The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey Les, Billy. How are you? What’s doing?’ he grinned.

  ‘G’day T-shirt,’ Billy grinned back.

  ‘We’re just going for a run,’ said Norton. ‘All right if we borrow a couple of skis when we get back?’

  ‘Yeah sweet,’ replied Terry. ‘Take those two white Aeros near the stairs under the gym, then see me and I’ll get you some paddles.’

  ‘Good on you Terry. Thanks.’ The boys had another word or two with ‘T-Shirt’ then went inside and got changed into their running gear. After about fifteen or twenty minutes of stretching exercises they were warmed up and ready to go.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Billy, as they started walking down the steps of the clubhouse. ‘I’m starting to get a bit on the peckish side. I reckon I’ll murder a steak at the Diggers when we’re finished.’

  ‘Iron rations come in handy, on the way to Dirranbandi. Passengers have often died of hunger, during stops at Garadunga.’

  Billy squinted quizzingly in the bright sunshine at Les as they walked across the small park outside the surf club.

  ‘What are you going on about?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s poetry Billy, you ignorant prick. It’s from a poem called the Queensland Railways. Jesus you haven’t got much culture have you?’

  ‘Hah! What would you know about culture you hillbilly. You think “The Blue Danube’s” a cheese and “Marseillaise” is something you put in coleslaw.’ He gave Norton a punch on the arm. ‘Come on Banjo, let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll follow you Irving,’ smiled Les. ‘You can follow your nose.’

  They took off across Campbell Parade like a couple of grey-hounds, almost sprinting. Billy led the way towards the Bondi Hotel, finally settling down to a more leisurely pace when they turned right into Warners Avenue past the school. In no time they were at Seven Ways where they turned right into Glenayr, back up Blair, left into Mitchell and started criss-crossing all the streets up to Murriverie Road till they finished up back in Blair turning left into Military Road heading towards Dover Heights. Every now and again Billy would produce a note book and felt-tip pen from his shorts and write down, the real estate agent’s name and phone number on the ‘For Sale’ signs outside any flats that caught his eye.

  While he was doing this Norton would stop and do a few push-ups, touch his toes or bounce around in the one spot. Having to stop and wait for Billy all the time didn’t give him the shits that much — though he would have preferred to be running along the beach — he was too busy enjoying the exhilaration of running on such a beautiful autumn day; and there were a few things to look at. People washing their cars, a few girls walking around, nuns and parishioners coming from the Catholic church near Oakley Road and various other ones around the area while the church bells rang solemnly over the roof tops: plus he was making sure he got a good workout at the same time.

  ‘Hello. Where are you taking us now?’ joked Les, as they puffed up Military Road past the golf links. ‘You going up to see all your reffo mates in Jehovah Heights?’

  ‘All your old landlords’d be more like it,’ replied Billy. ‘Christ they’d have a stroke if they saw you running around the streets. How much do you reckon you’ve brassed ’em for over the years?’

  ‘Dunno for sure,’ said Les thoughtfully. ‘About the equivalent of the Israeli defence budget I s’pose. Hey have you seen anything you fancy yet? We’ve been running almost forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, that one in Middleton Avenue. Come on we’ll turn down here and I’ll have another look at it.’

  They turned left into O’Connell Street and headed towards Seven Ways again where Billy checked out the flats in question. It was in a block of six, three bedrooms with a sun deck and a large garage. The block was old, but fairly clean and not in too good a condition so a team of yahoos in there couldn’t knock it around all that much while they paid it off for Billy. Plus the price was right — $79,500 or nearest offer.

  ‘I think this joint just might do the trick,’ said Billy. He stood out the front checking it out while Norton lay on his back touching his toes. ‘Okay,’ he added, with a nod of his head. ‘Let’s head back to the surf club. We’ll go down Brighton Boulevard. I sprung one there when I was driving past the other day and I just want to have a quick look at it.’

  ‘Righto mate. Whatever turns you on,’ said Norton, ringing the perspiration out of his sweat-band and replacing it on his head.

