A little further on he turned to Ricco. ‘Nice bit of shooting, mate. I hope my head wasn’t in your road?’
Ricco’s face was florid. ‘That dumb, nigger fuck. Who’d he think he was? Take my car and make me get out and walk in the heat. Fuckin’ jig gink.’
‘Yeah. Well, I don’t think he’ll be needing it now. You soon sorted that out.’
‘Sorted that out. Hey,’ Ricco made an expansive gesture, the gun still in his hand, ‘you want I should have made nice with him?’
‘No, no. Not at all. You did exactly the right thing.’ Les nodded to the gun. ‘What did you use anyway?’
Ricco rested the gun on the palm of his hand. ‘Just a .22. They’re the best. You know what I’m sayin’? All the heroes like Magnums and .45s. All they do is blow brains and shit all round the place. You stick this in their eye or behind their ear and — pop! It just rattles around inside their head, scrambles up their brain and it don’t leave no mess. I like a neat hit.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Quick and efficient too, I might add.’
Ricco’s face suddenly creased into a smile. ‘Hey, you’re pretty cool yourself. You just drove off. No panic, no big deal. You got class, Les Norton. I like you.’
‘Good. Let’s just hope no one got the licence number.’
‘Nahhh! Who’d give a flying fuck anyway? Just one less crackhead, nigger piece of shit.’
‘Yeah, right. Who’d give a fuck? Just one less nigger.’ Norton shook his head. ‘Which way back to Vinnie’s? Back that way, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Take the next left at the lights.’
Norton drove silently along, with one eye on the road, another on the rear vision mirror and another on Ricco, till he came to the caryard. He didn’t bother going inside, he just pulled up off the road with the motor running to let Ricco out.
‘So what do you want to do with this?’ he asked, nodding to the gun still sitting in his lap.
‘Hey, what have we got here?’ Ricco picked up the gun and examined it. It was some sort of machine-pistol, a bit like Hank’s Beretta. The magazine was in the handle and underneath the barrel was a small folding metal grip that incorporated the trigger guard. Stamped along the side was VASP-75. Cal. 9x9 MM. ‘A fuckin’ Visser. Wonder where that nigger got this?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Les. ‘He probably saved up enough green stamps. But it’s all yours. I don’t want it. And it’s got your dabs on it, sport. Not mine.’
‘Okay, I’ll take it. I know a guy could use this.’ Ricco got out, shut the door and walked round to Norton’s side of the car with both guns tucked under his shirt. ‘So don’t forget Thursday. I’ll be round about ten-thirty and we go boatin’. Then I’ll show you my buddy’s joint at Salmo. Might have a meal after.’
‘Alright, Ricco. I’ll see you on Thursday. So long, mate.’
Ricco tapped the roof and Norton drove off; he might have been acting cool, but he’d driven about three miles and his adrenalin was still pumping before he worked out he was going the wrong way. He wasn’t quite shitting his pants, but wouldn’t it be lovely if some concerned citizens got the number and a description of the car. You didn’t shoot people in broad daylight and just leave them lying on the side of the road, surely? Then again, this was America. Maybe you did. And there was a chance the car was, if not hot, extremely tropical. If Norton got pulled over his holiday in Florida could last quite a bit longer than two weeks. Somehow he managed to get his bearings and find his way back to the estate. Not driving like Jack Brabham, but not quite driving like Grandma Duck either.
