The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yeah, reckon. Listen I’ll tell you what Les.’ Tony drew a little closer to Norton’s ear. ‘If this stuffs any good, I’ll get you fifteen grand for it this weekend.’

  Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Suits me. I just want to get rid of the shit. The sooner the better. Anyway, come out to the car, have a look at it and roll yourself a joint.’

  ‘Righto.’

  They finished their drinks and strolled to the door.

  Outside the club, the owner and the two barmen were bundling the still semi-conscious George and Ken into the back of a Holden station wagon which was double parked in front of about a dozen leering, sniggering patrons. The two bouncers were blood from head to toe and in the pink neon-light flickering above them, looked more like they’d been in a bad car accident than a quick street fight. Les and Tony put their heads down, skirted around the crowd and walked briskly across the road to the BMW.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Norton, getting the bag of dope out from inside his Hawaiian shirt. He handed it to Tony who began to examine it closely under the interior light.

  Levin couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d been handling all sorts of pot for years — everything from Buddha sticks to Mullumbimby madness — and he’d never seen or felt anything like this. It smelt better than Turkish Green hashish and the amount of resin in the tiny purple heads almost glued his fingers together. He didn’t want to come on too strong though. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said casually. ‘I s’pose it. . . doesn’t look too bad.’

  Christ, just who’s trying to con who here, thought Norton. ‘Well there’s some papers there,’ he said. ‘Roll yourself a joint. That’s the best way to find out.’

  In next to no time Levin’s expert fingers had rolled a small neat joint complete with a tiny filter torn from a portion of the cigarette papers.

  ‘If you don’t mind Tony,’ said Norton, ‘would you smoke it outside the car, just in case I happen to get pulled over and some goosey walloper sticks his head in the window. Saves me a hassle.’

  ‘Yeah sure. No worries,’ said Tony opening the door. He couldn’t wait to try out this amazing looking dope.

  They locked the car and took a short walk up the street. Tony was puffing away deeply on the joint. He offered Norton a toke.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Les. ‘The coppers might come back about that fight and I’d have to do a bit of fast talking.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Norton picked up an empty cigarette packet, removed the silver paper then got a little bit of dope out of the plastic bag, wrapped it in the silver paper and gave it to Tony as a sample. By the time Tony had got to the end of the joint he didn’t know whether he was coming or going. His eyes were spinning round in his head like two bubbles in a piss-pot and Norton had him in, not only hook, line and sinker, but rod, reel and bait box as well. ‘Well. What do you reckon?’ he enquired casually.

  ‘Reckon?. . . Reckon. . . What?’ replied Tony vaguely. He was in Disneyland. Donald Duck was sitting on his shoulder and Pluto, Mickey and Goofy were dancing up and down the street with him.

  ‘That pot. Is it any good?’ Need I ask, thought Norton, looking at Tony’s twisted, grinning face.

  ‘Yeah. . . it’s. . . really. . . all right.’

  ‘Good. I wasn’t too sure myself. But if you say so it must be. Well come on, let’s go back to Pinkie’s.’

  ‘Pinkie’s?. . . What’s Pinkie’s?’

  ‘The nightclub we just came from Tony. You know. In Coffs Harbour. I just met you there. Remember?’ Christ, what a job, thought Norton. What’s Reg got in this stuff? nitroglycerin?

  ‘Oh yeah. Pinkie’s. . . You want to go there. . . do you?’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t mind Tony. Yeah. That’s if it’s no trouble for you of course.’

  ‘Oh no. . . that’s cool Les. . . Where is it?’

  ‘Just down the road. Come on.’ Norton looked at Tony stumbling around like a wombat and shook his head; he needed Tony hanging off him about as much as Kojak needs a year’s supply of hair conditioner. He took him by the arm. ‘Tony, just come back to the car for a minute.’ While Tony stood outside the BMW blinking into space Norton got a piece of paper and a biro from the glove box. ‘Now what do you want to do about that pot Tony?’ he said, after he locked the car.

  ‘I’ll take it. . . I mean. . . We’ll take it,’ said Tony, trying to focus on Norton while he leant unsteadily against the bonnet.

