The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  George looked at his wrist then glared savagely at Norton; he couldn’t believe that someone had actually layed a hand on him. ‘Who the fuckin’ hell’s talking to you — prick,’ he hissed slowly, his lips curling back over his teeth with malice. ‘Who the fuck are you anyway, carrot top?’

  ‘Who am I?’ replied Norton, still smiling. ‘Well, to tell you the truth Jack, I’ve just moved up here. I’m starting a dry-cleaning business. And seeing you’re not a bad bloke Jack, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you.’ Norton got to his feet and picked up Diane’s Bacardi and coke. ‘Now Jack, I’ve got this grouse new sanitised dry-cleaning technique. It’s unbelievable.’ George was blinking through his fury at Norton’s patter. You could almost hear the wooden cogs inside his big, thick, bony head slowly turning over as he tried to fathom out Norton’s strange talk.

  ‘Now you see this white T-shirt you’re wearing Jack?’ continued Les. ‘Well I’ll show you something.’ Norton hooked his finger in the pocket on the front of George’s T-shirt, pulled it out and poured Diane’s Bacardi and coke in it: ice-cubes, pieces of lemon, straw, the lot. Les then gave it a sloppy pat as it soaked all over George’s chest. This was as good a time as any for the others to move to the rear of the cubicle. ‘Now you bring that down to the shop on Monday Jack, and I’ll have that as good as new for you. How’s that grab you?’ Norton sat back down, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. ‘Oh,’ he added with a grin. ‘And seein’ as you’ve only got half a brain Jack, I’ll only charge you half price. Fair enough?’

  George looked at his Bacardi-soaked T-shirt then glared at Norton. His face turned into a hideous mask of raging hatred. ‘Why you . . .’ he almost screamed.

  He bent down to grab Les by the throat but, as he did, Norton straightened his hand and slashed it powerfully up into the huge bouncer’s groin. George’s eyes bulged and he let out a roar of pain. It had slammed into his testicles like a piece of four by two. In almost the same movement Norton made a massive fist and rising, drove it in an uppercut straight up under George’s jutting chin. Another bellow of pain came through his nostrils as his jaws were slammed violently together, breaking the bones and shattering nearly every tooth in his head. With his left hand Norton grabbed George by his greasy, brown hair, tilted his head to one side and slammed his fist under his right ear — rupturing the arteries in his neck and almost breaking it.

  By now the whole place had stopped to watch the action; the only movement and sound was Norton fighting and the DJ still playing records.

  Still holding him by the hair, Norton started methodically punching George’s face to pulp. There was no science. Les just swung his huge, gnarled fist like a club as he turned the domineering brute of a bouncer’s face into a gory red mess. Teeth and lips disintergrated, his ear split apart and his nose crumpled up like balsa. He was completely unconscious: the only thing stopping him from collapsing was the fact that Norton was holding him up. After about a dozen or so good belts Norton let go and George slumped to the floor. As he did, Les reached down, took hold of his right wrist and bent it back, till it snapped with a dull crack. The way George landed the only people to see this were, Diane, Betty and Reg. They couldn’t believe their eyes.

  Norton stood up just in time to catch a movement to his left: it was Ken charging through the crowd like a runaway steer. Norton wasn’t too sure what Ken intended to do but he decided not to take any chances. As he got within range, Norton balanced on his toes then swung his entire body round like a gate closing and king-hit the equally huge, beady-eyed bouncer flush in the face with a punch that would have made Rocky Marciano shudder. Poor Ken didn’t know what hit him. Norton’s huge fist travelled about one metre and slammed into his nose and mouth like a half house brick, ripping open his lips, pulverising his nose and sending uprooted teeth spinning over the, by now, empty chairs and tables nearest them. As Ken sagged to his knees, Norton drove a wicked left-rip into his rib cage cracking several ribs. Almost in one movement again, he capped both his hands round the back of Ken’s head and slammed his left knee into his face three or four times, Thai style. Ken crashed forward on to the floor and lay there, blood oozing out of what was left of his face on to the dirty, black, cigarette-burnt carpet. Norton looked down at him for a moment. What the hell, he thought. He picked up the nearest Harvey-Norman-furniture-warehouse vinyl chair and smashed it across his kidneys. Ken didn’t move.

