And De Fun Don't Done (45 page)

It was around six and, apart from the clouds blowing across the sky, still broad daylight when Les stepped out of his room, clean-shaven and smelling good in his blue shorts and red T-shirt with a white aboriginal crocodile motif on the front. He'd stuffed some money in his pocket, planted everything else and locked up as best he could and was thinking a nice cold beer or three wouldn't go astray as he strolled down the hall. He stopped in the TV lounge and was gazing out over the pool, banana lounges and bars below and thinking maybe he should have gone for a swim, when he sensed some sort of commotion at the bottom of the stairs down past the foyer. People were coming and going, a lot of them wore waiters' and chefs' outfits and seemed to be carrying either rolled up documents tied with red ribbon or medals. Curious, Les walked over then down the stairs, coming out into a smaller foyer or lobby in front of a hallway full of stalls covered in white tablecloths. Pinned to the foyer wall was a white banner that said ‘Welcome to Jamaica Cultural Development Commission Culinary Arts Exposition'. There was a security guard in a grey uniform and blue tie at the door, Les asked him what was going on and got told it was some kind of exhibition and
awards presentation for the best cook, cocktail waiter, staff, etc from hotels and resorts all over Jamaica. Les showed the guard his key, told him he was staying there and would it be alright if he had bit of a look around. The guard smiled and waved him through. When Les walked into the hallway he gave a double, quadruple blink and his jaw nearly hit the floor.

Most of the stalls had rum-punch, the rest food, and smiling company employees were handing out samples. Very healthy samples. With his mouth watering for a local version of a delicious, Les was about to attack when he thought he might have a look around first before he started making a pig of himself. He walked down past the stalls and the people to a double door at the end, opened it and stepped inside. It was a huge banquet or reception hall full of people crowded around more stalls and up on a stage at one end employees from different hotels were receiving awards from various dignitaries while their fellow employees and everybody else clapped and cheered their effort. Les watched for a little while then walked back outside and joined the people strolling around the stalls sipping glasses of whatever. He walked up to one stall that said ‘Sangsters Olde Jamaican Spirits' and asked a man in crisp white if it was okay if he had a sample. The barman handed him a large glass, pointed to a sizeable esky full of ice and told him to help himself. A minute later Les had close to a schooner glass full of Sangsters Passionfruit Rum, ice and Guava Fruit Punch in his hand. Les took a sip and could scarcely believe what his tastebuds were telling him; it tasted like nothing on earth. Sweet, fresh, absolutely delicious, no noticeable bite and extremely easy to drink; the proverbial angels crying on your tongue. He took a swallow, then another, while he perused the stalls and checked out the people. Some soft reggae music started playing in the background and it started shaping up as one fantastic Caribbean party.

By the time Les reached one end of the stalls the schooner glass was empty and he felt like the top of his
head was going to blow off. Christ, he thought happily. That bloke at the airport was right again. The rum here is superlative. Better than that — it's bloody beautiful. And how easy does it go down? A huge grin spread across Norton's face. And even better: it's bloody free. He looked out a window and smiled up at the sky. Fancy lobbing in the middle of this. I always knew you loved me, boss. And when didn't you ever? Les went back to the Sangsters stand and helped himself to some mango rum this time. No one said a word; if anything they encouraged him so there'd be less for them to pack up. By the time Les had downed another three schooners his face looked like a big, scarlet, medicine ball and if someone had shoved a light bulb in his mouth it would have lit up. On top of that, Les couldn't remember ever feeling so happy, or drunk. He filled another schooner glass and with the deck moving slightly beneath his feet ambled back into the reception area to watch the awards and do a bit of cheering for the local team himself. However, it was all over now bar the shouting and everybody was packing up getting ready to leave. Any food lying around inside was either help yourself before it got ditched or somebody beat you to it. What was still lying around looked good and smelled good, and pissed and all as he was, Les knew that a bit of food on top of all the booze wouldn't go astray at all. With the utmost decorum, the big, redheaded Queenslander attacked.

