The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (35 page)

Those last two descriptions hit Warren straight between the eyes. ‘Where?' he said quietly.

‘That's right Warren. Where?'

‘How about I go into my office,' he said cautiously, ‘and phone around till B and P ring us back.'

The others nodded silently in agreement.

Warren went into his office, sat at his desk and stared at his phone. A big red-headed bloke with a bit of personality. There was a bloke answering that description lying in bed not far from there at that very moment. But there were several things to be taken into consideration and several ways of looking at this that had Warren in a gigantic wrestling match with his conscience.

If he tipped Les into this commercial and it turned into another riot like that Bowen Lager one he wouldn't get a job in advertising selling space on the sides of garbage tins. But if Les pulled it off without wrecking the place Warren would be flavour of the month at Wirraway for years to come. They'd even let him drive the company Porsche. However, there was every chance Les would knock it back anyway. He swore after that Brisbane episode that he'd never do another one of those stupid bloody things as long as he lived. And he'd had offers. And how much chance was there of him wanting to go to Melbourne anyway. He wasn't all that wrapped in Sydney, so he'd positively loathe Melbourne. But the thing was worth $3,000 and if that wasn't a big enough magnet nothing was. Les would roller skate through a stampede of wildebeests for that sort of money. And if he did take it, what could go wrong? There was only ten in it. All half baked fairies sipping fizzy wine in an old pub in St Kilda. Les could do it standing on his head. Les was the man all right.

Warren drummed his fingers on his desk. There was a way of going about this. He'd offer Les the ad to make up for him spending all that money last night. If he knocked it back, too bad. If he went down and killed it Warren would be a hero. And either way, Les would think him a good bloke for giving him a chance to get his money back. Warren decided to have a coffee and think it over between then and eleven.

Around eleven, a still very seedy Les Norton was sitting
in the kitchen next to a pot of tea and convincing himself he'd do some training later that afternoon. Louise had to start work at twelve, so he'd dropped her off at her place and got the paper on the way home. In the paper shop, Les had noticed a fold-up road map of Melbourne and surrounding districts that he'd bought out of curiosity. Now he'd finished reading the paper, and with the map spread across the kitchen table, he was comparing it with the map Mousey had given him. Pieces on the two maps were beginning to match up.

The road Mousey had written as Upper Harrisburg was Upper Heidelberg. The almost unreadable suburbs or towns were starting to make sense. Thomastown. Merang. Yarrambat. And what at first looked like Yin Yoe Residence was a dam. Yan Yean Reservoir, next to a town called Whittlesea. Other roads and streets on Mousey's map became identifiable also. Norton's mind slipped into overdrive, because suddenly the little sweeper's map began to make sense. He'd definitely buried something near some pine trees next to that Yan Yean Reservoir. But what? And it looked like it was around eighty kilometres out of town, although Mousey had written everything in yards and miles. It was obvious the little sweeper hadn't quite come to terms with the metric system yet. Norton drummed his fingers along the side of his teacup. He still had about a $1,000 left from that money he'd found. It'd be almost worth taking a trip down to Melbourne one Monday, hiring a car and seeing just what was buried out there. It could be anything. It was certainly worth a thought sometime in the future.

Norton was still mulling it over when the phone rang. ‘Hello,' he said, after striding into the lounge room to pick up the receiver.

‘G'day Les. It's Warren. How are you feeling?' Wirraway Advertising had struck out with Bedford and Pierce, so he'd decided to take the risk.

‘I'm as seedy as a tin of raspberry jam,' smiled Norton. ‘What about yourself?'

‘I'm only running on two cylinders. I hope I can see the day out.'

‘It was a good night though.'

‘Was it what. And thanks for that too Les.'

‘No worries.'

They chatted about the food and the drink and one thing and another for a while, then Warren casually began to edge the conversation around his way.

‘You know. That must've cost you a bundle last night, Les,' he said cagily.

‘Ahh, that's all right Woz. The day I can't pull a few bucks out of the bank to celebrate my mate's birthday, I'll give up,' lied Norton.

‘Well, I still appreciate it Les. And if you're interested, I can give you a chance to get your money back. Plus.'

‘Yeah,' said Norton. ‘How?'

