And De Fun Don't Done (27 page)

‘Yeah. It looks alright,' nodded Les, taking a sip of 7-UP.

Vinnie's chunky fingers soon had the paperwork filled in, explaining to Les about insurance, AAA, Auto Club and one or two other things. He checked Norton's passport and driver's licence, along with his VISA card. All up it took about ten minutes and came to $210 for a week including the insurance, with an option for another week or more if Les wanted. Les signed on the dotted line quite happily.

‘There you go,' said Vinnie, handing him the keys. ‘It's all yours. Bring it back here when you're finished. Or I'll get someone to pick it up.'

‘Unreal, Vinnie. Thanks a lot. You too, Ricco.'

‘Hey. Any time,' shrugged Ricco.

‘There… is one other thing you could do for me, Ricco,' said Les, a little slowly.

‘Sure, what's that?'

‘Well, I've never driven a car on the wrong side of the
road before. How about coming round the block with me a few times while I sort things out? You mind?'

Ricco shrugged and half smiled. ‘Sure, why not? I'm a thrillseeker. Then you can drop me back here. Hey, Vinnie, if you hear a bang from up the road somewhere, don't sweat it. That'll be me teaching Grandma Duck here how to drive in the big city.'

‘Hey, if I hear a bang coming from you, Snake,' answered Vinnie, pointing his chunky index finger at Ricco then curling it, ‘it don't necessarily mean it's coming from no car wreck!'

Vinnie and Ricco laughed at some private joke then they followed Les out to the T-bird. Les got behind the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition and the big car hummed into life quieter than a Swiss watch. Ricco got in beside him, Vinnie gave the roof a tap then disappeared back into his office in another cloud of cigar smoke. Les slipped the T-bar into drive, eased the car cautiously to the edge of the busy road and waited for a break in the traffic.

‘Hey, Ricco,' he said. ‘What did Vinnie mean when he called you Snake?'

Ricco gave a cold laugh. ‘That was just a name they had for me back in New York. Ricco the Snake.'

‘Oh. And what about Vinnie? They have one for him?'

‘Yeah. They called him Vinnie-Sawn-Off.'

Vinnie was around five ten, and at least fifteen stone. Definitely no midget. ‘I think I get the picture,' said Les, and slowly turned along the roadway.

It wasn't as bad as Norton thought it would be. He made a few turns at the lights, both left and right, zipped in among the traffic, even overtook a few cars; the roads were that wide you seemed to have all the time in the world to avoid any trouble. The only real blue was a couple of times when Les went for the blinkers and got a windscreen full of water and the wipers going instead. As well as the steering wheel being on the wrong side of the car, the indicators and that were on the wrong side of the steering wheel. But it didn't take Les long to get his act
together, and the big car went like a charm and kicked back into second nicely when you tromped on it; Norton was actually looking forward to dropping Ricco off so he could start fish-tailing it and lay a bit of rubber up and down these monstrous great roads.

‘So how you doin' there, Grandma Duck?' asked Ricco. ‘Think you can handle it without wetting your pants too much?'

‘Ohh yeah,' grinned Les. ‘By the time I'm due to fly home I should be alright.'

‘You know where you are?'

‘Yeah.' Norton had a quick look in the rear vision mirror and around him. ‘Vinnie's is back that way about two miles. The condo's over there. And we're heading towards Main Street.'

‘Hey, you're doin' just fine.'

‘I stayed up till three o'clock in the morning studying a road map.'

Ricco looked at Les as if he didn't know whether to believe him or not. The way Les had his mouth set suggested he shouldn't.

With his arm out the window catching the breeze, Norton nonchalantly drove on for another couple of miles or so towards what he thought must be downtown. There were more shops and apartment blocks; there was even the odd feral pedestrian walking around. Shit, what are they doing on the loose? thought Les. Do the authorities or the National Rifle Association know they're around? That's the fourth one I've seen. They're almost in plague proportions. Anyway, I suppose I'd better get Ricco back to Vinnie's. He looks happy enough, but I don't think he's all that interested in a guided tour of beautiful downtown Sepposota.

