And De Fun Don't Done (33 page)

‘Hey, Hank,' Norton yelled out towards the top windows, ‘stop playin' with your dick and get down here and answer the door. You Beechams bloody pill.'

Still no answer. Les had a look around then knocked again.

‘You in there, Hank?' he yelled out. There was still no answer.

Ahh, what a pain in the arse, cursed Norton again. I wonder where the imbecile is? He put his hand over his forehead and took a peek through the loungeroom window. It was dark and gloomy inside, but if Norton wasn't mistaken there was someone sitting back on the lounge asleep. It looked like Hank. Les rattled on the window; the figure didn't move. Yeah, he's probably pissed or full of painkillers, thought Les. Bugger it. I suppose I'll have to go in and wake the cunt up. The door was unlocked; Les opened it and stepped inside.

Despite the light behind him, it took a second or two for Norton's eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. It was Hank asleep on the lounge alright. In fact it would be fair to describe him as being dead to the world. His eyes were closed and he was slumped to his right, his right arm still in a sling. His left arm was sprawled across the lounge, his hand open, and sitting on the lounge, just in front of his fingertips, was the Walther Les had used at the target range. On Hank's left temple, just near his eye, was a blackened, congealed hole with some powder burns
around it. The other side of Hank's head had a rather large piece missing and that part was splattered across the back of the lounge in a mixture of scalp, bone and bits of grey-looking stuff all surrounded by dried, rust-coloured blood. The hole in the left side must have pumped a bit of blood for a few moments before oozing out because some had soaked into Hank's lap and a couple of rivulets had spread out across the floor. Between the rivulets was a single, spent cartridge. How long he'd been dead was anyone's guess.

Norton stared at Captain Rat's body for a few moments and if not actually horrified, he should have at least been a little shocked. He wasn't. After the scene with Murray and the six terrorists, Les swore nothing would ever shock him again. Instead, Les found it somehow amusing; laughable almost. Norton knew Hank was a bit psycho, though he considered him more of a flip than anything else, and when he told him to go shoot himself Les meant it as a sardonic, sarcastic joke really. Les's gross insult to finally get rid of him. But trust Captain Rats to take his advice to the letter. On the other hand Hank was like a stupid big kid at times. Could there be a bit of nyeh-nyeh-nyeh-nyeh-nyeh, I'll show you Les, thrown in? Well, he certainly had. Now what?

Framed in the light from the open door Les stared at Hank's bruised and battered face, pale at the best of times, now looking almost pale blue, and for once Norton was completely stumped for words. What could he say? Nice bit of shooting, Hank? Glad to see you took my advice, Hank. Now you can cut down on your smoking. Have you seen my Walkman anywhere, Hank? Les knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help laughing. He'd met some dills in his time but Hank took the cake, and the blue ribbon as well. Shaking his head slowly, Les put his hands on his hips and looked around the room, just in case his Walkman was sitting there somewhere or maybe a suicide note. There was nothing, and if anything the place looked more gloomy and depressing than ever. But good ol' Hank had gone out in style. His own man. No
note, no nothing. Those jerks he'd left behind weren't worth wasting his time on anyway. Onya, Hank. You're a bloody beauty, thought Les. Or at least you were.

Then Les saw it sitting on top of the TV and his face lit up in a grin. But he couldn't do it, could he? Not much he couldn't; and what a souvenir. Norton walked over to the TV, picked it up and examined it. Yes, it was definitely the same fifty dollar bill he'd given Hank folded neatly in half. He folded it again and looked at Hank. At least Les now had something he could say.

‘Well, Hank. I don't suppose you'll be needing this any more? Will you, mate?' Norton slipped the fifty in his pocket, took one last quick look at Captain Rats then left, closing the door softly behind him.

Norton didn't think about much on the way home. The sky had started to blacken and flashes of lightning were streaking across the sky among the rumbling claps of thunder. He made it back inside the condo just as the heavens opened up. The humidity was almost unbelievable now and streaks of perspiration were soaking across Norton's face and T-shirt. He turned the air-conditioner on and the radio then got a bottle of Corona from the fridge and took a good long pull, swallowing almost half the bottle. As Les burped he reflected into the bottle and something else struck him as funny.

