‘Well, what d’you reckon it is?’ he said.
‘I dunno,’ replied Bikie Number Two. ‘Is it a penguin?’
‘Nah, it’s not a penguin,’ said Bikie Number One. ‘Penguins are never this ugly.’
‘Maybe it’s an ugly penguin and it’s been kicked out of Taronga Park, for bein’ too ugly.’
‘Oh, why dontcha leave the poor thing alone,’ said the scruffy girlfriend, ‘you might get ugly yourself one day and get washed up on Bondi.’ She threw back her head and roared laughing. She had a mean, vicious face and her smile revealed a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth, covered in enough blackfish bait to catch a school of niggers.
In the meantime, Bikie Number Two had got up from the cubicle and moved over to Les’s left side. He was a bit shorter than his mate but dressed pretty much the same, only he had a mop of curly blond hair that looked like wood shavings, a dirty blue beanie was perched unevenly on his head and through the wood shavings a couple of earrings glinted in each ear. His T-shirt had risen up and an expanse of hairy white stomach flopped out over his filthy jeans.
Norton was still standing there staring quietly at the floor. He hadn’t said anything but he’d taken his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest, and his eyebrows were starting to twitch, noticeably.
‘Ow yer goin’, penguin?’ said Bikie Number Two. ‘Haven’t seen ya down the south pole lately.’
‘Yeah, next time you’re down there, give my love to Santa will ya,’ chorused Bikie Number One.
‘Hey, waddyer reckon that is hangin’ round his neck?’
‘I dunno, maybe it’s a propeller.’
‘Well why don’t you give it a wind, see if the penguin’s head takes off?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
Bikie Number One reached over to grab Norton’s bow-tie. That was the last thing he remembered doing. After what had happened to Norton that morning this was all he needed and the half inch fuse to the pile of dynamite inside Les had just burnt out.
Like a cobra striking, Norton spun round and let go an awesome left uppercut under Bikie Number One’s chin, which lifted him completely up off the floor and flipped him backwards over the counter. He crashed down on the other side in a mess of tabouli, falafal and kebabs, his jaw shattered like a light bulb and a gash running the entire length of his chin, the white bone showing through the blood running over his chest and on to the floor.
In almost the same movement Les hit the second bikie with the back of his massive right fist fair in the face. He followed this with an explosive left hook that sent him spinning into the nearest cubicle, a rivulet of blood splashed over the two people seated there. The bikie threw his hands over his face in a vain attempt to shield himself but Norton simply punched straight into his hands, smashing all his fingers. He screamed with pain. Les slammed a right into his fat stomach which soon silenced him and doubled him up, then took him by his curly blond hair and, spinning him round, kicked him straight up the backside, sending him skidding into the pinball machine near the kitchen. The two surfies stood back as the blond bikie crashed on the floor next to them in a blubbering pain-wracked heap. They were staring at Les like they were sitting out the back at Bondi and he was a 40 foot wave come up out of nowhere.
Meanwhile, the bikie’s moll had jumped up, and grabbing a Coke bottle, smashed it against the counter. Norton spun round at the sound of breaking glass just as she tried to jab the broken bottle into his face. He grabbed her right hand with his left and shook the jagged bottle out of her hand. As it hit the floor she lashed out and kicked Les in the shin. He cocked back his huge right fist, looked at her and paused momentarily. Being an old Queensland country boy he’d never hit a woman before, but this was the age of women’s lib and equality of the sexes so Les did the right thing, he smacked her straight in the mouth, knocking out most of her rotten green teeth, then gave her another one in the eye for good measure.
Bikie Number Three could see by now he wasn’t going to have a great deal of luck with Norton in the fisticuffs department so he decided to bolt. He ducked out behind Les. Les made a swing for him but he was just a shade too quick and ran out the front door, with an enraged Norton in hot pursuit. He had a bit of start on Les as he galloped off down Bondi Road in his bikie boots. Les stopped at the front of the shop, and spying a metal garbage tin wrenched the lid off and flung it down the road after the retreating bikie. It spun through the air like a gigantic metal frisbee and with a metallic clang hit the bikie in the back of the head, sending him sprawling head first on to the chewing gum encrusted footpath. As he hit the asphalt Norton zoomed up alongside him and kicked him savagely in the stomach, the bikie gave a scream of pain then doubled up and started to vomit.
