And De Fun Don't Done (6 page)

‘Well? What do you say?' asked Hank.

‘Wonderful,' nodded Les. ‘Who lived here before you did? Elton John?'

Hank turned on the TV and went into the kitchen. Les sat down on the lounge. The sound was turned down but you still couldn't tell what was on because the reception was mostly a purple blur. Norton stared at it for a few moments, looked around once more, and shook his head. Where am I again? America or Ethiopia?

Hank returned from the kitchen with a bottle of tequila. Norton grimaced and felt his mouth go dry. After all those lovely frozen margaritas in that little bar I know just what this is going to taste like. Shit. With or without the sip, lick, suck. It wasn't even a good brand. A cheap- looking label, slapped on the bottle under a rusty cap, said Gusano Rojo de Oaxaca, and the worm lying at the bottom looked like half of someone's appendix. Yuk!

Hank dropped it on the table along with two tumblers. ‘Wait till you try this, pal. It's from a village right out back of Mexico.'

‘Terrific.' Norton was beside himself. ‘I'll bet it's even got old pieces of Mexican foreskins and labia in it. What did you pay for it? About two bucks a crate?'

Hank poured two half tumblers full of the urine- coloured liquid. ‘Down the hatch, buddy. Badlands style.'

Les watched as Hank threw the tequila down his throat as if he was Wyatt Earp drinking Red Eye at the Last Chance Saloon. His beady eyes spun round even more crazily and he looked at Les. It wasn't a friendly drink; it was a silly bloody challenge. Norton picked up his tumbler, looked at it for a second, then did the same. It tasted like Brondecon and kerosene. Norton screwed up his face and hoped his tastebuds would forgive him. ‘Ohh shit! That tastes like goat's piss.'

‘That figures,' said Hank. ‘Offering you pure tequila is like casting pearls before swine.'

‘Yeah. And me shouting you those nice cold beers was like giving strawberries to pigs. You wouldn't have a beer in the fridge, would you?'

Hank ignored Les and poured another two tequilas, obviously getting a kick out of Norton's displeasure. ‘Now I'll show you something else.' Hank took a key, walked over to the cabinet on the wall, unlocked it and swung open the doors. ‘There,' he said, glowing with pride and smugness. ‘What do you think of these? You don't see anything like that in Australia.'

Norton turned around on his seat. The cabinet was full of guns; four pistols and three rifles all racked horizontally. That was what the thing was on the table — a hand frame for reloading your own bullets. Hank took one of the pistols from the cabinet and handed it to Les like it was part of the crown jewels and he was showing some poor goose something he'd never seen before and the poor goose should be suitably impressed.

‘That's a .38 Walther PPK. That's my baby. Go on, handle it. It's not loaded.' Hank gave a little sneer. ‘It won't bite you.'

Norton took the gun and held it. It felt snug and comfortable in his hand. It was a good gun alright, but nothing to get a fat over. ‘Yeah. That's… nice, isn't it?' ‘Nice,' Hank sneered again. ‘And this is a .45 Smith and Wesson. Go on, take it. See what a gun feels like. You poor aussies with your piss ass gun laws. You don't know what you're missing.'

Yeah, thought Les. About ten thousand people a year not being shot; including women and kids. Les held the gun for a few seconds then laid it down next to the Walther; compared to the other gun it was noticeably heavier. ‘Yeah. That's… great, too.'

‘This is what's called a Forty-five Peacemaker.' Hank lovingly stroked the next gun and handed it to Les.

It was some huge, heavy, long-barrelled revolver; like you'd expect to see Wyatt Earp pull out after he'd been
drinking Red Eye at the Last Chance Saloon. ‘What can I say?' said Les, and placed it on the table with the others.

‘And this is just a .22 Browning.' Hank shrugged. ‘It's a woman's gun. But it fits nicely inside an ankle holster.'

Les had a feel of the .22. It was all stainless steel and shiny and compared to the others it was just a baby. Though just as deadly. ‘Yeah, good,' nodded Les, not trying to look too bored, and placed it on the table too.

‘Now this.' Hank took down a junky, black, military- looking weapon. With his eyes almost glowing, he hit a catch somewhere behind the rear sight and a tubular folding stock swung out. ‘This is an FNC Assault Rifle. Three-round burst capability or rock and fucking roll if you want.' Hank swung it around at waist level for a while before handing it to Les.

