You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids

by Robert G. Barrett

  They went in Eddie’s Mercedes; five minutes later they were parked in Kenneth Street facing away from Marks Field.

  With the kilogram of cocaine wedged down the front of his track-suit pants and his hands in the pockets of his track-suit top holding it, Norton set off across the windy park in the late afternoon sunshine for his meeting with Reynolds at the old gun emplacement. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and had a small straw hat with the brim turned down squashed on to his head; he wanted to disguise his face from Reynolds as much as possible and at the same time look inconspicuous. He may as well have had a red, neon-sign flashing above him saying ‘I am going to do a drug deal, then rob the nearest bank.’ Eddie gave him a couple of minutes start, then checking there was no one around resembling Norton’s description of Reynolds or his mate, moved off after him keeping to the steep edge of the park well to Norton’s left.

  A few minutes later an irridescent gold Buick Electra glided gently to a stop in Fletcher Street about 50 metres up from the park. Reynolds and his blond mate sat there quietly for a while before they got out.

  ‘You know exactly what to do?’ said a grim faced Reynolds as he locked the car.

  ‘Exactly,’ replied the other.

  There was an old chipped wooden seat in the ancient gun emplacement; with his hands still in his pockets holding the cocaine Norton eased himself down on to it and spread his legs out comfortably in front of him. A stiff summer nor’easter was gusting across Bondi Bay sending ‘the murk’ from the sewage outlet underneath the golf links closer into the beach and almost blowing Norton’s straw hat off as it whipped across McKenzies Point. Hardly any people were around. Even the late afternoon joggers were very few and far between, preferring to hang on the beach rather than run in the heat which had Norton in a sweat just sitting there as he waited for Reynolds and wondered where Eddie had got to. He’d scarcely had time to think on it when Reynolds and his blond mate appeared at the top of the steep grassy knoll facing the gun emplacement. They spotted Les, then after taking a good look around moved slowly down the grassy decline towards him. Both were wearing sunglasses and expensive Pierre Cardin track-suits. Reynolds was carrying a large brown-paper shopping bag folded in the middle. They looked quite sporty, Les thought as they got closer; Reynolds walked right up to him, the other stood at the entrance to the old gun emplacement.

  ‘G’day Marty,’ said Norton pleasantly. ‘Nice day. Hello mate,’ he called out to Reynolds’ associate standing a couple of metres or so behind him. Reynolds’ associate didn’t say anything, he just stood there expressionless and flexing his muscles, trying his best to look tough. Incredibly enough, he had a small, thin cigar jutting out of the corner of his mouth. It was a pity the nor’easter kept blowing the ash and smoke away otherwise it could have curled up lazily under his eyes just like Clint Eastwood’s in a cheap spaghetti western. Norton was terribly impressed.

  ‘So what’s doing, Marty?’ inquired Les. ‘I thought you might’ve come on your own but you’ve brought a heavy with you. Or is that just your bum boy? Doesn’t really matter.’

  ‘You can cut the shit, smart arse,’ said Reynolds. ‘You got the dope?’ Behind him the other remained stonily silent but the muscles round his jaw were twitching considerably.

  ‘I certainly have,’ replied Norton patting the front of his track-suit. ‘Is that the money is it?’ he pointed to the paper bag in Reynolds’ hand. ‘I’ll just give it a quick count if you don’t mind.’ Reynolds reluctantly handed him the paper bag, Norton opened it and quickled rifled through the bundles of 20s and 50s; from his observation of the great stacks of money at the Kelly Club, Norton could tell there was $75,000 there.

  ‘Well, that seems in order,’ said Les. ‘Now, here’s your dope.’ He handed Reynolds the package of cocaine wrapped up almost exactly as he’d found it. ‘That makes us square, Marty, and I must say it’s been an absolute pleasure doing business with you. For a shit-pot, greasy dope pusher you’re not a bad bloke.’

  Reynolds stood there staring at Les then shook his head, a cruel, sardonic smile appeared on his face. ‘Are you for real dumby?’ he sneered. ‘Do you really think I’m going to let a prick like you rip me off for 75 grand and get away with it? I thought you sounded like a hillbilly on the phone. Now I know for sure.’

  ‘Jeez Marty,’ protested Norton, a hurt look on his face. ‘Don’t be like that. I mean, where’s your sense of fair play. I’ve done the right thing. Strewth, I was certain you’d be a man of your word.’