  They got to the Police Station end of Brighton Boulevard and starting heading towards North Bondi. The flat Billy had spotted earlier in the week wasn’t worth the price so they didn’t waste any time there and, seeing as they were finishing the run, they started to pick up the pace a bit.

  They were still chattering away while they were running. Les was saying how he was looking forward to going for a paddle when they got back to the beach, and Billy saying how he was keener than ever for a beer and a steak, when as they got to the dip where Brighton Boulevard rises slightly before it reaches Campbell Parade, Billy noticed a familiar swarthy figure on the right-hand side of the street, walk out of his house with a huge alsatian dog and get into his white, Holden utility.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that an old mate of yours up ahead?’ said Billy, a little sarcastically as they jogged closer to the big man with the dog.

  Norton squinted ahead through sweat-filled eyes and nodded his head reluctantly. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered tightly. ‘That’s Joe Vorgnor, isn’t it? You’re not gonna stop and talk to the prick, are you?’

  ‘To tell you the truth Les I might — just for a second or two. He might be a cunt but if anybody’d know about a cheap flat round here Joe would.’

  Norton spat on the footpath. ‘Righto, suit yourself.’

  Joe Vorgnor was a tall, beefy, sweaty Maltese who arrived in Australia some time in the early 1950’s and, like a lot of his fellow countrymen, who were attracted by the cheap rents, settled in the East Sydney area. Somehow or other, mainly by thieving and being an arsehole in general, Joe acquired, along with a criminal record, enough money to start buying up old houses in East Sydney which he converted into brothels and let to some of the ugliest, horriblest prostitutes going around. By standover tactics and sheer brutality it wasn’t long before Joe was close to being a millionaire and ran just about all the brothels in East Sydney; and the more he owned the more he wanted. This caused quite a lot of friction among the other Maltese in the area who wanted a piece of the action, too; however Joe steadfastly refused to share. Consequently several attempts had been made on his life and he’d been stabbed a couple of times. But Joe was a tough, cagey rooster and always carried a gun with him, and so far no one had succeeded in getting to him. However the word was out that it would only be a matter of time before Joe, like his business associate Big Barry Black, was a special to finish up in the big knock-shop in the sky.

  Norton, being a bit of a square-head, Queensland country boy and a bit chivalrous, despite his slight male chauvinism, didn’t cotton on too well to pimps and their ilk, but this wasn’t the main reason he was sour on Joe. Vorgnor had come up to the Kelly Club one night with a friend, quite a rarity for Joe, and his friend put on a bit of a turn in the club. Price asked him to leave and he told Price to get fucked; so Price called in Les who hit Joe’s friend in the stomach, almost rupturing his spleen, and pelted him down the stairs. Joe, being a bit light in the friend department, put on a drama outside the club threatening to shoot and maim Norton for belting his mate. Norton, being the kind of person who likes to nip threats in the bud, took Joe by the throat and was just about to turn Joe’s big Maltese head into Peck’s paste when Price and Billy pulled him off. For Joe, prick and all that he was, was known to drop ten or fifteen grand on the tables every now and again and not think a great deal of it, and Price’s philosophy was that Joe the pimp’s money was no different to Pope John-Paul’s or Adolph Hitler’s so he gave Joe the chance to apologise and let him still keep coming to the club.

  This had happen
ed almost a year ago and whenever Joe would come up to the club he and Norton would always grunt a thin hello to each other, but Norton never forgot and if ever he saw Vorgnor out anywhere would always give him plenty of the back of his neck. However, Joe always still got on well with Billy.

  Joe’s alsatian, Cassius, spotted the boys first and started snarling. Joe looked up and, when he saw who it was, took Cassius by the collar and smiled a greasy hello.

  ‘Billy my friend,’ he said, as they approached. ‘How are you? Hello Les,’ he added a little thinner.

  ‘G’day Joe,’ grunted Norton, stopping on the footpath not far from Billy who had propped next to Joe’s utility.

