Les liked their accents, especially Lori’s slight Texan drawl, and of course the girls loved Norton’s. It was just ‘so cute’. Naturally Les had to slow down now and again and repeat things, and drop off with the Australian slang, but that all added to the fun. They also loved it when Les bought them a margarita each, which was to be their limit as they both had to go to work in the morning. But they didn’t mind when Les said, stuff it, let’s have another one, and bought three more. Norton might not have been a wealthy racehorse owner, but the way he was tipping and throwing money around he was doing a pretty good impression of one. Lori even dragged Les up on the dancefloor to some track she knew and Les was right about aerobics; Lori sure knew how to shake her money-maker and what she lacked in style she more than made up for in energy. Norton was getting down alright too, and seeing the next track wasn’t a bad one either they ripped into that as well. Naturally, same as in Australia, the old mates’ act applied when Les got off the dancefloor. Genevra was getting Lori home safe and sound before some bloke, no matter how nice he was, got her drunk and took her somewhere and gave her a right royal porking, even if that was what she wanted in the first place. But would Lori like to go out with Les while he was in Florida looking at horses for the next three weeks? Sure. That sounded like a great idea. She wrote down her phone number and Les kissed the tips of her fingers when she put it in the top pocket of his shirt.
‘Well, goodnight, Genevra,’ said Norton, as they got their bags. ‘Nice to have met you.’
‘You too, Les. You have a good one.’
Norton couldn’t help but have a last look at Lori’s backside. ‘I’d be rapt,’ he said with a smile and gave her a wink. Lori smiled back — not at all demurely.
Well, what about Lori? thought Les, as he watched them leave. Nothing wrong with her. He finished his drink: now what? Then it struck him. Oh yeah. Back to Captain Rats. What a thought. Still, I’m getting to find these places and meet people. So try to be nice. Norton grinned to himself. I don’t think it’s going to be for that much longer.
The band had started, Hank was still at the bar — this time he had a beer in front of him: a Coors. He looked absolutely no different and Les figured it would be pointless asking him what he’d been up to.
Hank noticed the sweat on Norton’s Magpie T-shirt. ‘So how was the disco? Cool?’
Les wiped at some sweat under his chin. ‘No. Actually the air-conditioning in there’s stuffed.’
‘Serves you right.’
‘The music was good, though. I love Madonna.’ Les turned to the bar. ‘You want a drink?’
Hank gave a slight nod. ‘Tequila.’
Les ordered the drinks and while he was waiting put Lori’s phone number in his trouser pocket next to the other Lori’s. Air-conditioned or not it was still quite warm so Les ordered another Corona. He downed almost half in one go while Hank took a hit of tequila followed by an unsmiling mouthful of beer.
‘We’ll go somewhere else,’ he said.
‘You don’t like it here?’
‘It’s starting to fill up with celery-pickers and preppies.’
Les followed what Captain Rat’s nutty eyes had temporarily landed on. There were some Mexican- or Cuban-looking blokes near the dancefloor, standing next to some people wearing ironed shirts and laces in their shoes.
‘Celery-pickers and preppies, eh?’ Les took another mouthful of beer. ‘If you say so.’ Ahh, what the fuck? thought Norton. Go and have a look somewhere else, I suppose. I can always come back here. ‘So where do you fancy going?’
‘There’s a place downtown called “Club BandBox”.’ Hank gave Les a crooked sort of smile which was most unusual, almost like he had something up his sleeve. ‘You’ll like it there.’
‘Okay. You know your way around.’ Les took another glug of his Corona and lime. ‘I’m just a shitty fuckin’ tourist.’
They finished their drinks in comparative silence then left.
They cut back over the bridge and seemed to be heading along some other massive road into town. Les had the window down, trying to get some air, and was wishing he’d never bothered wearing a T-shirt; the neck and back were all soaked with sweat and in the heat and humidity of a summer night in Florida it felt like a blanket. Les was thinking of taking it of and leaving it in the car when he recognised Main Street again. Hank cut past it onto a road that led straight into a large, modern, high-rise hotel complex surrounded by blocks of home units built up alongside the harbour. It was all glitter, marble and smoked glass, neon lights flashed and out the front was the usual monster parking lot, only this one was dotted with palm trees. Hank found a space in the carpark, locked the pick-up and Les followed him across to what looked like a shopping centre full of restaurants, bars, boutiques, etc. There was a marble fountain out front and uniformed security guards keeping an eye on the crowd. Behind them a set of escalators went up two floors. Hank nodded for Les to follow and they took the escalator to the first floor. It was more shops and restaurants looking out over the harbour and just round from the escalator a small queue of people were entering a double glass door dotted with posters for bands. Above the door a red and black neon sign said ‘Club BandBox’.
