And De Fun Don't Done Read online

  Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

  Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan

  YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS

  THE REAL THING

  THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA

  THE GODSON

  BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS

  DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING

  WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE

  MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER

  THE DAY OF THE GECKO

  RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT

  GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ

  ROBERT G.

  BARRETT

  And De Fun Don’t Done

  As usual, the author is donating part of his royalities to Greenpeace.

  This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.

  First published 1993 by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published 1994 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 1993 (twice), 1994 (twice), 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2008, 2010

  Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1993

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Barrett, Robert G.

  And de fun don’t done.

  ISBN 978 0 330 27447 0.

  EPUB ISBN: 9781743548967

  I. Title

  A823.3

  Typeset in 10/11 pt Times by Post Pre-press Group Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This book is dedicated to a fine young gentleman named Chris Widdows. I don’t know about my books, but I think we could all take a leaf out of Steady Eddy’s.

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  After eight books I feel it’s about time I enclosed a note of thanks and appreciation to my readers. Not only for the kind words in the street or wherever and the support that keeps me out of the dole office and away from the clutches of the Arts Council. But for giving me the opportunity to do something I enjoy, which in turn gives other people enjoyment. I don’t think anyone can ask for much more than that. I also get the best letters from some of the best people all over Australia. From people like the young bloke doing time in Pentridge who said I had ‘resurrected his sense of humour’ and caused the screws to check his cell, wondering why he was laughing so much. To people like the forensic squad detective in Sydney who said my books were ‘dead set addictive’ and offered, on behalf of himself and his colleagues, to help me with any research or technical data I might need. From women like the lady academic in Queensland who sent me a narrative analysis on one of my books and is now threatening to do a thesis. Her last three words about the book were however, ‘I loved it.’ To the young lady from a country town in Adelaide who said, quote. ‘You’re the best wrighter I have ever wred.’ This letter is amongst my favourites. This was when I knew I’d truly made it as an awther. I honestly do my best to reply to every letter. Unfortunately, sometimes a few get lost between the top of the fridge, my dressing table and the pigpen I like to call an office. Subsequently now and again replies can sometimes be a long time in coming. But I do my best and to those people that write, don’t think your letters aren’t appreciated; they are. This is one of the main things that make it all worthwhile and after reading them it convinces me of one thing. The people that read my books are about ten lengths in front of the poor mugs that ain’t. Thanks again.

  Robert G. Barrett.

  While a little light music eased softly out of the car radio, Warren Edwards kept his eyes on the road as he nosed his red Celica tightly but effortlessly through the lunchtime traffic along Gardeners Road, Mascot, towards Kings-ford Smith Airport. Sitting alongside him Les Norton was drumming his hands on his lap while every now and again he’d glance absently out the window at the monotonous, flat houses and streets of Mascot, which were looking even more monotonous and flat on a bleak July morning. It was miserably cold outside the car, with a bitter sou’wester blowing, and Warren was dressed appropriately — dark green corduroy trousers, brown woollen jumper and desert boots. Norton on the other hand was wearing just a white T-shirt, jeans, joggers and a thin, black, cotton jacket. Where Norton was heading would be much hotter than Sydney in mid-winter. Much hotter indeed.

  As they pulled up at a set of traffic lights, Warren temporarily moved his eyes from the other cars and, shaking his head, turned to Norton.

  ‘I still don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I still definitely don’t fuckin’ believe it.’

  Norton shifted his gaze from the surrounding shops and houses. ‘What don’t you believe?’ he asked, a half-arse smile flickering about his dark brown eyes.

  ‘You in America.’ Warren had to smile now. ‘Those poor bloody yanks. They won’t know what’s hit them.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you little prick?’ chuckled Les. ‘Them seppos’ll love me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Warren, as the lights began to change. ‘Just like Mom’s apple pie.’

  ‘Exactly,’ grinned Les, giving Warren a light slap on the shoulder. ‘Just like Mom’s apple pie.’

  ‘Yeah. After Manuel Noriega, Saddam Hussein and Colonel Gaddafi have all taken turns pissing in it.’

  ‘Get out, you cunt. They’ll be rapt in me.’

  The whole thing had come about by accident, or a mixture of the usual Les Norton good luck and bad luck. Things were still travelling along the same at the Kelly Club, or the Sydney Harbour Bridge Club, as George Brennan now liked to call it. Les and Billy took it in turns keeping an eye on things while Price and his cronies played cards, drank piss, plotted and schemed or whatever, generally till around one in the morning. A fair bit of water had flowed under the bridge since Norton’s escapade on the Gold Coast. It took about a week to drive back to Taree with DD. A week of non-stop porking, piss and pot. When they arrived at Taree it was a completely different scene, however. DD’s mother had tried to kill DD’s panel beater father; the whole family had taken sides and were either on bail for assault or trying to get bail, and Les figured DD running around in the middle of all this heat, trying to flog an overnight bag full of dope, was a lay down misère to get busted, and him along with her. So Norton left the girl of his dreams in the small, north-coast town where she came from and headed back to the relative peace and quiet of Sydney. That’s showbiz, mused Norton. Or c’est la vie, as they say in France.