  ‘Okay. Well look, there’s the phone number where I’m staying.’ He showed Tony the piece of paper with Reg’s number on it then tucked it in the fob pocket of Tony’s jeans. ‘Ring me there tomorrow morning and we’ll sort it out. Okay?’ Tony nodded his head. ‘Now when we get back inside, I’ll leave you and go back to the team I’m with. The less people that see us together while we’re pulling this caper the better. Don’t you reckon?’ Norton had decided to add a little drama to the scene as an excuse to get rid of Levin, just in case he said something in front of Reg or Betty which might bring him undone. ‘So when we get back inside just make out you don’t know me. All right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Tony. ‘I can. . . dig that Les. . . . That’s cool.’

  Hello, thought Norton, now I’ve got him talking like a leftover from Woodstock. ‘Okay. So I’ll say goodbye now Tony and I’ll see you tomorrow. But come on, I’ll walk inside with you.’ With Tony following behind like one of the three blind mice they crossed the street — with Levin looking up and down the deserted thoroughfare every five seconds like it was peak-hour on Parramatta Road. There was no one outside the club so they walked straight in. Norton guided Tony to the bar then left him there and walked back to the cubicle where Betty was sitting quietly on her own. As Les sat down next to her he noticed she was a little pale and tense, and seemed to keep a slight distance between them.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ said Norton pleasantly. ‘Sorry I was so long but I bumped into an old mate from Sydney.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Where’s Diane and Reg?’

  ‘On the dance floor,’ replied Betty, then stared expressionlessly into her drink.

  ‘Do you want a dance?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Norton looked at her for a few moments then looked away as they sat there in awkward silence. Finally he said to her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’d like to go home soon Les. If that’s okay with you?’

  Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yeah sure. Just wait till Diane and Reg get back. All right?’ Betty nodded her head and kept staring into her drink.

  ‘Are you upset about that fight?’

  She turned to Les with a distrustful, slightly fearful look on her face. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life. You almost killed those two men.’

  ‘Oh get out. They’re just knocked about a bit that’s all. Christ, they’re big enough to cop it. Anyway, did Diane tell you what that big goose did to her and Reg? What about the way he was carrying on at the table. Jesus, turn it up.’

  ‘Fair enough Les, but you brought the girl over knowing he’d do something about it and you tipped the drink down the front of his T-shirt. Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ mumbled Norton. ‘I’m not gonna argue with you.’ Fuck it, he thought. I’ve sweetened everything up for Reg and his girl and bubbled the rort for myself. Just my bloody luck. He looked at Betty’s sensationally fit body bulging out against the short, light blue, dress she was wearing and cursed to himself again. He realised there’d be nothing doing there tonight. But although he didn’t want to admit it to himself Norton’s feelings for Betty ran a lot deeper than her body. They were sitting in silence when Reg and Diane arrived back sweating and puffing from the dance floor. Unlike Les and Betty, they were in high spirits.

  ‘Hey Les. What’s doin’ mate?’ laughed Reg, as they sat down opposite them.

  ‘Not much Reg,’ replied Norton pensively.

  ‘Did Stanton say
anything to you or try and pull something out the front?’ asked Diane.

  Norton shook his head. ‘No. He’s sweet.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him anyway. He’s as weak as piss.’ Diane reached over and placed her hand gently on Norton’s arm. ‘You’ve done everyone a favour. Don’t worry about that. Thank you Les.’

  ‘That goes for me, too, Les,’ said Reg. ‘You had us a bit worried at first. But. . . Thanks mate.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Norton, trying to smile. ‘Terrific.’ He looked at Betty still sitting silently next to him. ‘Anyway Betty wants to go home. She reckons she’s not feeling too good so I might have to get going soon.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Reg. ‘Diane’s offered to drive me home anyway.’

  ‘Oh well, you’re right then. You gonna duck in and see George on the way?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll bother,’ replied Diane. ‘Unless it’s to break something else.’

  ‘That’s if there’s anything left to break,’ laughed Reg.

