You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (15 page)

The big ex-Queenslander always kept in touch with his family and about six months after he'd been there the phone rang one Sunday night. It was his brother Murray ringing from Dirranbandi.

‘Hello,' said Norton as the phone rang. He could hear the STD pips on the line.

‘Izzat you Les?' came the voice on the other end.

‘Yeah.'

‘It's Murray. How are you, mate?'

‘Muzza. Jesus it's good to hear from you. How's things, son?'

‘Pretty good. Listen I'll be down to see you next week.'

‘Fair dinkum?' Norton was ecstatic. ‘You gonna bring the old man?'

‘No, I'll be comin' on me own. I'll only be stayin' a day or two at the most.'

‘Oh. Oh well don't matter. What's the story anyway?'

‘I got a couple of opals I want to flog.'

‘Fair dinkum? They any good?'

‘Yeah. I showed one to a buyer up here, some reffo from Sydney, and he offered me seven grand for it.'

Norton whistled over the phone. ‘And you got two of them?'

‘Yeah. But I don't want to say too much over the phone, so I wrote you a letter to explain things a bit better. You should get it early this week.'

‘All right then. So when do you reckon you'll be down?'

‘Next weekend. I'm drivin' down so I should be there about lunchtime Sunday. All right?'

‘Good as gold, Muzz.'

They chatted for a minute or two about different things before saying goodbye and hanging up. After he put the phone down Norton got a Fourex out of the fridge and sat there with a quiet smile on his face, reflecting on his brother and thinking how good it would be to see one of the family again.

A lot of people thought Les was a hillbilly when he first came to Sydney with his awful clothes, his slow way of talking and his rough bush mannerisms. But they'd never met Murray; Murray was a hillbilly. He wore hillbilly clothes, listened to hillbilly records and lived on a hillbilly type of property about 20 km out of Dirranbandi. Out of a family of six he was two years older than Les and didn't look unlike him except he was about two inches shorter than Les and where Les was more bulky and solid Murray was lean, tough and wiry. As hard as a cricket ball and built like he was made out of iron rods. He had deep mahogany colored eyes topped by a pair of bushy brown eyebrows, poked back under a wide, almost receding forehead plastered with thick, untidy brown hair.

He worked for the Queensland Dingo Control Board, shooting and trapping dingos. He also took tourists pig shooting and did a bit of opal gouging on the side, with varying degrees of success. He had a wife almost as tough as him and five of the wildest kids ever born in Australia. He had two horses, three goats and a pet wedge-tailed eagle. He also had a dog. A cross bull-terrier cattle-dog, called Grungle.

Grungle was the toughest, hardest dog in Dirranbandi, probably Queensland, and as far as dogs go Grungle was something else. He was jet black with a blue blaze on the front, about four feet long and about three feet wide with a neck as thick as a man's waist and teeth and jaws like a white pointer shark. He
had those typical, pink, piggy eyes of a bull terrier and was absolutely fearless. He'd been bitten, gouged, gored, shot, blown up with dynamite and still came back for more. He loved nothing better than to go pig shooting with Murray and was never happier than when he was charging into battle against some huge, wild black boar, taking his chances against its slashing, razor sharp tusks. He'd get underneath the hate maddened, monstrous black pigs, bite their legs off then rip their chests open and tear their hearts out with his massive jaws. And if he had to take on more than one at a time, so much the better. A fight wasn't a fight for Grungle unless he got gored a few times and Murray had to sew him up with a darning needle and fishing line. But he got on okay with most other dogs, unless they were silly enough to start anything. And he loved people, especially the mob at home; and even though the kids used to kick, punch and annoy shit out of him he guarded that family like it was the Crown Jewels. Consequently Murray and Grungle were inseparable.

