himself faster and faster into his sprints and exercises. He was a lather of perspiration when he walked back to his car and rung his sweatband out.
After the work-out and a long hot shower, Norton felt like a million dollars sitting in the kitchen reading the morning paper. Although it was Tuesday, an interview with Easts’ coach told Les the team had gone down to Balmain 15–0. The coach said they should never have had two tries disallowed, blah, blah, blah. But Easts would be back better than ever next year, blah, blah, blah.
Bugger it Norton cursed to himself. Losing the thousand dollars wasn’t all that bad, he had more than enough to cover it. But 15–0. That would be a slaughter to George Brennan and he’d bore it right up Les as soon as he got to work, on Wednesday night and probably every other night till the season ended. Christ! How am I gonna shut that fat turd up? thought Les. He’s going to be unbearable. Oh well, probably serves me right. Still you’d think a team of cats’d do better than 15–0. Pricks. He finished his coffee, folded the paper and glanced at his watch. Time to do a bit of metalwork.
Norton’s tool shed at the end of the backyard was one of those aluminium build-it-yourself jobs he’d bought off his builder mate Colin Jones, providing Jonesy got someone to put it up for him. It was about five metres by three with a workbench running along one wall, above which was a sheet of pegboard covered in all the tools and electric drills and other things you would expect to see. There’ll be something here to open this with thought Les, as he switched on the light and dumped the old strongbox onto the workbench with a loud metallic thump.
He ran his hands over the strongbox, jangled the lock and had a good look at it for a while before he started. He would have to cut a whole section out of the lock and that wasn’t going to be easy. Besides the bar being almost as thick as your finger, being attached to the strongbox made it too awkward to fit in the vice. Les picked up a pair of multigrips and a hacksaw. Before he started he gave the edges of the strongbox and the hinges on the back a good squirt of Penet
rene then gave the hinges a few taps with a hammer. Okay. Here we go.
Gripping the old lock tightly with his left hand, Norton began rasping away with his right. Unable to grip the saw with both hands, and with the lock still moving around despite his solid grip, it was a slow, tedious process. After about ten minutes or so he was through. He opened and closed his right hand a few times to get the circulation back and started sawing again. Ten minutes more and the piece of lock rattled onto the workbench. Using a hammer and an old blunt chisel he prised around the edges of the box. After who knows how many years it didn’t want to come open. But the Penetrene had done its work and with a bit of muscle the old strongbox reluctantly creaked open.
Whatever was inside was wrapped in ancient tar-paper which you rarely see now in the age of plastics. Norton’s adrenalin was starting to pump and a huge grin had spread across his face as he peeled back the old brown paper. The next thing his eyes lit up like Tilly lamps. The strongbox contained just what he was hoping it would. Money. Heaps of it. Rows and rows of wads of bills, bound with old, perished, thick rubber bands. How much was there, Les couldn’t estimate. But it had to be thousands.
‘Mousey. You bloody little beauty,’ he roared out loud. ‘What a bloody ripper.’ Norton could scarcely believe his luck.
Laughing fit to bust he picked up one of the wads of notes. Then the grin on Les’s face faded to a crooked half-smile which completely disappeared as his jaw fell almost onto the workbench. ‘Uhh?’ he grunted.
There was stacks of money all right and absolutely nothing wrong with it. It wasn’t mouldy, the borers hadn’t been into it, and apart from the rubber bands holding the wads together it was in good shape considering how long it had been buried. The only trouble was all the money was in pounds sterling. Stacks and stacks of pound notes. Blue fivers and red tenners to be exact.
‘What the fuck . . .’
Norton screwed up his face, picked a five pound note out of one of the wads and had a look at it. It was a dark blue, with the denominations in the corners surrounded by wriggly flowing lines. A drawing of George VI was on one end and a blank watermark on the other. Underneath this were two signatures. H. C. Coombs, Governor, Commonwealth Bank, and someone Watt, Secretary Treasurey. On the opposite side were more wriggly lines and a drawing of what looked like a team of wharfles unloading a ship. The ten pound notes were the same, only they were brown with a rural scene on the back of some farmers leading a draughthorse and carrying rakes and a woman holding a baby with a dog at her feet.
Norton could hardly believe his eyes. Pound bloody notes! Well how old are the bloody things? He shook his head and tried to do a bit of mental arithmetic. Australia didn’t switch over to decimal currency until 1966. Les remembered because he was a kid at school at the time. Mousey had been in the can over twenty years and George VI died around 1952. So this money would have been printed around the late 1940–searly 50s. Probably around when Mousey had stolen it. Well how much is here, Norton wondered. He quickly counted one bundle of each denomination. They were in groups of one thousand pounds and a quick flick through said there were sixty. Sixty thousand pounds. When you consider the average wage was about five pounds a week then and you could buy a home for a few hundred pounds, sixty thousand would have been an absolute fortune back then. Probably equal to three-quarters of a million dollars today.
Norton kept staring at the pile of money and shaking his head. But despite his chagrin he found he couldn’t help but laugh. This was what he’d almost blown himself up for and risked five years in gaol for if he’d been caught. An old metal strongbox full of pound notes that he couldn’t spend. He may as well have dug up a box of Monopoly money. He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment.
