And De Fun Don't Done (41 page)

‘Unless you want to take a taxi, the airport shuttle service. That drops you right at the airport. Where are you staying?' Les told her. ‘There's one calls in that way at 8.30 tomorrow morning.'

‘Can you arrange for me to be on that?'

‘No problem at all,' smiled Loni. ‘It's a good idea to leave a little early too. Now. How do you wish to pay for all this?'

‘VISA,' replied Les, placing his passport and the rest of his ID and travel documents on the desk. ‘My American entry stamp gets me into Jamaica, doesn't it?'

‘No problem at all.' Loni checked Norton's passport and his Qantas ticket. ‘Yep, no problem at all.'

Les sat back in the chair and his smile widened. ‘Terrific.'

Between the phone ringing, Loni having to help the
other girls now and again and other customers arriving demanding this that and the other, it took a good hour to get everything together. While he waited, Les drank two cans of soft drink from the nearby supermarket and thought out his plan of attack, or retreat, before he got out of Florida. There were two ways he could go about it. By the time Loni had his accommodation and his flight to Jamaica stapled together and his Qantas ticket rearranged Les was certain he'd chosen the right one. He picked up his travel documents and thanked Loni. She wished him a good holiday then after saying goodbye Les walked out to the car and headed back to the condo. All he had to do now was sort a couple of things out, keep his head down and with a bit of luck he'd be on his way to Jamaica at 8.30 in the morning. Goodbye Sepposota, Hello Montego Bay. No matter what, the first thing Les did when he got back to the condo was have another bottle of Coors and a long, probably last, swim in the pool.

After he'd towelled off and had a shower, Les left his Speedos on and started cleaning up the condo. He didn't really have to; the chances of the present owner complaining about the mess were minimal to say the least. But if the place was left reasonably neat and tidy and the police did dome after he'd left, it wouldn't look so much as if he'd galloped out of the place like some fugitive on the run. After working at the Kelly Club and being involved with Price for some time Norton had a reasonable idea of how the police mind worked, and they wouldn't be all that much different over in this neck of the woods. Besides, the place stunk anyway and he didn't fancy sitting around in the mess and smell all night. He could have packed his gear and moved into a motel for the night. But why bother? Besides, the woman at the travel agency had arranged for the shuttle to pick him up at that address in the morning, he'd have to change all that and he'd probably stuff things up over the phone anyway. One thing did occur to Les, as he shoved more rubbish into a plastic garbage bag. He hadn't taken into
account what would happen when Lori came to. Although she wouldn't be able to talk, she could still write out some sort of a statement or whatever. If Les had thought of that at the time he'd have broken all her fingers as well. The way things were, though, he figured he had about twenty-four hours up his sleeve from the time of the explosion.

As for the car? Well, he could leave it out the front. But there was a chance some concerned citizen might have got the number. Even in a nuthouse like America that scene at Ricco's Rendezvous would have to make it on the news, and there'd have to be a few concerned citizens living on the estate. It was only a chance. But at this stage why leave anything to chance? No. The best place for the car would be to rip up all the documents then take it back to Vinnie's and leave the keys in the glove box. A thin smile formed around Norton's mouth and a shitty, evil gleam emanated from his eyes. And leave a present on the back seat for someone too.

It took Les a bit longer than he thought to clean the flat up. He found where the dump-masters were out the back and a vacuum cleaner in a closet; however, he didn't bother to vacuum, just gave the place a good sweep. Even with the air-conditioners on it was hotter than he thought, so he ended up going for another swim. Then he started on his room.

