Just then Les came over. ‘What’s up?’ he asked looking round the table then back at his brother.
‘These kippers have jumped the gun,’ said Murray angrily. ‘Now they want to get smart about it.’
‘Come here,’ said Les, taking Murray by the arm and leading him away from the pool table. He’d seen that many fights in pubs over games of pool he knew the futility of it. ‘Look, don’t be starting a fight in here, I’ve got to come here all the time and sometimes I do a bit of business through the joint. So I don’t want to be shitting in my own nest.’
‘Well how about I just take a couple of the bludgers outside,’ replied Murray.
‘You’ll only end up getting pinched. There’s a bunch of coppers over there,’ he nodded towards the bar, ‘and they’re going up and down the front all the time Sunday night. Give it a miss.’
‘Ahh, it’s enough to give you the shits though.’
‘I know.’
‘Why don’t you take Tex back to the farm, Blue,’ said the blond haired Pommy, ‘and get his hat blocked? While he’s got his head in it.’ The others all laughed.
‘Don’t push your luck too far pal,’ said Les, stony faced.
‘We wouldn’t dream of it. Would we lads?’ said the biggest pommy, looking directly at Norton.
Murray was still seething when they got back to the bar and ordered another two middies. ‘Fair dinkum, Les,’ he said, taking a giant pull on his beer. ‘I’d like to go over and shove that pool cue fair up that Pommy’s fat kyber.’
‘Anywhere else I’d give you a hand. I wouldn’t mind snottin’ the big goose myself. But I don’t want to get barred from here and it’s no use getting pinched.’
Murray took a deep breath and snorted it out through his nose. ‘Yeah, I s’pose your right,’ he said through clenched teeth. He glared over at the Pommies, who just ignored him and continued with their game.
They had another couple of beers, Murray cooled down a bit then he began to yawn. ‘We might get goin’ soon anyway, eh?’ he said. ‘I’m startin’ to get a bit tired.’
‘One more and we’ll stall. I’ll get ’em.’
They finished their drinks and quietly left the hotel. They walked along casually with their hands in their pockets, talking idly as they slowly strolled along grimy, narrow Gould Street.
‘You know one thing I notice when I come to the city, Les?’ said Murray glancing round at the shops and dilapidated old blocks of flats. ‘Apart from all the mugs you have to put up with.’
‘What’s that?’
‘All the rubbish in the streets.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It always amazes me.’
‘Yeah. You wonder where it’s all coming to at times.’
They meandered along down the dingy, garbage-strewn street, talking quietly, just taking their time. The milky, yellow street lights threw sickly, crooked shadows around them and gave their brown faces a bleached, ghostlike appearance.
As they crossed Hall Street and were walking past the Post Office an old, blue Leyland P76, with a coathanger for an aerial and a Tottenham Hotspurs decal on the rear window drew up alongside them.
‘Hey Tex,’ a voice called out. ‘Enjoy your game of pool?’
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ Murray said quietly, turning to Les. ‘It’s your Pommy mates back. Hey Les, we’re not shittin’ in your nest here. And I don’t see any coppers about.’
‘Go for your life, Muzz,’ said Les evenly, slipping his watch off and putting it in his back pocket.
‘Oh it’s you back,’ Murray called out to the Pommies in the old Leyland. ‘I thought I could smell something. For a moment I was sure I’d trodden in dog shit.’
‘Why don’t you throw a cake of soap in the car?’ said Les.
‘No good doin’ that,’ said Murray. ‘They’d only eat it. Think it was green chocolate.’
‘You’re a right funny geezer, ain’t you Tex?’ came a voice from the car.
‘Not half as funny as you smell, arseole,’ replied Murray.
‘Hey Murray,’ said Les. ‘How do you tell a Pommy’s age?’
‘I dunno. How?’
‘Give him a bath and count the rings.’
As they roared laughing, Les heard the crunch of a handbrake being jammed on. The next thing the blond haired Pommy with the broken nose jumped out of the front passenger side. ‘Well we might just see how good you are, Tex,’ he said savagely, walking straight over to Murray and squaring up.
He shaped up like a boxer and fired two straight lefts and a short right into Murray’s face, knocking his hat off. Unfortunately, Murray was pretty much like his brother and you have to run him over with a double-decker bus just to bruise him. He just laughed.
