Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (4 page)

‘And I thought John Wayne was dead,' remarked Les testily, wiping beer from the sleeve of his shirt.

Moustache spun around and glared. ‘You say something, buddy?'

‘Yeah. I said I thought John Wayne was dead,' repeated Norton. ‘But evidently he's not. He's had a frontal lobotomy, grown a moustache and is living in Hawaii.'

Moustache bunched his fists and glared menacingly down at Les. ‘What did you say about the Duke, you limey sonofabitch?'

Norton didn't know why he did it, he just did; possibly it was some sort of reflex action. He bent slightly at the knees, dipped his shoulder and slammed Moustache in the mouth with a left hook that was pure gold. The belligerent American's eyes rolled, his shattered jaw
swung open, blood bubbled down over his chin and several teeth clattered onto the floor as his knees gave way and he toppled back straight through the toilet door which closed neatly and quietly behind him. It was that quick and beautifully executed not one person seemed to notice. Whether they did nor not, Norton wasn't interested. He finished the rest of his beer in a swallow, eased his way politely through the crowd and fell in behind a couple who were walking slowly down the stairs.

Now why the fuck did I do that? Les asked himself as he stood for a moment outside. He shook his head. Buggered if I know. Then a horrible, crooked grin spread sardonically across the big Queenslander's face. But, Jesus, it felt bloody good. Especially when that silly big mug finished up in the shithouse where he belonged. One thing Norton did know, he didn't feel like going straight back to his room, and with his adrenalin up just a little he felt like at least one more cold beer. There was music coming from the bar across the road and it didn't look all that crowded. Norton strolled briskly across the street between a couple of cars, smiled at the T-shirted doorman, who smiled back and pointed him towards a girl in black seated behind a till just inside the door. Les cheerfully paid the three dollars and stepped up to the bar.

‘Mahias Grill and Cabaret' was different from the other place. Just one bar ran along to the right as you walked in, with stools in front of it, and facing this were some long, bench-type tables with more stools then two or three steps up to another lounge area full of chairs and tables that looked out onto the street. There was a small dancefloor and stage at one end, and back
from this was a giant screen video showing surfing films. A mural of old Hawaii covered the lounge area wall, ceiling fans rotated languidly in the cigarette smoke, and there was a smattering here and there of potted palms. A couple of blonde waitresses in floral lap-laps and white tank-tops drifted around the tables looking after the punters who were mainly Hawaiians and seemed a little more mature than the crowd across the road. Les tipped them to be locals in there for a late drink and the music. Mahias was a little plain, but it was air-conditioned and all up not too bad a place for a drink. Les ordered another Millers, plus a nip of vodka, and sat down at the bench table just in time to see Ross Clarke-Jones come hurtling down some wave at Sunset Beach that had to be at least six hundred feet high to a driving rock soundtrack.

The beer was for Norton's thirst, the vodka for some cuts on his knuckles where he'd slammed Moustache in the teeth. If there was one thing Les had learnt being a bouncer, a good way to get blood poisoning was from some other mug's teeth. He took a mouthful of beer then discreetly poured vodka over his knuckles, wiping it in with his hanky. It stung a little, but Norton much preferred a few seconds of mild pain than having his hand puffed up like a cane toad for a week or more while a doctor pumped you full of antibiotics. Satisfied the cuts were cleaned out, Les resumed sipping his beer and watching the video. He was getting into some good surfing and thinking it might be time to order another cool one when he noticed the girl on the till and the doorman watching something across the road. Moustache was being helped down the stairs of Bison Jacksons
by a bouncer and a couple of patrons. He had a towel wrapped around his face and although he was being supported round the waist and shoulders he was still a very sick boy — every now and again his legs would go on him and his head would flop backwards or loll from side to side. The bouncer left them out the front and the two patrons helped Moustache over to Kalakau Avenue to get a taxi or whatever. Well, thought Les, chuckling to himself as he took a mouthful of beer, I mightn't be having the most exciting night in the world, but I'm having a better one than somebody else around here. But what's that old saying? You shouldn't laugh at other people's misfortune. Heh, heh, heh! Not muckin' fuch. Les finished his beer, the waitress brought him another one and just as he started on that the video screen went blank and the band started.