Les kicked him again then picked up the heavy metal garbage tin lid and started bashing him over the head with it, good and hard. You could have heard the din five blocks away —it sounded like a team of panel beaters on piece work. Finally, when the bikie was nothing more than a bloody, quivering mess, Les gave a grunt of satisfaction, dropped the battered garbage tin lid, with bits of the bikie’s scalp still clinging to it, next to him and walked slowly back to the take-away food bar. Two of the owners and a couple of other people were standing at the front, wide-eyed and incredulous. They stepped back quickly to let Norton inside.
Inside, the food bar looked like a cross between a Burt Reynolds movie and a slaughterhouse. Bikie Number One was still sprawled out behind the counter covered in tabouli, a pool of blood forming round his head, the way he lay there it looked as if his neck could have been broken. Bikie Number Two lay slumped under the pinball machine like a broken doll moaning with pain and shock, and the bikie moll was squashed beneath the cubicle, out like a light, one eye looked like a lamb’s fry, a gory crimson mess where her mouth and teeth had been.
Norton glanced impassively around the carnage in the food bar then noticed that his two steak sandwiches, with extra onion, were still sitting in their brown paper bag on top of the stainless steel food warmer. He walked casually over to the counter checked the prices carefully, written up on the wall behind, and took some money out of his pocket.
‘Two steak sangers with extra onion, three bucks, right?’ he said.
The Lebanese behind the counter didn’t say anything, he just stood there and nodded his head, a blank expression on his face. Les dropped the three dollars on the counter and picked up his steak sandwiches. He hesitated for a moment then turned and walked down to the two terrified surfies standing next to the pinball machine at the rear of the shop.
‘Sorry I tilted your machine, fellahs,’ he said. ‘Here,’ he dropped a few 20 coins with a rattle on the glass top of the machine, ‘have a couple of games on me.’
Then without so much as another word Les turned and slowly, nonchalantly strolled out of the silent shop towards his car and for the first time that day, since he had his treasured boots stolen, the merest suggestion of a smile creaked slowly, icily across his craggy red face.
Sydney on a clear winter’s day is without doubt the prettiest city in Australia and arguably the prettiest in the world. At the back of Bondi Junction, near the microwave tower in Botany Street is the highest point in the city. If you stand up there on a mild clear winter’s morning and look west, you can see right over Centennial Park, straight across the monotonous plains of the western suburbs and all the way to the alluring eucalypt sapphire haze of the Blue Mountains. It’s this distinct blue haze, caused by the vapour given off by millions of eucalyptus trees, that gave the beautiful Blue Mountains their unique name.
On these clear, cool winter’s days, the chilly south-west winds sing their mournful song as they sigh relentlessly down from the Blue Moutains, pushing the few tufts of grey cloud scattered around the sky like pieces of steel wool, over the loveliest harbour in the world and finally scatters them, like a mother bird saying goodbye to her fledgling chicks, through the magnificent Sydney Heads and out into the endless aquamarine of the T
asman Sea.
Norton loved these early winter mornings, they were one of the few things in Sydney he liked; days like this you wouldn’t be dead for quids, Norton used to joke to himself.
Though his night job gave him few opportunities to get up early, when he could Les would rise at dawn, drive down to Centennial Park and go for a good long run.
After the noisy, smoky, sometimes hostile atmosphere of the Kelly Club and the neon gaudiness of the Cross and its seedy denizens the uncrowded green beauty of Centennial Park was almost a revelation to him. Sometimes as he’d belt along the edges of the ponds in the early morning mist, scattering the water hens and ducks near the banks, he’d close his eyes and for a few seconds imagine he was back running around the river banks near Dirranbandi, but all too briefly.