He began by sorting out his gear and travel documents. While he did, he listened to his cassettes and not the radio, figuring the explosion would probably be on a news bulletin and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Les also could have rung home for free, but he figured they might trace the calls back to Australia or something so why take another risk, small as it might be, for the sake of saving a few lousy dollars. There was junk and clothes, some dirty, scattered from one end of the room to the other and it was getting dark when he finally had everything packed except for a pair of jeans, joggers and a T-shirt to wear on the plane. Merv Hughes was gone, but he still had Dean Jones and David Hookes. I'll
arrive in the Dean Jones, thought Les. Nothing like making a good impression with the cricket-loving natives. Apart from that there was nothing left except his shower kit and one awfully stained sheet lying on the bedroom floor. Les took it out to the kitchen, slopped a little cajun dressing on it just to give it some more colour then folded it up and put it in another plastic bag with the top tied. In one of the drawers he found a black texta- colour and wrote on the light grey garbage bag: To Special Agent Lori Benshoff, C/- US Department of Justice. In another drawer Les found an envelope. He put the same address on the front, put a short note inside and taped it to the garbage bag. It read: Dear Lori, I'll never forget the night you held this against me in evidence. Promise me you won't stain my reputation as well. Love Vinnie. Satisfied, he took the bag out and placed it on the back seat of the T-Bird, then went inside and arranged over the phone for a taxi to pick him up at the caryard. Les got into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and checked Vinnie's address against his map of Siestasota. It was only a few blocks north of the estate and should be easy enough to find. He locked the condo and drove off.

The drive to Vinnie's was easier than Les thought. So easy in fact that he drove round the block a couple of times and sussed the place out. There was no one about, the coast looked clear enough so he pulled up in the driveway. There was a chain across the gate so he couldn't drive into the yard, though he was well off the main road. He locked the car, gave the parcel on the back seat a last smile and then stood out the front and waited for the taxi. The taxi was five minutes early and Les jumped straight in the back.

‘4701 Manatee, mate. Greenwood Gardens Estate.'

‘You got it, buddy,' said the driver.

They drove along in silence. Then the driver caught Norton's eye in the rear vision mirror.

‘Say, where are you from, buddy?' he asked.

‘Scotland,' replied Les vacuously.

‘Oh.'

That was the entire conversation until they arrived at the estate. Les told the driver to drop him off out the front and paid him without leaving a tip.

Les didn't particularly feel like a walk in the hot, humid night air. But it did give him half a chance to stretch his legs and he also figured the fewer people knew where he lived the better. Les found the estate to be bigger than he imagined as he strolled beside the speed bumps in the semi darkness. There was a fair-sized tennis court at this end and another well-kept garden area. It was fairly dark, especially out on the driveway. There didn't seem to be anybody around and most of the condos at this end seemed either in darkness or unoccupied. But there was enough light coming from around to see where you were going. Les sensed he was approaching the caretaker's shed. He was, and as he got closer he heard voices; they were trying to keep subdued but dripped of anger and malice. For some reason Les slowed down a little and a tiny squirt of adrenalin hit him in the stomach along with a slight bristling up and down his spine. In the gloom from the one light outside the caretaker's shed he could see Jerome pushed up against a wall, surrounded by four men in their early twenties wearing baseball caps and boots, T-shirts and jeans. They weren't just a bunch of skinny kids, two looked white, one appeared to be his- panic, the other asian, and they looked as if they meant business. One white had a switch-blade knife and so did the asian. The white had the blade of his knife pressed under Jerome's chin. Les could distinctly see it glinting an evil silver in the darkness, the same as he could distinctly see Jerome's eyes bulging a sickly, terrified white.

‘I say we cut the fuckin' nigger's throat,' said the white holding the switch-blade.

‘Yeah,' hissed the hispanic. ‘Cut the stinking fuckin' nigger. He don't want to talk. He don't want to live.'

‘I can't help you, man,' pleaded Jerome. ‘I's tellin' you the truth.'

‘Bullshit! You lying, black nigger sonofabitch!!' The white with the switch-blade pressed it harder against
Jerome's chin. ‘Half these condos are empty, and you got the fuckin' master key. You lying stinken nigger fuck!' Switch-blade's voice rose and he almost screamed out the last sentence. Watching silently Les figured either he was high on something or he needed it bad.

‘The nigger's holding back,' cursed the asian. He brandished the knife he was holding and it too gleamed sinisterly in the dull light. ‘Let me have him. I'll make the sonofabitch give us the keys.'

‘I ain't lyin', man,' Jerome pleaded again. ‘I's tellin' you the truth. I's just a janitor. I just sweeps and pushes a broom. I don't got nobody's keys. Oh God! Don't kill me.'

‘You're bullshitting, you black sonofabitch,' snarled the other white.

‘I'm not, man.' Jerome was almost begging on his knees. ‘Please don't hurt me, man. I ain't done nothin'. And I don't know nothin'. Any other night and I wouldn't even be here, man. I swear.'

