Free The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya by Robert G. Barrett

barmaid gave Norton a double blink. Clean-shaven, in a freshly ironed shirt, and not smelling of stale booze, he definitely wasn’t one of the usual clientele.
    â€˜Hold on,’ she said politely. ‘I’ll just go and get him.’ She moved to the end of the bar, bent over and screeched down to the cellar. ‘Hey Ross. There’s someone here wants to see you about a room.’ A muffled voice called out something from the cellar. ‘Righto,’ replied the barmaid. ‘He’ll be up in a few minutes. He’s just changing a keg.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜Do you want a drink while you’re waiting?’
    Norton screwed his face up slightly at the thought of what it would probably be like. ‘Yeah, righto. Give us a middy of lemon squash.’
    Oddly enough the squash was beautiful. Not from a machine, plenty of ice and two fresh slices of lemon. Norton downed it in about four swallows and ordered another. He was halfway through it and leaning against the bar when a man came up from the cellar.
    â€˜Hello mate,’ he said, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. ‘I’m Ross Bailey, the owner. What can I do for you?’
    He was a fairly solid bloke, a little overweight, not a bad style, possibly around thirty, with neat brown hair and a trimmed moustache. From his broken nose and bustling kind of manner, Norton tipped he was either an ex-footballer or policeman.
    â€˜My name’s, ah... George Dunne,’ said Les. ‘I need one room for four people, for five days. Maybe a week.’
    â€˜One room for four people?’
    â€˜Yeah. Myself and three Aborigines.’
    The owner narrowed one eye and looked at Les a little sceptically.
    â€˜It’s all right. They’re dancers. I’m with an advertisingagency and we’re bringing them down from Queensland to do a TV commercial. We were going to put them up in a motel at Double Bay, but they insisted on staying in Redfern for some reason.’
    â€˜Ohh it’s lovely round here,’ chuckled Ross Bailey. ‘I don’t blame them. What sort of ad is it?’
    Norton looked across the bar to a blown-up photo of Dennis Lillee pinned on the wall. ‘Ahh... World Series Cricket.’
    â€˜Australian Aborigines doing a cricket ad?’ The owner looked at Les quizzically.
    â€˜Yeah. It’s a new concept one of our writers thought up. Instead of using West Indians we’re using Aborigines. It’s just a gimmick.’
    â€˜Fair enough,’ smiled the owner. ‘Sort of, come on Abo come on eh?’
    â€˜Hey, you’ve got it,’ grinned Norton. ‘Yeah.’
    â€˜Well come on up and I’ll show you the rooms.’
    The owner picked up a set of keys and came round from behind the bar. He led Les past the bottle shop, down a corridor and up a dusty, thinly carpeted set of stairs to the first floor.
    â€˜Actually, the room I wanted was one of those with the balconies facing the street,’ said Norton, following behind. ‘The boys like to see the sun first thing in the morning.’
    â€˜Those rooms are double rooms all right,’ said the owner. ‘But they’re already gone mate.’
    â€˜Gone?’
    â€˜Yeah. Me and my girl have got one. And two old blokes have got the other.’
    The owner went to unlock the door to one of the rooms facing the landing.
    â€˜How much do you want for a room for the week?’ asked Les.
    â€˜Well, four of you. Even in the one room I’m still going to have to charge almost the full amount.’ The owner thought for a moment, ‘Say $200.’
    â€˜I’ll give you 500 if we can have one of those front rooms.’
    â€˜Five hundred dollars?’
    â€˜I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it 750. And don’t worry about a receipt.’
    The owner quickly shut the door he’d just opened. ‘Fuck Barney and Tom,’ he said. ‘I’ll thrown