It was one of these cool winter mornings in Centennial Park about six or so weeks after Les had had his boots stolen; he still hadn’t quite got over getting his good boots pinched but at least he was learning to live with it, and Tommy Butterworth had promised to get him another pair as soon as the opportunity arose.
He’d been running in the park for about half an hour, he’d done two circuits, now he was criss-crossing, just running anywhere, stopping every now and again to do 20 or so push-ups and a few sit-ups then continuing on his way. He would do this for roughly an hour or so. He preferred to run in the more deserted parts of the park, away from the usual running routes and the other people; the less people he saw when he was running the more he liked it. He’d belt along these out-of-the-way trails, brushing any overhanging branches aside with his arms, jumping over logs or stumps; any clearings he came to he’d sprint across, taking in great draughts of cold air and letting it out behind him in huge billowing clouds of steam which would hang in the crisp winter air momentarily till they’d disappear in the wind.
Les was pounding along in this manner, hardly a worry in the world feeling great, the cold air stinging his sweat-stained face. He was running along a narrow trail and spotting a small sheltered clearing up ahead, decided to take it in one great leap. He picked up speed and as he got to the edge of the clearing threw his hands forward to take off in a mighty leap, but his foot caught on something and instead of arching gracefully through the air, Les sprawled forward to culminate in a noisy, spectacular somersault of dirt, twigs and grass, landing flat on his back near the other side of the clearing. He lay there for a second or two, slightly dazed, then let out a mighty oath.
‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ,’ he roared. ‘What the fuckin’ hell was that?’
Gingerly he picked himself up, stood there for a moment rubbing his hip and inspected the damage; he’d skinned both knees and his elbow but nothing was broken or sprained. He turned to see what it was he’d tripped over.
Limping back to the other side of the small clearing all he could see was a pile of spread-out newspapers. However, under closer inspection he noticed a scrawny, wizened arm stuck out under the newspapers that seemed to be groping towards an empty wine flagon, and sticking out from under the other end of the newspapers was a pair of skinny white legs clad in a pair of tattered blue pants. But, perched on the end of those skinny white legs was none other than Norton’s boots. A bit battered, a bit dirty but unmistakably, unequivocably Norton’s $290 iguana lizard skin boots which had mysteriously disappeared in Bondi Junction six weeks earlier.
At first Les just stood there staring, his hands on his hips. With a quick look around the clearing, as if he expected some people to be standing there, he pointed to the boots.
‘Hey, they’re my fuckin’ good boots!’ he roared at the top of his voice.
He knelt down and ran his hands over them, then got back up again.
‘My fuckin’ oath they are. What are you doing with them you old cunt?’
The old wino lay there, sleeping blissfully on, ignoring Norton’s raving. Norton didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, he was a hotbed of mixed emotions. On one hand he wanted to tell the world he’d got his boots back and on the other hand he wanted to kick the stuffing out of the old wino for stealing them in the first place. Then again, the old bloke might have just found them somewhere so he couldn’t really pound the soul-case out of the poor old bugger for that. A few questions were in order; he gave the pile of newspapers a sharp kick.
‘Hey you old prick,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find those boots?’ Still no answer. He gave the pile of newspapers another nudge, ‘c’mon you old cunt, wake up, I’m talkin’ to you. Where’d you get those boots? Don’t try and tell me you bought ’em.’ Still no answer.
Les stood there glaring down at the sleeping form beneath the newspapers, his chest heaving, steam rising off his face as the sweat dripped off his nose and chin.
‘Ah, fuck this,’ he said, and gave the newspapers a good hard kick in the general direction of where he thought the old wino’s backside would be. Still no answer.
‘Jesus, how much piss did you drink last night?’ He gave the wine flagon a kick, it disappeared into the bushes, ‘Yeah fuckin’ empty, I thought so.’
He bent down and tore the newspapers off the old wino’s face. ‘C’mon you old prick, wake up, I want . . .’
