You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online Page A

white legs was none other than Norton’s boots. A bit battered, a bit dirty but unmistakably, unequivocably Norton’s $290 iguana lizard skin boots which had mysteriously disappeared in Bondi Junction six weeks earlier.
    At first Les just stood there staring, his hands on his hips. With a quick look around the clearing, as if he expected some people to be standing there, he pointed to the boots.
    â€˜Hey, they’re my fuckin’ good boots!’ he roared at the top of his voice.
    He knelt down and ran his hands over them, then got back up again.
    â€˜My fuckin’ oath they are. What are you doing with them you old cunt?’
    The old wino lay there, sleeping blissfully on, ignoring Norton’s raving. Norton didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, he was a hotbed of mixed emotions. On one hand he wanted to tell the world he’d got his boots back and on the other hand he wanted to kick the stuffing out of the old wino for stealing themin the first place. Then again, the old bloke might have just found them somewhere so he couldn’t really pound the soul-case out of the poor old bugger for that. A few questions were in order; he gave the pile of newspapers a sharp kick.
    â€˜Hey you old prick,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find those boots?’ Still no answer. He gave the pile of newspapers another nudge, ‘c’mon you old cunt, wake up, I’m talkin’ to you. Where’d you get those boots? Don’t try and tell me you bought ’em.’ Still no answer.
    Les stood there glaring down at the sleeping form beneath the newspapers, his chest heaving, steam rising off his face as the sweat dripped off his nose and chin.
    â€˜Ah, fuck this,’ he said, and gave the newspapers a good hard kick in the general direction of where he thought the old wino’s backside would be. Still no answer.
    â€˜Jesus, how much piss did you drink last night?’ He gave the wine flagon a kick, it disappeared into the bushes, ‘Yeah fuckin’ empty, I thought so.’
    He bent down and tore the newspapers off the old wino’s face. ‘C’mon you old prick, wake up, I want . . .’
    Norton’s voice trailed away. He gave a little scream of terror and recoiled in horror, as if he’d just uncovered a tiger snake. For one look at the old man’s face, with the mouth frozen in a crooked half-smile, the spittle still glistening on the sides and those two opaque eyes, that stared straight through Les and into eternity, told him one certain thing; he could never wear those boots again.
    â€˜Oh Jesus,’ he said as a shudder ran through his entire body, ‘keep the fuckin’ things.’ Big Les turned and ran for his life.

A Fortnight in Beirut
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    It was getting on for 11 o’clock on a mild Saturday night in September. The pale blue neon light of the Kelly Club threw an almost translucent glow over the two men in tuxedos standing casually at the entrance; the shorter man was eating an apple, the other was gnawing on a Cherry Ripe bar. The garish neon lights of Kings Cross blending haphazardly in around them added a distinct touch of surrealism to the whole scene.
    The shorter man checked his watch for the fifth time in the last hour, a look of mild concern on his face.
    â€˜Price is a bit late getting here tonight,’ said Billy Dunne.
    Les Norton finished his Cherry Ripe bar, screwed the wrapper in a ball and tossed it nonchalantly into the gutter.
    â€˜What time is it?’ he asked.
    â€˜About 11 o’clock.’
    â€˜There was a big meeting on at Rosehill today. He’s probably still celebrating.’
    â€˜Yeah, he had two winners.’
    â€˜Good prices?’
    â€˜One was 15/1.’
    A smile creased the corners of Les Norton’s eyes. ‘There’s your answer,’ he said.
    They stepped back to let a well-dressed party of four into the club, giving each of them a smile and a