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

was a bouncer in a T-shirt and jeans and a bloke next to him in a shirt who could have been the manager. It was three dollars each: Les paid.
    Inside looked alright. A small bar on your right as you walked in, a large lounge with a bigger bar to the left, a band and a small dancefloor. There were more chairs andtables outside near the front entrance and a doorway off to the right suggested another drinking area. T-shirts and jeans were okay but Les was by no means overdressed. It looked about equal numbers men and women, all fairly neat and tidy, but somehow different. Then Les remembered you had to be twenty-one to drink in the United States, which not only kept out the eighteen-year-old drunks, but the sixteen-year-olds on borrowed IDs as well. So most of the punters looked in the twenty-five to forty range; not super conservative, but no drunken yobbos. The band was playing a good drop of rock ’n’ roll.
    â€˜Well, what’ll you have, Hank?’
    â€˜Tequila. Straight up.’
    Am I a mind reader or am I a mind reader? Les went to the bar, ordered a tequila for Einstein and a margarita, and along with the drinks got a big smile from the girl, worthy of a substantial tip. Les returned with the drinks and suggested they move out the back a bit where there was more room. Hank grudgingly agreed, so they moved to the other bar facing the band, near where it elbowed round to a servery facing outside. Hank dropped an elbow on the bar and took a slug of tequila; Les sent down half of his margarita in one go. The band finished their song just as Les finished his first drink. He nodded to Hank, got a nod back, so Les turned to the bar behind them and ordered another tequila for Hank and a Corona with a piece of lime. Hank gulped his first drink, took the other, then looked at Les drinking Corona and his lip curled.
    â€˜You got lime in your beer?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ nodded Les.
    â€˜You look like a tourist.’
    Norton looked at Hank and blinked. This time Les couldn’t help himself. ‘Hank, I know this is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but I am a fuckin’ tourist. If you don’t believe me, there’s a passport in my bedroom and an airline ticket that says I’m here for three weeks.’
    Norton was about to add more when, of all things, theband started playing Midnight Oil’s ‘Beds Are Burning’. And a red hot version. He nodded to the band. ‘That’s an Australian song, Hank. From an Australian band. That’s where I’m from. Australia. Remember?’
    Hank tried to look cool. Les looked at him for a second then turned to the band. Ahh, fuck the idiot. What’s the use? Norton got into his Corona, with lime, and the music.
    Besides the members of the band Les was probably the only other person there who knew the lyrics, so he started singing and boogying along. The punters around him could see he wasn’t just some drunken dill but a bloke simply having a good time. Especially three pairs of fairly attractive girls. One, a blonde with bangs under her chin, seemed to make eye contact. Les gave her a wink and she smiled back.
    Hank had moved to the corner of the bar, propped his arse on a seat and lit another cigarette while he moped over his tequila. Fuck him, thought Norton. He seems happy enough and he’s got money. Mine. Les waited till the band finished their song, then after cheering and clapping went to the bar and ordered another margarita and a Wild Turkey sour. He hardly had time to pay for the drinks and knock off half his margarita when the band ripped into INXS’s ‘Don’t Change’. Les couldn’t believe it. In no time Norton was getting down and dirty à la Michael Hutchence with just a smidgen of Daddy Cool thrown in as well. The band ended their bracket on that one, Les whistled and clapped and caught the blonde’s eye again. She was only a few metres away, so Les decided he might as well