‘In here,’ smiled Hank. ‘I’ll pay the cover charge.’
Norton gave a double blink and nearly tripped over. Am I seeing and hearing things? I think I’d better cut down on those margaritas. It must be all that salt.
They joined the queue and a few people fell in behind them. When they got to the door, Hank propped, the usual smug smile on his face. There were two bouncers on the door — a solid white bloke in a BandBox T-shirt, and a monstrous black man in a grey suit. The white bouncer gave Hank a severe once up and down then shook his head. The black bloke seemed more interested in Norton. He looked at Hank for a second or two then said something to the white bouncer.
‘Okay,’ said the white bouncer, not looking at all happy, ‘I’ll let you in this time. But next time wear shoes, okay?’ Hank still propped at the door. The smile disappeared and his jaw dropped. ‘Well, come on buddy,’ said the bouncer in the T-shirt. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Yeah, what are you doing, Hank?’ said Les. ‘There’s people behind us.’ Hank almost fell through the door with Norton behind him. As he staggered over to the counter to pay the five dollars cover charge Les stepped back and waited, chuckling to himself.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what was going on. Hank deliberately picked this place knowing they had dress regulations and they wouldn’t let him in looking like B.O. Plenty. Les twigged there was something in the wind when Captain Rats smiled, twice, then offered to pay the cover charge. This would have effectively stuffed up Norton’s night and they would have had to go home, where Les could’ve watched TV and drunk cheap, shitty tequila at Hank’s house or gone and sweated the night out in his own room. But they’d got in; only because of the big black bloke in the grey suit. Les was looking at the person in question who was standing barely a metre away. He wasn’t just big, he was an absolute monster. At least six feet six and twenty stone, with a huge bony head sitting on a neck as thick as Norton’s waist. He saw Les staring at him and flashed an infectious white grin.
‘Hey man. Are you Australian?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘Why’s that, mate?’
‘That T-shirt,’ said the man-mountain. ‘Rugby. Man, I played that shit at college for a while. That’s one helluva game. Broke mah goddamn collarbone.’ He looked directly at Les. ‘You play rugby?’
‘Yeah.’ Les nodded again. ‘In the forwards. Second row mainly. I suppose you play gridiron?’
‘Yeah, man. Used to play tight end for the Dolphins.’
‘I’d believe that,’ grinned Les. ‘Christ! I’d hate to tackle you front on, you big bludger.’
The big man gave a bit of a laugh then seemed to concentrate on Norton’s T-shirt. ‘Hey, just what is that man? Wests. The Mag-pahs. Hey, that’s one bitchin’ T- shirt.’
�
��Yeah, that’s them, mate,’ said Norton. ‘Wests. The mighty Magpies.’
‘Mag-pah. Man, I like that.’
Les looked evenly at the big man for a second. ‘What do you mean, you like it?’
‘That T-shirt, man. I like it.’
‘You mean you want it?’
‘No, man, I don’t want it. All I’s sayin’ is, I like it.’
‘In other words, you want it, don’t you? Well, here you are. Take the bloody thing.’ Norton started taking off his shirt. ‘I’m not gonna fight you over a lousy bloody T-shirt. You’re too bloody big.’
‘Hey, man. Be cool. I don’t want your T-shirt.’
Before the big man could argue Norton had his shirt off and handed to the bouncer in the T-shirt, his Wests T- shirt off, folded and handed to the big man; he was glad to get rid of it. ‘There you go, mate,’ said Les, tucking his shirt in. ‘Take the clothes off my poor back. Leave me to freeze. I don’t give a stuff.’
The big bloke looked at the T-shirt in his hands and the huge grin flashed back. ‘Hey, man, what can I say? I dig that.’
‘That’s okay, mate.’ said Norton. ‘Thanks for letting me in.’
