And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Ohh yeah! Go the boys,’ exhorted Les. He took a giant slurp of his drink then settled back comfortably on the lounge to watch the fights.

  If the fights were good, the Budweiser Girls were even better. Ten of the best sorts Norton had ever seen in his life. They porked around the ring in high heels and cutaway bikinis, shaking their boobs and throwing up more growl than a pride of lions, vying to see who was going to be Miss Budweiser Ring Girl. The last one off was a tall, horny blonde, stacked like a timberyard.

  ‘Hi. I’m Lori. I’m from New Mexico. I like tropical fish and I want to be a brain surgeon.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet you do,’ cackled Norton. ‘As soon as they can find one small enough to fit inside your silly bloody head.’ The George Dickle was starting to go down well.

  The next fight finished early. Some Mexican calling himself the Fighting Clown, because he also worked in a circus, flattened some tall skinny bloke from Idaho. He didn’t just knock him out, he poleaxed him, and they were showing the replay. Les was watching one of the most sizzling, short rights of all time when there was an abrupt knock at the door. Now I wonder who this might be? smiled Les. Has Prince Charming arrived? It must be half past eight already. Les sipped his drink while he watched the replay again and took his own sweet time answering the door. It was Hank alright, wearing jeans, a half-ironed floral shirt and desert boots; he looked almost tidy. Les gave him a brief smile, he looked positively irate when he saw Les still in his jox, then got worse when Norton sat back down on the lounge, casually took another mouthful of bourbon and resumed watching the television.

  ‘Well, what are we doing?’ demanded Hank.

  Norton sort of shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing. But I’m watching the Budweiser fights. They’re alright too.’

  ‘Well, are we going out?’

  Les sort of shrugged again. ‘Ohh yeah. Watch the fights for a while. There’s no mad hurry, is there?’

  Hank stood there, his eyes spinning somewhere between Les, the TV and outer space. Norton kept watching as the next fight started. Out the corner of his eye he saw Hank go to the kitchen and return with an ashtray. He was about to plonk his arse down and light up when Norton looked up from the lounge. When he spoke, his voice was very slow, extremely polite but very calculated.

  ‘Oh, Hank, would you mind doing me a favour?’ Boofhead blinked at Les. ‘Would you wait till you get out to the car before you have a cigarette?’

  Hank’s face coloured, his eyes went totally spare this time and the wooden cogs inside his head seemed to be disintegrating. It was one of the strangest sights Les had ever seen. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like ‘weird’ then stormed straight out the door, slamming it behind him. Well, how about that? smiled Les. Looks like sookums didn’t like being told to eat his vegies. That was easier than I thought. Les took another slurp of bourbon and resumed watching TV.

  The first round finished, Les was about to get another drink when the door opened and in burst Hank. Norton looked up, a little surprised. From across the other side of the room he could smell cigarette smoke on Hank’s breath. Rather than wait a few minutes, he’d run outside like a big silly sheila and had a smoke just to show Les he sort of would if he wanted to. Les could hardly believe it.

  Captain Rats stood glaring at Norton, his face almost purple with outraged disbelief. Norton couldn’t have looked more comfortable lying back on the lounge sipping his drink, completely absorbed in the fight. Hank could have been in another galaxy.

  ‘Well, what are you doing?’ he almost shouted. ‘Are we going out or what?’

  ‘Ohh yeah. S’pose so.’ Les sipped his drink without looking up from the TV.

  ‘Well, I’m going now.’

  Norton slowly turned around and replied just as slowly. ‘Well, fuckin’ go.’

  That was it for poor Hank. His eyes spun around crazily as his circuits completely overloaded. He glared at Les for about half a second then turned round and raced out the door, slamming it behind him once again. This time Les got up and locked it.

  Well how easy was that? smiled Norton. I knew the goose would come in. But what a dill. I’ve met hundreds in my time, but he’s got to be the best by a country mile. The outlaw from the South. Wish I’d have booted him fair up the arse. Anyway, the idiot’s gone and I suppose while I’m up I’d better get myself another delicious. And I might make this one a celebratory one.

