‘Well? What are you doing?’
‘Nothin’ much,’ shrugged Les. ‘Just having a bit of breakfast. What’s it look like I’m doin’? Trying to bun your old lady?’
Hank blinked for moment. ‘I’m going to the office.’
‘Okay. You mind if I don’t come with you? I don’t particularly feel like hanging around in the heat. Interesting and all as it is up there.’ Hank blinked again. ‘What time’ll you be back?’
Captain Rats shrugged. ‘Around twelve.’
‘Okay. Then we’ll go and have a look at that condo. If you don’t want to, just give me the keys and the address and I’ll catch a cab over.’
Hank seemed to think for a second. ‘I’ll be back at twelve.’
‘Alright. I’ll see you then.’ Hank turned and stormed out; a few seconds later Les heard his car revving. ‘Do you know that bloke, do you, Mrs Laurel?’
‘I’m not all that sure, Les,’ replied Mrs Laurel. ‘I think he lives down the back somewhere.’
They chatted away for a little while longer before Mrs Laurel retired to her air-conditioned bedroom-cum- study. This left Norton pretty much to his own devices, which weren’t a great deal in the heat. He got his Walkman out and was going to lie on the bed and listen to a few tapes, but changed his mind. There was a slight breeze, some shade and an old wire chair just outside his back door. Les dropped his Walkman back on the bed, plonked his backside out in the garden and decided to read some more P. J. O’Rourke or maybe bone up on a bit more US culture.
Norton was chuckling away at P.J.’s satirical style when a quick movement in the trees caught his eyes. It was a pair of squirrels. They were grey and black with bits of white; very tiny with big, shiny ink black eyes. They made hardly any noise as they darted between the leaves and branches, just a brisk scurry among the shadows every now and again. Les had never seen squirrels before and was thinking how cute and inoffensive they looked when a couple of thoughts struck him. One was some dopey redneck yank he’d seen on TV before he left home bragging about his squirrel gun. Squirrel gun? Les screwed his face up. Why the fuck would you need a gun to kill those poor little things? What bloody harm are they doing? Then he thought of a gun book he’d glanced through at Hank’s. It showed another boofheaded seppo wearing a ten-gallon hat, holding a Magnum in one hand and some poor little animal about as big as a canary in the other, and looking into the camera like he’d just taken Pork Chop Hill single handed. The flip. Then Les flashed onto some signs he’d noticed as they were driving around the beach area of Siestasota. BIRD SANCTUARY. NO SHOOTING. ANIMAL REFUGE. NO GUNS ALLOWED. Right in the middle of town almost. That would be like seeing a similar sign at Neilsen Park or on top of South Head. Norton and his family had blasted their share of pigs and rabbits and feral pests. But these ratbags seemed to want to shoot anything that moved. Then he thought of those three kids out at the target range. The right to bear arms, eh? Even if you’re ten years old. Les shook his head as Chip and Dale disappeared onto the roof, their long fluffy tails waving in the air. Oh well, whatever turns you on, I suppose. And it’s their country not mine. At least when they’re shooting the animals they’re bumping a few thousand of each other off as well. Like that dope in New York state that shot his mother in his backyard. He thought she was a deer. God bless America.
The human smile button returned; Les heard him pull up, put his book down and walked out the front he was that keen to get going. But he still had to try and act a little casual. Laurel had just got out of the car when Norton buttonholed him.
‘So what’s doing, Hank?’
‘I got a couple of things to do yet.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll wait here for you.’
A couple of things took over half an hour. Les was expecting this so he got his sunglasses and the rest of one carton of orange juice and drank it next to the car while he waited. Hank finally appeared and they took off for the ‘condo’ or whatever it was. All the way over Norton couldn’t help but wonder why the hell he just didn’t pack his gear and take it with him in the first place and save a trip.
The place was called Greenwood Estate, 4701-4771 Manatee. Which was all Les saw on the fifteen-minute drive over; a couple of small shopping centres and mile after mile of walled-off housing estates full of home units and townhouses set along these massive wide roads. Old glory was flapping out the double front entrance next to a wooden sign painted green and white. Hank turned left onto a speed hump, then it was more speed humps and parking spaces like they’d driven onto Rose Bay Golf Links, only they’d walled it off, tarred most of it over and filled it full of townhouses. It was all yellow and black stucco concrete and well-kept gardens. As they drove past, Les noticed a couple of caretakers in blue shirts and jeans moving around next to a row of dumpbins near a toolshed. After about half a kilometre of parking spaces big enough to land the space shuttle, half full of cars almost as big, Hank pulled up in one that said 405, near a sign saying ‘4771 Block’. Flat 405 was down a small hallway, past another unit and beneath a set of wooden stairs. Hank unlocked the door and Les went weak at the knees.
