And De Fun Don't Done (13 page)

Hank disappeared also. Les sipped his orange juice and tried to keep a straight face. After a while he gave up and took the rest of his drink into his room.

The bank was called Sun, sitting on some intersection about a mile across in a carpark that would have fitted Uluru. Getting another $500 was no great drama. Les flashed his driver's licence, got a laugh out of the plump woman teller, then went back out to the pick-up sitting in the heat. They took off again, heading away from the house and town. Norton still didn't have a clue where he was as everything was still dead flat and spread out with nothing to take a bearing on.

They took a left at some road and Les turned to Hank.

‘Y'know, I was thinking, mate. Fifty dollars ain't much for all the trouble you've gone to for me. What say I make it an even hundred?' Norton took out his wedge and peeled off the same fifty dollar bill he'd given Hank the night before. ‘There you are, mate.'

Hank took the fifty, nodded, and put it in his pocket. Les looked at him for a moment then stared out his window, blinking. What am I gonna do? He's put it in the same bloody pocket.

Hank's office was a white stucco building in a low-rise warehouse complex built alongside a swampy-looking
lagoon, landscaped with a few pine trees. A short walk round the corner from the parking lot, Hank opened up a mirrored door next to two mirrored windows, bent down to pick up some mail and they stepped into a pall of hot, stale, dusty air. Hank closed the door and Les looked around; Double Bay it wasn't. The front room had a false ceiling, scruffy grey carpet and doubled as the office. There were a few shelves round the wall on your left with bugger all on them and a couple of items of cheap cane furniture. To the right was a desk, a chair and a few chipped grey filing cabinets. There was a fax and coffee machine that didn't work, a phone and answering service that did and a golfball typewriter that looked like Jack Nicklaus had belted it through Meadowbank and the US Open. Hank dropped the letters on the desk, sat down and switched on the answering machine. One short, garbled message came through that Les couldn't understand. He also couldn't understand why Hank brought him up there. Probably just to annoy him. It wouldn't be to impress him; it was a dump and all that was on the shelves was a few Mexican-looking dolls and a dozen or so stuffed alligators about two feet long, only instead of green they were white and when you turned them over they had a Confederate flag on their stomachs. Maybe Hank's in the Klan, thought Les. No, that wouldn't be right. Einstein wouldn't be able to spell KKK.

‘I might see if I can find a glass of water,' said Les. Hank nodded without looking up.

An open door from the office led straight into the warehouse. It too was dusty and stale and smelled of neglect; the only difference was it was twice as hot as the office. There were bigger shelves round the walls, all bare, a carpeted, metal table in the middle for packing on and a roller door and chain at the back. Flattened cardboard cartons were either stacked or lying around the floor amid shredded paper, rags and other waste for packaging. One match said the one small fire extinguisher on the wall next to a clock that didn't work would last about two
seconds if it ever got going. It was a dump. There was a toilet and sink, however, which wasn't too filthy. Les found a cup, cleaned it and was wandering around sipping a second glass of water when he heard the front door open and a woman's voice. Les approached the doorway to the office and held back against a rack of shelves. Hank appeared to be in an argument with a pixie-faced brunette who had just dumped a pile of letters on his desk. She was tall, quite attractive, a neat body and neat short hair, and was wearing a T-shirt and cut-away jeans. Her voice had the same twang as the bloke who put the heavies on Hank in Club BandBox.

‘For the last goddamn time, Hank, I do not want you to use the condo as an office address. How many times do I have to tell you? You dumb prick. I'm not telling you again.'

‘Oh, for chrissake, Laverne, what's wrong with you?'

‘Hey. It's not what's wrong with
me
. It'll be what's wrong with
you
if Ricco finds out. He'll have your ass, you dumb shit. And, frankly, I think it would be a good thing. The condo is not for letters or phone calls. You got that, Hank — you jerk.' Hank seemed to be muttering something as he fiddled around behind his desk while the brunette glared at him. ‘Now, where's this aussie guy you said was coming out here to stay with you? I gotta see this.'

Norton figured this might be as good a time as ever for him to enter stage left. Nonchalantly sipping his cup of water, he stepped into the office and caught the brunette's eye. ‘Hello. How are you?' he smiled. ‘You must be Laverne?' Norton offered his hand. ‘I'm Les.'

