The Real Thing Page 11

  ‘Have a go at his miserable dial,’ laughed Price. ‘You’d think he’d just swallowed arsenic. $200,000 I got him for. And couldn’t have done it to a nicer bloke.’

  ‘Good on you.’ Les handed Price back the paper. ‘I might grab a cup of tea.’

  ‘Go for your life.’

  ‘Jesus you’ve got it well organised outside,’ said Norton. ‘There’s council barricades and coppers blockin’ off the street. How’d you work that?’

  Price winked up at Norton as he idly thumbed through the Sunday paper. ‘That’s called corruption on a grand scale Les. You don’t see that up in sunny Queensland, do you?’

  ‘Well . . . not in Dirranbandi anyway.’

  Norton sipped his cup of tea and glanced at a spare Sunday paper when Billy came to the door.

  ‘Hey Price,’ he said, ‘they want you out the front. I think the new table’s arrived.’

  ‘Ho, here we go.’ Price clapped his hands together and stood up. Norton took his cup of tea and joined them as they all walked over to the window.

  ‘The truck’s here Mr Galese,’ a thick-set council worker in a pair of blue overalls and a Paddington Colts football jumper yelled up from the street below.

  ‘Righto Alan. Thanks mate,’ Price called back. ‘Okay boys here she is. Let’s go down and have a look.’

  Norton quickly finished his cup of tea, and they all trooped down the stairs to arrive out the front just as the council workers moved away the barricades. While the police directed traffic around the barricades, a wide-backed, flat-deck truck reversed through the gap and started backing slowly down Kelly Street towards the club. On the back, secured firmly with ropes and padding, was the roulette wheel and table packed in an enormous wooden crate covered in stencilling. Next to it were several other small crates also secured with rope. The driver spotted Price and gave him a wave; he waved back as Colin Jones guided the truck till the rear wheels were resting up against the gutter outside the entrance to the club.

  At almost the same moment the truck pulled up, a whistle blew at the other end of the street and through the barricades rumbled a monstrous mobile crane: the derrick, with the huge hook swaying beneath it on the front, had to be at least fifteen metres high. As it rolled noisily down the street towards them Norton noticed the four policemen standing next to the patrol wagons snap to a smart salute as a white commonwealth limousine with the ‘Z’ number plates followed the fork-lift through the barricades and eased to a halt alongside the foot path opposite them. Sitting in the back Norton was slightly shocked to see a familiar, corpulent figure with slicked back silvery hair puffing away on a large cigar.

  ‘Hello,’ smiled Price, taking a quick glance at his watch. ‘Here’s me old mate Sir Jack — right on time. I suppose I’d better go over and say hello. All right Colin,’ he said turning to the big, fair-haired builder. ‘I’ll leave it all up to you. If you want me, I’ll be in that white Fairlane across the road.’

  ‘Righto Price. No worries,’ replied Colin, moving towards the mobile-crane to have a word with the driver.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Norton.

  ‘I dunno,’ shrugged Price. ‘See Colin. He’s running the show.’

  ‘All right.’

  Price started walking across the street followed closely by Eddie Salita. He climbed in the back seat of the Fairlane and opened the window to let some of the cigar smoke out. Eddie stood round the front talking to Sir Jack’s bodyguard and the driver.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Norton, as he and Billy followed Colin Jones over to the crane.

  ‘Nothing yet. Me and my team should be able to handle this, but just stand over by the club and if we need you I’ll give you a yell.’

  Les and Billy nodded in agreement. They walked over and leant up against the wall of the Kelly Club alongside George Brennan. George, the overweight, ‘bon vivant’ casino manager didn’t mind a bodysurf or a game of handball now and again, but manual labour was a Spanish guitar player as far as he was concerned and he had absolutely no intentions whatsoever of getting involved in any of the physical activity going on around him — so he was leaning up against the brickwork getting into one of the steak sandwiches. Norton saw there were several still left in the carton so giving Billy a tap on the shoulder, he reached down and took one out of the cardboard box. Billy looked at the remaining steak sandwiches for a second or two then helped himself to one as well.

  ‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with these steak sangers,’ said Norton, taking a huge bite.

  ‘Plenty of onions, too,’ added Billy.

