You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids Read online

  Also watching Les from the other side of the room was an ex-boxer named Billy Dunne. Billy had held the Australian middle-weight title and was a pretty good pug in his day, but he’d given prize fighting away for the last six or so years and had worked on the door of the Kelly Club, a well-established gambling casino in Kings Cross. Billy had formed a sort of an acquaintanceship with Norton down at Gales Baths and frequently, if they happened to be in the gym together, they would put the gloves on and have a bit of a move around. He even managed to get Les over to the Coogee Bay Hotel for a couple of quiet beers now and again. Billy realised Les was no Danny Kaye in the personality department but basically he was a pretty good bloke. He was as honest as the day is long and at times did have that dry outback sense of humour. But there were two things about Les, Billy knew for sure: he could punch like dynamite and fight like a bag of cats.

  Norton had finished his work-out and was sitting on a bench, sweat dripping everywhere and wisps of steam rising off his big red head when Billy walked over, sat next to him and started up a bit of a conversation. At first he talked about nothing in particular, horses, football, the weather — then he got round to telling Les how his offsider on the door of the Kelly Club was leaving and would Les be interested in the job.

  ‘Ahh, I don’t know about this bouncin’ caper,’ said Les, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you Les, it’s as easy as shit.’

  ‘Mmmh, how much a week?’

  ‘Eighty-five a night in your hand, four nights a week.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, but listen, that’s nothing. The boss has got a heap of good race horses and he always gives you the drum when they’re goin’ and I’ll tell you what,’ Billy drew a bit closer to Norton and got right into his ear. ‘If he has a good win at the punt it’s nothing for him to come over and drop five hundred in your kick, and he has plenty of good wins.’

  ‘Mmmh, it sure sounds all right. How come your mate’s leavin’?’

  ‘He’s bought a motel up the north coast. One of his kids has got asthma so he’s goin’ up there to live.’

  Norton stroked his chin and looked into the pool of sweat forming at his feet. ‘It sure sounds all right,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Look,’ said Billy, ‘why don’t you come up the club tonight about nine o’clock when it’s still a bit quiet and have a yarn to the boss, he’s a terrific bloke. You’ll like him.’

  Norton paused for a moment or two. ‘Yeah, righto,’ he finally said.

  ‘Beauty,’ Billy slapped Norton on the leg and got up all smiles. ‘I’ll see you tonight then, nine o’clock.’

  ‘Yeah, righto, see you then.’ Norton contemplated the pool of sweat at his feet for a while and finally shrugged his shoulders. Oh well, he thought to himself, I don’t suppose it can be any worse than lumpin’ beef.

  The Kelly Club isn’t hard to find, it’s in Kelly Street, Kings Cross, which is how it got its name. There’s a pale blue light out the front with a white neon sign above it saying Kelly Club. Besides that it’s just a few hundred yards up from the police station and if you still can’t find it just go in and ask the desk sergeant. He’ll do everything but draw you a map. Norton was there at nine o’clock sharp. Billy was waiting out the front for him all smiles; he introduced Les to the doorman whose place he’d be taking and took him upstairs to meet the boss.

  The Kelly Club was owned and run by a distinguished, silvery haired gentleman in his late 50s by the name of Price Galese and everybody liked him, a lot of people loved him and women absolutely adored him. He was the epitome of a gentleman, dressed superbly and with a string of champion racehorses cut a very dashing figure around the racetracks of Sydney. He contributed heavily to charity and other welfare groups. He also contributed to the welfare of a lot of police and politicians in NSW as well. Consequently in almost ten years the Kelly Club had never been raided once, but then again according to the Commissioner of Police at the time it didn’t exist anyway.

  Billy led Les through a large room full of green beige tables and pretty girls in evening gowns to a mirror-panelled office with ‘Private’ written on a door in the front. He knocked lightly and ushered Les in. Price Galese was seated behind a large mahogany desk counting a stack of $50 bills Evel Knievel couldn’t have jumped over. He stood up when he saw Les and shook his big hand warmly, told him to sit down and offered him a drink, which he declined, offered him a coffee which he accepted and in about five minutes had a very nervous Les Norton feeling relaxed and completely at ease.