‘Cut his lying nigger tongue out,' said the hispanic.

‘Yeah, stick the mother,' urged the asian.

Norton watched from the shadows a moment or two longer then started to slowly shake his head. This was absolutely none of his business and, besides, he was in enough trouble as it was. But what could he do? Jerome didn't seem like a bad bloke and he did do Les a nice favour. Apart from that, though, he couldn't just stand there and let some poor, inoffensive cleaner get stood over and probably sliced up by a team of lowlife, junkie dropkicks. Maybe if he just made his presence felt they might piss off. Yeah,
might
. Les shook his head again, sucked in a lungful of air and moved out from the shadows into the half light.

‘Hey, Jerome. How're you goin' there, mate?' Les sounded as if he was surprised to see him. ‘Everything alright?'

The four hoods spun round and stared at Les. Their faces registered absolutely no fear, a little surprise maybe, but mostly annoyance.

‘What the fuck do you want — asshole?' demanded the white holding the switch-blade.

‘Nothing,' shrugged Norton. ‘I was just on my way home and I saw my old mate Jerome here having some sort of multicultural get together. So I thought I'd put my Rocky Ned in and say hello. Any harm in that?'

The asian's face screwed up. ‘What is he? Some kind of limey?'

‘Who gives a fuck what he is,' said the hispanic. ‘Stick the fucker.'

‘Yeah, stick the mother,' said the other white.

The white holding the switch-blade advanced towards Les with the knife in his left hand. He was almost as tall as Les with a vicious, pock-marked face and crazy sunken eyes. Les moved his head slightly to one side as the hood brought the knife up and started making short, menacing movements with it an inch or two in front of the big Queenslander's face.

‘You like to bleed do you, limey?' leered the hood. ‘You ever been stuck, huh? You dumb ass sonofabitch.'

Norton shrugged again. ‘I've been stuck in traffic. Been stuck for a crap. Even got stuck in a lift once. Can't say I've ever been stuck by one of those things though.'

‘Well, ain't that cool,' sniggered the hood, turning to his mates for a second. ‘I guess there's a first time for everything. And this is just your lucky day.'

‘Go on,' said Norton, returning the hood's shitty smile. ‘That must be why they call me Lucky Les.'

Norton had a quick look around him and at the other three hoods. He had the white with the switch-blade almost in front of him. Behind him Jerome was still standing against the wall shitting himself; although a little colour had drained back in his face since Les arrived. On Jerome's right was the asian holding the second knife. In front of the asian was the hispanic and in front of the hispanic to Norton's left was the other white, who looked enough like the other one to be his brother. If Les was going to do something he'd have to move pretty smartly, and the first one to go would have to be the white
hood holding the switch-blade in front of him. It was moments like these Les was glad he and Billy Dunne had got to know Manny Kramer — Kelvin's equally shifty brother and ex-lieutenant in the Israeli paratroopers. They'd gone on a number of training runs together and on several occasions, Manny being an expert knife fighter, he'd taken them back to the surf club and shown the boys a few dirty tricks that would come in handy up the Cross or wherever if some nutter comes at you with a knife. This was definitely one of those moments.

Les shuffled back a pace or so to let the hood in front of him think he was scared; the hood sneered and brought the knife up to make a thrust at Norton's face. This was all the momentum Les needed to pull off a double- handed-wristlock-leg-drop-elbow-break. At least that was what Manny called it. Les slapped his left hand down on top of the hood's left wrist, slapped his right hand underneath, gripped hard then twisted the hood's wrist up and his arm round in almost the same motion. The hood barely had time to grunt with pain and surprise as Les forced his arm down then stepped his right leg over it jamming the hood's elbow the wrong way round under his crutch. The rest was easy. Les just squatted down, pulling the hood's knife arm up a bit tighter at the same time. The hood screamed and there was an audible crack in the darkness as his elbow joint snapped like a stick of celery. Les gave another quick, but solid, twist and broke the hood's wrist this time. The hood gave another scream of pain, the knife clattered to the ground and Les stood up to face the other hood on his left, leaving hood number one curled up on the ground sobbing with pain as he grabbed at his shattered arm.