  Reynolds still kept staring at Les, a look of disgust on his face. ‘You poor simple goose,’ he said slowly. ‘All right Bradley, he’s all yours.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Bradley, as he moved in from the entrance to the gun emplacement and stood in front of Norton.

  ‘Ohh shit, you’re not going to hurt me are you Brad?’ said Les, holding the paper-bag full of money up in front of him in mock terror.

  ‘No, I’m not going to hurt you, arseole. I’m going to shoot you.’ Bradley eased a .32 automatic with a small silencer attached out from under his track-suit. ‘Once in the knee, once in the pit of your stomach and one right in that big mouth of yours. Then you’re going to set a new Australian high-dive record.’

  ‘Jesus Brad, I wouldn’t be slinging off at peoples facial appearances if I were you. Especially with that nose of yours. If it was any bigger you could rent it out as a double garage.’ Bradley’s face grimaced as he levelled the .32 at Les’s knee.

  ‘All right Brad,’ said Norton, holding up his index-finger. ‘If you’re gonna shoot me fair enough, but there’s just one thing I gotta say before I go. Marty, just take a look behind you will you.’

  ‘Are you for real, hillbilly? That’s the oldest trick in the book.’ replied Reynolds contemptuously.

  ‘Yeah, maybe it is but have a look anyway. Big bad Brad here can keep an eye on me.’

  Reynolds slowly turned around to find himself staring down the barrel of Eddie Salita’s .38 police special, held rock steady about half an inch from the end of his nose. While they’d been talking Eddie had climbed up over the edge of the old gun emplacement, making about as much noise as a mouse pissing on a piece of cotton-wool. Standing there holding the .38 his face was an expressionless mask, his eyes cold and harder than two ball-bearings. Reynolds recognised him instantly and his face quickly turned grey as he suddenly found himself a hair’s breadth away from being blown to eternity.

  ‘Bradley. Don’t make a move,’ he cried out in terror. ‘You know who this is?’

  ‘Yeah, Brad, you fancy yourself as a gunman?’ said Norton, still sitting casually on the old wooden seat with his legs spread out in front of him. ‘Well that there’s Eddie Salita and you’ve got about two seconds to drop your gun or your boss’s brains get splashed all over the front of your nice Pierre Cardin track-suit, and yours’ll get splattered all over these fuckin’ rocks.’

  ‘Do as he says for Christ’s sake Bradley!’ yelled the terrified Reynolds.

  Watching Eddie out of the corner of his eye, Bradley’s face started to drain of all colour and the cigar still in the corner of his mouth was twitching noticeably as he dropped the gun at Norton’s feet. Eddie never moved the .38 a centimetre from Reynolds nose.

  ‘Now, that’s much better,’ said Norton, picking up the gun at his feet. ‘I hate these fuckin’ things, they scare me.’ He stood up and sent the .32 sailing out into space, and it soon disappeared into the dark green of the ocean.

  With everything now firmly under control and not wishing to alarm any passers-by, Eddie lowered the .38 from the side of Reynolds’ head and placed it firmly against his ribs, while Norton turned to confront the petrified Bradley. Norton’s face looked like it was set in cement and icicles were almost forming round his mouth when he spoke.

  ‘So Brad, you were going to shoot me in the knees and throw me over the cliff, eh?’ He took the cigar from Bradley’s quivering mouth and puffed on it till the hot tip was glowin
g brightly. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to do to somebody you’ve only just met, is it?’ He took another puff on the cigar; sparks and ashes flew off into the wind. ‘I suppose you like a bit of a snort yourself now and again, Brad. Yeah, with that big hooter you’d have to. Well try snortin’ this.’

  Norton jammed the burning cigar up into Bradley’s left nostril and crushed it inside his nose; he screeched with pain as Norton forced him to the ground, squashing his oversize nose in a vice-like grip. Bradley made a feeble effort to punch Les in the balls — Norton just belted him several times in the side of the head with his massive fist, mincing his left ear to paste.

