The hangers-on had edged forward a bit for a better view, urging the American on and laughing their heads off at the beating Billy was taking when Norton strolled nonchalantly around the corner gnawing at a shaslik through the open top of a paper bag. As soon as he saw what was going on he dropped the food and drinks and ran towards his helpless mate.
‘Hey, what the fuck’s goin’ on here?’ he yelled.
One of the hangers-on saw him coming and screamed out, ‘Hey, watch out behind you, Chuck!’
The American left Billy and spun round to face the enraged Norton charging down the street towards him.
‘Well what have we got here?’ he sneered, ‘bad guy number two, come to poppa motherfucker.’
He faced side on to Norton in a typical fighting karate stance and as Les got within range he fired out what was probably the best kick he’d ever thrown in his life. It was a ripper, the side of his foot turned slightly in, the heel out, and it went out in a perfect straight line about a hundred miles an hour, full of power and venom. Perfect.
Unfortunately, they should have warned Chuck about two things when you’re street fighting in Australia. Never fight in high-heeled shoes and always watch out for dog shit on the footpath. And that’s what brought him undone: as he threw the kick he skidded just slightly in about a medium-sized dog’s turd and what should have been the kick of the year just missed Norton’s face by about half an inch. Chuck was suddenly in an awful lot of bother.
Norton grabbed the cuff of the American’s Rodeo Drive designer jeans and flipped him straight up on his back. It was so quick he never had a chance to break his fall and his head hit the footpath. Stars spun before his eyes. As he scrambled to get up Les crouched slightly and drove a short, powerful right straight into his face. The Yank’s nose filled with blood, his eyes filled with water and 20 years of martial arts training went straight out the window. Norton’s adrenalin was starting to pump now.
He picked Wallace up by his shirtfront and slammed him backwards into the wall of the Kelly Club. Two left hooks thundered into his face followed by a lethal short right that pulverised his left ear. He started to slide down the wall of the club. As he did Les brought his knee straight up into his balls. Wallace let out a scream of pain and pitched forward on his hands and knees on to the footpath. The only thing that saved him from complete unconsciousness was his physical fitness and the fact that he had all those years of martial arts training behind him. An ordinary man would probably have been in a coma by now.
Norton paused for a moment to look at the blood-spattered, prostrate Wallace lying at his feet, then turned and walked over to Billy Dunne who was still crouched against the wall of the club, holding his ribs. He put his arm under him and helped him gently to his feet.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been a lot fuckin’ better,’ Billy replied painfully.
‘What happened anyway? I was only gone five minutes.’
Billy told him briefly what had happened. Norton didn’t say anything, he just stood there for a moment stroking his chin thoughtfully, then turned and walked back to the American who was still on his hands and knees making little animal noises, blood still dripping off his face on to the dirty grey cement footpath.
‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘I was watchin’ you as I was comin’ down the street, you’re not real bad with those kicks are you?’ Les started to laugh. ‘I used to do a bit of kickin’ myself once but it was a bit different to that, anyway here’s one I used to do. This is called kickin’ for touch.’
Saying that, Les stepped back, swung his right leg and punted Wallace straight in the face like a football, flipping him completely over on his back in a shower of blood, teeth and pieces of lip and gums. He landed in among some old metal garbage tins, out like a light. The hangers-on stood there horrified, not moving; they couldn’t believe their eyes.
Ignoring them Les walked back to Billy and put his arm round him. ‘Come on mate,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a hand up the stairs.’
‘Thanks Les.’
‘S’pose you’ll duck down to St. Vincent’s and get them to take a look at you.’
‘Yeah, I think I got a couple of broken ribs.’
‘Your mouth don’t look too good either.’
‘I got a few loose teeth.’
‘Then you probably won’t want your two shasliks, will you?’
Billy winced and spat a gob of blood on to the footpath. ‘If nobody else wants them, Les, they’re all yours.’
‘Thanks mate.’
From the back seat of the Rolls parked directly opposite Price Galese and the member of State Parliament had silently watched the entire performance, fascinated.
