And De Fun Don't Done (32 page)

Les finished his coffee and drifted back towards the car. He still had St Almonds to visit yet, and he hadn't even put a dent in his VISA card. As he walked past another sports store he noticed a bookshop. He had nearly finished his P. J. O'Rourke, so he thought he might go in, have a bit of a browse around and maybe pick up something else to read. There was a plentiful variety of books and even these were cheaper than in Australia. He was looking through a few novels when he noticed a section entitled POETRY. For some reason Les drifted over. Right at the very front was a book of poems by Elizabeth Norton Blackmore. Hello, Norton smiled to himself. What have we got here? It was only a fifty-page book, called
The Great Poets
, and on the light blue cover was a painting of Blackmore wearing a white, buttoned to the neck, dress. Norton's smile got wider when he noticed she had red hair and a fairly square jaw. Inside were more photo plates from old paintings of England and one of old Moulton Norton wearing frock coat and breeches. A bit of a tingle went through Les when he noticed old Moulton had red hair, red muttonchop sidelevers and a red moustache. The small book was $15.95 plus tax, Norton paid cash and flicked through it as he walked out to the car. Although Les was somewhat excited coming across a book of his alleged ancestor's poems, it was too
hot to sit reading it in the carpark, so he laid it on the seat next to him, intending to read it over a few drinks back at the flat that night, and proceeded to St Almonds Circle.

It was about a twenty-minute drive and in the daytime the place did look very Double Bayish; mainly restaurants, boutiques and up-market men's shops and other souvenir or knick-knack shops all set in an uneven circle, or radiating from it around the park just down from the bridge. Les recognised Reggae Mambo's and got a parking spot near the shop where Hank put the letter under the door. It was oppressively hot as usual when he got out of the air-conditioned car and Les cursed himself for starting to get used to it as he flicked some sweat from his eyes. Shit! This is getting to be tough going. But when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Where to first? I reckon these shops round here, then I'll work my way back.

The shops were all nicely air-conditioned, the staff were friendly and the quality of the clothing was good. But a bit of a rip off. Some neatly patterned silk shirts caught Norton's eye, until he turned over the price tag. One hundred and ninety-nine dollars plus tax. Yeah, that's all you need, mused Les. Two hundred bucks for a shirt and either some drunk rips it off your back in a fight or some dopey sheila walks past you in a bar, waving a cigarette around, and burns a hole straight through it. He ended up buying some T-shirts with tropical fish and manatees on the front and a Johnny Rebb cap made out of blue denim. The rest of the stuff didn't turn Les on all that much. It was nice, but just a bit too pricey, even for this mug tourist.

Then Les found this shop that looked more like a big grass hut stuck out in the jungle. The windows were full of artificial palm trees, toy monkeys, lions and tigers and other oddities. It was called ‘Jungle Jennies'. Canned laughter was coming out of some hidden speakers, lights were flashing on and off and as you walked in the door, a sensor alarm set off the most lecherous wolf-whistle imaginable. Inside were all manner of novelty things
from T-shirts to hats, drinking mugs to whoopee cushions. Walking around the shop was an attractive, dark-haired woman in black leotards carrying a monkey in her arms; the way it had its arm round her neck and she was petting it you would have sworn the thing was real. Norton browsed around for a while, wondering what he was going to waste his money on, when he saw them and just stopped dead in his tracks. They were sitting in front of a jukebox that was playing Bill Hayley and the Comets' ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll'. The All Star Frog Band. Five little green plastic frogs, counting the lead singer, up on their own little stage with their own little light show. They were like those plastic flowers and Coke tins on legs that you put in front of a set of speakers and they move in time to the music. Only these were five frogs about six inches high, and they were going for it. The lead singer made Mick Jagger look like he was going in for a hernia operation. Norton, being a man of discerning taste and vibrant wit, was absolutely fascinated.

‘How much are they?' he asked the girl behind the counter.

‘Forty-seven dollars, plus tax.'

‘Give me four,' said Les. ‘No. You'd better make that half a dozen.'

