And De Fun Don't Done (26 page)

Ricco seemed to hesitate for a moment then flicked at one of the hamburgers. ‘Yeah, why not?' he said.

His name was Ricco DiCosti. He grew up in New York and made all his money from a string of pizza shops he owned, which he sold when he got his divorce. He then moved down to Florida. He now owned a coffee shop south of town at a place called Salmo that kept him going. He talked about running with street gangs in New York, his Italian wife had his two kids in Palm Springs, etc, etc. Most of it was pretty mundane stuff, yet all the time Les had this feeling Ricco was holding back. Somehow he didn't seem the kind of bloke who'd spend too much time with his head stuck in a pizza oven or running around tables in a coffee shop; and he knew about Norton's movements before he'd even met him. But Ricco was interesting enough in a terse kind of fashion and his thick ‘noo yoik' accent and mannerisms were quite amusing, even if some of his one-liners fell a bit flat, which didn't stop Les from laughing at them as if they were funny as all get up. Next thing Laverne started piling plates of salad and things on the table.

She'd made a ripping Caesar, plus a cucumber and sour cream and a couple of others along with some more nibblies. It was quite a good spread, especially for three people. Ricco put the hamburgers on their plates, telling Les how good they were going to be and all the ingredients he'd put in them. Then Les remembered ‘burgers' on the barby in America were a kind of ritual; that was another thing Warren had told him before he left. But
they tasted pretty good sitting on two slabs of focac- cia with lettuce, tomato, some kind of cracked pepper, Dijon sauce, and washed down with O'Doulls, while Laverne washed hers down with three large glasses of white wine. Finally Les wiped his mouth and said they were definitely the best ‘burgers' he'd ever eaten in his life, not that Ricco needed to be told that. Laverne started to clean up then they moved into the kitchen just as the rain started to tumble down outside.

‘You like a good cup of coffee, Les?' asked Ricco.

‘Yeah. I don't mind one at all,' replied Norton.

‘Wait till you taste this.'

Les watched, fascinated, as Ricco started fussing around with the espresso coffee machine. It hissed and steamed and gurgled; a few minutes later Norton had a cup of coffee sitting on the black tiles of the cooking island next to some cream and sugar. Ricco's burgers were pretty good, but his coffee would have taken gold at the Olympic Games. It was sensational; thick with a creamy brown head, as good as anything you get around Haymarket in Sydney. This time Les was one hundred per cent genuine when he commended him.

‘Jesus, that is a bloody good cup of coffee, Ricco. I wish I could make it as good as that.'

Laverne, who'd been a bit quiet, suddenly piped up. ‘You gotta be a made man to make coffee as good as that,' she giggled, obviously a bit piddly from her now fifth glass of wine. Les gave a kind of mystified half smile, Ricco didn't seem to see the funny side of it at all and Laverne appeared to look a bit sheepish. A kind of brittle silence hung in the air for a moment and Les thought it might be a good time to switch subjects.

‘Ricco,' he said, taking a sip of coffee, ‘can you offer me a bit of advice?'

‘Sure. What's your problem?'

‘I'm going to rent a car tomorrow. Where do you reckon's the best place to go?'

Ricco put his cup back on the saucer. ‘You want a car?
What sort of car? You want a big car? A small car? What kind of car?'

Norton shrugged. ‘I dunno. Just a Ford or a Chevvy. Something to get me round for the next couple of weeks.'

‘What are you doing tomorrow morning round eleven?'

‘Nothing.'

‘I'll call round, pick you up. I got a buddy out on Greenwood. We'll get you a car.'

‘You will…?'

‘Hey, I said I'd get you a car. You got a car.'

‘Shit! Thanks.'

Ricco seemed to sum Les up again then for the first time a noticeable smile seemed to flicker round his eyes. ‘Hey, I like you, Les Norton. You're an alright guy. You got style. You got class. What are you doing this Thursday?'

‘I don't know,' shrugged Les again. ‘I got nothing planned.'

‘You want to go boating? I got a boat. I'll show you round the Keys.'

‘That sounds alright. Okay, you got me.' Les took a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘Listen, Ricco, you don't have to go to all this trouble for me — even though I appreciate it. The condo, a nice meal, helping me out. I mean, after spending four days with Captain Rats it's all a bit too much.'