Warren crossed his fingers on the other end of the line. ‘Are you interested in doing a TV commercial?'

‘A TV commercial. Ohh mate, I dunno about that.'

Warren winced slightly at the tone of Norton's voice. He definitely didn't sound too enthusiastic. ‘Yeah. I didn't think you'd be too keen. It's in bloody Melbourne of all places, too.'

‘Melbourne!' Norton's ears pricked up and his eyes flicked across to Mousey's map sitting on the table. ‘Shit! I've never been to Melbourne, Woz.'

‘You haven't missed much.'

‘Mmhh.' Norton stroked his chin thoughtfully and an odd smile crept over his face. ‘Well, tell us about it anyway,' he said easily, ‘and I'll let you know what I think.'

Warren brightened up a little. This was a definite nibble and he still hadn't mentioned the money. Norton would bite at that like a Tasmanian Tiger, especially after dropping $700 on a night out, so he gave Les a run-down.

First, he told Les how Johnstone had broken his jaw and the agency was stuck. He'd be doing them a big favour if he could do it. It was being shot in Melbourne in an old pub in St Kilda. There'd be a mixed bunch of sweet young things at the bar sipping St Kilda Kooler. Norton would front up to the bar and someone would offer him a bottle. Norton would then pick up the bottle, look all mean and nasty, and come out with the big line, ‘That's a sheila's drink.' Then with all the little ponces terrified and looking as if they were expecting him to wreck the place, Norton was to take a big swig, smile, nod his head, then order a six-pack and walk out. And the spiel was, everybody can kool off with a Kilda. He'd go down Friday afternoon. It was a six a.m. shoot Saturday. They'd probably shoot all day. He'd stay there Saturday night and return Sunday afternoon.

Norton thought without a doubt it was one of the greatest loads of shit he'd heard in his life. He wondered just what these advertising yuppies were into when they got these ideas.
But for $3,000 he'd keep his opinions to himself.

He forced a laugh. ‘Sounds like it might be a bit of fun, Woz. I'll give it a shot if you like.'

‘Good on you Les.' Warren was beaming. He was taking a risk with Norton, but he just might have saved the day. ‘You know where the agency is. Can you be in here, say one o'clock?'

‘Yeah sure.'

‘Okay. See you then.'

Warren went into the main office where the three partners were looking more dejected than ever. ‘I think I might have found someone for you.'

‘Yeah,' grunted the partner in the middle. He sounded about as keen as Les did when Warren first rang up. ‘Has he ever been in front of a camera before?'

‘He did a couple of beer ads in West Aussie.'

‘Oh? So he has got some ability?'

Warren nodded enthusiastically.

‘Well, I suppose that's a plus,' said the partner on the end.

When Norton, dressed in a shirt, jeans and cardigan, walked into the agency at one, Warren led him straight into the main office and the partners brightened up noticeably. Norton certainly looked the part — if nothing else. Warren quickly introduced him around but the names went straight in one ear and out the other and they all looked the same anyway. Like Kenny Rogers before all his hair turned grey. They handed Les a script and let him study it for a while.

‘Warren has explained to you what's going on?' said the partner in the middle.

‘Yeah,' nodded Norton, glancing up from the script.

‘Have you tried the drink?'

‘Yeah,' nodded Norton again. ‘Warren gave me some the other day.'

‘What did you think of it?'

Norton looked po-faced at Warren. ‘Nice. It's easy to drink.'

‘Good. Anyway, would you like to have a go at the line?'

‘Sure.'

The partner on the end handed Les a bottle. Norton chucked a mean look and came out with the line. Then did it another three or four times. The partners had sat up, but they didn't seem all that enthusiastic.

‘Can I make a suggestion?' asked Les.

‘Sure. Go ahead.'

‘Well. Don't you think “sheila's drink” is a little bit... how do you people like to put it? Ocker. Is that the word?'

‘Go on.'

‘Well. Why not try it like this?' Norton picked up the bottle and said, ‘That's a girl's drink.' Only with more of a sneer and more curling of the lip.

Fancy having to go through this shit thought Norton. Larry, Curly and Mo here in the leather pants wouldn't know their arseholes from a wombat burrow in a river bank.

