The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (3 page)

‘All right,' he nodded slowly. ‘A hundred grand it is. When do you want it? Now?'

‘No. We'll do this strictly by the book. Straight up and down. Just open a bank account in my name with a hundred grand in it because I'll have to make quite a few cash withdrawals over the next two or three weeks — of which I'll see that you get an itemised account for each one. And if there's some money left over and this all goes to plan there might even be a little drink in it for me. What do you reckon?' Norton added with a smile.

‘There'll be a hundred grand in your name in the ANZ bank at Bondi Junction first thing Monday morning,' nodded Price. ‘Sheldon can take you up there and you can sort out the signatures and all that. Okay?'

‘Leave it till Wednesday. 'Cause I won't know for sure whether it'll be on till then.'

‘Okay.'

‘And if I have to take the time off, Billy, can you get Danny McCormack or someone up here?'

‘Sure. No problems at all.'

‘Right then,' said Norton, tossing his stubbie in the bin as he moved to the bar to get a fresh one. ‘That's about all I need for the time being.'

‘Hey hold on a minute,' protested Eddie Salita. ‘Don't leave us all up in suspenders, Les. This is all very blood mysterious. Strange phone calls to Dirranbandi. Secret bank accounts. Time off from work. Just what are you up to?'

‘I'll let you know a bit more about it on Wednesday. But Eddie. If this works out like it should — mate, you'll deadset shit yourself. Now,' Norton added, glancing around the room. ‘Anybody else want a drink while I'm up?'

They ended up leaving the club around four-thirty. Norton refused to elaborate any more on what he'd already told them, despite persistent and sometimes exasperated questioning from Eddie and Billy. He just kept the smug smile on his face and told them to be patient, they'd know what was going on on Wednesday — all going well.

Sunday Les didn't do a great deal. As was his normal procedure at the end of his working week, he was up around lunchtime. And as it wasn't a bad late spring day he went down to North Bondi for a hang in the sun and a mag to some of his old football mates from Easts. He went for a paddle on a surf-ski he borrowed from the surf club, had a few beers at the Icebergs in the late afternoon, then it was a huge stack of takeaway Chinese food and home to watch the Sunday night movie on TV. Warren, who shared with him, invited Les down the Sheaf at Double Bay for a bit of a rage and maybe bring a couple of girls back home for a drink later, but Norton declined, saying he wanted to have an early night as there were a few things on his mind and he intended getting up early in the morning.

Norton glanced at the phone a couple of times while he was watching the movie, but didn't bother to ring his brother. He knew Murray and Elaine used to like to get on the drink on Sunday night, kick up their heels on the dance floor at the Dirranbandi RSL, then come home, lock the bedroom door securely so the kids couldn't hear what was going on, and get stuck into it like a couple of teenagers at a drive-in. Norton couldn't help but chuckle as he glanced at the phone once more during a commercial break and checked his watch again while he finished his sixth can of Fourex for the evening.

Les hit the sack at eleven and was up just before six the following morning. He had a quick run and a swim, got the papers, and with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand rang his brother around seven-thirty.

Murray was out the front of the old house, fiddling around under the bonnet of the new Land Rover he'd bought from the proceeds of the opal sale with Price, when he heard the phone ring. Elaine had only just left in the Holden panel van to take the kids to school and he squinted at the huge, red-dust cloud the car left behind as it disappeared into the gum-tree scattered distance. While he clumped towards the house he wiped his grease-stained hands on his old moleskins.
Grungle followed him as far as the verandah where he flopped on a dusty woollen rug next to the flyscreen front door.

‘Hello,' said Murray, sitting on the edge of one of the lounge chairs, a little curious at hearing the STD pips.

‘G'day Muzz,' said Norton. ‘It's your even-lovin' brother Les.'

‘Meggsie. Holy bloody shit. How're you goin' son?'

‘All right, Muzz. Yourself?'

‘Good as gold. How's life in the big city treatin' you?'

‘Ohh you know. All right, sort of.'

Les chatted away about different things for a minute or two, asking his brother how the family was, and things in Dirranbandi and Queensland in general. Then he got down to business.

‘Listen Muzz. You got much on at the moment?'

‘Ohh, not really... why?'