Norton pulled up for a set of lights with about half a dozen cars behind him and the median strip on his left; Ricco was gazing absently out his window at the car alongside him. Les noticed a tall, skinny, black man in jeans and a white, hang-out shirt standing near the lights on the median strip. He had a black baseball cap with a
white X on it jammed on his head above a pair of mirrored sunglasses and seemed to be gazing around waiting to cross the road. Norton was almost about to give him a nod and wave him across when the black man lurched off the median strip, pulled a pistol out from under his shirt and stuck it in Norton's face.

‘Get out of the car, you white motherfucker!' he screamed. ‘Or I'll blow your goddamn head clean off!'

Norton gave the black man an incredulous double blink and shook his head. ‘What?'

‘I said give me the fuckin' car, you honky sonofabitch, or you're a fuckin' dead man!'

Norton was too stunned to be scared or shocked, even with the barrel of the gun about two inches from his face. From the corner of his eye he saw Ricco move and heard him speak.

‘Hey, spade, you want the car? Then suck on this, you black nigger fuck!'

That was when Les figured out why they nicknamed Ricco Snake. In about a second flat he had whipped a small revolver out from under his shirt, reached across Les, stuck the barrel in the black man's left eye and pulled the trigger three times. It didn't sound all that loud, just an incredibly rapid ‘
bangbangbang
', but enough to make Norton's ears ring slightly. A strong smell of cordite hung in the car, the black man's eye pulped and began to ooze down his cheek and his other eye flickered momentarily then rolled back in his head, lifeless. He dropped his gun in Norton's lap, staggered back onto the median strip then collapsed on his back as if someone had kicked his legs from under him; blood started to burble out of his eye socket, one arm flopped across his chest, and that was it. The lights changed to green so Norton decided to drive off. Not too fast, not too slow, a bit like Grandma Duck, if anything. Just another day in America.

A little further on he turned to Ricco. ‘Nice bit of shooting, mate. I hope my head wasn't in your road?'

Ricco's face was florid. ‘That dumb, nigger fuck.
Who'd he think he was? Take my car and make me get out and walk in the heat. Fuckin' jig gink.'

‘Yeah. Well, I don't think he'll be needing it now. You soon sorted that out.'

‘Sorted that out. Hey,' Ricco made an expansive gesture, the gun still in his hand, ‘you want I should have made nice with him?'

‘No, no. Not at all. You did exactly the right thing.' Les nodded to the gun. ‘What did you use anyway?'

Ricco rested the gun on the palm of his hand. ‘Just a .22. They're the best. You know what I'm sayin'? All the heroes like Magnums and .45s. All they do is blow brains and shit all round the place. You stick this in their eye or behind their ear and —
pop!
It just rattles around inside their head, scrambles up their brain and it don't leave no mess. I like a neat hit.'

‘Yes, I can see that. Quick and efficient too, I might add.'

Ricco's face suddenly creased into a smile. ‘Hey, you're pretty cool yourself. You just drove off. No panic, no big deal. You got class, Les Norton. I like you.'

‘Good. Let's just hope no one got the licence number.'

‘Nahhh! Who'd give a flying fuck anyway? Just one less crackhead, nigger piece of shit.'

‘Yeah, right. Who'd give a fuck? Just one less nigger.' Norton shook his head. ‘Which way back to Vinnie's? Back that way, isn't it?'

‘Yeah. Take the next left at the lights.'

Norton drove silently along, with one eye on the road, another on the rear vision mirror and another on Ricco, till he came to the caryard. He didn't bother going inside, he just pulled up off the road with the motor running to let Ricco out.

‘So what do you want to do with this?' he asked, nodding to the gun still sitting in his lap.

‘Hey, what have we got here?' Ricco picked up the gun and examined it. It was some sort of machine-pistol, a bit like Hank's Beretta. The magazine was in the handle and underneath the barrel was a small folding metal grip that
incorporated the trigger guard. Stamped along the side was VASP-75. Cal. 9x9 MM. ‘A fuckin' Visser. Wonder where that nigger got this?'

‘I don't know,' answered Les. ‘He probably saved up enough green stamps. But it's all yours. I don't want it. And it's got your dabs on it, sport. Not mine.'

‘Okay, I'll take it. I know a guy could use this.' Ricco got out, shut the door and walked round to Norton's side of the car with both guns tucked under his shirt. ‘So don't forget Thursday. I'll be round about ten-thirty and we go boatin'. Then I'll show you my buddy's joint at Salmo. Might have a meal after.'