Back inside the relative safety of the condo Les had his head in the fridge wishing there was something in there a bit stronger than ‘Colorado Kool-Aid’. But a bottle of Coors would have to do. He ripped the top off one, swallowed half in about one gulp then sat down on the lounge and had a think. Any doubts he might have had about Ricco being in the Mafia were now dispelled. He was a hitman alright, and a bloody good one too. Not to mention hot-tempered and a bit psycho. Then, on the other hand, if Ricco hadn’t of shot that X-head, or whatever he was, there was a good chance he would have shot Les anyway, he was that crazy. What a nuthouse. He’d got rid of one gun-happy galah and fallen straight in with another one. Only this one wasn’t some flip trying to impress him. He was a full-on Mafia professional, who kept his mouth shut, didn’t say ‘nuttin’ to nobody’, then just went out and did it. And he was going ‘boatin’’ with him on Thursday. Les swallowed some more beer. In the meantime the best thing to do for the rest of the afternoon would be to stay home. If somebody had taken the number any flak would go straight to Vinnie’s caryard first. And that was all he had wanted to do, hire a bloody car. Suddenly Les felt like jumping on the next plane and going back home. Though he’d only been away six days, it was beginning to feel like six weeks. But wouldn’t they give him a nice bagging back at the club if he did? Especially George Brennan. Norton stared into the bottle of beer and felt more than a bit homesick. He always knew Australia was good, but he didn’t know it was that good. Still, he had Lori to take out tonight and that could be quite interesting. Things could be worse. He could have been stuck back at Swamp Manor with Captain Rats. Les finished his beer and went for a swim; a long one.
Which was how he spent the afternoon, alternating between the pool, P.J. O’Rourke, the book on Jamaica and the road map of Siestasota, while he played a couple of tapes — just like any normal person relaxing on their annual holidays. This time he turned on the air- conditioner too; finishing up with pneumonia or the flu couldn’t be any worse than some gun-crazy seppo shooting him. Later in the afternoon it started to rain again so Les dozed off for a while to the steady patter of the raindrops and the rumbling of distant thunder. So apart from nearly getting his head blown off earlier it wasn’t a bad sort of an afternoon.
Norton was up, showered and shaved and in a pair of shorts, feeling pretty good. He was also hungry and now looking forward to dinner with the blonde from Texas. He had plenty of time before Lori arrived so Les thought he might have ‘just the one’ bourbon and diet. He wasn’t sure of the driving laws in Florida but he’d feed Lori some bullshit line about how he couldn’t handle the American road system, that way she could drive. Les took a couple of slurps of his cool one and despite his earlier apprehensiveness now started to think how clever he was. He walked over to the TV set and was about to see what he could find by pushing a few buttons and dials when there was an abrupt knock on the door. Hello, thought Les, his apprehension starting to come back. I wonder who this is? It’s too bloody early for Lori. Still holding his drink, Les opened the door and couldn’t believe his eyes.
It was Hank, in his customary grubby jeans and a chatty grey T-shirt. But a very dismal-looking Hank. He had two black eyes, stitches in his chin, and his jaw and mouth were swollen. One arm was in a leather sling, his other forearm rested on a metal crutch and one ankle was in a cast. He was kind of standing side-on to the door. No matter how he was standing he was the last person Les was expecting to see, or wanting to for that matter. Norton was that dumbfounded he was almost lost for words as he gave Hank a quick once up and down.
‘What do you want?’
Hank’s blackened eyes briefly caught Norton’s then once again began darting all over the place. ‘I was driving past so I thought I’d call in and see what you were doing.’
‘What am I doing?’ Les couldn’t believe his ears, much less his eyes. ‘I’m going out. With a girl.’
‘The same one you were with the other night?’
‘No. A different one.’
‘Oh. Then you don’t want to go out for a few drinks?’
Les shook his head. ‘Look, to be honest, Hank, I’d just as soon stick on my own from now on. You know. Go my own way, do my own thing. Or let me put it to you another way, Einstein. You’re probably the most miserable, know-all cunt I’ve ever come across in my life. I’d have more fun rolling in dog shit or being holed up in a contagious disease ward
than I would going out with you. People queue up to hate you. An artificial flower would die on you. Even your own shadow keeps away from you. You pick fights in bars and about the only thing you can accomplish on your own is BO. I can’t kid to you any more, Hank. You’re an arse. And don’t ask me to invite you in. Laverne told me to keep you out of the place. So did Ricco.’ Les took another sip of bourbon and diet.