‘I say, Price,’ the State member finally said, ‘he’s quite a willing lad, that chap of yours. What’s his name?’
‘Les, Les Norton,’ replied Price smiling. ‘Yes, he’s a hard man all right, a hard man.’
The headlines in Monday morning’s papers said that visiting American actor and martial arts champion, Chuck Wallace, suffered several fractures when he was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver at Kings Cross in the early hours of Sunday morning. All his filming engagements had been cancelled and he would be flying straight back to America as soon as he was released from hospital. The producers and directors were most upset and offered Chuck and all his fans their sympathy, but not everyone was sorry. Actors Equity were quite pleased really. They didn’t want the Yank out here in the first place. But that’s show biz.
They were the first two of Les’s fights that Price Galese saw. There were others, but nothing really worth mentioning: a backhander here, a left hook there, but it didn’t take long for Norton’s reputation as 15 stone of red haired, steppin’ dynamite, with a very short fuse, to get around. However, Les’s reputation as a streetfighter was matched by only one thing, his reputation for his meanness with a dollar bill. When it came to releasing money, Les was tighter than a goldfish’s arse. If Norton earnt $400 for the week he’d bank $450, the girls in the Kelly Club said he used to take his money up to the Governor-General every pay day and have it stamped never to be released, and Billy Dunne swore he called round to Les’s place one day and found an empty toothpaste tube in a vice in his garage. He also claimed they had a shout in a pub once and when Les pulled a $ 10 bill out his wallet Henry Lawson started blinking at the light.
But Les’s philosophy was simple. Why spend it if you don’t have to? It was the same with clothes. Apart from his two tuxedos at the Kelly Club and the track suits he’d got from Easts, Norton’s wardrobe was as bare as a Scotchman’s knee; when and if Les ever went out he looked like an unmade bed. Despite this Les did have one peculiarity, he once forked out almost $300 for a pair of boots.
Being an old Queensland country boy Les loved his R. M. Williams riding boots, as most country people do. They’re comfortable, they go with just about anything and if you’re a bouncer, the reinforced toe comes in very handy if you have to do a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down someone’s ribcage. But the boots that cost Les all the money, he had made in Mexico. A Qantas flight steward named Tommy Butterworth used to come down the Kelly Club for a punt now and again and sometimes he used to wear these calf-length iguana lizard-skin boots he had made in Mexico City. As soon as Norton saw them he had to have a pair. So the next time Tommy got a trip to Mexico he took a pair of Les’s R. M. Williams with him for the bootmaker to go on and brought Les back his brand new boots. They ended up costing Les $290 and the night Billy Dunne saw Les cheerfully pay Tommy all that money for a pair of what to him were just cowboy boots, he had to have two Bex powders, a cup of tea and lie down in Price’s office for a little while.
But they were a beautiful pair of boots. Entirely hand-crafted from the softest, dark green iguana lizard skin, the inside lined with matching silk, a slight high heel balanced perfectly for comfortable walking, zippered for easy removal and with a delicate western pattern stitched into the toes, they were almost
a work of art. They fitted like a second skin and were without a doubt the softest, most comfortable pair of boots Les had ever worn in his life, and he loved them. Those boots meant more to Les than the Shroud of Turin and the Crown Jewels rolled into one. He cleaned them, polished them, nursed them and at Les’s hands those boots got more care and pampering than a royal baby.
Naturally enough, being on his feet just about everywhere he went, those boots would come in for a fair bit of wear and tear and would have to be half-soled and heeled now and again. Of course Les wouldn’t let just any run-of-the-mill bootmaker handle his precious boots: whenever they needed attention he would take them to a Jewish family of shoemakers in Bondi Junction, Solomon Coos and Sons. They specialised in hand-made boots and shoes and catered for all the show-business people, and people in general who didn’t care how much they paid for a top quality pair of shoes. Price Galese got his shoes made there and Les got to know the son, who was a bit of a playboy, from when he came down the Kelly Club. The old man got to know Les and being a shoemaker from the old school in Europe he would always admire the leather and craftmanship that had gone into Les’s boots. He’d personally repair them and only charge a pittance for the work involved.