‘Hey don't sweat it, Les. Like I said, you're a good fella.'

Les seemed to think for a moment. ‘Yeah,' he agreed. ‘There's probably worse blokes round than me.'

They chatted away, over nothing much in particular, while they finished a second cup of coffee; most of the time, though, Norton once again couldn't believe his luck. Ricco was going to help him get a car then take him for a boat ride out on the Keys, which sounded tops. Ricco might have been a bit terse or abrupt at times, but he wasn't short on hospitality; a marked contrast to Hank. Finally Ricco said he had things to do early
tomorrow morning and he'd like to get going if Les wanted a lift back to the condo. This suited Norton admirably. During the drive home he once again couldn't thank them both enough for their generosity and friendliness.

‘Okay Les,' said Ricco, as Norton got out of the car at the condo. ‘I'll see you here tomorrow morning. Eleven sharp.'

‘Alright, Ricco. I'll see you then.'

‘Goodnight, Les.'

‘See you later, Laverne.'

The rain had eased and a few stars were appearing from behind the clouds, but it was still oppressively hot. Whether it was the humidity, or the food or what, Norton didn't know, but as he opened the front door of the condo he found himself yawning. Inside it was fairly warm too, but clean and fresh, unlike the stuffy mustiness at Swamp Manor, so he once again didn't bother about the air- conditioning. After a glass of orange juice Les got stripped down to his jocks and lay back on the bed with a table lamp on and the book about Jamaica sitting on his chest. Before he opened it Norton had a think about something Laverne had said when he commented on how good Ricco's coffee was. ‘It took a “made man” to make it that good.' And while Les had acted oblivious, he noticed Ricco's stony reaction to his girlfriend's bit of a private joke. If Ricco was a ‘made man' he'd taken the oath of omerta and was a member of some New York Mafia family. That's what he was being guarded about. Ricco definitely had strong Mafia connections and who knew how high up he was? Though not to worry. He seemed to like Norton and you couldn't ask for better than to have someone like that on-side while you were stopping for a while in America. Then Les had to chuckle to himself. The more he thought about it, the more Warren was right. It was all getting to be like some scene out of a movie or on TV. That house with the pastel colours could've been from an episode of ‘Miami Vice'. Ricco was straight out of
The Godfather
. And their love affair had
lashings of
West Side Story
or could have been scripted by Neil Simon. What did some English singer say about America? You watch TV and think how totally unreal it is. Then you step outside and find it's just the same. Oh well, I'm here now and that's it.

Les started to read the book on Jamaica, flicking straight to the photo of Rose Hill Great House at Montego Bay. It was like some old Georgian mansion or a French chateau set on lush green lawns with trees in the background. A long, wide set of sandstone steps flanked with wrought iron bannisters led up to a huge courtyard propped up by about a dozen sandstone pillars and arches. There were two more storeys of white stuccoed sandstone built above and back from the courtyard. Judging by the number of gabled windows that were bigger than doors Les estimated there would have to be about thirty or more rooms. A grey tiled roof sat on top and there were more massive windows set in sandstone walls down the sides. The courtyard was surrounded by a wall of chest-high marble columns, the huge front door had two equally huge marble columns set on either side with a marble arch and shelter set above. Yes, mused Les, I'd sure say old Moulton Norton wasn't short of a dollar back then. Of course labour wasn't very cost intensive back in those day. Instead of sick pay, holiday pay and a 17.5% loading, you got a good whipping instead. He was reading about a mob of slaves who escaped and were called Maroons, which came from the Spanish word
cimarron
, and meant wild, and their leader Cudjoe, who with his two sub-chiefs Quao and Cuffee caused the British no end of trouble back around 1670, when Norton's eyes started to close. He switched off the table lamp and drifted into a sweaty, but pleasant sleep.

By the time Les got out of bed the next morning then got cleaned up, made a cup of coffee, pedalled up to the store for more orange juice, had a long swim followed by a late breakfast, then sat around picking his toes while he thought about a few things and got into a pair of shorts
and a clean white T-shirt, Ricco was knocking on the door. Ricco looked as neat and dapper as ever in a pair of white trousers, tan loafers and a maroon shirt hanging out.

‘You ready to roll?' he said shortly, not bothering to come inside.

‘Yeah, mate,' answered Norton. ‘I'll just grab me licence and some chops.'

