Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘I’ve seen that Lasjoz bloke around,’ said Billy. ‘He’s a monster. But there’s something a bit strange about him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Les.

  ‘I dunno. Just something. But I’ll tell you what, Les,’ advised Billy. ‘Be careful with Menny. I know we put a bit of shit on him now and again, but he can be a bad cunt if you cross him.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Billy,’ said Les. ‘But I’m only looking for a film script. Which I doubt very much is going to turn up anyway.’

  Billy went quiet on the phone for a moment. ‘Hey, I got to go, Les. I got to take the boys to soccer.’

  ‘Righto, Billy. I’ll give you a yell through the week.’

  ‘See you then, mate.’

  Les replaced the phone and sat back for a few seconds. Something strange about Lasjoz, eh. Yeah. His bloody head. It’s a big as a dump bin. But it can’t be too bad if he’s got a girlfriend like Topaz. Les dropped his apple core in the kitchen tidy and went back to reading the papers.

  By the time he got to the weekend magazines Les was getting restless. He didn’t particularly feel like going down the beach and having a run. He didn’t feel like a paddle on his ski, either. In the backyard he’d rigged up a scaffold and a heavy bag. That would do splendidly. Les changed into a pair of old shorts, a black T-shirt and a sweatband cut from another black T-shirt, then after a glass of water, put the ghetto blaster on again, donned a pair of mitts and pounded the bag mercilessly for half an hour. This was followed with a series of crunches and throwing a kettlebell around for fifteen minutes. By then Les was in a lather of sweaty BO and badly in need of a shower. After getting cleaned up, Norton’s stomach was rumbling and he was badly in need of more food. He drained a bottle of mineral water, changed back into what he was wearing before and walked down to the Hakoah Club.

  Being Saturday, it was quieter than normal. But there were still plenty of people in there eating, drinking or pumping their hard-earned through the poker machines. Les had a steak and vegetables, followed by mudcake and ice cream. After that Les was in dire need of a coffee. The coffee at Hakoah was very good and Les had coffeed at almost every scene in Bondi. But he felt like a latte at his favourite coffee shop. His scene.

  Directly across from the Hakoah Club was a café called Gabrielle’s and Liza’s that also doubled as a secondhand bookshop. The open dining area was at the front, then you stepped up into three large rooms with polished wooden floors and walls crammed with shelves of great books: everything from Jack Kerouac to Vladimir Nabokov; Aldous Huxley to the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The rooms contained large wooden tables and comfortable chairs, where students or whoever liked to sit with their notebooks and laptops studying or doing research. Les preferred the first room, where he liked to sit on a comfortable old blue Chesterfield set against the wall. The stocky, brown-haired woman that ran the place knew Les by sight and always gave him a smile when he entered, as did the staff in the kitchen. There was always a good sort in there to catch your eye and some of the staff at the Kelly Club who lived in Bondi had claimed Gabrielle’s and Liza’s as their scene also. Les liked nothing better than to bump into his workmates and catch up on a bit of gossip around town over a blueberry bagel and coffee that was, in Norton’s opinion, the best in Bondi.

  When Les walked in the owner gave him her customary warm smile and Les was pleased to find dark-haired Jimmy the barman from work sitting in the first room with two of the waitresses: copper-haired Louise, a country girl from Blayney, and Jenny, a rope-haired blonde who grew up in Five Dock. They were all casually dressed in T-shirts and jeans and just as happy to see Les as he was to see them. Les ordered a latte and pulled up a chair.

  Three lattes for Les and a lot of laughs later they all went their separate ways and Les found himself at home again, fired up with caffeine, wondering what to do with himself. He was in the kitchen glugging down water and hoping to dissolve some of the toxins when his mobile phone rang on the table. Les picked it up and pushed the green button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello Les, my main man. My rock. How are you, mate?’

  ‘Price,’ smiled Les. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re at the races.’

  ‘And killing them,’ chortled Price.

  ‘Hello. What have you done this time, you villain?’

  ‘What have I done?’ answered Price. ‘Well, for starters, I’ve taken that fat turd Harold Hedges to the cleaners for over three hundred grand. You should see the shit of a thing. His face looks like a dropped pie.’

  ‘How…what?’ asked Les.

  ‘Barrow Boy,’ wheezed Price. ‘He waltzed home by two lengths. And, at the sweet odds, I might add, of nine to one.’ Norton’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No. I’ve been planning this for months,’ chortled Price. ‘I’ve cleaned them all out. I’ve tugged over a mill. I’ll need a wheelbarrow to collect the money. Two wheelbarrows.’ Price suddenly started singing into the phone. ‘Barrow Boy, Barrow Boy. All you had to do was back…old Barrow Boy.’

  Les could picture Price dancing round the Members’ Lounge with a Scotch in one hand and his mobile in the other. ‘Jesus, you’re not bad, Price. I’ve got to give it to you.’