  There was a hush throughout Pinkie’s as everybody in the place stood staring at Norton in silent wonder: they couldn’t believe their eyes. The two biggest, meanest bullies in Coffs Harbour had just been absolutely demolished by one man in about two minutes. No one quite knew what to say, the only sound was some record finishing in the background. As it did the DJ’s excited voice suddenly rang through the club.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Our floor show is now over for the night and right now I’ve got a special request for that red headed gentleman standing there in the blue Hawaiian shirt. And here it is: the Mentals and ‘Beserk Warriors’. And if you hurry ... you just might find a spot on the dance floor.’

  The music started up and the whole place erupted into cheering for Les: it wasn’t hard to see whose side the crowd was on. Norton grinned and gave the DJ a bit of a wave. He was about to say something to the others at his table when he felt a tap at his shoulder. He turned round to face an overweight, extremely nervous, dark-haired bloke with a moust-ache. The man was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie. He was obviously the boss and standing behind him were two terrified barmen.

  ‘Look I’m the owner here,’ he blurted out. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Suddenly a voice came from the crowd. ‘Go on Ross. Let’s see you throw him out.’

  ‘Yeah, go on Stanton, you fat turd,’ guffawed another one, amidst the laughter. ‘Let’s see you.’

  The owner glared into the crowd, and the two barmen glanced down at the remains of the two bouncers, shuffled their feet then looked anxiously at Les.

  ‘Listen,’ said Norton directly to the owner. ‘Your two goons started this and they came off second best. All right? Now instead of carrying on like a good sort help me get ’em to the door and I’ll have a yarn to you out there. And don’t any of you get any fuckin’ ideas about throwin’ me out either.’ He glared at the two slightly-built barmen who quickly shook their heads in unison.

  Between the four of them they half dragged, half carried the two unconscious bouncers to the front where they dumped them into two chairs in a small office. The girl on the desk came in with a couple of bar towels which they wrapped around their mutilated faces to try to stem the bleeding.

  ‘I’m still going to call the police,’ said the owner. ‘You just can’t walk in here and get away with this scot-free pal.’

  The owner looked like a half-baked smarty and the way he said it, it sounded to Les like he was trying to pull a bit of a rort. ‘Righto,’ said Norton angrily, ‘ring the coppers. And while you’re there tell them to ring this bloke and tell them that’s who I work for.’ He took his wallet out and handed the owner the piece of paper with the name of the head copper in the district on it, as well as Price’s.

  The owner looked at it for a moment then gave it the double blink. ‘Christ,’ he said ‘that’s the Chief Inspector . . .’

  ‘That’s right . . . pal.’

  ‘And you work for . . .’

  ‘Right again. You try any shit with me and I’ll have the licensing cops round here first thing Monday morning, and by lunchtime I’ll have Sydney’s best barrister up here with a raging assault and damages charge against you and Tweedle Dum and Tweedle-even-dumber here.’ He nodded at the two bouncers. ‘And by tea time Monday you can say goodbye to this flea-pit you’re running.’

  The owner swallowed and handed Norton back the piece of paper. ‘Your’re right mate,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He paused for a moment then half smiled. ‘To tell you the truth I’ve been wanting t
o get rid of these two rock-apes for ages but I just haven’t been game.’ He looked Les up and down. ‘You’re not looking for a job yourself, are you, by any chance? I’ll pay you what I’ve been paying both these clowns.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’m only up here for a few days thanks all the same. But you can tell these two fuckwits I’m coming back again before long and don’t be around when I get here. Now if you don’t mind I’d like to get back to my friends. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah sure. Hey ... ah ... what’s your name again mate?’

  ‘Les.’

  ‘Okay Les. Listen, any drinks you want for the rest of the night are on me. Okay? Just tell them at the bar Ross said it’s sweet.’

  ‘That’s all right Ross, but I pay my own way. Thanks all the same.’ Norton left the office and returned to his table. As he walked through the crowd he got quite a lot of smiles; he was also given quite a wide berth. Reg was sitting alone with a grin from ear to ear when he got back.

  ‘Jesus Les,’ he said, ‘you’ve just blown the place out. No one up here’s ever seen anything like that. Christ, are you any good or what?’