Les had left his boots in for repair and had to pick them up one busy Saturday morning. Saturday morning in Bondi Junction is madness, there’s people and cars everywhere, and after working late Friday night Norton wasn’t in the best of moods when he double parked outside Coos’ shoe store in Oxford Street and ran inside to pick up his boots.
Solomon Coos was standing at the counter when Les burst in. As soon as he saw Les his face lit up in a big smile.
‘Ah my friend the bouncer,’ he said. ‘And how is Mister Bouncer this morning?’
‘Tired and in a hurry, Sol,’ replied Les.
‘In a hurry, you young people are always in a hurry.’
‘Yeah, well I’m double parked and it’s swarming with friggin’ brown bombers out there,’ Les jerked his head towards Oxford Street. ‘Me boots ready?’
‘Yes, my friend Les, they’re ready.’ He reached under the counter and got Les’s boots. ‘There you go, half-soled and heeled. I did them myself.’
Les inspected his boots carefully and ran his big hands gently over them. ‘Yeah, they look all right, what do I owe you?’
‘For you Les, how much?’ The old shoemaker shrugged his shoulders, smiled and made a magnanimous gesture with his hands: ‘Five dollars.’
‘Fair enough,’ replied Les and fished a crisp $10 bill out of a battered wallet.
‘Your son had a big win last night,’ he said as he waited for the change.
‘My son had a big win, my son doesn’t turn up for work this morning, my son is a shit.’
‘Oh I dunno,’ replied Les as he pocketed the change. ‘It is Saturday . . . maybe he’s turned religious. See ya.’ He winked and sped out of the shop.
He placed his boots, which Sol had put in a plastic bag, gently next to him on the front seat of the car and joined the smoky, noisy crawl of traffic heading up Oxford Street. He’d got about half a mile when a car pulled out in front of him. Les stopped, threw his old Ford into reverse and quickly backed into the vacant space. Finding a parking in Bondi Junction on Saturday morning is like winning the Lottery. Les had his gas and power bills in the glove box so he thought he may as well get them out of the road and save himself a trip up through the week. It would only take a few minutes.
He took the bills out of the glove box and sped off in the direction of the gas company. He didn’t bother to lock the car. He would only be a minute or two.
There was hardly anyone in the gas company office so he was in and out pretty smartly, but in the power company it was a different story, the queue was about a mile long and the cash register was playing up. Oh well, he thought, I’m here now I may as well wait. He suffered in silence, eventually getting to the counter. A team of spaced-out New Zealanders held him up the last few minutes. They couldn’t believe that just because they hadn’t paid their light bill for two months the company would turn the power off. Another minute and Norton would have booted the lot of them right in the arse, but he finally got his bill paid and darted out the door. He grabbed a 40 delicious apple off a barrow out the front, paid the bloke and trotted back to his car.
He jumped in, threw the receipts in the glove box and went to start the engine when he noticed something. His boots weren’t on the front seat where he’d left them. Frowning, he ran his hands down the sides and under the front seat; they weren’t there. He swivelled round quickly and checked the back seat and floor; nothing.
Norton was starting to feel a little uneasy now. He jumped out of the car and opened the boot. Maybe he’d put them in there and forgot. A wild search revealed nothing. He looked under the car then back inside, thoroughly. They weren’t there. He jumped out shaking with rage and had another look in the boot but they were gone, vanished, disappeared, stolen.
Norton’s chest was heaving and his dark brown eyes flashed murderously as he slammed the lid of the boot down, buckling the lock.
‘You rotten, fuckin’ thieving cunts,’ he screamed out at the top of his voice and drove his massive fist straight through the rear window of his car, sending a shower of glass splinters all over Oxford Street. He stormed round to the other side of the car and tore the aerial off and flung it down the street. ‘You stinkin’ thieving Sydney cunts,’ he raved. ‘My fuckin’ good boots, you cunts!’
