And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘4701 Manatee, mate. Greenwood Gardens Estate.’

  ‘You got it, buddy,’ said the driver.

  They drove along in silence. Then the driver caught Norton’s eye in the rear vision mirror.

  ‘Say, where are you from, buddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Scotland,’ replied Les vacuously.

  ‘Oh.’

  That was the entire conversation until they arrived at the estate. Les told the driver to drop him off out the front and paid him without leaving a tip.

  Les didn’t particularly feel like a walk in the hot, humid night air. But it did give him half a chance to stretch his legs and he also figured the fewer people knew where he lived the better. Les found the estate to be bigger than he imagined as he strolled beside the speed bumps in the semi darkness. There was a fair-sized tennis court at this end and another well-kept garden area. It was fairly dark, especially out on the driveway. There didn’t seem to be anybody around and most of the condos at this end seemed either in darkness or unoccupied. But there was enough light coming from around to see where you were going. Les sensed he was approaching the caretaker’s shed. He was, and as he got closer he heard voices; they were trying to keep subdued but dripped of anger and malice. For some reason Les slowed down a little and a tiny squirt of adrenalin hit him in the stomach along with a slight bristling up and down his spine. In the gloom from the one light outside the caretaker’s shed he could see Jerome pushed up against a wall, surrounded by four men in their early twenties wearing baseball caps and boots, T-shirts and jeans. They weren’t just a bunch of skinny kids, two looked white, one appeared to be his- panic, the other asian, and they looked as if they meant business. One white had a switch-blade knife and so did the asian. The white had the blade of his knife pressed under Jerome’s chin. Les could distinctly see it glinting an evil silver in the darkness, the same as he could distinctly see Jerome’s eyes bulging a sickly, terrified white.

  ‘I say we cut the fuckin’ nigger’s throat,’ said the white holding the switch-blade.

  ‘Yeah,’ hissed the hispanic. ‘Cut the stinking fuckin’ nigger. He don’t want to talk. He don’t want to live.’

  ‘I can’t help you, man,’ pleaded Jerome. ‘I’s tellin’ you the truth.’

  ‘Bullshit! You lying, black nigger sonofabitch!!’ The white with the switch-blade pressed it harder against Jerome’s chin. ‘Half these condos are empty, and you got the fuckin’ master key. You lying stinken nigger fuck!’ Switch-blade’s voice rose and he almost screamed out the last sentence. Watching silently Les figured either he was high on something or he needed it bad.

  ‘The nigger’s holding back,’ cursed the asian. He brandished the knife he was holding and it too gleamed sinisterly in the dull light. ‘Let me have him. I’ll make the sonofabitch give us the keys.’

  ‘I ain’t lyin’, man,’ Jerome pleaded again. ‘I’s tellin’ you the truth. I’s just a janitor. I just sweeps and pushes a broom. I don’t got nobody’s keys. Oh God! Don’t kill me.’

  ‘You’re bullshitting, you black sonofabitch,’ snarled the other white.

  ‘I’m not, man.’ Jerome was almost begging on his knees. ‘Please don’t hurt me, man. I ain’t done nothin’. And I don’t know nothin’. Any other night and I wouldn’t even be here, man. I swear.’

  ‘Cut his lying nigger tongue out,’ said the hispanic.

  ‘Yeah, stick the mother,’ urged the asian.

  Norton watched from the shadows a moment or two longer then started to slowly shake his head. This was absolutely none of his business and, besides, he was in enough trouble as it was. But what could he do? Jerome didn’t seem like a bad bloke and he did do Les a nice favour. Apart from that, though, he couldn’t just stand there and let some poor, inoffensive cleaner get stood over and probably sliced up by a team of lowlife, junkie dropkicks. Maybe if he just made his presence felt they might piss off. Yeah, might. Les shook his head again, sucked in a lungful of air and moved out from the shadows into the half light.

  ‘Hey, Jerome. How’re you goin’ there, mate?’ Les sounded as if he was surprised to see him. ‘Everything alright?’

  The four hoods spun round and stared at Les. Their faces registered absolutely no fear, a little surprise maybe, but mostly annoyance.

