Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.
Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan
YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA THE GODSON BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER THE DAY OF THE GECKO RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ
ROBERT G.
BARRETT
You Wouldn’t be
Dead for Quids
This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.
First published 1985 by Waratah Press First published 1986 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd 1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 1987, 1988, 1989 (twice), 1990, 1991, 1992 (twice), 1993, 1994, 1996, 1998 (twice), 1999, 2000, 2001 (twice), 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2009
Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1985
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:
Barrett, Robert G.
You wouldn’t be dead for quids.
ISBN 978 0 330 27163 9
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 743 54906 3
I. Title
A823. 3
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
CONTENTS
You Wouldn’t Be Dead for Quids
A Fortnight in Beirut
Grungle
Bowen Lager
Definitely Not a Drop Kick
Fishin’ for Red Bream
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Ross and Helen at Coffs Harbour for giving me encouragement. Phil Abraham at Australian Penthouse for giving my stories a go. And the English master at Terrigal High, Mr James Tritten, for the invaluable help with my English.
DEDICATION
This is dedicated to the late Paul Turner, one of the best blokes I ever met — sadly only too briefly.
The Publisher would like to acknowledge that the author is giving 10% of his royalty earnings to Greenpeace, an organisation which he deeply respects.
You Wouldn’t Be Dead for Quids
You don’t have to look hard to find a lot of tough men around Sydney town, especially in the Balmain, Inner City and Eastern Suburbs area. They might be wharfies, truckies, meatworkers, ex-boxers, footballers; they might be anything you like that go towards making up the ranks of what are regarded as hard men, A lot of hard men usually end up working as bouncers somewhere, like a pub or disco, but if they’re really good and they’ve got a bit of brains to go with the brawn there’s a good chance they’ll finish up on the door of an illegal casino; and while a lot of people say there’s nothing too prestigious about being a bouncer, to work on the door of an illegal gambling casino is about as prestigious as you can get in the bouncing rort.
The reason is the huge amounts of money involved. In the 70s when Sydney was a real toddlin’ town, the casinos were all run by very rich, very powerful men who had generally been old villains and hard boys themselves in their day. They could soon sort out a sheep from a goat and with millions of dollars in cash going through their hands, cash that had to be minded and collected, they wouldn’t employ a lot of cream puffs and would-be’s to do it for them. They could afford to pay enormous slings to the police and politicians to keep the casinos’ operating, so they got the best protection there was in that department. Being able to pay the best wages for their heavies they only got the best men available in that department also; and the best of these was a big, red-headed ex-Queensland meatworker named Les Norton.
Actually Norton wasn’t really all that big. He didn’t have a great bull chest and he was just a shade under six feet. But he had good broad shoulders and a wide, powerful trunk that sometimes, especially in a tuxedo, gave him the appearance of being as wide as he was tall. However, he did have exceptionally long, thick sinewy arms covered in bristly red hairs and at the end of them dangled two massive gnarled hands, the fingers literally like Fijian bananas, the knuckles like fifty cent coins. And when he closed those two massive paws to form a fist, they looked like a couple of those Darling Downs hams you see hanging up in butcher shops around Christmas.
As far as looks go Les wasn’t ugly, but he was no Robert Redford either. His scrubby red hair topped a pair of dark, brooding eyes set in a wide square face, and with his lantern jaw and the mandatory broken nose of a bouncer Les looked pretty much exactly what he was. His one outstanding feature was a pair of immensely bushy eyebrows, that caused the owner of the casino where Les worked to nickname him Yosemite Sam after a character in the Bugs Bunny show on TV. And whenever Les was about to go into action with his fists those big bushy eyebrows would bristle like the hairs on a dog’s back.
As far as fighting went, Les wasn’t a really scientific fighter and for all Les knew the Marquis of Queensberry could have been a hotel in Parramatta. Whenever Les went off it was anything goes, and somehow or other, possibly through his huge shoulders and those enormous bony fists, he used to develop this terrifying punching power that could literally fracture skulls and shatter jaws and ribs. It didn’t take long for the word to get around the traps that if you wanted a shirt full of broken ribs and you fancied eating your meals through a straw for a few weeks, just go up and put a bit of shit on Les Norton, and Norton was afraid of no one and nothing. Except, funnily enough, dead bodies; even for an ex-meatworker he had an abhorrence of death. Photos in magazines . . . cemeteries . . . he couldn’t even walk past a funeral parlour without getting an uneasy feeling in his stomach, but hardly anyone knew this.
Norton drifted into Sydney on his own around 1970, got a job as a meat-carter and settled in Bondi. He came from a little town called Dirranbandi which is on the Narran River about 70 kilometres north of the NSW border. If anyone asked, he told them he’d come down to Sydney to play football but the truth was he’d killed a man in a fight back home and had to leave town and Queensland in a bit of a hurry.
