And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Righto, Esme,’ muttered Les, ‘that’s it. Get your gear and piss off.’

  ‘Zzzz.’

  ‘You heard me, Esme. Get. And you can forget about breakfast in the morning. You just had it and knocked it back.’

  ‘Zzzz.’

  Shit! What am I gonna do? Les was a beaten man. Too tired, too lazy and too whipped to move. He found a piece of sheet that hadn’t got dragged up his arse in the finale, half wiped his face and eyes then flopped his arm back down by his side. Ahh, bugger it. I couldn’t give a stuff. More reggae pumped in from next door, the humid Jamaican night settled in further and for some reason Norton went out like a light.

  Les didn’t wake up feeling too bad in the morning, his eyes were a little bit grainy and he’d slept in a bit longer than he’d planned. But apart from that he felt alright. Esme was still snoring softly in the next bed with her back to him and her arse up in the air. Les climbed out of bed, looked at her for a moment and a nasty smile flickered round the corners of his eyes; Les couldn’t miss. He raised his right arm, with his hand and fingers dangling loose, and flicked her right across the rump. She jerked her eyes open and mumbled something as she moved slightly on the bed. Les flicked her again and got a better reaction this time.

  ‘Yeeooww!!’

  ‘Morning, Esme. Have a good night’s sleep, did you?’

  Despite rubbing gingerly at her backside, Esme still had this insouciant smirk on her face. ‘Hi Les. How are yu di maanin?’

  ‘Fine, thank you Esme,’ Les smirked back. ‘You won’t mind if I use the shower first?’ Esme looked up at Norton and blankly shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ smirked Les.

  Les climbed under the shower and got cleaned up. He didn’t bother shaving — he didn’t want to waste too much time —just freshen up, get rid of the sweat and anything else he didn’t fancy clinging to him. When he came out, with a towel round his waist, Esme was sitting on the bed sipping a glass of water. She smile up at Les staring down at her pofaced, then jumped up off the bed, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. Despite himself Les kissed her back.

  ‘Brer Wallaby sleep good?’ she crooned, rubbing herself up against him.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘You beat the hell out of Serepax.’ Les had his hands around her waist and the next thing he knew he was getting a horn. ‘Now get in the shower and we’ll have some breakfast.’

  ‘Okay bebe.’ Esme kissed him again.

  Bloody sheilas, muttered Les, as he climbed into his blue shorts and half-clean Wallabies T-shirt. They make it hard for you, in more ways than one. By the time he’d got his bag packed with what he needed, Esme was cleaned up and looking and smelling more than half alright. Norton was sorely tempted. She gave him another big smile and a kiss, slipped her arm in his and they stepped out onto the balcony. It was cloudy, didn’t quite look like rain, just unpredictable and, of course, hot, humid and no wind. Delta was sitting at the same table as before, sipping a glass of orange juice. She smiled up when they walked over and in her white T-shirt and shorts look fairly fresh considering.

  ‘G’day, Delta,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Fine, Les. How yu?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  They sat down, Delta and Esme got into a quick, direct conversation that was too fast for Les to understand. But going by a few words here and there and the looks on their faces, everyone was happy enough. Les had a quick look around while they were talking. There was only another six people there, including the two feral aunties crushed into bicycle pants with baggy LA Gear T-shirts over the top. This time Les caught their eye, smiled and gave them a tiny wave; and this time they completely ignored him. Next thing Manuel hovered next to the table and going by the shit and grease all over him it looked like the cook hadn’t shown up again.

  ‘Ya mon?’ he asked dully.

  Les knew what to expect. ‘Anything, mate,’ he said. ‘Anything. Whatever you can muster up for the three of us that’s quick and easiest for you. Okay? With plenty of coffee.’

  ‘Ire mon. No problem.’

  Manual disappeared and Les turned to the two lovelies. ‘Well, what do you reckon? Here I am, overlooking Montego Bay and having breakfast with two beautiful girls. It’s like something out of a movie, isn’t it?’

  They both moved in a little closer. ‘You one lucky man, Les,’ said Esme.

  ‘She right too,’ smiled Delta.

  Les thought for a second. ‘Let’s just hope you’re right,’ he said quietly.

  It was quite pleasant again out on the balcony and they chatted away. The girls’ faces dropped a little, especially Esme’s, when Les mentioned again that he had to leave around six-thirty to catch the plane. Could they please come and see him off? Of course they could; in fact, Les wanted them to hang around as he needed a small favour done.

