You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (17 page)

There were bushy-headed, overweight Maoris; all covered in tattoos, both the men and the women. Beefy pommies were drinking schooners with red-headed Scotsmen, rosy-cheeked Irishmen were arguing at the top of their voices with swarthy, dark-haired Europeans. Around the pool tables drunken Aussies were clumsily banging balls around with equally drunken New Zealanders, and leaning against the bar several off-duty coppers were checking the crowd out and tipping schooners down their throats like they were expecting a brewery strike. Standing across from them, around a small, circular raised table, a team of shifty-eyed men dressed in T-shirts, shorts and white shoes were talking quietly over their drinks and checking out the coppers. Scattered amongst the various drinkers, wearing cheap dresses and faded jeans, were a number of seedy looking women, looking bored and wishing they were somewhere else. The general atmosphere was very smoky and very noisy.

‘Strewth. What a nice mob of strays this is,' said Murray, pushing his hat forward and scratching the back of his head. ‘Where've they all drifted in from?'

‘It sure ain't the Royal at Dirranbandi is it?' said Les with a grin. Some one in the crowd caught his eye. ‘Hey wait here a minute will you Muzz?' he said to his brother. ‘I just want to see a bloke for a sec.' He drifted over and got into what looked like a serious conversation for a couple of minutes with a nuggety little bloke in his late 30s, wearing a pair of dirty, blue overalls.

‘What was that all about?' asked Murray a little anxiously when Les returned.

‘He's a wharfie I know. Got a couple of hot VCRs. I might get one off him through the week.'

‘Oh.' Murray ordered another two beers. ‘Hey Les. You feel like a game of pool?'

‘Oh yeah, if you want.'

There was a row of coins on the side of one of the pool tables, Murray put his 60
at the end of the line and waited for his game to come up. They finished another two beers then it was their turn. Just as Murray started to walk over to the pool table someone else shoved his 60
in the slot, the balls rattled down and he and his mate started placing them on the green felt table.

‘Hey, just a minute old fellah,' said Murray, ‘it's my turn.'

The bloke who'd put his money in the slot looked up at Murray. He was a thick-set Pommy with straggly black hair and tattoos on his arms; he looked like a shorter, barrel chested version of Joe Cocker. ‘What's up with you?' he said in a heavy Yorkshire accent.

‘That was my 60
you just pushed in.'

‘Leave it out Tex,' said the other Pommy, racking the balls. He was a little taller than his mate, with curly blond hair and about the same amount of tattoos. A noticeable scar ran across his cheek and finished under his broken nose. ‘You've been on the farm too long. You've got the coins mixed up.'

‘No I haven't,' said Murray a little heatedly as his hackles started to rise. ‘It's my turn.'

‘What's up with Tex? Has he been at the sheep dip again?' A third Pommy put his head in. He was the biggest of the three, over six feet tall with dark greasy hair and a sullen, jaundiced appearance. Like the others he was tattooed and a bit overweight.

‘Hang on,' said Murray, placing a hand on top of the triangular placed balls. ‘I'm not coppin' this shit. It's my turn.'

‘Get your hands off the pills Tex. Or you might find your hat out in the street with your head in it.'

‘You reckon,' said Murray. His voice starting to rise.

Just then Les came over. ‘What's up?' he asked looking round the table then back at his brother.

‘These kippers have jumped the gun,' said Murray angrily. ‘Now they want to get smart about it.'

‘Come here,' said Les, taking Murray by the arm and leading him away from the pool table. He'd seen that many fights in pubs over games of pool he knew the futility of it. ‘Look, don't be starting a fight in here, I've got to come here all the time and sometimes I do a bit of business through the joint. So I don't want to be shitting in my own nest.'

‘Well how about I just take a couple of the bludgers outside,' replied Murray.

‘You'll only end up getting pinched. There's a bunch of coppers over there,' he nodded towards the bar, ‘and they're going up and down the front all the time Sunday night. Give it a miss.'

‘Ahh, it's enough to give you the shits though.'

‘I know.'

‘Why don't you take Tex back to the farm, Blue,' said the blond haired Pommy, ‘and get his hat blocked? While he's got his head in it.' The others all laughed.

‘Don't push your luck too far pal,' said Les, stony faced.

‘We wouldn't dream of it. Would we lads?' said the biggest pommy, looking directly at Norton.

Murray was still seething when they got back to the bar and ordered another two middies. ‘Fair dinkum, Les,' he said, taking a giant pull on his beer. ‘I'd like to go over and shove that pool cue fair up that Pommy's fat kyber.'

‘Anywhere else I'd give you a hand. I wouldn't mind snottin' the big goose myself. But I don't want to get barred from here and it's no use getting pinched.'

Murray took a deep breath and snorted it out through his nose. ‘Yeah, I s'pose your right,' he said through clenched teeth. He glared over at the Pommies, who just ignored him and continued with their game.

They had another couple of beers, Murray cooled down a bit then he began to yawn. ‘We might get goin' soon anyway, eh?' he said. ‘I'm startin' to get a bit tired.'

‘One more and we'll stall. I'll get 'em.'