The brunette gave Norton a very healthy once up and down and a double blink. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Les,' she said, giving Norton's hand a squeeze.

‘You too, Laverne.' Norton thought he might as well lay on a little charm. ‘Hank's mother told me a little bit about you. But I didn't think you were this pretty.'

Laverne seemed to stare at Les. ‘You're staying at Hank's place?'

‘Yeah. I got a room near the kitchen. It's… okay.'

Laverne now seemed to be thinking as well as staring. ‘How long are you here for, Les?'

Norton shrugged. ‘About three weeks.'

‘Three weeks. Staying at Hank's.' Laverne's eyes narrowed. ‘Les, I don't hardly know you but I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. And you can do me a favour at the same time.' She took two keys on a ring from her bag. ‘Hank. There's the keys to the condo. Take Les out there.' She dropped the keys on the desk and turned back to Les. ‘You can have my condo for the three weeks you're here, Les. Look after it and I don't want anybody in there but you. You got that, Hank? Put Les up in the condo. You'll love it, Les. It's in a nice area and it's got a pool. I'll call out there and see you.' Laverne snapped her purse closed, looking like she didn't want to be in Hank's company any longer than she had to. ‘Okay, I'm out of here, Hank. And remember what I told you. Dummy.' She gave Les another smile. ‘I'll be seeing you, Les.'

Norton was a little bewildered. ‘Yeah. See you, Laverne. And thanks.' For bloody what, he thought.

Hank didn't bother to say goodbye. Laverne disappeared out the door. Norton decided he'd better find out what was going on. He knew if he didn't ask, Hank sure as hell wouldn't tell him.

‘What's all this about a condo, Hank? What the fuck's a condo? A car? A caravan?'

Hank tried to look busy with some letters. ‘It's a dump. It's out towards town. A crappy apartment.'

Norton knitted his eyebrows. Condo, apartment, letters, pool? ‘Hank, are you telling me Laverne's given me the use of a flat while I'm here? With a pool?'

‘It's a dump. She wanted me to live there. The pool's about as big as a bath tub. It's full of chemicals and everybody pisses in it.'

‘I don't give a fuck if the local circus takes the elephants up there and washes them in it. It couldn't be any… At least let's go and have a look at it.' Norton couldn't
believe his luck. Hank's ex evidently owned a home unit somewhere and Hank was using it as a mail drop. She could have felt sorry for Les, knowing what a prick Hank was, so she'd let him stay there to keep an eye on the place and sort of kill two birds with the one stone. Whichever way, it meant getting out of Swamp Manor and freedom from Captain Rats.

‘I can't just drop everything and take you straight over,' said Hank. ‘I do have a business to run. Besides, I thought you wanted to go riding along the beach?'

‘Well, yeah,' shrugged Norton. ‘But it ain't that important.'

‘I'll get a bike and come with you. I said I could if I wanted.'

‘Please yourself.'

‘I'll get a bike this afternoon. And we'll go for a ride on the beach.'

‘Okay. Then we'll go and have a look at that condo, or whatever you call it. When do you want to leave here?'

‘As soon as I clear this up.'

This took about an hour of Hank trying to look like he was doing something and Les shuffling restlessly around in the heat, but still pondering his good luck. Bad luck he had to stay sweet with Boofhead so he could get the keys and a lift over. But not for much longer. Then he could dump the idiot for good. Eventually Hank picked up his keys and turned on the answering service.

‘So where are we going now?'

‘Bike shop.'

‘I know a good one down by Centennial Park.'

They left the office and before long were once again whizzing along huge roads and highways full of huge cars. Watching him sucking on another cigarette, Les was trying to figure Hank out once more. Why bother buying a brand new bike unless you can absolutely afford it? Just to show Les he could if he wanted? And also, if he was so sour on the world, why bother inviting someone over to stay with you? Hank was a nice nut alright. Along with his lift not going to the top floor, Laurel Lee only had
one oar in the water as well. They turned off the road at some fairly large, modern-looking bike shop. It was all glass front and tiles, with rows of gleaming, brand new bikes in the window set in the mandatory monster carpark; only this time there were ample trees and shade. Hank pulled up under a tree and switched off the motor.

‘Come in,' he more or less commanded.

Norton shook his head. ‘It's alright. I'll wait in the car.'

