Norton had a cup of coffee and made himself another cheese sandwich. That was plenty; between the Epsom Salts and the heat he didn’t feel like eating. After cleaning up his gear Les was sitting on the edge of his bed about an hour later, staring into space and still trying to get over Hank’s last statement, when an almighty thunderclap shook the old house. Les couldn’t remember ever hearing one that loud, it sounded like it was just above the roof. A few minutes later it started to rain. Just a few drops at first, all as big as pears, then the rest of them, till it was a roaring downpour. The rain thundered down on the roof and in about five minutes all the guttering had filled up and water was gushing over the downpipes in great shimmering silver cascades. It was quite beautiful and Les stood at the sliding glass door almost mesmerised as he watched it tumbling down. By now the humidity had climbed to what felt like 150 per cent. Norton’s T-shirt was soaked and sweat was stinging his eyes as it ran down his forehead, across his unshaven face and off his chin. Stuff this, thought Norton. He stripped down to his Speedos and ran outside underneath the nearest overflowing drainpipe.
The fresh rainwater was cool and absolutely beautiful as it splattered over his head and body. Les even ran inside, got his soap and razor, and had a cold shave and a scrub up. There was an old wire chair just outside his back door. Les put that under a downpipe and sat on it, laughing like a loon as the rainwater splashed over him and formed rivulets in the backyard that turned into tiny streams and ran down to the swampy lagoon Les had noticed earlier. Now this is really living, cackled Norton, the rain seeming to wash away his cares as well as all the sweat. I can’t see them arresting you or shooting you in this state for having a free shower in your backyard. Besides, isn’t this what freedom and democracy and all those guns I saw earlier are all about? He took a mouthful of water and spat it up in the air as the rain still pelted down. I wonder what Captain Rats is doing right now? Probably inside playing with his guns — and his dick. Norton spat another gobful of water up in the air and let it splatter back down on his face.
An hour or so later Norton had towelled off and was lying on his bed thinking and plotting and scheming about what he was going to do regarding his present accommodation and Captain Rats. The rainstorm had eventually blown over, stars began to appear and the only noise now was the sound of water gently dripping from the trees in the darkness outside. It was a tricky one, mainly because Norton, as well as not really having a clue where he was, didn’t know a soul either. Only rabbit brain in the other house, and he was about as much use as a jackhammer in a lifeboat. Still, you never know, he thought. Tonight he might meet someone he could communicate with. So there were more important things to think of for the time being: like what was going to be his evening ensemble. Or what did Les have that wasn’t too crushed to wear out? You could bet wherever Hank took him they’d probably have dress regulations: no jeans, T- shirts, joggers, etc. Which was about all Les had that was wearable. But you can’t keep an old country boy down. Les found an iron in the laundry and about ten o’clock he was dressed in a pair of black cotton trousers, a grey Western Suburbs T-shirt with a Magpie on it, a black cotton shirt open at the front and black moon boots. That ought to have it covered, he figured. Collar and shoes to get in and if another storm came up he had a T-shirt on underneath. Well, I forgot to throw a Spencer in, thought Les, as he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and daubed on a little Tabac. Earlier he tried to get the ghetto blaster to work that Hank had kindly left in the room for him, but it was about stuffed, and when he did get it to work you could barely hear it. So he sat in one of the chairs, reading P. J. O’Rourke till Hank arrived. Just before ten, Captain Rats appeared in the doorway; he was wearing an unironed, blue floral shirt, dirty jeans, no socks and an old pair of sandshoes half done up because each one only had half a lace. Norton had seen blokes dressed better working in wrecking yards. Looks like we’re going to the Taxi Club mused Norton, closing his book. I didn’t know they had one in Siestasota.
‘You ready?’ asked Hank.
‘Yeah,’ answered Norton, giving Hank another once up and down. ‘Listen, I got a spare pair of shoes if you want. They’d probably fit you.’
‘These are alright. They’re comfortable.’
Norton was going to suggest there was some string in the kitchen and he’d found an iron, but before he knew it they were in the pick-up and on their way.
‘So where are we going?’
