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

and cents bored him absolutely shitless; even having to fill out a tax return once a year nearly drove him round the bend. So he just sat there in the manager’s air-conditioned office like a stale bottle of piss while they sorted it all out between them. Terms like negative gearing, short-term interest rates and diversification of liquid assets were bandied about — which Norton let go right over his head — and the next thing he’d signed some papers and had an access account with his name and a whole lot of numbers on it. He took out $25,000 of those numbers in fifties and hundreds and placed them in a thick, black plastic bag he’d brought with him. A few minutes later he was out the front of the bank walking with the others towards the car park behind McDonalds. After a brief goodbye Les got in his old Ford, the others got into Sheldon’s new Mercedes, and they went their separate ways.
    Les still had about an hour left before Murray would ring, so he fiddled around the house and got a Greek-style lamb stew ready for tea while he was waiting. At bang on two-thirty Murray rang.
    â€˜Hello Les?’
    â€˜Yeah. How are you Murray?’
    â€˜Good mate. You got everything sorted out down there?’
    â€˜Yeah. Smooth as silk. I’ll tell you what’s going on.’
    Les explained briefly how he’d chartered the plane and arranged the accommodation for himself and the three others in Redfern. The money was taken care of and all Murray had to do was be out at the old airstrip at ten-thirty the following morning.
    â€˜You know how to get out there all right, don’t you, Muzz?’
    â€˜Yeah, no worries. It’s only about two hours from here.’
    â€˜You don’t mind having to stay out there another night?’
    Murray glanced towards the kitchen where Koodja and the other girls had just finished cleaning up after lunch and were now preparing Bavarian chocolate cake for tea plus duck á l’orange from a brace of six Yarrawulla had caught and prepared the day before.
    â€˜Ohh no,’ he grinned. ‘I suppose I can force myself to stay here another night. I just hope Chalky doesn’t serve red wine with the poultry this evening — that’s all. It’s definitely not a go.’
    â€˜What was that?’ queried Les.
    â€˜Nothing. Nothing at all.’
    â€˜Yeah? Arseholes. You’re up to something out there. Generally I need an elephant to drag you away from Dirranbandi for more than five minutes.’
    â€˜Turn it up, you’re my brother. Jesus, if I couldn’t put myself out for a couple of nights for my family what sort of a bloke would I be?’
    â€˜Mmhh.’
    â€˜Anyway, everything sounds like it’s sweet. So I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
    â€˜Yeah, righto.’
    Les said to give his regards to the others, then hung up saying he’d see them all on Thursday morning. Murray’s definitely up to something up there he thought, smiling at the phone for a moment. He’s my brother. I can tell. Oh well, good luck to him, whatever it is.
    It wasn’t a bad spring afternoon — sunny, quite warm, with a nice light breeze coming from the north-west — so Norton put his banana-chair out in the backyard to lie down and have a bit of a think. There wasn’t really all that much to think about and he ended up dozing off. He woke up about five, had a shower, put on a tracksuit and got tea ready.
    Warren arrived home and by seven he and Les had finished the stew and were sipping coffee, watching the news on Channel 2 and ripping into a cherry cheesecake Warren had brought home from some exclusive little Swiss cake shop in Woollahra.
    â€˜So you’re going to have another early night tonight, eh?’ said Warren.
    â€˜Yeah. I’ve got to be up by six again tomorrow.’
    â€˜Jesus I’d love to know what’s going on. You’re taking a few days off from work