And De Fun Don't Done (18 page)

‘Not where I can use my card,' sneered Hank, like he'd just scored a perfect squelch on Les.

‘What about the fifty bucks I gave you? Don't tell me you've blown that already?'

Hank finished the last inch of his beer. ‘Finish your drink. I'll see you out at the car.'

Welll, so much for Saturday night in Sepposota, burped Norton, as he watched Captain Rats storm off out the door. Ahh well, who gives a stuff? It can only get better. Les finished his drink and left. He was tired, drunk and busting for a leak anyway.

The conversation on the way home didn't reach any great heights. Les didn't expect it would, so he just rocked back and forth in a drunken mellow haze as they headed back out over the bridge, before pulling into some garage, or gas station.

Hello, thought Les, as he watched Hank slip a credit card into the bowser and start filling up, I've got a laugh on the seppos. Petrol's ninety-eight cents a litre, US. Then through his bleary, boozy eyes he saw it was ninety- eight cents a gallon. Which was closer to twenty cents a litre. And I've given that prick, how much? A hundred and fifty dollars? He could've filled the tank ten times over for that. The bastard, Norton grumbled to himself. And there's no chance of me getting that fifty back tonight either, it's right down the front of his jeans. Les was distraught.

Although his heart was nowhere near in it, when they
got back to Swamp Manor Les thanked Hank profusely for another wonderful night out; they'd have to do it again some time. Hank muttered something about how he'd see him in the morning and limped off to his place. Oh well, thought Les, as he piddled and splashed away beneath the stars and the Spanish Moss. A hundred and fifty bucks and a few drinks for three nights' board and accommodation ain't too bad I don't suppose. Hang on. It wasn't that much, was it? Les was still debating on this after he'd cleaned his teeth and was lying on his bed. Ahh, who gives a stuff? It's only money. It's not an arm and a leg.

Although it was hot and uncomfortable, before he knew it that old black cloud rolled in and Norton was snoring gently.

The face looking at Les in the mirror the following morning wasn't quite the face of a well man, and the stomach beneath it didn't feel like a greasy feed of bacon and eggs either. Nevertheless, he managed to get cleaned up and, after dropping another two Tylenols, climb into a pair of shorts and the same T-shirt as the night before, then wander into the kitchen for a feed of orange juice, coffee and cereal — especially some coffee. Norton was leaning against the bar in the kitchen, trying not to make too much noise or mess, when Mrs Laurel walked in wearing her dressing gown.

‘Oh, hello, Les,' she said pleasantly. ‘How are you this morning?'

Les nodded his head slowly. ‘Not too bad thanks, Mrs Laurel. How's yourself?'

‘I'm fine thank you. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?'

Norton shook his head even more slowly. ‘No thanks, Mrs Laurel. I'm not very hungry.'

‘Oh? Are you sure?'

‘Positive, thanks. To tell you the truth, I had a bit to drink last night.'

‘Oh!' Mrs Laurel smiled. ‘Did you go out with Hank?'
Les nodded again and Mrs Laurel's expression seemed to change. ‘Did you… have a good time?'

Les half smiled. ‘I don't know about anybody else, but I did.'

Mrs Laurel tossed her head back slightly. ‘Well good for you, Les. You're quite an amazing man.'

‘And you're quite a lovely woman, Mrs Laurel,' replied Norton, returning her smile.

Mrs Laurel poured herself a cup of coffee and together they had a bit of a mag. Les told her he was going over to check out Laverne's condo and he might be moving out. Mrs Laurel looked genuinely disappointed. She was going to stay with her daughter for a few days later next week, Les had to promise he'd call in and see her before he left for home or wherever. Les said he would. They were chatting away and Norton's headache had all but gone when who should come stomping into the kitchen wearing his usual daggy jeans and T-shirt but the loving son, looking his usual cheery self. His eyes spun suspiciously round the kitchen, as if Les and his mother shouldn't even be there together let alone be having a pleasant conversation, before they briefly settled on Les.

‘Well? What are you doing?'

‘Nothin' much,' shrugged Les. ‘Just having a bit of breakfast. What's it look like I'm doin'? Trying to bun your old lady?'

Hank blinked for moment. ‘I'm going to the office.'

