‘Ohh, I dunno,’ drawled Les. ‘You could always sell one of your paintings.’
‘Paintings? What fuckin’ paintings? I haven’t got any paintings. There’s a couple back at the house and they’re worth fuck all. I’m not into art.’
‘Yeah? That’s funny. I heard you had a really valuable collection.’
‘Well, you heard wrong.’ Something in the tone of Norton’s voice made Price give Les a bit of a suspicious, once up and down. ‘Where did you get this shit anyway?’ he asked.
Norton gave a bit of a shrug. ‘Off an art dealer in Double Bay. He said paintings by some sheila called Sandra Jean Garrett are worth a fortune these days.’ Norton moved his face almost right up to Price’s. ‘And he reckons you’ve got the lot.’
Price stiffened. His jaw dropped fractionally, his eyes widened then narrowed. ‘Why, you dirty low cunt, Les Norton. You miserable, despicable bastard.’
Norton looked evenly at his boss. He gave him another friendly pat on the shoulder then tugged gently at the lapel of his trench coat. ‘That’s right, Philip Marlowe. And if you behave yourself and weigh in that fifty grand, I won’t tell a soul just how many you’ve got.’
Robert G. Barrett
The Godson
‘I wonder who that red-headed bloke is? He’s come into town out of nowhere, flattened six of the best fighters in Yurriki plus the biggest man in the valley. Then he arrives at my dance in an army uniform drinking French champagne and imported beer like it’s going out of style. And ups and leaves with the best young sort in the joint... Don’t know who he is. But he’s not bloody bad.’
Les Norton is at it again!
Les thought they were going to be the easiest two weeks of his life.
Playing minder for a young member of the Royal Family called Peregrine Normanhurst III sounded like a deadset snack. So what if he was a champagneguzzling millionaire Hooray Henry and his godfather was the Attorney General of Australia? Les would keep Peregrine out of trouble... So what if he was on the run from the IRA? They’d never follow him to Australia...
Robert G. Barrett’s latest Les Norton adventure moves at breakneck speed from the corridors of power in Canberra to the grimy tenements of Belfast, scorching the social pages of Sydney society and romping through the North Coast’s plushest resorts to climax in a nerve-shattering, blood-spattered shootout on a survivalist fortress in the Tweed Valley. The Godson features Les Norton at his hilarious best, whatever he’s up against — giant inbreds, earth mothers, Scandinavian au pair girls, jealous husbands, violent thugs and vengeful terrorists.
If you thought Australia’s favourite son could get up to some outrageous capers in You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids, The Real Thing and The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya, until you’ve read The Godson, you ain’t read nothin’ yet!
Robert G. Barrett
You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids
You Wouldn’t Be Dead For Quids is the book that launched Les Norton as Australia’s latest cult hero.
Follow Les, the hillbilly from Queensland, as he takes on the bouncers, heavies, hookers and gamblers of Sydney’s Kings Cross, films a TV ad for Bowen Lager in Queensland and gets caught up with a nymphomaniac on the Central Coast of New South Wales.
In one of the funniest books of the past decade you will laugh yourself silly and be ducking for cover as Les unleashes himself on Sydney’s unsuspecting underworld.
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 25