Norton’s voice trailed away. He gave a little scream of terror and recoiled in horror, as if he’d just uncovered a tiger snake. For one look at the old man’s face, with the mouth frozen in a crooked half-smile, the spittle still glistening on the sides and those two opaque eyes, that stared straight through Les and into eternity, told him one certain thing; he could never wear those boots again.
‘Oh Jesus,’ he said as a shudder ran through his entire body, ‘keep the fuckin’ things.’ Big Les turned and ran for his life.
A Fortnight in Beirut
It was getting on for 11 o’clock on a mild Saturday night in September. The pale blue neon light of the Kelly Club threw an almost translucent glow over the two men in tuxedos standing casually at the entrance; the shorter man was eating an apple, the other was gnawing on a Cherry Ripe bar. The garish neon lights of Kings Cross blending haphazardly in around them added a distinct touch of surrealism to the whole scene.
The shorter man checked his watch for the fifth time in the last hour, a look of mild concern on his face.
‘Price is a bit late getting here tonight,’ said Billy Dunne.
Les Norton finished his Cherry Ripe bar, screwed the wrapper in a ball and tossed it nonchalantly into the gutter.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘About 11 o’clock.’
‘There was a big meeting on at Rosehill today. He’s probably still celebrating.’
‘Yeah, he had two winners.’
‘Good prices?’
‘One was 15/1.’
A smile creased the corners of Les Norton’s eyes. ‘There’s your answer,’ he said.
They stepped back to let a well-dressed party of four into the club, giving each of them a smile and a nod as they entered. As they did, a light brown Rolls-Royce glided majestically up out the front and stopped about 20 feet down from the club.
‘Here he is now,’ said Les.
Price Galese stepped out from behind the wheel of the Rolls and walked briskly over towards them. He looked a picture of sartorial elegance in an immaculately cut, blue, three-piece suit which was accentuated by his silvery grey hair. A maroon tie and a solid gold tie-bar with large black opal in it added a touch of discreet class to his attire. He had a strange smile on his face.
‘Hello boys,’ he said lightly. ‘How are you?’
‘Not too bad Price. How’s yourself?’
‘All right. Listen,’ he took each of them by the arm. ‘Come up the office after work. I want to see you about something.’
‘There’s no trouble is there?’ said Billy.
‘No, not really. I’ll see you when we knock off.’ He gave the boys a wink and disappeared up the stairs.
‘I wonder what that was all about,’ said Billy.
Les shrugged. ‘We’ll find out af
ter work, I s’pose.’
The night was fairly uneventful. A team of drunken sailors came up to cause a bit of trouble; Les belted the biggest one in the mouth, knocking out several teeth and that was the end of that. Billy banged two bikies’ heads together and kicked a cheeky drag-queen in the backside and Les went up and had to eject the drunken wife of a Sydney television news-reader. She was out on the town while her husband was in hospital recovering from a hair transplant. This was done very discreetly and she was out the door and still laughing before she even knew what had happened. Just another Saturday night at the club.
Around 4am they had everyone out so the boys went to the office to see Price; knocking lightly before they entered. Price was seated behind his desk next to the club manager, George Brennan; they were doing their best to count a stack of money an East German gold medallist couldn’t have pole-vaulted over. At the end of the money sat a shiny blue-black Colt .45 automatic.
‘Come in, boys,’ said Price happily. ‘Grab yourselves a drink. You know where it is.’
Billy went for the Dimple Haigh and Drambuie, making himself a nice, tall rusty nail, Les settled for one of the cans of Fourex that Price, knowing the ex-Queenslander’s taste, always kept in the fridge for him. Billy gave the liquor cabinet a quick wipe and they sat down in front of Price’s desk.
Price turned to his manager. ‘George, leave me with the boys for a minute will you. I won’t be long.’
‘Sure,’ replied the manager. He picked up the .45, put it in a leather holster under his arm and walked to the door. ‘Don’t let Norton drink all the Fourex,’ he said with a wink and stepped outside.
‘Well, what’s the story?’ asked Billy.
Price eased himself back from the desk. ‘The story is, boys,’ he said, ‘I’m closing up the club for a couple of weeks.’
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