You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (27 page)

‘Hey,' he said to the nearest German, who turned towards him unsmiling. ‘Is that right it takes four barbers to give one of you Germans a haircut?'

‘What do you mean?' said the blond seaman slowly.

‘One for each side of your head.'

Norton undid his jacket, quickly slipped his watch off and shot Billy a look as if to say. ‘You stupid prick.'

The German took his hands out of his pocket and moved towards the smiling Billy. ‘Smart Australian bastard,' he said,
and threw a big bowling right at Billy's jaw. Billy moved easily inside it and smashed a crisp left hook into the German's nose. He gave a grunt of pain as it broke all over his face. A short right opened up his cheek bone and another left hook squashed what was left of his nose and dumped him on his backside, blood pouring all over his face. Then it was on.

The biggest German moved towards Norton, his massive right fist cocked ready to throw a punch he expected would just about take Les's head off. Norton stepped back, drew the monstrous, ox-like seaman in and as he was just about to throw his big king-hit, stopped flat on his feet and slammed a shattering right straight into the big German's jaw. It hit him like a sledge hammer. His mouth went slack and several teeth fell straight out as his hands dropped and he careened backwards across the footpath and crashed into a parked car. He made a futile grab at thin air then his legs gave way and he crashed down on his elbow on to the pavement and lay there almost unconscious with shock and pain — blood bubbling out of his mouth. He couldn't believe anything human could hit so hard.

His mate next to him fired two quick punches at Norton's head. Les heard the ringing noise as they landed but he didn't feel it. He whacked two quick lefts into the nose of the seaman, whose face contorted with pain. He closed his eyes and went to grab Les in a bear-hug. Norton pushed the back of his head down then brought his knee thudding up into the German's face two or three times. As the seaman fell to the ground, Les stepped back and kicked him viciously in the mouth. Blood and teeth showered everywhere and he lay still.

The big German was trying to get to his feet but he was floundering around like an inexperienced skater trying to get up on an ice rink; Norton casually walked over and drove the toe of his boot almost up to his ankle in his solar plexus then let him have several solid kicks in the ribs as well. The monstrous blond seaman clutched feebly at his stomach, gave a gasping moan of pain and lay there motionless.

Billy, meantime, was making fairly heavy going of it with the remaining seaman. They were standing there almost toe to toe, Billy was landing six punches to one and easily riding all those the big German was throwing at him, but he was twice Billy's size and although Billy had torn his face to ribbons he had such a
thick, bony head Billy was having a bit of trouble knocking him out. He shot a quick glance over at Norton who was standing there nonchalantly adjusting his watch.

‘Hey Les,' he called out between punches. ‘If you've got a spare minute, you wouldn't care to give me a bit of a hand here would you?' He ducked under a wild swinging right and slammed two left hooks into what was left of the huge German's face. ‘Fair dinkum, this box-head's got a melon on him like a retaining wall.'

Norton finished adjusting his watch, fixed his bow-tie, put his hands in his pockets and leant up against one of the poles supporting the canvas awning grinning at Billy. ‘You started it smart arse,' he said. ‘You finish it.'

‘Thanks, cunt.'

Billy fired another left and right into the German's already mangled face then stepped back, swung his leg and kicked him solidly in the balls — the big seaman screamed and grabbed at his throbbing groin. Now that he was crouched over down to Billy's shoulder level, Billy set himself squarely on his feet and drove a devastating right straight into the German's temple, knocking him almost senseless; he gave a little sigh and slumped to the footpath. Billy stepped back again and kicked him several times in the face but his head just wobbled from side to side like a sock full of wet marbles — he was completely out to it now.

A few patrons who had been leaving the club stopped to watch Billy and Les's brutal demolition job on the four German seamen. They stood there slack-jawed and slightly horrified as Billy delivered the final bit of ‘Balmain folk dancing' on the last German's head. When he'd finished he walked slowly over to Les, shaking his head.

‘Christ,' he said. ‘I didn't think I was ever going to finish that big mug. Fair dinkum, his head's almost as hard as yours. It's as big, I know that, I couldn't miss it.' He gritted his teeth and started to wave his right hand around in the air. ‘I think I've popped a bloody knuckle too, wouldn't it root you?'