  The fights eventually finished. Les switched off the TV and played side one of the tape again. Well, what am I going to do? he thought, as he sipped his drink and looked through the verandah window at the swimming pool all lit up now. It’s kind of sad really. I’m lost and alone in the U, S of A, got no one to have a drink with and no one to give me a lift into town. Sniff, sniff! Then Norton’s craggy face lit up in a grin. But I’ll bet they got taxis in this joint.

  The phone book was next to the phone on the kitchen bar. Les was about to look under ‘Y’ for ‘Yellow’ when he noticed some business cards on top of the book and next to Laverne’s phone number and address. There was one for the air-conditioning company, one for a TV repair shop and among the others was a white one with ‘Keys Limousine Service. Direct to Car Phone’ and the number. Written down the side in biro was ‘Joey’. Les hit the buttons; the ring at the other end was a lot slower and flatter than back in Australia.

  A voice with a strong NY accent answered. ‘Yeah. Keys Limos. Hullo.’

  ‘Is Joey there, please?’

  ‘This is Joey.’

  ‘How y’goin’, Joey? Listen mate, I need a limo at…’

  Half full of ink, Norton started to rattle off the address and phone number, plus his name, when Joey interrupted. ‘Hey, hey. Hang on there a second, buddy. Slow down. You’re gonna have to run that by me again. I can’t understand you.’

  Norton dropped his voice back into second gear and managed to get it all across. ‘How long before you’ll be here?’

  ‘I’ll be there twenny minutes.’

  ‘Good on you, Joey, old son. I’ll be ready and waiting.’

  Twenty minutes was plenty of time for Les to iron a red, hangout, Hawaiian shirt and his jeans, give his hair a detail and roll up the Panthers T-shirt for Harris. In one of the cupboards he found what looked like several blue plastic milkshake containers. He filled one almost to the brim with bourbon, Pepsi and ice and was casually sipping it while the tape played when there was a polite knock on the door. I reckon that’s my man, smiled Les, and opened it.

  Joey was about five nine, dark hair, wearing a black sports jacket and blue tie. He was a good style of a bloke with a hint of both hardness and streetwise humour in his eyes. He gave Les a bit of a once up and down as if he didn’t quite know what to expect.

  ‘You Norton? The guy wants a limo to Main?’

  ‘That’s me,’ winked Les. ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  ‘Hey, take your time. I’ll be out front.’

  Les didn’t take his time turning off the lights and locking the place up, but he did take his drink. Joey was just outside, holding open the back door of a dark blue Cadillac stretch limousine. It was all lit up and shiny and looked like the Fairstar on wheels.

  ‘You know Gator Man’s on Main Street?’ asked Les.

  ‘Hey, do I know Gator Man’s? I’ll have you there before you finish your drink.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Norton, piling into the spacious back. ‘Well, you’d better go through a few red lights, Joey, cause I put ’em away pretty smartly.’

  It took about fifteen minutes to get to town and Les was able to get a bit of a boozy mag on with Joey. Joey did come from New York; Les told him a bit about Australia and how he happened to be in Florida. Despite the language barrier they managed to communicate and have a laugh while Les sat back and slurped his drink in air-conditioned luxury. Wonder how much this bloody thing is going to cost me? he mused. Probably about fifty bucks. Anyway, who gives a stuff? Whatever it is, it ain’t enoug
h. Still, it wouldn’t be bad to have that last fifty I gave Hank. Les chuckled sardonically. Gee, I wish he was here. I miss him already.

  They stopped outside Gator Man’s, Joey held open the door, Les clambered out, still holding about a quarter of his drink. ‘Hey, you’re not wrong, Joey,’ he smiled, giving the ice a rattle. ‘So what do I owe you, mate?’

  ‘That’ll be twelve bucks.’

  Norton’s jaw hung open as he gave the driver a double blink. ‘How much?’

  ‘Hey, twelve bucks. What, you got your hearing aid jammed in your ass?’

  Les shook his head. ‘You’re kiddin’.’

