And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  It was a big night at the Mardi Gras, heaps of people, bustle and noise and a few reggae bands here and there; even if it did appear to be put on mainly for the tourists and the stallholders. Les couldn’t make out much from the surrounding buildings because of the crowds, but it seemed to be mainly hotels and restaurants, a little like Manly Corso or St Kilda maybe. He found a bank, the post office and a chemist shop and that in a kind of mall near a park, but thought he’d check it out in more detail when he moved in tomorrow. Not that there was all that much need; he’d be leaving the next day.

  Les was strolling along, looking around, avoiding the pricks running at him trying to flog something, when the crowd parted and a marching band about fifteen strong came down the street. Silver uniforms and hats, cymbals crashing, drums banging, brass blaring as they wound their way through the people who were dancing all these funny steps to the music they were playing. The band leader was a skinny little bloke with a baton and whistle. He’d blow his whistle, toss the baton and jump up in the air, and another little bloke next to him would do the same thing with a huge pair of cymbals. He’d jump up, spin around and crash the cymbals together in mid-air while behind him the band would kick their legs up, bob up and down or do something dazzling in time to the music. They were the best thing on the night and got a great reaction from the crowd. Les watched them till they moved on and once again wished he’d brought his camera.

  The reggae bands sounded alright, but no one was nodding their heads, let alone getting up and having a bit of dance or a jig around. It was very subdued. In fact, apart from the marching band the whole scene was fairly average for a Mardi Gras. The higglers and the other rats weren’t doing much of a trade because tourists were pretty thin on the ground, and the locals weren’t buying anything because they were probably all too broke. Les also began to notice he was getting some dirty looks and muttered remarks from different bunches of blokes walking past. Les thought it best to avoid too much eye contact and kept in among the crowd. I suppose if I turned around and told some of them to get fucked, he thought, I’d be up for racial vilification.

  There were a number of small stands selling rum- punches, which weren’t bad, for around a dollar each so he had two. Another stand was selling some kind of flat bread with curried vegetables and a few stringy bits of meat on it, which didn’t smell too bad either, so Les had a couple of these too. Standing back, eating and watching the punters, was okay. But there was something about the whole third-world scene that made him wary and took the edge off it. In fact, a few young blokes, as well as giving him dirty looks, were openly gobbing off at him. It definitely wasn’t a good place to be on your own. Les got some more pineapple and started walking back to the car.

  Past the Biltmore the crowd was starting to thin out a little and there were some blokes in battered cars touting as taxis. Yes, nodded Les. That could be an idea. Rather than walk past that park then up the hill on my own I might catch a cab. I can handle the rort to a certain extent. But a local posse of about half a dozen hungry nutters carrying knives and probably off their faces? Leave that to the Bruce Lee movies. Les bundled into some Japanese rustbucket with black carpet across the dash, told the drive he was German so he wouldn’t have to talk to him and got a lift to his car. The bloke wanted five dollars US, rather than haggle Les gave him a handful of monopoly money, got in the Honda and drove back to the penthouse suite at the Badminton Club.

  Speedy’s mate opened the boomgate and Les parked in front of the office next to four other cars. Although he hadn’t done a great deal all day, Les was looking forward to hitting the sack as he followed the path alongside the swimming pool. The sound of reggae music coming from closeby made him look up and Les was a little surprised to see the lights on and the bar open. It looked like a big night too. There was a blonde couple and two young Jamaican girls seated at tables in front of a tired-looking barman polishing glasses who could have been the bloke on the gate’s brother. Ohh yeah, thought Les. Why not a couple of little nightcaps before I climb in the cot? Glad it was open in a way, he strolled over to the bar.

  The Badminton Club cocktail lounge was about twice as big as your average loungeroom, with stone walls at one end and wooden ones at the other. It was painted a light mauve and dotted with orange light fittings. The bar was varnished wood, the chairs and tables the same, though they were just as much wood as they were varnish. There was a mirror behind the bar crossed with shelves full of bottles and edged in with tourist posters of Jamaica plus one of the Jamaican soccer team and another of Eartha Kitt. There was a TV set that wasn’t on, and the music was a tape playing through the speakers set at either end of the bar. It was still quite hot so Les thought he might have a nice cold beer and ordered a Red Stripe, which he charged to his room.

