Free The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya by Robert G. Barrett Page A

them in 15 for the week. Come on. I’ll show you your room.’
    Bailey led Les into room number 9. Actually it was threerooms in one; two bedrooms with two single beds in each, a bathroom and a larger room which led onto the small verandah overlooking Regent Street. The carpet was a bit chatty, like the curtains, but it was fairly bright, there was a laminex table in the middle of the main room and an old, yellow vinyl lounge and two matching chairs. A small colour TV faced this and a mantle radio sat on a shelf on one of the walls. Apart from that it didn’t look as if anyone lived there.
    â€˜They must travel light, whoever’s staying here,’ said Norton, opening the frosted glass doors that led onto the verandah.
    â€˜Yeah. They’re just a couple of old pensioners,’ replied the owner. ‘They spend most of their money on piss.’
    Norton grinned to himself as he stepped out onto the tiny red-tiled balcony. The AWEC offices were barely 200 metres away and if the front window hadn’t been painted over you’d have been able to see Kilby in person. What a stroke of luck, thought Norton. The boys’ll be able to point the bone at him easy enough from here. Any closer and they’d be able to stick the thing fair up his arse.
    â€˜Yeah. This’ll be perfect, Ross,’ said Norton, stepping back inside and closing the doors behind him. ‘Now, what do I owe you? Seven hundred and fifty bucks, right?’ The owner shrugged a reply. ‘Well here’s 250 in advance.’ Les fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I’ll give you the rest next week. And like I said. Don’t worry about a receipt if you don’t want to.’
    â€˜Sweet as a nut,’ replied Bailey, putting the money in his pocket without bothering to count it. ‘When did you want to move in?’
    â€˜About lunchtime tomorrow.’
    â€˜No worries. I’ll have the girl clean it out and run the vacuum cleaner over it for you.’ Bailey gave Les the key and they filed back down the stairs, Les telling the owner he’d see him tomorrow.
    Well how good’s this, thought Norton, giving the old hotel one last look as he strolled back to his car. This is all falling into place easier than pissin’ the bed when you’re drunk. Whistling happily to himself he got in his car and headed for Bondi Junction.
    Norton had paid his phone account, had a coffee, and was sitting in the Oxford Street Mall sipping a carrot and apple juice when he saw Price’s Sheldon Drewe approaching, accompanied by Price’s accountant, Russell Ticehurst. With theirneat short hair, inquisitive clean-shaven faces and steelrimmed glasses the men could have been brothers. Both were wearing sober but expensively tailored, charcoal-grey suits, the only difference being the stripes in Ticehurst’s suit were thicker than Drewe’s. They spotted Les, smiled briefly and walked over.
    â€˜Hello Les. How are you?’ said Sheldon.
    â€˜G’day Shell,’ replied Norton, getting to his feet.
    â€˜You know Russell?’
    â€˜Yeah. I met you up the game. How are you Russ?’
    â€˜Good thanks Les.’
    â€˜Well. Will we go and get this thing sorted out?’
    â€˜Yeah, why not? Did you bring the dough with you?’
    The lawyer held up a black briefcase he was holding and they proceeded to the bank.
    Sheldon made a quick inquiry at the counter and in no time they were ushered into the office of the manager, Mr Bill Sturgess. A tall broad-shouldered man in his early forties, Sturgess used to play Rugby League for Easts too, but a bit before Norton’s time. Les recognised him from playing touch football up at Waverley Oval and sometimes down Centennial Park. There were quick handshakes all around and then they got down to business.
    Although Norton knew how to get a dollar together quicker than the next bloke, the actual working in dollars