Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust

by Robert G. Barrett

  Les glanced through the synopsis again, then carefully folded it back in its envelope and returned everything to Bodene.

  ‘Well, what do you think, Les?’ asked Bodene. ‘Pretty good, huh!’

  ‘What do I think?’ replied Les. ‘Menny. It…it’s brilliant.’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I do. Yes,’ nodded Les. ‘Except for one small thing.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’ questioned Bodene.

  ‘There’s no Jews in there. You’ve left out the Jews.’

  ‘Jews?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re a minority group,’ explained Les. ‘And a very important one, too. Leave them out, and people will say you’re anti-Semitic.’

  ‘Anti-Semitic?’ Bodene looked shocked. ‘Hey. Don’t tell me about anti-Semitic and Jews. During the war, my grandfather Zoltan and my uncles Laszlo and Gyorgy were in the White Eagle Brigade. They killed hundreds of Jews. I know plenty about Jews, boy.’

  Les shook his head. ‘That’s…very good, Menny,’ he said. ‘But it won’t help your movie. You’ve got to have a Jew in it. And he’s got to be a Holocaust survivor too.’

  ‘Shit!’ Bodene quickly opened the envelope and hurriedly read through the synopsis. ‘Shit! You’re right,’ he said. Menny paused and thought for a moment. ‘Okay. I know what I’ll do. I’ll make Dulcie’s neighbour on the other side a Jew. Schlomo. And I’ll also make him a dwarf.’

  ‘A dwarf, Jewish, Holocaust survivor. That’s fantastic, Menny,’ said Les. ‘You’ve hit the politically correct jackpot there.’

  Bodene suddenly got excited. ‘And…and…What about this, Les? When Sherwin wins the medal at the swimming, Schlomo throws a big party. And on the wall he hangs a huge photo of Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘Adolf Hitler?’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. And the peoples say to him, “Schlomo, after all you went through, you put a photo of Hitler on your wall. Why?” And Schlomo holds up his arm. Smiles. And shows them the numbers tattooed on his arm. “Hey. See these numbers,” he says. “I put them in at newsagents, and win Powerball. Five million dollars. Now I spend the rest of my life. Heil Hitler.”’

  Les stared at Bodene, shaking his head in amazement. ‘That’s fantastic, Menny,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fantastic. But unfortunately, mate, political correctness isn’t about being happy.’

  ‘It’s not?’ queried Menny.

  Les Norton Talking Pie Afmt fina-lpp ECJ 30/5/08 1:38 PM Page 31

  ‘No,’ replied Les. ‘It’s all about grief and sorrow. And making people feel miserable and guilty about themselves. You can’t have a happy ending to your movie, Menny. They’ll laugh at you.’

  Bodene thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I forget. Conspicuous compassion.’

  ‘Exactly. So what about this,’ suggested Les. ‘The party’s in full swing, and who should walk in the door? A Maori suicide bomber protesting about the Treaty of Waitangi. He detonates his explosives belt and kills everybody. Then, as the dust settles on all the blood and guts, and the smoke drifts away in the wind,’ Les slowly moved his hand for emphasis, ‘the words materialise on-screen: Gone with the Willy Willy. Roll credits. Light the lights.’ Les smiled confidently. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Bodene stared at Les. ‘What do I reckon?’ he said, reaching across and shaking Norton’s hand. ‘Les. You are genius. You should be writing movies yourself.’ Bodene turned to the others. ‘What do you think?’

  The others all nodded in agreement.

  ‘Is good idea. I like very much,’ said Lasjoz.

  ‘Hey,’ shrugged Les. ‘Making an Australian movie ain’t rocket salad.’

  ‘Don’t I know,’ said Bodene.

  ‘Only trouble is, Menny,’ sighed Les. ‘They’ve knocked off your script. So you’re kind of stuffed.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all,’ gestured Bodene. ‘Gone with the Willy Willy is only movie to get me established as brilliant, critically acclaimed, Australian film producer. The movie I want to make money with, the one bastards stole my script for,’ cursed Bodene, ‘that I pay bloke in Melbourne plenty to write, is called The Case of the Talking Pie Crust.’

  ‘The case of the what?’ asked Les.

