The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (13 page)

Norton watched them from a discreet distance for about five minutes before going over and sitting down on one of the chairs. After another ten minutes or so, while the chanting continued, Tjalkalieri came over and squatted down next to him.

‘How's it going?' asked Les.

‘Good. We've got him.'

‘What? You mean he's dead already?'

‘No.' Tjalkalieri shook his head. ‘It doesn't work like that. We've only just made the point. The contact. It won't hit him for a while yet. We'll go for a little longer, then we'll knock off and start again tomorrow. But Jesus, we've got a good point going. One of the best ever.'

‘That's good,' nodded Les. ‘So how long do you reckon it'll take?'

Tjalkalieri closed one eye and picked at his chin for a moment. ‘Monday maybe. Probably Tuesday. Wednesday at the most.'

Norton was visibly impressed. ‘Tuesday eh? Shit that's all right.'

‘We got off to a good start. It makes all the difference.' Tjalkalieri winked up at Norton and gave him a pat on the leg. ‘Even though we were bagging you before, you did the right thing moving us into this dump.'

They sat there for a few more minutes in silence as Mumbi and Yarrawulla continued to chant and perform their odd little dance. Finally Les spoke.

‘What're they singing anyway, Chalky?'

‘The chant? Oh the words go something like this:

‘Percy Kilby. May your heart be rent asunder.

May your backbone be split open and your ribs torn asunder.

May your head and throat be split open.

May your liver bleed and be drowned in its own blood. May your bones become like sand.

May you be sick and still hungry when you eat.

May you howl like a dingo.

May you groan like a bullfrog.'

Tjalkalieri shrugged. ‘You know, Les, the usual thing. You've heard one chant you've heard the lot.'

Norton smiled but shook off a chill running through his body at the same time. ‘Shit that is a nice song, isn't it? Who wrote the words. Paul McCartney?'

‘Rodgers and Hammerstein,' winked Tjalkalieri. ‘I can't see it getting in the top forty though.'

They continued watching in silence for what must have been almost half an hour. Then, as abruptly as they started, Mumbi and Yarrawulla stopped.

‘Well if that don't get him, nothing will,' said Yarrawulla,
closing the balcony door before he turned around.

‘Yeah, it was a good point,' said Tjalkalieri, rising to his feet. ‘A very good contact. I could sense it from over here.'

Norton stood up also. ‘Hey how come you didn't join in the sing-along anyway?'

‘My turn tomorrow,' smiled Tjalkalieri. ‘I get to dress up in all different gear and make-up.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Too right. I come out dressed up like Boy George. White smock with all numbers on it. Funny little black hat. Paper ribbons. Everything.' Tjalkalieri gave Norton a cheeky wink. ‘You wait till you see it Les. It's a gas.'

Norton had to chuckle at Tjalkalieri's sarcasm.

‘Tell you what,' said Mumbi, running a hand over his face. ‘I could go a cup of tea. That chanting knocks the shit out of you.'

‘Yeah, I don't suppose they'd have a kettle in this brothel would they Les?' asked Yarrawulla. ‘I'm fangin' for a cuppa.'

‘I wouldn't mind one myself, to tell you the truth,' added Tjalkalieri. ‘Can you do something there Les?'

Norton stared at the three of them, shaking his head almost in disbelief; especially at Mumbi and Yarrawulla. For the last half an hour or so they'd been totally absorbed in singing some bloke to a cruel, diabolical death and now they'd knocked off for a cup of tea. Just like that. Like they were working on the roads or something and suddenly noticed it was time for smoko. Knock off and put the Billy on. Les shook his head again.

‘So now you want a cup of bloody tea, eh?'

‘Yeah,' intoned Tjalkalieri. ‘Why. What's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing I don't suppose,' shrugged Norton. ‘It just seems a bit odd, that's all.'

‘A bit odd?' queried Mumbi. ‘What do you mean — a bit odd? We've just been chanting our guts out for the last half a bloody hour, covered in paint and feathers and shit. Christ, surely we're entitled to a cup of tea aren't we?'

‘Yeah my oath,' said Yarrawulla, plonking himself down on the lounge. ‘We work strictly to union rules here son. Half an hour on. Half an hour off. Don't start trying to break down conditions on us Les.'