  ‘Between the Kelly Club and the Bondi Hotel I get plenty of practice,’ laughed Norton. He nodded at the empty cubicle. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Gone to the brascoe. Betty’s a little upset. She got quite a shock when you broke George’s wrist. Diane’s with her.’ Reg started to laugh. ‘Diane looks like she just won the lottery.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s good. Anyway Betty should be all right.’ Les picked up a twenty off the table. ‘I’ll go and get some more drinks. Same again I s’pose.’

  ‘Yeah. But I think you’d better make them doubles this time Les.’

  Norton walked over to the bar and joined the others waiting to be served. He was lost in thought for a few moments when he was surprised to hear a quiet voice in his ear.

  ‘The way those two mugs hit the deck, I knew that’d have to be you Norton. No one else whacks them like that.’

  Norton turned cautiously round to see who it was. Standing smiling behind him, wearing an immaculately pressed beige dress shirt, tucked into a pair of designer jeans was a fair-haired, medium-built, good style of a guy in his early twenties. He had a gold stud in one ear and round his neck was a thick Thailand style gold chain with a small jade Buddha on it. It was the same bloke he’d thought he’d recognised in the crowd earlier.

  ‘Tony Levin,’ said Norton slowly. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  ‘Doing my best,’ smiled Tony, holding his hands out by his sides. ‘What else?’

  Norton had got to know Tony over the years from around Bondi and the Kelly Club: though Tony originally came from Balmain. Tony was a good-looking young bloke with a ton of personality, always well-dressed and generally always had a good sort on his arm. Tony wasn’t a bad bloke but he was as shifty as days are long in summer. His main go was selling pot and maybe a little acid; but nothing else. Tony could always move pot and in any amount you wanted. If he couldn’t, he always knew someone who could and he’d get his whack that way. However. In between his dope dealing Tony was not adverse to going up a drainpipe and relieving various citizens of their household appliances and personal effects. He was also not adverse to dudding people with his dope deals should the opportunity ever arise — which was how Norton more or less got to meet him.

  Norton was getting into his car one night in the car park of the Clovelly Hotel when he saw Tony having a bit of an altercation with three apparently dissatisfied customers. They must have been dissatisfied because they had Tony on the ground in the corner doing quite a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down Tony’s ribs. Tony could scrap all right for his size but against these three he was having absolutely no luck. Norton didn’t know Tony all that well at the time; possibly if he had he would have let the three gentlemen continue turning Levin into dim-sims, however having a sense of fair play he decided to put his head in. One of the three turned on Norton. He was quickly dispatched with a withering short-right and the others soon hit the toe, to allow Tony to crawl painfully to his car and escape to rob another day. But he never forgot Norton for saving his shifty hide and did his best to return the favour with hot gear and all the pot Norton ever wanted, which he nearly always declined. However, surprised and all as he was at seeing Tony in Coffs Harbour, but knowing young Mr Levin’s somewhat disingenuous form, especially in the dope rort, a germ of an idea entered Norton’s head.

  ‘So, you’re up here doing your best, are you Tony?’ said Norton, after they’d finished a quick handshake. ‘Moving a bit of green I would imagine?’

  Levin smiled slyly and nodded. ‘Something like that. But don’t worry about me big Les. What’s your “John Dory”? What are you doing up here?’

  Norton smiled and gave Tony a light punch on the shoulder. ‘Fair dinkum Tony,’ he laughed. ‘If I told you, you probably wouldn’t believe me. You here on your own?’ Tony nodded his head. ‘Well give me five minutes to get these drinks back and I’ll come and have a yarn to you. I’ll meet you at the end of the bar. Okay?’ Tony nodded his head again. Norton got the drinks and took them over to Reg who was still sitting on his own in the cubicle.

  ‘I’ve just bumped into a bloke I know from Sydney,’ said Norton, placing the drinks on the table. ‘I’m just gonna have a mag to him for a while.’ He paused for a moment then smiled at Reg. ‘You couldn’t do us a favour, could you Reg?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘Have you got any of that dope on you?’