  ‘No problem, mon,’ said the barman, placing the bottle in front of him. Les left the glass on the bar, took a good long pull and had a look around.

  The couple were two Nordic Germans in shorts and T- shirts eyeing each other off very Teutonically and correctly over their bottles of Red Stripe. The two girls looked about twenty and were definitely no glamours, although their figures weren’t too bad. One had on a pair of cheap, grey cord jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. The other wore tight black shorts with red polka-dots and a white T-shirt with a pastel-coloured drawing of a reggae band on the front. They both had thick, short, bushy hair, big lips, and solid, bony features, and as far as being Jamaicans went, they could have both just paddled a canoe down the Sepik River in New Guinea. The one in the jeans’s eyes were that far apart they were almost on the side of her head like a goldfish. But looks aside, they were the two most sorrowful, miserable, hangdog- looking excuses for women Norton had ever seen. They were both sitting staring into space, absolutely dejected, with nothing in front of them but an empty table top; no drinks, no purse, no keys, nothing. Just a plastic shopping bag under the table. Bloody hell, thought Les, looking at their pathetic faces. I know this place is a dump, but surely it’s not that bad.

  The one in jeans caught Les staring at them and said something to the barman in patois which Les didn’t quite catch.

  ‘Hey mon,’ said the barman. ‘Deh girls want to know would you buy dem a drink. Deh naa no dunza.’

  Hello, here we go a-bloody-gain, thought Norton. I must have MUG written across my forehead in letters three feet high. ‘Yeah, righto,’ he replied wearily. ‘Give them whatever they want. And put it on my tab.’

  ‘Ire, mon,’ said the barman. He poured two glasses of orange juice and placed them on the bar.

  The one wearing jeans got up, took the drinks, mumbled a kind of shy thanks to Les then sat back down. As she did, the other one motioned for Les to join them. Les thought for a moment. Yeah, why not? he sighed to himself. It’s someone to talk to, I suppose. He picked up his Red Stripe and walked over to their table.

  ‘Hello, girls. How’s things?’ he said as he sat down.

  They both mumbled something and continued to stare into space. Then the one in shorts pointed to Norton’s T- shirt. ‘A wa daht?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a wallaby,’ replied Les. ‘It’s an Australian animal. Like a kangaroo.’

  ‘Australian,’ said the one in jeans. ‘You no’ merican?’

  Les smiled and shook his head. ‘No. Australian.’

  ‘Oh. Daht’s good.’

  Les nodded. ‘Yes. Exciting, isn’t it?’ Though I reckon you pair wouldn’t care if I was in the Khmer Rouge as long as I bought you a drink, thought Les. ‘So what’s your names anyway, girls? I’m Les.’ The one in jeans was Delta. The other was Esme. Then they went back to staring mournfully into space. ‘So what’s doing anyway, girls? Are you staying here? And how come you’re so miserable? You look like you’ve just shit yourselves.’ The girls stared at Les for a moment, exchanged glances, then Esme started up.

  No. They weren’t staying there. They’d both caught a bus over from Kingston, expecting to get work at the hotel. When they arrived the
re was none. Maybe next Thursday. In the meantime they were stone, motherless broke, had nowhere to stay and all their worldly possessions were in the plastic bag under the table. Part of the deal with the job was that along with the princely sum of $400 a week Jamaican they got a small room to share. But seeing as they weren’t working there yet the woman Les met at the desk wouldn’t let them stay there. So along with being broke and homeless, they were tired, hungry, thirsty and killing time till the bar closed so they could go and sleep in the park or the gutter or wherever. And it looked like being three long, hungry days till Thursday. Esme’s bony face was pretty long at any time, but as she spoke it seemed to get longer and longer till it was almost hanging between her knees. Christ, thought Les. No wonder the poor bastards aren’t laughing. And I thought I had it tough. Four hundred bloody bucks a week. And to think I just gave that to five sheilas down the road I’d never met just to get rid of them. It’s a funny old world.

  ‘Well,’ Les said sympathetically, as Delta and Esme resumed staring morosely into space, ‘I’ve heard some tales of woe in my time, but that’s a pisser. You’re the original. Fragged and far from home.’ They stared at Les. ‘You’re knackered.’ They looked at each other, then stared at Les again. ‘You’re doing it a bit tough.’

