And De Fun Don't Done Page 6

  ‘Well, are you ready?’

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ replied Les. He put down his book and followed Hank out to the pick-up.

  Hank opened up an old plastic shopping bag he had in the back and handed Les a perished pair of flippers and a scratched and battered facemask. ‘You have been diving before?’

  Les nodded. ‘I brought a pair of fins with me.’ He had a look in the ancient shopping bag. ‘Where’s the snorkels?’

  ‘You don’t need a snorkel.’

  ‘I don’t? We are going skindiving, aren’t we? At least that’s what you told me.’

  ‘If the water’s dirty you don’t need a snorkel.’

  Before Norton had a chance to suggest that even if you’re swimming in sump oil snorkels do come in handy, Hank was in the car with the motor running. Norton got inside and was about to say something but changed his mind, deciding to take another tack. As well as being a twenty-five-carat prick, Hank was obviously mentally unbalanced. Why not knock the flip off balance altogether? And without having to risk hitting him on the chin. Captain Rats could be broken: unmercifully. Les let them get about a mile or a kilometre or whatever it was down the road — with the Americans not into the metric system Les didn’t know where he was half the time — then asked Hank the question he knew Hank was dying to be asked.

  ‘Jeez, this is a top car, Hank. You sure don’t get ’em like this in Australia. It goes like the clappers. What kind is it? You had it long?’

  After that it was easy. Hank vroomed through the traffic, exactly like a would-be, good ol’ boy from the South, driving a black pick-up truck, should, while he showed and told Les how good his pick-up was. Even with Laurel Lee playing Smokey and the Bandit and the constant stream of cigarette smoke, Norton was just about able to switch completely off. They zoomed in and out of the traffic along these monstrous roads, surrounded by monstrous cars driven by monstrous seppos with equally monstrous heads; generally about one seppo to an air-conditioned vehicle. On either side of the road it was all fast food restaurants and drive-in stores, each with more parking space than Bondi Junction bus depot. There were no buses, no pushbikes, and scarcely a pedestrian in sight. Now and again a pick-up with wheels twenty feet in diameter would pull up alongside, driven by some gum-chewing seppo in an Elmer Fudd cap, and naturally Hank would have to have a go. They turned left onto a bridge across a wide strip of water and came off into narrower roads now surrounded by houses, trees and blocks of flats. Hank turned left again and through the flats Les could see a shining expanse of water, which he recognised from the map he had in Australia as the Gulf of Mexico. A row of touristy shops and restaurants appeared that reminded Les a little of Rose Bay in Sydney. He was looking at the shops when Hank pulled up at a 7-11.

  ‘I want to get a pack of cigarettes and a Coke.’

  ‘Righto. I might have a quick look in that shop there. I need a pair of thongs.’

  Hank locked his precious car and took the keys. Beauty, thought Les.

  The shop Norton had spotted was a typical surf-dive shop; air-conditioned inside and full of T-shirts, board- shorts, diving gear, etc. Nothing was cheap, especially the silicone facemasks with side vision and the latest snorkels that didn’t let water in. Norton paid cash for one of each and left with his receipt and a, ‘You have a good one.’ Hank was seated in the car, opening a packet of Winston, with what looked like a plastic bucket of Coca- Cola and ice sitting on his lap, when Les climbed inside. ‘Did you get your thongs?’ he said, with half a sneer on his face.

  It was then that Les noticed Hank was barefoot. It was at least ninety-five outside and the roads were hotter than stove lids. Poor Laurel. As well as being filthy on the world, he was filthy on himself. ‘No. They didn’t have any in my size.’

  ‘So what’s in the bag?’ Les opened it up. Hank’s face twisted up even more. ‘You bought a snorkel?’

  ‘Yeah, they were on special. Anyway, if I don’t need it I can always throw it away.’

  Hank shook his head in disbelief. He muttered something without looking at Les and they drove off. Les gazed impassively out the side window. Yes, I’ve sure got a live one here.