‘Ten years in the ring,' said Norton, ‘and you have to go and kick a poor drunk in the balls to beat him.' He shook his head sadly. ‘You'd better hand in your tuxedo. It's a good thing Price didn't see this or he'd have you upstairs picking up glasses or helping the sheilas in the kitchen.' He reached out and took hold
of Billy's arm. ‘Give us a look at your hand anyway.' He examined Billy's hand thoroughly, then took a firm grip on his wrist and an equally firm grip on three of his fingers. ‘Yeah, you've popped a couple of knuckles all right,' he said. ‘Hold on.' With a grunt and powerful movement of his huge sinewy hands Norton callously wrenched the two knuckles back into place.

Billy grimaced at the sudden rush of pain and started waving his hand around again. ‘Ow, you prick!' he shouted at Norton who was standing there with half a smile on his face. The few patrons who had been standing around watching the evening's events decided it was time to leave and drifted off into the night. Billy was still muttering under his breath with pain but after opening and closing his hand a few times he found it was just about all right and the knuckles were back in place.

‘Thanks mate,' he said with a smile. ‘You ever thought about being a doctor?'

‘A doctor,' replied Norton. ‘You don't need a doctor, you need a bloody psychiatrist, you wombat. Nothing would have happened if you hadn't of started mouthing off.'

‘Ah fuck 'em,' said Billy. ‘Box-heads shit me at the best of times. You'd think they'd won the friggin' war, not lost it.'

‘Yeah. They don't do much for me either,' said Les absently reflecting back on the German opal miner he'd killed back in Dirranbandi for his father. ‘If it hadn't of been for one of these bludgers I wouldn't be down here in the first bloody place.'

‘What was that?' said Billy quizzingly.

‘Nothing,' said Norton quickly. ‘Come on, we'd better dump Sergeant Schultz and his mates up in the lane.'

Running off Kelly Street, about 25 metres up from the club, was a narrow, malodorous lane full of rusty garbage tins and the evilest, scrawniest tom-cats in Australia. Whenever Les and Billy had to flatten any mugs out the front of the club and their opponents were either unconscious or too battered to walk away under their own steam the boys would drag them up to the lane and leave them there till they'd come to and either make their way home or down to St. Vincent's hospital. None of them ever came back for a second helping.

Unceremoniously Billy and Les took the unconscious Germans by their shirt-collars and taking two each, dragged them off to the lane and dumped them there, stacking a few
garbage bins in front of them just in case some concerned citizens should happen to pass by and start hollering for the cops. By the time the four seamen came to, the club would be closed and Les and Billy would be long gone.

‘Thirsty work son,' said Billy, as they hauled the huge Germans along the footpath. ‘You'll have to come for a drink now.'

‘S'pose so,' growled Norton.

‘What about all this blood?' said Billy, when they returned to the front of the club. Even though the footpath was still wet, the rain had eased and the large dollops of congealed blood were quite noticeable as they glistened on the dirty grey asphalt. Several chipped teeth were quite noticeable too, which Billy deftly flicked into the gutter with the side of his shoe.

‘I'll duck upstairs and get a bucket of water,' said Norton. He vanished up the stairs and returned a few minutes later with a stainless steel ice bucket full of water which he poured over the bloodstains, washing most of it into the gutter.

‘I had to tell Price more or less what happened,' he said.

‘What'd he say?'

‘Nothing. He said we may as well close the doors and come up and start getting them out anyway.'

‘Beauty.' Billy had a quick look at his watch. ‘It's just on ten to three.'

By twenty past three they had everyone out of the club and by half past three Price had the money counted and in the safe, the boys had been paid and were having their customary after-work drink. Billy didn't mention anything to Price about them going up to the Mandrake Room for although Price might have run an illegal gambling casino and been involved in the odd bashing and gangland killing every now and again he was still a strict Catholic and had a fairly stringent sense of moral values; if he'd known Billy intended playing up behind his wife's back he would have blown up a treat. He also had a touch of the flu and was keen to get home early, so after just a couple of quick drinks the boys escorted him down to his car.

‘Eddie should be waiting for me out the front,' said Price as they walked down the stairs, then locked the doors behind them.