  He explained to Les about the job, the money, the hours and what was expected of him. He chatted to him about one or two other things and finally told him that if he could be there by eight next Wednesday there would be a tuxedo waiting for him and he could start. Norton said that was fine by him, so Galese walked him to the office door, shook hands with him once more, reminded him to give Billy his measurements before he went and that was about it. Out the front of the club the two bouncers shook hands with Les once more, the one that was leaving wished him all the best, then they waved a slightly mystified Les Norton off into the gaudy neon Kings Cross night.

  Norton started without a hitch bang on time the following Wednesday night and as far as Les was concerned it was without a doubt the easiest money he’d ever earnt in his life. Naturally enough he felt a bit incongruous at first standing around in bow tie and tuxedo.

  ‘Have a look at me, Billy,’ he wailed. ‘I stick out like a pug nose in Jerusalem.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Billy. ‘You just look like a 20 stone penguin.’

  But Billy soon introduced him to all the regular clientele and Les soon noticed that apart from being an obviously well-heeled lot there were also a lot of faces he’d seen on TV and in the papers from both sides of the law, and apart from that he began to notice something else. All the people who came there had a certain respect for Billy and before long it seemed to be rubbing off on him. The Kelly Club was an honest, well-run place and it was a good class of people went through the door. They only came there to gamble, have a few drinks, meet their friends and socialise in general. They were always polite and courteous on the way in and out and never treated him like a thug or a moron working on a door: instead they gave him the impression — especially if he would escort someone up to their car if they had a big win — that they were glad Billy and he were there. It was almost a feeling of job satisfaction.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ he thought to himself one night, as he watched one of Sydney’s leading barristers escort a beautiful blonde model up the stairs, wearing a tight-fitting black dress with a split up the side that showed enough of a sensational pair of legs to make Billy Dunne try to bite a lump out of the front door, ‘this dead set shits on cartin’ beef.’

  Now and again Norton would go upstairs and move unobtrusively around the tables . . . a smile here a nod there . . . and Price Galese would watch him from the other side of the room. He liked Norton’s style — quiet, confident and for a big man he moved very lightly. On a crowded night he would weave his way gingerly through the people so they would scarcely know he was there. He was very pleased with Billy Dunne’s choice for a new doorman but one thing was on the back of his mind: I wonder if he can fight as well as Billy makes out. He didn’t have to wait that long to find out.

  The first occasion was late one relatively quiet Thursday night. Les and Billy were standing idly out the front of the club talking about nothing much in particular when the buzzer above their heads, which was installed to sound if there was any trouble inside, started up like it was going to fly off the wall.

  Norton put his hand on Billy’s shoulder, ‘Stay here mate. I’ll sort it out,’ he said. ‘If I need any help I’ll give you a yell.’ And took off up the stairs.

  Inside was complete pandemonium. A gigantic Yugoslav, well over six and a half feet tall and around 18 stone had erupted, and being egged on by a mate almost equally as big, was doing his best to wreck t
he place. He was about $12,000 down and about 40 bourbon and Cokes up when he started going crazy.

  He’d completely overturned the baccarat table and tried to choke the dealer. Two waitresses and another dealer who had tried to pull him off were sent sprawling over the roulette table along with half a dozen patrons, plus all the chips and the roulette wheel. He’d just put his fist through a card table, flattened two people who didn’t get out of the way quick enough and now he wanted to take on all comers, the owner in particular. There were cards, plastic chips and money everywhere, women were screaming and a lot of men were starting to look the colour of bad shit when Norton arrived at the top of the stairs like a Harrier jump jet.

  He paused for a second to survey the carnage around him. He could see that the bigger bloke doing all the damage was being egged on by his mate so he figured he’d take him out the way first then start on his mate. He caught Galese’s eye and shot him a glance as if to say, sorry about what’s going to happen but this is what your paying me for, then moved towards the first troublemaker.

