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sonofabitch never answers my letters.’
    Norton felt like saying, Well, if he answered every one of your letters, Boofhead, he’d have word processor meltdown. ‘He’s been busy. He’s got a fair bit on at work.’
    â€˜You never write.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, you know me,’ said Les. ‘I’m flat out writin’ a grocery list.’
    Hank sucked on his cigarette and seemed to think for a moment. ‘How’s Tony Nathan? He never writes either.’
    â€˜Tony’s going good. He’s powering at the photography, making plenty of money. He’s probably been busy too.’ Christ! thought Les, I hope I don’t have to keep kidding to this wally the whole time I’m here.
    In spite of Hank’s generosity in picking Les up at the airport and giving him a place to stay, and Norton promising himself he’d come to America with an open mind, Les found himself already building up a resentment to the American. It wasn’t just cigarettes; although Les disliked them, he wasn’t that big a nark. There was something else again that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Hank didn’t answer and the expression on his face never changed. He just sucked on his cigarette and kept driving. Norton had a feeling he shouldn’t say it, but he did. Shit, he had to say something. Inside the car had all the atmosphere of a derelict spaceship.
    â€˜So, ah… how’s things going with you, Hank?’ he asked.
    That was all Laurel needed. It was about an hour and a half’s drive from the airport to Siestasota and Les got a non-stop whingeing, moaning, litany of woe for the entire journey, accompanied by a non-stop stream of cigarette smoke.
    First up, his dumb-ass bitch of a girlfriend, who’d been working for him, had fucked up his business, leaving him broke and now bankrupt. On top of this she left him for some jerk, asshole faggot originally from New York, just because the jerk, asshole faggot had money. But he was a creep and she was the one suffering now and it served herright, the dumb bitch. His father, the art dealer, had died; which Les would have known if he’d read his letters. Just before he kicked the bucket, though, a gang of thieves, probably the Mafia, broke into the gallery and stole all the paintings and anything else they could get their hands on, including the carpets and the light fittings. This left his old man destitute overnight because none of it could be insured, and more debt for Hank. The local cops were useless jerks, so was the FBI; they were all conspiring with the Mafia to split the loot. So Hank hired a private eye. But he turned out to be a jerk also. Now the cops wouldn’t even answer his phone calls. The bank was threatening to foreclose on the house he shared with his mother, but it served her right anyway because she was nothing but a drunken old pain in the ass who got in the road anyway. The rest of his family were all dropkicks and had turned against him just because he’d got into a bit of debt. His sister was a snooty bitch who’d married a jerk and who thought of nothing but herself and her family. His brother was the same, so he didn’t talk to him or his family. Because of them he had to front the taxation department next week, which was staffed with nothing but more jerks who’d moved down from New York; then he was contesting the will because anything his old man might have had he left to them and why should these assholes get anything, let alone everything. Siestasota wasn’t the place it used to be because of all these assholes moving here from interstate and everywhere else and what America needed was a good revolution. Blow all the assholes away. The magazine knocked back the story he did while he was in Australia too; but what would those faggot, asshole publishers in New York know anyway? Then there was the creep who moved into the house next door; he was a jerk like the