  George finished his first one, wiped his mouth and fingers on the paper it was wrapped in, then screwed it up in a ball and dropped it in the cardboard carton. ‘Bloody beautiful,’ he mumbled, reaching down for another one.

  And with the bright autumn sunshine, slowly warming up the bricks behind them, the three smiling men stood casually against the wall of the Kelly Club eating steak sandwiches in the sun. In an atmosphere of blatant corruption, unprecedented anywhere else in Australia, Colin Jones galvanised the fifteen or so workers around him into action.

  The first thing they did was unload the five smaller crates sitting on the back of the truck and manhandle them as carefully as possible up the stairs. Billy and Les offered to help but were told they weren’t needed so they continued eating. The crates didn’t take very long. Then from somewhere on the back of the truck the driver produced two thick stainless-steel cables with heavy metal eyes on either end which were quickly but meticulously slung round the solid wooden crate containing the new roulette wheel. Colin gave a toot on a small whistle he had tied round his neck, the crane driver lowered the derrick and the two cables were attached to the huge metal hook swaying slightly underneath. Making doubly sure everything was secure, Jonesy raised one hand above his head, blew on the whistle and, in unison with the whistle and his hand movements, the crane driver raised the cumbersome wooden crate from the back of the truck.

  ‘Hey, have a go what’s written on the side,’ laughed Norton, pointing at the huge crate as it swung side on to them.

  Stencilled across the wooden panelling in bold black letters was an arrow and the words, ‘This side up. Washing-machine parts. Handle with care.’

  ‘Washing machine parts,’ guffawed Billy. ‘I wonder whose bloody idea that was.’

  ‘Price’s I suppose,’ mused George. ‘Then again it’s appropriate, isn’t it? I mean we’re laundering that much black money up there what else would you put on it?’

  With a toot of his whistle Colin stopped the crate just above his head and attached a length of rope to one of the stainless-steel cables just in case the crate should sway too much. With two of his crew standing on the footpath holding on to the rope Jonesy blew a few more toots on his whistle, and he and the crane driver slowly guided the wooden crate up till it was level, lengthwise, with the gap in the wall of the club where the windows had been. He stopped it there.

  ‘Righto Les, Billy,’ he called out, as he jumped down from the back of the truck. ‘You want to come up and give us a hand to get it in?’

  The two amused doormen followed Colin up the stairs two at a time into the casino where the rest of his crew were standing at the window watching the crated roulette wheel swaying gently in the breeze just outside.

  ‘Righto fellas, easy now.’ With Jonesy still directing things each man reached out and took a firm grip on the sides of the crate to gently edge it into the gap and with the crane driver slowly easing off the slack they slid the giant crate through the window space like somebody sliding a letter sideways into a letter box.

  Everybody, except Billy, gave a bit of a cheer when it finally landed inside — he was too busy swearing while he pulled a large splinter out of his thumb. Colin removed the two cables and draped them over the hook while one of his men started prising open the crate with a crowbar.

  ‘Well, what’s doing Jonesy?’ asked Les. ‘Do you need us here any long
er?’

  ‘No, you may as well piss off,’ replied the big blond-headed builder. ‘Good thing you both came in though,’ he added, with a derisive smile. ‘We’d have been absolutely fucked without you. What did Price bring you in for anyway?’

  ‘He just likes having us around,’ smiled Billy, sucking a bit of blood from his thumb.

  ‘He must.’ Colin paused for a moment to watch the man with the crowbar then turned back to Norton. ‘Where are youse off to now?’

  ‘Down North Bondi to have a run and a swim.’

  ‘Not a bad idea. It’s a top day outside. I might even see you down there later. We should be out of here by lunchtime.’

  ‘Yeah come down,’ said Billy. ‘We’ll have a beer and a counter-lunch over the Diggers.’

  ‘Righto.’

  The boys said goodbye to Jonesy and his crew then trooped happily down the stairs. George was still standing in the sun up against the wall wiping his face with a handkerchief. Except for a few screwed-up balls of grease-stained, white paper, the cardboard carton next to him was completely empty.

  ‘Have a go at this,’ said Billy, giving the empty box a nudge with his foot. ‘There’s not a crumb, not a piece of gristle not even a sauce stain left. No wonder you get around looking like someone’s had a bike-pump up your arse George.’