  Bodene eased back and smiled at Norton. ‘Les,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of Emile Mercier?’

  Les thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Bodene. ‘I know more about Australia than some of you so-called dinky-di Aussies.’

  Just then, the waitress came back and placed their coffees on a sandstone block in front of them. After she put Norton’s cappuccino down, he slipped her twenty dollars. Not too ostentatiously. But enough for Bodene and the others to notice. Specifically Bodene. ‘Keep that for yourself,’ Les said quietly into the girl’s ear.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ smiled the girl.

  As she walked away, the Albanian gangster’s smile vanished. ‘Les. What you are doing?’ he demanded. ‘I pay for this.’

  ‘I know that, Menny,’ shrugged Les. ‘I was just giving the girl a tip. That’s all. She works hard.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Bodene was impressed by Norton’s generosity. So were the others.

  Les dropped a packet of sugar in his cappuccino, stirred it and took a sip. ‘Hey. This is bloody good coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Yes it is,’ nodded Bodene. He sugared his coffee and took a sip. ‘Now. Where was I?’

  ‘Emile Mercier,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. Right.’ Bodene had another sip of coffee. ‘Okay. Emile Mercier was Sydney cartoonist back in nineteen forties and fifties for old newspaper called The Sun. This was before your time and mine, Les my friend. But believe me, back then Sydney was super squaresville. Pubs close at six o’clock. No TV. No rock ’n roll. Wear bikini on beach, say word bloody, get you arrested.’

  ‘I’ve seen photos,’ said Les.

  ‘Women look like frumps. Men dress like shitkickers,’ continued Bodene. ‘Unless you bookmaker or crooked cop or politician. No one got money. No better than Russia.’

  ‘Price often mentions that,’ agreed Les.

  ‘Yet this man, Emile Mercier, draw fabulous cartoons. Funny as circus. Take piss from everything. Make everybody laugh fit to bust.’

  ‘And how did you get onto him?’ asked Les.

  ‘Through students at pizza shop.’

  ‘Students?’

  ‘Yes. Students live in Bellevue Hill. Buy pizzas from me,’ said Bodene. ‘Two are French. Same as Emile Mercier’s family. They study him at university and show me copies of cartoons he does. Plus comic book called Super Dooper Man. And The Case of the Singing Pie Crust.’

  ‘The Singing Pie Crust?’ said Les.

  ‘Exactly,’ Bodene nodded over his coffee. ‘So I start thinking. Lot of movies today are digitilised cartoons. Like Shrek. Happy Feet. Ice Age. You know the ones, Les.’

  ‘Sure. Warren brings home the videos,’ said Les. ‘They’re good.’

  ‘So I think again. Why not make Australian movie about dysfunctional Australian family? Make it half Emile Mercier cartoons and half actors. And call it The Case of the Talking Pie Crust. Australians like a good laugh at themselves. They’d lap it up.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Les. ‘Sort of Who Killed Roger Rabbit? meets The Castle’.

  ‘Right on,’ nodded Bodene.

  ‘Have you got the money to make the movie?’ asked Les.

  Bodene answered Norton’s question with a dismissive wave. ‘Money is no problem,’ he said. ‘Only problem is, pricks knock off my script. Plus floppy disc and three little books of Emile Mercier cartoons. Which also cost me plenty and are impossible to replace.’

  ‘And this is what you’re willing to pay fifty thousand to get back?’ said Les.

  ‘Fifty. Maybe more,’ said Bodene.

  Les stared at Bodene for a moment. ‘Okay. I’ll give it a lash.’

  ‘Give it a lash,’ smiled Bodene. ‘You sound like person in E
mile Mercier cartoon.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Les smiled back. ‘All right. So when did all this stuff go missing again?’

  ‘Thursday. Thursday afternoon.’

  ‘And it was in a bag, in the back of your car?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What sort of bag?’ Les gestured. ‘A post bag? An overnight bag?’

  Bodene exchanged glances with Barbara and looked uneasy. ‘Actually. It was an old woman’s handbag,’ he admitted.

  ‘An old woman’s handbag?’ said Les.

  ‘A green one,’ nodded Barbara. ‘With a black eagle on the side.’