A big German opal miner got full of drink one night and beat up Norton’s 60-year-old father in an argument over a game of pub pool. He beat the old boy up pretty bad too — put the boot in and all, then swaggered and snorted around the pub offering on all comers. The locals didn’t say much; they just picked the old boy up, wiped the blood off him, had a bit of a chuckle to themselves and took him home. The barmaid didn’t say much either; she just cleaned up the mess, looked at the big German still strutting round the bar, shook her head slowly and said, ‘Oh dear, oooh dear.’
They found him early the next morning lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the fire escape outside the hotel he was staying in. His neck was broken, that and a few other things. The local police sergeant put it down to death by accident: he’d got drunk and fallen down the stairs, but he told Les it might be a good idea if he got right out of town and Queensland for a while — out of sight, out of mind.
So Les left the wide open spaces of Queensland, which he loved, and finished in the crowds and
smog of Sydney, which he hated. He had a run with Easts and they offered him a contract and it wasn’t long before they had him in first grade as an enforcer. He was no ball distributing genius and as raw as a greyhound’s dinner but he wouldn’t take a backward step and if he had to Les would tackle the grandstand.
Not that Les was all that rapt in playing football. The games themselves he didn’t mind. It was all the training and team preparation that gave Les the shits. And after lumping bodies of beef on and off meatwagons all day from five o’clock in the morning, all Les wanted to do when he knocked off was have two schooners, a slice of rump with plenty of vegies and put his head down for about eight hours. The idea of four hours of jogging, sprints, weightlifting and sit-ups four nights a week plus ball work and a team lecture thrown in afterwards didn’t wash too well with Norton at all. But the money was all right and it kept his mind off back home, plus the club gave him a couple of good track suits and other training gear and being a man of simple tastes this appealed to him so he put up with it. However, Norton’s football career came to an abrupt end at the leagues club one Sunday night after a game against St George.
Saints had brought out this gigantic Maori forward named Henry Outanga. Henry wasn’t too bright but he was built like a Russian war memorial and had a head like a bag of cement. He was St George’s hit-man, their enforcer, and there wasn’t a player in Sydney that wasn’t a bit toey of big Henry. Henry knew this and he loved it. He was having a wonderful time belting everyone on and off the field and he was getting away with it. Henry hadn’t played against Les yet.
Saints also had this enigmatic coach called Ron Massey who was a genius at psyching players up: he could get an eight stone halfback and convince him he was Muhammed Ali. Just before the Easts game he pulled Henry aside in the dressing room.
‘Listen Henry,’ he said, his face about two inches away looking Henry directly in the eyes. ‘This is what I want you to do and you’re the only bloke that can do it.’
‘What’s that?’ Henry’s eyebrows knitted and beads of sweat started to form on his forehead as he tried to concentrate.
‘I want you to take the ball up and keep hitting them hard, hard all the time okay.’
‘Okay.’
‘But above all I want you to stop their number ten, a big red-headed bloke with big bushy eyebrows. You can’t miss him. He’s been saying how he’s gonna stick it right up you Henry cause he hates Maoris. In fact I want you to take him right out of the game if you can. You reckon you can do it?’
Henry snorted, spat on the floor and slammed a massive fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Can I do it,’ he fumed. ‘I’ll go over him like a fuckin’ lawnmower, the cunt.’
The coach smiled and put his arm around Henry’s big shoulders. ‘Good on you, Henry,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna have a big year in Sydney.’
They kicked off and the game had been going about 15 minutes when Les made a bit of a break. He turned in a tackle to get the ball away and just as he did Outanga came across and hit him with a stiff arm that was heard all over the ground. It sounded like a falling tree landing and it knocked Les fair on the seat of his pants. As he went to get up Henry stomped on his hand and gave him a knee in the side of his head as well. The referee didn’t see who did it but Les did. The Zambuck ran on and cleaned Norton up as the game continued. A few minutes later they formed a scrum which Easts won.
The ball went out to the back line and as the players broke from the scrum to go to their positions Henry felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned slowly around and as he did Norton drove a straight right with every ounce of strength in his body straight into Henry’s big, black face. It was horrible. It hit Henry like a wrecking ball, nearly breaking Les’s forearm. Even Henry’s relations back in Rotorua felt it. As he slumped to his knees Norton slammed a left hook into his jaw and that was the end of big Henry. He went straight to Disneyland. So much for Henry’s big year in Sydney. He spent the rest of the season sitting on the sideline with his jaw wired up blowing his nose out the back of his head. Unfortunately the referee saw who did it this time and Les got an early shower.
With their best tackler off the field the rest of the Easts forwards didn’t fancy having to do a bit of work for a change so they turned it up and the team lost, by a wide margin. Subsequently Les got the blame.
Up in the gloomy atmosphere of the leagues club that night Les was in the Tricolour Bar having a reluctant drink with his team mates when the club secretary, a drunken fat-bellied old prick at the best of times, decided to make a big man of himself and put Norton on show.