‘That’s cool. Listen, man,’ the big bloke came right up to Les, ‘I owe you one, brother. Anybody give you any shit, you come see me.’
‘I’ll do that. What’s your name anyway?’
‘Harris.’
Norton shook the big man’s hand. ‘I’m Les, Harris. I might have a drink with you later.’
‘No sweat, brother.’ Harris winked. ‘Les.’
Norton let Harris get back to bouncing then turned to find a scowling Hank pocketing some change and glaring at him. Norton returned Hank’s scowl with a silly grin that dripped blissful ignorance.
‘Hey this place is alright, Hank. You come here all the time, do you? Fuckin’ ripper.’
The foyer was all red and black with red and black check lino. There were more rock posters on the walls and a big poster of Superman behind the front desk. The foyer led to a short set of stairs on your left that took you to another level and the start of a bar at the top of the stairs. The dancefloor was on your right with another bar in the distance and another set of stairs leading to another bar above them. Built into the wall facing the dancefloor and the upstairs level was a stage for bands, though tonight was all disco. There were heaps of spinning lights and lasers and a big red and green neon sign saying Club BandBox. Hank seemed to get reluctantly swept along with the crowd and Les followed him up the stairs on the left. The top level was chairs, tables and booths, red and black or black- and white-checked walls, and plate glass windows looking out over the harbour. A waist-level partition with a chrome railing ran round the upstairs level to stop the punters falling over where it overlooked the dancefloor. There were TV screens built into the ceiling and on one wall was a giant video screen showing a chimpanzee in a karate outfit sparring with some bloke. The upstairs bar was bigger than Les expected; it circled round almost to the booths on the far left wall. The bar staff were happy and busy, spunky-looking waitresses cruised around in ripped T-shirts and lycra bicycle shorts; from out of nowhere a girl in a nurse’s uniform walked past carrying a tray bristling with test-tubes full of different coloured liquids. The punters were about the same age, size and shape as the ones at the first place, walking or standing around, with others, both men and women, seated at the tables drinking jugs of beer — or pitchers as the yanks like to call them. Norton liked what he saw. Club BandBox was about three-quarters full, the punters were clean and tidy, there was no shortage of girls and on the dancefloor it was back to back and bumper to bumper, and raging.
‘Hey, nothing wrong with this place, mate,’ beamed Norton. ‘It’s tops.’ Hank didn’t say anything. Les clapped his hands together. ‘Well, while you’re in a generous mood you may as well shout me a drink in your favourite watering hole. I’ll have another Corona thanks, mate. With a slice of lime too — if you don’t mind.’
Hank’s eyes spun around crazily and this time Les thought they were going to take right off and join the mirror ball on the ceiling. Instead, he seemed to shake a little then turn on his heel and went to the bar behind him. It hasn’t been a real good night for you, has it, Captain Rats? mused Les, trying not to laugh as he moved away from the bar a little and checked out the punters. First you got lumbered with the cover charge, now you’re actually in a shout. But think of the good side. You wouldn’t have got in here if it hadn’t been for me. Before long Hank returned with a Coors and a Corona.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Norton, taking his beer and a swallow almost at the same time. ‘Cheers.’
Hank took a mirthless pull on his beer. ‘That was a damn fool thing you did back there at the foyer.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Giving that nigger your T-shirt.’
‘Yeah?’ Norton looked surprised. ‘I thought he was a mate of yours. Didn’t he say something to you when we walked in? He didn’t seem like a bad bloke.’ Les gave a grudging kind of nod. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It was a bit uncool. But that’s just me, Hank. It’s my nature. I can’t help giving things away. Anyway, it’s only money. It’s not an arm or a leg. Or a T-shirt,’ Les added with a laugh. ‘And who gives a fuck? I brought that much with me I’ll be flat out spending it anyway. So come on. Finish that so I can get you another one.’
Les went for a snakes and was pleased to find the urinals were the same as in Australia. One thing that did surprise him in the toilet though was a travelling barber, selling aftershave, hair gel and trims for the macho poseurs; and he was making a living. Les returned, finished his Corona then got Hank a beer and a tequila and another margarita for himself, telling Hank when he handed him his drinks he might go for a stroll and check the place out. Hank shrugged, found a seat at the bar away from the other drinkers, lit a cigarette and plotted how he was going to get some of that money out of Norton. Les ambled through the punters towards the stairs leading down to the other side of the dancefloor, knowing exactly what Hank was thinking. I’ll tell you something, Laurel baby, he chuckled to himself, you’ll need more than Epsom Salts.