  Now it was business as usual; winter, football, a bit of graft at the club and plenty of time to pursue other interests. The boys got a good laugh out of Norton’s Gold Coast tale, especially Eddie, but as life went on that soon became past tense. Then one Friday night at the club Les allowed himself to be shanghaied into going to the races the following day with Price. Eddie managed to get out of it, so did George and Billy. But that particular night Norton hadn’t been tap dancing fast enough, so he got lumbered into spending Saturday afternoon at Royal Randwick.

  Norton didn’t mind a bet at the TAB, but he hated going to the races; especially with Price. You went with Price and once he got a few drinks in him and a bit of a roll on you never knew what was likely
to happen. This particular meeting was no exception to the rule. One of Price’s horses got up at 5/2 by a short half head. Les wasn’t all that confident so he only had $200 on it. Price, however, won a bundle; as did all the punters he’d tipped off. Les was $500 in front, but walking back to the members’ enclosure Price bit Les for another $500 he had snookered away. Thinking it was for a bet or something, Les absently handed Price the $500 then watched horrified as his boss started rolling Norton’s money into balls and flinging it to the cheering punters. Price probably thought Les had won a bundle too, and in the melee between the screaming punters, Price half full of ink and the AJC committee jumping up and down at Price’s shenanigans, Norton knew his chances of retrieving his $500 were skinny to the point of collapsing from anorexia. To make matters worse, after the meeting Price dragged Les to a function at a nearby hotel where they were having a raffle at $250 a ticket to raise money to send a battling jockey’s young daughter to America for a heart operation. First prize was three weeks in California, return trip with Qantas. Disneyland, San Francisco and Las Vegas. And if you didn’t buy a ticket, whether you wanted a holiday or not, you were regarded as a mean, miserable mug. So rather than be classed as a mean, miserable mug Les bought two tickets. Price was astounded and Les couldn’t quite believe his luck either when Gladstone Gander Norton won first prize.

  Oddly enough, Les wasn’t all that rapt in his win. Things were going quite well in Sydney; the football season was in full swing with some great games on TV to settle back and watch in comfort and warmth. LA had been hit by an earthquake, along with San Francisco; there looked like being some massive summer race riots in LA; and everybody he’d spoken to who had come back from Disneyland said it was just a big Luna Park, only you queued up for about an hour to get on each ride. Still, Les had won the trip overseas and he couldn’t get out of it; if he sold the ticket he’d look like Captain Mingy and if he didn’t take the trip he’d look like an ingrate. Or both. Somewhat perplexed, Norton was figuring out his best plan of attack when about a week later an idea struck him.

  Around eighteen months ago Tony Nathan the photographer had introduced Les to an American down at Tamarama Beach. His name was Hank Laurel and he came from a place called Siestasota in Florida, which was a coastal town on the opposite side of the state to Miami. His father was an art dealer; Hank was in Australia thinking of buying aboriginal art while doing some kind of photographic assignment on Sydney for a yank magazine to help pay for the trip, which was how he came across Tony. Hank was in his early thirties, about five feet ten, average build with thinning sandy hair and a lean, jowly face that reminded you a little of a grainy Gary Cooper. He was going to stay at Tony’s flat for a few days, but Tony had some bird called Big Red coming round. So rather than have Hank get in the way while Tony played chasings with Big Red, Tony asked would it be okay if Hank stayed at Norton’s place. Hank didn’t seem too bad, for a yank, so Les said okay. Hank stayed at Norton’s four days and nights and both Les and Warren found him to be a bit of a pain in the arse, but a tolerable one, and they kept getting a laugh because they’d bag the shit out of him and most of the time Hank never knew what was going on. Naturally the first thing they did was nickname the town Hank came from ‘Sepposota’ and it still took Hank a while to wake that Australians called Americans ‘seppos’. Short for septic- tank: yank. Then, if they’d take him anywhere or anyone called round, they’d introduce him as Laurel Lee. Hank thought this was because of the Southern general, Robert E. Lee. He’d never heard of Laurel Lee the singer. Of course everybody else had and thought it was a great joke. Hank being a yank, naturally this all went straight over his head. He’d clomp round the house in the boots and leather jacket he’d got in Mexico, oblivious to the insults the boys were heaping on him. Les and Warren wouldn’t have poked so much shit at Hank, only he came out with the most ridiculous statement the first day he stayed there.

  They’d all risen for breakfast around the same time and, when they’d finished eating, Hank lit a cigarette at the kitchen table and casually began tapping the ash into his coffee cup. Les and Warren looked at each other for a second or two before Les spoke.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked, Hank,’ he said, with brittle politeness.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Hank. ‘And I don’t eat tofu either.’