Rather than stumble drunkenly around from table to table, bumping into people and probably dropping food everywhere, Norton chose to rape and pillage the table closest to him. It was some catering firm from Ocho Rios, the staff were clearing things away and didn't seem to mind at all when Les put down his drink, got a plate and fork and got stuck into what was left. First up was white fish fillets marinated in ortanique; a kind of orange and tangerine. The first bite almost brought tears of joy to Norton's eyes. He had five pieces. Next was peppered shrimp with red beans and a ginger and coconut sauce. Les had two plates, but left room for some crab balls in
chilli and naseberry. These did bring a tear to his eye and Les was a bit worried they'd ignite the rum roaring through his body so he had a bowl of Matrimony to cool off a little, which was orange segments and star apple pulp in cream. That was more than enough. Les belched quietly, wiped his mouth on the tablecloth then picked up his drink and went back outside.

It was considerably more crowded now with the overflow from the banquet hall. Les found a spot at the end near a stall for the Negril Commodity Company, staffed by three pretty girls in white, gold and red dresses and enormous pink and green straw hats. Apart from them, however, it was all fairly conservative. Most of the women wore plain, pastel dresses, the men either coloured or white shirts tucked into their trousers with maybe the odd safari or sports jacket. Apart from Les and a couple of wide-eyed Japanese tourists holding a mango someone had given them like it was the Hope Diamond, the people were all Jamaicans. A reggae track came on that Les recognised, Bob Marley's ‘Exodus', and Norton felt like singing and getting down he was in that good a mood, then thought maybe it was best he didn't; he was horribly drunk. But not that drunk that he couldn't get another mandarin rum and fruit punch. With his fresh delicious clutched firmly in his hand Les went back to where he'd been standing and gazed happily into the crowd, still not believing his luck landing in the middle of a do like this and still not believing how drunk he'd got in such a short space of time. He took a large swallow and was smiling contentedly to himself when he heard a familiar English voice just to his right.

‘I see you managed to clear customs alright.'

Les turned and blinked. It was the bloke from the airport. He'd freshened up noticeably and changed into a pair of neat, light blue trousers and a mauve silk, button-down collar shirt; round his neck a thin gold chain glinted in the light.

‘Oh, g'day mate,' smiled Les. ‘How are you goin' there? Hey, you needn't talk about customs. You got through okay. I got stiffed for a bloody T-shirt.'

‘I thought you might have,' smiled the bloke. He looked at Les curiously. ‘Have you been out in the sun or something?'

‘Out in the rum'd be more like it. Have a look at me, I'm marinated! Christ! You weren't wrong about the local brew. It's unbelievable.'

The bloke shook his head slightly. ‘You're stewed to the gills,' he said.

‘Pissed as a fart,' agreed Norton. ‘And it's partly your fault. You sell the bloody stuff.' Les winked and raised his glass. ‘You ever thought of sending a tankerload to Australia? Fill the Exxon Valdez and wreck it just off Bondi. Where I love. Left. Live. Shit! I'm nice 'n'drunk.'

‘Do tell! One would never have guessed.'

Les introduced himself and said he was staying at the resort for a while and he'd be in Jamaica for a couple of weeks. The bloke said his name was Nigel, he was in the hotel on business and he was staying on the other side of Montego Bay at the Royal Caribbean Hotel and Beach Club.

‘So you don't mind the local rum?' said Nigel easily. He had a kind of half smile on his face when he spoke to Les, as if he found him likeable enough, no rocket scientist, yet not your average yobbo Australian tourist.

‘Oath!' said Norton emphatically.

‘Have you tried the local dacca?'

‘The 'erb, mon?' said Les.

‘That's the one,' nodded Nigel.

‘No I haven't.'

‘Do you want to?'

Les blinked for a moment then looked evenly at Nigel. ‘Yeah, righto. Why not?'

‘You got ten bucks US on you?'

Even in his drunken state Norton was a little dubious. Nigel didn't seem the type to be hanging around places, flogging ten dollar deals of pot. ‘Yeah,' nodded Les.

‘Well give it to me, and I'll send someone over.'

‘You'll send someone over.'

‘That's right. Hey Les, I'm no dealer. But I know a chap here who's got some. I'll fix it up for you.'

‘Okay,' shrugged Les, he slipped a ten out of his pocket and gave it to Nigel.