‘I got a couple of places in mind.’
You have a mind? mused Norton, as they turned onto the main road. ‘Listen, Hank. To save a lot of mucking around, here’s fifty bucks. Take that for petrol and get a few drinks.’
Hank looked at the money for a second then put it in his pocket. He didn’t bother to say thanks, just smoked his cigarette and kept driving.
They didn’t say a great deal after that and Norton didn’t feel like asking Einstein any questions on quantum physics. It might have been night, but Les was certain they drove over the same bridge back towards the Keys. He saw a glimpse of ocean then they cut back somewhere, finally turning into the parking lot of some roadhouse. Les glimpsed a sign out the front saying ‘Sandbar’. They left the car out the back and walked across to some kind of enclosed beer garden. There were people around and music coming from inside. At the gate was a bouncer in a T-shirt and jeans and a bloke next to him in a shirt who could have been the manager. It was three dollars each: Les paid.
Inside looked alright. A small bar on your right as you walked in, a large lounge with a bigger bar to the left, a band and a small dancefloor. There were more chairs and tables outside near the front entrance and a doorway off to the right suggested another drinking area. T-shirts and jeans were okay but Les was by no means overdressed. It looked about equal numbers men and women, all fairly neat and tidy, but somehow different. Then Les remembered you had to be twenty-one to drink in the United States, which not only kept out the eighteen-year-old drunks, but the sixteen-year-olds on borrowed IDs as well. So most of the punters looked in the twenty-five to forty range; not super conservative, but no drunken yobbos. The band was playing a good drop of rock ’n’ roll.
‘Well, what’ll you have, Hank?’
‘Tequila. Straight up.’
Am I a mind reader or am I a mind reader? Les went to the bar, ordered a tequila for Einstein and a margarita, and along with the drinks got a big smile from the girl, worthy of a substantial tip. Les returned with the drinks and suggested they move out the back a bit where there was more room. Hank grudgingly agreed, so they moved to the other bar facing the band, near where it elbowed round to a servery facing outside. Hank dropped an elbow on the bar and took a slug of tequila; Les sent down half of his margarita in one go. The band finished their song just as Les finished his first drink. He nodded to Hank, got a nod back, so Les turned to the bar behind them and ordered another tequila for Hank and a Corona with a piece of lime. Hank gulped his first drink, took the other, then looked at Les drinking Corona and his lip curled.
‘You got lime in your beer?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les.
‘You look like a tourist.’
Norton looked at Hank and blinked. This time Les couldn’t help himself. ‘Hank, I know this is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but I am a fuckin’ tourist. If you don’t believe me, there’s a passport in my bedroom and an airline ticket that says I’m here for three weeks.’
Norton was about to add more when, of all things, the band started playing Midnight Oil’s ‘Beds Are Burning’. And a red hot version. He nodded to the band. ‘That’s an Australian song, Hank. From an Australian band. That’s where I’m from. Australia. Remember?’
Hank tried to look cool. Les looked at him for a second then turned to the band. Ahh, fuck the idiot. What’s the use? Norton got into his Corona, with lime, and the music.
Besides the members of the band Les was probably the only other person there who knew the lyrics, so he started singing and boogying alon
g. The punters around him could see he wasn’t just some drunken dill but a bloke simply having a good time. Especially three pairs of fairly attractive girls. One, a blonde with bangs under her chin, seemed to make eye contact. Les gave her a wink and she smiled back.
Hank had moved to the corner of the bar, propped his arse on a seat and lit another cigarette while he moped over his tequila. Fuck him, thought Norton. He seems happy enough and he’s got money. Mine. Les waited till the band finished their song, then after cheering and clapping went to the bar and ordered another margarita and a Wild Turkey sour. He hardly had time to pay for the drinks and knock off half his margarita when the band ripped into INXS’s ‘Don’t Change’. Les couldn’t believe it. In no time Norton was getting down and dirty à la Michael Hutchence with just a smidgen of Daddy Cool thrown in as well. The band ended their bracket on that one, Les whistled and clapped and caught the blonde’s eye again. She was only a few metres away, so Les decided he might as well finish one drink, sashay over and say — g’day. She could only tell him to piss off.