It was fully carpeted and furnished with pastel- coloured furniture and matching wallpaper with paintings and mirrors round the walls. There were tablelamps everywhere and a glass table and chairs sat under a minichandelier next to a bar separating it from a modern kitchen. It was bright and sunny with a TV and a small stereo and someone had left the air-conditioning on. A short hallway led to a huge bedroom with a queensize bed, chairs, tables and an en-suite. A spacious bathroom was just across the hall. But best of all, when Les wandered back into the loungeroom there was a curtained off, enclosed verandah and about thirty metres behind that across a patch of well-manicured lawn was a swimming pool; twenty-five metres long, sparkling crystal clear in the sun and not a soul in it. There was a brown wooden cabana, a whole lot of bulky banana chairs, seats and a few tables, and that was about it. Les turned to Hank, trying to get some words out, when Captain Rats started putting on a drama.
‘Have a look,’ he ranted, and banged on a wall. ‘These places are built like shit.’
‘Yeah, I have to agree with you,’ replied Norton, still a little stunned. ‘So in that case why don’t we drive like shit back to your place and get my gear. I’m moving in.’
Hank seemed to ignore Les. ‘What’s this goddamn air- conditioner doing on?’
‘What do you think it’s bloody doing? Laverne’s probably…’
Before Les got a chance to finish, Hank had found a screwdriver and started pulling a duct covering off the wall near the floor while he babbled on about what a dump the place was and how it was almost ready to fall down. Les decided to let him play his little game while he checked the rest of the place out. There was tinned food and bread in the cupboards, milk and butter in the fridge alongside several large bottles of soft drink and a dozen bottles of Coors Cutter. The deep freeze was full of ice and on a shelf above was a bottle of vodka and two bottles of bourbon. There was everything you needed to clean up with, sheets and pillows on the bed, soap and towels in the bathroom. I know what this is, thought Les, as he looked around the fully appointed condominium. It’s my reward for saving the president. Hank’s ex must be in the CIA. They knew all along. God bless you, Laverne, wherever you are. The phone worked also, because Boofhead rang up some air-conditioning mob and put on another drama. Les had a look in the duct at what he was raving about. Around the air-conditioning unit was a narrow metal tray with about an eighth of an inch of water in it.
‘Look at the thing,’ he said, getting back down on his knees. ‘It’s full of goddamn water.’
‘Hank, you know what that is?’ said Les. ‘It’s a fuckin’ drip-tray. That’s what it’s there for. Jesus, you ought to know what a drip-tray is. They named them after you.’
Hank muttered and cursed while he screwed the cover back on. Norton waited as patiently as he could, watching as Hank played his little mind game. ‘You finished fucking around, have y
ou?’ Hank fiddled in the last screw. ‘Good. Now let’s go back to your place and I’ll get my gear.’ Hank mumbled something else as he put the screwdriver back in the kitchen. Next thing they were driving back to Swamp Manor.
Les still could scarcely believe his luck; all he had to do now was get rid of Captain Rats and he was sweet. But not too drastically. How about just dragging him out of the car, jamming his head under the back wheel and driving over it? Naturally, back at Swamp Manor, Hank had important things to do. Les threw his stuff in his bags and put his bike in the back of the pick-up. He knew he had plenty of time but he couldn’t help but put the bustle on as he hastily tidied up his room and gathered up all his travel documents and money. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Swamp Manor in as short as possible a time. Mrs Laurel’s car was gone, so he didn’t get a chance to thank her and say goodbye; but he’d be back. He got his other carton of orange juice from the fridge and the rest of his food, threw it in a paper shopping bag and waited out at the car. Hank eventually appeared. Driving back to the condo Les didn’t quite know what to say. Go and get yourself well and truly fucked, Hank, you wombat, would be the most appropriate thing. But when it was all boiled down, if it hadn’t been for Hank, he wouldn’t have got the condo in the first place.
‘Well that was a stroke of luck,’ he said. ‘Getting that place.’
