And De Fun Don't Done (10 page)

‘So who are you here with?' asked Lori.

Who am I here with? Shit! In the sheer exhilaration of talking to two normal friendly people, Les had forgotten all about Captain Rats. A quick glance towards the bar
said he was still there, drinking a tequila, smoking a cigarette and looking his usual bored, morose self.

‘I'm with that bloke at the end of the bar in the floral shirt.'

‘Well, why don't we join him for a short while before we leave?' said Lori. ‘Is he an aussie?'

‘No. He's American. And he's a bit of a wombat.'

‘A wahmbat?' said Connie. ‘What's a wahmbat?'

Les shook his head. ‘Come over and you'll soon find out.'

Les introduced Hank to the girls. Hank gave them a very cool once up and down, like a good ol' boy with black pick-up should, then blew a great cloud of smoke in Connie's face. The girls didn't want another drink; Les got a margarita for himself and a tequila for Hank. When he turned back from the bar Hank had the girls engaged in a conversation, it was that good all three of them were completely speechless.

Connie caught Norton's eye as he handed Hank his drink. ‘I think I know what a wahmbat is.'

What could Les do? He nodded impassively then tried to spear her into Hank while he pissed in Lori's pocket for as long as he could. Before long, Connie's face looked like she'd strained a hernia and she was doing everything but jangle her car keys in Lori's face and fire distress flares. Les decided he'd better start tap dancing a bit quicker. He suggested to Lori that seeing he was in town chasing weather balloons for another three weeks, what about giving him her phone number? Lori thought this was a splendid idea and wrote it down just before Connie dragged her bodily out the door. With a smile they wished Les a good time, ignored Hank, and left quite happy.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Hank? They weren't a couple of bad sheilas?'

‘You think they were good?'

‘Well, I'm not saying they're good I'm just saying they're not bad.' Les took a belt of his margarita. ‘Shit! What did I say?'

‘That Connie was a bitch. And she's a customs narc.'

‘Go on, eh.'

The band was still on its break. Les sipped his drink and checked out the punters. They were a fairly happy lot, the place had a good atmosphere and there was no shortage of girls on their own. Shit! he thought. How would you like to be here with Woz, or a couple of mates from down the beach, instead of pea brain? Wouldn't you have some fun? Les looked at Hank sucking smoke into his lungs. Well, at least I'm getting drunk. Or, if not, I'm doing a great impression of it. And I don't have to drive.

‘What's next door?' asked Les.

Hank shrugged. ‘A disco, I think.'

A disco you think, contestant number one. Let's see what's in the envelope. ‘Do you want to go and have a look?'

Hank shook his head. ‘I'm fine here.'

‘I might go and check it out while the band's still on a break.'

‘Go for it.'

Norton downed his margarita. ‘If I'm not back by the end of the month, tell Qantas to cancel my return ticket.'

Les turned and left for next door. Would Hank piss off and leave him stranded? Les thought as he stepped across the empty dance floor. Hardly. In Hank's estimation Les had jumped from Category A to Category B. Where Les was once just a mug — like everybody else in the world — now he was a mug with money. There was more where that fifty dollars came from. And Hank had access to it. Plus a lot of free drinks. Les was not only a mug, he was now a jerk. You think so, boofhead? Norton chuckled to himself as he walked in the disco. For a few lousy dollars I've got you by the nuts, Laurel Lee baby. In fact it could be quite funny how you finish up before I head back to Australia. Shit for brains.

The disco was pretty much like any other. About the same size as the bar next door, a spinning mirror ball, a DJ playing what sounded like Kool and the Gang; although with mostly wooden panelling and the rock posters on the walls it looked more like a good bar with a
dancefloor than a full-on Saturday Night Fever disco. It was a little over half full, plenty on the dancefloor; pretty much the same sort of crowd you'd see in a touristy bar in Sydney, but possibly a little older. They all seemed to be having a good time without getting into it all that much. I'm definitely going to have to cut down on my drinking, mused Les as he went to the bar. Yes. Cut down the nearest cane field and make me a case of Bundy. He ordered two Pina Coladas and immediately drank one.

