You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (25 page)

‘Hey, is that stuff still working?' he said to the two of them.

The cameraman looked to see if there was any film left then nodded. The soundman checked the boom mike, put his headphones on, twiddled a couple of dials on his Nagra-Kudelski and nodded his head also.

‘All right then,' said Les. ‘We won't fart-arse around. We'll make this a — what do you call it? — a take.' He turned to one of the girls behind the bar. ‘Righto, give me a beer.'

With the beer in his hand he turned back to the cameraman. ‘Righto. Roll camera,' he said.

‘Camera rolling,' was the reply.

Norton clutched his beer firmly, looked directly into the lens and with a big cheesy grin on his blood spattered face said ‘Bowen Lager. It's the beer worth fightin' for.' Then, with a wink from his one good eye threw the lot down in one go.

‘Better do another one for safety,' chuckled the half-pissed cameraman. Norton got another beer and repeated the performance.

A ripple of laughter ran through the film crew; even Mitchell Buchannan couldn't help but raise a bit of a smile. The director just stood there looking at him. ‘Get the fucking idiot out of here,' was all he said. Then covered his face with his hands.

When the driver dropped Les off at the Crest there were gasps of horror and amazement when he walked through the foyer and collected his keys from the front desk.

‘How did the day's filming go, sir?' said the desk clerk. ‘That's an excellent make-up job.'

‘Yeah. Great,' grunted Norton through swollen lips. He looked like the lone survivor of a nuclear holocaust.

Back in his room he got cleaned up then over a can of Fourex checked out the damage to himself in front of the bathroom mirror. It looked a lot worse than it was.

He had a lot of bark and a few pieces of scalp missing but nothing appeared to be broken. His lips were split and swollen, several teeth were chipped and his left eye was completely closed and so black you could have written on it with chalk. By probing around with his fingers he figured he had a few torn rib cartilages but no fractures and there were plenty of boot marks round his torso and kidneys. But apart from that and some swollen knuckles he was okay. So he rang room service and ordered a big feed of mud crabs, a bottle of nice white wine and another half a dozen Fourex; then settled back in front of the TV.

However, as Les was enjoying his meal, in a casualty ward on the other side of town a team of doctors and nurses working overtime patching up what was left of the Marauders. Wiring jaws and removing smashed teeth mainly. Their leader was still in intensive care, where the mammas were keeping a vigil out the front and hoping the interns were right when they said he should be out of a coma in the next few days.

After a good night's sleep, Norton rose about eight the following morning. He noticed he was a lot stiffer and sorer when he bent down to pick up a note pushed under the door. It was from Mitchell Buchannan. Get a taxi to the airport and charge the film company, was all it said. There was no driver to take him there this time and no one rang to see if he was all right so he figured they weren't too happy with him and he doubted if his modelling career held much future.

Oh well, he thought, watching the houses go past in the cab on the way out to Eagle Farm. It hadn't been that bad a weekend. At least he'd seen his two old mates and had a terrific root.

The only thing that really annoyed him, apart from the stares of the other passengers on the plane back to Sydney, was the thought that he'd probably done the $3000. ‘Fuck it!' he cursed out aloud.

He didn't have much trouble getting a taxi after they landed at Kingsford Smith and by 12.30pm he was back in his banana chair in the backyard having a mug of tea and catching up on
sports results in the paper. He was in an indifferent sort of mood when the phone rang.

‘Hello Les. It's Warren.' He didn't sound very happy.

‘G'day Woz. How are you?'

‘Jesus Christ, Les. What the fuckin' hell happened up there?'

‘Nothin' much. There was a bit of a stink, that's all.'

‘A bit of a fuckin' stink. The pub got wrecked. The whole shoot was ruined. The agency is absolutely screaming and I look like losing my bloody job.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. Fuckin' yeah. Jesus Christ Les I told you before you left not to get into any trouble.'

‘It wasn't my fault.'

‘No. It never fuckin' is. Is it?'

‘Look. It's no good talking over the phone. I'll see you when you get home. All right?'

‘Yeah great. See you then.'