‘Okay. You mind if I don't come with you? I don't particularly feel like hanging around in the heat. Interesting and all as it is up there.' Hank blinked again. ‘What time'll you be back?'

Captain Rats shrugged. ‘Around twelve.'

‘Okay. Then we'll go and have a look at that condo. If you don't want to, just give me the keys and the address and I'll catch a cab over.'

Hank seemed to think for a second. ‘I'll be back at twelve.'

‘Alright. I'll see you then.' Hank turned and stormed out; a few seconds later Les heard his car revving. ‘Do you know that bloke, do you, Mrs Laurel?'

‘I'm not all that sure, Les,' replied Mrs Laurel. ‘I think he lives down the back somewhere.'

They chatted away for a little while longer before Mrs Laurel retired to her air-conditioned bedroom-cum- study. This left Norton pretty much to his own devices, which weren't a great deal in the heat. He got his Walkman out and was going to lie on the bed and listen to a few tapes, but changed his mind. There was a slight breeze, some shade and an old wire chair just outside his back door. Les dropped his Walkman back on the bed, plonked his backside out in the garden and decided to read some more P. J. O'Rourke or maybe bone up on a bit more US culture.

Norton was chuckling away at P.J.'s satirical style when a quick movement in the trees caught his eyes. It was a pair of squirrels. They were grey and black with bits of white; very tiny with big, shiny ink black eyes. They made hardly any noise as they darted between the leaves and branches, just a brisk scurry among the shadows every now and again. Les had never seen squirrels before and was thinking how cute and inoffensive they looked when a couple of thoughts struck him. One was some dopey redneck yank he'd seen on TV before he left home bragging about his squirrel gun. Squirrel gun? Les screwed his face up. Why the fuck would you need a gun to kill those poor little things? What bloody harm are they doing? Then he thought of a gun book he'd glanced through at Hank's. It showed another boofheaded seppo wearing a ten-gallon hat, holding a Magnum in one hand and some poor little animal about as big as a canary in the other, and looking into the camera like he'd just taken Pork Chop Hill single handed. The flip. Then Les flashed onto some signs he'd noticed as they were driving around the beach area of Siestasota. BIRD SANCTUARY. NO SHOOTING. ANIMAL REFUGE. NO GUNS ALLOWED. Right in the middle of town almost. That would be like seeing a similar sign at Neilsen Park or on top of South Head. Norton and his family had blasted their share of pigs and rabbits and feral pests. But these
ratbags seemed to want to shoot anything that moved. Then he thought of those three kids out at the target range. The right to bear arms, eh? Even if you're ten years old. Les shook his head as Chip and Dale disappeared onto the roof, their long fluffy tails waving in the air. Oh well, whatever turns you on, I suppose. And it's their country not mine. At least when they're shooting the animals they're bumping a few thousand of each other off as well. Like that dope in New York state that shot his mother in his backyard. He thought she was a deer. God bless America.

The human smile button returned; Les heard him pull up, put his book down and walked out the front he was that keen to get going. But he still had to try and act a little casual. Laurel had just got out of the car when Norton buttonholed him.

‘So what's doing, Hank?'

‘I got a couple of things to do yet.'

‘Fair enough. I'll wait here for you.'

A couple of things took over half an hour. Les was expecting this so he got his sunglasses and the rest of one carton of orange juice and drank it next to the car while he waited. Hank finally appeared and they took off for the ‘condo' or whatever it was. All the way over Norton couldn't help but wonder why the hell he just didn't pack his gear and take it with him in the first place and save a trip.

The place was called Greenwood Estate, 4701-4771 Manatee. Which was all Les saw on the fifteen-minute drive over; a couple of small shopping centres and mile after mile of walled-off housing estates full of home units and townhouses set along these massive wide roads. Old glory was flapping out the double front entrance next to a wooden sign painted green and white. Hank turned left onto a speed hump, then it was more speed humps and parking spaces like they'd driven onto Rose Bay Golf Links, only they'd walled it off, tarred most of it over and filled it full of townhouses. It was all yellow and black stucco concrete and well-kept gardens. As they drove past, Les noticed a couple of caretakers in blue shirts and
jeans moving around next to a row of dumpbins near a toolshed. After about half a kilometre of parking spaces big enough to land the space shuttle, half full of cars almost as big, Hank pulled up in one that said 405, near a sign saying ‘4771 Block'. Flat 405 was down a small hallway, past another unit and beneath a set of wooden stairs. Hank unlocked the door and Les went weak at the knees.

