I'll post a review of it later, but Moonlight Downs runs away with this category. My god, the descriptions:
"You wouldn't consider staying with your old man for a while?"
"I just come from the Jenny, Tom. I love old Jack, but do I want to spend my time sitting on top of a gold mine in the middle of a salt pan with him and his trained gorillas? I don't think so."
"You could come with us, back into Bluebush..."
He appeared to be offended by the look of alarm that shot across my face. I was, I supposed, insulting the place he'd chosen to make his home. But Bluebush! What a dump! The sort of town where it's easier to buy a silencer than a decent coffee. When we visited town, I'd never leave my father's side: as a little black kid, you could feel the antagonism radiating out from the whitefellers when you passed them in the street.
And what a mob they were themselves. A bigger collection of dickheads and drop-kicks you'd have to travel a long way to find: boozers, bruisers and substance-abusers, rockjaw Germans and lockjaw Yorkshiremen, grease monkeys and gamblers, meatworkers, meat-heads, missionaries, maniacs, men on the run, men on the dole, men on the Witness Protection Program, Peddlers, pushers, whores and bores, desperadoes of every denomination. You name it, they were there, drawn to the town like flies on a carcass.
"Tom, the only way you could get me to go and live in Bluebush would be if you were to knock me out, handcuff me and throw me into the back of your paddy wagon." (46)