And De Fun Don't Done by Robert G. Barrett Page A

frail, wearing a white shirt and white slacks, with her grey hair in a tidy bun on her head. Shelooked like a typical mother, but she spoke very slowly and as she did she tilted her head to one side and held her finger and thumb under her chin in a demure, almost theatrical manner. Mrs Laurel had class about her even if her dill of a son didn’t.
    â€˜I see you managed to find everything alright?’
    â€˜Mmmphhh!’ answered Les, gulping down coffee and sandwich. ‘Yes. I hope I didn’t wake you up or anything. I saw the coffee — and it smelled that good I couldn’t help myself.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s quite alright. You just make yourself at home.’
    â€˜Thanks. Anyway, I’m Les. You must be Mrs Laurel.’
    The lady took Norton’s extended hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Les.’
    â€˜You too, Mrs Laurel. And I promise I won’t get in your road or make a mess.’
    â€˜It’s a pleasure to have you here, Les.’ Mrs Laurel gave Norton a bit of a shaky once up and down. ‘Hank told me all about you coming. He said you’d be staying here for two weeks, then you were going to New Orleans.’
    Norton stared blankly at Mrs Laurel while she studied him. New Orleans? Shit! What did I say to Boofhead over the phone? They’d take a trip up there and Les would shout the expenses? Christ! Wouldn’t that be a fun trip? ‘Yes,’ he nodded vaguely. ‘Something like that.’
    At the mention of the word ‘Boofhead’, who should come clomping into the kitchen wearing dirty jeans, an old grey T-shirt and desert boots but number one son. Mrs Laurel smiled at Les and just looked at Hank. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Before Norton had a chance to reply, she was gone.
    â€˜What did she want?’ asked Hank.
    â€˜Not much,’ answered Norton, taking a sip of coffee. ‘She just said good morning. I think she lives here.’
    Hank’s eyes spun around the kitchen for a while before arriving on Les. ‘Well, are you ready?’
    Norton nodded slowly and took another sip of coffee. ‘Can you just give me five minutes to press my hunting jacket?’
    Captain Rat’s eyes spun around some more. ‘I’ll be out front,’ he muttered and disappeared.
    Norton didn’t particularly hurry finishing his coffee and sandwich and cleaning up after him. He took his time getting some money, his roosters cap out of his bag and cleaning his sunglasses too. There was no way Hank was going to leave without him. Hank was going out to play shoot-em-up-bang-bangs and impress the mug from Australia no matter what. Or is ‘jerk’ the more appropriate word, mused Les? Hank was looking predictably sour, though, when Les walked outside and climbed into the pick-up. He was reversing around before Norton barely got a chance to close the door.
    They rumbled down the driveway and Hank turned right. They’d travelled about quarter of a mile along some wide street, and Les was checking out the houses, when he suddenly grabbed Hank’s arm.
    â€˜Hey, Hank! Stop the car! Quick!’ Before Hank knew what he was doing, he hit the brakes and Norton was out of the car, straight up a driveway and checking out something that was leaning against a sign saying Garage Sale.
    Inside the double garage was just the usual display of second-hand rubbish; T-shirts, furniture, books, tools, etc. The only outstanding feature was the elderly couple sitting there who had to be the owners. They were the ugliest, most sour-faced pair of bastards Norton had ever seen. With their miserable, lumpy, seppo heads they reminded Les of those awful dolls you buy squashed up in jars.
    â€˜You pair of dropkicks want fifty dollars for that bike out the front?’ said Les.
    The male doll-in-the jar nodded his lumpy head. Before the ugly dropkick knew what had happened he had a