Oh well, he thought, watching the houses go past in the cab on the way out to Eagle Farm. It hadn’t been that bad a weekend. At least he’d seen his two old mates and had a terrific root.
The only thing that really annoyed him, apart from the stares of the other passengers on the plane back to Sydney, was the thought that he’d probably done the $3000. ‘Fuck it!’ he cursed out aloud.
He didn’t have much trouble getting a taxi after they landed at Kingsford Smith and by 12.30pm he was back in his banana chair in the backyard having a mug of tea and catching up on sports results in the paper. He was in an indifferent sort of mood when the phone rang.
‘Hello Les. It’s Warren.’ He didn’t sound very happy.
‘G’day Woz. How are you?’
‘Jesus Christ, Les. What the fuckin’ hell happened up there?’
‘Nothin’ much. There was a bit of a stink, that’s all.’
‘A bit of a fuckin’ stink. The pub got wrecked. The whole shoot was ruined. The agency is absolutely screaming and I look like losing my bloody job.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Fuckin’ yeah. Jesus Christ Les I told you before you left not to get into any trouble.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘No. It never fuckin’ is. Is it?’
‘Look. It’s no good talking over the phone. I’ll see you when you get home. All right?’
‘Yeah great. See you then.’
He’s kidding, thought Les, as he got his mug of tea and returned to his banana chair. All he’s worrying about is his lousy job. What about my bloody head.
When Warren got home about six that evening his David Nivenish face looked more like Jedd Clampett’s dog. When he saw the condition of Les’s melon his jaw dropped even further.
‘All right Les,’ he said, shaking his head with bewildered annoyance. ‘What happened?’
Les eased himself back from the kitchen table and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Like I said Warren. There was a bit of a stink, that’s all.’ He went on to explain how everything was going along famously till the Marauders started the fight. How it got a bit out of hand and finally the police arrived. ‘And that’s fair dinkum, Woz. Everything would have been sweet only for this big mug belting me.’
‘Yes but they reckon you just carried on and on. Trying to massacre these blokes.’
‘Well fuck it!’ Les’s voice was starting to rise. ‘What would you do if a dozen, dirty big galahs in leather jackets started kickin’ the shit out of you? You’d want a bit of a square-up too wouldn’t you? Jesus Christ.’
‘All right. But there’s no need to near kill half of them and get the pub wrecked and ruin an expensive commercial. Now the agency’s looking for a scapegoat and that’s me for sending you round there. So now I lose my job.’
‘Oh fuck your agency.’ Norton rose angrily from the table. ‘What do they call themselves. Doodlebop, Deadshit and Dudfuck. They’re a bunch of wombats anyway if you ask me. All I know is that I was getting the shit bashed out of me and if it hadn’t of been for a few good Queensland boys jumping in they’d be still scraping bits of me off the floor of that stinkin’ pub. So tell your agency that next time you see them. Anyway what about my head. What about my three thousand bucks.’
Warren just stood there looking at him blankly. ‘Yeah I suppose you’re right,’ he sighed.
‘Anyway what are you worrying about? You’ll get another job.’
‘Oh yeah. They’ll give me a great reference, won’t they?’
‘Yeah, well I can’t help that. Look I’m going down for a couple of steak sandwiches. Do you want one?’
‘No I’m not real hungry, thanks Les.’
‘All right. I’ll see you when I get back.’
Warren stood there for a while in gloomy silence as Les went out the front door, then stripped off and got under the shower reflecting sadly on what had happened. He’d tried to do the right thing by everyone and it had all fallen on his head. He felt dreadful.
There was a pall of gloom throughout the house all that week with hardly a word passing between either of them. Warren hinted once that he would probably be moving out. Les just shrugged his shoulders when Warren told him. Fuck him. Let him go, he thought. But deep down he liked Warren a lot and he knew it would sadden him to see the little bloke go. Not to mention all the choice crumpet that used to come through the door.
