And De Fun Don't Done (17 page)

‘He doesn't look very happy,' said Bobbie-Sue.

‘No. Vinny's got things on his mind,' said Les, completely pofaced. ‘He's down here from New York to do a hit. On a guy called Clive Masters. Ain't that right, Vinny?'

That, unfortunately, was enough for Hank. His eyes spun, his body shook, and his face seemed to go a funny colour. He threw down the rest of his beer and dumped the glass on the girls' table. ‘We're leaving.'

‘We are?' said Norton. ‘What's wrong with here? Beautiful girls to talk to. Great music. Fantastic drinks. And we're loaded. You sure you're not an egg short of an omelette?'

‘I told you. I have to take a trip across town. I'll meet you at the car.' Hank disappeared out the front door.

‘Vinny the Bike,' said Lori. ‘Vinny the Schmuck'd be more like it.'

‘Christ! Where did you find him?' asked Bobbie-Sue.

Norton shook his head. ‘Under a big wet rock at Tamarama, I think. I wish I'd bloody left him there.' Les downed margarita number two in one swallow. His eyes spinning, he reached across and gently pecked both girls on the cheek. ‘Well, ladies, look's like Uncle Les has got to hit the toe. Maybe I'll see you down here again?'

‘Okay. Nice talking to you, Les. You take care.'

‘I'll sure do my best. See youse.'

Out in the car Hank's face looked like Charles Bronson's after they'd shoved a lemon in his mouth and squeezed it in a vice for about half an hour. The engine was running and he was sucking morosely on another cigarette. Norton figured that if he let Hank know he had the shits it would probably brighten up his miserable existence. The best way to get under Boofhead's skin would be to take the opposite tack — even if it did burn
his arse. Gator Man's was one of the best little bars he'd ever been in. And it wouldn't have taken long to trade the two hoosiers in on something else. There was no shortage of good style women there. Not counting the fantastic music as well.

‘Well, I'm glad you got me out of there, Hank. Those two sheilas were starting to give me the shits. And the band was alright, but it was too fuckin' loud.' Hank crunched the pick-up into gear and took off up Main Street. ‘So where are we going now?'

Hank let go a burst of smoke through gritted teeth. ‘I told you. The other side of town. Almond Crescent.'

Les clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly. ‘Sounds alright to me. Any good bars over there? I might let you shout me a drink.'

They took a right on Main, Les thought he saw a sign saying 789. Next they were zipping along a palmtree- lined boulevard, past a marina full of boats bobbing gently in the moonlight, then over a bridge a lot longer and lower than the other one, finally coming out onto a circular park full of trees and gardens with streets full of shops and restaurants. In the soft glow from the streetlights and the shop windows it all looked very swish in a Double Bay, Toorak kind of fashion, except there were no high-rises. As they went anti-clockwise round the park they passed a busy bar, or nightclub, nestled among the other shops. The front was a wide open pair of folding glass doors with another large glass door on the right. Across the awning, written in white on blue above some little white waves, was ‘Reggae Mambo's'. There were about a dozen or so people sitting at white plastic chairs and tables out the front and plenty of people inside. As they went past Les thought he heard a band playing. ‘Hey Hank! That joint looks alright,' he said eagerly. Hank didn't reply. He rounded the next corner and pulled up where the shops ended and the houses and flats began. On the opposite side of the road were more shops and further down, towards where the circle exited back towards the bridge, a genuine blue and white police car,
the red, white and blue lights slowly blinking across the roof, had pulled a car over. A genuine American woman cop in a black uniform was flashing a torch over the car while her genuine American cop partner stood very watchfully close by. Bloody hell! thought Les. Warren was right. It's just like in the movies.

He watched as Hank took a long envelope from the glove box. ‘You fancy having a drink at that bar round the corner?' he suggested.

‘Maybe,' grunted Hank, as they got out and locked the pick-up.

‘Suit yourself,' replied Les. ‘It's just that it's giving me the shits having all this money and not being able to spend it. I mean, how would you feel?' Norton smiled to himself as that last sentence hit Captain Rats like someone had just thrown a Bowie knife in his back.