  Despite his blues Norton still managed a bit of a smile at the evil look on Diane’s face.

  Norton finished his beer. Betty picked up her purse and they stood up to leave. Betty told Diane to call round and see her before she left for Grafton on Sunday — Norton told Reg he’d see him back at the farm. They quietly left the club and got into the car to head home. Betty didn’t say anything till they turned left onto the Pacific Highway and were about a kilometre towards Sawtell.

  ‘You haven’t really been honest with me, have you Les?’ she said, as they slowed down for a line of traffic.

  ‘How do you mean?’ replied Les, reaching over and turning the car stereo down a little more.

  ‘Your father doesn’t really own a meatworks, does he? And you’re about as much a company director as what I am.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh the flash car. The way you throw your money around. The fast talk. The slang. The quick professional way you crippled those two huge men.’

  Norton paused for a moment then looked over at her. ‘You really want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘All right Betty, I’ll tell you.’

  As they followed the other cars with the stereo playing softly in the background Norton told her almost everything about himself, Bondi and the Kelly Club. He didn’t elaborate too much about the fights, the scams and the murders he’d been involved in but he did mention how he made a lot of money on the side and owned his own home at Bondi. He told her about the block of flats he owned at Randwick and the black money he had invested through Price. He also told her how he met Reg and why he was staying with him; he didn’t mention anything about the dope.

  Betty sat listening intently, almost astonished, scarcely saying a word. By the time Norton had finished they were almost at Sawtell.

  ‘And that’s the truth Betty. How could I tell you I was a bouncer working in an illegal gambling casino up the Cross. Christ. I’d’ve lasted about two minutes.’ He looked at her seriously as they drove past the hotel where they’d spent Wednesday afternoon together. ‘Fair dinkum Betty. Where I come from I meet girls like you once in a blue moon. I just didn’t want to bomb the little chance I had.’

  They drove on in silence till Norton got to Betty’s street and pulled up in front of her flat. He switched off the motor and they sat in the car for a few moments listening absently to the stereo.

  ‘Anyway Betty, that’s the truth,’ Norton finally said. ‘If I’ve said or done anything that’s upset you. Well I’m sorry. I really am.’

  ‘That’s all right Les.’ She took her keys out of her purse. ‘I’m just. I don’t know. I’m just a little bewildered that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. At least now you know what’s goin’ on.’

  ‘Yes I certainly do,’ said Betty, as she started to open the car door. ‘And I think your kind of lifestyle would be just a bit too fast for a mundane country schoolteacher like me.’ Norton reached over and placed his hand on her arm as gently as he could. ‘Think what you like Betty. But if you should change your mind, you’ve got my number. Give me a ring and I’ll come over, even if it’s just to see you for a while. Or if you like I’ll take you out to dinner tomorrow night. Whatever suits you.’

  Betty smiled briefly. ‘We’ll see what happens Les.’

  Norton smiled at her and gave his shoulders a bit of a shrug. ‘Anyway. Even if you don’t. It’s sure been nice knowing you.’ He looked at the interior light reflecting the sadness in her eyes and yearned to hold her, wishing there was something more appropriate he could say. ‘Let me put that another way Betty,’ he said gently. ‘It’s been more than nice knowing you. It’s been three of the best days of my life.’

  Betty smiled at him again and Norton thought he could see a slight glisten in her eyes.

  ‘Good night Les.’ She opened the car door and got out.

  ‘Yeah. Good night Betty.’ He watched her walk briskly up to her flat.

  After she went inside Norton sat staring absently at her door for a moment or two. ‘Fuck it!’ he cursed out loud, then started the car and drove off.