She was another blonde. A better sort than Lori, same length hair, wearing faded blue jeans, a denim shirt and white cowboy boots with aerobics written all over her. Especially her backside. She was standing at the end of the bar with a girlfriend, a homely-looking redhead with shiny, shoulder-length hair, wearing white 501s and a white top. Ma'am, you just gotta be from Texas, thought Les. Which was the first thing Norton asked her when he walked over. What have I got to lose? he thought. She can only throw her drink over me, kick me in the nuts and tell me to piss off back to bloody Australia.

‘Excuse me, miss,' he said, slowly and as courteously as a gallon of mixed drinks would allow. ‘You're not from Texas, are you? You know, the big state up near New Mexico where all the yellow flowers come from?'

The blonde blinked at Les, turned to her girlfriend for a second, then nodded. ‘Yes. Why?'

‘Your father hasn't got a ranch just outside of Dallas, has he?' The blonde shook her head. ‘Your name's not Mercedes Lamont?' The blonde shook her head again. Norton made a kind of futile gesture. ‘Ahh, well, I've made a blue. I'm sorry. It's just that you're a swap for this Texas bloke I met's daughter.'

The blonde sipped her drink and gave Les a bit of a once up and down. ‘Where are you from?'

‘Australia,' smiled Norton.

‘I know where that is,' said the redhead. ‘It's near Germany.'

‘No,' said Norton. ‘You're thinking of Czechoslovakia. Australia's a big island down near New Guinea.'

‘Oh.'

This time Les thought he'd be a wealthy racehorse owner, over in America looking at breeding stock, which was how he met the rancher from Texas. The similarity between the blonde and the rancher's daughter was… absolutely uncanny. It was hard to believe two girls could be so attractive and so alike. The blonde did come from Texas, some placed called Waco; she worked on a marina out on the Keys and she'd been in Florida two years. The redhead worked in real estate, also out on the Keys; she came from Denver and she'd been in Florida a year.

‘So what's your name?' asked the blonde.

‘Les.'

‘I'm Lori.' Norton gave a little blink. ‘And this is Genevra.'

Norton raised his glass. ‘Nice to meet you, girls.'

Les liked their accents, especially Lori's slight Texan drawl, and of course the girls loved Norton's. It was just ‘so cute'. Naturally Les had to slow down now and again and repeat things, and drop off with the Australian slang, but that all added to the fun. They also loved it when Les bought them a margarita each, which was to be their limit as they both had to go to work in the morning. But they didn't mind when Les said, stuff it, let's have another one, and bought three more. Norton might not have been a wealthy racehorse owner, but the way he was tipping and throwing money around he was doing a pretty good impression of one. Lori even dragged Les up on the dancefloor to some track she knew and Les was right about aerobics; Lori sure knew how to shake her money-maker and what she lacked in style she more than made up for in energy. Norton was getting down alright too, and seeing the next track wasn't a bad one either they ripped into that as well. Naturally, same as in Australia, the old mates' act applied when Les got off the dancefloor. Genevra was getting Lori home safe and sound before some bloke, no matter how nice he was, got her drunk and took her somewhere and gave her a right royal porking, even if that was what she wanted in the first
place. But would Lori like to go out with Les while he was in Florida looking at horses for the next three weeks? Sure. That sounded like a great idea. She wrote down her phone number and Les kissed the tips of her fingers when she put it in the top pocket of his shirt.

‘Well, goodnight, Genevra,' said Norton, as they got their bags. ‘Nice to have met you.'

‘You too, Les. You have a good one.'

Norton couldn't help but have a last look at Lori's backside. ‘I'd be rapt,' he said with a smile and gave her a wink. Lori smiled back — not at all demurely.

Well, what about Lori? thought Les, as he watched them leave. Nothing wrong with her. He finished his drink: now what? Then it struck him. Oh yeah. Back to Captain Rats. What a thought. Still, I'm getting to find these places and meet people. So try to be nice. Norton grinned to himself. I don't think it's going to be for that much longer.

The band had started, Hank was still at the bar — this time he had a beer in front of him: a Coors. He looked absolutely no different and Les figured it would be pointless asking him what he'd been up to.

Hank noticed the sweat on Norton's Magpie T-shirt. ‘So how was the disco? Cool?'

Les wiped at some sweat under his chin. ‘No. Actually the air-conditioning in there's stuffed.'

‘Serves you right.'