He's kidding, thought Les, as he got his mug of tea and returned to his banana chair. All he's worrying about is his lousy job. What about my bloody head.

When Warren got home about six that evening his David Nivenish face looked more like Jedd Clampett's dog. When he saw the condition of Les's melon his jaw dropped even further.

‘All right Les,' he said, shaking his head with bewildered annoyance. ‘What happened?'

Les eased himself back from the kitchen table and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Like I said Warren. There was a bit of a stink, that's all.' He went on to explain how everything was going along famously till the Marauders started the fight. How it got a bit out of hand and finally the police arrived. ‘And that's fair dinkum, Woz. Everything would have been sweet only for this big mug belting me.'

‘Yes but they reckon you just carried on and on. Trying to massacre these blokes.'

‘Well fuck it!' Les's voice was starting to rise. ‘What would you do if a dozen, dirty big galahs in leather jackets started kickin' the shit out of you? You'd want a bit of a square-up too wouldn't you? Jesus Christ.'

‘All right. But there's no need to near kill half of them and get the pub wrecked and ruin an expensive commercial. Now the
agency's looking for a scapegoat and that's me for sending you round there. So now I lose my job.'

‘Oh fuck your agency.' Norton rose angrily from the table. ‘What do they call themselves. Doodlebop, Deadshit and Dudfuck. They're a bunch of wombats anyway if you ask me. All I know is that I was getting the shit bashed out of me and if it hadn't of been for a few good Queensland boys jumping in they'd be still scraping bits of me off the floor of that stinkin' pub. So tell your agency that next time you see them. Anyway what about my head. What about my three thousand bucks.'

Warren just stood there looking at him blankly. ‘Yeah I suppose you're right,' he sighed.

‘Anyway what are you worrying about? You'll get another job.'

‘Oh yeah. They'll give me a great reference, won't they?'

‘Yeah, well I can't help that. Look I'm going down for a couple of steak sandwiches. Do you want one?'

‘No I'm not real hungry, thanks Les.'

‘All right. I'll see you when I get back.'

Warren stood there for a while in gloomy silence as Les went out the front door, then stripped off and got under the shower reflecting sadly on what had happened. He'd tried to do the right thing by everyone and it had all fallen on his head. He felt dreadful.

There was a pall of gloom throughout the house all that week with hardly a word passing between either of them. Warren hinted once that he would probably be moving out. Les just shrugged his shoulders when Warren told him. Fuck him. Let him go, he thought. But deep down he liked Warren a lot and he knew it would sadden him to see the little bloke go. Not to mention all the choice crumpet that used to come through the door.

By the end of the week Norton was just about at the end of his tether. He was sick of Warren's silence, sick to the teeth of every second mug asking him what happened and his black eye wouldn't go away no matter what he put on it; everything from leeches to scotch fillet steak. Also he heard there was a rumour going round that just one bloke had given him a serve and he was too knocked up to go to work and that's why Danny McCormack was on the door at the Kelly Club. Not to mention the frightful bagging Billy Dunne had given him when he called round for a drink.

Early on Friday afternoon Norton was in the kitchen sipping a can of Fourex and making an Irish stew. He'd just put the carrots and onions in and was about to add some potatoes when he heard the front door open. Hello, he thought, here's happy Warren home early from work. They've probably just given him the arse. As he heard him come down the hall he turned slowly around to grunt hello, expecting to see Warren's unhappy face in the kitchen door. Instead, Warren was standing there holding a bottle of French champagne, a grin on his face like a split in a watermelon. He looked as if he'd had a few sherbets too.

‘Hey Les, my old mate,' he cried. Then ran across the kitchen and started punching Les around the arms and chest. Norton had been kicked harder by butterflies.

‘What's the matter with you?' he said frowning. More than a little bewildered.

‘What's the matter with me?' said Warren. His eyes were a bit glassy and he was obviously in a state of great excitement. ‘Nothing's the matter with me. It's you that's the matter. You fuckin' star you.'

Norton looked at him and shook his head. ‘What are you talking about you fuckin' idiot?' he said.