They were five-piece, counting the lead singer on conga drums, called themselves Tropical Honey and played a kind of laid-back, reggae rock with an Hawaiian steel guitar influence and all in all were pretty good. The punters obviously thought so — they'd scarcely hit the first two bars when the dancefloor filled with overweight Hawaiians getting down and doing their level best to get back up again. Les was enjoying it all — the cold beer, the band, the dancers — when he was joined at his table by two drunken marines. Both had dark hair and wispy moustaches, both wore jeans and T-shirts and one had on a baggy, green sports coat. Not only were they pissed, they were at the stage of telling each other what great blokes they were and they'd be true-blue pals till the day they died. They ordered beers with tequila slammer chasers which they'd skol like real men
then burp and heave as their eyes rolled drunkenly around inside their semi-shaved heads. If that wasn't annoying enough they were sitting right in Norton's road so they effectively blocked his view of the band and the dancers. Green coat was at the end of the table on Norton's right, his mate almost opposite, so every time they leaned across the table to slap each other on the back or whatever, Les had to keep moving his head. And every time Les would zig, they'd zag. They weren't the least bit interested in the band or the music and when Les gave them a bit of a tired look, they glared back at him as if he shouldn't even be at their table and he ought to piss off. Les kept moving his head from side to side like a speeded-up tortoise till after a couple of songs it started to give him the shits. The easiest and simplest thing to do would be to move to another table. However, after a few beers and the incident across the road Norton wasn't in an easy or simple mood and again he wasn't sure why he did it, he just did.

With his hands resting in front of him next to his beer, Les waited till the two jarheads started slapping each other on the back again, then very casually he reached beneath the table with his right leg, hooked his instep under the rung of the jarhead opposite him's stool and pulled up. The stool gave way and with a yelp of surprise the marine closest to him dropped his beer and toppled backwards against the wooden railing behind him before crashing down onto the floor. Again Les was quick and sneaky and again no one saw a thing, not even the jarhead in the green sports coat. But being drunk and a fearless US Marine, he had to put on some sort of belligerent act to defend his pal and Norton happened to be closest.

‘Hey, motherfucker! I saw that!' he bellowed. ‘You pushed my buddy.'

Les was still seated with one hand on the table and the other round his beer. ‘What are you talking about, you flip?' he replied indignantly. ‘I never even moved.'

Green coat rose from the table and slammed down his bottle of beer. ‘You lying sonofabitch!' he howled. ‘You pushed him. I saw your goddamn arm move.'

Les was almost going to laugh, but shook his head with disgust instead. ‘Oh go and get yourself fucked,' he said, and without even getting up, reached across the table and punched green sports coat in the face.

It wasn't so much a punch, more a push with Norton's fist. But it was enough to knock the drunken jarhead back over his stool, split his lip and sit him heavily on his arse. Still seated and oblivious to the punters starting to take an interest in what was going on, Les peered over the table at his second effort when the first marine lurched to his feet, his eyes spinning giddily around in his head. He looked at his mate on the floor, looked at Norton, then his eyes began to bulge out and his stomach started heaving. Les was wondering what the poor silly mug was going to do when he gulped in a breath and let it all go.

‘Oh, you dirty fuckin' cunt!' roared Les, jumping to his feet as about a gallon of vomit splattered down in front of him. Most of it splashed across the table, but enough got on Norton's shirt and some down the front of his jeans. Enough to give Les the shits. Rocking unsteadily on his feet, the marine looked like he was going to heave again, but before he got a chance Les reached over the table and gave him a crisp backhander
that sat him back down on his arse right where he'd been in the first place. With most of the punters watching avidly now, Les stood there staring at the vomit all over him and wondering how he was going to get it off when the tall bouncer on the door hurried over joined by a more solid one who came from over by the dancefloor.

‘Hey, what's going on here, man?' he said. He wasn't coming on heavy, just doing his job.