By the end of the week Norton was just about at the end of his tether. He was sick of Warren’s silence, sick to the teeth of every second mug asking him what happened and his black eye wouldn’t go away no matter what he put on it; everything from leeches to scotch fillet steak. Also he heard there was a rumour going round that just one bloke had given him a serve and he was too knocked up to go to work and that’s why Danny McCormack was on the door at the Kelly Club. Not to mention the frightful bagging Billy Dunne had given him when he called round for a drink.
Early on Friday afternoon Norton was in the kitchen sipping a can of Fourex and making an Irish stew. He’d just put the carrots and onions in and was about to add some potatoes when he heard the front door open. Hello, he thought, here’s happy Warren home early from work. They’ve probably just given him the arse. As he heard him come down the hall he turned slowly around to grunt hello, expecting to see Warren’s unhappy face in the kitchen door. Instead, Warren was standing there holding a bottle of French champagne, a grin on his face like a split in a watermelon. He looked as if he’d had a few sherbets too.
‘Hey Les, my old mate,’ he cried. Then ran across the kitchen and started punching Les around the arms and chest. Norton had been kicked harder by butterflies.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said frowning. More than a little bewildered.
‘What’s the matter with me?’ said Warren. His eyes were a bit glassy and he was obviously in a state of great excitement. ‘Nothing’s the matter with me. It’s you that’s the matter. You fuckin’ star you.’
Norton looked at him and shook his head. ‘What are you talking about you fuckin’ idiot?’ he said.
‘What am I talking about? The ad’s what I’m talking about.’
‘What. That Bowen Lager thing?’
‘Yeah. That. They love it.’
‘Who? What? I don’t understand you.’ He took another suck on his Fourex and gave the stew a stir.
‘The advertising manager for the brewery loves it. The film company dudded up the ad. They picked out parts of the fight, put in some honky tonk piano music and made it around a big pub brawl. They’ve changed the whole concept of the ad to coincide with that line you used. “Bowen Lager. It’s the beer worth fighting for.”’ Warren was laughing fit to bust.
‘Are you fair dinkum?’ said Norton incredulously.
‘Yes, of course I’m fair dinkum. The film company showed the brewery the rushes on Wednesday and they were knocked out. They said it was the best make-up job and special effects they’d ever seen. The ad went to air Thursday night and viewer reaction has been unbelievable. All the advertising heavies are convinced Bowen Lager’s going to be the biggest selling beer in Australia. It’ll make Fosters Lager and Fourex look like tom-cat’s piss.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. The brewery’s already booked another half million dollars worth of advertising. I’ve got a raise. And here. This is for you.’ Warren grinned and handed Les a cheque.
‘Four thousand bucks,’ said Norton. Looking at it with raised eyebrows. ‘Well I’ll be fucked.’
‘So there you go. Everything’s worked out for the best. And Les, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit moody all week, but Jesus I was worried, you know.’
‘Oh that’s all right Woz,’ said Les pocketing the cheque. ‘I understand, mate.’
‘So all’s well that ends well.’
‘Yeah. Something like that.’
Warren threw back his head and roared laughing. He was ecstatic and obviously relieved that everything had worked out fine. Better th
an he could have expected. Les was still standing there impassively sipping his can of beer and giving the stew a stir now and again.
Warren let out another roar of laughter, looked at Les and shaped up as if to fight him. ‘Bowen Lager eh,’ he said ‘it’s the beer worth fighting for.’ He dropped his hands and fell up against the fridge almost doubled up with laughter.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Norton draining his can of Fourex and nonchalantly tossing the empty in the kitchen tidy. ‘It’s a cunt of a drop if you ask me.’
Definitely Not a Drop Kick
A thin mist of spring rain hung in the air like a dirty lace curtain, giving the garish neon lights of Kings Cross the appear-ance of a badly painted watercolour as they blended into each other and threw sickly crooked shadows around the shabby buildings and the people in Kelly Street hurrying to get inside from the clinging dampness.
It was about 11.45 on a Saturday night. The two solid men in tuxedos huddled under the awning outside the Kelly Club seemed oblivious to the inclemency of the weather and despite the dismalness of the night were smiling as they carried on with the conversation. Saturday night was the end of the working week for them.
‘Looks like being a quiet one,’ said Billy Dunne, taking a quick look up and down the almost deserted street, then casting an eye up towards the blackened sky.
