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

much longer.
    The band had started, Hank was still at the bar — this time he had a beer in front of him: a Coors. He looked absolutely no different and Les figured it would be pointless asking him what he’d been up to.
    Hank noticed the sweat on Norton’s Magpie T-shirt. ‘So how was the disco? Cool?’
    Les wiped at some sweat under his chin. ‘No. Actually the air-conditioning in there’s stuffed.’
    â€˜Serves you right.’
    â€˜The music was good, though. I love Madonna.’ Les turned to the bar. ‘You want a drink?’
    Hank gave a slight nod. ‘Tequila.’
    Les ordered the drinks and while he was waiting put Lori’s phone number in his trouser pocket next to the other Lori’s. Air-conditioned or not it was still quite warm so Les ordered another Corona. He downed almost half in one go while Hank took a hit of tequila followed by an unsmiling mouthful of beer.
    â€˜We’ll go somewhere else,’ he said.
    â€˜You don’t like it here?’
    â€˜It’s starting to fill up with celery-pickers and preppies.’
    Les followed what Captain Rat’s nutty eyes had temporarily landed on. There were some Mexican- or Cuban-looking blokes near the dancefloor, standing next to some people wearing ironed shirts and laces in their shoes.
    â€˜Celery-pickers and preppies, eh?’ Les took another mouthful of beer. ‘If you say so.’ Ahh, what the fuck? thought Norton. Go and have a look somewhere else, I suppose. I can always come back here. ‘So where do you fancy going?’
    â€˜There’s a place downtown called “Club BandBox”.’ Hank gave Les a crooked sort of smile which was most unusual, almost like he had something up his sleeve. ‘You’ll like it there.’
    â€˜Okay. You know your way around.’ Les took another glug of his Corona and lime. ‘I’m just a shitty fuckin’ tourist.’
    They finished their drinks in comparative silence then left.
    They cut back over the bridge and seemed to be heading along some other massive road into town. Les had the window down, trying to get some air, and was wishing he’d never bothered wearing a T-shirt; the neck and back were all soaked with sweat and in the heat and humidity of a summer night in Florida it felt like a blanket. Les was thinking of taking it of and leaving it in the car when he recognised Main Street again. Hank cut past it onto a road that led straight into a large, modern, high-rise hotel complex surrounded by blocks of home units built up alongside the harbour. It was all glitter, marble and smoked glass, neon lights flashed and out the front was the usual monster parking lot, only this one was dotted with palm trees. Hank found a space in the carpark, locked the pick-up and Les followed him across to what looked like a shopping centre full of restaurants, bars, boutiques, etc. There was a marble fountain out front and uniformed security guards keeping an eye on the crowd. Behind them a set of escalators went up two floors. Hank nodded for Les to follow and they took theescalator to the first floor. It was more shops and restaurants looking out over the harbour and just round from the escalator a small queue of people were entering a double glass door dotted with posters for bands. Above the door a red and black neon sign said ‘Club BandBox’.
    â€˜In here,’ smiled Hank. ‘I’ll pay the cover charge.’
    Norton gave a double blink and nearly tripped over. Am I seeing and hearing things? I think I’d better cut down on those margaritas. It must be all that salt.
    They joined the queue and a few people fell in behind them. When they got to the door, Hank propped, the usual smug smile on his face. There were two bouncers on the door — a solid white bloke in a BandBox T-shirt, and a monstrous black man in a grey suit. The white bouncer gave Hank a severe once up and down then shook his