‘Look at that, Hank,' he said out loud. ‘No bloody piece of lime. At least I don't look like a tourist.'

Norton didn't feel in the slightest bit sorry for Hank. He didn't raise his bottle in a toast to the dear departed. Norton was having a beer because it was stinken hot and he was thirsty. As far as Norton was concerned Hank was where he belonged and very soon Les would be outside having another swim in the rain. In fact, if anything, Hank should have shot himself sooner and Les would be in LA or Las Vegas or maybe even back home drinking Eumundi lager and watching the football. At least I will be in another couple of weeks or so, mused Norton. He took another swig of cold beer then sat down on the lounge to listen to the radio. Les was about to kick his
Nikes off when he stopped and screwed his face up. There was some congealed blood on the toe of one and a little around the heel of the other.

‘What the…?'

Then it struck Les. When he was being half smart and had walked over to get the fifty dollar bill sitting on the TV, he'd stepped in Hank's blood, more than likely leaving a couple of footprints. This meant that when Mrs Laurel came home and found her loving son's body she'd have to ring the police, and even though it was an apparent suicide there'd be some sort of a forensic examination. They'd find the footprints, which would show someone had obviously been walking around in there. Who? And the only person who had been anywhere near Hank recently that Mrs Laurel would think of would be that nice Mr Norton from Australia. Who was now staying in Ricco DiCosti's condo, the Mafia money- mover, where he'd already been half pie grilled about it by Special Agent Benshoff from the Department of Justice. So there was a chance Les might get a knock on the door, possibly by the weekend, from the local wallopers. Great. But I only went there to get my Walkman, officer. Then why didn't you report what you found to the police? I was meaning to, honest. But I was a bit confused. And how come your fingerprints are all over the gun too, Mr Norton? Maybe you did it and put the gun in the deceased's hand, Mr Norton? You are an associate of Mr DiCosti and Mr Rizzitello. That's already been established by Agent Benshoff. Are you helping them launder money and the late Mr Laurel found out? Shit! cursed Les. All over a lousy fifty dollar bill. Norton wasn't being paranoid, but he just didn't know what these local redneck southern cops might think. He finished his beer then washed the blood from his Nikes in the bathroom. When he got that off, Les made sure there was none on the carpet and even ran out in the pouring rain and checked to see there was none in the car. Satisfied everything was in order, he got into his Speedos and went for a long swim in the rain; if nothing else, it at least had a cooling effect.

The rain kept up after Les got out of the pool and got dried off and into a clean T-shirt. If anything it got heavier, which suited Norton in a way. He wasn't in the mood for going out, he didn't feel like chasing a root, he didn't even feel hungry. He just felt like staying home and getting half drunk. He wasn't down in the blues so much; Les just had the shits more than anything else with the way things were turning out. He thought about ringing Laverne and Ricco and telling them what had happened, but changed his mind. He'd be seeing them tomorrow, maybe he'd tell them then. Les got another Corona and drank it while he watched the rain pelting down onto the estate as darkness began to fall, then he made himself a rather large delicious and slurped on that to some more country and western music.

After a couple more drinks Norton got sick of the radio so he switched on the TV to see what he could find. He got the last of some American sitcom he'd never seen before then a station promo saying to keep tuned for the Clint Eastwood movie,
Thunderbolt and Lightfoot
. That'll do, thought Norton. I've seen this thing before yonks ago, but it's not a bad old flick. I'll watch it again. A couple more drinks later and Les was half into the film. Clint Eastwood had been chased out of the church by George Kennedy and was on his merry way with his partner in crime to get the anti-tank-rifle and snaffle the rest of the loot. Then Norton couldn't figure out whether he was getting drunk or there was something wrong with the film. It was like half the dialogue was being cut out. Was it the electrical storm outside? No. He was watching cable. Finally it dawned on him. Any words that were remotely blasphemous were being zapped out. Even ‘damn, ‘bastard', ‘shit', ‘sonofabitch'. Let alone the juicy ones — the frucks and crunts. This was the South; the Bible Belt. Good, God-fearin', nigger-lynchin', Jew- baitin' Christian folk. Glory Hallelujah and praise the lord. What a fuckin' load of shit, thought Les, and what a weird fuckin' country. You can buy all the guns you need then go out and shoot anything that moves. The place is
awash with heroin and cocaine. There's a serial killer in every town or some prick standing on every corner with a gun waiting to steal your car. Yet you can't see a tit or hear someone say ‘poop' on TV. Les shook his head as another word got zapped out. God bless America.