  As he lay there moaning Les tore the parcel of cocaine from Reynolds’ hands and slammed it heavily against the rough sandstone wall of the gun emplacement splitting it open. ‘Your nose hurting is it Brad?’ he hissed savagely, standing over the top of him. ‘Well shove some of this up it.’ Norton jerked Bradley’s head up and smashed the parcel of cocaine into his bloodied face — it burst all over him like a flour bomb. ‘Now get plenty up there Brad,’ said Norton, grinding as much of the cocaine as he could up into Bradley’s nose and mouth. Bradley coughed and gagged, nearly suffocating on the expensive white powder as what didn’t go into his nose and mouth fell all over the ground and was quickly taken away with the afternoon nor’easter; Reynolds silently watched in horror as half a million dollars was suddenly gone with the wind.

  When he’d finished with Bradley, Norton stood up and faced Reynolds. ‘Take the gun out of his ribs Eddie.’ Eddie removed the .38 and placed it back in his shoulder-holster. Norton stared at Reynolds for a couple of seconds then dropped him with a left-hook that shattered his jaw and smashed all his front teeth straight out of his head; he crashed into the sandstone wall of the gun emplacement and lay there out cold.

  Norton stood there for a moment glowering over the two prostrate cocaine dealers, then satisfied he’d had his revenge he picked the bag of money up off the old wooden seat and turned to Eddie. ‘Come on Eddie, let’s hit the toe.’

  They scampered up the grassy slope and with the wind at their backs laughed all the way as they jogged across Marks Park back to Eddie’s Mercedes.

  ‘That’d have to be the snort of all time, that one you just shouted Brad, Les,’ chortled Eddie.

  ‘Yeah. When he wakes up he’ll be runnin’ three-minute miles for the rest of his life.’

  Back in the car Norton threw his hat and track-suit top on the back seat then opened up the paper shopping-bag and took out $10,000. ‘There you are, Eddie,’ he said, an odd sort of smile on his face, ‘ten grand.’

  ‘A nice ten, Les. What’s this, a bonus?’

  ‘No. I might have to get you to do a bit of overtime.’

  ‘We haven’t got to go and pick up more money have we?’

  ‘My oath. There’s a little cunt down the Rex owes me $10.’

  A few minutes later they pulled up in Beach Road not far from the hotel. Eddie locked all their money safely in the boot of the car and they headed for the Rex.

  ‘I hope he’s in there,’ said Les, patting his pocket as they crossed Glenayr Avenue. ‘I haven’t got a frankfurt on me. All the money’s in the boot.’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t got any either,’ replied Eddie.

  There was a bit of a team drinking in the shade out the front of the hotel, as soon as they saw who was approaching they quickly moved aside to let them through; when they got inside Les and Eddie stood at the doorway for a while, looking for Gary.

  It was a scorching day outside and the bar of the Rex was packed with thirsty drinkers going at it hammer and tongs trying to wash away the summer heat. A chook raffle was in progress at one end and in a corner a group of men were laughing and playing darts. Several others were standing around the solitary pool-table listening to a twilight meeting at Randwick on a small transistor radio. As soon as the mob spotted Norton and Eddie standing motionless just inside the door a noticeable hush fell over the bar. It wasn’t often Sydney’s hardest street-fighter and most notorious gunman walked in the door, not together anyway. One word was on everyone’s lips as they watched them looking steely eyed around the room. Trouble.

  ‘There he is over there,’ said Les, pointing to a small circle of drinkers standing near the wall between the dart-board and the pool-table.

  Gary was in the middle of giving his avid audience an exaggerated description of Monday’s fishing trip with Les Norton. Gary was about eight middies up and his jaws were galloping away like Phar Lap.

  ‘Yeah, you should’ve seen it,’ chortled Gary. ‘We hadn’t even got past the big rock and he starts spewin’. Fair dinkum, his face was green. With his red hair he looked like a Souths football jumper. Then after about six hours and him gettin’ no fish the big bludger says “take me in or I’ll job you”. So I says to him . . .’

  ‘Hey Gary,’ cut in one of his croonies. ‘Talking about big bludgers gonna job you. Take a look over your shoulder.’

  Gary turned around to find a stony-faced Les Norton and an evil-looking Eddie Salita standing right behind him. Norton had just caught the last part of Gary’s conversation and Gary’s face suddenly turned the colour of bad shit.

  ‘G’day Les. G’day Eddie,’ he blurted out. ‘How’s things? I was just tellin’ the boys you were a bit unlucky on Monday.’