  As he got to him he bent slightly at the knees and drove his right fist up into his solar plexus smashing every bit of air out of his body in one screaming gasp. He stepped back and drove a devastating left into his face followed by a short wicked right to the temple which sent him crashing to the floor, paralysed and sobbing with pain, blood streaming down one side of his face, the white bone shining like ivory through the gaping slit that had been his eyebrow.

  The big Yugoslav who was doing all the damage turned around just in time to see his mate hit the deck and with a roar of rage he charged at Norton like a maddened bull, tackling him round the waist, his sheer weight and power forcing Les backwards, scattering the people behind him like tenpins and smashing Les up against a wall. Only that Les managed to take most of the impact on his arms and legs, it would have broken his neck.

  Bracing himself against the wall, Norton raised his right arm and despite the awkward position he was in started pounding the giant Yugoslav’s kidneys with his elbow. The big man let out a scream of pain and released his grip from around Norton’s waist. Les grabbed him by the front of his jacket, raised him up to eye level and smashed two vicious head butts into his face, the first one squashed his nose like a ripe fig with a sickening crunch that was heard all over the casino, the second one moved it about four inches across his face. Most of the women turned away in horror, the men stood there wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Nobody moved.

  The big Yugoslav started to buckle at the knees. Still holding his jacket with his left hand, Norton drew back his massive right fist and said through clenched teeth: ‘Bad luck about your front teeth, pal, but you didn’t really want ’em all that much, did you?’

  Then with an evil gleam in his eye and all his shoulder behind it he drove a murderous short right straight into the big Yugoslav’s mouth, mashing his lips to a crimson pulp and shattering his teeth, two or three were torn completely out of the gums and fell plip, plop on the floor.

  Completely unconscious now, the big man hit the floor about two seconds after his teeth and landed next to his mate. Norton reached down, grabbed the pair of them by the hair and banged their heads together, once, twice, paused for a moment then gave them a third one for luck. Letting go of their hair he took them both by the scruff of the neck, dragged them over to the top of the stairs and called out to Billy Dunne at the door below. ‘Hey Billy, couple of blokes here want to see you,’ and flung them bodily down the stairs.

  Rubbing his hands together, Norton turned and adjusted his bow tie and as everybody stepped back quickly to let him through, he walked briskly over to Price Galese who was standing there blinking.

  ‘I’m sorry about the ruckus Mr Galese,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think there was any other way I could get those two out of the place. Anyway they’re gone and I don’t think they’ll be back tonight,’ he added simply.

  Galese took Norton assuredly by the arm. ‘That’s all right, Les. Don’t worry about it, that’s the only way to treat mugs like that. Come here for a sec.’ Taking a monogrammed pure silk handkerchief out of the top pocket of his $600 suit he led Les over to the office.

  ‘Here,’ he said handing the handkerchief to Les, ‘best you wipe the blood off your face.’

  ‘Blood.’ Norton touched his face and looked surprised. ‘That’s funny,’ he said, ‘I don’t remember getting hit.’

  ‘Don’t worry Les, I’m sure not one drop of it’s yours.’

  Later that evening a concerned Billy Dunne came upstairs and took Price Galese quietly aside for a moment.

  ‘You know who that was that Les pelted down the stairs earlier don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, that silly big Iron Bar Muljak,’ replied Galese.

  ‘There could be a little bit of trouble there.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I might just send him a get well card through the week.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  A few days later they took Iron Bar Muljak out of intensive care and put him in a public ward. They wired his jaw up and replaced as many teeth as they could; they couldn’t do much for his nose, but they put it back as best they could somewhere near the middle of his face. His kidneys would be all right, they told him, in a few weeks and the other good news was that his skull was only slightly fractured, in six places. He was propped up in bed with all his tubes and drips and other odds and ends hanging out of him, still trying to figure out what happened and attempting to get a view out the window through two enormous black eyes when he got a couple of visitors. Only these visitors didn’t bring any flowers or chocolates. They brought advice.

  They advised Iron Bar that if he knew what was good for him he wouldn’t go near the Kelly Club or the Cross for about 20 years, and any ideas he had about a sneak square-up with Norton, he could forget too. Price Galese might have been a wonderful old chap to a lot of people but if you crossed him, you either finished up under about six feet of tarmac watching the planes come in and out of Mascot, or you went swimming, about five miles off Sydney Heads with a couple of car batteries for swim flippers. Nothing eventuated.