They walked over to some sort of gift and bric-a-brac shop. There was a mailing slot in the door just above the ground; Hank painfully bent down and slid the envelope into it. Hello, thought Les. Don't tell me someone actually owes prick features some money. Lord have mercy. Or could it be the other way round? Whatever it is, I don't think I'll bother to ask. Hank took a last expressionless look at the gift shop then started walking towards the corner. Hello, thought Les again. Looks like we're going for a few cool ones after all. Golllly!

Reggae Mambo's looked pretty good up close. It was all different shades of blue on white with a little mauve thrown in, with plenty of shrubs and ferns and colourful flowerbeds dotted with tropical plants all along the footpath. The crowd was orderly and dressed very casual but neat and was maybe a little younger than Gator Man's. Whatever it was, it had a noticeable, laid-back, holiday atmosphere about it. Christ! mused Les. Hank might be a shocking bloody dill, but through him I haven't been to a dud joint yet. A balding, barrel-chested bloke in shorts with a thick New York accent was checking IDs next to a small counter selling T-shirts on the way in. He gave them both a smiling once up and down; Les winked and smiled
back. Inside were more chairs and tables and booths set under soft neon lighting and indoor plants. There was one long bar on your left, a kitchen behind that and a band playing country and western down the back in front of a fairly crowded dancefloor. Right of the bandstand a corridor ran down to the toilets, to the left was a fire exit. There were plenty of girls, a happy atmosphere and there was nothing wrong with the music being belted out either. Shit! thought Les. I'd better not start having too good a time or shithead'll probably want to leave. Ahh, fuck it. What am I gonna do, stand around looking as miserable as him?

‘Put your money away, Hank,' commanded Les. Not that Captain Rats had the slightest intentions of producing any. ‘I'll get them. What d'you want?'

‘Tequila. Straight up. And a draught too.'

‘Certainly, Mr Bond. Twist of lemon. Shaken not stirred.'

Les squeezed in between some people standing or seated round the bar and ordered his customary whiskey sour with a margarita chaser; Hank's beer arrived in a plastic mug this time and he didn't have to be told to come over and get it. They found a space a little towards the front door where Les knocked over his whiskey in about three good gulps. It was then that he realised why he was getting so roaring drunk: drinks in America were at least twice as strong as drinks back home. Well, God bless the United States of America, thought Norton, as he got rid of his empty glass and attacked delicious number two. Conversation with Captain Rats was limited to periods of brooding silence interspersed with cigarettes, so Les checked out the punters around him. There were several nice-looking girls, especially two black ones in minidresses; the blokes all looked very Joe College. Three tall blokes talking to four good-looking young girls at a booth near the wall caught his eye and Les thought he could detect an upper-class British accent drifting across the room. Delicious number two didn't last very long, Les grunted something to Hank about going down to check
out the band, got a cloud of silent cigarette smoke in reply, so he got himself another two margaritas and drifted down the front.

They were three piece with a drum machine, long hair, T-shirts and jeans, called themselves No Cents At All and played good, toe-tapping rock 'n' roll with a strong country flavour. Les boogied around on his own while he attacked his two drinks, checking out the band and the punters on the dancefloor; the girls seemed to get around okay but most of the blokes danced like they had a boiled egg jammed in their date. The band belted out the last words of a song. Les caught something about, ‘We're two of a kind, workin' on a full house.' Then they paused between numbers. The lead singer dropped his guitar to one side and spoke into the mike with a twangy, mid- western drawl.

‘Okay. Attitude check time.'

And the crowd all screamed out, ‘Fuck you!'

‘Attitude check.'

‘Fuck you!'

‘Attitude check.'

‘FUCK YOU!!!'

‘Yeah. And fuck Club BandBox too,' said the lead singer.

Well, I wonder what that was all about? Les laughed to himself. Must be some private joke among the natives. He watched them slip easily into another song, hung for a while, then drifted back through the crowd to Hank. He was his usual happy, vibrant self and fitted in with the neat young punters around him like a drug squad copper at a Nimbin music festival. Les had to talk about something: but what?

‘Good band,' he finally said. Hank gave his usual noncommittal shrug. ‘I thought you'd like them,' said Les.