‘Bit of a boxer are you mate?’ he said.
Murray shaped up with his hands down by his side, outback style, and threw a big overhand right; it looped a bit but it was lightning fast with a lot of weight behind it. It caught the Pommy flush on the jaw, shattering several teeth and knocking him up against the wall of the Post Office. In an instant two deadly lefts slammed into his face followed by another looping right. The Pommy saw stars and covered up as he felt himself being battered unconscious. Blood was starting to pour out of his mouth, nose and an awful cut in his ear.
Les was more interested in watching his brother’s style and he didn’t notice the Pommy who looked like Joe Cocker jump from the car, run over and king hit Murray in the side of the head, almost knocking him off balance. The big redhead quickly stepped in with a neat left hook that squashed Joe Cocker’s ear flatter than a trodden-on potato chip. As he started to buckle at the knees a thundering uppercut split his bony chin open and shattered his jaw.
A movement to Les’s right caught his eye. He moved fractionally just as the third and biggest Pommy came charging over and threw a big bowling left at the back of his head. He let it slide past, then, grabbing the big Pommy’s left arm at the wrist, slammed a solid, right, back fist into his side; just under his floating rib. The big Pommy was a bit short of a gallop and hadn’t been doing too many sit-ups; most of his training had obviously been on yorkshire pudding and beer. He sucked in his breath and gasped with pain. Les drew him slightly forward by the arm and slammed two stunning elbow shots into his temple. The big Pommy grunted with more pain and comets started to spin before his eyes as his brain was slammed violently from one side of his skull to the other. He started to sag like a wet sack. As he did, Les, still holding his left arm, stepped over it and drew it backwards into his crutch, squatting at the same time. The big Pommy let out a final scream of agony as his arm was snapped at the elbow joint, like a carrot. Just to make sure he was finished Les took him by the hair and slammed his face into the footpath several times, leaving patches of blood all over the dirty grey asphalt.
‘How’re you goin’ there Muzz? Everything under control?’ he called out to his brother.
‘Good as gold, son.’ Murray had the first Pommy lying on his side, his hands over his head, moaning with pain as Murray kept doing a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down his ribcage with his R. M. Williams riding boots.
‘That’s not very nice is it Murray? Kicking a man while he’s down.’
‘They’re not very nice blokes, Les.’
‘True,’ replied Les laconically.
‘Well, that should do it,’ said Murray giving the whimpering Pommy a last solid kick in the ribs. ‘Let’s piss off.’
‘Yeah, come on. I think they’ve had enough.’
Murray reached down to pick up his hat. ‘Hey wait a minute,’ he said looking at the dark haired Pommy that Les had flattened. He took hold of his wrist. ‘Isn’t that one of those grouse Seiko quartz diver’s watches?’ He undid it, looked at it for a moment then slipped it into his pocket. ‘Young Wayne’s always wanted one of those to wear down the river. He’ll be rapt when I give it to him.’
‘I didn’t know you were such a caring father, Muzz.’
‘Nothin’s too good for my kid
s, Les.’
Murray walked over, opened the front door of the P76 and looked inside. ‘Hello. What have we got in here?’ he said brightly. He reached inside and came up with two dozen cans of beer. ‘Victorian Bitter. That’ll do, it’s not a bad drop.’ He took two cans out and tucked the carton up under his arm. ‘Here y’are,’ he said slinging one over to Les.
They whipped the ring-pulls off and started drinking from the cans, walking slowly and quietly up the street, the same as before. After a while Les spoke.
‘Been much rain up home lately?’ he said taking a decent sort of a swallow from his can of beer.
‘Nah,’ said Murray, finishing his and tossing the empty can in the gutter. ‘It’s been that hot and dry even the goannas are gettin’ round with zinc cream on their noses.’
‘Go on, eh?’
They strolled leisurely along, talking and drinking a few more cans. They had another couple when they got home and called it a night.
Monday dawned cloudy with a little bit of rain around that looked like it could increase later on. One of those typical, unsettled days Sydney always seems to get in mid spring. Not cold enough to wear a jumper but too lousy to go to the beach; the sort of day you’re better off being at work. Or in a pub.