However, there was no open hostility when Les walked over. ‘I don’t wish to be rude,’ he said politely, ‘but I caught your eye a moment ago. You’re not Bronhilde Peachdale, are you?’
‘Excuse me?’ said the blonde. Up close she wasn’t too bad. About twenty-seven, pert nose, nice lips and hazel eyes. Her bum could have been smaller but she had a nice crumpet jammed into the front of her Levis and she was stacked fairly well under a yellow top. Her girlfriend looked similar, only she had brown hair and her face was a little grainy.
‘You’re not with the Florida Fisheries Department? I’m a meteorologist, out here from Australia studying hurricanes, and I was at a lecture in an office on Main Street. I thought I met you there.’
‘No. I’m Lori. I’m a secretary with a law firm out on North Jefferson.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Hey, I thought he was Australian,’ said the girlfriend.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Les. ‘Can you smell me already?’
‘No. The T-shirt. My brother used to play rugby at college in Idaho.’
‘So what’s your name anyway?’ asked Lori.
‘Les.’
‘Les what?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Les said the better I s’pose.’
It didn’t take long and Les started getting on famously with the girls. He had to slow up a few times so they could understand him, but they liked his accent, it was ‘kinda cute’, and Norton’s half boozy sense of humour. Lori originally came from Cleveland; she’d been in Florida three years. Her girlfriend was Connie; she was a local and worked as a secretary for the US Customs Department. Lori and Connie believed everything Les told them and laughed at any joke he cracked: no matter how corny. Les bought a round of drinks; another bourbon sour for him, vodka and cranberry juice for Lori and just a Bud Lite for Connie. The girls didn’t want to do too big a job on themselves, and they were leaving soon as both had to be up fairly early in the morning. But seeing as Les was such a sweetie they’d hang around a little longer.
‘So who are you here with?’ asked Lori.
Who am I here with? Shit! In the sheer exhilaration of talking to two normal friendly people, Les had forgotten all about Captain Rats. A quick glance towards the bar said he was still there, drinking a tequila, smoking a cigarette and looking his usual bored, morose self.
‘I’m with that bloke at the end of the bar in the floral shirt.’
‘Well, why don’t we join him for a short while before we leave?’ said Lori. ‘Is he an aussie?’
‘No. He’s American. And he’s a bit of a wombat.’
‘A wahmbat?’ said Connie. ‘What’s a wahmbat?’
Les shook his head. ‘Come over and you’ll soon find out.’
Les introduced Hank to the girls. Hank gave them a very cool once up and down, like a good ol’ boy with black pick-up should, then blew a great cloud of smoke in Connie’s face. The girls didn’t want another drink; Les got a margarita for himself and a tequila for Hank. When he turned back from the bar Hank had the girls engaged in a conversation, it was that good all three of them were completely speechless.
Connie caught Norton’s eye as he handed Hank his drink. ‘I think I know what a wahmbat is.’
What could Les do? He nodded impassively then tried to spear her into Hank while he pissed in Lori’s pocket for as long as he could. Before long, Connie’s face looked like she’d strained a hernia and she was doing everything but jangle her car keys in Lori’s face and fire distress flares. Les decided he’d better start tap dancing a bit quicker. He suggested to Lori that seeing he was in town chasing weather balloons for another three weeks, what about giving him her phone number? Lori thought this was a splendid idea and wrote it down just before Connie dragged her bodily out the door. With a smile they wished Les a good time, ignored Hank, and left quite happy.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Hank? They weren’t a couple of bad sheilas?’
‘You think they were good?’
‘Well, I’m not saying they’re good I’m just saying they’re not bad.’ Les took a belt of his margarita. ‘Shit! What did I say?’
‘That Connie was a bitch. And she’s a customs narc.’
‘Go on, eh.’