  ‘Having a run eh?’ said Joe, in his guttural, accented voice just about ignoring Norton.

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Billy. ‘You look like you could do with a bit of a gallop yourself Joe,’ he added, pointing to Vorgnor’s obvious paunch.

  ‘That, I’m afraid is the good life my friend,’ replied Joe, giving his stomach a pat. ‘Anyway, how come you are running around here? This is not usual for you?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for a few flats. In fact I was going to ask you something, if you’ve got a minute.’

  Joe shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  Cassius jumped up in the back of the utility while Joe, followed by Billy, went around and got behind the wheel. Norton stood on the footpath exercising while Billy had a brief conversation with Vorgnor through the driver’s window. In the back, Cassius started to snarl at Les but Les gave it a look as if to say, ‘try anything you prick and I’ll drag you out of the ute by your studded collar and slam you up against the nearest brick fence’. Vorgnor’s dog soon dropped off and just sat looking, with its huge tongue lolling out the side of its mouth dripping saliva all over the tray of the ute.

  Les heard Joe tell Billy that he was in a bit of hurry so he caught Billy’s eye as if to say he wouldn’t mind getting going himself. Billy got the hint that Les didn’t want to be in Vorgnor’s company for too long and told the big Maltese he’d see him again when he had more time. Through the window Norton could see Joe’s hand reach towards the ignition to start the car so he began to make a move himself, when he heard a shrill voice call out from the front of Joe’s house. He turned around to see a drab-looking, bleached blonde, with pencilled black eyebrows and overdone vermillion lips stick her head out one of the windows.

  ‘Hey Joe,’ she shrieked in a thin nasally whine. ‘There’s someone wants you on the phone.’

  Joe let out a sigh, took his hand away from the keys and slid across the seat. ‘Who is it?’ he yelled back, winding the window halfway down.

  ‘Ronnie Davis the plumber.’

  ‘Did he say what he wants?’

  Round the other side of the car Billy gave the roof a bit of a slap. ‘I’ll let you go Joe. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. Okay Billy,’ replied Vorgnor swivelling his head around.

  Norton gave a sigh of relief. ‘See you later Joe,’ he almost mumbled.

  ‘See you Les,’ was the curt reply.

  Norton joined Billy at the rear of the utility and they continued jogging up Brighton Boulevard. ‘Tell Ronnie I’m in a hurry and I’ll call him this afternoon,’ he heard Joe call out as they headed towards Campell Parade.

  ‘Well, what’s happening?’ asked Norton, as they trotted up the slight decline towards the corner. ‘Is your slimy pimp mate gonna get you a flat?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ replied Billy, ‘he can help me. He knows a bloke selling one at the right price up in Hastings Parade. Joe might be an arse I’ll agree with you, but I just might have saved myself about ten grand back there.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Les. ‘It’s just that I don’t like talking to the cunt — that’s all.’

  Norton was about to say something else when all of a sudden the building around them seemed to shake. The quiet Sunday afternoon was shattered by an ear-splitting crack and the most thunderous explosion Les had ever heard pitched both him and Billy forward onto their knees. Dazed, they lay on the roadway for a second or two then slowly looked up as pieces of red-hot metal, tar and other smoking debris rained around them and on to the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They turned and looked at each other in shock. From out of nowhere the spare wheel of Vorgnor’s utility, with the rubber smouldering, wobbled past then spun round on its rim a few times till it finally lay smoking on the roadway a few metres in front of their heads.

  ‘What the fuckin’ hell was that?’ said Billy, his ears ringing like a bell at the noise still echoing off the surrounding flats.

  Norton shook his head as he opened and closed his jaws in an effort to try and clear his own ears. ‘Sounded like a bloody bomb going off.’

  After the explosion there was a deadly silence for a few moments, then every dog in the neighbourhood started barking and people began coming to the fronts of their houses to see what was going on. Slowly the boys turned back about five or ten metres behind them.