  While they were talking Les thought he could hear raised voices coming from downstairs so he peeped over the balcony. The caretaker was having heated words with Errol. Errol had height, reach and age on the caretaker and was shrugging his shoulders indifferently. Oh well, surmised Les, I’d say my tools are still in the car. Next thing Manuel arrived with breakfast. All he brought was a pile of thick, crisp toast, pots of beautiful, sweet jam and two steaming pots of fresh, strong, Jamaican coffee. Plus a bowl of sliced fruit: pineapple, papaya, guava and bananas. Shit! What a bastard, grinned Les, and dived straight into the papaya. While they were eating, Les gave Delta and Esme a few instructions and filled them in on a couple of things. He wrote down Millwood’s number and told them to ring him and make sure he was there to see him off tonight. Millwood would probably he hungover or busy. But keep ringing till they got through and say it was a message from a Mr Norton from Australia. Then ring back again later in the afternoon if Les was late getting back and make sure he was coming. He gave the girls the key to his room and a bit more money. The room was booked for tonight so they could both stay there. Esme and Delta were rapt. But be there this afternoon just in case he needed them. The girls were a little curious about this, but didn’t say anything. That was about it. Les looked at his watch; it was time for him to get going. No, they couldn’t come with him. In the meantime, have some more coffee, use the pool, throw their gear in the room, it was theirs till tomorrow. Les got his backpack from his room, fixed things up at the desk for Delta and Esme, said goodbye to the girls and walked down the front stairs.

  Errol and the caretaker had moved their argument to the other side of where the new gate was supposed to be going up. Errol had thrown an old piece of green tarpaulin over the tools on the back seat; Les gave them a quick check. There was a pinchbar, a crowbar, a shovel and a yard broom with a broken handle. I suppose that’ll do, shrugged Les. He started the car and got going without wasting any time.

  Apart from the usual pests yelling out at him, the drive through Montego Bay was uneventful and before he knew it Les was past the airport and bumping along the A1 thinking about things. There was something else he hadn’t taken into account, something else he hadn’t thought of from the word go, and he couldn’t figure out what it was. One thing Les did take into account, he’d used more petrol than he expected and you could bet the hire car mob would squeal like stuck pigs and rip him off unmercifully if he took the Honda back empty. There was a garage just near Mahoe Bay, Les filled up, found the water was down too and while he was there got three cartons of orange juice and some more film. This too was uneventful except for about a dozen different Jamaican kids with homemade spearguns trying to flog him strings of small, yet beautiful, tropical fish that people overseas would have paid a fortune for to put in their fishtanks or aquariums. Les climbed back in the Honda and continued on.

  Les was still deep in thought and before he knew it he’d wound his way past the coastline, curved round the zoo and was heading along a scrubby, deserted stretch of road that led into Dredmouth. He wasn’t speeding, just taking his time with his seat-belt on and the radio off when a fatter, older cop stepped ou
t of the bushes about twenty metres on the left in front of him and waved him down. It was the last thing Les was expecting. What the fuck’s this all about? he thought, as he pulled up a few metres along from the cop. I haven’t done anything. Then something he’d read in one of those books he’d bought at Tampa airport dawned on him. Dope dealers drive rentals. Shit! What if this prick tries to bust me? But I haven’t done anything. Uh-oh! What about the bloody tools in the back? And they’re as corrupt as buggery over here. Fuck! How’s my luck? The cop lumbered slowly over and Les could sense him checking things out. He was about sixty, with a neat moustache, in a neat blue uniform with a red stripe down the leg and a great big gun sitting in a holster on a white belt. He reminded Les of a Jamaican version of Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit, only this time Norton wasn’t in the mood for silly bloody comparisons with yank movies. He didn’t know which way this local walloper might jump and Les was more than a little concerned.

  The cop rested an arm on the roof and stuck his head in the passenger window. ‘Ire mon,’ he said casually. Too casually for Norton’s liking. ‘Where you from, mon?’

  ‘Montego Bay,’ replied Les. ‘I’m staying at the Bilt- more Hotel.’

  ‘Ire mon,’ the cop nodded slowly. ‘Who owns de car?’

  ‘I hired it at the airport,’ said Les. ‘I’m here on a holiday.’

  ‘Ire mon,’the cop slowly nodded again. ‘Why you don’t switch off de motor and step out?’