  ‘Tuff?’ said Esme.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les.

  ‘Ya. Tuff, mon,’ said Delta gloomily.

  Christ! Haven’t I cracked it for a couple of nice drones to have a drink with? How am I ever gonna get a laugh out of these two? Forget the shout. But what a low bind to be in. Having to sleep in the park and no chops. I can’t see that happening somehow. Norton winced slightly inside. He knew he was going to end up giving the girls some money. But, shit, he was getting sick of it. He didn’t arrive in town to take over from the Department of Social Security. Then if he did give the girls some money they might take it the wrong way — or take it the right way. And Les wasn’t at all keen. Though up closer they weren’t all that bad. Esme, the older of the two, didn’t have a bad pair of legs — except for where she’d given them a rough shave and the hairs were sticking up like broken toothpicks. Les was going to have to work something out. In the meantime, just a few drinks and talk Edgar. The bus ride over from Kingston must have been sensational.

  ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it too much, girls. Brer Wallaby’s in town. So come on, drink ’em up and I’ll get you another one. Then I might tell you about what a good bloke I am.’ Delta and Esme looked at each other, shrugged, then instead of sipping their orange juices got into them like they’d just finished a triathlon. Les ordered the same again for them, plus a rum-punch for himself; leaving some monopoly money on the bar when he picked them up.

  Les told them he was a farmer back in Australia, he was on holidays and had just spent two weeks in America. He got here Saturday, but had to cut his holiday short and was leaving Wednesday. He was also moving into the Biltmore in the morning as this place didn’t turn him on all that much. He was sorry he had to go so soon because he liked Jamaica; especially after meeting two sweet young girls like them. Les even kissed Esme’s fingertips and was surprised to find her fingers underneath were soft and pink, almost like a baby’s. Esme giggled and the girls smiled at Norton’s innocent joke and, when they did, their lovely white smiles lit up their faces momentarily and their true beauty shone through. Les ordered some more drinks while he bullshitted away and somehow between their patois, English and Australian slang they got a conversation going. Les even asked them what some of the reggae songs were coming over the speakers, and got told names like Shaggy Wonder, Dignitary Stylish, Yellowman. They could have been a trifecta at Bulli Dogs for all Les knew, but the music wasn’t too bad and the more rum-punches he sunk the better it got. The night cruised along and Les didn’t even notice the Hitler Youth Movement had left when he got up for what were going to be the last drinks for the night. The barman hinted politely that he was going to have to shut shop. Fair enough, thought Norton. He was starting to feel a bit stuffed anyway. He placed the last drinks on the table, knowing the girls had been in a fairly earnest discussion while he was up. Well, here it comes. Now what? I can’t see them coming back to my room. Not with me half pissed.

  ‘Well, girls,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘looks like these are the last. Then it’s off to… wherever.’

  It looked like Esme was going to be the sacrificial lamb. If not her, Delta. ‘So yu just got de room on you own, Les?’

  ‘Yes Esme, that’s right,’ replied Les.

  ‘Yu want tik me wit yu?’

  Les smiled and shook his head. ‘No. Not tonight, Esme. Thanks.’

  Esme’s face dropped a little. ‘Yu don’t lik me?’

  ‘No, you’re wrong, Esme. You’re unreal. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all night. Anyway, what about Delta?’

  Esme’s eyes dropped again. ‘Yu want Delta?’

  ‘No,’smiled Les. ‘I was just wondering what happens to her?’

  ‘She be okay.’ Esme’s eyes widened. ‘Yu want bot us?’

  ‘No,’ laughed Les. ‘I don’t want either of you. I’m knackered. I just want to go to sleep.’ Les cradled his head against his hands and closed his eyes for a second. The girls’ faces went back to abject misery and dejection again. They’d played both their bowers to no avail. It looked like the park was coming up. ‘But I’ll tell you what I will do,’ said Les. Suddenly their faces lit up just a little.