‘You interested in earning a lazy five grand?'

‘Five grand.' Murray's ears pricked up. Hustling for a dollar ran in the Norton family and when it came to diving on a quick earn Murray wasn't far behind his brother. ‘I reckon I just might. Who do I have to kill?'

‘You don't have to kill anybody. I just want you to go out and put a proposal to three old mates of ours that might.' ‘Where?'

‘Out Binjiwunyawunya.'

Murray burst out laughing and so did Les. ‘So,' guffawed the leathery faced dingo trapper, ‘it's like that is it?'

‘Yeah,' chuckled Les. ‘It's like that. Listen, I'll tell you exactly what's goin' on. And don't make me have to repeat myself because this bloody call's costin' me a fortune.'

Les explained to his brother what was happening between Percy Kilby and Price, and told him the plan he had in mind. When he was finished Murray was laughing like a drain and raring to go.

‘Price is giving me a pretty good bank to get this together, Muzz, so whatever the boys want tell them it's sweet. And I reckon with a bit of luck I just might be able to squeeze another five grand out of the wreck for you. That's ten grand. Not bad just for going for a drive out in the bush.'

‘Yeah? I wouldn't exactly call a trip out to Binjiwunyawunya just a drive in the bush eh?'

‘Fair enough. But you're gettin' a bit more than just wages — and you're doing nothing else.'

‘Yeah, okay.'

‘Ohh yeah. One more thing, Muzz. You know that old landing strip the Yanks built out near there during the War.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Is that still all right? Could you land a small plane there?'

‘It was all right the last time I was out there. That was about eight months ago. I reckon it'll still be okay.'

‘Good. Cause that's how I'm gonna bring 'em down to Sydney.'

‘Shit! You're not muckin' around are you.'

‘Ohh mate. This is all very Frederick Forsyth, this one.'

‘Who?'

‘Don't worry about it. But listen don't forget, Muzz, we've only got a couple of weeks to do this. So tell the boys if they're interested to be ready to roll Thursday morning. Okay?'

‘No worries mate.'

‘Right.'

Les chatted on for another minute or two, shared another laugh with his brother, then hung up saying he'd hear from him first thing Wednesday morning.

Mmhh, thought Les, looking at the phone after he'd hung up. A charter plane to Queensland and back, twice, and ten grand for Murray. That's sure going to cut into that hundred thousand. Oh well he laughed, who gives a stuff? It'll be a bit of fun doing this and be good to see the boys again. Just then the door to Warren's bedroom creaked open and out staggered the young, fair-haired advertising executive in his black Japanese dressing-gown. He walked unsteadily into the lounge room, yawned and blinked groggily at Les a couple of times.

‘Hello Shintaro,' said Norton cheerfully, noting his flatmate's hungover state. ‘And how was the Sheaf last night?'

‘Iwuzzgood,' mumbled Warren. ‘I finished up in Archie's after it closed.'

‘Jesus, you're a glutton for punishment, aren't you.'

‘Yeah I know. Shit, what time is it?'

‘Gettin' on for eight.'

‘Shit, is it? I'd better get my finger out. I gotta be at bloody Cremorne by nine. Fuckin' hell. I don't feel like it.'

Warren shook his head tiredly and staggered into the bathroom, leaving Les staring thoughtfully at the phone while he finished his mug of coffee.

On the other end of the line, just outside of Dirranbandi,
Murray was doing pretty much the same as his brother, only without the mug of coffee. With a craggy smile on his face he climbed across the lounge room in his riding boots, stepped out onto the verandah and looked at Grungle.

‘Well, Grungle old mate,' he smiled. ‘Looks like we've got a bit of a drive on tomorrow, son.' As he spoke he dug the toe of his boot into the dog's scar-covered stomach and gave it a bit of a rub. ‘I suppose I'd better go and fill a few tins with petrol and water.' Murray wandered into the junk-strewn yard to find some empty drums. Grungle stayed where he was in the shade, rolled clumsily over on his side and farted.

That evening, during dinner, Murray told his wife he'd be going bush for a couple of days and would probably be back either Wednesday night or lunchtime Thursday. This didn't come as any surprise to the tall, lean bushwoman. Murray would often disappear off into the outback, pig shooting, chasing dingos and wild dogs for the government, or any number of things he might get up to with no-one around. The only thing that mildly surprised her was that he was going away for just a couple of days this time.

