And De Fun Don't Done (4 page)

‘Wow!' said the girl.

Before Les had a chance to tell too many more lies they landed in Tampa, the last part of his trip; and right on time. He filed off the plane into another shuttle to finish up standing next to another baggage claim, watching the empty conveyor belt go round and hoping to Christ his one lousy piece of luggage had come through. Knowing my luck, thought Les pessimistically, it's probably gone off to somewhere like Hog Slop, South Dakota, or something. Norton nearly fainted when his bag was one of the first ones off. Well, I'll be stuffed, he smiled to himself. Somebody up there does like me. And when did I ever doubt it? Now let's just hope fuckin' Hank's here, he thought, as he picked up his bag. Les started peering around the baggage claim area and at the people around him when who should come walking towards him wearing dirty jeans, just as dirty white sneakers and a tatty blue floral shirt but Hank, a twisted kind of smile on his face.

‘G'day, Hank,' grinned Les, dropping his overnight bag and offering his hand. ‘How are you goin', mate?'

‘Hey, Les. How are you doin' there?' answered Hank.

‘Pretty good. Jesus, I'm glad you got here.'

‘No real problem.'

They shook hands and Les quickly checked out Hank. It definitely wasn't the same Laurel Lee who had stayed at Norton's house. Although it had only been about eighteen months ago, Hank had changed noticeably, and it wasn't just the wispy moustache he'd now grown. In Australia Hank had been heavier, his face fuller. Now he was lean, his face gaunt and grainy and his thinning hair was now on the verge of evaporating completely. For the middle of summer Hank had no colour about him at all and for a thirty-year-old he looked closer to sixty. Norton had been on a plane about twenty-four hours, he'd had bugger all sleep and needed a shave, yet standing next to Hank he could have passed for his son.

But it was Hank's eyes. They were literally spinning around in his head. They'd catch Norton's for a brief moment then dart from side to side, but were always looking down at the ground. Les couldn't help but be reminded of a caged rat. Christ! he thought. I think I've got a live one here. He looks fucked. And I think it's all in the head too.

‘My car's out here.' Hank gave a curt nod of his head and started walking through the other people. He didn't offer to help Les with his bags.

‘Yeah, righto,' answered Les, and tailed him out through the automatic door.

It wasn't all that cool inside the terminal, but outside was like a sauna; there was not a breath of wind and the heat literally hung on you like a blanket. Shit, thought Les, it must be thirty bloody degrees and ninety per cent humidity. Hank's car was a black Dodge utility, or pickup as they're called in America. It looked to be in reasonable condition, a bit of chrome round the wheels and twin copper exhausts at the back. Les threw his bags in the back.

‘Shit, it's hot,' he said.

‘You think this is hot,' Hank half sneered ‘this is nothing.'

‘Oh?'

Norton walked round the front and went to get in the driver's side, forgetting that Americans drove on the opposite of the road and their steering wheels were on the opposite side also. It was a harmless mistake and Les gave a bit of a self-conscious smile. Hank looked at him as if he was some kind of moron. Les walked around, got in the passenger side and looked for his seat-belt.

‘Where's the seat-belt?' he asked, noticing Hank wasn't wearing one either.

‘They don't work. I don't use them anyway.'

‘Oh.' They started to drive off and Les wound the window down to let a bit of breeze in.

‘Leave the window up,' said Hank. ‘I'm gonna put the air-conditioner on.'

If there was one thing Norton wasn't rapt in it was air- conditioners. They were a good idea alright, but they were generally noisy and there was nothing like them for giving you colds. ‘Yeah, alright,' he replied reluctantly and wound the window back up.

The air-conditioner rattled into life and at the same time Hank lit the first of a string of non-stop cigarettes. However, this time it was different. Les was in Hank's car and Hank's company. And this time, if Les didn't like it, he was the one who could piss off. Which was fair enough. Nonetheless Norton wound the window down about a third. If Laurel Lee didn't like it Les was going to tell him to go fuck his boot anyway. So far Hank hadn't asked Norton how the trip was, how he felt, was he looking forward to his holiday in the States? Kiss my arse — nothing. Norton was going to say something, but he was trying to concentrate on his surroundings. Not that there was much he could make out in the darkness. He just seemed to be speeding along the wrong side of the road along some super freeway built up over water. That was all Norton could make out: some enormous inky bay, reflecting a full moon and some stars. Finally Hank decided to open his mouth.