‘Alright, Ricco. I'll see you on Thursday. So long, mate.'

Ricco tapped the roof and Norton drove off; he might have been acting cool, but he'd driven about three miles and his adrenalin was still pumping before he worked out he was going the wrong way. He wasn't quite shitting his pants, but wouldn't it be lovely if some concerned citizens got the number and a description of the car. You didn't shoot people in broad daylight and just leave them lying on the side of the road, surely? Then again, this was America. Maybe you did. And there was a chance the car was, if not hot, extremely tropical. If Norton got pulled over his holiday in Florida could last quite a bit longer than two weeks. Somehow he managed to get his bearings and find his way back to the estate. Not driving like Jack Brabham, but not quite driving like Grandma Duck either.

Back inside the relative safety of the condo Les had his head in the fridge wishing there was something in there a bit stronger than ‘Colorado Kool-Aid'. But a bottle of Coors would have to do. He ripped the top off one, swallowed half in about one gulp then sat down on the lounge and had a think. Any doubts he might have had about Ricco being in the Mafia were now dispelled. He was a hitman alright, and a bloody good one too. Not to mention hot-tempered and a bit psycho. Then, on the other hand, if Ricco hadn't of shot that X-head, or
whatever he was, there was a good chance he would have shot Les anyway, he was that crazy. What a nuthouse. He'd got rid of one gun-happy galah and fallen straight in with another one. Only this one wasn't some flip trying to impress him. He was a full-on Mafia professional, who kept his mouth shut, didn't say ‘nuttin' to nobody', then just went out and did it. And he was going ‘boatin'' with him on Thursday. Les swallowed some more beer. In the meantime the best thing to do for the rest of the afternoon would be to stay home. If somebody had taken the number any flak would go straight to Vinnie's caryard first. And that was all he had wanted to do, hire a bloody car. Suddenly Les felt like jumping on the next plane and going back home. Though he'd only been away six days, it was beginning to feel like six weeks. But wouldn't they give him a nice bagging back at the club if he did? Especially George Brennan. Norton stared into the bottle of beer and felt more than a bit homesick. He always knew Australia was good, but he didn't know it was that good. Still, he had Lori to take out tonight and that could be quite interesting. Things could be worse. He could have been stuck back at Swamp Manor with Captain Rats. Les finished his beer and went for a swim; a long one.

Which was how he spent the afternoon, alternating between the pool, P.J. O'Rourke, the book on Jamaica and the road map of Siestasota, while he played a couple of tapes — just like any normal person relaxing on their annual holidays. This time he turned on the air- conditioner too; finishing up with pneumonia or the flu couldn't be any worse than some gun-crazy seppo shooting him. Later in the afternoon it started to rain again so Les dozed off for a while to the steady patter of the raindrops and the rumbling of distant thunder. So apart from nearly getting his head blown off earlier it wasn't a bad sort of an afternoon.

Norton was up, showered and shaved and in a pair of shorts, feeling pretty good. He was also hungry and now
looking forward to dinner with the blonde from Texas. He had plenty of time before Lori arrived so Les thought he might have ‘just the one' bourbon and diet. He wasn't sure of the driving laws in Florida but he'd feed Lori some bullshit line about how he couldn't handle the American road system, that way she could drive. Les took a couple of slurps of his cool one and despite his earlier apprehensiveness now started to think how clever he was. He walked over to the TV set and was about to see what he could find by pushing a few buttons and dials when there was an abrupt knock on the door. Hello, thought Les, his apprehension starting to come back. I wonder who this is? It's too bloody early for Lori. Still holding his drink, Les opened the door and couldn't believe his eyes.

It was Hank, in his customary grubby jeans and a chatty grey T-shirt. But a very dismal-looking Hank. He had two black eyes, stitches in his chin, and his jaw and mouth were swollen. One arm was in a leather sling, his other forearm rested on a metal crutch and one ankle was in a cast. He was kind of standing side-on to the door. No matter how he was standing he was the last person Les was expecting to see, or wanting to for that matter. Norton was that dumbfounded he was almost lost for words as he gave Hank a quick once up and down.

‘What do you want?'

Hank's blackened eyes briefly caught Norton's then once again began darting all over the place. ‘I was driving past so I thought I'd call in and see what you were doing.'