‘Easy,’ said Norton. ‘They got little saddles and whips. And helmets and goggles. Hey, don’t worry about koalas. They’re tough little bastards, I’m telling you. They hang on to trees alright. Same with crocodiles.’ Norton started making jockey motions like he had a whip in his hand and was holding onto the reins. ‘Only thing we have to watch is the cheating. There’s a bit of that goes on.’
‘Cheating? In a crocodile race?’ Trudi shook her head again.
‘Yeah.’ Norton looked serious. ‘Only last week we had a racing scandal, and a big inquiry. We caught one of the jockeys using a battery. Had it hidden in his whip, the little bastard. But we were on to him; we knew he was cheating.’
‘My God! What happened?’
‘The crocodile won by five lengths. But the koala got electrocuted.’
‘Oh, my God! That’s awful.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Norton sincerely. ‘If you can’t trust a cute, cuddly little koala bear, who can you trust?’
The clock hit two. Hank briefly caught Norton’s eye as he got off his stool and headed for the door. Norton drained his last drink and put the glass on the bar, leaving about six dollars next to it in one dollar bills and quarters.
‘Well that was truly delightful, Trudi,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I needed. But now I have to leave. My handsome prince is waiting outside with a pumpkin coach drawn by six white mice.’ Just a little unsteadily Les turned towards the door where the big black bloke was standing next to a cigarette machine.
‘Hey!’ called out Trudi. ‘Are you gonna come back and have another drink with us before you go back to Darwin? Saturday nights are good. We have a band.’
Les looked at the big black bloke, who was about three inches taller and at least ten stone heavier than Les, and smiling feinted a left rip at his massive stomach. ‘Ain’t nobody here big enough to stop me.’
The black bloke flashed back a white grin that was almost as big as he was and opened the door for Norton. ‘You have a good one, brother.’
As Norton stepped through the door he stopped and gave Trudi a wave. ‘See you later, alligator,’ he called out boozily.
Hank was sitting in the pick-up, smoking a cigarette, with the motor running and the lights on. Pleasantly numbed from six stiff drinks in about half an hour Les swung inside on top of his gear in a better frame of mind to cope with the seppo. They took off in silence and about two miles back onto the highway Hank spoke.
‘That was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. What made you come out with all that crap?’
‘It’s … I say, it’s called having a joke, boy. You do know what a joke is, don’t you, Laurel?’ The drinks hadn’t helped the sarcasm that had been building up inside Les either.
‘I sure know what being stupid is when I see it.’
Tomorrow, thought Les, staring ahead into the night. I’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight. Then tomorrow, after I’ve let this prick show me around a bit, I’ll hit him right on the chin and break his jaw then move into a motel or head over to Miami or something.
‘Back at my place,’ Hank took a big drag on his cigarette and gave Les a super smug look, ‘I’ll show you something that ain’t stupid.’
‘Yeah. Like what?’ Norton couldn’t stop himself laughing. ‘A photo of you at your senior prom, wearing a white sports coat and a pink carnation?’
‘You’ll see and feel something you don’t see in Australia.’
I can’t wait, thought Les. He was going to sling off some more but changed his mind and just wound down the window.
They drove on pretty much in silence with Les still absolutely clueless as to where he was; all he knew was that it was still dead flat and they’d come about ten kilometres. Or six miles in seppo talk. Hank turned off the main road onto a smaller one, then another. Now there were vacant lots and single-storey homes that reminded Les of holiday houses on the north and south coast of New South Wales, only there were no fences and they all had double garages and huge driveways. There also seemed to be more trees and behind some of the houses Les could see what looked like ponds or lagoons shining a murky silver in the moonlight.
Hank turned left through some trees and they crunched up a long driveway to pull up in front of a rickety carport with a lopsided roof hanging over some car beneath. There was a single-storey house to the right with a light on over a verandah out the front that still reminded Les of a holiday home. A narrow path led from that house to a smaller one about thirty metres away that had an extra storey built on top; it too had a light left on and even from that distance Les could see the paint was peeling off and weeds grew up to the front door. All round were trees with this creepy-looking grey-green fern hanging off them, which Les later found out was called Spanish Moss. It might have been the night and the oppressive heat, it might have been the Spanish Moss in the moonlight, but the whole place had this eerie, necessitous look about it. Hank got out of the car, undid his fly and did a great piss on the driveway. Well, that suits me, thought Norton, and got out and did the same. Hank finished first and started towards the larger house.
‘This way,’ he said, without waiting for Les.