While the girl was getting them together Les sprung another tasteful little item among the novelty ashtrays and things on the counter. Another little green frog. This one was rubber, with a huge grin across his face, his little arms and legs spread apart and this giant, monster cock sticking out in front. On the box it said, ‘Genuine Florida Horny
oad'.

‘And give me six horny toads too,' said Les.

‘You got it,' said the girl. ‘And, might I say, you're a guy that knows what he wants.'

‘That's me,' answered Les, still looking at the massive wozzer on the little frog. ‘I'm a class act, sweetheart.'

Absolutely delighted with his purchases, Norton strolled back to the car and placed them in the boot along with the rest. Now, what about that nice feed I promised
myself? he thought. Though I'm buggered if I'm all that hungry in this heat. I might have a snack at that Reggae Mambo's. It looked half alright. There was a shaded, vacant table out on the footpath. Les ordered an O'Doulls, which he demolished rather smartly, so he ordered another one plus a Lime Garlic Grouper Cozumel and a side salad. This turned out to be a fillet of grouper, marinated in lime and garlic, sprinkled with cracked black pepper, grilled and served with more garlic mayonnaise. It was pretty good, so was the salad and the coffee after and it wasn't a bad way to finish the day, sitting in the shade, watching the seppos walking or waddling past. Satisfied with his day's effort, Les left some money on the table and drove home to more fiddles and slide.

Back at the estate Les noticed the same skinny black guy he'd seen earlier working on a lawnmower outside the caretaker's shed. He stopped the car, got out and walked over.

‘G'day, mate,' he said pleasantly. ‘How are you goin' there?'

The black caretaker looked up from what he was doing, looked at Les, then kind of blinked around him, seemingly a little mystified at someone actually giving him the time of day let alone being pleasant. Norton had noticed everybody on the estate appeared to act a little self-important and probably treated the caretaker just like a caretaker. And a nigger one at that.

‘How am I going?' he replied. ‘I'm doing just fine, thank you.'

‘Good on you,' said Norton. ‘Listen, mate, I was wondering if you might be able to do us a bit of a favour?'

‘Sure. I'll see what I can do.'

‘Well, I've bought a whole lot of T-shirts and junk and I need a box or something to put it in, so's I can send it all back home.'

‘Hey, where's home, brother?'

‘Australia,' said Les.

‘Australia. Shit! I thought that's where you might have
bin from.' The black guy stood up and had a good look at Norton through his sunglasses.

‘Yeah. The dreaded,' answered Les.

‘And you need, like, a — cardboard box?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'll see what I can do for you, brother.' The caretaker headed for the door.

‘And while you're there, can you have a look, see if you got some tape and a marking pen?'

‘No problems, brother.'

‘Good on you, mate.'

Les could hear the caretaker rummaging around inside. He was back out in a few minutes with a big white fruit carton, a roll of wide masking tape and an Artline marker.

‘There you go, brother. That do you, man?'

‘Reckon. You're a bloody beauty, mate.' Norton was rapt and went for his pocket. ‘What do I owe you, mate?'

The black guy made a gesture. ‘That's cool, man. Don't sweat it.'

‘Fair enough. But here you are. Get yourself a drink anyway.' Les gave him a twenty.

‘Hey. Much oblige, brother.'

‘No worries,' said Les, picking up the carton. ‘What's your name anyway?'

‘Jerome.'

‘I'm Les, Jerome. Pleased to meet you.'

Jerome shook Norton's hand and grinned. ‘Damned if I ain't too.'

‘I'll leave the pen and that outside your door when I'm finished.'

‘Any time brother.'

Jerome pocketed the twenty and went back to his lawnmower. Norton threw the carton on the back seat and drove round to the condo.

Inside, with a Coors Cutter in his hand and the radio playing, Norton couldn't believe how much junk he'd bought. But there was more than enough for everybody, including family and friends, and it all went into the
carton alright. He packed the T-shirts and jackets around the cartons holding the frog bands so they wouldn't break and when he strapped it all down with masking tape the carton was as solid as a rock. All Les had to do then was address it to himself then take it up to the nearby post office. He did that after dropping the pen and what was left of the masking tape at the door of the caretaker's shed.