  Hank turned off down some side street surrounded by blocks of flats and trees, then pulled up at the bottom where the road running along the water stopped at some houses. There were no natural rocks, just granite blocks sitting on a narrow strip of sand. In front of the blocks, a broken concrete pier jutted out about twenty metres. The sea road to the left had blocks of flats on both sides and beyond Les could see a gleaming white beach that ran for about four miles surrounded by more high-rises. It reminded Les a little of Surfers Paradise. To the right was a channel running past the homes built out to the water’s edge. Apart from a couple of small bays and more high- rises in the distance this reminded Les of Sydney Harbour. Only it was a bigger expanse of water. Les also noticed quite a strong current running towards them.

  ‘We’ll swim north,’ said Hank, getting out of the car. ‘Look for snook.’

  ‘Snook?’

  ‘They’re big black fish. They’ll come right up to you if you dive down just out from the rocks and sit there. The goddamn state won’t let you spear them. But I’ll come back tomorrow when the tide’s right if they’re there. I know a guy with a restaurant.

  ‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled,’ promised Les.

  They started getting changed when Hank eyed Norton’s webs and jet fins. ‘What are those stupid things?’

  ‘I like to play Creature from the Black Lagoon,’ said Les, opening and closing the webs a few times.

  ‘You have to use them, do you?’ Hank’s lip curled again.

  Norton was going to say something about how you do if you want to swim quicker and easier and how Hank should try moving into the twentieth century and see how he liked it, when several powerboats roared past, full of girls in bikinis and flashy-looking men all doing it in style — champagne, music, gold chains, the works. The noise of the motors almost deafened you as they howled by, leaving a wake big enough to swamp a surf-boat.

  ‘Goddamn tourist New Yorkers,’ cursed Hank. ‘God, I hate the noisy sonsofbitches. They fuck the whole beach.’

  That’s not all they’re fucking either, Les chuckled to himself. ‘Yeah. They’re enough to give you the shits alright.’

  Hank locked the car and then clambered down across the rocks and sand; naturally Les followed. After they had washed their facemasks and got their flippers on they dived in and started swimming against the current.

  Hank wasn’t lying when he’d mentioned dirty water; you were lucky if you could see six feet and the water was that warm you could have put tea bags in it. But it was water and it was still wet and it got rid of the sweat and felt bloody good. Just what Norton needed. They plodded along against the current with Hank floundering around having to stop for air every now and again. Armed with all the new technology, Les was doing it cosy, diving up and down just having a good time. The face- mask fitted like a glove, the snorkel was almost miraculous and the fins and mini flippers made Norton feel like the creature from the black lagoon. After ten minutes of plodding along behind Hank Les felt like a Ferrari stuck in first gear in traffic. In the dirty, choppy water Hank wouldn’t know what was going on so Les decided to put his foot down; or at least his feet. The fins dug in, so did the jet fins and Norton took off like a big, red torpedo. Even against the current he was just powering. After a five minute burst, Les stopped in front of some rocks and looked back. He’d gone past a little bay and about five hundred metres back he could see Hank still floundering around towards the sheltered little bay. The burst through the water felt good and Norton’s lungs were pumping. But the strain had a noticeable effect. A ripple of pain and wind suddenly went through Norton’s abdomen. Yes, he mused. I think I’ll be saying goodbye to an old friend any tick of the clock now. He watched Hank for a couple more seconds then turned round and swam easily off into the current.