  ‘What the fuck do you want — asshole?’ demanded the white holding the switch-blade.

  ‘Nothing,’ shrugged Norton. ‘I was just on my way home and I saw my old mate Jerome here having some sort of multicultural get together. So I thought I’d put my Rocky Ned in and say hello. Any harm in that?’

  The asian’s face screwed up. ‘What is he? Some kind of limey?’

  ‘Who gives a fuck what he is,’ said the hispanic. ‘Stick the fucker.’

  ‘Yeah, stick the mother,’ said the other white.

  The white holding the switch-blade advanced towards Les with the knife in his left hand. He was almost as tall as Les with a vicious, pock-marked face and crazy sunken eyes. Les moved his head slightly to one side as the hood brought the knife up and started making short, menacing movements with it an inch or two in front of the big Queenslander’s face.

  ‘You like to bleed do you, limey?’ leered the hood. ‘You ever been stuck, huh? You dumb ass sonofabitch.’

  Norton shrugged again. ‘I’ve been stuck in traffic. Been stuck for a crap. Even got stuck in a lift once. Can’t say I’ve ever been stuck by one of those things though.’

  ‘Well, ain’t that cool,’ sniggered the hood, turning to his mates for a second. ‘I guess there’s a first time for everything. And this is just your lucky day.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Norton, returning the hood’s shitty smile. ‘That must be why they call me Lucky Les.’

  Norton had a quick look around him and at the other three hoods. He had the white with the switch-blade almost in front of him. Behind him Jerome was still standing against the wall shitting himself; although a little colour had drained back in his face since Les arrived. On Jerome’s right was the asian holding the second knife. In front of the asian was the hispanic and in front of the hispanic to Norton’s left was the other white, who looked enough like the other one to be his brother. If Les was going to do something he’d have to move pretty smartly, and the first one to go would have to be the white hood holding the switch-blade in front of him. It was moments like these Les was glad he and Billy Dunne had got to know Manny Kramer — Kelvin’s equally shifty brother and ex-lieutenant in the Israeli paratroopers. They’d gone on a number of training runs together and on several occasions, Manny being an expert knife fighter, he’d taken them back to the surf club and shown the boys a few dirty tricks that would come in handy up the Cross or wherever if some nutter comes at you with a knife. This was definitely one of those moments.

  Les shuffled back a pace or so to let the hood in front of him think he was scared; the hood sneered and brought the knife up to make a thrust at Norton’s face. This was all the momentum Les needed to pull off a double- handed-wristlock-leg-drop-elbow-break. At least that was what Manny called it. Les slapped his left hand down on top of the hood’s left wrist, slapped his right hand underneath, gripped hard then twisted the hood’s wrist up and his arm round in almost the same motion. The hood barely had time to grunt with pain and surprise as Les forced his arm down then stepped his right leg over it jamming the hood’s elbow the wrong way round under his crutch. The rest was easy. Les just squatted down, pulling the hood’s knife arm up a bit tighter at the same time. The hood screamed and there was an audible crack in the darkness as his elbow joint snapped like a stick of celery. Les gave another quick, but solid, twist and broke the hood’s wrist this time. The hood gave another scream of pain, the knife clattered to the ground and Les stood up to face the other hood on his left, leaving hood number one curled up on the ground sobbing with pain as he grabbed at his shattered arm.

  The second white hood had kind of shaped up to Les, but Norton’s movements so far had been that quick the hood didn’t
quite know what was going on. Les didn’t have time for any fancy stuff, half of which only looks good in the movies anyway, so he simply fired off a right snap kick, sinking the toe of his jogger in hood number two’s solar-plexus. He gasped with pain and doubled over as all the air was slammed out of his lungs. Les grabbed the hood’s hair and rammed his knee hard into his face, mashing his nose all over it. Norton pulled his arm back to give him a lazy backfist or two behind the ear, but saw he needn’t bother. He let go and the hood hit the ground oozing blood, hardly able to breathe, hardly able to see.

  This left the hispanic and the asian with the other knife. Les paused for a second, just a little bit toey. If he went for the hispanic, the asian would probably have time to blade him from behind. If he went for the asian, the hispanic could jump on his back and the asian would still have time to blade him. There’s no rules in a knife fight and it only takes one in the heart or the kidneys, especially with the stiletto type of switch-blades these hoods were using, and that’s it. You hardly feel it at first, then a few seconds later you don’t feel anything at all, ever.

