And De Fun Don't Done Page 12

  ‘Yeah, he’s a funny bludger alright, that Steve Martin,’ said Norton. ‘A comic genius just like Woody Allen. And a good family man too.’

  Hank’s eyes spun briefly towards Les like he was denouncing him. ‘He’s not a comic genius. He’s not even in the same realm as Woody Allen!’

  Les had to think for a second. ‘Shit! Did I say that, did I? I’m sorry. I was just voicing an opinion. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Steve Martin’s not a comic genius.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I was completely out of order. In fact, when I think about it, Steve Martin’s a complete and utter arse. He’s about as funny as spending three days on a swamp with Norman Bates.’

  Hank glared suspiciously at Les. ‘Who?’

  ‘A bloke I know back in Australia.’ Les watched as Hank got up to remove the video and thought how lovely it would be to boot him straight up the arse. ‘So what are we doing… knackers.’

  Hank sat back down and finished his cigarette. ‘There’s a bar on Main got a band. We’ll have a look there, then I have to take a trip across town. I’m not having a late one. I got things to do tomorrow.’

  Les nodded through the fumes at Hank. ‘Suits me. I want to have a look at that condo tomorrow. Get it out of the road early. What time do you want to get going in the morning?’

  Hank seemed to look a little oddly at Les. ‘Around nine.’

  ‘Give yourself time to have another three-bagger.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’ll give me time to have my bags packed.’

  Hank shook his head. ‘We’ll go and have a look at the place first.’

  Norton immediately sensed Captain Rats was playing some weird game of cat and mouse with him. Go along with it though. It’s only for one more night. ‘Yeah okay. I’d hate to think I was moving into some dump — especially after this.’ Hank’s expression didn’t change as he sucked on his cigarette. ‘Oh, before we go any further, I reckon you would have used a bit of juice and that today. So here’s another fifty bucks.’ Les pulled out his wedge and handed Hank the freshly ironed fifty dollar bill. ‘There you are, mate. Straight out of the bank. And you needn’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  Hank almost snatched the crisp, shiny fifty out of Norton’s hand. His eyes spun round as he looked at it, almost as if he was examining the serial number. This time he put it in his front pocket. Bugger it, Les cursed to himself. I’ll have a hard time getting it out of there. Oh well. For a second Les thought Hank was going to say thanks. Instead, he stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Okey-doke.’ Norton dutifully fell in behind and tailed Hank out to the pick-up, laughing quietly to himself as he watched Hank trying not to limp.

  Norton didn’t say much as they were driving along; there wasn’t a great deal he could say. Holding a conversation with Captain Rats was like trying to talk Hitler into changing his battle plans. He was the greatest know- all Les had ever come across, even for a yank. There was no doubt about that. Now you weren’t even allowed to have an opinion when he was around. Les was still curious, however, as to just how big a prick he actually was. While they were driving along Les thought he’d give Hank a kind of ‘travelling ink blot test’. They sped in and out of the traffic, past the houses and shops, before stopping at another set of lights. As they did a shiny maroon car pulled up alongside. It had tinted windows, lots of chrome and the way it was chopped off at the boot reminded Les of an overblown Volvo.

  ‘Gee, that’s a nice car,’ said Les. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting one of those to run around in while I’m over here.’

  Hank moved his cigarette and leaned over to see what Les was looking at. ‘You call that a good car? It’s a pile of junk. Every jerk from out of state drives round in one of those.’

  ‘Really?’ answered Norton. ‘Oh! Well, I won’t bother getting one of those then.’

  They got a bit closer to downtown, the roads got a little narrower and they had to slow up for a line of traffic. Les spotted a rambling kind of two-storey house on the side of the road with well-kept trees out the front and gables on the windows; it was nothing special, but the way it was painted brown and yellow made it stand out from the others and gave it a certain charm.

  ‘Hey look at that house over there, Hank. Isn’t it a ripper? All those nice gables and trees.’ Les shook his head in sham admiration. ‘I could handle living in a nice place like that.’

  Hank sneered and blew smoke towards where Les was looking. ‘You call that a good house, do you? It probably belongs to some nigger pimp.’ Hank shook his head disdainfully. ‘I should take you down the Keys one day and show you what a decent house looks like.’