Murray's letter arrived on Tuesday. It conveyed greetings from everyone at home and a little bit of news, though not in great detail as Murray was flat out reading and writing at the best of times. But he did his best to describe his two opals and how he found them. From what Les could gather Murray had gone to Lightning Ridge with his son Wayne to show him how opal mining was done. They were fossicking around looking for floaters and decided to have a dig around down this old abandoned mine with a couple of hurricane lamps. They were chipping along when they came to a bit of toe dirt, finally digging through this into a biscuit band. Wayne got sick of being hit in the face with salt and shin cracker so he went back up top. Murray kept plodding along when suddenly instead of hearing ‘chip, chip, chip,' as he dug along the clay face, he heard ‘clunk, clunk, clunk,'. He dug along carefully and pulled out what he first thought were a couple of nobbies. But after giving them a bit of a tap with his pick the colour burst out like an explosion. Even in the soft glow of the hurricane lamp he could see he was on to something.

He climbed back out of the dig and later that evening took them to an old miner who dopped them up for him. A good rub with some pumice powder showed he'd found good opal and a
final going over with cerium oxide revealed an unbelievable red flash of colour on a black background. Murray knew he had something for sure. He took one to a buyer the next morning who weighed it in at 85 carats and offered him $7000 on the spot. Murray took his card and said he'd see him in Sydney. He left with the buyer chasing him all the way to his car. The letter finished with love from Elaine and the kids and everybody else and to expect him down there Sunday. Norton read the letter again, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and decided to show it to Price the following night at work and see what he thought.

The following night Les and Billy Dunne were standing outside the Kelly Club talking about nothing much in particular when Price glided up in his beige Rolls about 10.30pm. He looked suave and debonair, as always, in an immaculately tailored oyster grey three-piece suit, black Italian calf skin casuals and a narrow, green checked tie with a matching green silk handkerchief tucked neatly into the top pocket of his suit.

‘Hello lads,' he said, rubbing his hands together happily as he approached his two favourite employees. ‘How's things?'

‘Real good Price,' chorused the two doormen.

‘What's this? St. Patrick's Day,' said Billy, pointing to Price's green tie and hanky.

‘What's up?' said Price, holding his arms out by his side. ‘I look all right don't I?'

‘To tell you the truth Price, that outfit makes you look half an hour younger. Fair dinkum.' Price laughed and gave Billy a slap on the shoulder.

‘Hey Price,' said Norton. ‘All right if I see you about something after work.'

‘Sure,' replied the casino owner. ‘Why, what's up? You're not in any trouble are you?' He looked at Norton for a moment, a stern look creeping over his face. ‘You're not after a bloody raise are you?'

Norton laughed. ‘No, nothin' like that. It's just that one of my brothers is coming down Sunday and he's got a couple of opals he wants to sell. Evidently they're pretty good. And seeing as you're an opal perv, Price, I thought I might have a word with you about them. All right?'

Price stroked his chin, looked at Les and contemplated for a moment. ‘Opals, eh?' he said quietly. He reached over and
rapped Norton on the chest with his knuckles. ‘Come up and see me in the office after work. Okay?' He disappeared up the stairs.

They had the last punter out of the club about 3.45am and at 4am Les and Billy were settled in the plush office with a couple of drinks quietly discussing the evening's events while they watched Price and the club manager, George Brennan, count the money and put it in the safe. It had been a fairly uneventful night. One or two arguments with some drunks out the front and a bit of a skirmish with some big gangling goose trying to impress his girlfriend. He was dressed more like he was going to change the gearbox in his car but he told his equally grubby girlfriend he was going into the Kelly Club by hook or by crook and no pair of dopey bouncers would stop him. Billy decked him with a light left hook and he ended up sitting on his arse in Kelly Street minus most of his front teeth, crying. Apart from that the boys had earnt their money easy.

‘Right. That's that,' said Price, as he crammed the last stack of 50s in the safe and gave the tumbler a spin. George Brennan handed him a Dimple Haigh on the rocks. Price thanked him, took a sip and turned to Norton. ‘Now what's all this about opals, Les?'

Norton took Murray's letter out of his inside pocket and read the relevant parts to Price. When he'd finished, the casino owner sat there quietly sipping his drink for a moment, idly running his index finger around the rim of the glass. Billy and George had interested looks on their faces also.

‘I'll tell you what,' Price finally said. ‘Your brother could have something there. Eighty-five carats with a red flame on a black background. He could've fluked a fair dinkum black opal, it could be worth anything. It could be another Red Admiral or a Flame Queen.'

‘What are they?' asked Billy.