  ‘Okay, Jerome,’ Les called out to the cleaner. ‘You grab the spick. I’ll take care of the dingbat with the knife.’ Jerome never moved an inch; Les didn’t think he would. But at least it stopped the hispanic for a moment while he waited for Jerome to do something. This gave Norton a few seconds clear to take on the asian hood with the switch-blade.

  The asian hood came at Les, crouching a bit lower than the other guy and holding the knife in his right hand. This time Norton went for a palm heel-strike-leg sweeping-elbow break. He shaped up something like a boxer as the hood lunged the knife at his chest. Les knocked the hood’s knife arm up with his left hand then slammed the heel of his right palm up under his chin, snapping his head back. Now he grabbed the hood’s left arm, straightened it out then stepped behind him and banged his right leg behind the asian’s right knee, effectively sweeping his legs from under him with enough force to send him sprawling on his back. Les still had hold of the hood’s right arm, the knife still gripped in the hood’s hand. He squatted down beside him and stretched his right leg out, grabbing the hood’s wrist with his left hand and clamping his right hand around his throat while he levered the hood’s arm across his knee. The rest of this was relatively easy too. Les pushed the hood’s arm down and moved his knee up at the same time; there was another audible ‘crack’, another awful scream and Les broke the asian hood’s arm. This left a very worried-looking hispanic facing a very nasty- looking Les with nothing between them but fresh air. On the ground around him his mates were either out cold or howling with pain.

  ‘Well, Jose,’ said Norton, ‘it looks like just you and me now, eh? How do you feel, you fuckin’ hero?’

  At least the hispanic had a bit of a go; probably hoping to stun Les for a moment then leg it. He swung his right leg and tried to kick Les in the groin. Les moved easily to one side and let the leg slip past. In the same movement he hooked his right arm up and under the hispanic hood’s knee and banged his left forearm across his throat. The hood’s legs went from under him and he slammed down backward, splitting his head open on the concrete as he landed, Les grabbed him by the front of his Florida Gators T-shirt and slammed three short rights into his face, smashing his nose, most of his front teeth and pulping his mouth into an awful-looking red mess. Les dropped him back onto the concrete and left him there, the blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth quickly joining the blood seeping from the back of his head. Norton stood up, glanced at the wreckage around him then turned to the caretaker.

  ‘Well, come on Jerome,’ he said, trying to sound serious. ‘Don’t stand there like a stale bottle of piss. Give me a hand to finish them off.’

  Jerome looked at the four battered and bloody hoods lying on the ground either snoring or whimpering with shock and pain. ‘What you talkin’ ’bout, man? Finish them off? They is finished off. Man, they’s about as finished off as they’s ever gonna be.’

  ‘Ahh bullshit! Come on, get into the cunts. They were gonna give it to bloody you.’

  ‘Man, I’m from Alabama. I ain’t ever hit no one in my life.’ Jerome looked at the first hood with the knife. ‘Sho nuff no white man.’

  ‘Jerome, it doesn’t matter whether these cunts are black, white, red or green with yellow dots. They’re just cunts. And they need a good serve. Look, I’ll show you.’ Les stepped over to the first hood he dealt with and kicked him in the face: hard. The hood grunted with more pain as several teeth came loose, and tried to cover up. ‘Go on, Jerome. Have a go. You’ll love it.’

  Jerome suddenly got a funny glint in his eye. He looked at Les for a second, looked at the hood on the ground then walked over and kicked him in the face too. The hood grunted with pain once more. ‘Hey,’ Jerome turned to Les, ‘I dig this shit.’

  ‘Good on you. Now give him another couple.’

  Jerome kicked the hood again. ‘Hey. How you like that, honky?’ The hood howled again as Jerome sunk another one in. ‘So, you was gonna stick old Jerome, was you? You white trash.’ The caretaker reefed the hood again. ‘How you like that bad news goin’ down, huh? You white motherfucker.’ Jerome sunk a couple of solid ones into the hood’s ribcage. ‘You mess wit the rest, now mess with the best — turkey.’ Thump! In went another one.