It wasn't all that heavy for its size, with a forty shot, curved magazine underneath and a pistol grip at the back. Les stood up and played soldiers with it for a few moments too. ‘Yeah, fabulous.'

Hank replaced it in the rack and handed Les another rifle. ‘This is an M14. Betcha ain't seen nothin' like that before, pal.'

Norton cradled the gun in his hands and shook his head. What could he say? The last time he'd seen one of these it was shortened and worked over and he'd shot three terrorists with it. And if it hadn't been for him and his brother saving the dopey president of the United States and getting rid of the terrorist's nuclear missile, Hank and the rest of his dopey, gun toting, seppo mates'd probably be at war. You fuckin' know-all seppo prick. Then, looking at Hank watching him, a sudden and dramatic thought hit Norton. And even though it was going to burn Norton's arse unbearably, a little tact and diplomacy were now going to have to be the new order of the day.

‘Yeah, that's great, Hank' nodded Les. ‘You've sure got a great gun collection.'

Hank's grainy faced dripped self-opinionated conceit. ‘I knew you'd be impressed.' He put the M14 back on its
rack. ‘This one here's called a varmint rifle.' It was a long- barrelled, bolt action thing with a telescopic sight. ‘I can put a bullet square through the centre of a dime at a hundred yards with that baby.'

‘I'm sure you could,' said Les.

‘Tomorrow I'll take you shooting out at the target range. Open your eyes up a bit more. Give you a whole new experience.'

Oh great, thought Les. That's all I'm gonna need tomorrow in this heat with half a hangover. Surrounded by a bunch of rednecks firing guns off in my ear. ‘Okay. Sounds good.' Then Les just wanted to get away. Away from Hank, his guns, his fuzzy TV and his shit tequila. It was time to put on a bit of an act. He blinked a couple of times and started to sway on his feet. ‘Hey, mate,' he said, slurring his words a little, ‘I might have to get to bed. I'm rooted. I think this jet lag's just started to hit me.'

‘That and one good shot of tequila.'

‘Yeah, you could be right. You might have to finish that other one for me.' Les blinked again. ‘Well, I'm gonna hit the sack. What time are we going shooting tomorrow?'

‘I'll come over and get you at ten.'

‘Okay. I'll see you then.' Norton hesitated at the door. ‘Did you say there was a beach around here? I wouldn't mind going for a swim tomorrow too.'

‘We'll go for a dive in the afternoon. After we've been shooting.'

‘Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks again.' Hank didn't reply; Les let himself out. Although it was still punishingly hot and steamy, it was a pleasure to be on his own again for a while and look up at some stars. Halfway back to the house Les stopped for a leak and a think while he gazed up at the cloud-scattered Florida sky.

Norton was still thinking when he was lying back on his bed in the darkness, after he'd turned on the fan, switched off the light and stripped down to his jocks. Hitting Hank on the chin and breaking the know-all bastard's jaw,
pleasurable and all as it might be, was going to have to be put on hold. Although Hank was no doubt as weak as piss underneath, you could bet he'd put a bullet in Les if he did smack him one. Probably a whole clip. Then more than likely get away with it as self-defence; who knew what the gun laws were in America, especially Florida? But there was more to Hank than just the way the flip fattened up showing off his silly bloody gun collection. Laurel Lee was homicidal, suicidal and that far back in the doghouse you had to feed him with a catapult. He was dirty on the world; that was obvious when he mentioned the letters as they were driving here. He had no money, no girl, no job and you could bet the lemon had no friends either. But in his own peanut brain he was firmly convinced it was everybody else's fault bar his. He was also convinced the world was conspiring against him. And at the same time, by his rude, abrupt attitude, he was also convinced he was doing the world and everybody else around him a favour just by being there. And those were just his good points. Christ! thought Les. What if Hank is a full-on, bell-ringing, yo yo? What say his mother doesn't live here? What say she's dead and he's got her mummified in one of these rooms? Bloody hell! I've travelled halfway across the world to have a holiday with Norman Bates. Jesus! I'll be watching the shower curtain when I have a tub in the morning. But Hank was a whole new ball game to Norton. Les had never come across anyone like him before, because back in Australia pricks that carried on like him got a whack in the mouth and a boot up the arse. And they kept getting it till they woke up. They did in the circle of friends Norton hung round with anyway. Les shook his head in the darkness. No, Hank was a loose cannon, and he was going to have to remove himself from the prick's company very carefully. He'd still be able to sling off at the flip. Hank was just a mug who left himself open for the verbal riposte all the time, and Les wouldn't be able to help himself there anyway, even if it was like bashing up the same drunk all the time. But belting the dill on the jaw was definitely out
of the question. Then what about when he got back to Australia, and they asked him about his holiday, and Les told them he was only there two days and he'd jobbed the bloke he'd gone over to meet after staying at his house? Norton was in a no-win situation. Still, there were more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cheese, as old Grandma Norton used to say. I wouldn't mind meeting this ex-girlfriend of Boofhead's. Wonder what she'd have to say?