‘Stay here. He'll be over in about five or ten minutes.'

‘You coming back?'

‘Maybe,' said Nigel. He gave Les a wink. ‘I do have to work, you know. Not like some.'

Nigel disappeared through the banquet hall doors, leaving Les staring at the floor. Well, what's going on? Have I scored some puff, or have I been conned for a broody hen by some shit-pot, pommy hustler? More than bloody likely. Oh well, who gives a stuff? I reckon I've had a hundred and ten dollars worth of food and drink here this arvo. Les took another slurp of his drink and swayed a little to the music.

About five or six minutes ticked by and a skinny Jamaican about thirty drifted out of the crowd and up to Les. Apart from a goatee beard he didn't look like a rankin or a hood. He wore a blue peaked cap, a white Bonds type of T-shirt with ‘Marlin Club' on the pocket, and baggy, stone-washed jeans. With his hands in his pockets and this dreamy expression on his face he looked like a Jamaican Maynard Krebbes.

‘Hey mon,' he said quietly. ‘I got suntin' for you.'

Les held his hand out in front of him like he was going to shake the Jamaican's. The bloke palmed something into it and by the time Les emptied his hand into his own pocket and took it out again the bloke had disappeared into the crowd. Well, how about that, thought Les, taking another sip of rum. Looks like I got a bit of puff after all.

The crowd was starting to thin out now and most of the stalls had packed up, taking what was left with them. Not that Les needed any more to drink for the time being; as well as the rum hitting him, now he was starting to notice he'd had hardly any sleep the night before, and if he was going to have a sniff around later on he'd better ease up. Les also didn't want to be walking around with a pocketful of dacca either. He finished his drink and went back to his room.

The face staring back at Norton in the bathroom
mirror looked like it was going to explode any minute and should be sitting on a park bench with either a bottle of metho or a flagon of cheap brown muscat; definitely not tarting it up in some classy hotel. Christ, he thought, as he slopped some water over his face then swallowed a glassful. Another two bloody weeks of this and I‘ll go back home embalmed from the inside out. Les slopped some more water on his face. Anyway, let's see what I got for my ten bucks. He walked into the bedroom, flopped clumsily on the bed and emptied out his pocket.

It looked like three squashed up licorice allsorts bound in Gladwrap, only a dark, almost chocolate brown. Les opened one up and the sweet, pungent smell hit him straight away, and when he rubbed some between his fingers it was almost as sticky as tree sap. Well, well, well, Les smiled to himself. It looks like pot, feels like pot, and it sure smells like pot. In fact, I'd say if it ain't, it's that close it don't make no bloody difference. Les rubbed his fingers again and sniffed them. In fact, I don't remember ever seeing stuff like this. Close maybe. Still, there's only one way to find out if it's any good. Smoke it. Les sat on the bed thinking for a moment and then rolled the ganja back up and planted it under one bed. Well, if I'm going to organise that, I can have a walk and maybe a swim at the same time. He got a towel from the bathroom, locked his room and wandered off down the hallway.

The sun was setting and it was almost dark now. There was a door on the right past the TV lounge, Les took it and came out onto a fairly spacious entertainment area. There were white chairs and tables, a bar set against the wall to the right and a dais with a small stage in front. The speakers and musical instruments suggested it was set up for a band. Soft lighting played through the palm trees, indoor plants and flowers and everything overlooked the pool and beach below. Apart from some of the staff roaming around it was empty. Les took a set of stairs to his left, which led down through more flowers and palm trees to the pool area.

The pool was about fifty metres square at the shallow
end then angled off to a deep end about the same size; built out into the shallow end was a bar and concrete stool where you could swim up and have a drink if you so desired. All around this were white banana lounges and chairs and tables with what looked like huge, thatched umbrellas above them made from palm trees. Everything was set among manicured lawns, tropical flower gardens and more palm trees.A food servery, which was closed, sat on one side of the pool. Les had a quick look around. There was no one about except for a few staff cleaning things or tidying up. Les followed the pool to a set of sandstone steps leading onto the private beach. There were two security guards standing next to some chairs and tables at the top of the stairs having a cigarette; Les gave them a smile and a wave, they nodded slowly back.