The partners looked at each other, then at Les. ‘Say that again Les,' said the partner in the middle.

Norton repeated the performance, really giving the sneer the full on Sylvester Stallone treatment this time.

‘I'll tell you what,' said the Kenny Rogers look-alike on the end. ‘He could have something there.'

‘Yeah,' nodded the one on the other end. ‘After all. It is Melbourne, and they are a little more, shall we say, conservative down there in VB territory.'

‘Do it again Les.'

Norton repeated the performance a couple more times. It went over like a bunch of roses on Mother's Day.

Smiling to each other the partners took some polaroids of Norton and thanked him for coming in. Warren did the same and walked him to the door, thanking him again and saying he'd either ring him or see him when he got home that night.

Norton was shaking his head in annoyance as he walked back to his car. God. What about those three clowns? They ought to be locked up. That's it for me. Never, ever again. They can stick their ad up their arse.

‘Well?' said Warren, as he walked back into the office. ‘What did you think?'

‘Not bad,' conceded the partner in the middle.

‘I reckon he looks more like Frank Johnstone than Frank Johnstone does,' chuckled the one on the end.

‘If nothing better turns up,' nodded the remaining partner, ‘he just might do.' He turned to Warren. ‘Not bad Warren. You did well.'

Later that evening, when Warren got home from the agency, Les was in the kitchen having a cup of coffee. He was dressed and getting ready to take Louise to the movies. A pot of curry he'd made earlier was sitting on the stove.

‘G'day Les,' Warren smiled as he stepped into the kitchen. ‘How's things?'

‘Woz,' nodded Norton. ‘How's it goin'? You had tea yet?' Warren shook his head. ‘There's some curried chicken on the stove. Get into it.'

‘Good. I'm bloody starving.' Warren went across to the stove, took the lid off the pot and had a sniff.

‘So,' said Norton, eyeing Warren from across the top of his coffee, ‘what're those three yuppies with the beards doing? Do they want me to do that ad, or what?'

‘They haven't quite made up their minds yet,' replied Warren, ladling some curried chicken onto a plate.

‘What do you mean, haven't made up their minds yet?' frowned Norton. ‘I went in there. They checked out my melon. I even brushed up that stupid bloody line for them. What do they want for $3000. Paul fuckin' Newman?'

‘Les, it doesn't quite work like that,' replied Warren.

‘What do you mean — doesn't quite work like that? You told me over the phone this morning you were desperate. And I'd be doing you a favour by coming in.'

‘We were. But another couple of blokes have turned up since then.'*

‘Oh I see,' nodded Norton sourly. ‘One minute I'm flavour of the month. Now I get shoved on the reserve bench. Thanks a lot mate.'

‘I know just how you feel Les. It's a ruthless world, modelling.' Warren pulled out a chair and sat down with his dinner. ‘But you can't blame me for this Les. These blokes just happened to turn up and they've got heads rougher than yours. I know, it's hard to imagine, but it's true.'

Impassively, Norton watched Warren getting into his food for a few moments. ‘How's that curried chicken?' he finally said. ‘All right is it?'

‘Yeah. It's beautiful. The banana and pineapple really give it that extra something.'

‘That's good. How would you like the rest of it over your fuckin' head.'

It was almost the same the following evening when Warren came home from work and Les was getting ready to go to the club. They'd narrowed it down to Les and just one other bloke, but the three bosses still hadn't quite made up their minds yet. However, Les was the front-runner, if that was any consolation.

Norton was almost going to tell Warren he could tell his
three bosses in their black leather jeans they could shove their ad, mango flavoured wine and all. But he copped it reasonably sweet. He did say, however, that they'd better make up their minds because he'd have to give them some sort of notice at the club. Warren agreed and apologised. He told Les he'd let him know one way or the other by lunchtime Thursday.

After work that night, Norton hinted that he might be going away for the weekend and could they get Danny McCormack in. Price said that was no problem. It was rare that Les ever took any time off and Danny was always keen to earn a few extra dollars, especially with five kids hanging round his neck. Despite a barrage of questions Norton didn't say where he might be going. George Brennan said it was obvious. The big goose was going back to the Bay to cut out another fine.