And De Fun Don't Done Page 5

  Suddenly the whirring of the fan seemed to be getting further and further away. Well, yawned Les, what about my first trip out of Australia? What a fine mess I’ve landed myself in, Ollie. I wish I was back in bloody Australia. Despite himself, Norton gave a little chuckle. One day away and I’m homesick already.

  Next thing the noise of the fan disappeared altogether, and Les was snoring softly.

  Haven’t we landed yet? What the bloody hell’s going on? The sound of aeroplane propellers woke Les. It was daylight and it wasn’t propellers; it was the fan still whirring away on the other side of the room. Norton blinked up at the ceiling and it all started to come back. Yeah, I’ve landed, alright. And I know where, too. Christ! Les blinked a couple more times then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. He didn’t feel all that bad; a little tired but no hangover. A check of his watch said it was getting on for eleven. S’pose I’d better clean my choppers. Norton got his shaving-kit from his bag and plodded into the bathroom.

  The first thing he noticed was that the light switches clicked in the opposite direction, and then that the toilet bowl was almost full to the brim with water. Well what a dopey idea, Les thought, as he peed away, watching it gurgle and splash. Fancy having a dump with a whole heap of Henry the Thirds sitting right under your date. He pushed the lever and watched the water spiral away like a whirlpool. Glad I don’t feel like one. Next, there were no taps; you pulled one lever up for water and another from side to side to regulate hot and cold. Well I sure bloody don’t want hot water, thought Les, as he scrubbed away. He got it, though — a great mouthful — and it tasted like it just came out of the nearest swamp. Norton shook his head and stared at the unshaven face in the mirror. Welcome to America — digger. You have a good one.

  Now, what’s on today? thought Les, as he climbed into a pair of shorts, Tooheys Blue T-shirt and joggers. Shooting this morning, then swimming this arvo with Indiana Laurel at the Temple of Gloom. Les had no shortage of T- shirts; he’d thrown about ten in his bag to give to Hank and his mates as a bit of a friendly gesture. I reckon I’ll still have them when I leave, Les smiled to himself as he tucked a Tooheys Blue one into his shorts, because I imagine any friends of Hank’s would be on the endangered species list and shit for brains sure ain’t getting one. He stopped in front of the sliding glass door for a moment to stare out at the backyard, if that’s what it was. There was a house next door on his right and about a hundred yards away past a clearing through some scrubby trees Les could see a dark, murky-looking lagoon, or piece of swamp or whatever, lying languid in the heat. It wasn’t the most awe-inspiring sight so he went straight into the kitchen.

  There was a soft light still on and coffee on the stove; Les helped himself to that and to the fridge as well. He found some sweet-tasting orange juice, bread, cheese, tomato and other odds and ends with strange brand names and made himself a couple of sandwiches. The coffee was very good. Les was contentedly chewing and slurping away while he stared out into the backyard when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

  ‘Oh, hello. You must be Mr Norton?’

  Les turned around, his mouth still full of coffee and sandwich. It had to be Hank’s mother. He hadn’t mummified her body after all. She looked about seventy, a little short, a little frail, wearing a white shirt and white slacks, with her grey hair in a tidy bun on her head. She looked like a typical mother, but she spoke very slowly and as she did she tilted her head to one side and held her finger and thumb under her chin in a demure, almost theatrical manner. Mrs Laurel had class about her even if her dill of a son didn’t.

  ‘I see you managed to find everything alright?’

  ‘Mmmphhh!’ answered Les, gulping down coffee and sandwich. ‘Yes. I hope I didn’t wake you up or anything. I saw the coffee — and it smelled that good I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Oh, that’s quite alright. You just make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, I’m Les. You must be Mrs Laurel.’

  The lady took Norton’s extended hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Les.’

  ‘You too, Mrs Laurel. And I promise I won’t get in your road or make a mess.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here, Les.’ Mrs Laurel gave Norton a bit of a shaky once up and down. ‘Hank told me all about you coming. He said you’d be staying here for two weeks, then you were going to New Orleans.’