It was fully carpeted and furnished with pastel- coloured furniture and matching wallpaper with paintings and mirrors round the walls. There were tablelamps everywhere and a glass table and chairs sat under a minichandelier next to a bar separating it from a modern kitchen. It was bright and sunny with a TV and a small stereo and someone had left the air-conditioning on. A short hallway led to a huge bedroom with a queensize bed, chairs, tables and an en-suite. A spacious bathroom was just across the hall. But best of all, when Les wandered back into the loungeroom there was a curtained off, enclosed verandah and about thirty metres behind that across a patch of well-manicured lawn was a swimming pool; twenty-five metres long, sparkling crystal clear in the sun and not a soul in it. There was a brown wooden cabana, a whole lot of bulky banana chairs, seats and a few tables, and that was about it. Les turned to Hank, trying to get some words out, when Captain Rats started putting on a drama.

‘Have a look,' he ranted, and banged on a wall. ‘These places are built like shit.'

‘Yeah, I have to agree with you,' replied Norton, still a little stunned. ‘So in that case why don't we drive like shit back to your place and get my gear. I'm moving in.'

Hank seemed to ignore Les. ‘What's this goddamn air- conditioner doing on?'

‘What do you think it's bloody doing? Laverne's probably…'

Before Les got a chance to finish, Hank had found a screwdriver and started pulling a duct covering off the wall near the floor while he babbled on about what a
dump the place was and how it was almost ready to fall down. Les decided to let him play his little game while he checked the rest of the place out. There was tinned food and bread in the cupboards, milk and butter in the fridge alongside several large bottles of soft drink and a dozen bottles of Coors Cutter. The deep freeze was full of ice and on a shelf above was a bottle of vodka and two bottles of bourbon. There was everything you needed to clean up with, sheets and pillows on the bed, soap and towels in the bathroom. I know what this is, thought Les, as he looked around the fully appointed condominium. It's my reward for saving the president. Hank's ex must be in the CIA. They knew all along. God bless you, Laverne, wherever you are. The phone worked also, because Boofhead rang up some air-conditioning mob and put on another drama. Les had a look in the duct at what he was raving about. Around the air-conditioning unit was a narrow metal tray with about an eighth of an inch of water in it.

‘Look at the thing,' he said, getting back down on his knees. ‘It's full of goddamn water.'

‘Hank, you know what that is?' said Les. ‘It's a fuckin' drip-tray. That's what it's there for. Jesus, you ought to know what a drip-tray is. They named them after you.'

Hank muttered and cursed while he screwed the cover back on. Norton waited as patiently as he could, watching as Hank played his little mind game. ‘You finished fucking around, have you?' Hank fiddled in the last screw. ‘Good. Now let's go back to your place and I'll get my gear.' Hank mumbled something else as he put the screwdriver back in the kitchen. Next thing they were driving back to Swamp Manor.

Les still could scarcely believe his luck; all he had to do now was get rid of Captain Rats and he was sweet. But not too drastically. How about just dragging him out of the car, jamming his head under the back wheel and driving over it? Naturally, back at Swamp Manor, Hank had important things to do. Les threw his stuff in his bags and put his bike in the back of the pick-up. He knew he
had plenty of time but he couldn't help but put the bustle on as he hastily tidied up his room and gathered up all his travel documents and money. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Swamp Manor in as short as possible a time. Mrs Laurel's car was gone, so he didn't get a chance to thank her and say goodbye; but he'd be back. He got his other carton of orange juice from the fridge and the rest of his food, threw it in a paper shopping bag and waited out at the car. Hank eventually appeared. Driving back to the condo Les didn't quite know what to say. Go and get yourself well and truly fucked, Hank, you wombat, would be the most appropriate thing. But when it was all boiled down, if it hadn't been for Hank, he wouldn't have got the condo in the first place.

‘Well that was a stroke of luck,' he said. ‘Getting that place.'

‘You call that lucky?' retorted Hank. ‘The place is a dump.'