The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (18 page)

It was obvious it was going to be Annoy Les Norton Afternoon. All they did was fart, eat, watch Elvis and do everything they could think of to goad Les into blowing his stack. But Norton persevered and did his best to ignore them. The climax came, however, after Les had gone up and got their pizzas for tea and they were all settled back watching the news on Channel 2.

As they sat there, stuffing themselves with tea and pizzas, the news flashed onto an anti-apartheid demonstration outside the South African Embassy in Canberra. A small crowd of beefy-looking, crewcutted women dressed mainly in overalls were screaming their lungs out, burning flags and making horrible noisy arseholes of themselves while they did everything possible to provoke a number of cold, frustrated young policemen into arresting them. The young cops having to take all the abuse and grit their teeth looked like they would have liked nothing better than to take their caps and badges off and thump the stuffing out of the lot of them. Norton
thought this might be as good a time as any to have a go back at the boys, who were watching the demonstration with looks more of contempt than anything else.

‘Fair dinkum' said Les sarcastically. ‘Fancy those silly sheilas sticking up for you Aborigines. You'd think they'd have more bloody sense.'

‘What was that?' said Tjalkalieri.

‘I said those sheilas sticking up for you Aborigines. They're wasting their bloody time.'

Tjalkalieri looked at Norton in both disgust and amazement. ‘Do you really think those... those so-called women are sticking up for us?'

‘Yeah. Well of course they are,' replied Les. The tone of Tjalkalieri's voice had taken him back slightly. ‘Anti-apartheid. South Africa. Aborigines. Same bloody thing isn't it?'

‘Have another look at them, Les.'

Norton studied the demonstrators for a few moments. One of them — a particularly sour Slavic-faced blonde in a Levi jacket — had just flung red paint on one of the police and was now on her back, kicking and screaming as she was getting dragged off by the arms to a waiting paddy-wagon. ‘Paula. Paula,' she was screaming out to one of her equally sourfaced girlfriends as if she was in mortal agony. ‘Help me. Help me.' She wasn't in all that much pain and it was obvious she was putting an act on for the cameras.

‘Notice anything about them?' asked Tjalkalieri.

‘They all look like they could do with a good wash,' he shrugged.

‘Yeah,' snorted Tjalkalieri. ‘And they're all bloody lesbians too.'

From his observations around the Cross Les had to agree. ‘Yeah, they're all dykes. That's fairly obvious. So what?'

‘And you think those dykes are sticking up for us do you?'

‘Well... I...' Norton was beginning to wish he hadn't said anything now.

‘Now have a look at the cops. They're nearly all young blokes. Right?'

Norton kept his eye on the screen. ‘Well... yeah.'

‘Well that's how the dykes get their rocks off, you dopey big clown.' Norton could sense the bitterness increasing in Tjalkalieri's voice and the others weren't looking too happy either. ‘Those man-hating dykes couldn't give a stuff about Australian Aborigines. Demonstrating against South Africa
is just an excuse to pick a fight with those young cops and look like heroes at the same time. They love it.' Tjalkalieri turned from Les back to the TV. ‘Have a look at that thing they're dragging into the wagon. She's just about blowing in her pants. Once she gets in the back of the wagon she'll start fingering herself.'

‘Oh come on. Turn it up.'

‘Turn it up my arse,' snorted Yarrawulla. ‘Heaps of mugs like you tumble in and think they've got the interests of our people at heart. Balls. They wouldn't give an Aborigine the time of day. You won't get your head on TV sticking up for Abos.'

‘All right. I just...'

‘Hypocrites. They give me the bloody shits,' continued Tjalkalieri. ‘One of the only blokes in this country who's fair dinkum about helping Australian Aborigines is Peter Garrett.'

‘That bloke out of Midnight Oil?'

‘Oh you do know bloody something Les. That's a change.'

Then it was on. Somehow, just looking for a joke, Norton had unsuspectingly touched a nerve with the boys, especially Tjalkalieri. And it wasn't funny. They sat on the lounge very sourly, gesticulating amongst themselves and arguing in their native tongue. Then Tjalkalieri reached over and abruptly switched the TV off, after which you could have cut the air with a knife.