Feeding time, especially the evening meal, was always a bit of a hoot in the Norton household. Although it was constantly almost heatwave conditions outside, Elaine would always serve up stacks of hot roast meat with baked and boiled vegetables, all swimming in gravy, followed by sweets smothered in steaming custard and cream. This would all be washed down with mugs of strong, heavily sugared, almost boiling tea from a huge china teapot in the middle of the old wooden table that filled most of the dining room. None of the family had a clue about etiquette or table manners, and if Leo Schofield ever happened to put his head in the Norton dining room at teatime he would have passed out on the spot. Murray's family ate with their knives, forks, hands and any other blunt instruments or utensils that happened to be hanging around the room; if they could have eaten with their feet they would have used them as well. Grungle would push his way in through the flyscreen door and wait at the edge of the table for a handout. And so would Murray's pet wedge-tailed eagle, Ernie.

Where most people, especially city folk, would keep a budgerigar or a lovebird as a pet, Murray — being a Queenslander, where they always like to try and do things a little bigger — had Ernie. He found the poor little bugger when he was barely a chick, dehydrated and almost dead at the base of
the tree underneath his nest. Some so-called ‘sports shooter' had shot his mother just for fun, so Murray picked up the poor little fellow, wrapped him in a piece of wet cloth and nursed him back to life. And the eagle had stayed with him ever since. Murray also caught up with the ‘sports shooter' a couple of days later in a pub in Dirranbandi, bragging about how clever and what a great shot he was. Murray took him out of the pub, flogged him unmercifully against his car, then broke the butt of the scoped 32/40 Marlin against his arm — and also the ‘sports shooter's' arm in the process. In his job for the government eliminating pests, Murray had probably shot and killed more wild dogs and feral pigs than any man in Australia. But the idea of seeing imbeciles shooting defenceless animals just to satisfy their egos and sexual inadequacies got right up Murray's nose. ‘Sports shooters,' he used to say. ‘I wonder how long the pricks would last if they ever gave the animals a gun.'

Ernie was a pretty good bird and a lot of fun, but he did have one mean, vindictive streak in him. If Murray didn't give him what he thought was his fair share of scraps from the table, he would hop up on Murray's favourite lounge chair and shit on it. And Ernie didn't shit like your average seagull or park pigeon: Ernie would leave enough whitish-grey crap behind him to fill an ice-cream carton. Elaine was convinced that Ernie had had more than his fair share of scraps this night so she told him to piss off and get his feathered arse out of her kitchen. Not liking this, Ernie gave her a dirty look as he got to the flyscreen and was just about to raise his wedge-tail up in the air and leave a little goingaway card on the dusty dining-room carpet when Elaine sprung him out of the corner of her eye. The next thing the toe of her riding boot, accompanied by a ‘You rotten bastard,' caught Ernie right up the backside, to propell him through the door and land in a flurry of squawking, cursing feathers a couple of metres in front of the wooden steps.

‘Now. What were you saying love?' she said, returning to the table and hacking off another great slab of beef which she unceremoniously dumped in the pool of gravy on Murray's place. ‘You're pissin' off somewhere tomorrow morning?'

‘Yeah,' replied Murray. ‘Only for a couple of days though.'

Seated either side of him, Wayne and Mitchell, their two sons, stopped stuffing themselves for a moment to look at their father in anticipation. The sinewy curly-haired lads were the image of their father, except for their mother's soft hazel-green
eyes, their slightly bucked teeth and cheeky young freckles. And like all kids they hated school and loved the bush.

‘Ohh Dad. Can we come too?' they chorused.

‘No. You can't come this time fellas.'

‘Ohh Dad.'

‘Shut up and eat your tucker.'

‘Where are you goin' anyway, love?'

‘Out to the channel country.'

‘That far, eh?'

‘Yeah, I'm going out to see the boys from Binjiwunyawunya.'

‘Ohh shit!' Elaine let go a shriek of laughter. ‘Jesus I love those blokes. Say hello to Chalky, Mumbles and Yarra for me. In fact I'll give you one of my chocolate and strawberry cakes to take out to them.'