‘I’d like to check out please,’ said Les.
Lucretia nodded and began making up the bill. She pushed some buttons on a battered-looking computer, wrote a couple of things down then pushed the bill across for Les to sign. Les looked at it, and there was the rob. Straight up. The drinks and phone calls were all kosher. But she’d charged him for two nights. It was a blatant rob because all Les had said was he might take an extra night. Might. He’d booked an extra night at the Biltmore just in case there was trouble with the planes. But here? No, it was a full-on rob and no amount of begging, pleading or arguing would change a thing. Not that Les intended to beg, plead or argue. But Price always said, if you get robbed and there’s nothing you can do, cop it sweet and don’t let on you know. Let the robber think that, although they’ve dudded you and got their earn, they’ve dudded themselves at the same time and could have got more. It takes the edge right off the rob. Like if some team of mugs break into a place and steal a half a million dollars then find out in the papers the next day there was another million in a drawer they missed. It does tend to sour things.
Norton stared at the bill for a moment, wrinkled his brow and looked at Lucretia. ‘Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake here?’
‘You said two nights,’ she replied stonefaced.
Norton looked at the bill and his face wrinkled even more. ‘This is for two nights? It can’t possibly be.’
‘You said two nights.’ Lucretia was adamant.
Norton made a dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘I’m not worrying about that. It just seems so cheap.’
‘Cheap?’ Lucretia gave a double blink.
‘Yes. All those drinks I had last night. The phone calls. That magnificent view by the swimming pool. My room was absolutely fabulous. And huge. I had one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had for years.’ Les shook his head in dismay. Lucretia’s miserable face got even more miserable. ‘If I’d only known you had such bargain rates here I’d never have moved out. I’m paying twice as much where I’m going and it’s not half as good. And the only reason I’m going is to meet up with a friend.’ Les shook his head and sighed. ‘Dear oh dear. I don’t know.’
‘You want to ring up and cancel your booking? I can get you an even better room.’ She moved the phone across to Les.
‘No, it’s too late now,’ Les sighed again. ‘I might come back though.’ Les signed the bill cheerfully and pocketed his VISA card. ‘Well, thank you very much. And I’m really sorry I’m leaving. Goodbye.’ He had a last, wistful look around. ‘I love it here.’
Les picked up his bags and walked out to the car, leaving Lucretia looking like she’d just swallowed Draino. Yeah, and stick it fair in your tunti, you poxy- lookin’ moll, Les mumbled to himself as he put the key in the ignition. I’m only sorry I didn’t shit in the bath. But some other poor bastard’d only have to clean it up. Speedy staggered out and opened the boomgate; Les gave him a wink and drove through. Well, so much for my one night at the Badminton Club. I could have had a suite at the Hilton for that. He sniffed around him. Oh well. At least Delta and Esme didn’t piss in the car.
Getting from the hairpin bend across to Gloucester Avenue was a little tricky because Les didn’t feel like driving through town again. So he waited until there was a break in the traffic then fanged the little Honda across the one-way street and down the side of the park into Gloucester Avenue, keeping his white honky head down and playing the dumb tourist at all the abuse and horn blasts he got from the other drivers. The Biltmore Hotel wasn’t hard to find and there were only three other cars in the parking lot; Les pulled up alongside what looked like another rental, got his bags from the boot and walked up the stairs.
‘Good morning, Mr Norton,’ said the girl at the office, recognising him from the previous night.
‘Hello, miss,’ replied Les, returning her smile. ‘How are you today?’
There were about half a dozen people eating breakfast on the balcony and enjoying the view over Montego Bay. Les watched them for a few moments while he picked up his key and filled in the usual paperwork. It certainly was another nice view. The weather was the same as yesterday, the water across the bay its usual smooth turquoise blue with a bit of a cloud build-up towards the horizon. The girl called for the tall security bloke; he picked up Norton’s bag and took him over to number 14.
Norton’s room was as big as the one at the Badminton Club and was in roughly the same condition. There were two single beds this time with white covers and a phone sitting next to a bed lamp in between. The shower looked better, as did the brasco, a window next to the door looked out over the balcony, there was a chair and table and another rusty air-conditioner jammed up in the wall next to the bathroom door. Les looked at a couple of paintings of tropical fish hanging on the plain white walls and turned to Long-Tack.