Suddenly the whirring of the fan seemed to be getting further and further away. Well, yawned Les, what about my first trip out of Australia? What a fine mess I've landed myself in, Ollie. I wish I was back in bloody Australia. Despite himself, Norton gave a little chuckle. One day away and I'm homesick already.

Next thing the noise of the fan disappeared altogether, and Les was snoring softly.

Haven't we landed yet? What the bloody hell's going on? The sound of aeroplane propellers woke Les. It was daylight and it wasn't propellers; it was the fan still whirring away on the other side of the room. Norton blinked up at the ceiling and it all started to come back. Yeah, I've landed, alright. And I know where, too. Christ! Les blinked a couple more times then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. He didn't feel all that bad; a little tired but no hangover. A check of his watch said it was getting on for eleven. S'pose I'd better clean my choppers. Norton got his shaving-kit from his bag and plodded into the bathroom.

The first thing he noticed was that the light switches clicked in the opposite direction, and then that the toilet bowl was almost full to the brim with water. Well what a dopey idea, Les thought, as he peed away, watching it gurgle and splash. Fancy having a dump with a whole heap of Henry the Thirds sitting right under your date. He pushed the lever and watched the water spiral away like a whirlpool. Glad I don't feel like one. Next, there were no taps; you pulled one lever up for water and
another from side to side to regulate hot and cold. Well I sure bloody don't want hot water, thought Les, as he scrubbed away. He got it, though — a great mouthful — and it tasted like it just came out of the nearest swamp. Norton shook his head and stared at the unshaven face in the mirror. Welcome to America — digger. You have a good one.

Now, what's on today? thought Les, as he climbed into a pair of shorts, Tooheys Blue T-shirt and joggers. Shooting this morning, then swimming this arvo with Indiana Laurel at the Temple of Gloom. Les had no shortage of T- shirts; he'd thrown about ten in his bag to give to Hank and his mates as a bit of a friendly gesture. I reckon I'll still have them when I leave, Les smiled to himself as he tucked a Tooheys Blue one into his shorts, because I imagine any friends of Hank's would be on the endangered species list and shit for brains sure ain't getting one. He stopped in front of the sliding glass door for a moment to stare out at the backyard, if that's what it was. There was a house next door on his right and about a hundred yards away past a clearing through some scrubby trees Les could see a dark, murky-looking lagoon, or piece of swamp or whatever, lying languid in the heat. It wasn't the most awe-inspiring sight so he went straight into the kitchen.

There was a soft light still on and coffee on the stove; Les helped himself to that and to the fridge as well. He found some sweet-tasting orange juice, bread, cheese, tomato and other odds and ends with strange brand names and made himself a couple of sandwiches. The coffee was very good. Les was contentedly chewing and slurping away while he stared out into the backyard when he heard a woman's voice behind him.

‘Oh, hello. You must be Mr Norton?'

Les turned around, his mouth still full of coffee and sandwich. It had to be Hank's mother. He hadn't mummified her body after all. She looked about seventy, a little short, a little frail, wearing a white shirt and white slacks, with her grey hair in a tidy bun on her head. She
looked like a typical mother, but she spoke very slowly and as she did she tilted her head to one side and held her finger and thumb under her chin in a demure, almost theatrical manner. Mrs Laurel had class about her even if her dill of a son didn't.

‘I see you managed to find everything alright?'