This time it was a tall, almost striking brunette, with dark features and eyes that matched her dark, shoulder- length hair. Like Norton she was dressed all in black — shirt, slacks and shoes — only she had on a black vest as well, pinned with silver jewellery and knick-knacks. Les spotted her standing near the bar just across from the stairs, sort of boogying quietly around yet oozing energy as she did. She had a wiry, lithe body but didn’t look like an aerobics princess; her shoulders were too broad and there was something else about her. The girlfriend was also a brunette and apart from having shorter hair and being a little plumper she looked very similar. She was wearing jeans and a kind of blue and white striped sailor’s top. The sailor wasn’t moving around, she was standing with a drink, tapping her fingers on her handbag. They looked the type of women that if you tried to front them with some stupid pick-up line you’d either get your head bitten off or be told to go to the shithouse, very smartly. Unfortunately Les didn’t have the time to think up some cool, knock ’em off their feet line. Besides he was too drunk anyway.
‘Listen, Johnny Cash,’ he said, walking straight up to the brunette in the black vest, ‘I’m a hypnotist with a circus and I just finished work. That’s my excuse for being all in black. What’s yours? You look like a rolled up umbrella.’
The brunette gave Norton a cool, but inquisitive, once up and down. ‘Did you say something about a circus?’
Les nodded drunkenly. ‘Yeah. I’m a hypnotist. What’s your caper?’
‘I’m a trapeze artist,’ answered the brunette evenly. ‘I’m down here to start work with Carmichael Brothers. I’ve only been here two days, and I’ve never seen you before.’
‘What did the pork chop say?’ asked the girlfriend. ‘He’s a hypnotist?’ She looked at Les as if she was getting ready to swing her handbag. ‘Don’t you have to have a bra
in and be able to speak properly to be a hypnotist?’
‘You’re not with any circus,’ sneered the brunette. ‘Get lost.’
Norton the cool swinger suddenly found himself going over like a fart in a mini-sub. He’d sort of tried to be a bit clever and the brunette had belted him straight to the boundary. He couldn’t have tried a worse approach. She was a trapeze artist alright, that was the energy and poise Les had noticed about her, and up close you could see the muscles in her shoulders and neck. No one would bother to make up a story like that, not on the spur of the moment. Norton was completely stuffed and if he didn’t start tap dancing a bit quicker, and smartly too, he’d make a complete dill of himself.
‘Alright,’ he said defiantly, ‘you don’t believe me. I’m also a mind reader. I’ll bet I can guess your name.’
The brunette gave her girlfriend a bored look then turned back to Les. ‘What?’
Norton stared at her and blinked a couple of times. There wasn’t a great deal he could say. ‘Lori…?’
The girlfriend seemed to glare at him. ‘How did you know my cousin’s name? She only got here from Chicago yesterday.’
Norton grinned roguishly. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘it’s all part of the act. Back in Australia they call me Lesto the Magnifico. There ain’t nuthin’ I don’t know.’
The girls had their chance, but by then it was too late. In about two minutes they were holding a fresh drink each and Norton was pissing in their pockets, their handbags, their shoes and anywhere else he could find a spot. Lori was a trapeze artist. Siestasota was an old circus town going back to the turn of the century, some circuses were still based there, while other cabaret acts refitted and organised their tours from there. Lori had just come down from Chicago where she had been working in a cabaret. That finished, she was now touring the mid-west with the circus she mentioned. Lori had also been a champion gymnast at college and represented America at the Olympic Games, winning a silver medal. Under closer inspection Norton certainly believed that; Lori was one fit, strong woman. If she decided to belt you one you’d stay belted. By the same token, if she porked you, you’d know you’d been porked too. The girlfriend was her older cousin Nadine. Nadine came down from Chicago ten years ago, she was divorced, had two kids and owned a house about five minutes away by taxi; if that. Club BandBox was handy and a good venue to see a band now and again and possibly bump into interesting people; even if it was only a stupid bloody Australian like Les trying to pass himself off as a hypnotist. It was a good thing he had a sense of humour and didn’t mind shouting a drink. Or their words to that effect.
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