‘You call that lucky?’ retorted Hank. ‘The place is a dump.’
‘Yeah, I guess you’re right,’ answered Norton, slowly shaking his head. ‘But it’ll have to do till something better comes along.’ He half smiled at Hank. ‘Of course if I get sick of it, I can always come back to your place — can’t I?’
Back at Greenwood Estate Hank actually helped Les with his overnight bag while Norton got the other one and wrestled his bike out of the pick-up and onto the enclosed verandah. Within a few minutes Les had his orange juice in the fridge, his bags on the floor in the lounge and Hank standing next to them like a stale bottle of piss. Just outside the back door the swimming pool was sparkling in the heat.
‘Well, what’s doing, Hank?’ he finally asked.
Laurel’s eyes spun around as if he was still full of his own importance and Les would be stuffed without him. ‘Well, I have to get going. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Good,’ answered Les. ‘So have I.’ Like have a swim, have a feed, play my tapes and hope to Christ you find where you left your flying saucer and fuck off.
‘So what are we doing tonight?’
We? Les shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged.
‘I’ll call back and we’ll go for a drink.’
‘Yeah righto,’ answered Les reluctantly.
‘I’ll see you about eight-thirty.’
‘Half past eight?!! It doesn’t get dark till fuckin’ near ten.’
‘We’ll go to a dark bar,’ smirked Laurel.
‘Yeah alright,’ answered Norton slowly. Hank turned to go and had his hand on the door knob. ‘Hey, Hank. Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Hank blinked round the room as Les held out his hand. ‘The keys.’ Hank’s eyes spun round again for a moment before he fumbled the two keys out of his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ nodded Les. The door slammed and he was gone.
Norton stared at the door for almost half a minute, then fell down on his knees with this delicious grin on his face and started praying towards the swimming pool. He still couldn’t quite come to grips with the good fortune that had just landed in his lap. It was like getting out of some gaol and having a giant carbuncle lanced at the same time. A pall of absolute, miserable gloom had been lifted from him and now he had this as well. Gratis. It was that good Les didn’t know where to start. The first thing he did was get his two bags and empty them out, throwing the whole lot all over the bedroom floor. Then, after planting his wallet, passport and traveller’s cheques, he stripped down to his Speedos, grabbed a towel and almost tore the back flyscreen door off as he charged out to the swimming pool.
Between the condo and the pool was the cabana, with an outdoor shower, toilets and more signs on it than Parramatta Road. No eating, drinking, smoking, splashing, laughing, rubber floats, swim flippers, etc, etc, etc. Shower before swimming, pool hours 10 to 10. Doesn’t say anything about guns, thought Les. I’m allowed to go shooting. The shower was on the opposite side to the pool. As he splashed around under it Les noticed about an acre of well-kept park, with a large pond and a fountain in it, running off towards the walls of the next estate. Several lizards and the smallest frogs Les had ever seen scampered round the rocks and gardens and a couple of turtles dived into the pond, disappearing beneath the murky water in a tiny cloud of even tinier bubbles. On the opposite side of the cabana one of the signs said NO DIVING. Fair enough, nodded Les approvingly as he dropped his towel onto a table; then he ran and somersaulted into the pool, landing with a splash like a depth charge exploding.
After sitting in the heat all day, the water wasn’t cold or even all that refreshing, but it was beautifully clean and it was definitely wet. Les dived down to the bottom of the deep end and swam underwater to the shallow end, dived and splashed around and just plain dug it as the water seemed to wash away the sweat and any troubles he might have had. The water wasn’t over-chlorinated and didn’t sting your eyes that much. Les started doing laps, a few freestyle, a few breaststroke before just lying on his back and floating. He could still hardly believe it; this was the last thing he was expecting. He spat some water up in the air and winked a quick smile of thanks towards the sky. How does that song go? he smiled to himself. ‘If my friends could see me now.’ All huddled round their heaters and I’m in a swimming pool. How droll it is.
Les floated and swam about for what seemed like hours, then got out and went back to the flat, where the first thing he did was turn off the air-conditioner. They’re alright in shopping centres, but you get too dependent on them. Besides, Florida in summer couldn’t be any worse than Dirranbandi. Fifteen minutes after the air- conditioner stopped it was pretty much like Darwin. Oh well, who gives a stuff? thought Les, as he hung his Speedos on the verandah and wrapped a towel round his waist.