  Norton stared blankly at Mrs Laurel while she studied him. New Orleans? Shit! What did I say to Boofhead over the phone? They’d take a trip up there and Les would shout the expenses? Christ! Wouldn’t that be a fun trip? ‘Yes,’ he nodded vaguely. ‘Something like that.’

  At the mention of the word ‘Boofhead’, who should come clomping into the kitchen wearing dirty jeans, an old grey T-shirt and desert boots but number one son. Mrs Laurel smiled at Les and just looked at Hank. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Before Norton had a chance to reply, she was gone.

  ‘What did she want?’ asked Hank.

  ‘Not much,’ answered Norton, taking a sip of coffee. ‘She just said good morning. I think she lives here.’

  Hank’s eyes spun around the kitchen for a while before arriving on Les. ‘Well, are you ready?’

  Norton nodded slowly and took another sip of coffee. ‘Can you just give me five minutes to press my hunting jacket?’

  Captain Rat’s eyes spun around some more. ‘I’ll be out front,’ he muttered and disappeared.

  Norton didn’t particularly hurry finishing his coffee and sandwich and cleaning up after him. He took his time getting some money, his roosters cap out of his bag and cleaning his sunglasses too. There was no way Hank was going to leave without him. Hank was going out to play shoot-em-up-bang-bangs and impress the mug from Australia no matter what. Or is ‘jerk’ the more appropriate word, mused Les? Hank was looking predictably sour, though, when Les walked outside and climbed into the pick-up. He was reversing around before Norton barely got a chance to close the door.

  They rumbled down the driveway and Hank turned right. They’d travelled about quarter of a mile along some wide street, and Les was checking out the houses, when he suddenly grabbed Hank’s arm.

  ‘Hey, Hank! Stop the car! Quick!’ Before Hank knew what he was doing, he hit the brakes and Norton was out of the car, straight up a driveway and checking out something that was leaning against a sign saying Garage Sale.

  Inside the double garage was just the usual display of second-hand rubbish; T-shirts, furniture, books, tools, etc. The only outstanding feature was the elderly couple sitting there who had to be the owners. They were the ugliest, most sour-faced pair of bastards Norton had ever seen. With their miserable, lumpy, seppo heads they reminded Les of those awful dolls you buy squashed up in jars.

  ‘You pair of dropkicks want fifty dollars for that bike out the front?’ said Les.

  The male doll-in-the jar nodded his lumpy head. Before the ugly dropkick knew what had happened he had a fifty dollar bill in his hand and Les was wheeling the bike towards Hank’s pick-up. It was just a blue, flat, frame thing with straight handlebars and ten-speed gears; but it was solid and the brakes worked good. Norton had spotted it out the corner of his eye. He tossed it in the back then climbed in the front as Hank took off, almost completely spun out. You would have thought Les had just committed some atrocity.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘And what did you get that pile of junk for?’

  Norton gave an indifferent shrug. ‘To ride on. What do you think I got it for? All these flat roads, that thing’ll be a piece of piss to get round on. I can see the real America.’ Plus get a bit of exercise, and it’s a good excuse to get away from you — shithead. ‘Haven’t you got a ten-speed? Me and Warren have back home. So’s Tony.’

  ‘What would I want a goddamn bike for?’

  ‘Ride along road. Go to village. See other natives.’

  They turned into a wider street then onto som
e highway big enough to land a 747 on. Hank stared ahead, sucking on his cigarette, then turned to Les for a second. ‘I can get a bike if I want to.’

  ‘You should,’ replied Les.

  ‘I just might.’

  ‘Good. Make sure it’s got a bell.’

  After that it was more freeway and off-roads through swamps for about thirty minutes, then Les heard the target range about half a kilometre before they pulled up. Blam! Kapow! Boom! Blam, blam, blam! Kapow! They got out of the pick-up, Hank took two metal boxes from the back and handed Les a pair of ear-protectors. You needed them — it sounded like the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Les put them on as Hank nodded for him to follow.