Outside, Price's Rolls-Royce was double-parked in front of the club with the engine quietly ticking over. Behind the wheel was
Eddie Salita. Under his arm was a .38 Smith and Wesson police special and between the front seats with a newspaper over it was a sawn-off M.1 Carbine with a 40-shot banana clip fully loaded and attached. There was a little bit of trouble in the air. A team of ex-Painters and Dockers from Melbourne were in Sydney sussing out the possibility of getting an illegal gambling casino going and the rumour was that with Price out of the road it would make things a lot easier for them. It was nothing definite but Price's favourite saying was ‘an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure'. And Eddie Salita with his sawn-off M.1 was about the best prevention available. Eddie spent a year in Vietnam with the 2nd Battalion, loving every minute of it and was filthy when Whitlam brought the troops back. If anyone had even looked twice at Price that night there would have been more lead in Kelly Street than Broken Hill.

‘G'day Eddie,' said the boys as they opened the car door for Price, carefully checking out the street at the same time.

‘Hello fellahs. What's doing?' replied Eddie cheerfully, flashing his big white grin.

‘Not much.'

‘Listen,' said Price from the window of the car. ‘Are you two training down at Gales Baths on Monday?'

‘Sure are,' chorused Les and Billy.

‘Well I'll probably see you down there. I'm going to play a bit of handball then I'm having a few hands of euchre with some bookies from City Tatts. And there's a barbecue on at Clovelly Surf Club in the afternoon. The Eskimos are trying to raise some money for the club to get a new surf boat.' Price smiled and shook his head. ‘They'll probably get me half full of piss and I'll end up buying the bloody thing for them, I suppose. But do you want to come down for a steak and a few beers? Probably be a good day.'

‘Yeah, for sure. We'll see you down Gales anyway.'

‘All right boys, see you Monday. Goodnight fellahs. Thanks.'

‘See you Price. See you Eddie.'

The window hissed up, Eddie tooted the horn and the big beige Rolls-Royce cruised regally off along Kelly Street; the rear, amber blinker seemed to be winking a jaunty goodnight to them as it melded in with the other traffic.

As it drew out of sight Billy slapped Norton on the back. ‘Righto mate,' he said happily. ‘Let's hit the Drake.'

‘Yeah. Let's get up there and get it over with,' replied Les a little reluctantly. ‘Who wants to go home to a nice warm bed anyway?' With Billy leading the way, like a dog straining on a leash, they headed for the Mandrake Room.

After the relative quietness of Kelly Street Norton was slightly surprised to find that although it was almost 4am on a rotten wet night, when they turned into Macleay Street the sleazy, pitiless black heart of Kings Cross was still beating strongly.

Packs of trouble-seeking yobbos from the Western Suburbs swarmed contemptuously along the footpaths past scruffy, leather-clad bikie gangs standing idly in doorways, watching the passers-by but mainly keeping an eye on their chrome drenched motor bikes parked neatly at the side of the road. Huge Maori pimps would drive past in equally huge American cars, looking morosely out the windows and keeping an eye on their main sources of income. Heroin addicted hookers wearing crutch-tight shorts, high-heeled shoes and skimpy tank tops were propped up in doorways like so many broken dolls — their faces the same texture as sheets of wet newspaper, their eyes cold and lifeless like sharks. By the time they reached McDonalds Billy and Les had been approached at least a dozen or more times with the slurred words. ‘Hello mister. Looking for a girl?' The boys would smile as kindly as they could and shake their heads.

The touts-cum-bouncers standing in the doorways of the strip-clubs would break off their raucous speil when they spotted the boys, wave, give a big hello and watch with admiration as they walked past, wondering what the two hardest men in the Cross were doing walking down Macleay Street at such an odd hour.

As they crossed Macleay Street they had to walk around six young drunks who were savagely kicking at the doors of a taxi because the driver had refused to pick them up. A paddy-wagon driven by three trepidatious but hard-faced policemen cruised past ignoring the whole thing.

The tawdry neon lights, the car fumes, the noise, the prurient looks on the faces of the late-night voyeurs, had Norton feeling slightly disgusted and decidedly ill at ease and wishing he'd gone home to bed. Billy on the other hand was keener than a greyhound that had just been given a kill.