‘How's Warren?' he asked.

‘Good,' replied Les.

The sonofabitch never answers my letters.'

Norton felt like saying, Well, if he answered every one of your letters, Boofhead, he'd have word processor meltdown. ‘He's been busy. He's got a fair bit on at work.'

‘You never write.'

‘Yeah, well, you know me,' said Les. ‘I'm flat out writin' a grocery list.'

Hank sucked on his cigarette and seemed to think for a moment. ‘How's Tony Nathan? He never writes either.'

‘Tony's going good. He's powering at the photography, making plenty of money. He's probably been busy too.' Christ! thought Les, I hope I don't have to keep kidding to this wally the whole time I'm here.

In spite of Hank's generosity in picking Les up at the airport and giving him a place to stay, and Norton promising himself he'd come to America with an open mind, Les found himself already building up a resentment to the American. It wasn't just cigarettes; although Les disliked them, he wasn't that big a nark. There was something else again that he couldn't quite put a finger on. Hank didn't answer and the expression on his face never changed. He just sucked on his cigarette and kept driving. Norton had a feeling he shouldn't say it, but he did. Shit, he had to say something. Inside the car had all the atmosphere of a derelict spaceship.

‘So, ah… how's things going with you, Hank?' he asked.

That was all Laurel needed. It was about an hour and a half's drive from the airport to Siestasota and Les got a non-stop whingeing, moaning, litany of woe for the entire journey, accompanied by a non-stop stream of cigarette smoke.

First up, his dumb-ass bitch of a girlfriend, who'd been working for him, had fucked up his business, leaving him broke and now bankrupt. On top of this she left him for some jerk, asshole faggot originally from New York, just because the jerk, asshole faggot had money. But he was a creep and she was the one suffering now and it served her
right, the dumb bitch. His father, the art dealer, had died; which Les would have known if he'd read his letters. Just before he kicked the bucket, though, a gang of thieves, probably the Mafia, broke into the gallery and stole all the paintings and anything else they could get their hands on, including the carpets and the light fittings. This left his old man destitute overnight because none of it could be insured, and more debt for Hank. The local cops were useless jerks, so was the FBI; they were all conspiring with the Mafia to split the loot. So Hank hired a private eye. But he turned out to be a jerk also. Now the cops wouldn't even answer his phone calls. The bank was threatening to foreclose on the house he shared with his mother, but it served her right anyway because she was nothing but a drunken old pain in the ass who got in the road anyway. The rest of his family were all dropkicks and had turned against him just because he'd got into a bit of debt. His sister was a snooty bitch who'd married a jerk and who thought of nothing but herself and her family. His brother was the same, so he didn't talk to him or his family. Because of them he had to front the taxation department next week, which was staffed with nothing but more jerks who'd moved down from New York; then he was contesting the will because anything his old man might have had he left to them and why should these assholes get anything, let alone everything. Siestasota wasn't the place it used to be because of all these assholes moving here from interstate and everywhere else and what America needed was a good revolution. Blow all the assholes away. The magazine knocked back the story he did while he was in Australia too; but what would those faggot, asshole publishers in New York know anyway? Then there was the creep who moved into the house next door; he was a jerk like the rest of his neighbours.

By now Norton was staring ahead into the steamy Florida night, hardly believing what he was hearing, and trying to switch off. But he couldn't. Hank might have been a goose at his place; now, he was the most miserable,
whingeing prick Les had ever come across. And he'd travelled halfway across the world to meet up with the moron. Not only that, it wasn't as if he could say, Well it's been nice talking to you, Hank, drop me off at the next corner and I'll catch a cab home. He was stuck with the pain in the arse. Norton shook his head in disbelief. And what was I saying earlier? Somebody up there still likes me? Hah! What a joke. No, I can't really blame him, I suppose. Fuckin' Warren. That's whose fault it is. The little cunt. Why didn't he tell me to read more of this prick's letters?