Coors Cutter. Non Alcoholic Beer. Norton took one from the fridge and sampled it out. It tasted okay and went down very easy; just left you feeling sober and a little cheated somehow. Norton glanced up at the bottles of bourbon. Mmmhh. A little early in the day to start getting out of it. Walking round the flat with his bottle of Coors, Les was like a kid in a toy shop; he didn’t know where to start first. After Swamp Manor and putting up with Captain Rats, it was a quantum leap into luxury and idyllic seclusion. The stereo wasn’t all that big and the speakers sitting on top of the cabinet that held it and the TV weren’t all that big either; but they were big enough. Among the mess in his bedroom Les found his tapes. They were mostly Australian bands, some were rock, some a bit more laid back; number five was laid back, if Les remembered correctly. He slipped the tape on and smiled to himself as he adjusted the graphic equaliser. Right again. ‘Send the Divers Down’, an oldie but a goodie by Australian Crawl.
Norton got another bottle of Coors, sat on the lounge and sipped it as that track ran into ‘When the River Runs Dry’ by Hunters and Collectors, then ‘Have You Ever’ by the Moonee Valley Drifters. Ahh, how sweet it is. Les wasn’t getting anywhere near drunk or even a glow up, but he was getting relaxed and thinking it wouldn’t take all that many Coors Cutters to get you bloated up. That side of the tape finished, leaving Les staring into space feeling very, very pleasant indeed. Now what to do? Well, I could tidy up that mess in my room. Or, better still, I could lie back on that big comfortable bed and just close my eyes for a few minutes. Maybe even have a little nap till Prince Charming gets here at half past eight. Yeah, he’ll be here at half past eight, thought Les, as he walked to the bedroom. That’s just to have me sitting around all dressed up, and he’ll lob about ten. He must think I’m as dopey as he is. Norton laid his head back and couldn’t believe how soft the pi
llows were and how comfortable the bed was; just behind him the slightest breeze was coming through the half-open window. Then a much happier thought occurred to him. If he was right, he had half a chace to meet Lori, the daring young girl on the flying trapeze down at Club BandBox tonight. But with Boofhead in tow? Maybe he could sool him onto her cousin? Doubtful. There wouldn’t be a sheila in the world that desperate. No. Les was going to have to get rid of Hank. But how? Norton had a little chuckle to himself as he started to drift off. Somehow he didn’t think it was going to be all that hard.
An horrendous clap of thunder rattling across the sky woke Les. He blinked round the room for a few moments before he realised where he was and what was going on, then looked at his watch; it was well after eight. It was just as hot as ever and still light outside, although despite the rain pelting down it didn’t appear as heavy as yesterday’s storm. Norton watched the rain splattering into the swimming pool and figured that was the place to be, especially with all that lightning around, and with a mask and snorkel on so you could watch yourself being crisped. Still feeling a little groggy he climbed into his Speedos, walked out to the pool and just fell straight in. The facemask fogged up with the heat, but it was fun flopping around in the pool, watching the rain drops hit the water and doing a few laps while he woke up and got a little exercise at the same time. He rolled over on his back and watched the rain splattering into his facemask, duck dived around, having a good time in general for a while, then got out.
Back inside, he showered and shaved in the sparkling clean, fresh-smelling bathroom, got into a pair of jox, then made a cup of coffee and a sandwich and almost tap- danced happily around the kitchen while he played the other side of the tape still sitting in the stereo. It cut out about the same time as the storm eased and after cleaning up what little mess there was Norton once again found himself looking up at the bottles on the shelf. Bourbon and Coke, Mr Norton? Bubbly not flat? Certainly, garçon. Next thing Les was standing in the loungeroom with the biggest glass he could find — half full of ice, half full of George Dickle and Diet Pepsi — staring down at the TV set. It wasn’t as big as the one at home and sitting on top was a kind of box with buttons on it that he guessed must be for Cable TV, whatever that was. He switched on the TV, pressed a button on the box and a red, digital display lit up. Les pressed some more buttons, numbers appeared and things started coming up on the screen. He got a movie in Spanish, a yank politician being interviewed by some dude in a pair of braces, the weather in Skunk Gut Missouri, a doco on fly-fishing in Haemo- tosis Nebraska, and, lo and behold, the Budweiser fights. Two Mexican lightweights getting into it hammer and tongs.
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