The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya Read online

  ‘I want to leave here by about seven tomorrow morning. Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure. No worries.’

  ‘And how long’ll the trip take?’

  ‘About seven or eight hours — there and back.’

  ‘Right.’ Norton rose from his seat and shook hands with Sheehan once more. ‘I’ll see you about seven.’

  ‘Okay George. I’ll see you then.’

  Kingsley walked Les to the door and watched him walk back along the walkway. This is a funny one he thought as he closed the door and went back to his coffee and the paper. Seems almost too good to be true. Then again, knowing bloody Eddie Salita, it probably bloody well is.

  That was easy enough thought Les as he drove back towards the city. And he doesn’t seem like a bad sort of bloke either. Don’t know about the flying cap and scarf, though. And the nine grand. Then I’ve gotta give Murray ten and they want fifty. Price isn’t going to get much change from his hundred grand. Twenty or so minutes later, Les pulled up and parked his car in Regent Street, Redfern, not far from the main shopping centre and the railway station.

  He strolled up to Redfern station and sat down beneath a few young gum trees doing their best to add some green to a small, concrete park in Lawson Street. Almost directly opposite was a long brick wall covered in colourful Aboriginal murals — ships from the first fleet, kangaroos, natives holding spears and boomerangs etc. — and behind this, covered in rubble, was Price’s block of land. On the Regent Street corner stood the old brick building.

  It was dirty, run-down and covered in old posters, mainly for rock bands and venues. Most of the windows were broken and the main one, where the smallgoods factory used to be, was boarded up with palings and sheets of rusty, galvanised iron. The abandoned fish shop looked all sad and forlorn, and across the dust-caked window there was still a crude sign in white poster paint: ‘Fresh Mulett Fillets — $4 a kilo’. Les noticed the word ‘Mullet’ was spelt with only one ‘1’ and two ‘t’s. Next door along was Percy Kilby’s office. The main window was painted over in the Aboriginal flag colours of red, yellow and black and the letters AWEC were written across it in white. Underneath in small letters, also in white, was what it stood for. A solid olive-green door was on the right and even from across the road Les could make out a Bob Marley poster and one for a land rights march either pinned or pasted to it. So this is Kilby’s little bolthole is it, he mused.

  Norton sat there for a while in the spring sunshine, studying the building and the area in general. Cars cruised along Lawson Street and trains rumbled in and out of the station while a steady stream of commuters and other pedestrians filed past. Before long more pieces of his plan began to fall into place.

  Facing the traffic lights at the other end of Lawson Street was an old hotel, the Thames Tavern. It was by no means the Chevron Hilton. Flanked by some second-hand and other ancient clothes shops, the front doors were patterned with dull brown and green tiles built into the old bricks that the owners had obviously tried to tart up with cheap, grey paint. Above the two bars facing the street was an awning daubed with beer company slogans, while above this were two small, brick-balconied verandahs which Norton guessed would be part of the accommodation area. He stared at the old pub for a few more moments, smiled, grunted something to him-self, then got up and started walking towards it.

  If the Thames Tavern looked grotty outside, the interior was even worse. It was badly lit, with a few black plastic chairs and tables covered in cigarette burns scattered around a pair of badly abused pool-tables. A worn-out looking juke box was up against one wall and around this were several unkempt patrons, who, although it was nowhere near lunchtime, looked as if they were all well on the way to getting drunk. A tired-looking, horribly made-up blonde barmaid in an old blue cardigan was hovering in front of the beer taps. Norton approached her, a half smile on his craggy face.

  ‘Yeah, what’ll you have love?’ she whined in a reedy voice that seemed to be piped straight down her nostrils.

  ‘Is the owner or the manager in please?’

  ‘He’s down in the cellar. Who’ll I say wants him?’

  ‘I wanted to see about some accommodation.’