The air was starting to turn blue now as Norton stormed round to the other side of the car and leant against it, his chest heaving and his hands shaking with fury as he drummed his fingers on the roof watching the people who had started to gather round. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there glaring at them, finally he stood back and with a roar of exasperation he gave the driver’s side door a kick that shook the whole car.
A stoned-out hippie was standing in the small crowd watching Norton. ‘Are you all right, man?’ he giggled. He looked like a cross between a Buddhist monk and an Apache Indian.
‘Am I all right?’ fumed Norton. ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’ He walked round and took the hippie by the throat, ‘I never felt better in my life.’ He tore the love beads from round the terrified hippie’s neck and stuffed them in his mouth then ground his jaws together. ‘You cunts reckon you can live off the universe,’ he hissed. ‘Try eating these.’ The beads crumbled in the hippie’s mouth and spilt out over his chin. Les was going to belt him but decided against it and just speared him into the crowd.
Wild-eyed, he stormed back to his car, got in and slammed the door violently behind him. He sat there for a moment or two still shaking with rage and not quite believing this could happen to him. Finally he started the car, revved the engine till it seemed as if the pistons would go through the block, then stormed straight out into the Saturday morning traffic. Every time he changed gears it sounded like somebody trying to run a piece of stainless steel through a circular saw.
Fortunately it was a bit quiet at the Kelly Club that night and just as fortunately there was no trouble. If anyone had of just given Les so much as a dirty look he would have torn their lungs out. Even Billy Dunne, who was used to Les’s normally taciturn nature, was slightly puzzled by Les’s increased surliness, but apart from Les grunting ‘some cunts pinched me boots’ early in the night, they were the only words he uttered all evening. Billy, being a bit of a wag, was dying to stir Les up or at least get him to release a bit more information, but Les’s face was showing about as much kindness as the Sultan of Turkey so he thought it might be best just to let sleeping dogs lie, or in Norton’s case sleeping gorillas.
They finished work about three that morning. Les grunted good night, jumped in his battered car with the glass splinters still all over the back seat and headed towards Bondi and home. He hadn’t eaten all day and by now his stomach was starting to sound like a concrete mixer, so he decided to duck in and get a couple of steak sandwiches on the way home.
Down the bottom of Bondi Road near the Royal Hotel there’s a group of three take-away food shops, the three are grouped fairly close together and the locals call it the Devil’s Triangle. They’re all run by a lot of shifty-looking Lebanese but you can get a decent steak sandwich there and the coffee’s always good.
Norton pulled up outside the Devil’s Triangle still wearing his tuxedo and bow-tie, went in to the closest food shop and ordered two steak sandwiches, with plenty of onions, to take away.
He leaned casually against the counter, his big hands in his pockets, facing towards the few people seated around the restaurant. It was after three in the morning and fairly quiet, most of the people were just sitting there sipping coffee, a couple of local surfies were laughing and playing a pinball machine near the kitchen at the back, and sitting in a cubicle, opposite where Les was standing, were three soapy bikies and their scruffy frump of a girlfriend. It was very cold and quiet, and it would have stayed that way only Bikie Number One, probably half full of beer and thinking he’d found an easy mark, decided to poke shit at Norton’s tuxedo.
He elbowed his way out of the cubicle and sidled up next to Les. He was about six foot three and looked like a sallow, pimply faced version of Clint Eastwood with matted, greasy, long black hair. He had on fairly standard bikie gear, filthy denim jeans tucked into an equally filthy pair of calf-length boots, a battered leather jacket with a Levi jacket, minus the sleeves thrown over the top, and a grease-stained, red scarf tied round his forehead. He probably hadn’t had a bath since the Battle of Hastings and when he opened his mouth, it reminded you of an oyster lease at low tide. He eyed Les up and down for a moment then turned to his mates still seated at the cubicle.
You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids Page 3