‘Yeah,’ replied Norton, as the enveloping mist turned into light rain, making a rhythmic drumming on the canvas awning above his head. ‘Looks like being a prick of a day tomorrow too,’ he added.
‘What do you reckon you’ll do?’
‘Dunno for sure,’ said Les thoughtfully. ‘If it’s not raining too hard I might go out the Sports Ground and watch Easts play Balmain. Should be a good game.’
‘You’ve still got a bit of a soft spot for the Roosters, haven’t you mate?’ said Billy, a hint of a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. ‘Despite them dumping you like that.’
Norton shrugged his big, broad shoulders, put his hands in his pockets and leant up against a pole supporting the awning. ‘The players are all right,’ he said. ‘They’re a bunch of good blokes. It’s just the officials running the club I can’t cop. They’re a bunch of old pricks.’
A taxi hissed to a stop out the front and they stepped back to let two well dressed couples into the club, giving them a smile and a nod and a light comment about the weather as they entered the premises. After pausing for a moment to check out the legs and backside of one of the girls going up the stairs, Billy turned to Les.
‘I told you my missus has gone away for the weekend, didn’t I?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ replied Norton. ‘Gone to see her sister up at Swansea or something. Is that right?’
‘Yeah. Her sister’s married to a builder up there. The two young blokes went with her, took their surfboards. They reckon some place called Catherine Hill Bay’s got unreal tubes, or lefts, or rights or something.’ Billy shook his head and smiled. ‘Fair dinkum, I don’t know what they’re talking about half the time.’
Norton laughed. ‘Yeah, they’re funny all right. They love goin’ away but, don’t they?’
‘Reckon.’ Billy paused again for a moment, stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked at Les. ‘You fancy going for a drink after work?’
‘What’s wrong with having a drink upstairs?’ replied Norton, his eyes slightly narrowed, a subtle smile on his face — he had half an idea what Billy was hinting at.
‘No, I mean like somewhere with a bit of music and a few people around. Just for a bit of a change.’
‘And a bit of crumpet.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Like where?’
‘What about the Mandrake Room?’
‘THE MANDRAKE ROOM!’ said Les raising his voice. ‘Christ Billy, it’s that dark and dingy in there even the kitchen rats put Murine in their eyes.’
‘Turn it up. It’s not that bad.’
‘Yeah. It’s not that bloody good either.’
The Mandrake Room was a nightclub in a narrow lane off Macleay Street, Kings Cross, about half a kilometre from the Kelly Club. It was for late-niters only and they called it the Drake for short. The place itself wasn’t all that bad, just some of the people who went there were a bit off. It had a disco as well as live entertainment and although they closed the doors around 4am, they didn’t close the bar until the last punter got swept out with the butts and used drink coasters — generally around 8am. A good rock band always played there and the place was a haunt for musicians and entertainers finishing gigs and needing a late-night drink and a bit of a ‘yahoo’ to wind down. There was no drug dealing on the premises but it was a pretty sure bet that the vast majority of the patrons in there had a lot more coursing through their bloodstream and minds than red corpuscles and brain tissue. But although it was a bit smoky and dingy, and the patrons a trifle seedy, it was very popular and not quite as bad as Norton made out.
‘Jesus, you’re a nark Les,’ said Billy. ‘You wouldn’t wrap a Christmas present. The joint’s not all that bad.’
‘Mmmhhh.’
‘Come up and have two drinks. It won’t kill you. We’ll be out of here by 3.30am, you can have a couple up there and you’ll still be home with your mug of Ovaltine and tucked into beddy-byes by five, you big sheila.’ Billy threw a straight left at Norton’s chin then quickly stepped back grinning. ‘Come on, don’t be an old tart. Just have two drinks.’
Norton turned away and shot Billy a derisive look out the side of his eye. ‘I can’t figure it out,’ he said. ‘A bloke with a missus as good looking as yours and you want to go out chasing those cane toads hangin’ round the Drake.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll probably pull some slag out of there, throw her up in the air and finish up with the jack. Don’t make no sense to me.’