  ‘Kiddin, schmiddin. Just gimme the twelve. That’s a ten with a two. You know what I’m sayin’?’

  Norton juggled his drink, fished out a twenty and handed it to the driver. ‘There’s twenty dollars. And don’t even dare to offer me the change, you low mug.’ Now it was the driver’s turn for a double blink. ‘Twelve lousy dollars to come halfway across town in a stretch limo. What sort of a peasant do you take me for? Now get out of here before I report you, you miserable-looking dropkick.’

  Joey looked at the twenty for a second before stuffing it in his pocket. He closed the door and put his arm around Norton’s shoulders. Les felt like a punter walked off the street straight into Arthur Daley’s car yard.

  ‘How long are you in town for, buddy? Les… is it?’

  By the time Joey drove away Les had three more business cards and instructions to ring any time day or night, anywhere, in any condition; they’d be there in minutes and Norton would be looked after like he was the president. Onya, Joey, Les laughed to himself as he stuck the cards in his pocket and waved the limo off down Main Street. Now that he was more relaxed and didn’t have to keep following behind after Boofhead Les noticed Gator Man’s was on the corner of a town square or mall. There was a band playing in the open opposite and a squad car with one cop leaning against it keeping an eye on about a hundred or so punters. The cop looked up as the limo drove off and couldn’t help but notice Norton. Les thought he’d go over and put his head in; if the cop said anything about drinking he’d simply plead tourist and drop it in the nearest bin. Les crossed the road.

  The mall wasn’t all that big, just a couple of skinny trees and a few concrete flowerbeds in a tiled square surrounded by shops and restaurants and that was about it. The band was just plain bloody awful, long hair, black vests and singlets, playing some sort of heavy metal with a female store dummy in a purple leopard-skin mini propped in front of the speakers. The crowd didn’t look much better. Guess this must be that ‘poor white trash’ I keep hearing about, mused Les as he stood near the front of the squad car.

  ‘So how’s it goin’, mate?’ he asked the cop.

  The cop looked just like on TV. Magnum, mace, all black uniform, black hair and flashing white teeth. ‘It’s not goin’ so bad,’ he replied, one eye on Norton, the other on the crowd.

  ‘What’s it, something special or just a band playing?’

  ‘Just a band playing. They’ll be finished in about an hour.’

  Les took a slurp of his drink as they butchered a few bars of some other unfortunate song. ‘I bet you’ll be sorry when they’ve finished?’

  The cop turned to Les, chuckled for a second and flashed him an understanding smile. Norton finished his drink, dropped it in the nearest bin and wished the cop a good night. After getting a ‘you have a good one… mate’ in reply, he walked across to Gator Man’s.

  Gator Man’s was just as crowded as the night before and the band was just as good; probably better. Les got a margarita and a Jack Daniel’s sour from the same barmaid who seemed to remember him and joined the crowd. He didn’t know a soul in the place, didn’t have much idea where he was for that matter and didn’t give a stuff. One thing Les did know, as his bourbon sour disappeared down his screech, if he was going to meet Lori at Club BandBox he’d better take it a bit easier on the drink; he was starting to roar just a little.

  Nevertheless, Norton managed to roar his way through another two margaritas as the band bopped away on stage and did their thing going through the crowd again. Les didn’t want to leave it too late getting to Club BandBox but the Platinum Tones were such a hot band and Gator Man’s was such a good bar, making sensational drinks, he had to put his head in for a while. I think I might spend a few more nights in here before I leave sunny Sepposota, mused Norton, as he demolished another margarita.

  The band took a break and although there was no shortage of good-looking women on the hang Les decided to split. Outside, the street band was still murdering songs in the mall, despite the police presence. After the band in Gator Man’s, Les felt like borrowing the cop’s Magnum and shooting all four of them, starting with the lead singer in the black vest. A yellow cab cruised past, Les flagged it down and clambered inside. Club BandBox wasn’t far across the other side of Main Street; the fare was five dollars. Les gave the driver ten dollars then skipped through the punters and up the escalators.