  Through the night, Les had been checking out their jewellery. They wore cheap, but pretty, bead necklaces, leather bracelets in yellow, black and green, and these junky rings on their fingers. They weren’t super tacky; even nice in a way. On their index fingers they wore a pewter and a copper ring with some kind of design in the metal. Even at Paddy’s Markets they wouldn’t have been more than a dollar each, tops.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Les. ‘I’ll buy those two rings off you.’ They fitted loosely and before they knew it Les had hold of their fingers and the rings off. ‘How much do you want for them?’ Like a miserable Bondi landlord Les looked at the two rings on the table and pulled out what money was in one pocket; there was a little over $200 Jamaican. ‘Is that enough?’ Delta and Esme blinked at the money then at each other, not quite believing what they were seeing. Les narrowed his eyes. ‘Alright,’ he said, going for his kick again. ‘I’ll throw in some more.’ He dropped $50 American on the table. The two girls nearly fainted. ‘And that’s my final offer. What do you reckon?’ Wide-eyed, Esme and Delta looked at Les, looked at each other, then scooped up the money. Les slid the rings on both his little fingers like he was a mug. But a happy one. ‘And that’s not all I’ll do,’ he said, ‘seeing as you’ve got nowhere to stay for the night. Do you want to sleep in my car?’

  ‘In your car?’ said Esme.

  ‘Yeah,’ shrugged Les. ‘I know it’s not much. But…’

  The two battlers looked at Les like he’d just offered them the Sir Robert Helpmann Suite at the Sebel Townhouse, and nodded their heads in disbelief. ‘Well, come on. Finish these and I’ll unlock it for you.’ They finished their drinks and Les picked up their plastic shopping bag. ‘I’ll even give you a hand with your Giani travel case.’ He gave the barman a wink, who winked back, and Les walked the girls out to the Honda.

  Speedy’s mate was leaning against the office wall smoking a cigarette. Half drunk Les told him what was going on and what he didn’t understand the girls filled him in on with patois. He was too tired or uninterested to give a stuff one way or the other. He nodded something as Les unlocked the car.

  ‘There you go, girls. You’ve got the flat till the morning. Now come here.’ Les pulled Delta over and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘There you go, Del, me old mate. Sleep tight.’ She tensed at first then relaxed. ‘You too, Es, my little Jamaican princess.’ Les did the same to her and she looked at Norton with the Caribbean splashing around in her eyes. ‘Happy dreams, mate. I’m just sorry I can’t give you one of
my pillows.’ Esme climbed in the back, Delta got in the front and Les closed the doors. The last he saw of them was their faces staring back through the windscreen as he waved a smile behind him and walked off.

  Fair dinkum! The things you do when you’re half drunk, Les mumbled to himself as he lay back on the pillows with just his jox on. The room felt like all the air- conditioner had done was make a noise and drip more slimy water out the front. Les turned it off and was staring up at the ceiling through half-closed eyes. Fifty bucks for those two rings I tossed on the dresser. They wouldn’t be worth a zac. But I s’pose they’ll make a funny souvenir. Anyway, what could you do? Poor little bastards. Wouldn’t it be lovely sleeping in the park around here? And what a low dropkick that sheila must be, not letting them stay here. There’s no one in the fuckin’joint. Oh well. At least I did someone half a favour. He yawned and closed his eyes. I got a big day tomorrow too. I got to visit that big house. Probably have another look at the mosque again. I mean the manse. Move into the Bilt- more. Meet Millwood and do lunch. Have dinner. Whatever. Les let out one last, long yawn. Yeah, whatever.

  Les knew he was going to be robbed when he checked out; from what he’d seen so far of the dropkick in the office it was inevitable and he wasn’t even going to argue. He was more curious than anything else as to how the rob would come about and how strong it would be.

  Despite the heat Les had slept in a little, but now he had his bags packed once more, the same clothes on as last night and was ready to go. Breakfast was two Hershey Bars he’d bought in Florida and thrown in his bag at some time, washed down with a glass of water. There was a dining room at the hotel; however, Norton was determined not to spend a cent more in the place than he had to. After a quick look around to make sure he hadn’t left anything he picked up his bags and walked down to reception.

  Lucretia Borgia wasn’t in the office and there was no sign of Esme or Delta. Sleepy was seated out in his guard box. Les rang the bell and a minute or so later Lucretia appeared from behind the floral curtain, scowling and miserable as ever. She saw Norton’s bags and looked at him.