  With a sardonic smile spread across his face Les turned to Captain Rats. ‘Would you really go to all that trouble for me? Gee, you’re a good bloke, Hank.’

  Congratulations Boofhead, Les smiled to himself. You just passed the ink blot test with flying colours. You are a twenty-five carat, 110 per cent prick. No, I’m wrong there. A moll up the Cross once told me that pricks are useful. You’re a dead prick.

  Next thing they’d pulled up in Main Street, outside some shops and restaurants not far from Toby’s bar.

  They left the car and walked a short distance to a place called Gator Man’s. It was a two-storey bar that took up most of the corner, frosted glass windows wrapped right around the corner and across the front was painted ‘Gator Man’s’ in green and red. The awning showed a cowboy and an alligator wearing ten-gallon hats, arm in arm having a drink together. As you stepped inside there was a smallish bar on your right, tables and stools, a small dancefloor with a set of stairs next to it, more tables and stools and a bigger bar down the back. It was very nicely done out with lots of lamps and mirrors, giving it that classy, old style ambience Les had seen in movies about New Orleans. The best thing, though, was the band. They were called the Platinum Tones — four piece, all white in their thirties and howling. The lead singer had short, neat blond hair and rimless glasses and looked like a school teacher, but that was where the resemblance ended. He might have looked a little square, but he shook like a jelly, wriggled like a snake and sang rock ’n’ roll like Norton had never heard, while behind him the band scorched out every note tighter than Scrooge McDuck’s money belt. The punters were a good style of people, crammed onto the dancefloor, seated at the tables or standing around tapping their feet. There was no shortage of attractive women. But girls nor not, Les would have stayed just for the music, the place was jumping. Despite being straddled with the biggest lemon in Florida, Norton’s mood changed the moment he walked in the door.

  ‘Holy bloody shit!’ he exclaimed, as the lead singer whipped out a harmonica and let go some licks that singed your eyebrows. ‘How good’s this?’

  Hank gave a cool, almost uninterested shrug, which Les just about expected. If the Rolling Stones were on stage with the queen mother out front topless and juggling chainsaws he’d have done the same thing. Les was a little curious as to why Hank, being such an egg roll, would want to come to a place as bopping as this in the first place. He probably wanted to but never had the money — or the company. And Les was both. For a short time, yes, thought Norton, as he reached for his pocket.

  ‘So what’ll you have?’

  Hank gave another cool shrug. ‘Beer.’

  Les stepped through the punters to the smaller bar near the front door. The barmaid had frizzy blonde hair, a red, Gator Man’s T-shirt and a nice wide smile that got even wider when Les spoke.

  ‘One beer thanks — any bloody thing in a glass’ll do. Plus a nice bourbon sour and a frosted margarita.’

  ‘Youuuuu got it, buddy,’ smiled the girl.

  The delicious drinks arrived, accompanied by another smile; Les left a good tip, picked up his two drinks and joined Captain Rats. Hank saw the drinks in Norton’s hands and his eyes started to spin round in a sort of paranoid disbelief.

 
‘Yours is on the bar,’ purred Les. ‘I couldn’t carry three.’

  Hank’s eyes spun around some more before he stormed over and got his beer. By the time he got back, Les had demolished his first delicious in three swallows and was doing pretty much the same thing to the margarita.

  While Les was slurping into his second drink, the lead singer removed the remote microphone, the lead guitarist did the same with his Fender and they went for a stroll among the punters, ending up in the street out the front. It was great. The two of them were strolling around, shoving the mike in people’s faces, while back on stage this scorching rock ’n’ roll was still thundering away from just a bass and drums. They got back on stage to the roar of the crowd and continued to scorch their way through some more good rock ’n’ roll, while Norton continued to scorch his way through some more good drinks. Gator Man’s was nicely air-conditioned but the music couldn’t help but make you get a sweat up; Les lost count after margarita number six and bourbon sour number four. He bought Hank one more beer then let him get his own after that. Hank bought a couple of drinks but didn’t bother getting Les any. Whoever thought up that saying, ‘Wouldn’t shout if a shark bit him’, surmised Les, definitely must have had Boofhead in mind at the time. Eventually the Platinum Tones took a well-deserved break to more tumultuous applause, and much drunken whistling and stomping from Norton.