‘Yeah, righto, mate,’ he said. ‘Looks alright to me.’
‘Ire mon,’ said the guard, and placed Norton’s bag on the nearest bed.
Les pulled some money from his shorts and handed it to the guard. ‘There you are, mate. What’s your name anyway?’
‘I’rol.’
‘Nice to meet you, Errol. I’m Les.’
‘Ire, Les. Respec mon.’ Errol pocketed the money and closed the door softly behind him.
Well there you go, smiled Les. My new digs. It ain’t too bad and it’s only for one night. Now what to do? I suppose I’d better unpack a bit of gear. Les put his shower kit in the bathroom and was about to get some other stuff out when, heat or no heat, hunger pangs hit him; two bars of chocolate and a glass of water wouldn’t go far. Some breakfast was definitely in order. He locked his room and walked out to the balcony.
A couple of people had left so Les had no trouble getting a table with a view across the carpark and out over the bay. Shortly after, he caught the waiter’s eye. The waiter had on the usual white coat, bowtie and black trousers. But he was covered in grease and shit from head to foot and sweat was running down his face and dripping from his chin. He pulled a crumpled order-book and biro from his pocket.
‘Ire mon.’
‘Yes. Could I have scrambled eggs on toast, please? With tomato, extra toast, coffee and a large orange juice. And a bowl of fruit too. Is that okay?’
‘No problem, mon.’ The waiter wrote down Norton’s order, more sweat dripped off his chin and he vanished out the back.
Les settled back against his chair, feeling quite contented. The view was truly delightful, the surroundings were pleasant and he wasn’t pushed for time. He’d finish breakfast, ring Millwood, then go for a snorkel over in the bay and visit Rose Hill Great House after. Although Les had this feeling he should be checking out Sweet Ginger Hill, where Elizabeth and Eduardo grew up. He was mulling on this when the girl from the office brought over his cutlery and orange juice. She explained breakfast might be a bit delayed as the cook hadn’t turned up and the waiter was doing the cooking. That was perfectly alright, replied Les. It was quite enjoyable and relaxing just sitting there. The girl smiled and left. A bit delayed? thought Les, taking a sip of the beautifully chilled orange juice. In Jamaica that could mean anything. And here, at Montego Bay’s answer to Fawlty Towers, with Manuel doing the cooking, I could get breakfast at midnight. Les decided to check out the bar or whatever it was through the door near the office.
One step led up into a large room split into two by a walkway, with a bar on the left side and a seated area on the right. The walls and floor were all polished wood except where part of the seated area was covered in dark blue carpet. The bar was solid wood with a split bamboo front facing a row of bamboo stools topped with padded blue leather. Several framed posters and one or two paintings sat on the wall alongside a sizeable mirror with JAMAICA frosted across it in blue and gold; beneath this the bottles were arranged neatly along a bench. Indoor plants sat round the walls and hung off the ceiling, the light fittings were blue and so was the padding on the seats by the tables. It was dark and empty but had a
kind of olde worlde charm about it and Les surmised that at one time they probably called it the blue room or something. Another set of steps led up from the lounge to a rockery with a small, kidney-shaped swimming pool. Flower gardens stepped up into the surrounding walls and flowering vines meandered back down behind some indoor palms and other native trees and shrubs. There were a few banana lounges around the pool and it was all quite pleasant, though taking another look at the pool Les didn’t think it would take Neil Brooks long to do a couple of laps. Les had another look around inside and gave it a grudging nod of approval. The lounge definitely had some sort of character and would be a good place to drag Millwood back to later on that night for a few drinks and a mag. Pleased with what he’d found Les walked back to his table.
Les had a few things to occupy his mind while he took in the view, though it didn’t seem all that long before the Biltmore’s answer to Manuel arrived with his breakfast. Two fried eggs on toast, no tomato and no fruit. But the extra toast was there plus a pot of coffee. Norton looked at the two fried eggs, which seemed to be staring back at him from the plate. That was all he needed in this heat. Manuel’s face was absolutely expressionless.