  Les kept close to the rocky shoreline;
dirty, warm water, there could be something else besides snook moving around here, he mused. Still, I have to see what Captain Rats is on about. Les began diving up and down next to the rocks: there was a surprising number of fish for so close to a populated area. Lots of little ones would flitter amongst the rocks then larger, tropical looking ones with colourful stripes and wide flat bodies. Les swam out a little further from the rocks, took a good, deep breath, dived down about fifteen feet into the warm gloom and held onto the rocks. He didn’t quite shit himself, but he got quite a start when these long, black fish swam right up in front of his mask and sat there, their fins and tails just moving in the current. They were at least a metre long and looked exactly like New South Wales Whiting; same shape, same long mouths only scaly black. They floated in front of him quite calmly then disappeared when Les came up for air. Well I’ll be stuffed. Norton couldn’t quite believe his eyes. He floated, kicking in the current for a minute or two then dived down and held onto the rocks again as he popped his ears. Another four Snook swam up and floated right in front of him: one had to be at least five feet long and two feet wide. Again they swam slowly off as Les floated to the surface. No wonder the authorities won’t let you spear them, he thought. With gun crazy seppos around like Captain Rats it’d be a slaughter. I could’ve caught those ones with a plastic fork.

  Another two powerboats roared past towards where they’d left the pick-up and further back Les could see Hank, his head bobbing up and down as he swum against the current. Norton was kicking easily, half laughing at Laurel Lee doing it tough only because he was such a flip, when the pressure of the dives along with the sudden power burst hit him. This time an extremely violent pain went all through Norton’s system; an old friend was definitely on the move. Norton was just about to pull down his Speedos and say goodbye when an evil glint appeared in the brown eyes behind the new, silicone face mask. Les swam out from the rocks a little, watched Hank for a moment or two as the convulsions went through him, then, judging the current pulled down his Speedos and squeezed. This was a ripper. Les floated there and let it all go; the relief was unbelievable. Les opened his eyes and watched the four old friends, all brown and shiny, drifting rapidly south in the current. They were bobbing nicely along and Norton was thinking how well they packaged their airline food when another attack hit him. This one was more a gigantic, hot spurt that almost moved Les through the water as if he were jet- propelled. It rose to the surface and followed the four Bondi Cigars in the current like a brown lumpy cloud. Now feeling about a stone lighter, Norton pulled up his Speedos, dived down into the current beneath the old friends and swam like buggery back to Hank. Scooting along with the current, Norton almost pulled up with a screech he was going that fast; he stopped just outside Hank keeping the American between him and the shore.

  Hank had just surfaced and was spluttering around probably wishing he had a waterproof cigarette. ‘So how’s it going?’ said Norton. ‘I haven’t seen any of those Snook. Have you?’

  Hank slipped his facemask on top of his head and scowled. ‘Those goddamn New York assholes in their power boats. The sonsofbitches scare them away. Fuck them!’

  ‘Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing. Noisy bastards. They’re a pain in the arse alright.’ A movement in the current bobbing towards them caught Norton’s eye. ‘So what do you want to do, Hank? You’re running the show.’

  Hank was about to say something when turd number one, about the same size as a Fijian banana, hit him straight in the mouth. Hank spluttered, screamed and cursed and grabbed at his face when Henry number two hit him, crumbling and spreading all over his hands. Hank cursed and shrieked some more and thrashed in the water like he’d been attacked by a swarm of sea wasps.

  ‘Hank,’ yelled Norton. ‘Are you alright? What is it mate?’

  ‘What is it!’ screamed Hank. ‘It’s fuckin’ crap.’

  ‘Stone the bloody crows. I don’t believe it.’ Les had a quick look to the left. ‘But if it is. Duck, mate. I think there’s more.’

  Hank was still cursing and wiping shit from his face and hands when he was enveloped in a thick brown cloud. He howled up at the sky, and grabbed at his face mask. But it filled up with shit spreading into his eyes as well. Hank was literally in the shit, deep and shallow. He tore his face mask off and still cursing and gagging swam into the quiet little bay. Les gave him a bit of start then drifted up near him and watched as Hank flopped around wiping shit out of his eyes and from his hands, face and neck.

  ‘It’s those bloody New Yorkers, mate, you can bet your life,’ said Norton. ‘Dirty, smart arse bastards in their powerboats. They piss and shit everywhere.’ Les slipped his mask on top of his head and sniffed at the air. ‘Yeah. Bloody pastrami on rye. You can smell it.’