‘What's going on!?' howled an indignant Norton again. ‘I'm sitting here minding my own bloody business and these two drunken imbeciles start spewing all over me.' Les pointed to the two marines lying on the floor. ‘Have a look at them. They're pissed out of their minds.'

The two bouncers looked at the jarheads on the floor, looked at the sour-smelling vomit all over the table, looked at each other, then looked at Les who glared back at them. ‘What sort of joint are you running here? And have a look at me.' The two bouncers noticed the lumps of fast food or whatever marinated in tequila slammers clinging to Norton's shirt and jeans and wrinkled their noses. ‘You're lucky I don't sue you,' Norton howled again. Les was going to take a mouthful of beer, but noticed there was vomit all over the bottle. Instead he gave the two bouncers a filthy look and stormed off before they could make up their minds whether to throw him out, apologise, or what. Before he left, Norton loomed angrily up in front of the girl on the till. ‘And give me back my three dollars,' he demanded, pointing to his awful-smelling clothes. ‘Unless you want to bloody well clean this up.' The girl gave Norton a double blink and handed him a five dollar bill. ‘Thank you,' said Les, with brittle politeness, and stomped out the door.

The wind was still gusting down the streets running into Kalakau Avenue and every now and again it would force great sheets of rain before it, adding to Norton's mood as he trudged through the thinning crowds. It wasn't supposed to have worked like this.

After a couple of streets, Les took his shirt off, folded it and carried it in his hand. Luckily, if that was the appropriate word, most of the vomit was on his shirt and only a few pieces had landed on his one pair of jeans. However, if the local molls didn't want to know him before, now, as Norton came trudging moodily down the street, half soaked, his shirt in one hand and smelling of sour spew, they just about threw rocks at him and ran screaming into the night. Consequently Norton wasn't the happiest tourist in town when he got back to his room with no food, no drink and no one to have a whinge to.

Blue fuckin' Hawaii, Les cursed to himself as he climbed out of his wet, dirty clothes. Yeah, that'd be right. The only blue I've seen so far is the ones I've been in. He switched the bed radio on to some FM station and got some laid-back, Island song he'd never heard. With that playing he went into the bathroom, got under the shower and, using a hotel shampoo for detergent, washed his shirt and hung it on the fold-up clothesline over the bath. The bits and pieces on his jeans he was able to sponge off, then he draped the jeans over a chair on the balcony to air and left the door open to get some breeze in his room. The best Norton could do for a drink was a glass of cold water, which he sipped as he stared morosely out the bedroom window at the practically deserted avenue below. Fair
dinkum, how the fuck did I let Warren talk me into coming to this prick of a joint? What would I be doing back home now? Saturday night. No, it'd be Sunday night. I'd be down the Diggers getting pissed and listening to Harlem Shuffle and having a good time. At least I wouldn't be getting chundered on. And where is the little prick anyway? Don't call me, I'll call you. Yeah, pig's arse. Les took another sip from his glass of water then let go with a great yawn. Suddenly Norton felt tired and heavy. Aah, fuck it. I'm going to bed. He turned off the radio and all the lights and with just his jox on crawled beneath the sheets to find the big double bed lovely and comfortable, the sheets fresh and the pillows quite scrunchable. Oh well, yawned Les, burrowing his head into the pillows, I suppose things could be worse. Despite not being in the best of moods Norton soon found himself snoring peacefully.

Norton had never seen or heard so many planes. The sky was black with them. Japanese Zeros strafing the jumbo jet he was on with rocket and cannon fire. He and the other waist gunner were blazing away with their 50 cal. machine guns, the shells rattling and clanging as they piled up around them, but they hardly hit one. The flight stewards were calmly walking up and down the aisle, handing out hot towels and coffee, while seated next to him Warren was filling out his US entry form. Another Zero roared straight towards him, guns blazing as the bullets tore through the jumbo jet's interior. It was that close Les could see the pilot's face. It was a US Marine in a green sports coat. Norton squeezed the trigger on his machine gun and it jammed. Sweat formed on his brow as the Zero roared right up to the edge of the plane. The pilot couldn't miss. This was it.

‘What the fuck…?' Norton blinked his eyes open and looked up at the strange ceiling.