‘Look, mate,’ said Les, ‘I know you’re on your own, but I ordered scrambled eggs.’
‘Scrambled, fried. Same ting, mon.’
Les nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re right. I never thought. And the fruit?’
‘Fruit’s finished, mon.’
Les looked at his watch. ‘Yes, it is getting late. What about the tomato?’
‘Tomato’s not on today, mon.’
Les nodded again. ‘Yes, of course. I should have realised. My humblest apologies, sir, for my appalling manners and totally unforgivable lack of discretion. Thank you very much. You’ve been more than generous.’
‘No problem, mon.’ Manuel looked oddly at Norton for a moment then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Les shook his head and speared one of the eggs with his fork. Ahh, who gives a fuck? Fair dinkum. But if I spew this up all over the place, too bloody bad. However, Manuel hadn’t done too bad a job on the eggs and before long Les was kicking himself up the arse for whingeing. And any grease that did happen to be on the eggs would soon get eaten away by the Jamaican coffee. It was fabulous. Thick and strong, almost like chocolate. Les lingered over breakfast, finishing off the pot while he reminisced about some things and concentrated on various others. Before long it was time to make a phone call and the water across the street was starting to look more inviting than ever. Les drained the last drop from his cup and in appreciation of the marvellous service left a generous tip.
Back in his room the phone worked alright and Les had no trouble getting through to Millwood Downie at the golf club.
‘Hello, Millwood? It’s Les. How’re you goin’?’
‘Les. Good morning. How are you?’
‘Pretty good, mate. How’s yourself? And how was school last night?’
‘School? School was very good. Very good indeed Les. And thank you for asking.’
‘That’s okay, mate.’
Les explained how he’d moved into the Biltmore and was everything still sweet for tonight? Did he know where the place was or did he need Les to come out and get him? Millwood replied that that was alright. His brother was using his car tonight, but a friend, who worked in a bar along Gloucester Avenue, would drive him in and pick him up at twelve. That suited Les to the ground and he arranged to meet Millwood in the back bar at the Biltmore around seven.
‘Righto, Millwood,’said Les. ‘You’re probably busy so I’d better let you go. I’ll see you tonight around seven. Make sure you’re hungry.’
‘You bet. I’ll see you tonight, Les.’
‘See you then, Millwood.’
Well how cosy’s that? smiled Les. Don’t know if I’ll pick up any clues, but I reckon Millwood’ll be a good bloke to have a drink with anyway. Les gave a bit of a chuckle. Not that it won’t cost me. Besides the food and piss you can bet I’ll end up buying a few more school books for Spring Water Primary. But like Price always says, it’s only money. It’s not an arm or a leg. Now, let’s go snorkeling in the Caribbean again. Les got his snor- keling gear together and changed into his old running gear, figuring if they stole that while he was in the water, along with a hotel towel, they could have the lot. He locked the door behind him, left his key and a few other things with the girl in the office and trotted down the stairs, giving Long-Tack a wink as he walked across the carpark.
There wasn’t that much traffic outside the hotel but more than enough pricks trying to sell him shit he didn’t want as he jogged across Gloucester Avenue. A small park fenced off with cyclone-wire faced the hotel; near some trees was a set of concrete steps that led down to some sandy scrub then the beach. It wasn’t all that big, a little smaller than Bronte with two small granite headlands at either end and a few boats bobbing up and down on the other side. It was nothing special. But it was dead calm and the water appeared blue and compared to the soup outside the resort it looked like Heron Island. There was one young prick on the beach with no front teeth and a pair of pants cut down into shorts who tried to sell him something. Les smiled wearily as he walked up one end of the beach to get away from him, got his diving gear on and plunged in.
The water was beautiful, warm but refreshing, not that salty, tepid shit like when he went diving with Hank in Florida. It was kind of murky clear, though not too bad at all considering it was right outside a main road in the middle of town. There was mud on the bottom, plenty of tiny colourful fish, rocks, coral, a boot, a pair of old trousers and a few other odds and ends sitting in the muddy sand on the bottom. It reminded Les a little of Clovelly when he’d gone snorkeling around there a few times in the summer. Les dived up and down, had a hit out with the webs and jet fins and enjoyed himself in general; it shit all over the dive he had outside the resort. He churned up and down a few times then floated on his back, looked over at the hotel and chuckled into his facemask. To think I’ve travelled halfway across the world and finished up in the Biltmore. And loving it. Les did a few more laps, wallowed around for a while longer then got out and walked back to the hotel.