Murray woke up to find Les standing at the bedroom door dressed in a pair of football shorts, running shoes and an old sweat shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. A sweat band made from an old T-shirt was wrapped around his head. ‘G’day Muzz,’ he said brightly, ‘how did you sleep?’
‘Mate, I never moved,’ said Murray blinking his eyes several times while he got his bearings. ‘What time is it?’
‘About half past eight.’
‘Shit, is it?’ Murray was a bit surprised, being the sort of bloke that’s normally up at the crack of dawn.
‘There’s a pot of tea in the kitchen. I’m just going down to Centennial Park for a run, why don’t you get Grungle and come down, give him a bit of exercise.
‘Yeah, I might do that,’ said Murray rubbing his eyes. ‘Just give me five minutes to have a snake’s and put me strides on.’
‘Take your time. There’s no real hurry.’
An hour and a half later, Les had finished a 12 km run, sprints included, 150 sit-ups, the same amount of push-ups and a fairly solid spar and wrestle with his rock hard brother; which was a work-out in itself. Grungle had chased all the water hens, swans and everything else to his heart’s content, while Murray had a good mag, bush style, to the park ranger and two young mounted policemen. Country boys themselves. They were fascinated by the strange, wild looking bushman and his equally strange, wild looking dog.
It started to rain again when they got back home, a little harder this time, so they had to sprint from Les’s car to the house. After a quick shower Les changed into a track-suit and fresh sneakers then cooked them both up a big feed of breakfast sausages and plenty of scrambled eggs with chopped up shallots; plus a pot of tea and huge stack of Vogel’s toast. Grungle was wet, so instead of having him lie around stinking up the lounge or the verandah Les put him out the back with the other kangaroo leg, which the dog immediately started crunching up with terrifying efficiency. King put his usual act on when he saw Grungle, who snarled a little at first then simply ignored him.
Over breakfast the boys watched Grungle through the back door, chewing on the leg. Across the fence they could see King’s big head sticking out of his carpeted kennel in Grungle’s direction. Every now and again he’d snarl bitterly at him.
‘Go on Les,’ said Murray between mouthfuls of sausages and egg. ‘Let me toss him over the fence. Just for a couple of minutes.’
‘Turn it up,’ replied Les shaking his head. He took a great slurp of tea from his mug and looked at his watch. ‘The bloke should be here soon to take you to Price’s place.’
‘Good. To tell you the truth I’m looking forward to meeting this boss of yours.’
‘You’ll love him Muzz. He’s a terrific bloke. And wait’ll you see his home, it looks like Buckingham Palace.’
‘Yeah. Has he got a swimmin’ pool? I might take me cossies.’
‘Turn it up. You’d leave a ring around it a foot wide.’
They finished the first pot of tea, Les made a fresh one so they sat there talking and polished off the rest of the toast. They started to put the dishes away when Les heard a car horn bip a couple of times out the front. ‘That’ll be him now,’ he said walking out and opening the front door. He recognised the driver and waved; the driver waved back from Price’s brown Rolls-Royce.
‘You right, Muzz?’ he called out.
‘Yeah. Wait’ll I have a quick leak.’
It had stopped raining so Les walked down to the car to talk to the driver. ‘G’day, Eddie,’ he said as the driver’s side window slid quietly down. ‘How’re you goin’?’
‘Not bad, Les. How’s y’self?’ The driver was Eddie Salita, a short wiry Calabrian, who wore glasses and smiled a lot with flashing white teeth. There wasn’t a real lot of Eddie, but he was a tough little rooster and Price’s number one hit-man. It was Eddie who went down to Melbourne and shot the two Painters and Dockers who shot Les in their attempt to kill Price. ‘Hey what’s goin’ on here, Les?’ he asked. ‘Price told me to guard this brother of yours with my life. Christ, I’ve got enough guns in the car to start a shooting gallery.’
Les smiled as he noticed the .38 police special sitting snugly under Eddie’s shoulder and the butt of a sawn-off police riot gun sticking up between the front seats. An unopened box of shells was lying on the floor.
‘Here he comes now,’ he said. ‘He’ll tell you all about it on the way over.’