  There was a bit of a mob standing round the front waiting to get in. Harris was on the door. He caught Norton’s eye at the back of the crowd, opened the door, made a bit of space among the punters and beckoned Les straight through, closing the door behind him.

  ‘G’day, Harris,’ said Les. ‘How’s things, mate? Alright?’

  ‘Hey, Les, mah man,’ grinned Harris. ‘What it look like, brother?’

  Les gave Harris a bit of a friendly slap on his massive bicep. ‘What’s it look like?’ echoed Norton. ‘Well, it looks a bit like this.’ Les pulled out the Penrith T-shirt from where he had it tucked in his jeans. He opened it up and handed it to Harris. ‘There you are, mate. How’s that?’

  Harris looked at the T-shirt and his huge white grin seemed to get bigger. He beckoned to another black man wearing jeans and a Houston Oilers T-shirt standing by the front desk. He wasn’t as big as Harris, but close enough with a broken nose and scar tissue round his eyes.

  ‘Hey, Otis. Dig this. This the T-shirt the man from Australia said he gonna bring you. Say hello to the man.’

  Otis took the T-shirt and his face lit up like Harris’s. ‘This T-shirt for me? The Panthers. Man, ah dig that shit.’ He looked at Norton. ‘Hey, what can I say, man?’

  Les shrugged. ‘Just thanks’ll do, mate.’

  ‘Hey, you got it.’

  Harris introduced Les to his young brother, who it turned out was a boxer and a pretty good one too, having fought at Caesar’s Palace a few times. Les tried to think if he’d seen him on Sky Channel at one time; he also tried to think what it would be like getting hit by someone that big who knew how to put them together. Extremely jarring, to say the least. They had a bit of a mag for a while, each getting a laugh out of the other’s accent and mannerisms. Watching the way people looked at the two brothers or spoke to them as they went past, Les seemed to get the idea that they were the men in Club BandBox.

  ‘Well, I might go inside and have a bit of a look around,’ said Norton.

  ‘Yeah, you do that, Les,’ smiled Norton. Norton’s shoulders were wide, but Harris’s monstrous arm went round them quite easily as he motioned to his young brother. ‘Sometimes we get a few uncool dudes in there. Anybody give you any shit, I’m here and young Otis be watching yo ass too.’

  ‘That’s a fact, Les,’ said Otis, folding up his T-shirt.

  ‘Thanks, fellahs,’ answered Les. ‘But I’ll be okay. Actually, I might be meeting a sheila inside.’

  Norton pointed towards the girl collecting the money at the desk and got a gentle push in the back from Harris that almost propelled him to the stairs running up on the left. Well, that’ll do me, thought Les. I can have a look around from up there and try and spot the lovely Lori. Les weaved through the punters and up the stairs.

  The place was pretty crowded and the dancefloor beneath almost packed. The black DJ was hitting the punters with a bit of disco and up on the bandstand, if Les wasn’t mistaken, was the equipment belonging
to the same band at the Sandbar, only with bigger speakers. There was no shortage of girls and the mob looked fairly cool in a casual sort of way; not quite ‘Miami Vice’, more ‘21 Jump Street’. Shit, smiled Les. I’m going into TV mode again. He looked over to where he’d met Lori and her cousin on Friday night, but they weren’t standing there. Oh well, thought Les. This still looks alright anyway. He was sort of manoeuvring himself back towards the bar when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Lesto the Great. The wonder from down under.’

  Norton turned around and there was Lori sitting where the bar cornered round towards the back of the club. She was wearing jeans, a cut-away maroon top and a sleeveless Levi jacket; she looked just as foxy and her long dark hair just as shiny as ever. On her right was an empty bar stool and a handbag sitting on the bar in front of it.

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ grinned Norton. ‘If it isn’t the girl on the red velvet swing. What’s doing, digger?’

  ‘Not much. Just sitting around listening to the band, seeing who might show up.’ Lori gave Norton a wink. ‘It’s good to see you, Les.’

  ‘Yeah, you too, Lori.’ Les made a bit of a gesture. ‘So how long have you been here?’