‘The music was good, though. I love Madonna.' Les turned to the bar. ‘You want a drink?'

Hank gave a slight nod. ‘Tequila.'

Les ordered the drinks and while he was waiting put Lori's phone number in his trouser pocket next to the other Lori's. Air-conditioned or not it was still quite warm so Les ordered another Corona. He downed almost half in one go while Hank took a hit of tequila followed by an unsmiling mouthful of beer.

‘We'll go somewhere else,' he said.

‘You don't like it here?'

‘It's starting to fill up with celery-pickers and preppies.'

Les followed what Captain Rat's nutty eyes had temporarily landed on. There were some Mexican- or Cuban-looking blokes near the dancefloor, standing next to some people wearing ironed shirts and laces in their shoes.

‘Celery-pickers and preppies, eh?' Les took another mouthful of beer. ‘If you say so.' Ahh, what the fuck? thought Norton. Go and have a look somewhere else, I suppose. I can always come back here. ‘So where do you fancy going?'

‘There's a place downtown called “Club BandBox”.' Hank gave Les a crooked sort of smile which was most unusual, almost like he had something up his sleeve. ‘You'll like it there.'

‘Okay. You know your way around.' Les took another glug of his Corona and lime. ‘I'm just a shitty fuckin' tourist.'

They finished their drinks in comparative silence then left.

They cut back over the bridge and seemed to be heading along some other massive road into town. Les had the window down, trying to get some air, and was wishing he'd never bothered wearing a T-shirt; the neck and back were all soaked with sweat and in the heat and humidity of a summer night in Florida it felt like a blanket. Les was thinking of taking it of and leaving it in the car when he recognised Main Street again. Hank cut past it onto a road that led straight into a large, modern, high-rise hotel complex surrounded by blocks of home units built up alongside the harbour. It was all glitter, marble and smoked glass, neon lights flashed and out the front was the usual monster parking lot, only this one was dotted with palm trees. Hank found a space in the carpark, locked the pick-up and Les followed him across to what looked like a shopping centre full of restaurants, bars, boutiques, etc. There was a marble fountain out front and uniformed security guards keeping an eye on the crowd. Behind them a set of escalators went up two floors. Hank nodded for Les to follow and they took the
escalator to the first floor. It was more shops and restaurants looking out over the harbour and just round from the escalator a small queue of people were entering a double glass door dotted with posters for bands. Above the door a red and black neon sign said ‘Club BandBox'.

‘In here,' smiled Hank. ‘I'll pay the cover charge.'

Norton gave a double blink and nearly tripped over. Am I seeing and hearing things? I think I'd better cut down on those margaritas. It must be all that salt.

They joined the queue and a few people fell in behind them. When they got to the door, Hank propped, the usual smug smile on his face. There were two bouncers on the door — a solid white bloke in a BandBox T-shirt, and a monstrous black man in a grey suit. The white bouncer gave Hank a severe once up and down then shook his head. The black bloke seemed more interested in Norton. He looked at Hank for a second or two then said something to the white bouncer.

‘Okay,' said the white bouncer, not looking at all happy, ‘I'll let you in this time. But next time wear shoes, okay?' Hank still propped at the door. The smile disappeared and his jaw dropped. ‘Well, come on buddy,' said the bouncer in the T-shirt. ‘Are you coming in?'

‘Yeah, what are you doing, Hank?' said Les. ‘There's people behind us.' Hank almost fell through the door with Norton behind him. As he staggered over to the counter to pay the five dollars cover charge Les stepped back and waited, chuckling to himself.

It wasn't hard to figure out what was going on. Hank deliberately picked this place knowing they had dress regulations and they wouldn't let him in looking like B.O. Plenty. Les twigged there was something in the wind when Captain Rats smiled, twice, then offered to pay the cover charge. This would have effectively stuffed up Norton's night and they would have had to go home, where Les could've watched TV and drunk cheap, shitty tequila at Hank's house or gone and sweated the night out in his own room. But they'd got in; only because of the big black bloke in the grey suit. Les was looking at the person
in question who was standing barely a metre away. He wasn't just big, he was an absolute monster. At least six feet six and twenty stone, with a huge bony head sitting on a neck as thick as Norton's waist. He saw Les staring at him and flashed an infectious white grin.