  Reg looked at Norton curiously for a moment. ‘Yeah, I have got a bag on me to tell you the truth. I didn’t think we were coming here and I brought some to give to a mate of mine who works at this other place I thought we might’ve gone to. Why, do you feel like a smoke?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m still a bit revved up after that fight and I wouldn’t mind a bit of a puff to bring me back down. I thought I might shout my mate one, too, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Sure. Here, go for your life. There’s some papers in the bag.’ Reg put his hand down the front of his jeans, brought out a fairly thick plastic bag of dope and palmed it to Norton who slipped it inside his shirt. ‘You can have as much as you like but I’m warning you, go easy with it. That stuffs dynamite if you’re not used to it.’

  Norton smiled and winked. ‘She’ll be sweet. Thanks Reg.’

  ‘No worries. See you when you get back.’

  Les picked up his can of VB and rejoined Tony waiting at the end of the bar. ‘So Tony,’ he said, as they both raised their glasses. ‘You’re up here moving a bit of “Bob Hope” eh?’

  ‘S’posed to be,’ replied Tony, nodding is head derisively. ‘I was supposed to pick up fifteen kilos off this fuckin’ dill this afternoon. I ring up his place and some dopey sheila says, ‘Graham’s not here. He’s gone surfing at Angourie and he won’t be back till Monday. So I’m stuck here till fuckin’ Monday. Fair dinkum, I’d’ve left a message for him to shove it up his arse but we need the earn.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘L.A. Dave.’

  Norton started to laugh. ‘L.A. fuckin’ Dave. Jesus.’

  L.A. Dave was another pot dealer and rorter from around Coogee. A tall, gangling, curly-haired guy, who fancied himself a treat; he was credited with being 90 per cent mouth and 10 per cent ability. He got the nickname L.A. Dave from spending three years scamming around Los Angeles. When he got back to Australia, everything was ‘L.A. this and L.A. that.’ He was tolerated and regarded as bit of a harmless pain in the arse. However he, like his shifty running mate Levin, also had the contacts to move large quantities of pot.

  ‘L.A.’s all right,’ shrugged Tony. ‘He’s bought a clothes shop with his sheila up in Grafton. He reckons he likes it up there. Jacaranda trees, Clarence River and all that.’

  ‘Yeah. Handy to the jail, too.’

  Tony shuddered. ‘Oh Jesus, don’t ever say that Les. Anyway, what’s your caper shifty? How come you�
��re in Coffs Harbour? Don’t try and tell me you’re up here for the bananas.’

  Norton’s face broke into a grin. ‘Mate, it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard why I’m here. It’s just ridiculous. I was supposed to pick up some money off a bloke for Price.’

  ‘Yeah, I tipped that’d be on the cards.’

  ‘This bloke owes Price fifteen grand, so he sent me up to either get the money or break the bloke’s arms.’

  ‘Give you something to do I s’pose.’

  ‘Anyway. The poor prick hasn’t got the money but he offers us twenty kilo of pot.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Levin’s ears immediately pricked up.

  ‘Yeah. So I rang Price. He says. “Yeah that’ll have to do.” So rather than put this poor silly cunt in a wheelchair, I just gave him a good smack in the mouth and picked up the dope.’ Les gave a deep, throaty chuckle. ‘Now we’re stuck with twenty kilo of bloody pot. But we’ll flog it somewhere in Sydney and get Price’s fifteen grand back.’

  ‘There’s twenty kilos, and you. . . just want Price’s fifteen thousand?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all. I’ll flog it to the first bloke that comes up with 15 yards. I’m fucked if I want to be driving around with that much dope in the boot of me car.’

  Tony looked at Norton for a moment and stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Is the stuff any good?’

  Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well I don’t know much about the stuff Tony, prices and all that. But evidently it’s the grouse. All compressed heads or something. I know it’s all full of little red hairs and it’s as sticky as buggery.’ Norton gave Tony a dumb look. ‘Does that mean anything?’

  ‘Oh. . . yeah. It could.’ Tony was trying to act cool but he was swarming like a school of Botany Bay mullet.

  ‘I don’t smoke myself, but I’m with a bloke and a couple of chics. I gave them some and they couldn’t even finish one joint. In fact the two chics are out in the toilet now. They reckon they couldn’t handle it. The bloke’s off his head, too.’ Norton pointed to the empty cubicle and waved to Reg, who waved back enthusiastically. Seeing George get flattened had Reg stoned off his face as it was. ‘Anyway, do you want a smoke? I’ve got a bag on me.’