‘I didn't say I did,' answered Hank.

‘Didn't you? That's funny. I thought I saw the dummy's lips move.'

Les would have liked to have continued the conversation, but a curtain of nicotine silence seemed to slam
down between them. He got another two margaritas instead.

Norton had just finished his first drink when he heard a girl's voice next to him. ‘So what do you know about emus?'

She was about five foot three, dumpy, had a pert face under short brown hair, was wearing a white T-shirt and baggy blue shorts. Her face was shiny with perspiration and she spoke with a soft Texan drawl. Les had to think for a moment then he realised she was looking at his T-shirt.

‘What do I know about emus?' For some reason Norton's boozy mind flashed back to Randwick Races and all the punters scrambling round as Price rolled his money up and tossed it into the crowd. ‘If I hadn't of been where they hang out in the first place, I wouldn't be stuck here with the world's greatest pelican.'

The girl looked puzzled. She didn't understand a word Les said, accent or not. ‘Say what?'

‘Sorry, sweetheart. I was thinking about something else. Actually, it's a brand of beer back in Australia.' Les gave her a quick once up and down while he tried to get his bearings. ‘So what makes you ask anyway, you cheeky little devil?'

‘My uncle runs an emu ranch back in Amarillo, Texas.'

‘Yeah, that'd be right,' nodded Les. ‘I saw something on the news about it before I left. They're having a lot of trouble with rustlers, of all bloody things. And all the farmers are running round with guns, just like the old wild west. Touch mah emus, pardner, and ah'll fill you full o' lead.'

‘Hey, you better believe it, buddy. My uncle got hit twice. Them funny-lookin' critters are worth big money. They're like gold.'

Les shook his head. ‘Bloody hell! And to think I got the dopey-looking things running wild all round my place.'

‘You have? What, big ones?'

‘Big emus at my place? Are you kidding? One walked into a garage up the road the other night and they shoved a hundred gallons of petrol in its arse before they realised
what it was.' The girl just blinked. ‘Well, fifty gallons anyway. It was only a young one.'

That was about all the suave, sophisticated Norton charm that was needed. By slowing down a bit when he spoke, which wasn't hard considering how drunk Les was, he was able to get a mag on. Her name was Terri, she'd been in Siestasota two years and worked in a restaurant around the corner as an assistant chef, which Les surmised meant kitchen hand. From the way she was sucking into the mug of beer she was holding and from her attitude in general, Les tipped her to be one of those pissy tarts that buzz around bars half picking up blokes, half full of shit. He told her he was a racehorse trainer back in Australia, he was in Florida for three weeks on a working holiday. He was here for a good time not a long time. Terri was with the four good-looking young girls who were talking to the three English blokes whose voices Norton had picked up on earlier. On closer inspection Les noticed the girls were better looking than he thought. They were also wearing little tops with a picture of a parrot wearing sunglasses and ‘Havana Joe's' in red across the front. It was another restaurant round the corner and they all came down for a drink every night after work. Les was more than a bit keen at first; however, there were two ways of looking at this. He could go over and monster his way among the poms, but he was that drunk he'd probably only make a dill of himself; besides, they looked like they were splashing up and having a good enough time without him anyway. Also, it was odds on that if Hank saw him having a good time he'd come over and stuff things up completely. You could also bet Boofhead would want to go home soon the way he was still limping and moping around; when he bent down to put that letter in the door Les didn't think he was going to get back up again. And even if he did finish up with them, what was he going to do? He was more than a bit tired himself when it was all boiled down. He'd see them down here again and next time he'd probably have his own flat and car. Norton was right on both counts; Terri was just a
common camp follower. By the time he'd told her he'd catch up with her again, some other bloke had caught her eye and she left to join him. Then as Terri left, Hank loomed up on his left.

‘I want to get going. I have to get some gas.'

‘Gas?' retorted Les. ‘What are we going home in? A hot-air balloon?'

‘I have to get to the gas station before it closes.'

‘Oh, my God!' drawled Les. ‘You mean to say they don't have an all-night gas station in Sepposota? Oh my God! That's awful. Just awful.'