  ‘Leave me alone, will you, you punch-drunk imbecile,’ replied George. He gave Billy a tried smile and neatly folded his hanky and placed it in his inside, coat pocket.

  Norton smiled and shook his head as he placed his hand on George’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry George, I understand how it is mate. Anyway, Jonesy don’t need us anymore so we’re gonna piss off. Where’s Price?’

  ‘Still talking to Atkins.’ George nodded towards the Fairlane parked across the street with Eddie standing at the front having a joke with the ex-premier’s bodyguard.

  ‘Well, will you tell him we’ve gone down North Bondi and we’ll probably see him down Clovelly Surf Club, tomorrow arvo?’

  ‘Yeah righto.’

  ‘Okay. See you George.’

  ‘Yeah. See you Porky,’ said Billy, feinting a right rip into the casino manager’s ample stomach. ‘Va-veer-va-va-veer. That’s all for now, folks.’

  George replied with another tired smile. ‘Les, do me a favour, will you? While you’re down the beach, take punchy out swimming, and put a couple of car batteries round his neck.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do mate,’ winked Les. ‘Hooray.’

  As the two doormen turned to walk away they caught Eddie’s eye across the road. ‘See you Eddie,’ they chorused. The wiry hit man gave them a big wave then flashed a huge white grin. George watched them walking away for a second or two, then with a bit of a chuckle heaved himself off the wall and went over to the crane operator and the truck driver who were getting their rigs ready to depart. He handed them a bulky envelope each which they didn’t bother to count quickly, slipping them into their pockets with appreciative smiles.

  ‘I’m looking forward to a run, to tell you the truth,’ said Norton, nodding to the two police constables who were still standing next to their patrol wagon on the corner, watching idly as the council workers began to move the barricades. ‘You want to have a bit of a workout in the surf club afterwards?’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ replied Billy.

  ‘Where do you want to run to? You fancy doing a few laps of the beach. There might be something down there worth perving on today.’

  ‘You want to do us a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’ Norton stopped and turned to Billy at the way he asked the question.

  ‘Well how about we have a run around all the back streets of Bondi. Especially up the north end.’

  Norton gave his broad shoulders a shrug. ‘I don’t give a stuff. What’s . . .?’

  ‘I want to buy a flat and I wouldn’t mind checking a few out while we’re having a run. Sort of kill two birds with the one stone.’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’

  ‘I had a couple of big blocks of land up at Port Stephens. I just sold them for sixty grand so I’ll plonk that down on a unit, borrow say twenty, throw a team of Kiwis in and let them pay most of it off and in say two years I’ve got a hundred grand flat that’s only cost me forty grand originally.’ Billy gave his shoulders a nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s an easy earn.’

  Norton threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Jesus Billy,’ he said. ‘Are you sure there’s not a bit of reffo in you?’

  ‘Mate,’ replied Billy, pulling a sad face and making an openhanded gesture with his arms by his side, ‘living with them in Bondi all these years — I’ve got to learn something.’

  ‘Fair enough Irving. You like chicken soup, too?’

  They were still laughing as they dodged the traffic across the Bayswater Road to get to their cars. ‘I’ll see you outside the surf club.’ Norton was about to open the door of his old Ford when he heard Billy let out a string of vile oaths. ‘What’s up?’ he called out, looking over.

  ‘You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe it,’ cursed Billy from the front of his new Holden station wagon. ‘I’ve got a flat fuckin’ tyre.’ Norton walked over as Billy gave the flattened, front-left tyre a hefty kick. ‘Fuck it,’ he cursed again.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ laughed Les. ‘We’ll fix it in five minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, but my missus was using the car yesterday and she got a flat, too, and the spare’s in getting fixed. I was going to pick it up this morning but we came up here.’

  Norton looked at the flat tyre for a few moments as Billy continued cursing. ‘Hold on a sec. You’re gettin’ the shits for nothing. Come here.’