Christ, what have I done, thought Les as he sat there in the almost inflammable silence. Every now and again one of the boys would mutter something under his breath to the others and they'd all glare murderously at the blank TV. Norton couldn't ever remember seeing the boys in such a foul mood. What he'd said was only meant as a joke, and a very mild, back-handed one at that. He didn't dream it would be so provocative. But evidently those lesbian protesters had rubbed the boys right up the wrong way, especially where it concerned their people.

After about five minutes or so of uncomfortable silence Norton had had enough. He thought it might be a good idea if he got out of the room and left the boys alone for a while.

‘Look,' he said. ‘I, ah... might go for a walk for a few minutes. Get a can of Coke or something. You blokes want anything while I'm up the road?'

There was an almost imperceptible shaking of heads and
more sour looks followed by continuing silence.

‘All right. Well I'll only be about fifteen minutes or so. I'll see you when I get back.' The door clicked quietly and he was gone.

Norton didn't see anybody else in the hotel as he trotted down the stairs and when he got out on the footpath he had a quick look in the bar. There was no sign of Bailey and no more than half a dozen people in there. The streets were quiet also. A few cars swishing past and that was about it. Satisfied it would be safe to leave the boys alone in their room for a while, Les started walking; straight up Regent Street.

I don't know about a Coke, he thought, as he trudged along in the soft glow of the neon signs and shop lights. I wouldn't mind a beer after that little caper. Should've had one in the bar, I suppose, but I might've bumped into the owner and I sure don't feel like talking or trying to crack jokes with anyone at the moment.

After he'd crossed the next intersection and got a bit further down the street, Les noticed a couple of people standing beneath a red canvas awning in a lane off to his right. In the darkness he could just make out the words Redfern RSL. Hello he thought, the local ‘rissole'. That'll do just nicely. I'll have a couple of schooners and a lash at the pokies. Wonder if I can get in wearing my tracksuit and joggers. Round here? Can't see why not.

Just like the Kelly Club, he laughed to himself as he stepped under the small, canvas awning and through the wood, panelled door. Don't think it'll be quite the same clientele though.

Apart from a woman using a red phone in the foyer there was no one else around and no one at the reception desk. A red and brown carpeted hallway, flanked by a large photo of the Queen, led inside, so he followed that along to what appeared to be the main bar.

It was a typical, fair-sized RSL bar, with poker machines around the walls and another circle of machines in the middle. There was a restaurant selling Asian food plus a menu of hamburgers, pies and chips for the local plebians. In front of him were a blank video screen and a small stage with a sign on it — ‘Lester And Smart Next Show 9 p.m.' Les didn't think he'd bother staying for the floor show. The place was happily noisy, however, fairly crowded with boozy, casually dressed whites and almost the same number of Aborigines.
No one approached Les for membership as he stood there, so he eased himself through the drinkers, the rattle of the poker machines and the cigarette haze, finding an uncrowded spot right in the corner of the bar. There didn't appear to be any Fourex on tap or in the fridges, so he settled for a schooner of Tooheys new. A skinny tired-looking barman had it in front of him pretty smartly and it was cold and crisp and hit the spot almost straight away. Norton downed most of it and got ready to order another.

Well this isn't too bad, he thought, propping himself up on his elbows with his back to the bar after the second schooner arrived. And it sure is nice to get out of that room for a while. He took another huge slurp of his schooner. I'll finish this, get another and run a few bucks through the pokies.

Norton was almost lost in pleasant thoughts as he leant against the bar checking out the heads on the locals. Although he wouldn't be able to stay too long, it was good to get a break out of the room away from the others and in a place where no one knew him and he could lean back and enjoy the pleasure of his own company over a nice, cold beer. He took another hefty swallow. And there's nothing wrong with the Tooheys on tap either.

But unbeknown to Les there was one person in the club that did know him. A tall Aborigine in a tracksuit similar to Norton's had been watching him intently, almost from the moment he had ordered his first beer. He was standing off to Norton's left, where the bar cornered round in front of the Men's Toilets, drinking with two other Aborigines from the local football team — one about the same size, the other shorter but more solid. He said something to the two men who looked over at Les, nodded grimly, then looked away again. The tallest one turned slightly side on to Norton while he sipped his beer but never took his eyes off him.