The post office was about two doors from the travel agency and Les was a little surprised to find it was run by an Amish couple in their fifties. It was musty and kind of old-fashioned looking. But if the post office was old- fashioned, the two Amish looked like they'd just come straight from the sixteenth century. Sober black clothes on the man, the woman wore this ankle-length, crinoline dress with a white coffee filter on her head and their skin looked almost grey. They reminded Norton of those reproductions of old Rembrandt and Titian paintings from school. Both of them were polite and efficient, but unlike the other Amish, they were the most sober, unsmiling people Les had ever come across; almost as bad as the two lemons he'd bought the old pushbike from. The only thing funny about them was the husband was going bald and he had his hair plastered across his scone in a giant smother and it looked like two slices of mouldy, burnt toast araldited to the top of his head. Norton nearly had to have his arsehole araldited back in when they weighed his package and told him the postage. Over $200 US. Les paid with a very shaky hand.

There was a liquor store close by; Les thought it might be an idea to stock up and replace what he'd consumed so far — he also felt like a drink after having to fork out $200. As usual there were more brands and types of booze than Les had ever seen before … there were six different types of bacardi alone. Les knew he'd be in there all day once he started picking and choosing, so he got four six- packs of Corona, two bottles of George Dickle soft drink and a bag of ice. Back at the car he was laughing to himself and thinking the owner had robbed himself, but
when he checked the receipt Corona was a dollar a bottle and the bourbon, which is about forty dollars a bottle in Australia, was thirteen dollars including tax. Christ! thought Les, as he started the engine, it's a good thing I'm only here for another two weeks or so. Otherwise I'd be donating my liver to the Powerhouse Museum when I get back home.

Back at the condo, Les packed the beer and ice away, turned on the radio again and was thinking that apart from blowing two hundred on postage it hadn't been a bad day, shopping and checking out the yank punters. There were still a few more things he wanted to get so he'd do it again. It was also good just cruising around and taking his time with no silly bloody Hank to annoy him. Norton was about to attack a Corona when he changed his mind and put it back in the fridge. I know what I'll do, he mused. I'll go out and see Mrs Laurel and pick up my Walkman; without my breath smelling of booze either. He checked where they lived was on the map then decided to ring and say he was on his way; he didn't have Mrs Laurel's number but he had Hank's. A smile spread across Norton's face when it didn't answer. Looks like Captain Rats isn't home. Good. That means I don't have to talk to the prick. I can have a nice cup of coffee with his mum and a mag, then stall. Les snapped his fingers. That's who I should have bought a little present for. I will before I leave. He locked up the flat and headed for Swamp Manor. It had started to cloud over and Brooks and Dunn were twanging their way through ‘My Next Broken Heart' when Les crunched up in the driveway.

Norton's initial smile faded to a sneer when he saw Hank's pick-up under the battered carport and no sign of Mrs Laurel's car. Ahh shit! he cursed to himself. How's that for timing? Boofhead must have just got home. Norton was no happier when he knocked on the door and saw that the house looked like it was all locked up. Ahh shit! Norton cursed to himself again when he remembered Mrs Laurel telling him before he left that she was going to visit her daughter or something for a few days
during the week. That means I've got to go and knock on Captain Rat's door. I'll bet she's probably given him the thing to give to me and he deliberately hasn't so I'd have to make a trip out here. The fuckwit. Les had half a mind to give it a miss and buy himself another Walkman. Ahh! I'm bloody well here now. I should only have to talk to the dill for a few minutes, even if he does start playing his usual stupid fuckin' games. He strode down the pathway through the Spanish Moss and buzzing insects, knocked on Hank's door and waited. Despite a good loud knock there was no answer. Les knocked again: louder. Still no answer. He's probably in there having a three-bagger.