  The barmaid gave Norton a double blink. Clean-shaven, in a freshly ironed shirt, and not smelling of stale booze, he definitely wasn’t one of the usual clientele.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said politely. ‘I’ll just go and get him.’ She moved to the end of the bar, bent over and screeched down to the cellar. ‘Hey Ross. There’s someone here wants to see you about a room.’ A muffled voice called out something from the cellar. ‘Righto,’ replied the barmaid. ‘He’ll be up in a few minutes. He’s just changing a keg.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you want a drink while you’re waiting?’

  Norton screwed his face up slightly at the thought of what it would probably be like. ‘Yeah, righto. Give us a middy of lemon squash.’

  Oddly enough the squash was beautiful. Not from a machine, plenty of ice and two fresh slices of lemon. Norton downed it in about four swallows and ordered another. He was halfway through it and leaning against the bar when a man came up from the cellar.

  ‘Hello mate,’ he said, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. ‘I’m Ross Bailey, the owner. What can I do for you?’

  He was a fairly solid bloke, a little overweight, not a bad style, possibly around thirty, with neat brown hair and a trimmed moustache. From his broken nose and bustling kind of manner, Norton tipped he was either an ex-footballer or policeman.

  ‘My name’s, ah... George Dunne,’ said Les. ‘I need one room for four people, for five days. Maybe a week.’

  ‘One room for four people?’

  ‘Yeah. Myself and three Aborigines.’

  The owner narrowed one eye and looked at Les a little sceptically.

  ‘It’s all right. They’re dancers. I’m with an advertising agency and we’re bringing them down from Queensland to do a TV commercial. We were going to put them up in a motel at Double Bay, but they insisted on staying in Redfern for some reason.’

  ‘Ohh it’s lovely round here,’ chuckled Ross Bailey. ‘I don’t blame them. What sort of ad is it?’

  Norton looked across the bar to a blown-up photo of Dennis Lillee pinned on the wall. ‘Ahh... World Series Cricket.’

  ‘Australian Aborigines doing a cricket ad?’ The owner looked at Les quizzically.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a new concept one of our writers thought up. Instead of using West Indians we’re using Aborigines. It’s just a gimmick.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ smiled the owner. ‘Sort of, come on Abo come on eh?’

  ‘Hey, you’ve got it,’ grinned Norton. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well come on up and I’ll show you the rooms.’

  The owner picked up a set of keys and came round from behind the bar. He led Les past the bottle shop, down a corridor and up a dusty, thinly carpeted set of stairs to the first floor.

  ‘Actually, the room I wanted was one of those with the balconies facing the street,’ said Norton, following behind. ‘The boys like to see the sun first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Those rooms are double rooms all right,’ said the owner. ‘But they’re already gone mate.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yeah. Me and my girl have got one. And two old blokes have got the other.’

  The owner went to unlock the door to one of the rooms facing the landing.

  ‘How much do you want for a room for the week?’ asked Les.

  ‘Well, four of you. Even in the one room I’m still going to have to charge almost the full amount.’ The owner thought for a moment, ‘Say $200.’

  ‘I’ll give you 500 if we can have one of those front rooms.’

  ‘Five hundred dollars?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it 750. And don’t worry about a receipt.’

  The owner quickly shut the door he’d just opened. ‘Fuck Barney and Tom,’ he said. ‘I’ll thrown them in 15 for the we
ek. Come on. I’ll show you your room.’

  Bailey led Les into room number 9. Actually it was three rooms in one; two bedrooms with two single beds in each, a bathroom and a larger room which led onto the small verandah overlooking Regent Street. The carpet was a bit chatty, like the curtains, but it was fairly bright, there was a laminex table in the middle of the main room and an old, yellow vinyl lounge and two matching chairs. A small colour TV faced this and a mantle radio sat on a shelf on one of the walls. Apart from that it didn’t look as if anyone lived there.

  ‘They must travel light, whoever’s staying here,’ said Norton, opening the frosted glass doors that led onto the verandah.

  ‘Yeah. They’re just a couple of old pensioners,’ replied the owner. ‘They spend most of their money on piss.’

