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

nod as they entered. As they did, a light brown Rolls-Royce glided majestically up out the front and stopped about 20 feet down from the club.
    â€˜Here he is now,’ said Les.
    Price Galese stepped out from behind the wheel of the Rolls and walked briskly over towards them. He looked a picture of sartorial elegance in an immaculately cut, blue, three-piece suit which was accentuated by his silvery grey hair. A maroon tie and a solid gold tie-bar with large black opal in it added a touch of discreet class to his attire. He had a strange smile on his face.
    â€˜Hello boys,’ he said lightly. ‘How are you?’
    â€˜Not too bad Price. How’s yourself?’
    â€˜All right. Listen,’ he took each of them by the arm. ‘Come up the office after work. I want to see you about something.’
    â€˜There’s no trouble is there?’ said Billy.
    â€˜No, not really. I’ll see you when we knock off.’ He gave the boys a wink and disappeared up the stairs.
    â€˜I wonder what that was all about,’ said Billy.
    Les shrugged. ‘We’ll find out after work, I s’pose.’
    The night was fairly uneventful. A team of drunken sailors came up to cause a bit of trouble; Les belted the biggest one in the mouth, knocking out several teeth and that was the end of that. Billy banged two bikies’ heads together and kicked a cheeky drag-queen in the backside and Les went up and had to eject the drunken wife of a Sydney television news-reader. She was out on the town while her husband was in hospital recovering from a hair transplant. This was done very discreetly and she was out the door and still laughing before she even knew what had happened. Just another Saturday night at the club.
    Around 4am they had everyone out so the boys went to the office to see Price; knocking lightly before they entered. Price was seated behind his desk next to the club manager, George Brennan; they were doing their best to count a stack of money an East German gold medallist couldn’t have pole-vaulted over. At the end of the money sat a shiny blue-black Colt .45 automatic.
    â€˜Come in, boys,’ said Price happily. ‘Grab yourselves a drink. You know where it is.’
    Billy went for the Dimple Haigh and Drambuie, making himself a nice, tall rusty nail, Les settled for one of the cans of Fourex that Price, knowing the ex-Queenslander’s taste, always kept in the fridge for him. Billy gave the liquor cabinet a quick wipe and they sat down in front of Price’s desk.
    Price turned to his manager. ‘George, leave me with the boys for a minute will you. I won’t be long.’
    â€˜Sure,’ replied the manager. He picked up the .45, put it in a leather holster under his arm and walked to the door. ‘Don’t let Norton drink all the Fourex,’ he said with a wink and stepped outside.
    â€˜Well, what’s the story?’ asked Billy.
    Price eased himself back from the desk. ‘The story is, boys,’ he said, ‘I’m closing up the club for a couple of weeks.’
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Billy. It didn’t come as any real surprise to him. Now and again if there was trouble or pressure on from somewhere they’d close up for a while till it blew over or Price had it sorted out. ‘What is it this time?’
    â€˜Ahh, there’s a shitpot bloody by-election on for this ward and they reckon that whingeing prick from the Festival Of Light’s going to throw some rooster in on a law-and-order campaign. You know what he’s like.’ Price shook his head sadly. ‘Also,’ he added, ‘there hasn’t been a decent rape, bank robbery or murder for weeks. Even the kiddy pervs have gone quiet which means the papers will take up the issue.’ Price stood up. ‘Where’s all the rapists and murderers gone for Christ’s sake?’ he said waving his arms around excitedly. ‘What’s Sydney coming