  ‘Yeah, alright.’ Les cut the ignition, got out and walked carefully round to the back of the car.

  The cop gave Les an expressionless once up and down and stepped round to the back of the car also. ‘Open de trunk, mon.’

  ‘Sure,’ answered Les.

  Norton got the keys out of the ignition and opened the boot. The cop had a good look around, told Les to close it then walked to the back window. He had a look inside then opened the passenger side door and had a rummage round on the back seat. He left the door open and returned to Les.

  ‘Why de tools, mon?’

  ‘Why the tools?’ echoed Les, staring blankly at the cop. ‘Why the tools? Well… why wouldn’t I need the tools?’

  ‘Daht’s what I’m sayin mon,’ the cop nodded impassively. ‘Why de tools?’

  Norton blinked at the cop. ‘Because… because I’m an official with the Australian Government Arts Council Foundation working in… conjunction with the Jamaican Heritage Trust in Kingston. We’re fully restoring the Norton manse at Dredmouth.’

  The cop blinked back at Les. ‘What yu say, mon? Norton? De manse?’

  ‘Yeah, hang on boss. I’ll show you.’

  Les showed the cop his driver’s licence with his photo and ID, then got his backpack from the front seat and showed the cop the papers Millwood had given him with the Jamaican Heritage Trust letterhead on the top. He emphasised his story again, adding that his whole family was involved, along with both the Australian and Jamaican governments. He was going over to give the place a tidy up then take some notes and photos to get a proper idea of what they were going to need. Les also added he was involved with the church back in Australia and if there were any problems the cop could contact Professor Eyres or Mr Winston Glover over in Kingston. Bloody Hell! That’s the best I can do, thought Les. He should buy that. The cop seemed to stare at Les in a strange kind of disbelief.

  ‘Is there something wrong, officer?’ asked Les politely.

  The cop’s attitude seemed to change. ‘You’re… a Mr Norton from Australia? With de government and de church?’

  ‘That’s right, officer. Why…?’

  A sickly smile formed on the cop’s face. ‘I only selling de tickets, suh.’ The cop seemed to unconsciously pull a book of tickets from his top pocket.

  Les stared at the tickets. They were white with blue printing, very official looking and about twice as big as a playing card. They were for the Sommersby Police Sports Club Annual Ball to be held under the Distinguished Patronage of the Hon. Rossiter Norton, Custos of Som- mersby. At the Sommersby Beach Hotel Ballroom, Dredmouth. The tickets then had the date, the time and the number. Plus, Music by Sweet Seven. Dress Formal. Admission $100:00. Gate Prize, Weekend For Two at Grand Orchid Hotel, Negril. Then it dawned on Les what was going on. The fat bludger had been out hustling motorists, probably putting the heavies on them to buy a ticket for their rotten local wallopers’ ball. He’d seen the rental, and a cop being a cop with a gun he’d pulled Les over and started giving him a bit of a hurry up and found out he’d hustled a government official. Who it appeared could have something to do with the rooster who was the distinguished patron of their ball. The Hon. Rossiter Norton, Custos of Sommersby. A sigh of relief went through Les. It looked like he was off the hook.

  ‘I say,’ beamed Les. ‘How absolutely marvellous. I know the Hon. Rossiter Norton.’

  ‘You do, suh?’ said the cop.

  ‘Yeah. Used to play two-up with him on Anzac Day.’ Les went for his wallet just in case. ‘I’ve got some friends back in Montego Bay who’d love to meet him. Give me ten tickets.’ The cop seemed awfully nervous as he took the fifty U.S. and gave Les his tickets. ‘You’re Mr Norton yourself? With de Australian government?’ he repeated.

  ‘That’s correct, officer. Over here to finally restore the manse. And other things, of course.’

  The cop touched the peak of his hat and seemed to draw himself to attention. ‘And yu going over deh to work in de heat? On your own?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Les rubbed his hands together sort of compassionately. ‘When you’re involved with the church, and the government, you’re always prepared to make sacrifices.’

  ‘No suh. No way,’ said the cop, touching his hat again. ‘I’ll get someone to help you.’

  ‘You’ll what?’

  ‘I’ll get two officers to help you. We can’t have you working in this heat on your own. Please, Mr Norton. In the car, suh. I’ll show you where to go.’

  Norton’s face fell that far it looked like he’d need a building crane to pick it back up. ‘Yeah… righto.’