  The second time Price got to see Norton go off was late on a fairly busy Saturday night. He was parked directly across the street from the Kelly Club talking to a member of State Parliament in the back seat of Price’s Rolls-Royce so he got a ringside view of the action.

  An American karate champion, Chuck Wallace, was in Australia making a martial arts movie. Chuck was no slouch in the fighting department. He’d been United States champion twice and he was still one of the best in the world, but the booze, the babes, the money and the cocaine had got to Chuck and now that he was a half-baked movie star, he had to have his hangers-on and he loved to show them how good he was.

  Chuck’s favourite trick was starting fights with bouncers. He would go up to the door of a club or disco or whatever, pretend to be drunk and try to get in, inevitably he’d get knocked back. Then he’d get a bit more boisterous and cheeky until the bouncer would finally put the arm on him and tell him to piss off. The next thing you knew some poor unsuspecting doorman would find himself flying through the air and getting kicked and punched all over the street, and with his stooges egging him on Chuck didn’t show much mercy. He’d given out some awful hidings and the more he did it the more he liked it. He’d had a dream run so far but it came to a dismal end the Saturday night Chuck and his hangers-on stumbled across the Kelly Club.

  Les and Billy were standing out the front watching a couple of hookers having an argument up the road when Les asked Billy if he was hungry.

  ‘Yeah, to tell you the truth I am a bit,’ replied Billy.

  ‘You fancy a couple of George’s shasliks?’

  ‘Ohh, mate, I’d kill for one of George’s shasliks right now.’ George was a Greek who ran a take-away food bar across the road from the Crest Hotel and just round the corner from the Kelly Club. He always looked after the b
oys, gave them extra-big serves and no matter how busy he was he’d always serve them straight away so they could get back to work.

  ‘How many you want?’ asked Les.

  ‘Two, and an orange juice. Here, you want the money?’

  ‘No, I’ll get ’em. You get ’em next time. I’ll be about five minutes. You be right here?’

  ‘Yeah, sweet. Just keep away from those two molls on the corner.’

  Norton smiled and turned quickly off up the street. He’d just got round the corner when up weaved Chuck Wallace putting on his drunk act, his hangers-on about 50 feet down the road.

  Chuck looked exactly like what he was, a visiting Californian. He had on blue denim jeans, a blue denim shirt, cowboy boots and enough turquoise and silver to fill a Spanish armada. He lurched drunkenly up to Billy, his thumbs hooked in the front of his jeans.

  ‘Hey, muscles, what’s the story? You gonna let me in here or what, baby?’

  Billy looked at him and smiled good naturedly. ‘Sorry, baby, I can’t let you in with jeans on, and I think you’ve had a few, haven’t you?’

  ‘Had a few what, man, a few screws, a few tokes, a few snorts, what?’

  ‘A few too many drinks old son. I’ll tell you what. You go home, get a pair of pants and sober up a bit and we’ll see about letting you in then eh, fair enough?’

  Wallace took a quick look over his shoulder and winked at the hangers-on from the film crew. They were standing there grinning, waiting for the action to start. He started towards Billy.

  ‘Man, I’m coming into your goddam place whether you like it or not.’

  Billy put his hand out and gently pushed the American back. ‘Come on matey,’ he said. ‘Don’t be silly and don’t get yourself hurt.’

  Wallace dropped the drunken act and stepped back. ‘You’re the one that’s gonna get hurt, cocksucker,’ he hissed. And with that he drove a side thrust kick into the unsuspecting Billy Dunne’s chest, the heel of his cowboy boot cracking two of Billy’s ribs. Billy grunted with pain as Wallace followed up with a right hook kick to the side of his face and a back fist to the other side. Billy was stunned. There was nothing he could do. He clutched his broken ribs with his right hand, tried to ward off the punches and kicks with his left. Wallace had him pinned up against the wall helplessly and was raining kicks all over Billy, laughing sadistically the whole time.