Les got his wallet and locked up the flat. Next thing they were safe from the blistering heat inside Ricco's air- conditioned Mercedes and had turned left outside the estate towards downtown.

‘Where are we going?' asked Norton.

‘About a half-dozen blocks from here to my buddy Vinnie's place. You'll like Vinnie. He's an alright guy.'

‘Is he from New York too?' asked Les, knowing he needn't have bothered.

‘Yeah. We grew up on the same block.'

And went to the same reform school too? I wonder what Vinnie's other name is? Vinnie the Fish? Vinnie the Ox? Vinnie Three Fingers?

Les was pondering on this and what scene in which TV show or movie he'd be playing today when two bumper stickers on a big grey pick-up truck caught his eye. There was a Confederate flag on the window and it was driven by a good ol' boy in a black, ten-gallon hat. One sticker said, ‘God, Guns and Guts Made America. Let's Keep All Three'. The other said, ‘Will the Last American to Leave Miami Please Bring the Flag?'. Yes, thought Norton. Today's scene is either
Smokey and the Bandit
or ‘The Dukes of Hazzard'. Norton was thinking on this when they pulled into some sort of caryard.

There were around forty cars sitting there, all big American gas guzzlers with prices on the windscreens and bunting and advertising much like any place you'd see along Parramatta Road. A single-storey brick office with tinted windows sat out the front among about a dozen palm trees. From the roof a number of American flags fluttered slightly in the hot wind and above the flags was a
sign in red and white: BIG V. CARS AND RENTALS. A monstrous, dark green Cadillac sat out the front of the office and leaning against it, smoking a cigar as big as a tin of tennis balls, was a tall, barrel-chested man with a paunch and short black hair receding in the front. He was wearing a blue shirt, open almost to the waist, matching blue trousers and shiny black shoes.

‘Hey, Vinnie,' said Ricco, as they got out of the Mercedes. ‘How are you doin'?'

‘Hey, Ricco,' smiled Vinnie. ‘What do you say, buddy?'

‘Vinnie, I want you to meet Les. Les, this is Vinnie.'

‘G'day Vinnie,' said Norton, offering his hand. ‘How are you, mate?'

‘Hey Les. Nice to meet you.' Vinnie's massive paw wrapped around Norton's and gave it a vigorous crunching. ‘So you're the aussie guy wants a car?'

‘Yeah. Ricco said you might be able to help me.'

Vinnie turned to Ricco and made an open-handed gesture. ‘Might be able to help him. What is this, huh? Come out back, Les. I got just the car you need. I got you a T-bird. Straight off the lot.'

‘A T-bird? That sounds alright.' Norton was curious. He was also dubious. Straight off the lot probably also meant straight off the street — in some other city.

‘You wanted a car,' shrugged Ricco. ‘I got you a car.'

The car was an iridescent grey Ford Thunderbird with rounded fenders and bonnet that made it look more like a Mercedes. It was only two doors with four pillared windows, but it was bigger, shinier, and newer than anything Les had ever driven. Vinnie opened the door and Les got inside. As he sat down an alarm started, which Vinnie explained was for the seat-belt that somehow or other seemed to automatically slide up and down above the driver's side window; Les clamped it on and the alarm stopped. The interior was all plush grey velvet you sunk into, with power steering, power doors, power brakes and power every bloody thing else plus a scanner radio cassette stereo with four speakers in the doors. The only thing wrong was that the steering wheel was on
the wrong side and the rear vision mirror faced the wrong way.

‘So what do you say, huh?' said Vinnie.

‘Yeah. It's a beauty,' answered Les. ‘She'll do me. What's the damage?'

‘Come inside out of the heat and we'll do the paperwork.'

Vinnie's office was nicely air-conditioned and fairly plush. There were indoor palms, paintings and mirrors on the walls, some bamboo furniture, and lounges with green and white bamboo patterned wallpaper all round. A shiny wooden counter sat in the front and behind that stood a door with PRIVATE on it.

‘You want a soda?' asked Vinnie, as he disappeared behind the door in a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

‘Yeah righto, thanks,' replied Les.

Vinnie returned with an O'Doulls for Ricco, a 7-UP for Les and a Lemon Crush for himself along with the paperwork.

‘You'll like the T-bird,' said Ricco. ‘They're a good car.'