  Norton grinned to himself as he stepped out onto the tiny red-tiled balcony. The AWEC offices were barely 200 metres away and if the front window hadn’t been painted over you’d have been able to see Kilby in person. What a stroke of luck, thought Norton. The boys’ll be able to point the bone at him easy enough from here. Any closer and they’d be able to stick the thing fair up his arse.

  ‘Yeah. This’ll be perfect, Ross,’ said Norton, stepping back inside and closing the doors behind him. ‘Now, what do I owe you? Seven hundred and fifty bucks, right?’ The owner shrugged a reply. ‘Well here’s 250 in advance.’ Les fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I’ll give you the rest next week. And like I said. Don’t worry about a receipt if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Sweet as a nut,’ replied Bailey, putting the money in his pocket without bothering to count it. ‘When did you want to move in?’

  ‘About lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll have the girl clean it out and run the vacuum cleaner over it for you.’ Bailey gave Les the key and they filed back down the stairs, Les telling the owner he’d see him tomorrow.

  Well how good’s this, thought Norton, giving the old hotel one last look as he strolled back to his car. This is all falling into place easier than pissin’ the bed when you’re drunk. Whistling happily to himself he got in his car and headed for Bondi Junction.

  Norton had paid his phone account, had a coffee, and was sitting in the Oxford Street Mall sipping a carrot and apple juice when he saw Price’s Sheldon Drewe approaching, accompanied by Price’s accountant, Russell Ticehurst. With their neat short hair, inquisitive clean-shaven faces and steelrimmed glasses the men could have been brothers. Both were wearing sober but expensively tailored, charcoal-grey suits, the only difference being the stripes in Ticehurst’s suit were thicker than Drewe’s. They spotted Les, smiled briefly and walked over.

  ‘Hello Les. How are you?’ said Sheldon.

  ‘G’day Shell,’ replied Norton, getting to his feet.

  ‘You know Russell?’

  ‘Yeah. I met you up the game. How are you Russ?’

  ‘Good thanks Les.’

  ‘Well. Will we go and get this thing sorted out?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Did you bring the dough with you?’

  The lawyer held up a black briefcase he was holding and they proceeded to the bank.

  Sheldon made a quick inquiry at the counter and in no time they were ushered into the office of the manager, Mr Bill Sturgess. A tall broad-shouldered man in his early forties, Sturgess used to play Rugby League for Easts too, but a bit before Norton’s time. Les recognised him from playing touch football up at Waverley Oval and sometimes down Centennial Park. There were quick handshakes all around and then they got down to business.

  Although Norton knew how to get a dollar together quicker than the next bloke, the actual working in dollars and cents bored him absolutely shitless; even having to fill out a tax return once a year nearly drove him round the bend. So he just sat there in the manager’s air-conditioned office like a stale bottle of piss while they sorted it all out between them. Terms like negative gearing, short-term interest rates and diversification of liquid assets were bandied about — which Norton let go right over his head — and the next thing he’d signed some papers and had an access account with his name and a whole lot of numbers on it. He took out $25,000 of those numbers in fifties and hundreds and placed them in a thick, black plastic bag he’d brought with him. A few minutes later he was out the front of the bank walking with the others towards the car park behind McDonalds. After a brief goodbye Les got in his old Ford, the others got into Sheldon’s new Mercedes, and they went their separate ways.

  Les still had about an hour left before Murray would ring, so he fiddled around the house and got a Greek-style lamb stew ready for tea while he was waiting. At bang on two-thirty Murray rang.

  ‘Hello Les?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you Murray?’

  ‘Good mate. You got everything sorted out down there?’

  ‘Yeah. Smooth as silk. I’ll tell you what’s going on.’

  Les explained briefly how he’d chartered the plane and arranged the accommodation for himself and the three others in Redfern. The money was taken care of and all Murray had to do was be out at the old airstrip at ten-thirty the following morning.

  ‘You know how to get out there all right, don’t you, Muzz?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. It’s only about two hours from here.’

  ‘You don’t mind having to stay out there another night?’

