And De Fun Don't Done (42 page)

The second white hood had kind of shaped up to Les, but Norton's movements so far had been that quick the hood didn't quite know what was going on. Les didn't have time for any fancy stuff, half of which only looks good in the movies anyway, so he simply fired off a right snap kick, sinking the toe of his jogger in hood number two's solar-plexus. He gasped with pain and doubled
over as all the air was slammed out of his lungs. Les grabbed the hood's hair and rammed his knee hard into his face, mashing his nose all over it. Norton pulled his arm back to give him a lazy backfist or two behind the ear, but saw he needn't bother. He let go and the hood hit the ground oozing blood, hardly able to breathe, hardly able to see.

This left the hispanic and the asian with the other knife. Les paused for a second, just a little bit toey. If he went for the hispanic, the asian would probably have time to blade him from behind. If he went for the asian, the hispanic could jump on his back and the asian would still have time to blade him. There's no rules in a knife fight and it only takes one in the heart or the kidneys, especially with the stiletto type of switch-blades these hoods were using, and that's it. You hardly feel it at first, then a few seconds later you don't feel anything at all, ever.

‘Okay, Jerome,' Les called out to the cleaner. ‘You grab the spick. I'll take care of the dingbat with the knife.' Jerome never moved an inch; Les didn't think he would. But at least it stopped the hispanic for a moment while he waited for Jerome to do something. This gave Norton a few seconds clear to take on the asian hood with the switch-blade.

The asian hood came at Les, crouching a bit lower than the other guy and holding the knife in his right hand. This time Norton went for a palm heel-strike-leg sweeping-elbow break. He shaped up something like a boxer as the hood lunged the knife at his chest. Les knocked the hood's knife arm up with his left hand then slammed the heel of his right palm up under his chin, snapping his head back. Now he grabbed the hood's left arm, straightened it out then stepped behind him and banged his right leg behind the asian's right knee, effectively sweeping his legs from under him with enough force to send him sprawling on his back. Les still had hold of the hood's right arm, the knife still gripped in the hood's hand. He squatted down beside him and stretched his right leg out, grabbing the hood's wrist with
his left hand and clamping his right hand around his throat while he levered the hood's arm across his knee. The rest of this was relatively easy too. Les pushed the hood's arm down and moved his knee up at the same time; there was another audible ‘crack', another awful scream and Les broke the asian hood's arm. This left a very worried-looking hispanic facing a very nasty- looking Les with nothing between them but fresh air. On the ground around him his mates were either out cold or howling with pain.

‘Well, Jose,' said Norton, ‘it looks like just you and me now, eh? How do you feel, you fuckin' hero?'

At least the hispanic had a bit of a go; probably hoping to stun Les for a moment then leg it. He swung his right leg and tried to kick Les in the groin. Les moved easily to one side and let the leg slip past. In the same movement he hooked his right arm up and under the hispanic hood's knee and banged his left forearm across his throat. The hood's legs went from under him and he slammed down backward, splitting his head open on the concrete as he landed, Les grabbed him by the front of his Florida Gators T-shirt and slammed three short rights into his face, smashing his nose, most of his front teeth and pulping his mouth into an awful-looking red mess. Les dropped him back onto the concrete and left him there, the blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth quickly joining the blood seeping from the back of his head. Norton stood up, glanced at the wreckage around him then turned to the caretaker.

‘Well, come on Jerome,' he said, trying to sound serious. ‘Don't stand there like a stale bottle of piss. Give me a hand to finish them off.'

Jerome looked at the four battered and bloody hoods lying on the ground either snoring or whimpering with shock and pain. ‘What you talkin' 'bout, man? Finish them off? They is finished off. Man, they's about as finished off as they's ever gonna be.'

‘Ahh bullshit! Come on, get into the cunts. They were gonna give it to bloody you.'

‘Man, I'm from Alabama. I ain't ever hit no one in my life.' Jerome looked at the first hood with the knife. ‘Sho nuff no white man.'

‘Jerome, it doesn't matter whether these cunts are black, white, red or green with yellow dots. They're just cunts. And they need a good serve. Look, I'll show you.' Les stepped over to the first hood he dealt with and kicked him in the face: hard. The hood grunted with more pain as several teeth came loose, and tried to cover up. ‘Go on, Jerome. Have a go. You'll love it.'

Jerome suddenly got a funny glint in his eye. He looked at Les for a second, looked at the hood on the ground then walked over and kicked him in the face too. The hood grunted with pain once more. ‘Hey,' Jerome turned to Les, ‘I dig this shit.'