Dunne’s wife was an ex-model and a country girl from Grafton, in northern NSW. They’d been married almost ten years and although they had two sons, Louise still had her looks and shape and in photos for some modelling assignments which she still occasionally did, she didn’t look a day over 18. A lot of guys around Sydney town would have given anything to get into Louise’s pants but no one would touch her with a 40 foot barge pole. They knew if Billy ever found out they’d spend the rest of their lives in a wheel-chair. But Louise would never play up, she was too much in love with Billy and although Billy was a little reluctant to admit it, the feeling was very, very mutual.
Unfortunately, however, Billy was a ladykiller. He didn’t really mean to be; it just happened that way and being married to a beautiful ex-model it just seemed to spur the girls on all the more. He had a ton of personality and rugged, tanned good looks, a sort of a Burt Reynolds without the moustache, in fact Billy’s legacy from years of professional boxing, a broken nose and a bit of scar tissue around his eyes, only seemed to add to his masculine charm. In a town full of increasing numbers of boring posers, gays and pretty boys with streaks through their hair, Billy attracted women like a prawn trawler attracts seagulls. There wasn’t a girl working at the Kelly Club wouldn’t let Billy slip his shoes under her bed for the night.
But there was no doubt Billy was a happily married man and for all the sex he could have got on the side he very rarely played up behind Louise’s back. However, Billy was still a bit of a rogue and having to watch all those beautiful women coming and going at the Kelly Club and being offered a bit more than just a cup of tea and an Arrowroot biscuit with a bit of butter on it if he’d like to go back to their place with them, there were times when Billy would weaken and not be able to help himself. Tonight was one of those nights.
‘Hey just a minute, Les,’ said Billy. ‘Who said anything about me going up there just for the sake of doing a bit of stray tooling?’
‘Well, you’re not going up there just to listen to the band.’
‘I might. I like music.’
‘Oh arseoles.’
‘Look, mate. I just feel like having a little drink after work. Besides, it�
��s going to be awful when I go home tonight, Louise and the kids not being there. I’ll be lonely in that big house all by myself.’
‘Ohh Jesus Christ,’ Norton spat in the gutter. ‘I’ve never heard so much bullshit in all my life.’
‘And another thing,’ continued Billy, ignoring Norton’s last remark. ‘That’s not very nice to refer to the ladies that patronise the Mandrake Room as cane toads.’
‘Well what are they?’ snorted Norton contemptuously. ‘What about the last time you dragged me up there and you tipped me into that blonde. I got her back to my place and she had “Harley Davidson Motorbikes” tattooed across her arse in inch-high letters. They filled me that full of penicillin a week later all my clothes went mouldy.’ Norton spat in the gutter again as Billy’s face broke into a grin. ‘Yeah, you can laugh, you clown but I’ll tell you what, if I pull anything out of there tonight back to my place it’ll be gettin’ a Dettol bath first.’
‘That means you’re coming,’ said Billy quickly.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You’ll be there.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
By 1.30am the rain hadn’t eased up and although there had been a fairly steady stream of punters going into the club they were only arriving in ones and twos and it was nowhere near crowded; Billy was right in his prediction that it was going to be a quiet one.
Just before 2am, Pattie Cameron, one of the female croupiers, came down the stairs with a thermos full of hot coffee for the boys. Pattie was one of the best sorts that worked in the Kelly Club, a well stacked blonde with a wide, sexy, crimson slash of a mouth. She looked a bit like Hotlips Hoolihan out of M*A*S*H on TV, but with a ten times bigger pair of boobs.
‘Here you are boys,’ she said, handing the thermos and cups to Les. ‘Price said to get stuck into it, it’s got some Jack Daniels in it. He also said it’s pretty quiet upstairs so you can slam the bag about 3am. All right?’
Billy winked at Les. ‘See, I told you.’
Pattie took a quick glance up and down the still almost deserted Kelly Street, noticing the milky lights from the buildings and passing cars being reflected in the inky blackness of the wet road. The wind had picked up slightly, putting a chill in the air as it bowled the wispy rain before it and scattered the vaporous haze across the flowing gutters and into the darkened buildings like a movement of grey ghosts.
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