‘Union rules. Break down conditions,' nodded Les sourly. ‘I suppose the next thing you'll be wanting a 17.5 per cent loading on that fifty bloody grand.'

‘Well,' smiled Tjalkalieri. ‘We weren't going to mention
that part of our award at this stage, Les. But seeing as you've brought it up.'

Norton threw his hands up in the air. ‘Ohh get stuffed will you.' He took a glance at his watch, now back on his left wrist. ‘Look, it's nearly six o'clock. And I don't like your chances of getting a cup of tea in this joint.'

‘What about room service?' chuckled Mumbi.

‘Room service. In here?' said Yarrawulla. ‘You'd get better room service on death row.'

Norton ignored both of them. ‘Why don't I duck out and get us some food and we'll have dinner? Some Chinese or something. And I'll get some cartons of tea while I'm at it.'

Tjalkalieri turned to the others, extremely po-faced. ‘What do you reckon, comrades? Are we going to accept this blatant breakdown in our award and conditions? No tea supplied.'

‘It's a lot to have to accept from the management,' agreed Mumbi, sitting down on the lounge next to Yarrawulla. ‘What do you reckon brother?'

‘I don't know mate. I don't like it. I reckon we'd only be scabbing on ourselves if we accept it. But,' Yarrawulla winked over at the others, ‘jobs are hard to get these days I suppose, so I guess we'll just have to put up with these sweatshop conditions.'

‘Thanks,' said Norton, going to his bag and getting out a notepad and biro. ‘Now if you workers would just like to tell the management what you want to eat, I'll go out and get it. Plus your cups of fuckin' tea of course.'

Les wrote down what they wanted — fried rice, soups, sweet and sour, etc., plus his own — then put the list in his shirt pocket.

‘Don't be too long either, will you Les,' said Tjalkalieri, watching Norton move towards the door. ‘As work delegate, I can tell you the members aren't very happy about what's going on.'

Les paused as he opened the door and glared back at the three of them. ‘You know the unions are fucking this country don't you,' he said, then closed the door and disappeared down the stairs.

As Norton was heading up Regent Street in search of a Chinese takeaway, Knobby Jones had pulled up in his Ford station wagon outside the AWEC office to view the hot VCRs. A very tall, powerfully built man in his early forties, Jones too
had a broken nose and a bit of scar tissue around his eyes; a legacy from his football days but mostly from his dealings in the Sydney underworld. However, unlike his two dubious business acquaintances, Jones had thinning dark hair, going grey, and he was white.

‘G'day Knobby. How's things mate?' smiled Kilby as the tall figure strode into his office.

‘Pretty good, Perce. How are you? G'day Frank.'

‘Knobby.'

‘So this is them, eh?' asked Jones. He moved towards the VCRs stacked against the wall, raised the tarpaulin and gave them a quick once-over. ‘Yeah they look all right. How many did you say was here again?'

‘Thirty,' replied Kilby. ‘Twenty Nationals and ten Sanyos. All the grouse Knobby, and straight out of the container.'

‘And what'd you want for them did you say?'

‘Well. They're worth 900 each in the shops. A third of the ticket's nine grand. Say eight and a half the lot. What do you reckon?'

Jones nodded his head at the cartons in a look of grudging approval. ‘Yeah, fair enough.'

‘In fact the Sanyos have got infra-red remote control. Here, I'll show you.'

Kilby rose from his desk, walked over to the VCRs and bent down to point to the writing on the side of one of the cartons.

‘There you are, you see that? Remote control. Only the very best for you, Knobby old mate.'

Kilby straightened up to smile at Jones, but the smile unexpectedly vanished to be replaced by a look of pure eye-bulging shock. He sucked in a choking gasp of air and fell against the cartons clutching at the small of his back.

‘Ohh, Jesus Christ!' he screamed, his eyes jammed shut with pain and disbelief.

Astonished at the suddenness of it all, Frank stood and watched his stricken boss for a moment or two. ‘Shit! Are you all right Perce?' he finally said, worry written all over his face.

Even Jones, who was a hard man, was concerned at the agonised look on Kilby's face. Like Frank he too could see that Kilby was in a great deal of pain. ‘What's the matter Perce?' he asked.

‘Ohh, my fuckin' back,' Kilby managed to gasp out.