  ‘You got a minute, Gary? We’d like to see you about something,’ said Norton, his voice dripping with menace.

  ‘Yeah sure,’ replied Gary wide-eyed. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ said Eddie.

  Gary followed them over to the bar where several drinkers swiftly moved aside to give them plenty of room. Everyone in the place was wondering why they’d want to shoot or maim poor bloody Gary. He did have a bit of a big mouth but he never meant anyone any harm. It was quite a drama for a Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Right,’ said Les to a very nervous Gary squashed in between them. ‘I believe you owe me $10, Gary. Are you going to give it to me or do I hand you over to Eddie?’

  Gary looked at Les and blinked. Next thing he whipped out a wallet thick with business cards and money, several of which fell on the floor as he spun a $10 bill out of it so fast Henry Lawson got giddy. ‘Fair dinkum, Les I was going to drop it round to your house through the week. I hadn’t forgot, honest.’

  ‘That’s all right Gary,’ replied Norton, ‘just as long as I know. Anyway, let me buy you a drink.’

  ‘I’ll get ’em. What do you want?’

  ‘Just a middie of new. Eddie, what about you?’

  ‘Middie of new’ll do.’

  Gary ordered the drinks and tried to make polite conversation while they waited for them — they arrived and he handed them around.

  ‘Well,’ said Gary, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to fishing. Though you didn’t have much luck on Monday, did you mate?’

  ‘Ohh, I wouldn’t say that,’ replied Norton slowly, taking a sip of his beer.

  Gary looked at him and frowned. ‘What do you mean. You fished all morning, got seasick twice, finished up with a lousy wirra, which you had to throw back, and I got 30 reddies. Jesus, I thought you’d have the shits for sure.’

  Norton took another sip of beer, winked at Eddie and patted Gary on the shoulder. ‘Well Gary,’ he said, ‘I might’ve got seasick and I mightn’t have got any reddies, but I know one thing for certain.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I sure finished up with a heap of rock lobsters.’

  Robert G. Barrett

  The Real Thing

  . . . it isn’t everyday you help murder someone with poison in an illegal casino, whisk his body halfway across town in a Rolls Royce, after robbing him, then bury his body in tonnes of concrete underneath an international airport – all more or less with the co-operation of two detectives.

  Trouble seems to follow Les Norton like a blue heeler after a mob of sheep.

  Maybe it’s his job.

  Being a bouncer a
t the infamous and illegal Kelly Club in Kings Cross isn’t exactly the stuff a quiet life is made of.

  Maybe it’s his friends.

  Like Price Galese, the urbane and well-connected owner of The Kelly Club, or Eddie Salita, the hit man who learned to kill in Vietnam, or Reg Campbell, struggling artist and dope dealer.

  But then again, maybe Les is just unlucky.

  As in You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids, Robert G. Barrett’s five stories in The Real Thing provide an entertaining mix of laughter and excitement, as well as an insight into the Sydney underworld – a world often violent and cynical, but also with its fair share of rough humour and memorable characters.

  Robert G. Barrett

  The Boys From Binjiwunyawunya

  The big Aussie Rules player hit the roadway in a tangle of arms and legs. His head came up just in time to see Norton come leaping out of the tram and the Cuban heels of his R.M. Williams riding boots land on his chest, with fifteen stone of enraged Queenslander behind them. If the earlier onslaught of punches hadn’t done Rick’s internal organs much good, the final serve completely destroyed them. He gave one hideous moan and passed out.

  Les Norton is back in town!

  There’s no two ways about Les Norton – the carrot-topped country boy who works as a bouncer at Sydney’s top illegal casino. He’s tough and he’s mean. He’s got a granite jaw, fists like hams, and they say the last time he took a tenner from his wallet Henry Lawson blinked at the light.

  Lethal but loyal, he’s always good for a laugh. In this, the third collection of Les Norton adventures, Les gets his boss off the hook. But not without the help of the boys from Binjiwunyawunya.

  Les then finds himself in a spot of bother in Long Bay Gaol then in a lot more bother on a St. Kilda tram in Melbourne ...

  Robert G. Barrett’s Les Norton stories have created a world as funny as Damon Runyon’s. If you don’t know Les Norton, you don’t know Australia in the eighties.

  Robert G. Barrett

  The Godson