  The huge blast had ignited all the petrol in one go, so instead of a great fire ball, there were just pockets of flames crackling among the oil, upholstery and tyres. An enormous pall of grey-black smoke was spiralling into the clear, blue autumn sky. All four tyres had ruptured and the twisted, gutted wreck was now sitting flush on the ground with water from the shattered radiator steaming as it bubbled and hissed into the gutter. Behind the wheel they could just make out the blackened figure of Joe Vorgnor.

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ exclaimed Billy, his eyes like two saucers. ‘Have a look at that!’

  Norton didn’t say anything. They slowly got to their feet and started cautiously walking towards the smoking wreckage. Both knew what to expect.

  The first thing they saw was Cassius lying in a broken, twisted circle with its nose almost touching its backbone. Its stomach had split open and blood and entrails were oozing out of its gaping mouth. Both front paws were gone and most of its fur was burnt off revealing the pink charred skin still smouldering. Apparently the explosion had blown it straight up in the air, as it only lay a few metres behind the wreckage.

  Billy and Les looked at the dog then grimly at each other as they trepidatiously moved to the shattered driver’s window. If Cassius looked bad the sight there immediately turned both their stomachs.

  Joe looked like some horrible monster not a man. His head was twisted back and tilted towards them in a ghostly, frozen look of horror, except that his eyes had burst in their sockets and his ears and hair had been scorched off. Both legs had been torn off and lay next to him on what was left of the seat, revealing the splintered, charred bone. There was no bleeding. The fireball had completely seared the stumps like a pair of half-cooked hamburgers. What clothing hadn’t been blown off was still smouldering and barely covered Joe’s ample stomach which looked like someone had taken a handful of sausage skins and scattered them around the front of the car snagging some of the broken ribs poking through his ruptured chest. What was left of his arms lay loosely in his lap and for some strange reason his right one seemed to be reaching for the car keys which ironically still dangled from the ignition.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said the ashen-faced Billy again. He took a quick glance at Norton’s equally pale face then ran to the gutter and started retching.

  Norton didn’t say or do anything, he just stood staring grimly at the charred remains of Joe Vorgnor the brothel owner. But while he stood there transfixed at the grisly sight, he found he was almost paralysed with a feeling crossed between horror and something he couldn’t explain — the sobering and unnerving realisation suddenly swept over him.

  He remembered looking through the window at Billy as Vorgnor had his hands on the keys sitting in the ignition. If that plumber hadn’t rung up when he did, and that woman in the house had left it for just another second or two to yell out to Joe, there was no doubt he and Billy would either both be dead now or at least horribly maimed. A cold sweat formed on his
brow and a chill ran up his spine as if someone had poured a tray of ice-cubes down his back; he closed his eyes as a violent shudder shook his entire body. When he opened them again Billy was standing in front of him wiping his mouth, pale-faced, staring at him.

  ‘Well,’ Billy finally said, almost inaudibly. ‘what. . . what do you think we ought to do?’

  Norton looked at Billy, looked at Joe in the car and back at Billy again. ‘What do I think we ought to do?’ he said, trying to lick some moisture on to his dried lips. ‘I think we ought to buy more than one bloody lottery ticket tomorrow . . . that’s for fuckin’ sure.

  The Real Thing

  Les Norton took another solid pull on his stubbie of Fourex and grinned broadly at Billy Dunne, Price Galese and George Brennan seated smiling around him in Price’s office. It was about 3.30 on an October Sunday morning. Saturday night had just finished at the Kelly Club, the money was in the safe, the rest of the staff had gone home and the boys were sitting around relaxing, enjoying an after-work drink with the owner.

  ‘Have a go at him,’ said Price to the others, grinning almost as broadly as Les. ‘He’s got a lousy week off and you’d think he’d just won the lottery.’

  ‘Well, you don’t blame me,’ said Norton, still smiling as he sucked heartily on his stubbie then belched into the back of his hand. ‘I’ve got a chance to get out of the big smoke for a few days and I’ve got a nice new car to do it in. Why wouldn’t I be laughing? I’m rapt.’