They finished their drinks and quietly left the hotel. They walked along casually with their hands in their pockets, talking idly as they slowly strolled along grimy, narrow Gould Street.

‘You know one thing I notice when I come to the city, Les?' said Murray glancing round at the shops and dilapidated old blocks of flats. ‘Apart from all the mugs you have to put up with.'

‘What's that?'

‘All the rubbish in the streets.' He shook his head sadly. ‘It always amazes me.'

‘Yeah. You wonder where it's all coming to at times.'

They meandered along down the dingy, garbage-strewn street, talking quietly, just taking their time. The milky, yellow street lights threw sickly, crooked shadows around them and gave their brown faces a bleached, ghostlike appearance.

As they crossed Hall Street and were walking past the Post Office an old, blue Leyland P76, with a coathanger for an aerial and a Tottenham Hotspurs decal on the rear window drew up alongside them.

‘Hey Tex,' a voice called out. ‘Enjoy your game of pool?'

‘Well I'll be buggered,' Murray said quietly, turning to Les. ‘It's your Pommy mates back. Hey Les, we're not shittin' in your nest here. And I don't see any coppers about.'

‘Go for your life, Muzz,' said Les evenly, slipping his watch off and putting it in his back pocket.

‘Oh it's you back,' Murray called out to the Pommies in the old Leyland. ‘I thought I could smell something. For a moment I was sure I'd trodden in dog shit.'

‘Why don't you throw a cake of soap in the car?' said Les.

‘No good doin' that,' said Murray. ‘They'd only eat it. Think it was green chocolate.'

‘You're a right funny geezer, ain't you Tex?' came a voice from the car.

‘Not half as funny as you smell, arseole,' replied Murray.

‘Hey Murray,' said Les. ‘How do you tell a Pommy's age?'

‘I dunno. How?'

‘Give him a bath and count the rings.'

As they roared laughing, Les heard the crunch of a handbrake being jammed on. The next thing the blond haired Pommy with the broken nose jumped out of the front passenger side. ‘Well we might just see how good you are, Tex,' he said savagely, walking straight over to Murray and squaring up.

He shaped up like a boxer and fired two straight lefts and a short right into Murray's face, knocking his hat off. Unfortunately, Murray was pretty much like his brother and you have to run him over with a double-decker bus just to bruise him. He just laughed.

‘Bit of a boxer are you mate?' he said.

Murray shaped up with his hands down by his side, outback style, and threw a big overhand right; it looped a bit but it was lightning fast with a lot of weight behind it. It caught the Pommy
flush on the jaw, shattering several teeth and knocking him up against the wall of the Post Office. In an instant two deadly lefts slammed into his face followed by another looping right. The Pommy saw stars and covered up as he felt himself being battered unconscious. Blood was starting to pour out of his mouth, nose and an awful cut in his ear.

Les was more interested in watching his brother's style and he didn't notice the Pommy who looked like Joe Cocker jump from the car, run over and king hit Murray in the side of the head, almost knocking him off balance. The big redhead quickly stepped in with a neat left hook that squashed Joe Cocker's ear flatter than a trodden-on potato chip. As he started to buckle at the knees a thundering uppercut split his bony chin open and shattered his jaw.

A movement to Les's right caught his eye. He moved fractionally just as the third and biggest Pommy came charging over and threw a big bowling left at the back of his head. He let it slide past, then, grabbing the big Pommy's left arm at the wrist, slammed a solid, right, back fist into his side; just under his floating rib. The big Pommy was a bit short of a gallop and hadn't been doing too many sit-ups; most of his training had obviously been on yorkshire pudding and beer. He sucked in his breath and gasped with pain. Les drew him slightly forward by the arm and slammed two stunning elbow shots into his temple. The big Pommy grunted with more pain and comets started to spin before his eyes as his brain was slammed violently from one side of his skull to the other. He started to sag like a wet sack. As he did, Les, still holding his left arm, stepped over it and drew it backwards into his crutch, squatting at the same time. The big Pommy let out a final scream of agony as his arm was snapped at the elbow joint, like a carrot. Just to make sure he was finished Les took him by the hair and slammed his face into the footpath several times, leaving patches of blood all over the dirty grey asphalt.

‘How're you goin' there Muzz? Everything under control?' he called out to his brother.

‘Good as gold, son.' Murray had the first Pommy lying on his side, his hands over his head, moaning with pain as Murray kept doing a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down his ribcage with his R. M. Williams riding boots.

‘That's not very nice is it Murray? Kicking a man while he's down.'

‘They're not very nice blokes, Les.'

‘True,' replied Les laconically.

‘Well, that should do it,' said Murray giving the whimpering Pommy a last solid kick in the ribs. ‘Let's piss off.'

‘Yeah, come on. I think they've had enough.'

Murray reached down to pick up his hat. ‘Hey wait a minute,' he said looking at the dark haired Pommy that Les had flattened. He took hold of his wrist. ‘Isn't that one of those grouse Seiko quartz diver's watches?' He undid it, looked at it for a moment then slipped it into his pocket. ‘Young Wayne's always wanted one of those to wear down the river. He'll be rapt when I give it to him.'