  Les watched contentedly as Jerome went round all four hoods and did a soul brother’s version of some Balmain folk-dancing on their heads and ribcages. The four hoods just had to lie there, cover up as best they could and cop it. While he was watching, Les picked up one of the switchblades and had a good look at it. It was a vicious, deadly looking thing and he could just imagine the damage the hoods would have done to Jerome with it. Poor, inoffensive Jerome. Just a battling caretaker going about his job, not harming anybody, and these four bastards would have carved him up and thought nothing of it. More than likely laughed their heads off. A small well of hatred suddenly bubbled up inside Norton and for a moment he felt like going round and slitting all their throats. Instead, he walked over to the first hood, shoved the blade up his nose and sliced open his nostrils. Then he shoved the knife in the hood’s thigh, right up to the hilt. He was still howling when Les went over and did the same to the asian hood. By now Jerome looked as if he’d had enough fun and was standing back looking at his blood-spattered handiwork.

  ‘Hey, Jerome,’ said Les, ‘you reckon you can take these four turds and dump them somewhere?’

  ‘Sho nuff, man. I’ll ring my brother-in-law. He’s got a pick-up. He’ll call round and we’ll dump these suckers out by Crab Keys.’

  ‘You won’t bother getting the cops, will you?’

  ‘No suh. Ah don’t wants no hassles with the po-lice.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Les. ‘Well, I’m going to bed. I’m knackered. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Hey, listen. You saved my ass here tonight. Thanks, brother.’

  ‘Ahh, that’s alright. Don’t worry about it.’ Les smiled and gave the caretaker a wink. ‘You’re not a bad bloke — for a nigger. See you later, mate.’ Norton turned to walk away.

  ‘Yeah, see you later. Hey, Les, before you go, there’s something I got to ask you.’

  Norton stopped and turned around. ‘Yeah. What’s that?’

  ‘Les, just what kind of man are you, brother?’

  Norton thought for a moment then shrugged. ‘Just call me a digger with attitude. See you tomorrow, Jerome. And remember, no cops. Okay?’

  ‘No suh. Ah swear.’

  Back inside the condo Les had sworn earlier he wouldn’t have a drink that night. But after that little incident … Fuck it. There was enough Diet Pepsi in the fridge and enough bourbon left in a bottle for several delicious: or delicioui. He poured one, finished it fairly smartly then made another. Bloody hell! Does it ever stop in this joint? Bombings, suicides, shootings, riots. I go to drop a car off and finish up in a knife fight. Norton shook his head and reflected into his drink. Boy, will I ever be
glad to get out of this rathouse. I don’t know nothing about Jamaica, but it couldn’t possibly be any crazier than this. Les sipped his drink and tried to figure out what to do. He didn’t want to watch TV, he didn’t feel like turning on the radio or listening to any more cassettes. It wasn’t getting any earlier and he should try to get some sleep. Finally he decided to read some more of his book about Jamaica and have another look through Elizabeth Norton Blackmore’s book of poems. Les read for a while until his eyes started to flicker then close. He turned out the light and dozed of. But Les had a fitful night’s sleep, tossing and turning, having to get up a couple of times for glasses of water. When he did drop off he’d start dreaming there was a bomb in the kitchen or the cops were coming through the door, or another bunch of hoods were driving round the estate with a car full of Uzis looking for him.

  Before Les knew it the sun was up, it was eight o’clock and he was dressed and standing in the kitchen, looking at the kettle through grainy eyes as he tried to organise some coffee and toast. He felt more tired than if he’d never gone to bed at all. Les yawned his way through his coffee and toast when he heard noises out the front. A minute or so later there was a knock on the door. Les opened it to find a big, beefy man about sixty with thinning brown hair.

  ‘You der person Norton going to Tampa airport?’ he asked in a slightly guttural accent.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me, mate,’ yawned Norton. ‘You’re right on time.’

  ‘That is your bag?’ Les nodded. Before he had a chance to say or do anything, the big man had picked it up effortlessly. ‘I see you out in the bus.’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ blinked Les.