‘Good on you. Now give him another couple.'

Jerome kicked the hood again. ‘Hey. How you like that, honky?' The hood howled again as Jerome sunk another one in. ‘So, you was gonna stick old Jerome, was you? You white trash.' The caretaker reefed the hood again. ‘How you like that bad news goin' down, huh? You white motherfucker.' Jerome sunk a couple of solid ones into the hood's ribcage. ‘You mess wit the rest, now mess with the best — turkey.'
Thump!
In went another one.

Les watched contentedly as Jerome went round all four hoods and did a soul brother's version of some Balmain folk-dancing on their heads and ribcages. The four hoods just had to lie there, cover up as best they could and cop it. While he was watching, Les picked up one of the switchblades and had a good look at it. It was a vicious, deadly looking thing and he could just imagine the damage the hoods would have done to Jerome with it. Poor, inoffensive Jerome. Just a battling caretaker going about his job, not harming anybody, and these four bastards would have carved him up and thought nothing of it. More than likely laughed their heads off. A small well of hatred suddenly bubbled up inside Norton and for a moment he felt like going round and slitting all their throats. Instead, he walked over to the first hood, shoved the blade up his
nose and sliced open his nostrils. Then he shoved the knife in the hood's thigh, right up to the hilt. He was still howling when Les went over and did the same to the asian hood. By now Jerome looked as if he'd had enough fun and was standing back looking at his blood-spattered handiwork.

‘Hey, Jerome,' said Les, ‘you reckon you can take these four turds and dump them somewhere?'

‘Sho nuff, man. I'll ring my brother-in-law. He's got a pick-up. He'll call round and we'll dump these suckers out by Crab Keys.'

‘You won't bother getting the cops, will you?'

‘No suh. Ah don't wants no hassles with the po-lice.'

‘Good,' replied Les. ‘Well, I'm going to bed. I'm knackered. I'll probably see you tomorrow.'

‘Okay. Hey, listen. You saved my ass here tonight. Thanks, brother.'

‘Ahh, that's alright. Don't worry about it.' Les smiled and gave the caretaker a wink. ‘You're not a bad bloke — for a nigger. See you later, mate.' Norton turned to walk away.

‘Yeah, see you later. Hey, Les, before you go, there's something I got to ask you.'

Norton stopped and turned around. ‘Yeah. What's that?'

‘Les, just what kind of man are you, brother?'

Norton thought for a moment then shrugged. ‘Just call me a digger with attitude. See you tomorrow, Jerome. And remember, no cops. Okay?'

‘No suh. Ah swear.'

Back inside the condo Les had sworn earlier he wouldn't have a drink that night. But after that little incident … Fuck it. There was enough Diet Pepsi in the fridge and enough bourbon left in a bottle for several delicious: or delicioui. He poured one, finished it fairly smartly then made another. Bloody hell! Does it ever stop in this joint? Bombings, suicides, shootings, riots. I go to drop a car off and finish up in a knife fight. Norton shook his head and reflected into his drink. Boy, will I ever be
glad to get out of this rathouse. I don't know nothing about Jamaica, but it couldn't possibly be any crazier than this. Les sipped his drink and tried to figure out what to do. He didn't want to watch TV, he didn't feel like turning on the radio or listening to any more cassettes. It wasn't getting any earlier and he should try to get some sleep. Finally he decided to read some more of his book about Jamaica and have another look through Elizabeth Norton Blackmore's book of poems. Les read for a while until his eyes started to flicker then close. He turned out the light and dozed of. But Les had a fitful night's sleep, tossing and turning, having to get up a couple of times for glasses of water. When he did drop off he'd start dreaming there was a bomb in the kitchen or the cops were coming through the door, or another bunch of hoods were driving round the estate with a car full of Uzis looking for him.

Before Les knew it the sun was up, it was eight o'clock and he was dressed and standing in the kitchen, looking at the kettle through grainy eyes as he tried to organise some coffee and toast. He felt more tired than if he'd never gone to bed at all. Les yawned his way through his coffee and toast when he heard noises out the front. A minute or so later there was a knock on the door. Les opened it to find a big, beefy man about sixty with thinning brown hair.

‘You der person Norton going to Tampa airport?' he asked in a slightly guttural accent.

‘Yeah, that's me, mate,' yawned Norton. ‘You're right on time.'