  Ah well. No good crying over spilt milk I suppose, he thought, as he drove past the little hotel where they’d had their seafood lunch. Bloody sheilas. They’re all the same. Never happy unless they’re putting on a drama over something. Still. Ones like that don’t come along too often worse luck. An old-fashioned country girl. Shit, I sure fancied her. Anyway I got other things on my mind. He cruised along listening to the stereo and thinking about tomorrow and how he was going to get rid of twenty kilos of dud pot. This is going to be nice, he thought. As soon as those two take a look in that garbage bag they’re going to realise that’s exactly what it is: garbage. Then I won’t only lose my girl. I’ll be fifteen grand down the drain as well. Not to mention getting sprung trying to pull a swifty. This is going to be interesting. He glanced down at the dash and noticed the fuel gauge was just about on empty. Remembering there was an all night service station not far from the Bonnville turnoff he decided to fill the tank.

  ‘Fill her up, will you mate? And have a look at the oil and water, too?’

  ‘Yeah righto mate,’ replied the skinny, tattooed attendant, wearing a pair of filthy green overalls and an equally filthy beanie.

  While the attendant filled the tank Norton got a can of Coca-Cola and leant languidly up against the door absently watching the young bloke at the bowser. The cans must have only just gone in the fridge and been given a bit of a shake up in the process because as he pulled the ring-pull from the can syrupy brown foam sprayed all over his face and clothes. ‘You bludger,’ he cursed out loud wiping Coca-Cola off himself. He took a guzzle from the can, belched, and stood staring at the brown foam bubbling through the hole in the top of the can. Suddenly his face broke into a strange grin. He started to laugh openly. He was still laughing to himself when the grease-monkey came over and handed him his keys.

  ‘That’ll be $28.50 mate,’ he muttered. ‘Yer oil’s orright.’

  ‘Thanks matey.’ Norton handed the attendant a fifty. ‘Shout yourself a schooner and give me two dozen cans of Coca-Cola. You can toss ’em on the back seat. And give me a couple of Cherry Ripes as well.’

  ‘Righto mate. No worries.’

  Norton was gnawing his way through the second Cherry Ripe and laughing like a drain when he pulled up at the farm around 1.30. Reg still wasn’t home. Sally put her head out of her kennel, gave two blood curdling barks then collapsed back on to her blanket. Les got out of the car. He walked over to Reg’s incinerator, retrieved the huge bag of pot and hid it under the house. He went into the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. His Hawaiian shirt stank of cigarettes from inside Pinkie’s and there were still a few splashes of blood on it so he changed into a pair of shorts; he’d forgotten about Reg’s bag of pot still tucked away so he tossed the shirt on to the dressing table. After a cup of Ovaltine listening to the r
adio he hit the sack. He didn’t hear Reg come home about three or Diane leave shortly after.

  Norton was up before eight the following morning. He had a bit of a jog just to liven himself up, a quick shower and a light breakfast. Reg’s door was still closed and, having no intention of waking him up, he kept as quiet as he possibly could.

  He was in a very good mood when he went to Reg’s studio to get a pair of wire snips which he remembered seeing the previous day. He put them in the pocket of his jeans. Still whistling away, stopping now and again to break into laughter, he strolled over to the BMW and opened the boot. There was a large, grease-stained sheet folded inside just in case something was needed to kneel on if you had to change a flat tyre or get under the car. He got the sheet as well as the two-dozen cans of warm Coca-Cola from the back seat. He wrapped the cans up in the sheet, then went to the rear of the house, crawled underneath and retrieved the huge garbage bag full of pot. He stopped for a second when he got it out, then tiptoed quickly into the house and placed it on the bathroom scales. Twenty-one and a half kilos. Beauty! He tiptoed back outside, bundled the lot under his arm and, still cackling like a hyena, walked off into the bush.

  As he ambled along with the clear blue sky above, the birds singing to each other in the trees and the gentle spring breeze barely rustling the leaves, he, for some strange reason, couldn’t stop thinking about that big, silly rooster on the Bugs Bunny Show — Foghorn Leghorn. The next thing he knew he was singing. ‘Oh, the Campdown racetrack five miles long. Doo-dah. Doo-dah.’ Every few metres or so, he’d stop, take one step forward and one step back, laugh like buggery and sing: ‘Doo-dah. Doo-dah.’ If anyone had seen him they would have had him certified.

  Finally, after walking about 500 metres, he found what he was looking for; a small, sheltered, but sunny clearing well out of sight of the farm.