  Hank was in a terrible state; and it wasn’t South Florida. He was fuming. He spluttered and gagged some more as he tried to clean the horrible, stinking, clinging mess from him. ‘Goddamn!’ he swore at the top of his voice. ‘I hate those motherfuckers!!’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t blame you,’ agreed Les. ‘They’re enough to give you the … shits alright.’

  ‘Aarrghh!! Christ!!!’

  Norton floated easily in the waist-deep water for a few moments. ‘So what do you want to do now?’

  ‘Go back to the goddamn car.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Norton was about to put his facemask back on but stopped. ‘Hey, you know, I just thought of something, Hank.’

  ‘What!!?’

  ‘I’m glad I bought a snorkel now.’

  Back at the car Hank was still an extremely disturbed patient. He ranted and raved and didn’t see the funny side of things at all. Somehow they managed to get changed and into the front seat; Hank had got rid of most of the crap but there was definitely still a hint of Edgar in the air. Norton wound down the window and did his best to sit quietly while Hank shoved a Winston in his gob and lit it.

  ‘So where to now, mate?’

  ‘There’s a shower on the beach.’

  Les nodded approvingly. ‘Not a bad idea. Get the salt water off.’

  They drove off slowly along the avenue that ran alongside the water, to where it doglegged round to the main road, and past the shops to the start of the beach Les had noticed earlier. As Hank pulled up for the traffic Les turned to him.

  ‘You know it doesn’t smell all that bad.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It smells like shit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Norton. ‘But it ain’t all that bad. I mean, I’m not trying to say the person who that shit belongs to could get around thinking his shit didn’t stink, but it’s that close it doesn’t make any difference to me. You know what I’m saying? You smell alright.’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you jerk.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. I was only tryin’ to be friendly.’

  The shower was a wooden platform that dribbled and ponged away next to the mandatory parking lot about as big as the Sydney Showground. It sat just up from the beach, which was quite wide and had the finest white sand Les had ever seen; it was almost like powder. The hard sand at the water’s edge looked about two hundred yards wide from water to beach front, and Les noticed several people on pushbikes. He commented to Hank that pedalling along the beach on a bike looked like a bit of fun; Hank seemed more interested in another cigarette after he finished showering so Les didn’t pursue the matter. It was sunny and blisteringly hot but a massive black cloudfront seemed to be moving in from the Gulf of Mexico. While he waited for Hank to finish his smoke Les watched the clouds, and two families of Americans flopping around under the shower. They were the fattest heaps of shit Norton had ever seen. One mother made Roseanne Barr look like Princess Di and one father could have been John Candy’s stunt double. They’re certainly not starving round here, thought Norton, as they finally drove off.

  Les didn’t quite know what to say to Hank as they were driving home and Hank wasn’t saying much. Norton had had enough fun with th
e poor goose for the time being and if he wanted to get out for a few cool ones it might be an idea to start buttering Hank up, galling and all as the idea was. Les suggested that if he wanted to go out that night Les would shout, pay back Hank for all his wonderful hospitality and the cost of the bullets Les had used. Norton had money coming out his ears and he wouldn’t miss slipping Captain Rats fifty bucks or so. Besides, he was such an arse he’d probably only drink cheap beer and tequila. Hank grumbled and moaned and carried on like a good sort about his business commitments, then said okay. He had a lot of phone calls to make but he’d call in on Les at 9.30. That pretty much suited Norton.

  When they pulled up next to the old carport Les took his watch from his overnight bag and was astonished to find it was getting on for seven. The sun was still high in the sky and apart from that ominous cloud build-up moving across it still seemed like just after lunchtime. Where did the day go? thought Les.

  ‘Hey, Hank,’ said Les, as they got their gear from the back of the car. ‘Do you have daylight saving in Florida?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Hank. ‘I guess so.’

  Norton stood and watched Hank’s back as he walked to his house. He was going to say something, but what could he say after that? ‘I’ll see you at half past nine, Hank.’ Les shook his head a couple of times and went inside.