  Les and Warren looked at each other, barely able to keep a straight face. It was a toss up who was going to belt him first. Warren spoke.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about fuckin’ tofu, Hank,’ he said, ‘but if you don’t piss off with that cigarette I’ll jam this piece of toast, along with that cigarette, right up your arse.’

  ‘You heard him, Marlboro man,’ added Les. ‘If you want to smoke, out the back. If you don’t like the idea, you know where the front door is. And the bus stop’s just down the road.’

  Hank kind of looked at the boys in disbelief. Being an American, he probably thought he was doing the two Australians a favour by staying there. But the boys had very abruptly put him in his place and told him that if he didn’t like the idea he could fuck off. He wouldn’t be missed. He muttered something under his breath then clomped out the backyard and finished his cigarette. Hank took his place after that, realising he was staying there as a favour to Tony, not as a guest of honour. He didn’t smoke in the house and he didn’t bother coming on with the ‘macho man — outlaw from the South’ shit any more. But after his ‘tofu’ statement the boys couldn’t help but rubbish him and America all the time and treat him like a wombat on wheels in general.

  The funny thing was, the more the boys would treat him like shit the more he used to pal up to them. Maybe Hank was into self-flagellation or sadomasochism. Or maybe he was just a sucker for punishment. One night he even seemed to believe it when Warren told him that God made Americans just for Australians to poke shit at.

  Hank went back to America, but he always kept in touch. Warren had a word processor in his room and replied to his letters now and again. But for every letter Warren would send, Hank would send six, plus a couple of T-shirts occasionally, or a baseball cap. Hank always said in his letters though that if ever the boys wanted to come to America they were welcome to stay at his place. His family had heaps of money and he owned two big houses not far from the beach.

  Around the same time Les won his trip to America another letter arrived from Hank and Norton got an idea. He couldn’t get out of this trip to the States but he wasn’t at all keen on going to LA. What about a trip to the South? After meeting Crystal Linx and hearing her talk ‘suthin’ and listening to all that Zydeco music, the idea had entered Norton’s head. And New Orleans, Baton Rouge and all that was more or less just up the road from Florida, according to the map Les had been studying. Plus another place that had been playing on Norton’s mind for a different reason altogether wasn’t far from there either. And the bloody movie had just come up on TV the other night, making it almost an offer Norton couldn’t refuse. So Norton got in touch with a mate of his who was a Qantas flight attendant and, following his friend’s advice, went to the Qantas Travel Centre at Bondi Junction, where he quite legally and properly changed his flight to a three-week open ticket to the United States. He’d arrive at Tampa, Florida, then fly out around three weeks later with a four-day stopover in Hawaii. It cost Les roughly an extra $500 with his travel insurance. He rang Hank in Siestasota to say he was on his way. Hank sounded happy as all get up over the phone and said he’d pick him up at Tampa Airport. All Les then had to do was fix up his visa and pack his swag. Which was how Norton found himself in Warren’s car with his VISA card, $7000 US in traveller’s cheques, a couple of bags and on his way to catch the Qantas 1.55 p.m. Thursday flight to Los Angeles.

  Naturally, being the school holidays, the air refuellers put on a strike, so Norton’s flight was held up half an hour and instead of flying non-stop to LA they’d be stopping in Fiji to pick up fuel. But the girl at the desk assured Les he’d still get there on time for his connecting fligh
t to Dallas, Texas, and the next one to get him into Tampa, Florida, at midnight Thursday their time. He had plenty of time for a cup of coffee before the plane left so he and Warren found a cafeteria where you got your own, a table next to the window and sat down for a bit of a mag before Norton left. Les had said all his goodbyes the night before at the club. All he really needed was a lift out to the airport. Three weeks in America wasn’t as if he was going off to join the French Foreign Legion for ten years.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon, Woz?’ smiled Norton. ‘I leave here Thursday arvo, fly for about twenty-four hours or something and still get there Thursday night. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Terrific, Les.’ Warren looked evenly at Norton. ‘Just remember what I was saying, though. I reckon Hank’s a bit of a nut. Some of those letters he sent me were weird.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Les, ‘I read a couple. But like I said, Woz, it’s a soft landing. It’s not like I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to find a cab and a hotel. I got a bloke picking me up at the airport, a place to stay and he’ll probably show me around.’ Norton shrugged. ‘And if he gets too punishing I’ll just piss off. I’m not short of chops.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,’ nodded Warren.

  ‘Besides, who wants to go to LA and fuckin’ Miami? This Siestasota could be alright.’

  ‘You mean Sepposota,’ chuckled Warren.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Norton had to laugh. ‘Poor bloody Laurel Lee. He could be an awful Beechams at times, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Reckon. We soon pulled him into gear though. Christ! Didn’t we used to put some shit on him?’

  ‘The outlaw from the South.’ Norton shook his head, reflected into his coffee for a moment then looked evenly at Warren. ‘I’ve only met a few yanks, Woz, and you’ve been there a couple of times. They’re not all as dopey as him though, are they?’