  He took Billy round to his car and opened the boot. Sitting next to the spare for his old Ford was a brand new tyre sitting on a Holden rim. He explained that while he was up at Ben Buckler one day through the week, sitting in his car watching the ocean, he noticed an unregistered ’68 Holden dumped in the parking area. Being a bit of a bowerbird and seeing as it was still in fairly good nick Norton decided to give it the once over, just in case there might have been a radio or something left in it. When he forced open the boot there was a bag of tools in there and a brand-new spare tyre. The rim didn’t fit Norton’s Ford but the tyres were the same so Les purloined it figuring he’d take it up to Chicka’s garage, get it changed over and thus finish up with a nice new tyre for nothing. Living in beautiful downtown Bondi the last few years Norton had learned a few tricks from the residents, too.

  ‘There you go mate. Throw that on and we’ll be away in five minutes.’

  ‘Les. You’ve done it again,’ beamed Billy, giving Norton a friendly punch on the arm. ‘You’re a dead-set genius.’

  While Billy started jacking up the front of his car, Les got the tyre out of his boot, plus a wheel brace, and started loosening the wheel nuts. Between them they had the flat tyre off in next to no time at all.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we ought to do,’ chuckled Norton, as Billy wiggled the stolen tyre on to the stubbs. ‘Why don’t we get an Opera House lottery ticket tomorrow and call it ‘wheels’? We’ve just put an illegal roulette wheel in the club, now we’re putting a hot wheel on your car — what d’you reckon? It might be lucky.’

  ‘You’ve got me. In fact I’ll shout,’ said Billy, as he spun the wheel brace to tighten the last nut.

  ‘No. I’ll go you halves.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Norton let down the jack and Billy flung the flat tyre into the back of his station wagon. Norton dropped the jack in next to it then put his wheel brace back in the boot of his old Ford. Without any further ado they proceeded towards North Bondi.

  Despite the amount of cars around and the number of people on the beach enjoying the warm, early autumn sunshine, Les and Billy were able to find a parking spot in Ramsgate Avenue less than a 100 metres from the surf club. Norton didn’t bother to lock his old Ford as he got his overnight bag off the front seat, and was whistling audibly when he joined Billy wait
ing for him on the promenade.

  The lightest of nor’-westers had the air crisp and fresh, and the clear, emerald water beyond the breakers was almost like glass. Several groups of bodysurfers and school kids on blue Koolites were taking advantage of a nice little wave running in the north corner. Beyond them a number of lifesavers, in red and yellow caps, were paddling around on surf skis while the North Bondi boat crew strained at the oars of the surf boat as it surged through the swells just off the big rock on the point. The numerous, well-oiled, brown-skinned girls in brief bikinis scattered across the sand caught Norton’s eye; especially one by the water’s edge with a massive bust that made him stumble into Billy as they headed towards the surf club.

  ‘Jesus, are you sure you don’t want to go for a run along the beach Billy?’ said Norton, still staring at the big-titted blonde splashing around in the water with an almost equally well-endowed girlfriend.

  Billy laughed when he saw what Les was gaping at. ‘Come on mate,’ he grinned. ‘You can perv till you go blue in the face when we get back.’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ mumbled Norton reluctantly.

  Several of the older members were lollygagging around in the sun out the front of the club when they got there. Les and Billy smiled and nodded to the ones they knew. As they started walking up the few steps to enter the clubhouse, Norton noticed a familiar figure checking out a surf reel at the front of the gear room to their left.

  ‘Hey T-shirt,’ he called out brightly, ‘what’s doin’ mate?’

  The tall, broad-shouldered person in particular was Terry Farrell the gear steward. Terry was a fit, easygoing sort of a bloke that always had a year-round sun tan and was a pretty good style of a bloke despite the fact that his sandy, brown hair wasn’t having a great deal of luck in the front. The two doormen got to know Terry, a wharfie, through another wharfie mate of theirs — Danny McCormack — and it was Terry who sorted it out for the boys to use the club and always managed to find a surf ski for them if ever they wanted to go for a paddle. Terry’s main claim to fame was that he didn’t have one shirt in his wardrobe and only ever wore T-shirts — which was why he got the nickname, ‘Terry T-shirt’. If Terry ever won an MBE or got knighted he’d turn up at the investiture, whether it was Buckingham Palace or Kirribilli House, in a T-shirt. For a brief court appearance once he did front in one of those long-sleeved T-shirts, (which he kept for special occasions) with a bow-tie and lapels printed on the front. At the sound of his name Terry turned round to see the boys standing on the steps.