  ‘Shit! How good were they?’ said Les, still clapping away. Hank, who hadn’t bothered to applaud, gave another noncommittal shrug and said nothing. Les told himself he’d be cool and not let Hank get under his skin. But with a sudden rush of tequila and whiskey pumping through him he just couldn’t help himself, especially after music like that. ‘Hank,’ he said tightly. ‘Is there anything, apart from that dopey pile of guns you got back at your place, you do like?’ Hank’s eyes spun around everywhere except at Norton, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Don’t answer right away, Hank,’ continued Les. ‘Think on it for a while. There has to be something. In the meantime, I’m going for a look upstairs.’ He took a slurp of his drink and let his eyes run around the bar. ‘Do you think you’ll be safe down here on your own for a few minutes, Mel? There’s a lot of girls around.’

  Hank gave another shrug. ‘I’m cool.’

  Norton tipped down the rest of his drink. ‘Yeah. Like a fur coat in a bushfire.’ He put the empty glass on the nearest table and walked towards the stairs.

  This is being done to me deliberately, thought Les, as he trotted up the carpeted staircase. Back in Australia I would have slowly choked that goose to death. But now I’m learning to be more tolerant. I’m going to become a better person. Lovely Les they’ll be calling me after this. He momentarily glanced upwards. That’s if I make it through the night. And the fuckin’ morning.

  When he got to the top of the stairs Les stopped dead and gave a double, triple blink. One word couldn’t describe it. It was classy, plush, opulent and just plain beautiful. One half was a restaurant and bar, the other was just like a huge drawing room in some old, turn of the century mansion. The furniture was fully restored, old Chesterfields and beautifully carved and varnished mahogany or redwood chairs and tables. Tasselled lampshades sat in the corners and soft lights clung to the walls, gently reflecting onto huge, gilt-edged mirrors set round the walls and two exquisitely carved marble fireplaces. Paintings and old photos hung between the mirrors or round the walls and floor-to-ceiling glass-paned doors hung with blinds or red velvet drapes overlooked the street. More tastefully carved dressers and conversation tables were placed carefully around a beige carpet, which was that thick and soft they probably hired a green keeper to look after it. It was like stepping back into another era, into something… Les couldn’t seem to think of for the moment. So he just stood there blinking.

  ‘Like it, do you?’

  Norton turned slightly. Standing next to him was a tall, well-built man in his early thirties wearing a light blue shirt. He wasn’t hard looking, but he had a square jaw and a confident smile with short, curly brown hair going a little prematurely grey near his ears.

  ‘Like it?’ replied Les absently. ‘Mate, it’s the bloody grouse.’ He turned to the man talking to him. ‘What, are you the owner, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m the manager.’

  Les shook his head in wonder and curiosity. ‘You know, this place reminds me of something. But I can’t bloody think what.’

  ‘A brothel?’

  Norton snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it. I mean…’

  The manager smiled. ‘That’s what this place used to be. The most high-class brothel in Southern Florida.’

  ‘Fair dinkum. Jesus, I’ll tell you what, mate, it’s something else.’

  ‘Used to be called the Siestasota Gentleman’s Club. The rooms were upstairs. The girls used to sit around here. Senators, judges, high rollers from all over Florida. This is where they’d come to…’ the manager grinned, ‘shall we say… enjoy themselves.’

  ‘Well I’ll be fucked,’ said Les unconsciously.

  The manager chuckled. ‘No offence… mate. But you’d’ve been safe. Even with your best dress on.’ Norton had to laugh. ‘So what are you drinking?’

  ‘Well I…’ shrugged Les.

  The manager caught the dark-haired barman’s eye. ‘Give this guy whatever he wants.’

  ‘Hey, thanks, mate.’

  ‘Our pleasure. Take a look around, I’ll probably see you downstairs.’