Kilby had no sooner said that when he doubled up and
began clutching at his stomach. He let out another shriek of agony and fell down on his knees against the wall. Frank and Jones exchanged worried, puzzled looks for a few seconds as they stared at Kilby. Then Frank bent down to help his suffering boss.

‘No, don't touch me,' cried Kilby quickly. ‘Don't touch me.'

With the others watching apprehensively, Kilby crouched for a few moments, eyes clenched tight with agony. Then as suddenly as the pain came on, it disappeared. Kilby blinked his eyes open in astonishment for a few seconds and slowly got to his feet. The pain had gone but his mouth felt dry and bitter and a lot of the colour had drained from his face.

‘Are you all right Perce?' asked Frank.

‘Yeah, what was that all about?' asked Jones.

‘I don't know,' replied Kilby, still running his hands gingerly over his stomach and back. ‘I've never felt anything like it. It was as if someone had just hit me in the back with an axe — then stabbed me in the guts with a red-hot poker. Christ, talk about pain. You've got no idea.'

‘You might've slipped a disc or something for a second when you bent down,' suggested Jones. ‘I've done that. It's a bastard.'

‘Yeah. But what about the pain in my stomach?' Kilby walked over and slumped down behind his desk.

Jones shook his head and shrugged a reply. ‘I dunno. Anyway, Perce. I've got to piss off. I've got a million other things to do. I'll send Jolly around to pick this stuff up in the morning. He'll give you the dough then. Okay?'

‘Yeah, righto.' Kilby made a gesture with his hand from behind the desk, scarcely looking up. He was still visibly shaken. ‘I'll see you later, Knobby. Frank'll see you to the door. I'm still not feeling the best.'

‘That's okay,' replied Jones. ‘I'll give you a call through the week. Take care. See you Perce.'

‘Yeah. See you Knobby.'

After he'd seen Jones to the door, Frank returned and gave his boss another worried look. ‘You feelin' all right now Perce?'

‘Yeah, I don't feel too bad. But Jesus, I'm fucked if I know what hit me just then. Fair dinkum, I've never felt pain like it.'

Frank nodded sympathetically. ‘I don't suppose you'll feel like having that feed now.'

Kilby slowly brought his gaze up to his heavy. ‘That's
the funny part about it, Frank. I'm hungrier now than I ever was.'

Norton didn't have too much trouble finding a half-decent Chinese restaurant just around the corner from the hotel. He ordered the food and while it was being prepared went to a hamburger shop opposite and ordered three polystyrene cups of tea, taking a punt before the owner put the lids on that the boys all took milk and sugar. The girl in the restaurant gave him a cardboard carton for the food so he stopped at the bottle shop in the hotel and bought a dozen stubbies of Fourex; not taking a punt on the boy's beer tastes this time... if they didn't like Fourex they could go without. As it happened, the boys weren't real keen on the Queensland fighting foam, though they managed to force down two bottles each. They gave the tea the thumbs up however, and on a rating of one to ten gave the Chinese food a begrudging four and a half, not that they left too much in the containers when they'd finished.

Then the workers sent the management down to get another dozen bottles of beer — Stag Lager this time — which they demolished pretty smartly while they sat around watching TV. The boys told Les they were tired not only from the chanting and the plane trip, but they honestly couldn't handle the polluted air and city tap-water after Binjiwunyawunya so they were all in bed before ten. Les joined them not long after, making two phonecalls before he did.

The first was to Warren, to ask sarcastically if he could manage without him and were there any messages. Warren said he could, and there weren't. The next was to Price at the club to make sure Danny had turned up and to tell him everything appeared to be going to plan. Price said everything was shipshape at the club but he still sounded sceptical about Les's strange scheme and would liked to have known a bit more about what he was doing with that $100,000. Eddie was sitting in the office opposite Price and he too was dying to know a bit more, but Norton just laughed saying not to worry he'd tell them some more on Saturday night and it would all be over one way or the other by Wednesday.

‘Eddie. What do you reckon the big red-headed prick's up to?' said Price, drumming his fingers on the desk as he stared at the phone after Les had hung up.

‘I'm buggered if I know Price,' replied the little hit man, giving his head a shake as he too glanced absently at the
phone. ‘It's something bloody weird though. He rang me earlier wanting to know how to get a blood sample from that Kilby without him knowing it.'