‘Yeah, righto,’ answered Norton, and took his time finishing.
Les picked up his bags and walked into the house, trying not to make too much noise. There was the usual small hallway when you entered, a loungeroom to the left and another room to the right with a large wooden table and some old chairs around it. The house was nothing too flash, lots of paintings on the walls, bric-a-brac sitting on old cabinets and a few scatter rugs on the yellowy brown carpet. Somewhere ahead light came from another door; Les headed towards it and found a fairly large kitchen with windows facing on to what looked an enclosed verandah. There were more doors to his right and a passageway that was a laundry. Light came from another doorway at the end of a shorter passageway; Les walked towards it and found what evidently was his room.
It was a fairly large, dimly lit room with carpet — and not much else. There was a single bed against the wall as you walked in; opposite was a long, low table with a lamp on it, a fan, an ancient ghetto blaster and just plain junk. There were a couple of old lounge chairs, another low but smaller table in one corner and that was about it. No dressing table, no wardrobe, not even an overhead light fitting. Just a sliding glass door and a flyscreen to the left as you walked in, left open to get the non-existent breeze or air, and another door in the far corner. The rest was just junk; mainly old wooden frames that looked like they could have once held paintings.
Hank stood in the middle, looking round like it was the Presidential Suite at the Sydney Regent. ‘Well, what do you say?’
‘Great,’ answered Les, sweat already dripping from his chin. His bags dropped on the floor along with his arse. ‘Bad luck I can only stay three weeks.’
‘You got a bed there, a lamp, the fan works. That sliding door leads out back and this is your bathroom.’ Hank opened the door in the corner. There was a shower, toilet and sink; the white tiles looked reasonably clean but it smelled of stagnant water.
‘Nice,’ nodded Les, as Hank closed the door. Christ! he thought. How do I find myself in these spots? Long Bay wasn’t much worse than this. And at least it was cooler.
‘Now let’s go and have a real drink.’
Les had a last look round his sumptuous lodgings and followed Hank out the same way they came in. I imagine another margarita would be out of the question, mused Norton.
There were a few night sounds as Les crunched along the narrow path to what was obviously Hank’s section of his family’s rambling estate; though what Les was mainly concentrating on was the bloody heat and flicking Spanish Moss out of his face. Laurel Lee’s house reminded Norton of a weekender down the south coast alright. The south coast of East Germany. The front door stood warped and splintering in the dim light just above it, there was a large window and curtains to the right and a smaller window to the left, which Norton surmised was the kitchen. The p
lace was all a sickly orange and white and looking at it from the outside it was hard to imagine that it once was new. All it was now was faded paintwork, grime and dry rot. Come and stay at my place any time you’re in America, you guys. I own two houses and my family’s got heaps of money. What did Price, the wise old owl, say the night before Norton left? Don’t even believe half of what yanks tell you. They’re full of bullshit. No wonder his boss was a multi-millionaire and looked twenty years younger than he was.
Hank unlocked the front door and inside was just as tatty, only it was musty as well. There was a kitchen to the left, cluttered with pots and dishes, a grimy sink, a grimy stove and a rusting fridge. The rest of downstairs was just one big room with bare floorboards, except where a landing walked up one step to a curtained off room in the right corner. A set of stairs led left from that up to what looked like the master’s magnificent bedroom and lavish toilet facilities. A dusty, noisy air-conditioner, whining away at the top of the stairs, did manage to bring the temperature down a few degrees. There were a couple of daggy animal skins pinned to the walls, two or three paintings and as far as home decorating went, that was it. The only noticeable comforts were an old three-piece lounge sitting between the door and the far wall as you walked in, a small-screen TV set sitting on a dusty, wooden cabinet full of old books, and a coffee table with a telephone on it. Les noticed a locked cabinet against one wall and beneath this a table holding what looked like a home mincer. Norton stared at the handle on it for a few seconds; he knew what it was but couldn’t think for the moment. There was no stereo in the room, no pool table and definitely no cocktail bar or cabinet.
‘Well? What do you say?’ asked Hank.
‘Wonderful,’ nodded Les. ‘Who lived here before you did? Elton John?’
Hank turned on the TV and went into the kitchen. Les sat down on the lounge. The sound was turned down but you still couldn’t tell what was on because the reception was mostly a purple blur. Norton stared at it for a few moments, looked around once more, and shook his head. Where am I again? America or Ethiopia?