‘Two famous opals found at Lightning Ridge in the early part of the century, Billy. They're absolutely beautiful, worth a fortune. The bloody Yanks bought them of course.'

Norton looked back at the letter. ‘Murray says he's got to see some buyer in Bellevue Hill, Sunday night.'

Price rose from his desk and dismissed Les's last statement with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Oh you can forget about that. He'll only be some shifty reffo out to rip him off. I'll tell you
what to do.' He poured himself another drink before he spoke. ‘Have him call round to my place with the opals on Monday. It's no good coming over Sunday, I've got the Police Commissioner and some other bludgers coming over for a barbecue. I'll arrange it through the week to have the owner of Consolidated Diamonds there. If I don't buy them he will and at least that way we'll make sure he doesn't get touched.'

‘Thanks a lot, Price,' said Norton. ‘I appreciate that.'

‘That's all right, Les,' said Price. ‘There might even be a bit of an earn in it for me yet.' He flashed the boys a cheeky grin. ‘Christ knows I could do with it,' he added.

They had a couple more drinks and a bit of a mag and about 4.30am Les and Billy saw Price to his car and they all went home.

The rest of the week went fairly quickly. Price had made all the arrangements for Murray to meet the gem expert at his house on Monday and most of Les's thoughts were preoccupied with the arrival of his brother on the weekend.

The following Sunday afternoon, about 3.30, Les was sitting in his lounge room watching ‘Wide World of Sport' on TV. It wasn't much of a day outside, cloudy but no rain, so he decided to stay home, soak his right hand in an ice bucket and wait for Murray's arrival. They'd had a bit of a stink at work the previous night with a bunch of yobbos from the Western Suburbs out on a bucks' night just looking for trouble, which they found in ample quantities outside the Kelly Club. Les decked five, Billy got three, however in the melee of flying fists and feet Norton threw this wicked right at one mug's face but accidently caught another in the back of the head. He fractured the poor goose's skull but bruised a couple of knuckles in the process. It was more an annoyance than anything else and the ice treatment had just about got it fixed. He was sitting there soaking his hand and thinking how much he'd like to get into one of the young Russian women gymnasts on TV when he heard a loud ‘shave and a haircut, two bits' banged on his front door. He strode rapidly up the hall, threw the door open and there stood Murray, a grin from ear to ear and looking as tanned, fit and wiry as ever.

‘Muzza,' exclaimed Les, ‘by Jesus it's good to see you.'

‘G'day Les. How are you, son?'

They shook hands with enough bone crunching enthusiasm to crush a billiard ball then threw their arms around each other in a warm brotherly embrace, finally standing there for a moment shaking hands, just looking at each other. Each brother more than just a little misty eyed.

‘Murray. You're looking well, son. Life sure must be treating you okay. That's good.'

‘You don't look too bad yourself old fellah,' said Murray, giving Les a solid thump in the stomach. He nodded his rough head at Les's house. ‘So this is your new digs, eh?'

‘Yeah, this is it mate. Maison Norton.' He noticed Murray's dust-caked Holden panel-van standing out the front. ‘Did you have any trouble finding it?'

‘No, I got meself one of those Gregorys. Only trouble was the traffic. Jesus I don't like these cities Les.'

‘Yeah, they're not much are they. But you get used to them. Well come on inside son and we'll have a beer. I suppose you could do with one. I got the fridge crammed with Fourex too. None of that NSW shit.'

‘Good on yer, Ginge. To tell you the truth I'm drier than a dead dingo's derrick.'

Les was about to usher Murray inside when a movement at the bottom of the front steps caught his eye. ‘Holy bloody shit,' he cried out. ‘Grungle.'

Sitting patiently at the bottom of the steps, wagging his tail and looking mean and ugly enough to make a bottle of medicine sick was Grungle. As soon as he heard Norton call his name he bounded up the stairs and threw himself at Les with a great squeal of delight, almost knocking him through the front door. Les picked him up under his front legs and laughed like mad as the ecstatic bull terrier started licking his face with affection, obviously delighted at seeing him again. Norton dropped him on the floor then rolled him over on his back and started rubbing his stomach. Grungle started kicking his legs and twisting his head and body from side to side as he howled with delight.