As Murray got into the front passenger’s seat Les introduced him to Eddie. ‘Listen Muzz,’ said Les, ‘it’s half past twelve. I reckon you should be back half past two or so. I’ll wait here for you anyway.’
‘All right.’
‘So I’ll see you then. Good luck.’
‘No worries. See you.’
‘See you later, Eddie.’
‘See you, Les.’ Eddie gave the horn a toot as he drove off. Murray had a grin from ear to ear.
As the Rolls slowly cruised off down the street Les noticed Stavros herd his family, all arguing in Greek, out of the house and bundle them noisily into the Valiant; Despina got in the front, Johnny Cash sat in the back between the two boys. Despina looked quite nice in a sleeveless white dress with a floppy light blue hat, the boys were brushed up also in their dark blue Waverley College suits; all freshly dry-cleaned. Stavros was wearing the most ostentatious, black, chalk striped suit imaginable with a red tie about a yard wide. He looked like a heavy in a spaghetti western.
‘Off to the big wedding, Stav?’ Les called out as Stavros was getting into the car. Despina and the kids turned around inside, smiled and waved; Johnny Cash flashed a toothless grin from the back seat.
‘Yes. Yes, off to the wedding,’ replied Stavros. ‘But I tell you something Les, my friend.’ He put his hands on either side of his head and closed his eyes. ‘I do not feel very much like it. Yesterday, too much. Ooh.’
Les couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’ll be right, mate,’ he said.
He stood there for a moment as they drove off, idly kicking some rubbish into the still lightly flowing gutter. The rain had eased and out towards the ocean he could see a couple of small blue patches among the pastel greys of the sky. He was about to go in his gate when he spotted one of the old pensioners across the road, Mrs. Beatty, trying to manoeuvre a large, potted rubber tree plant from her front verandah down the front stairs.
‘Hey, hang on Mrs. Beatty,’ he called out. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ He trotted across the road and effortlessly picked up the heavy, black concrete pot. ‘Whereabouts do you want it?’ he asked.
‘Just in the corner near the oleander thanks, Les.’ Mrs. Beatty straightened up, dusted her hands on the apron she was wearing and tucked a loose strand of blue-grey hair back up under a
n old yellow scarf she had tied over her head. ‘Oh, you’re a pet Les, for doing that,’ she said.
‘That’s all right,’ said Les, nudging the heavy pot finally into place with his foot. ‘If ever you need a lift with anything and I’m around, give us a yell. No good you bustin’ a poofle valve.’
‘Well, I generally get Mrs. Curtin next door to give me a hand, but she’s in bed lying down. She’s not very well today, poor thing.’
‘Yeah. What’s up? Bit off-colour is she?’
‘Oh no, she took a dreadful turn yesterday evening. Didn’t you hear what happened?’
‘No, I was out. What happened?’
Mrs. Beatty produced a crumpled tissue from her apron, took off her glasses and polished them vigorously. Les could sense she was winding up for a bit of good gossip.
‘Oh it was something shocking,’ she said, placing her glasses back on her face. ‘We were standing out the front having a bit of a talk . . . we’d just put the garbage tins out. Mrs. Curtin had Sally with her.’
‘Her little sydney silky?’
‘Yes. Anyway, Mr Poltavaris has come out of his front gate with that great big alsatian of his, King, on a lead.’
Les’s eyebrows knitted and he looked at her quizzingly. ‘Go on,’ he said slowly.
‘Well, the next thing, King’s torn itself off the lead, ran across the road and started savaging Sally.’
‘Her little silky?’ Les was incredulous. ‘It’s no bigger than a powder puff.’
‘Yes I know. Luckily I had a broom handy and I gave it a crack across the face and he dropped her, otherwise he’d probably have killed the poor little thing.’
Les stood there po-faced, silently shaking his head.
‘Anyway, poor Mrs. Curtin has picked up Sally, who had terrible gashes in her back, and King’s gone her. She’s fallen over and hurt all her back. By this time Mr. Poltavaris has ran over and managed to get hold of King and he’s shouting at it to get down, but the blessed thing hardly takes any notice of him, you know. So I gave the rotten thing another crack with the broom. That made it shut up a bit.’
Les thought back to his episode with King and the cricket stump. ‘Yeah, it would,’ he said. ‘So what happened then?’
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