  Bodene was about to speak, when his expression changed and he gave Lasjoz a nod. The big man rose out of his chair and stepped across to one of the gleaming Harley Davidsons. He put a helmet on that was hanging off the handlebars, then got on board and started the engine, revving it loud enough to shake the life out of the other punters seated outside Azulejos and almost blow the froth off Norton’s cappuccino. Les watched as Lasjoz jumped the Harley over the gutter, then circled the roundabout several times, revving the engine every time he changed gears. The noise was horrendous and set the alarms off in several cars parked nearby. Finally, he drove the big American bike back to its original position, parked it and switched off the engine. After the racket from the Harley, any noise the council workers were making sounded like children playing. Les watched Lasjoz squeeze himself back into his chair then turned to Bodene.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Les.

  ‘Battery in motorbike is flat,’ replied Bodene. ‘Have to give it charge now and again.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Les had a sip of coffee then looked up at Bodene. ‘Now what’s all this about a bag with an eagle on the side?’

  ‘Is nothing really,’ said Bodene. ‘Thursday morning I was looking at house in Rose Bay. Deceased estate. Some of the old woman’s things were still in house and in closet, amongst all the shit, I notice green bag with black eagle on side, looks like eagle on Albanian flag. So I say, hey yes. I have this. I give to Barbara. Estate agent doesn’t notice. So I throw it in back of car where I have film script. And…I don’t know, maybe for good luck, I put film script and everything in green bag.’ Bodene rolled his eyes. ‘Some fucking luck. Bag and everything else gets stolen. Bastards.’

  ‘Yeah. You can say that again,’ agreed Les. He drained his coffee and smiled at Bodene. ‘So all up, I’m looking for a green handbag with a black eagle on the side, containing a script, a floppy disc and three books of cartoons by a bloke called Emile Mercier.’

  Bodene was about to speak when two tall, dark-featured men appeared alongside him. They had impassive Slavic faces and sported plenty of bling with their smart casual clothes. Bodene stood up and greeted the men with equal impassivity, Lasjoz came to life and they all started talking in Albanian.

  Les smiled at the two girls, gave the men a few polite moments then figured it might be time to leave. He caught Bodene’s eye. ‘Well, thanks for the coffee, Menny,’ he said. ‘I might get going. I think I’ve got everything I need to know. So I’ll be in touch. Where’s the best place to find you?’

  ‘Down here, Les,’ replied Bodene. ‘Is good coffee. And gives me break from shop.’

  ‘Fair enough. And I’ve got your phone number. I’d better give you mine.’ Les took a Biro and a piece of paper from the side pocket of his cargoes, scribbled his phone number down and handed it to Bodene. ‘There you go, Menny. If you need me, give me a call.’

  Bodene shook Norton’s hand. ‘Thank you, Les,’ he said sincerely. ‘Let’s hope you can do something.’

  ‘It’s only been the once,’ winked Les, ‘but I haven’t let you down yet.’

  ‘No. You are good man. You have not.’

  ‘Goodbye, Barbara. Topaz.’

  ‘Bye, Les,’ smiled Topaz.

  ‘Nice to meet you too Lasjoz.’

  ‘Same for you, Les,’ growled the big man.

  Norton turned and walked away just as the waitress in the BUCKWHEAT T-shirt came out of the café carrying two coffees. At the same time, a jackhammer started up amidst the roadworks and another concrete mixer rumbled up amongst the dust and exhaust fumes with its air brakes hissing, while two motorists started beeping their horns and abusing each other. To add to the din, the little dog under the table started yapping at another dog again. Les caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to his ears.

  ‘Christ. How do you put up with all this bloody noise?’ he asked her.

  ‘It’s been like it for weeks,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’

  Les shook his head. ‘You’re a better woman than I am, Gunga Din,’ he replied, before crossing to the opposite side of the road. Mulling over his meeting with Bodene Menjou, Les strolled past the panel-beating shop and the Rex Hotel TAB, then idly glanced through the wide doorway leading into the lounge at several people seated amongst the tables. Sitting at a bench table just back from the old surfboat hanging from the ceiling was his old fishing mate, Gary Jackson, and two other blokes Les had met before, but whose names he couldn’t remember. They were all dressed in shorts and T-shirts and Gary had his denim cap squashed onto his head as usual. On the table in front of them were three half-empty schooners and an untidy mess of racing forms. Les slowed his step, thought for a moment, then turned around and walked into the lounge bar. Gary noticed him approaching and looked up smiling.