‘What am I talking about? The ad's what I'm talking about.'

‘What. That Bowen Lager thing?'

‘Yeah. That. They love it.'

‘Who? What? I don't understand you.' He took another suck on his Fourex and gave the stew a stir.

‘The advertising manager for the brewery loves it. The film company dudded up the ad. They picked out parts of the fight, put in some honky tonk piano music and made it around a big pub brawl. They've changed the whole concept of the ad to coincide with that line you used. “Bowen Lager. It's the beer worth fighting for.”' Warren was laughing fit to bust.

‘Are you fair dinkum?' said Norton incredulously.

‘Yes, of course I'm fair dinkum. The film company showed the brewery the rushes on Wednesday and they were knocked out. They said it was the best make-up job and special effects they'd ever seen. The ad went to air Thursday night and viewer reaction has been unbelievable. All the advertising heavies are convinced Bowen Lager's going to be the biggest selling beer in Australia. It'll make Fosters Lager and Fourex look like tom-cat's piss.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. The brewery's already booked another half million dollars worth of advertising. I've got a raise. And here. This is for you.' Warren grinned and handed Les a cheque.

‘Four thousand bucks,' said Norton. Looking at it with raised eyebrows. ‘Well I'll be fucked.'

‘So there you go. Everything's worked out for the best. And Les, I'm sorry I've been a bit moody all week, but Jesus I was worried, you know.'

‘Oh that's all right Woz,' said Les pocketing the cheque. ‘I understand, mate.'

‘So all's well that ends well.'

‘Yeah. Something like that.'

Warren threw back his head and roared laughing. He was ecstatic and obviously relieved that everything had worked out fine. Better than he could have expected. Les was still standing there impassively sipping his can of beer and giving the stew a stir now and again.

Warren let out another roar of laughter, looked at Les and shaped up as if to fight him. ‘Bowen Lager eh,' he said ‘it's the beer worth fighting for.' He dropped his hands and fell up against the fridge almost doubled up with laughter.

‘Oh I don't know,' said Norton draining his can of Fourex and nonchalantly tossing the empty in the kitchen tidy. ‘It's a cunt of a drop if you ask me.'

 

 

 

A thin mist of spring rain hung in the air like a dirty lace curtain, giving the garish neon lights of Kings Cross the appear-ance of a badly painted watercolour as they blended into each other and threw sickly crooked shadows around the shabby buildings and the people in Kelly Street hurrying to get inside from the clinging dampness.

It was about 11.45 on a Saturday night. The two solid men in tuxedos huddled under the awning outside the Kelly Club seemed oblivious to the inclemency of the weather and despite the dismalness of the night were smiling as they carried on with the conversation. Saturday night was the end of the working week for them.

‘Looks like being a quiet one,' said Billy Dunne, taking a quick look up and down the almost deserted street, then casting an eye up towards the blackened sky.

‘Yeah,' replied Norton, as the enveloping mist turned into light rain, making a rhythmic drumming on the canvas awning above his head. ‘Looks like being a prick of a day tomorrow too,' he added.

‘What do you reckon you'll do?'

‘Dunno for sure,' said Les thoughtfully. ‘If it's not raining too hard I might go out the Sports Ground and watch Easts play Balmain. Should be a good game.'

‘You've still got a bit of a soft spot for the Roosters, haven't you mate?' said Billy, a hint of a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. ‘Despite them dumping you like that.'

Norton shrugged his big, broad shoulders, put his hands in his pockets and leant up against a pole supporting the awning. ‘The players are all right,' he said. ‘They're a bunch of good blokes. It's just the officials running the club I can't cop. They're a bunch of old pricks.'

A taxi hissed to a stop out the front and they stepped back to let two well dressed couples into the club, giving them a smile and a nod and a light comment about the weather as they entered the premises. After pausing for a moment to check out the legs and backside of one of the girls going up the stairs, Billy turned to Les.

‘I told you my missus has gone away for the weekend, didn't I?' he said.

‘Yeah,' replied Norton. ‘Gone to see her sister up at Swansea or something. Is that right?'