  Murray glanced towards the kitchen where Koodja and the other girls had just finished cleaning up after lunch and were now preparing Bavarian chocolate cake for tea plus duck á l’orange from a brace of six Yarrawulla had caught and prepared the day before.

  ‘Ohh no,’ he grinned. ‘I suppose I can force myself to stay here another night. I just hope Chalky doesn’t serve red wine with the poultry this evening — that’s all. It’s definitely not a go.’

  ‘What was that?’ queried Les.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Yeah? Arseholes. You’re up to something out there. Generally I need an elephant to drag you away from Dirranbandi for more than five minutes.’

  ‘Turn it up, you’re my brother. Jesus, if I couldn’t put myself out for a couple of nights for my family what sort of a bloke would I be?’

  ‘Mmhh.’

  ‘Anyway, everything sounds like it’s sweet. So I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yeah, righto.’

  Les said to give his regards to the others, then hung up saying he’d see them all on Thursday morning. Murray’s definitely up to something up there he thought, smiling at the phone for a moment. He’s my brother. I can tell. Oh well, good luck to him, whatever it is.

  It wasn’t a bad spring afternoon — sunny, quite warm, with a nice light breeze coming from the north-west — so Norton put his banana-chair out in the backyard to lie down and have a bit of a think. There wasn’t really all that much to think about and he ended up dozing off. He woke up about five, had a shower, put on a tracksuit and got tea ready.

  Warren arrived home and by seven he and Les had finished the stew and were sipping coffee, watching the news on Channel 2 and ripping into a cherry cheesecake Warren had brought home from some exclusive little Swiss cake shop in Woollahra.

  ‘So you’re going to have another early night tonight, eh?’ said Warren.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got to be up by six again tomorrow.’

  ‘Jesus I’d love to know what’s going on. You’re taking a few days off from work — to do what, you won’t say. You’re going away somewhere — you won’t say where, but it’s not far. And you’ve had this smirk on your dial since Sunday.’ Warren shook his head. ‘I’d love to know what you’re up to you big drop kick.’

  Norton laughed at the look on Warren’s face. ‘Jesus you’re a nosy little prick. I’m not up to anything. I’m just showing some old blokes around Sydney. That’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’

  ‘That’s all it is. Anyway, I might tell you about it next week — if you’re lucky. Now,’ Norton smiled an
d winked at his flatmate, ‘anything worth watching on TV tonight?’

  There was a Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau movie on Channel 7. They watched that, plus a bit of Clive Robertson’s news, then both hit the sack around eleven. Les was asleep almost the minute his head hit the pillow. He was really looking forward to seeing his brother again, and the three old friends.

  For some reason, possibly watching a little too much TV, Les woke up feeling like he could have done with a bit more sleep. But he felt a bit better after he got cleaned up and had a mug of tea, and was out the front door and in his car heading for Mascot by six-thirty. Kingsley Sheehan, pilot extraordinaire, on the other hand was all bright-eyed and bushy tailed when Les walked into his office just before seven a.m. His eyes were sparkling, the old leather flying cap was set at its jaunty angle, even his moustache seemed to bristle like a porcupine on a cold winter’s day. He was whistling softly to himself and seated once more beneath the window. He looked up from his cup of coffee and morning paper when Les walked in.

  ‘G’day George,’ he smiled. ‘How are you mate?’

  ‘Pretty good Kingsley,’ replied Les, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s not a bad day outside.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a beauty. You looking forward to the trip?’

  Norton nodded and threw a small overnight bag up on the table, unzipping it almost in the same movement.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, pulling out a wad of money. ‘There’s $2,500 there. I’ll give you some more when we get back and the rest when you fly the boys back. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Kingsley, catching the money as Les tossed it to him. He gave it a quick count and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his flying jacket. ‘Thanks George.’

  ‘No sweat.’

  ‘Well,’ Kingsley folded his paper and drained his cup of coffee. ‘I suppose we may as well get going eh.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  Kingsley stood up, picked up a small leather briefcase, opened the door for Les and closed it behind them without bothering to lock it. Then he followed Les down the steps into the hangar.