Hank blinked a few times and the wooden cogs inside his head clonked round a couple of notches. It was a pathetic sight, as if he was looking for sympathy. ‘So what do you want me to do now?’
Christ, thought Les. What have I got to do to get rid of this prick? ‘I don’t know. And to be honest I don’t give a fuck either. But I’ll tell you what you could do: Why don’t you try shooting yourself?’ Hank blinked around again. ‘No, I mean it. This place is full of guns. You love guns. Why not shoot yourself?’ Norton was half joking and half fair dinkum. But he was starting to have a bit of fun. He took a sip of bourbon and tried not to laugh openly at the look on Hank’s bruised and battered face. ‘Or look at it another way, knackers. You’ve got no money, no girl, no job and no friends. You’re thirty and you look closer to sixty. You live in a wooden shack on a swamp that you wouldn’t breed greyhounds in, and the bank’s going to repossess that. So things aren’t going to get any better. Plus your family can’t stand you. Not even your mother. I’ve only been here for a few days and you definitely don’t ring my bells either. So think about it, Hank. You’d probably be doing yourself and everyone else a favour. Just stick a gun to your head and pull the trigger. You’d probably love it. And you couldn’t miss. You’re a good shot — better than me. Plus you’ve got a heap of guns. If one doesn’t work, try another. Use all kinds of different bullets too. You’ll get it together sooner or later. Even a dill like you. What do you reckon, Hank? Grouse idea or what?’
Norton was expecting some sort of a stupid reply or a ‘get stuffed’ or whatever. Instead, Hank blinked around, huffed something under his breath and limped off. Les watched him for a moment then closed the door, went to the kitchen, and put some more ice in his drink. He was sort of half laughing to himself, but still quite incredulous. Christ! What about that idiot turning up? I thought he’d be half dead. Or hopefully a hundred per cent dead. I know what’s keeping him on his feet though. Pills. And plenty of ’em. What a bloody moron. Anyway, I reckon that’s got rid of him. Bloody hell! If he comes back after that I’ll piss on his leg. Guns or no guns. Then a thought struck Norton. Shit! I still got to go out to Swamp Manor and get my Walkman. But that’s only to see his mother. I should be able to avoid Captain Rats. He took another sip of bourbon and went back to the TV.
All Les could get was the same programs as before and this time the sport was American baseball, which didn’t turn him on all that much. He threw another tape on and ironed a clean pair of jeans and a blue, button-down collar shirt. He was enjoying another bourbon and diet, and King Biscuit Boy’s ‘Blue Light Boogie’ was fading into Canned Heat’s ‘Red Headed Woman’ when there was another knock on the door. This one was carrying a small denim handbag and a much better sight than Hank. Much better.
Lori was spray-painted into a pair of Levis, black cowboy boots and a kind of white pleated shirt that fitted her exactly where it was supposed to and was undone enough in the front again to show exactly what it was supposed to oozing out of a lacy white bra. She gave Norton a pouty smile. ‘Hi, Les. How are you?’
Norton’s eyes sprung out like two party whistles. ‘How am I?’ he replied, giving her a monstrous once up and down. ‘Don’t worry about how I am. How are you? And come inside before you get arrested for being so good- looking.’
‘Oh, Les. You’re such a sweetheart.’
‘That’s me,’ agreed Norton. ‘Sweet li’l ol’ Les.’
Lori came inside and Les closed the door. ‘Hey, this place is really nice. Who owns it?’
‘I got it through a friend of a friend. It’s mine till I leave.’
‘I love the furniture. And those paintings.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty schmicko. Got a nice big pool out through there too.’ Lori had another look around then sat down on one of the lounges. ‘So can I get you a drink or something? All I got at the moment’s bourbon and vodka. Or Coors Cutter.’
‘A vodka and orange would be nice.’
‘Okey-doke. No worries.’
‘Yeah,’ smiled Lori. ‘No worries.’
Les went to the kitchen and started pottering around with a glass and some ice. ‘Did you have much trouble finding the place?’