So, thought Frank, Vernon Stroud the chartered accountant, eh? Or is it Les Norton? Price Galese's so-called bloody heavy. Well you don't look so heavy to me, you red-headed goose. And you're right out of your territory. I think we might just be having a little word or two before the night's over. And it won't be about donations for South bloody Africa either.

Norton finished his schooner and placed the glass on the bar.

‘Same again mate?' said the barman.

‘Yeah. But make it a middy this time will you? And take
it out of that. I'm going for a leak.' Norton nodded to some change on the bar and moved towards the toilets. That beer's nice all right he thought. But shit! It goes through you like a packet of bloody Epsom Salts. Easing himself through the other drinkers, Les still didn't notice the three pairs of brown eyes watching him stealthily but intently as he entered the toilets. They gave him a minute or so then Frank nodded to the other two and they followed him inside.

Alone in the men's room, Norton had just finished and was standing in front of a long mirror above a row of hand-basins, while he rinsed his hands and splashed a bit of water on his face. A movement to his left caught his eyes and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he immediately recognised Frank. A quick surge of adrenalin hit the pit of his stomach. The sour look on Frank's face and the way his two associates were swarming behind him like a pair of hungry barracudas told Norton something wasn't quite right. Casually, he moved to the roll-towel on his right, pulled it down, and acting blasé, began drying his hands. Frank and his mates moved a little closer to Les, surrounding him yet not quite crowding him. Frank stood in the middle with his arms folded.

‘How're you goin' there mate. All right?' sneered Frank, menace dripping off his every word.

‘Yeah, not bad,' replied Norton breezily. His back was to Frank who couldn't see his eyebrows bristling as he continued slowly wiping his hands.

‘How're all the chartered accountants these days?'

Norton looked at Frank quizzingly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don't think I know what you're talking about.' He finished drying his hands and turned to face the three of them.

‘Don't give me the fuckin' shits,' continued Frank. ‘You know what I'm talking about, you prick. You were snooping around in our office the other day with your shitpot $250. Weren't you. Les Norton.'

At the sound of his own name, Norton couldn't help but look surprised. How the bloody hell did he find out who I am, he thought. But it was too late now. The game was definitely up.

‘You're about as much a fuckin' chartered accountant as what I am,' hissed Frank. ‘You're one of Price Galese's bumboys aren't you? Come over to try and put the frighteners on Perce.'

Norton didn't say anything. He just stood there rocking
slightly on the balls of his feet, his eyes moving across the three faces in front of him as he sussed out the situation and set himself up.

‘So you think you're gonna put shit on us do you,' Frank continued. ‘Well you're in the wrong part of town. Arsehole.'

Frank had now unfolded his arms and the other two had bunched their fists. Les knew he had about two seconds to make a move.

‘Look mate,' he said, turning his hands palms up to Frank in a gesture of helplessness, ‘I honestly don't know what you're talking about.'

Frank was about to say something else before they moved in, when quick as a snake Norton closed his left hand and hooked his massive fist into the face of the solid Aborigine to his right. It caught him flush under the nose, ripping apart his top lip and caving in most of his front teeth. From the shock that ran up his arm Norton knew it was a knockout punch.

As the solid thug yelped and spun along the washbasins before he hit the far wall and dropped to the floor, Les swung a quick short right, hitting Frank on the jaw. He was a bit crowded though and couldn't get his shoulder properly behind it. It hurt Frank and flung him against the toilet doors, but it didn't drop him. By now, though, the last hood had swung into action.

As Norton was about to step in and follow up on Frank with a left hook he just detected a movement out of the corner of his eye. He managed to tuck his chin in and move his shoulder up as a solid right thumped in behind his ear and a left caught him above the eye. That was all hood number two had a chance to get in. Norton spied an opening, bent slightly at the knees and let go a monstrous right uppercut that caught the tall Aborigine right under the chin, shattering his jaw like a sledgehammer hitting a housebrick. He let out a little shriek of shock and agony, made a grab for the towel-rack for support and brought the lot crashing down noisily on top of him as his knees went from under him. That now left only Frank, whose confidence had taken quite a dive at the sight of his two friends out like lights on the men's room floor. But he was tough, fit and an ex-heavyweight fighter; plus he had a slight drop on Norton who was just turning around after dropping hood number two.