He watched the end of the movie, more out of drunken amazement than anything else, then turned the TV off and left the radio off as well. Half revved up from the booze, he decided to read his book on Jamaica and cross reference it with his book of Elizabeth Norton Black- more's poems. According to the book on Jamaica there was a clue to buried treasure in there somewhere, supposedly in one of her poems. Les poured another drink and started reading. An hour later he was drunk, tired and absolutely buggered if he could find any connection between buried pirate gold or whatever and poetry. The poems and the prose were probably some of the most beautiful ever written. But to a Philistine like Norton the words meant sweet bugger all. And if there was any connection, it was either a myth handed down through the years or you'd have to be Albert Einstein to work it out. I mean, have a look at this, Les mused drunkenly and tiredly to himself.

I raise my weighted soul up solemnly
,

As once Delphinia her cryptic urn
.

How could you make any bloody sense out of that? And what about this load of utter edgar?

That heartless perfection which thou lentst her
,

To so affront man's darkest deeds in different times
,

Reach up thy divine countenance amongst transfigured friends
,

Fair dinkum. How could you make anything out of that bullshit? The bloody stuff doesn't even rhyme. Here's a good one. Short and to the point of absolute nothing.

How do I love thee? Let me count four ways
.

Confronting you directly, my beloved, I see all four at once
,

Yet
'
tis for this very reason I canst see the ten
,

A heartbeat to the left or right and I see all four again
,

Though the last love may be obscured
,

And 'tis indeed the last love I treasure most, my dearest
,

This is a love we both did share and shall ever treasure
,

Our laboured love. The last love at the manse
.

Norton slammed the book closed in disgust and took a slurp on his last drink. What a load of bollocks. He looked at Blackmore's portrait on the cover and shook his head boozily. I hate to say this, ol' Betty baby, but I think you were playing with your ted when you were writing this stuff. Ferociously. But then again, maybe you were before your time. In this new age of sexuality, if it's okay for Madonna to get her photo taken fiddling with herself, I suppose it was alright for you to play a bit of one-finger panty polka too. But on the other hand, if I get caught having a bit of strop, I'm a wanker. Fair dinkum, Betty. I don't know what to think. It's all very confusing; especially when bourbon's only thirteen bucks a bottle. Les finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. I do know what I do think though. I'm drunk, I'm tired and it's time I went to bed. Norton cleaned his teeth, then turned out the lights and did exactly that. Outside it rained for a little while longer then stopped and the stars reappeared.

The phone ringing around eight-thirty the next morning got Les out of bed. He'd woken up about half an hour earlier, feeling a little seedy, and couldn't be bothered getting up, so he lay there, half dozing, half thinking about different things. This holiday in America just seemed to be getting weirder and weirder. When he walked out and picked up the phone it was Ricco.

‘Hey, Les. How are you doin'?'

‘Not too bad, Ricco,' Les answered, a little thickly. ‘How's yourself?'

I'm feelin' great. You ready to go boatin'?'

‘Yeah. What time are you gonna call around?'

‘I got a couple of things to sort out and I'll be there at ten. You gonna be ready?'

‘Yeah. If I'm not out the front, just knock on the door.'

‘Okay. I'll see you at ten.'

Yeah, righto, thought Les, blinking slightly at the phone. Do I pack a rod, or bring a violin case? I suppose we'll have a shoot-out with the coastguard or something this time. The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. And the way I feel I couldn't give a stuff either. Les poured himself two large glasses of orange juice and went for a swim.

Outside it was hotter than ever. There wasn't a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky and the heat seemed to shimmer in the air, almost distorting your vision. Christ, Les muttered to himself as he trudged across the back lawn. Peter O'Toole didn't do it this tough in
Lawrence of Arabia
.