‘No. I only live about fifteen minutes away.’
‘Christ! I got lost about ten times trying to find my way home,’ lied Norton. ‘I’m glad you called over. I’d’ve probably got to your place around midnight. You would have starved to death waiting.’
‘I figured that. So we’ll go out in my car.’
‘If you want to.’ Les handed Lori a drink and watched her take a sip.
‘Mmhh. That’s nice.’
They chit-chatted away about nothing much in particular; Lori seemed more interested about life in Australia and listening to Les talking than telling him about life in Florida on the marina. Les blathered along, feeding Lori the first line of bullshit that came into his head, while he checked her out along with the odd corny joke or two. Lori lapped it up and giggled away as she sipped her drink. Norton liked making her laugh. She had a hearty Texan one and every time she did laugh her tits nearly fell out the front of her shirt. They had one more drink then decided to make a move.
Of all things, Lori drove a maroon VW beetle in fairly good condition. Les pointed out the car he’d hired and offered to take it if she wanted to. Lori checked the T-Bird out and said her bug was more fun. This suited Norton admirably. Lori’s car stereo was pretty good, with a graphic equaliser, but all she had was one old Diana Ross and the Supremes tape. As they scooted through the traffic with ‘The Happening’ bouncing out of the speakers Norton tried to figure out what TV show or what movie he was in tonight. If he’d put a floppy hat and some lovebeads on Lori it could have been Alice’s Restaurant.
‘Hey, where do you fancy going for a feed? asked Les. ‘I’m a nice, ill-mannered lout. I haven’t even picked a place out.’
‘You like seafood, Les?’
‘Yeah. I’m on a seafood diet. I see food and I eat it.’ ‘We’ll go to Vinnie’s Stone Crab Corner. It’s nice.’ ‘Sounds alright. It reminds me of my favourite song back home.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t wait up for the shrimp boats, Mum. I’m coming home with the crabs.’
Lori shook her head. ‘I don’t think I know that one. But the food’s great, plus it’s got atmosphere. All these Mafia types that have retired to Florida go there. It’s quite funny. I’ve been there a few times.’
As they zipped through the night traffic something struck Norton as curious. ‘This Vinnie. Is he the owner?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘Oh, a little under six feet, about two hundred pounds, black hair receding. Got a gravelly kind of voice. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing Lori,’ shrugged Les. ‘Nothing at all.’
They seemed to be heading towards a different part of town, over a smaller bridge alongside an unfamiliar bay or harbour with the odd shop or restaurant on the side of the road or nestled on the corners. Diana Ross was warbling ‘Where Did Our Love Go?’ when Lori turned off the road, down into a dusty parking lot, and pulled up. There was an expanse of brackish water on one side with a few trees, mangroves and parkland around. The restaurant was single-storey white timber, built out over the water, with an enclosed verandah out the front covered in vines and bright-coloured flowers. Above the front was a red and white sign saying ‘Vinnie’s Stone Crab’ next to a couple of American flags; parked out front was a monstrous green Cadillac. The front door was sort of upholstered red vinyl; Les opened it for Lori and they entered.
‘Hey, hey, Les! What ’cha doin’, huh?’
Norton turned around and Vinnie was getting up from a table of four other men. This time it was white trousers and a yellow silk shirt with pink and green parrots on it, and jutting out from his jaw was the familiar cigar like a French loaf. He grinned and made an expansive gesture with his arms.
‘So what brings you here, Les?’
‘I dunno,’ shrugged Norton. ‘Someone said the food’s half alright and you wash the plates on Tuesday night.’
‘The food’s alright and we wash the plates. What the fuck! Come here, you aussie sonofabitch!’ Vinnie wrapped a hairy arm around Norton’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze, then he spotted Lori. ‘Hey. Who’s the lovely lady?’
‘Vinnie, this is Lori. Actually Lori just happened to pick your restaurant. I didn’t even know you owned it, mate. Lori, this is Vinnie.’
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