Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Read Online Free PDF Page 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 Jacksonsby 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 menthen 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