  ‘Les, mate,’ he beamed. ‘How are you, me old currant bun?’

  ‘Good thanks, Jacko,’ replied Les. ‘How’s yourself?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Gary indicated his two friends. ‘You know the boys.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘How are you fellahs?’

  ‘Good, Les,’ replied the one with short blond hair.

  ‘Les,’ nodded his dark-haired mate, sporting what was probably the last mullet in the Eastern Suburbs.

  ‘So what’s doing, Les?’ asked Gary.

  ‘Gary,’ enquired Les, ‘those two mates of yours, Short Round and Weasel. Are they still taking things from people that don’t belong to them?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Gary. ‘What are you after? They got some good sheepskin seat covers at the moment.’

  ‘No. I’m not after any seat covers,’ said Les. ‘I’m after a green woman’s handbag with a black eagle on the side.’ Les made an open handed gesture. ‘Now, God forbid, I’m not necessarily saying one of them took it. But it belongs to a mate of mine’s grandmother. And it’s got some papers and things in it she needs. So,’ continued Les, ‘it’s just possible they, or one of your vast network of friends, might know something. Yeah?’

  Gary nodded slowly. ‘I’ll ask them when I see them. And I’ll, ah…put the word out as well.’

  ‘Thanks, Gary,’ said Les. ‘I’ll give you my mobile phone number.’ Les reached down for his Biro. ‘And if you do happen to find out anything, Gary, there’ll be a particularly nice drink in it for you.’

  Gary rubbed his hands together gleefully and closed his eyes. ‘We can always do with a drink, Les,’ he said.

  While Les was writing the number down on a coaster, Gary’s mate with the mullet looked up from his form guide.

  ‘Hey Les,’ he said carefully. ‘I notice Price has got one racing in the third at Rosehill today. Barrow Boy. Do you know anything?’

  Les handed Gary the coaster and tightened his face. ‘I’m not supposed to say anything. But yeah. It’s a good thing. I’ve just been to the TAB myself. That’s why I’m down here.’

  ‘Shit!’ Mullet circled the horse in his form guide.

  ‘It says eight to one here,’ said Gary’s friend with the blond hair.

  ‘Yeah. I got a bit better than that at the TAB.’ Les put his Biro back in his cargoes and turned to leave. ‘Anyway. I got to get going. And hey. I never told you anything. Okay?’

  Mullet motioned as if he was zipping his mouth. ‘No. Sweet, Les. I haven’t seen you. None of us have.’

  ‘You weren’t here,�
� said his blond mate.

  ‘Good,’ nodded Les. ‘Okay, Gary. I might hear from you.’

  ‘No worries, Les,’ replied Gary.

  Ahh, you can’t help but like Jacko and his mates, smiled Les, as he continued on up Glenayr Avenue. Staunchies to the last. I just hope they don’t lose too much money on that old hayburner of Price’s. Shit! The last I heard, Barrow Boy was in worse shape than that woman in Bodene’s silly bloody movie and on its way to the glue factory. Les headed home, stopping once in Hall Street to get the papers.

  Back at Chez Norton Les made himself comfortable in the loungeroom with a big Fuji apple and started perusing the papers. He was reading a column in the Australian when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, you lazy big prick. What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting bigger and lazier by the minute. How are you, Billy?’

  ‘All right. Lyndy tells me you rang earlier. You’re still crook.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m heaps better than I was. But I thought, bugger it. I’ll take a few more days off. Royce is going all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. Good as gold,’ said Billy. ‘Some sheila even gave him her phone number last night.’

  ‘Yeah? Well he’s not a bad-looking bloke. So, been any dramas up there?’ asked Les.

  ‘Not really,’ said Billy. ‘Anything been happening with you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ replied Les.

  Les told Billy about his meeting with Bodene and the others. What Menny was offering to get his script back and how he intended to become a critically acclaimed Australian film producer. Billy had a good laugh then settled down.