‘Well Mousey,’ he laughed out loud, ‘I’ve got to give it to you mate. It wasn’t a bad heist you pulled off. And thanks heaps for putting me in the whack. But what the fuck am I gonna do with it? You stupid little prick.’
Norton continued to gaze at the money when a thought occurred to him. He mightn’t know what to do with all that old money, but there was one bloke in Sydney who would. He put all the money back in the box, placed it in a garbage bag, walked back into the lounge room and dialed a number in Vaucluse.
‘Hello. Is that you Mrs Galese? It’s Les.’
‘Oh hello Les,’ came a cheerful, well-spoken voice. ‘How are you? How was your trip to Melbourne?’
‘It wasn’t too bad thanks Mrs Galese,’ chuckled Norton. ‘I had a bit of fun down there.’
‘Price told me all about it. He said you’re a regular movie star.’
‘Ohh, I wouldn’t bloody say that Mrs Galese,’ laughed Norton. ‘Far from it.’
Mrs Galese gave a bit of a laugh herself. ‘Anyway, do you want to speak to Price do you?’
‘Yeah. If I could please.’
‘Hold on a sec love. I’ll get him. He’s just finished breakfast.’
The strongbox full of money was sitting on the coffee table in front of Norton, who smiled and gave it a nudge with his foot while he waited.
‘Hullo movie star. How are you going?’
Norton couldn’t mistake his boss’s smiling voice on the phone. ‘G’day Price,’ he replied. ‘How are you mate?’
‘If I was any healthier it’d hurt. How was Melbourne?’
‘Pretty good. Better than I thought actually.’
‘I told you it wasn’t all that bad. How many blokes did you have to belt down there?’
‘Just a couple of Aussie Rules players. That’s all.’
‘Oh shit!’
Norton paused for a moment. ‘Listen Price, I was wondering if I could come over and see you some time today?’
‘Hello,’ chuckled the silvery haired casino owner. ‘You’re in a bit of strife are you?’
‘No. No trouble. But I would like to see you about something. It’s a bloody good yarn. I can tell you that.’
‘Yeah? Well I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come over about two-thirty? I’ll be by myself and we can have a couple of beers by the pool.’
‘Righto Price. I’ll see you then.’
Well thought Norton after he’d hung up, if Price can’t sort out what to do with all those chops no-one can. Now what am I gonna do till two-thirty? He was staring absently at the strongbox and thinking on it when the phone rang.
It was Louise, wanting to know how he was and how the trip went. Norton replied that it was very quiet down there and he had two early nights. The ad went okay, but he had to stay there an extra day, which was why he didn’t ring her earlier. Would he like to come over to her place for a baked chicken dinner that night? Is the Pope a catholic? Les told her he’d be there at seven with a couple of bottles of Taylor’s. He’d no sooner hung up when Billy Dunne rang wanting to know how he was and did he want to go for a run later? Les said he’d already had one. What about tomorrow? Billy said he couldn’t make it tomorrow. He was taking the family to Old Sydney Town. They chatted for a while till Les hung up saying he’d see him at work tomorrow night and tell him a bit more about what happened in Melbourne then.
Now where was I? thought Norton. Yeah. What to do till two o’clock. I know what I do have to do. Get a new bloody tracksuit. That one’s full of bloody holes. I’ll get one up Bondi Junction. Might have a few beers, a steak at the Pig’s and a bit of a perv while I’m up there. He did exactly that.
Norton was in a good mood from the beers and feeling content in the stomach when he drove through the gates of Price’s mansion later that afternoon. The front door was closed and it was still warm and sunny so Les figured Price would more than likely be sitting out by the pool. He picked up the strongbox, with the garbage bag still wrapped around it, and walked to the rear of the house.
Price was lying back on a recliner lounge by the edge of the pool with his hands behind his head. With his white shorts, sun-tanned good looks and neat, silvery hair, he looked exactly like what he was: a multimillionaire with not a worry in the w
orld. As soon as he saw Norton approaching his face burst into a huge grin.
‘Hello mate,’ he called out. ‘How’s things?’ Price screwed his face up slightly as Norton got closer. ‘Christ! What happened to your face? And what have you got in the bag?’
Instead of replying straight away Norton started to laugh. He sat down next to Price and placed the strongbox on a wrought-iron table opposite them, next to an extension phone and a small esky.
‘Well Price,’ he grinned. ‘It’s not a bad story this one. You got an hour or so?’
‘From the look of your moosh, it looks like I’m going to have to find one, don’t it?’ Price reached over and pushed a button on an answering service next to the phone.
Across the crystal-clear water sparkling in the pool Norton saw a figure wave from where he was pottering around amongst some shrubs in the immaculately landscaped grounds. It was Vince, the ex-Welsh Guards caretaker. It looked all nice and peaceful in the garden with Price on his own, but Les knew that in amongst Vince’s rakes and hoes would be a fully loaded FN semi-automatic and the odd pistol or two. Vince was a lovely old bloke but he’d been decorated in Malaya and Korea and could shoot the name tag off a dog’s collar on the run at 500 metres. If anyone had come in and tried anything they would have got a nice shock. Norton grinned and waved back.
The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya Page 37