Hank flicked another cigarette out the window and eased up slightly on his tirade about the same time he turned right off the freeway. Norton thought he saw a sign saying Siestasota County. It seemed like another freeway, only there were now houses and other buildings on either side of the divided highway, or whatever it was. It reminded Les a little of Parramatta Road, but about four times as wide and completely flat. They pulled up at a set of lights and for some reason Les unconsciously went to put his foot on the brake and change gears. It seemed funny when there was nothing in front of him.

‘Well, Hank,' said Les, not meaning to sound laconic, ‘it looks like you've been having a bit of a bad trot, mate.'

Hank looked at Les for a second, then his eyes seemed to dart all over the place. ‘A bad trot? Goddamn!'

‘Well, you know what I mean.' Despite himself, Les suddenly found it hard to keep a straight face.

They ground on through the night; Hank lit another cigarette while Norton tried to figure out this absolute prick of a situation he'd unexpectedly found himself in. It was a bit of a worry. ‘Anyway, Hank,' he said, giving the American a friendly slap on the shoulder, ‘how about letting me buy you a beer? Is there a pub or something near your place?'

Hank looked at his watch. ‘It's almost one-thirty. Everything closes at two.'

‘Oh!' Norton's heart sank down around his ankles.

‘There's booze back at my place.'

‘Yeah. It's just that I'd love to shout you a drink for picking me up at the airport. That's a bloody long drive in this heat. It was more than good of you. And it is my first time ever in America. I'd like to celebrate a bit. Plus catching up with you again, too.' A drink back at your place'd be great, thought Norton. Especially the conversation. But if I don't have a drink right now and get out of this bloody car and have a mag to someone, even if it's only the local mule, I'll end up necking myself. ‘Come on, Hank. We've got nearly half an hour. My shout. Just for old time's sake.'

Hank took a huge drag on his cigarette then let it out slowly. ‘There's a bar on Main Street. It's on the way to my place, I suppose.'

‘Beauty!' Les gave the American another friendly pat on the shoulder, then eased back in his seat and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Hank followed the road they were on, then turned right into one not quite as wide, which was flanked by low-rise office buildings, restaurants and shops with cars angle- parked in front. Near what looked like a book shop he backed his pick-up in against the footpath or sidewalk or whatever they call it. By angling his head around, Les could see a bar with ‘Toby's' painted across a window next to a double glass door. Hank got out and slammed the door; Les just had time to stash his bags on the front floor, along with his jacket, and catch up with Hank as he went straight inside.

There was a long wooden bar as you walked in, a dining area down the back, a DJ stand and a small dancefloor to your left near a few chairs and tables and some cubicles. It had that ambient, old-style bar look about it Les had seen in about a hundred American movies and TV shows. Bad luck there wouldn't have been more than six people in there, counting the barmaid. So much for Thursday night in swinging, downtown Siestasota, thought Norton. Still, it was a nice enough looking place and twenty years on Devils Island would have been better than another ten minutes alone with Laurel Lee.

‘Righto, Hank,' said Les slapping his hands together. ‘What'll you have, mate?'

Hank shrugged and straddled his arse across a stool. ‘Beer.'

The barmaid was about thirty, fairly attractive with straight auburn hair. Although it was almost closing time she had a pleasant smile on her face; more than likely because she was bored having to talk to the skinny drunk at the end of the bar and it was something to break the monotony.

‘Righto,' Norton returned the barmaid's smile. ‘A beer for me mate there. And I'll have…' Norton's smile turned into a grin, ‘a margarita.'

The barmaid looked at Les for a moment then began to grin herself. ‘Coming right up.'

The drinks took barely a couple of minutes to arrive and Norton was impressed; even though he hardly had time to make a big fumble with his wallet so he could avoid talking to Hank before they came. The barmaid put Hank's beer in front of him; Les handed her a twenty. As she went to the till Les turned to Hank and held up his drink.