‘You bloody big hillbilly,’ he yelled at Les. ‘We brought you down from shitty Queensland, you didn’t even have a pair of shoes on your bloody feet. We pay you big money, big money and what do you do, turn round and cost us the game.’ He took another pull on his scotch and dry and turned around to make sure everyone was listening. They were, but with apprehension not amusement.
‘You’re a mug son, a proper bloody mug, you know that.’ Norton looked into his beer, quietly sipping it and trying not to take too much notice. The club secretary slurred on and on and then decided to start poking his fingers into Norton’s chest.
‘If I had my way,’ he slobbered, raising himself up to his full five foot six, ‘if I had my way I’d piss you off back to bloody stinken Queensland where you come from. What do you think of that, you goose?’
He stepped back from Les and glared at him, then glanced round the room. He was putting on a terrific act and getting away with it, half full of free drink and in his glory.
If the club secretary had had any brains he would have let it go at that. He’d made his point and he’d made an undeserved fool out of Les. But no, he had to give Les one more verbal.
‘What’s the name of that shitpot little town you come from in Queensland?’ he asked Les scornfully. ‘It starts with a D don’t it? Dubbo, yeah that’s it Dubbo. Funny I always thought Dubbo was in NSW but looking at you it seems I was wrong.’ He threw back his head and roared with drunken laughter. ‘Dubbo must be in bloody Queensland.’
That was enough for Norton. He shook his big head slowly from side to side as he looked into his beer. That was making the cup of tea just a bit too strong for Les. So he let go a short crisp backhander that travelled no more than eighteen inches but sent the top half of the club secretary’s false teeth sailing across one side of the room, to land in a skinny-legged blonde football groupie’s Bacardi and Coke, and the club secretary sprawling over several chairs and tables on the other side of the room to land at the feet of some Bellevue Hill Jews who were feverishly pumping coins into a 20 poker machine. They had a quick look and continued playing.
A couple of blue coats, the club’s bouncers, come storm-troopers, heard the commotion and came charging in, hoping it was an old pensioner or a drunk playing up and they could have dragged him into the lift and beat the shit out of him. But when they saw it was Norton they screeched to a halt so quickly their heels burnt a hole in the carpet.
Norton finished his beer in a swallow and placed the glass lightly on the nearest table. He looked at the club secretary lying under the poker machines. ‘Fuck you, you old shit,’ he said. Then turned and glared at everyone else in the room as well, ‘and fuck the rest of you too.’ Then taking his car keys out of his pocket he turned and walked defiantly out of the room. The two blue coats finally made a move. They saw Les coming towards them and parted like the Red Sea.
They tore up Les’s contract first thing the next morning. They barred him from the club. They barred him from ever playing football for Easts again. They even barred the other players from associating with him or even mentioning his name. If they could have they would have barred Les from jogging along Campbell Parade and having a swim at Bondi. But Les didn’t really give a stuff, he’d finished with a few dollars in his kick, he didn’t have to go through all that punishing training any more and he still had his track suits and gym gear. What more could a man
ask for?
A fortnight or so after Norton’s demise from grace at the leagues club he was having a work-out in a gymnasium at Coogee called Gales Baths. The place had been there about 40 years and was famous for it’s hot sea water baths and their therapeutic value. It was now run by a gregarious fitness fanatic called Les Morrow and was a gathering place for most of the footballers and sportsmen in the Eastern Suburbs. It was also frequented by members of the racing fraternity, their hangers-on and lots of other blokes who didn’t appear to have steady jobs but always managed to have plenty of folding stuff in their ‘sky rockets’ and liked to drop in for a game of handball and a hot sea water bath every now and again. Consequently quite a bit of the talking at Gales Baths was done in whispers and out the side of the mouth. But it was a big, bright airy place with plenty of atmosphere and since Les Morrow had taken over and done the place up it was arguably the best gym in Sydney.
It was late one Saturday morning. Les was circling a heavy punching bag like a hungry tiger shark and giving it absolutely heaps. He was super fit now from all the football training, his stamina was nothing short of amazing and you could have scrubbed overalls on his stomach. Now that he could train to suit himself Les enjoyed it more and would put plenty into it. Today was no exception. The punching bag weighed over 90 pounds but to watch Les walloping it you would think it was an old pillow case full of duck feathers.
Leaning against the counter at the front of the gym was Les Morrow and a group of punters. It was a bit on the cool side and they were huddled around a radiator, studying the form and listening to Ken Callender’s racing show on a small transistor radio. Every now and again Norton would land a combination of punches on the bag that would echo all over the gym. They’d look up from their yellow form guides, absently watch Norton for a moment, then look at each other, smile and shake their heads. Each knew what the other was thinking. How would you like to walk into a couple of those?
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