  It was a shooting range about two hundred yards long, full of paper targets hung between wooden poles. There was a hill of dirt behind to stop the bullets and a row of benches in front. Alongside the benches was a path with a white line painted down the middle that led to an office. Standing, or seated around the benches, were about twenty gun-crazy seppos in Elmer Fudd caps blazing away with anything that fired bullets, made lots of noise and could be held in your hand. Blam! Blam! Kapow! Blam! Blam! Blam! Les decided to act dumb.

  Hank directed Les to stand behind the white line while he went to the office and bought two paper targets and a couple of bright orange stickers, which he put on one side of the targets. Through his ear-protectors Les heard a siren hoot then a voice over a PA system saying something about how it was now a non-fire zone or some bloody thing. Everybody put their weapons on the benches with the clips out then went and checked or changed their targets. Hank told Les to come and help pin theirs up. Les did as he was told. Back at their bench, Hank opened up the two metal boxes; one was full of bullets, the other held the guns. Laurel put the Walther and the .45 in front of Les then set himself up with the Peacemaker. He briskly showed Les how to load the two guns and aim, probably hoping and expecting Les to make a complete dill of himself. But you don’t have to be Daniel Boone to stuff ten or so bullets in a clip, slide back a cocking lever and pull the trigger. Not after Eddie Salita’s shown you a number of times.

  They stood behind the white line, another siren hooted and the voice crackled over the PA that it was now a free- fire zone, then everybody stepped back to their benches and started blasting away again.

  Les missed the weight of the silencers they used in Eddie’s underground shooting room; still, the Walther went off okay. It fired a little to the right, but after sighting in on the orange markers Les had no trouble ringing eight shots round the bullseye at twenty metres or so sitting down. The .45 kicked back and up, as Norton expected, so he laid the barrel across the block of wood on his bench, gripped the barrel with his thumb and forefinger and remembered what Eddie said: ‘You don’t pull the trigger. You squeeze it, gently. Just like your girl’s tit.’ After sighting up on the orange sticker, Les managed to put another eight bullets in a short straight line right across the circle of holes around the bullseye. Les put the guns on the bench after that and watched Hank. Laurel Lee was all concentration, aiming and firing as if his life depended on it; and probably so he could show Norton up. Around him the rest of the mob, in their Elmer Fudd caps and cammies, were blazing away as if they were defending the Alamo. Norton walked down to a drink machine next to the office and got a can of Grape Crush, which tasted alright for a change. When he got back a new team had moved onto the bench next to him. It was a bloke about forty and three kids, the oldest of whom would have been eleven. Dad unpacked the gear and away they went. Blam, blam, blam! Then Dad pulled out a huge stainless steel Magnum; even with Les’s ear-protectors on the noise was almost deafening. He sat and drank his Grape Crush till the hooter sounded and they all went out to check their targets.

  ‘I’ve never fired one of those things before,’ said Les. ‘How did I go?’

  More interested in his own target, Hank looked briefly at Norton’s. ‘You managed to get a couple near the markers and that’s about it.’ Hank gave a shitty sort of laugh. ‘Apart from that, you missed the target altogether.’

  ‘What about that black part in the middle?’ Les watched Hank’s eyes spinning around as he stared at Norton’s target. ‘You’re supposed to get them all in a circle, aren’t you? I managed to do that with the little gun. But the big one just seemed to keep firing in a straight line. Looks neat, but.’ Norton gave a little laugh. ‘It’s still good fun though — ain’t it?’

  Hank muttered something about Les still not grouping his shots correctly, then stormed back to his bench. Les followed him and away they went again.