  ‘Yes. I have my moments,’ rejoined Price. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t let on. But I had to play this one extremely close to my chest.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m not as keen as I was on the punt anyway.’

  ‘But I promise. When you get back to work. Boh-nusss.’

  ‘Thanks, Price,’ said Les. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

  ‘And talking about work,’ said Price, ‘when are you coming back? Billy said you’re still a bit crook.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not a hundred per cent, Price. But I reckon I should be okay by the end of next week, with a bit of luck.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, don’t leave it too long. I breathe easier when my ace man’s out the front.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Price,’ Les assured him. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. Shit! I’ve got to go. They just jumped at Flemington. Give me a ring through the week.’

  ‘Okay, boss. See you then.’

  Les clicked off, put his mobile back on the kitchen table and shook his head. Bloody Barrow Boy. That cunning, shifty old bastard. He’s unreal. One thing for sure, grinned Les. Gary and his mates down the pub will think the sun shines out of my arse. Anyway. What now? Les walked into the loungeroom and picked up the TV guide to find Easts were playing Balmain on Foxtel. He tuned in as the Tigers converted a try to lead 8–2. Les settled back on the lounge and was absorbed in the game when the front door opened and Warren clomped down the hallway and stepped into the loungeroom, wearing cowboy boots, a pair of jeans and a red and white striped shirt, and looking tired and in need of a shave.

  Les greeted him brightly. ‘Woz. How are you, mate?’

  ‘Just,’ Warren replied glumly.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ enthused Les. ‘I’ve never seen you looking better.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Warren went to the bathroom and came back with four Panadeine capsules. He got a glass from the kitchen, made himself a Jack Daniel’s and Coke and washed them down with half his drink.

  ‘Feel all right now?’ Les asked him.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Warren, his eyes spinning as he downed another good mouthful of bourbon. ‘Yeah. I do.’

  ‘Good. So where’s Ugly Betty?’

  ‘Home getting packed. You don’t think I’d bring her round here, do you? You were always trying to grass-cut me with Clover. It’d be the same with Beatrice.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right, Woz,’ said Les. ‘It’s all I can do to stop myself from tearing all the buxom wench’s clothes off, and ravishing her in front of you.’

  Warren sat down on a lounge chair and half looked at the TV. ‘So did you meet up with Bodene Menjou?’

  ‘Yes. I did actually,’ replied Les.

  Les told Warren about his meeting wit
h Menny. Including the two film scripts, the noise at Azulejos, Topaz and Bodene’s big friend. Warren listened intently, getting up once to make himself another Jack Daniel’s and Coke.

  ‘So bottom line,’ said Warren, eased back in his lounge chair. ‘You’re looking for a green handbag with a black eagle on the side.’

  ‘That’s about it, Woz,’ said Les.

  ‘You sound like Sam Spade and The Case of the Maltese Falcon.’

  ‘Whatever,’ shrugged Les. ‘But if I fluke it, fifty grand could fall in. Maybe even more, yet already.’

  Warren stared at Les for a moment then glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway. I’d better make a move.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want a lift out to the airport?’ asked Les.

  Warren shook his head. ‘No. I’m good.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Les went back to his football. Warren took his empty glass out to the kitchen then went to his room and packed his bags. Easts were leading by two points when Warren walked back into the lounge and sat down. He was still wearing the same jeans, but he’d changed into a clean denim shirt.

  ‘Shit I envy you, Woz,’ said Les. ‘You and the beautiful Beatrice, up there in that warm Queensland sunshine. Eating mud crabs. Drinking untold bottles of chilled Portaloo Sauvignon. You’re a lucky bastard.’

  ‘Yeah terrific,’ muttered Warren. ‘The film crew are a bunch of over-aged fuckin emos. And I’ve also got to deal with a team of whingeing, argumentative wog racing-car drivers who think their shit doesn’t stink.’

  ‘The correct expression, Warren,’ chided Les, ‘is Latin temperament.’

  Warren was about to say something when a horn beeped outside. ‘Shit! Here’s my driver.’ Warren stood up and straightened his jeans. ‘Okay. I have to get going. I’ll see you when I get back.’

  ‘All right, Woz. You take care. And say hello to Ugly Betty for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  The front door opened and closed, leaving Les to his football, with Easts ending up winners by six points. A result even sweeter for Les because Balmain had three tries disallowed and George Brennan would be spewing. Les walked out to the kitchen to get another big juicy Fuji apple when his mobile phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Les. How are you, mate? It’s Jacko.’

  ‘Gary,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘How’s things?’ slurred Gary. ‘Well, how do you think things are, mate? Barrow Boy. Ten to one on the TAB.’

  ‘You backed it.’

  ‘Backed it? Me’n Ray had the double. Arthur had the double and boxed the trifecta. Plus we backed it. We’ve cleaned up.’

  ‘Good on you,’ said Les sincerely, picking up on the noise in the background. ‘So now I imagine you’re having a quiet drink.’