‘That is your bag?' Les nodded. Before he had a chance to say or do anything, the big man had picked it up effortlessly. ‘I see you out in the bus.'

‘Yeah righto,' blinked Les.

Les had a last, slightly nostalgic look around the condo and the old pushbike sitting out on the verandah. Well, he mused, looks like I made it, and we're out of here. It's certainly been a funny one. But at least I'm still alive. He
rattled the keys in his hands for a second then dropped them on the bar next to the phone. ‘See you, Ricco. See you, Laverne. Say hello to Hank for me if you see him.' Les picked up his overnight bag, closed the door quietly behind him and walked out the front.

The shuttle was an old, bulky-looking kind of brown and red minibus that seated about a dozen. So far Les was the only passenger. He climbed in the door, sat behind the driver and next thing they were on their way. Les didn't say a great deal at first, content to sit back and uninterestedly let the suburbs and dead flat roads of southern Florida roll past as they headed north towards Tampa. The driver wasn't saying much either; he just puffed on a cigarette while the old bus lurched and rolled along through the light, morning traffic. Eventually Les started to forget his tiredness and began to pick up at the thought that he was leaving Siestasota, so he got a bit of a mag on with the driver. He originally came from Austria and had migrated to Florida around forty years ago when he joined the circus as a strong man. The way he picked up Norton's bag like it was a packet of Sao biscuits Les didn't dispute that. The driver waffled on about how Florida had been developed to death over the last twenty years and soon they'd be in all sorts of trouble because the water plain couldn't take the pressure of all the housing and high-rises. Now where have I heard that before? mused Les. Florida was still nice but nowhere near as nice as it used to be with nowhere near the wildlife and fish life. I think I've heard that one too, thought Les. They turned off the main road and onto some back streets near a small bridge and another expanse of water, the driver saying he had to pick up one more passenger. The driver checked the streets and began to slow down, then Les gave a double, triple blink. Just when he thought he'd left behind all the movie and TV scenes, he found himself in the cartoons. Standing on the corner, outside a small white house with a small white fence and with three small suitcases next to her was Minnie Mouse.

Minnie was a little over five feet tall with her dark hair
stacked in two buns on either side of her head, and looked to be in her late sixties. She had on a dark grey, chalk- striped, dress suit, from which poked two skinny little legs in black stockings and a huge pair of white, high- heeled shoes. The best part, though was a pair of huge white glasses with these enormous heart shaped frames sitting on her chubby little face. The driver got out and took Minnie's bags. Les helped her in the door and as she sat down behind him he looked over at the house, half expecting Pluto, Goofy and Mickey to start waving from the window. They didn't however, and the driver got back behind the wheel and they proceeded on their way again.

Minnie intrigued Les in her monstrous white glasses so he got a bit of a mag going with her. It turned out her name was Mrs Conaghan, she was a sweet, chirpy old thing and when Les introduced himself Mrs Conaghan had a handshake as good as most men Les had met. She was a military widow and she was flying up to a naval base in Indianapolis for a ceremony where her son was to be made chief surgeon. She'd more or less been involved with the military all her life, at least since she married her officer husband when she was nineteen. She told Les about living and bringing up a family on army bases in Tokyo, Korea, West Germany and England, as well as America, and made it sound interesting as well as how much she enjoyed it. Her husband was older than her and died a few years back after he retired; she took a photo of him from her wallet and in his army uniform and neatly trimmed moustache he reminded Les of Robert Taylor in
Waterloo Bridge
. Christ, mused Les, as he handed Mrs Conaghan back her photo. I've got to stop equating everything I see over here with either the movies, TV or bloody cartoons. Les just said he was in America on a holiday and now he was on his way to Jamaica then back home. Like most Americans Mrs Conaghan knew bugger all about Australia but she was interested. The driver joined in the conversation and the trip up to Tampa was a regular beano, it wouldn't have surprised Les if they'd have all got a singalong going. Before Norton knew it
they were climbing up some massive, arched bridge over an equally massive expanse of water, which he suddenly remembered from the night Hank picked him up, and the next thing they were outside the terminals at Tampa airport. Les paid the driver, shook Minnie Mouse's hand again, but she was that much of a sweetie he couldn't help himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek which Minnie thought was lovely. She wished Les a happy holiday and a safe trip back to Australia, Les picked up his travel bag, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked through the terminal doors up to the North West Airlines counter. Although the terminal was huge Les was the only customer at the counter. The brown-haired man who took his bag had a bit of a twinkle in his eye and of all things a fairly thick Scots accent.