  The manager disappeared; Les ordered a frosted margarita. It came in a brandy balloon big enough to hold a dozen giant carp, and was unbelievably delicious. Shit, this must be that ‘suthin hospitality’ I keep hearing about. Les took his time finishing his drink while he checked out the paintings and photos of old Florida, moving very discreetly among the clientele. For a second he flashed back to the Kelly Club. Jesus! Wouldn’t Price and George love to see this place. After a while he reluctantly went downstairs and rejoined Boofhead.

  Hank was standing in the same place, drinking another beer, sucking moodily on another cigarette. Standing among the other clean-looking punters he looked like he’d come to collect the empty bottles.

  ‘So how’ve you been while I was away, Richard Gere? Still got your cherry?’

  Hank’s eyes spun all over the place as he took a monstrous drag on his cigarette and tried to ignore Les. There were two girls sitting on stools at the table next to them; both brunettes around thirty, one had on a blue polka-dot dress, the other a black top and a blue skirt. They were no oil paintings, but they looked happy enough and Les was in one of those moods where he would have put a mag on with a deaf parking cop.

  ‘How are you goin’ there, girls?’ he said, more out of friendliness than trying to chat them up.

  ‘We’re doin’ just fine, thanks,’ answered the one in the black top.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Les. ‘I ain’t going too bad myself. In fact, I’m just going to the bar to fill up. Could I have the pleasure of buying you two young ladies a drink?’

  The two girls blinked at each other for a second then turned to Les. ‘Okay,’ said the one in the black top again. ‘I’ll have a Wild Turkey and dry.’

  ‘And I’ll have a vodka and clamato,’ said the other.

  ‘I’ll be back quicker than a mother-in-law’s kiss,’ winked Les.

  Norton returned with the girls’ drinks, plus two more margaritas for himself. He almost wasn’t going to get Hank a drink, but changed his mind and got him a beer, leaving it on the bar. As he placed the drinks on the table Les nodded to the bar. Hank muttered something under his breath before he went over and got it. Fuck you, you big tart, thought Les. I don’t even feel like shouting you a drink, so the least you can do is get off your fat arse and get the bloody thing.

  There was a quick ‘cheers’ as Les clinked the girls’ glasses. ‘So where are you from, girls — if I may be so rude as to ask?’

  ‘Indiana,’ replied the one in the polka-dot dress.

  Norton took a thoughtful slur
p on drink number one as Hank returned with his beer. ‘Indiana? Don’t they call people from there “hosers”, or “hoosers” or something?’

  ‘“Hoosiers”,’ said Black Top.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘That’s it. What’s it mean?’

  Black Top gave a funny sort of smile. ‘It’s kinda short for “Who’s ya”. Hoosier momma. Hoosier poppa. You got it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m with you,’ Les laughed happily. ‘We got a place like that back home. It’s called Tasmania.’

  ‘Hey, I know that place,’ said Black Top. ‘That’s where that little guy on the Bugs Bunny show comes from. The one with the huge mouth.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Les. ‘Aaarrhgloogarharghgrrrgloogh! Raaabittt!’

  ‘Hey you’re not bad!’ laughed the girl in the polka-dots.

  ‘I come from an old showbiz family back in Australia,’ said Les. ‘Va-veer-va-va-veer! That’s all, folks.’

  Black Top took a healthy slurp on her Wild Turkey. ‘So what’s your name?’

  ‘Les.’

  ‘I’m Lori. And this is Bobbie-Sue.’

  Norton gave a double blink. ‘Well cut me legs off and call me Shorty. Pleased to meet you, girls.’

  Suddenly the girls seemed to notice Hank, standing next to them like a Lowes dummy. ‘Who’s your pal? Is he an aussie too?’

  Les gave Hank a boozy once up and down. ‘No. This is Vinny Luarali. Also known as Vinny the Bike. Vinny’s from New York. You know what I’m sayin’. Hey, Vinny. Say hello to the girls.’ For some reason Les found himself slipping into the bit of New Yorkese he’d picked up from Crystal Linx. Unfortunately it was going over with Hank like an attack of gout. He turned away and blew smoke towards the front door. ‘Hey, Vinny. What is this, huh? Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya. Make yourself a san’wich. Have a glass of milk. You know what I’m sayin’?’