  They got in the car and the cop told Les where to go. Norton couldn’t believe it. The cop was directing him to the police station to pick up two young cops that weren’t doing anything who could give him a hand. Me and my big bloody mouth, Les gobbed out the window. By buying all those tickets and coming on a bit strong about the church and this other Norton, the cop had felt like he’d put the heavies on a government official who evidently had connections in Sommersby as well as Montego Bay and Kingston; which could mean repercussions. So for a square up he was getting Les some help. The cop introduced himself as Inspector Lewis Noonan and by the time they got to Dredmouth they were both on first- name terms and Les was wishing Lewis to the shithouse. Norton looked out the window and up at the grey Jamaican sky. Thanks mate. Terrific. You’ve been a great help.

  Dredmouth Police Station was in the street on the left before the town square, three doors down on the same side of the road. It was pockmarked grey and white with two sets of barred windows out the front, a short set of concrete steps on the left, and POLICE painted across the top in faded blue. There were some equally daggy shops with battered awnings perched on splintery wooden poles on either side, a couple of light poles and a few vacant-looking punters lounging around or strolling past. Parked out the front was a blue and white Toyota and going by the condition it was in, pretty much like the police station, Les tipped it was a police car; he pulled up just behind it. Lewis said there was no need for Les to come inside, he’d only be a few minutes. Les smiled graciously and said he’d keep an eye on the car and the tools on the back seat. Norton stared absently at Lewis going up the stairs and at the punters walking by staring in at him. What bloody next, he scowled, cursing his alleged good luck. Les didn’t have a clue what to do now or what to expect. Before long Lewis came back down the stairs, herding two young cops in front of him. They were about the same size as Millwood, only stockier, wearing blue, red-striped tro
users, blue caps and khaki shirts. Each had a gun in a holster on a white belt and they both scowled inimically at Les sitting in the Honda before they climbed inside the Toyota. Lewis came round to Norton’s side window.

  ‘Follow us down to the manse, Les. It’s not very far.’

  ‘Yeah, righto Lewis,’ smiled Les, as best he could.

  Les started the engine and with the locals watching curiously the little procession wound down the backstreets of Dredmouth into Holding Street and along the waterfront. On the way half an idea formed in Norton’s shifty red head, he was working on the other half when they pulled up next to the cobblestones and wooden columns in front of the manse. Les got out of the car and Lewis introduced him to the two cops. Their names were Coyne and Moylan and Les couldn’t remember ever getting two lousier handshakes or filthier looks in his life. Coyne was a little taller than Moylan. Les smiled a syrupy smile, thinking if looks could kill he’d spend the rest of his Jamaican holiday planted with the rest of them out the front of Rose Hill Great House; starting this afternoon. He was also thinking he’d better put his plan into action and smartly as he didn’t have all bloody day either.

  ‘Alright, gentlemen,’ he said, holding the crowbar and handing the two cops the rest of the tools, ‘we’ll have to go round the back. Professor Eyres is in Antigua at the moment and I don’t have the key. Just follow me,’ he smiled, receiving another two filthy looks for his trouble.

  ‘Come on, has’e up,’ ordered Lewis. ‘And no fiesty either. Show de mon some respec.’

  Les turned to Lewis and smiled. ‘This is so good of you, Lewis. I honestly don’t know how to show my appreciation.’

  ‘My pleasure, Les. No problem at all, suh.’

  They trooped round the corner, down the side then through the gap in the wall into the backyard; Les stopped near the back door and waited for them, all smiles. Inspector Noonan was okay, all pumped up with his own importance at being able to display some authority. The two young cops were screaming. They’d probably both been sitting on their arses in the station out of the heat, now they were going to spend the rest of the day shovelling shit in an old ruined building for nothing and being ordered around by some stinken, white bastard as well. Les nodded for them to follow him through. Norton walked straight into the main ballroom, dropped his backpack against the wall and took out his notebook and biro. With a look of rapture and reverence on his face Norton gazed around the inside of the manse and went into this pious spiel about how absolutely marvellous the old building was and how enlightening it would be to be able to restore the manse to its original splendour and do something fitting for the Jamaican people. Lewis beamed while the two young cops leant against their tools and sulked. You know, thought Les, I might even be able to have a bit fun with these two palookas. They’re both at my disposal. Okay boys, let’s see how you like a bit of honest toil in the name of the Lord. And just hope Eduardo hasn’t left one of his whips lying around or you’ll get it right across your black arses.