  After about thirty minutes or so it wasn’t boring enough; it was also starting to cloud over and thunder was rattling ominously across the sky. One of the kids at the next bench said something about someone using a big gun upstairs, which Les didn’t think was a bad line. Who said seppos didn’t have a sense of humour? Hank kept firing steadily away with his Peacemaker, playing John Wayne or whatever. In between breaks he’d scrabble around on the floor for his shells like an old chook. Les knew if he didn’t do something they’d be there all bloody day, so he started shoving clips of bullets in the guns and blazing away with them two at a time till there was hardly enough of his paper target left to throw at a wedding. Finally Les laid both guns on the bench, with the clips out, like a good gun freak, and waited patiently. Eventually Hank reached for more ammo.

  ‘Hey! Where’s all the goddamn bullets?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les. ‘I think we’ve run out. Fuckin’ good fun, though, ain’t it?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Les went for his pocket. ‘We’ll buy some more.’

  ‘You can’t buy bullets out here.’

  ‘You can’t? Ohh shit! What a bastard. Wait on, maybe some of these people might sell us a few bullets.’

  Hank’s eyes looked like they were going to spin out of his head. ‘Ohh, for chrissake!’

  This time around Les thought he might give Laurel a hand to pick up the empty shells; they were nearly all under Les so he didn’t have far to reach. They retrieved their targets, Hank threw his in the garbage tin, Les folded his up into a tiny ball and put it in his pocket, saying something about what a great souvenir it would make. There was more thunder, and it started to rain as they packed up and walked back to the car. It had to be almost a hundred per cent humidity now and the sweat was running down the stubble of Norton’s face and dripping from his chin. Despite the heat, though, the atmosphere in the pick-up was quite cool, even if Laurel didn’t have the air-conditioning on.

  ‘Well, that was tops, Hank. I never had so much fun in my life. We’ll have to do it again some time.’ Hank muttered something under his breath and took a heavy drag on his cigarette. ‘So where are we going now?’ asked Les.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Good.’ Norton gazed up at the sky. ‘I can get my bike out of the rain.’

  They drove back to Swamp Manor more or less in silence. Hank said he had to make some phone calls for about an hour, by that time the rain should clear up and they’d go diving at some place called the Keys. Norton figured out Hank wasn’t doing him any favours; after his latest trauma Captain Rats probably needed a swim himself, or at least cooling off. They crunched up on the driveway next to the sagging carport. Hank stormed off to his part of Swamp Manor, ignoring Norton’s offer to help oil the guns, so Les got his bike from the back of the pick-up and put it on the front verandah, then went to his room to sort out his next move. He decided to unpack a bit more gear to try and make his miserable sweatbox a little homelier. He hung up his shirts and jeans and spread out a few T-shirts. Hank had mentioned he lived by a beach so Norton had thrown in a pair of hand webs and mini jet fins. Norton’s overnight bag had straps on it to double as a small backpack; he put them in it, plus a towel, and then changed into his Speedos. Les had just finished sorting out his tapes and was playing with the automatic telephoto lens on an instamatic camera he’d brought when a thought occurred to him. He hadn
’t had a crap since he left Australia, and didn’t feel like one. Les was blocked up. Between his body clock, the heat, a bit of nerves and all that airline food his system was all out of kilter. And it would stay that way if he didn’t do something. Les fiddled with the camera for a few moments more, then not wishing to get around feeling like he had half a housebrick jammed in his stomach walked out to the kitchen. Les didn’t find what he was looking for in a bottle, it was in a paper carton, the same as a 500 ml milk one back home, and was under the sink. Les got a cup of hot water together, shovelled in two tablespoons, and down the hatch. It tasted like chewing a burning tyre. Les was expecting that and had poured an orange juice chaser. Fuckin’ Epsom Salts, cursed Les, as he swilled more orange juice round his mouth to get rid of the taste. Whoever invented that shit? He swilled more orange juice, shook his head in disgust then went back to his room to read more P. J. O’Rourke and wait to see what happened. After a few pages his stomach began to rumble ominously like the thunder out at the shooting range. A few more pages and Captain Rats stormed in.