Hank's eyes went into turbo drive again. ‘What do you mean, you'll wait in the car? Come inside and have a look at some decent bikes, for chrissake.'

Les shook his head again. ‘What do I want to look at bikes for? I already got one. I'd only be wasting my time.'

‘You're not coming in?'

‘No. I'll sit here and watch the punters. If you see a good pair of tiger skin lycra bike shorts in my size give me a yell. I might change my mind.'

Hank glared at Norton as if he couldn't believe that Les would not only have the audacity to think for himself but almost disobey an order. He muttered something and stormed into the bike shop.

Nice try, Laurel baby, thought Les. But you're going to have to get up a bit earlier than that. Yeah, I come in and it's, Oh Les, I got a cheque coming next week; alright if I put this on your VISA card? Or, can you give me the cash till next week? Sorry, Hank. Besides, I've already given you a hundred, haven't I? Norton sat patiently in the pick-up and waited. Half an hour later Les was thinking of trying to work the car radio when Hank came out of the shop wheeling a light blue bike, with one five-speed gear lever. It had high, wide handlebars, a big soft- looking white seat and looked like a girl's bike. Well, there goes my fifty, surmised Norton. I'd say he's put that down and got on the murray for the rest.

‘That looks alright,' lied Norton, getting out of the car. ‘What did you pay for it?'

‘Three hundred and fifty,' replied Hank, trying to look cool. ‘It makes that pile of junk you bought look pretty sick.'

Norton checked it out. It didn't look too solid and when Les came to the brand name he gave a double, triple blink. Painted on the frame was, Villawood Stylemaster. Designed in Italy for Clive Masters. Clive Masters was an Australian businessman who split Australia for America owing millions of dollars in debts. One of his last capers before he fled was bikes. He sold hundreds of them and they nearly all fell to pieces. Somehow Masters had got to America along with his shonky bikes and had started distributing them. Lucky yanks. And poor silly Hank had flummed one. If he so much as ran over an apple core lying on the footpath or hit an ant it'd probably fall apart.

‘You know what brand it is, Hank?'

Hank sounded very matter-of-fact. ‘It's a Villawood. Italian racer. Clive Masters is the designer. Hey, I don't buy shit.'

‘You're a genius, Hank. I only hope I can keep up with you.'

‘I sure as hell won't be dragging ass once we hit that beach.'

‘And like Deirdre and I always say. Have a lovely weekend.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Nothing, Hank. Nothing at all.' Norton watched Hank carefully place his ‘Italian racer' in the back, shook his head, then got in the front.

They drove back to Swamp Manor to get changed and pick up Norton's bike. Les got into a daggy pair of training shorts he'd thrown in his bag, daggy sneakers, a T-shirt with no sleeves and an old sweatband; nothing he'd worry about losing or destroying. Although the condo thing was on his mind, Les was now looking forward to this pedal along the beach. He needed a good hit out and it might be a bit of a perv too. Plus, even if the water was murky and warm a swim after would be good too. For once Les thought he'd be on time and he was waiting outside for Hank next to the pick-up, his bike in the back. Hank arrived wearing a shirt, shorts and an old baseball cap.

‘We off?' said Les.

Hank nodded. ‘Let's go.' He lit a cigarette and before long roads and bridges had gone past in the sunshine and they were at the same beach where they'd had a shower. Not a great deal of conversation went down, but at times Les got this weird feeling Hank was almost trying to be civil. Maybe he was worried his meal ticket was about to flutter out the door.

Hank parked the car under some pine trees, near an entrance to the beach. They got their bikes from the back and started pushing them along a sandy trail between more trees; again Les couldn't believe how fine and white the sand was. The beach looked bigger than before too. When they came to the end of the trail, there was about a half-mile strip of sand to their right, on the left was at least five miles of dead flat sand, five hundred yards wide, before some flat rocks at the end. Another two hundred yards of dry sand sloped up towards the high-rises and buildings that ringed the beach. Between the punters either lying on or walking along the edge of the dry sand were shallow tidal pools hundreds of yards long. A gusty wind was coming straight in from the Gulf of Mexico, chopping up the water and pushing in a sloppy, chunder- ous two-foot wave the entire length of the beach. Somehow it reminded Norton of a cross between Surfers Paradise and St Kilda.