Hank returned from the kitchen with a bottle of tequila. Norton grimaced and felt his mouth go dry. After all those lovely frozen margaritas in that little bar I know just what this is going to taste like. Shit. With or without the sip, lick, suck. It wasn’t even a good brand. A cheap- looking label, slapped on the bottle under a rusty cap, said Gusano Rojo de Oaxaca, and the worm lying at the bottom looked like half of someone’s appendix. Yuk!
Hank dropped it on the table along with two tumblers. ‘Wait till you try this, pal. It’s from a village right out back of Mexico.’
‘Terrific.’ Norton was beside himself. ‘I’ll bet it’s even got old pieces of Mexican foreskins and labia in it. What did you pay for it? About two bucks a crate?’
Hank poured two half tumblers full of the urine- coloured liquid. ‘Down the hatch, buddy. Badlands style.’
Les watched as Hank threw the tequila down his throat as if he was Wyatt Earp drinking Red Eye at the Last Chance Saloon. His beady eyes spun round even more crazily and he looked at Les. It wasn’t a friendly drink; it was a silly bloody challenge. Norton picked up his tumbler, looked at it for a second, then did the same. It tasted like Brondecon and kerosene. Norton screwed up his face and hoped his tastebuds would forgive him. ‘Ohh shit! That tastes like goat’s piss.’
‘That figures,’ said Hank. ‘Offering you pure tequila is like casting pearls before swine.’
‘Yeah. And me shouting you those nice cold beers was like giving strawberries to pigs. You wouldn’t have a beer in the fridge, would you?’
Hank ignored Les and poured another two tequilas, obviously getting a kick out of Norton’s displeasure. ‘Now I’ll show you something else.’ Hank took a key, walked over to the cabinet on the wall, unlocked it and swung open the doors. ‘There,’ he said, glowing with pride and smugness. ‘What do you think of these? You don’t see anything like that in Australia.’
Norton turned around on his seat. The cabinet was full of guns; four pistols and three rifles all racked horizontally. That was what the thing was on the table — a hand frame for reloading your own bullets. Hank took one of the pistols from the cabinet and handed it to Les like it was part of the crown jewels and he was showing some poor goose something he’d never seen before and the poor goose should be suitably impressed.
‘That’s a .38 Walther PPK. That’s my baby. Go on, handle it. It’s not loaded.’ Hank gave a little sneer. ‘It won’t bite you.’
Norton took the gun and held it. It felt snug and comfortable in his hand. It was a good gun alright, but nothing to get a fat over. ‘Yeah. That’s… nice, isn’t it?’ ‘Nice,’ Hank sneered again. ‘And this is a .45 Smith and Wesson. Go on, take it. See what a gun feels like. You poor aussies with your piss ass gun laws. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
Yeah, thought Les. About ten thousand people a year not being shot; including women and kids. Les held the gun for a few seconds then laid it down next to the Walther; compared to the other gun it was noticeably heavier. ‘Yeah. That’s… great, too.’
‘This is what’s called a Forty-five Peacemaker.’ Hank lovingly stroked the next gun and handed it to Les.
It was some huge, heavy, long-barrelled revolver; like you’d expect to see Wyatt Earp pull out after he’d been drinking Red Eye at the Last Chance Saloon. ‘What can I say?’ said Les, and placed it on the table with the others.
‘And this is just a .22 Browning.’ Hank shrugged. ‘It’s a woman’s gun. But it fits nicely inside an ankle holster.’
Les had a feel of the .22. It was all stainless steel and shiny and compared to the others it was just a baby. Though just as deadly. ‘Yeah, good,’ nodded Les, not trying to look too bored, and placed it on the table too.
‘Now this.’ Hank took down a junky, black, military- looking weapon. With his eyes almost glowing, he hit a catch somewhere behind the rear sight and a tubular folding stock swung out. ‘This is an FNC Assault Rifle. Three-round burst capability or rock and fucking roll if you want.’ Hank swung it around at waist level for a while before handing it to Les.
It wasn’t all that heavy for its size, with a forty shot, curved magazine underneath and a pistol grip at the back. Les stood up and played soldiers with it for a few moments too. ‘Yeah, fabulous.’
Hank replaced it in the rack and handed Les another rifle. ‘This is an M14. Betcha ain’t seen nothin’ like that before, pal.’
