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

the big man’s hand. ‘I’m Les, Harris. I might have a drink with you later.’
    â€˜No sweat, brother.’ Harris winked. ‘Les.’
    Norton let Harris get back to bouncing then turned to find a scowling Hank pocketing some change and glaring at him. Norton returned Hank’s scowl with a silly grin that dripped blissful ignorance.
    â€˜Hey this place is alright, Hank. You come here all the time, do you? Fuckin’ ripper.’
    The foyer was all red and black with red and black check lino. There were more rock posters on the walls and a big poster of Superman behind the front desk. The foyer led to a short set of stairs on your left that took you to another level and the start of a bar at the top of the stairs. The dancefloor was on your right with another bar in the distance and another set of stairs leading to another bar above them. Built into the wall facing the dancefloor and the upstairs level was a stage for bands, though tonight was all disco. There were heaps of spinning lights and lasers and a big red and green neon sign saying Club BandBox. Hank seemed to get reluctantly swept along with the crowd and Les followed him up the stairs on the left. The top level was chairs, tables and booths, red and black or black- and white-checked walls, and plate glass windows looking out over the harbour. A waist-level partition with a chrome railing ran round the upstairs level to stop the punters falling over where it overlooked the dancefloor. There were TV screens built into the ceiling and on one wall was a giant video screen showing achimpanzee in a karate outfit sparring with some bloke. The upstairs bar was bigger than Les expected; it circled round almost to the booths on the far left wall. The bar staff were happy and busy, spunky-looking waitresses cruised around in ripped T-shirts and lycra bicycle shorts; from out of nowhere a girl in a nurse’s uniform walked past carrying a tray bristling with test-tubes full of different coloured liquids. The punters were about the same age, size and shape as the ones at the first place, walking or standing around, with others, both men and women, seated at the tables drinking jugs of beer — or pitchers as the yanks like to call them. Norton liked what he saw. Club BandBox was about three-quarters full, the punters were clean and tidy, there was no shortage of girls and on the dancefloor it was back to back and bumper to bumper, and raging.
    â€˜Hey, nothing wrong with this place, mate,’ beamed Norton. ‘It’s tops.’ Hank didn’t say anything. Les clapped his hands together. ‘Well, while you’re in a generous mood you may as well shout me a drink in your favourite watering hole. I’ll have another Corona thanks, mate. With a slice of lime too — if you don’t mind.’
    Hank’s eyes spun around crazily and this time Les thought they were going to take right off and join the mirror ball on the ceiling. Instead, he seemed to shake a little then turn on his heel and went to the bar behind him. It hasn’t been a real good night for you, has it, Captain Rats? mused Les, trying not to laugh as he moved away from the bar a little and checked out the punters. First you got lumbered with the cover charge, now you’re actually in a shout. But think of the good side. You wouldn’t have got in here if it hadn’t been for me. Before long Hank returned with a Coors and a Corona.
    â€˜Thanks, mate,’ said Norton, taking his beer and a swallow almost at the same time. ‘Cheers.’
    Hank took a mirthless pull on his beer. ‘That was a damn fool thing you did back there at the foyer.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Giving that nigger your T-shirt.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ Norton looked surprised. ‘I thought he was a mate of yours. Didn’t he say something to you when we walked in? He didn’t seem like a bad bloke.’ Les gave a grudging kind of