After his sumptuous breakfast and the swim, Norton was feeling pretty good as he switched on the air- conditioner in his room. He got out of his wet gear and was about to climb under the shower when he heard loud reggae music pounding in through the bathroom window. He climbed up on the sink and saw that his room was right above the bar next door. Oh well, shrugged Les, climbing back down. Saves me buying a Walkman, I s’pose. And I ain’t got deh reerdio, mon. Les slipped into the shower as Hopeton Lindo slipped into ‘Gun Ting’. Not long after, Gregory Isaacs was bopping into ‘Sound Bwoy’ as Les stepped out the door wearing the same shorts, a plain white T-shirt plus an old sweatband, his Easts cap and sunnies and his backpack slung over his shoulder. He left his key at the desk again, got in the Honda and turned right down Gloucester.
The traffic was a little heavier now, taxis, buses, etc, people walking around and no shortage of pricks almost jumping in the car window they were that keen to flog something. After the surging crowds at the Mardi Gras it was now a little easier to see what was around and it was mainly hotels and shops on the right hand side and restaurants and bars on the harbour side. But Les wasn’t interested in a tourist’s guide of the area. He had a bit of a peruse before he found what he wanted in the mall opposite the post office; a place that developed film, right next to a bank. Les parked on a bus stop and went in. The shop sold T-shirts, drinks and other odds and ends and was run by a polite family of Pakistanis. His film would be ready in two hours but they stayed open late. Les got four cartons of fruit juice and some more film and went back to the car. There was an unhappy-looking bloke in a white uniform carrying a shotgun outside the bank. He gave Les half a once up and down when he walked in and another half a one when Les walked out with some more US and Jamaican money. Les wasn’t sure why he got so much, he j
ust had a feeling he might need it. He avoided another swarm of pricks yelling at him trying to flog stuff, although he honestly felt like booting a couple of them fair up the date, got back in the car and headed south for Rose Hill Great House; to find what, Norton wasn’t quite sure. The A1 wasn’t hard to find and neither was the Great House. It was only about three kilometres past the golf club. Les swung right at a sign saying Kenilworth Road and followed it for about half a kilometre before coming to another gravelly drive overhung with trees. A few hundred metres more and there it was, Rose Hill Great House.
It looked much the same as the photo in the book, the massively built three-storey building with the sandstone balustrades and steps underneath, only now that Les was here he could see the entire property. He drove the car down a little further, pulled over to the left and got out. Rose Hill stood majestically in about five acres of well- kept fields and gardens that edged off into the surrounding trees and hills. The road stopped about fifty yards before the front steps, then circled around, evidently to allow coaches and tourists direct access. The area was dotted with trees, four men sat in the shade beneath a cluster to Norton’s left and behind, and to his left was thick bush and a pathway that seemed to lead to a clearing about three hundred yards away. Les had a good view of the great house and could see a sign near the bottom step saying TOP HALF CLOSED TO RENA- VAITION. NO ENTRANCE WAY. That’s nice, thought Les. Looks like I’ll only get to see the bottom half of the joint anyway, and a bit of the backyard. Mmmhh. Terrific.
The four blokes under the tree seemed to notice Les and he was about to walk over when there was a rumbling, crunching and revving of motors, along with the sound of squealing brakes, and two tour buses came down the driveway. They were both forty-seaters and rolled noisily past Les to pull up in front of the Great House with more squealing of brakes and tyres crunching on the gravel. About two minutes later the doors on both buses hissed open and out poured at least sixty fat-arsed American tourists in mu-mus and shorts of equally revolting colours. Probably getting in for their last tourist bit before they flew back to Skunk Flats, Utah, or wherever they came from. Ahh shit! cursed Les. Isn’t this going to be nice? I got one lousy floor to look at and I have to do it with eight million cigar smoking, blathering seppos. The blokes under the tree rose slowly to their feet with the arrival of the two buses so Les walked over.
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