Norton cradled the gun in his hands and shook his head. What could he say? The last time he’d seen one of these it was shortened and worked over and he’d shot three terrorists with it. And if it hadn’t been for him and his brother saving the dopey president of the United States and getting rid of the terrorist’s nuclear missile, Hank and the rest of his dopey, gun toting, seppo mates’d probably be at war. You fuckin’ know-all seppo prick. Then, looking at Hank watching him, a sudden and dramatic thought hit Norton. And even though it was going to burn Norton’s arse unbearably, a little tact and diplomacy were now going to have to be the new order of the day.
‘Yeah, that’s great, Hank’ nodded Les. ‘You’ve sure got a great gun collection.’
Hank’s grainy faced dripped self-opinionated conceit. ‘I knew you’d be impressed.’ He put the M14 back on its rack. ‘This one here’s called a varmint rifle.’ It was a long- barrelled, bolt action thing with a telescopic sight. ‘I can put a bullet square through the centre of a dime at a hundred yards with that baby.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ said Les.
‘Tomorrow I’ll take you shooting out at the target range. Open your eyes up a bit more. Give you a whole new experience.’
Oh great, thought Les. That’s all I’m gonna need tomorrow in this heat with half a hangover. Surrounded by a bunch of rednecks firing guns off in my ear. ‘Okay. Sounds good.’ Then Les just wanted to get away. Away from Hank, his guns, his fuzzy TV and his shit tequila. It was time to put on a bit of an act.
He blinked a couple of times and started to sway on his feet. ‘Hey, mate,’ he said, slurring his words a little, ‘I might have to get to bed. I’m rooted. I think this jet lag’s just started to hit me.’
‘That and one good shot of tequila.’
‘Yeah, you could be right. You might have to finish that other one for me.’ Les blinked again. ‘Well, I’m gonna hit the sack. What time are we going shooting tomorrow?’
‘I’ll come over and get you at ten.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’ Norton hesitated at the door. ‘Did you say there was a beach around here? I wouldn’t mind going for a swim tomorrow too.’
‘We’ll go for a dive in the afternoon. After we’ve been shooting.’
‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again.’ Hank didn’t reply; Les let himself out. Although it was still punishingly hot and steamy, it was a pleasure to be on his own again for a while and look up at some stars. Halfway back to the house Les stopped for a leak and a think while he gazed up at the cloud-scattered Florida sky.
Norton was still thinking when he was lying back on his bed in the darkness, after he’d turned on the fan, switched off the light and stripped down to his jocks. Hitting Hank on the chin and breaking the know-all bastard’s jaw, pleasurable and all as it might be, was going to have to be put on hold. Although Hank was no doubt as weak as piss underneath, you could bet he’d put a bullet in Les if he did smack him one. Probably a whole clip. Then more than likely get away with it as self-defence; who knew what the gun laws were in America, especially Florida? But there was more to Hank than just the way the flip fattened up showing off his silly bloody gun collection. Laurel Lee was homicidal, suicidal and that far back in the doghouse you had to feed him with a catapult. He was dirty on the world; that was obvious when he mentioned the letters as they were driving here. He had no money, no girl, no job and you could bet the lemon had no friends either. But in his own peanut brain he was firmly convinced it was everybody else’s fault bar his. He was also convinced the world was conspiring against him. And at the same time, by his rude, abrupt attitude, he was also convinced he was doing the world and everybody else around him a favour just by being there. And those were just his good points. Christ! thought Les. What if Hank is a full-on, bell-ringing, yo yo? What say his mother doesn’t live here? What say she’s dead and he’s got her mummified in one of these rooms? Bloody hell! I’ve travelled halfway across the world to have a holiday with Norman Bates. Jesus! I’ll be watching the shower curtain when I have a tub in the morning. But Hank was a whole new ball game to Norton. Les had never come across anyone like him before, because back in Australia pricks that carried on like him got a whack in the mouth and a boot up the arse. And they kept getting it till they woke up. They did in the circle of friends Norton hung round with anyway. Les shook his head in the darkness. No, Hank was a loose cannon, and he was going to have to remove himself from the prick’s company very carefully. He’d still be able to sling off at the flip. Hank was just a mug who left himself open for the verbal riposte all the time, and Les wouldn’t be able to help himself there anyway, even if it was like bashing up the same drunk all the time. But belting the dill on the jaw was definitely out of the question. Then what about when he got back to Australia, and they asked him about his holiday, and Les told them he was only there two days and he’d jobbed the bloke he’d gone over to meet after staying at his house? Norton was in a no-win situation. Still, there were more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cheese, as old Grandma Norton used to say. I wouldn’t mind meeting this ex-girlfriend of Boofhead’s. Wonder what she’d have to say?
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