The band was still on its break. Les sipped his drink and checked out the punters. They were a fairly happy lot, the place had a good atmosphere and there was no shortage of girls on their own. Shit! he thought. How would you like to be here with Woz, or a couple of mates from down the beach, instead of pea brain? Wouldn’t you have some fun? Les looked at Hank sucking smoke into his lungs. Well, at least I’m getting drunk. Or, if not, I’m doing a great impression of it. And I don’t have to drive.
‘What’s next door?’ asked Les.
Hank shrugged. ‘A disco, I think.’
A disco you think, contestant number one. Let’s see what’s in the envelope. ‘Do you want to go and have a look?’
Hank shook his head. ‘I’m fine here.’
‘I might go and check it out while the band’s still on a break.’
‘Go for it.’
Norton downed his margarita. ‘If I’m not back by the end of the month, tell Qantas to cancel my return ticket.’
Les turned and left for next door. Would Hank piss off and leave him stranded? Les thought as he stepped across the empty dance floor. Hardly. In Hank’s estimation Les had jumped from Category A to Category B. Where Les was once just a mug — like everybody else in the world — now he was a mug with money. There was more where that fifty dollars came from. And Hank had access to it. Plus a lot of free drinks. Les was not only a mug, he was now a jerk. You think so, boofhead? Norton chuckled to himself as he walked in the disco. For a few lousy dollars I’ve got you by the nuts, Laurel Lee baby. In fact it could be quite funny how you finish up before I head back to Australia. Shit for brains.
The disco was pretty much like any other. About the same size as the bar next door, a spinning mirror ball, a DJ playing what sounded like Kool and the Gang; although with mostly wooden panelling and the rock posters on the walls it looked more like a good bar with a dancefloor than a full-on Saturday Night Fever disco. It was a little over half full, plenty on the dancefloor; pretty much the same sort of crowd you’d see in a touristy bar in Sydney, but possibly a little older. They all seemed to be having a good time without getting into it all that much. I’m definitely going to have to cut down on my drinking, mused Les as he went to the bar. Yes. Cut down the nearest cane field and make me a case of Bundy. He ordered two Pina Coladas and immediately drank one.
She was another blonde. A better sort than Lori, same length hair, wearing faded blue jeans, a denim shirt and white cowboy boots with aerobics written all over her. Especially her backside. She was standing at the end of the bar with a girlfriend, a homely-looking redhead with shiny, shoulder-length hair, wearing white 501s and a white top. Ma’am, you just gotta be from Texas, t
hought Les. Which was the first thing Norton asked her when he walked over. What have I got to lose? he thought. She can only throw her drink over me, kick me in the nuts and tell me to piss off back to bloody Australia.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said, slowly and as courteously as a gallon of mixed drinks would allow. ‘You’re not from Texas, are you? You know, the big state up near New Mexico where all the yellow flowers come from?’
The blonde blinked at Les, turned to her girlfriend for a second, then nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Your father hasn’t got a ranch just outside of Dallas, has he?’ The blonde shook her head. ‘Your name’s not Mercedes Lamont?’ The blonde shook her head again. Norton made a kind of futile gesture. ‘Ahh, well, I’ve made a blue. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re a swap for this Texas bloke I met’s daughter.’
The blonde sipped her drink and gave Les a bit of a once up and down. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Australia,’ smiled Norton.
‘I know where that is,’ said the redhead. ‘It’s near Germany.’
‘No,’ said Norton. ‘You’re thinking of Czechoslovakia. Australia’s a big island down near New Guinea.’
‘Oh.’
This time Les thought he’d be a wealthy racehorse owner, over in America looking at breeding stock, which was how he met the rancher from Texas. The similarity between the blonde and the rancher’s daughter was… absolutely uncanny. It was hard to believe two girls could be so attractive and so alike. The blonde did come from Texas, some placed called Waco; she worked on a marina out on the Keys and she’d been in Florida two years. The redhead worked in real estate, also out on the Keys; she came from Denver and she’d been in Florida a year.
‘So what’s your name?’ asked the blonde.
‘Les.’
‘I’m Lori.’ Norton gave a little blink. ‘And this is Genevra.’
Norton raised his glass. ‘Nice to meet you, girls.’
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