  ‘Quiet drink. Quiet fuckin drink. None of us are going home,’ rasped Gary.

  ‘Well, why not,’ said Les.

  ‘Hey, Jesus you’re a good bloke, Les,’ said Gary. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘My pleasure, mate. But remember, you never got it from me. Okay?’

  ‘Les. Say no more. Say no more.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Les.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Gary. ‘I’ve rung up to return the favour.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Bloody oath I have!’ declared Gary. ‘You know Irish John.The Postman.’

  ‘Irish John? Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘He’s not a bad bloke. But he’s a shocking pisspot.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, we all know that. Anyhow. His run goes up near the fire station on the corner of Old South Head and…

  ‘Gilgandra,’ said Les. ‘I know a girl lives up there.’

  ‘Right,’ answered Gary. ‘Well, down the end of Brassie Street, Irish John said there’s a team of shifties living in a house, don’t do much work.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Anyway. Irish John reckons he’s doing the mail up there. And he saw one of them walk into the house carrying a green bag with a black eagle on the side.’

  Norton’s ears pricked up. ‘Irish John told you this?’

  ‘As sure as I’m standing here, Les.’

  ‘Righto. Give me the address.’ Les got a Biro and wrote it down. ‘And Irish John’s fair dinkum about this?’

  ‘Mate. He’s over playing pool,’ said Gary. ‘You want me to go and get him?’

  ‘No. Don’t bother,’ said Les. ‘All right, Gary, thanks for that. I’ll go round and have a look.’

  ‘No worries. And thanks again for the other, Les.’

  ‘Any time, mate.’

  Les hung up then sat down in the kitchen and took a chomp on his apple. He had another look at the address, then got the street directory from the phone cabinet and came back to the kitchen. Brassie ran between Gilgandra and Warners; about five minutes’ drive away. Les closed the street directory and looked out the kitchen window. Noticing it was getting dark, he glanced at his watch. I’ll have a bite to eat and watch TV for a while, he thought, then go round and see what’s going on. But between Jacko and Irish John half full of ink, you can bet I’ll be wasting my time. Les finished his apple then made himself a Promite sandwich with all the trimmings and took it into the loungeroom with a cup of tea.

  The TV was off, it was completely dark outside and Les was standing in the kitchen dressed in a black bomber jacket, the same grey T-shirt, Levis and a pair of black, ten-hole Doc Martens. So what am I going to say to these kind folks when I knock on their door, he mused, absently jiggling his car keys. Good evening. My name’s Les. Do you mind if I have the green bag with the eagle on the side, please? I know what they’ll say. Les shook his head and stared out at the darkness. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose. He switched off the lights and locked the house, then climbed behind the wheel of his battered Berlina and drove off.

  The lounge at the Rex was in full swing as Les cruised past. But they were long gone at Azulejos when he turned left into Warners Avenue, and Barraclough Park was deserted when he hung a right into Brassie. The house was sitting between two other cottages facing a block of four home units near the end of the street. Les pulled up beneath a streetlight on the opposite side of the road and left the engine running while he checked it out.

  It was an old, single-storey brick cottage with a white brick fence at the front divided by a metal gate. A short path lead through weeds and long grass to a small verandah and a front door set between two heavily curtained windows facing the street. A faint light shone through a small pane of stained glass on top of the door, and on the right an empty carport sat in front of a wooden gate leading to a passage running alongside the house. The house was in silence, the surrounding buildings were quiet and the street was empty. Les did a U-turn and parked down from the house with the car facing Warners Avenue, then got out and walked back.

  The gate creaked slightly in the darkness when Les opened it; he closed it quietly behind him, then he stepped up and knocked on the door. There was no immediate answer. But Les was sure he heard movement inside. So he waited a few moments and knocked again. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then the door opened and Norton found himself facing a lean man with a dark buzz cut and skinny sidelevers, wearing jeans and a dirty white T-shirt several sizes too big for him. From deep in a gaunt, lined face, two bloodshot eyes were spinning around like crazy and he oozed paranoia. Les snatched a quick glance behind the man and saw a short, badly lit hallway with two doors on either side and a dirty wooden floor that led to another door at the end. The man glared wild-eyed at Les, his face a volatile mixture of hatred and suspicion.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled. ‘What do you fuckin want?’

  ‘Mate,’ said Les easily. ‘All I want is a green bag. That’s all.’

  Les was about to explain it belonged to a friend of his, just give it back, he’d be on his way and there’d be no hard feelings, and if he was wrong he’d apologise, when suddenly the bloke started to hyperventilate and the crazed look on his face switch
ed to complete lunacy.

  ‘Green bag,’ he shrieked. ‘Green fuckin bag. I’ll give you nothing, you cunt. I’ll fuckin kill you.’ Without warning, the man attacked Les in a hissing, cursing hail of punches and kicks.

  Taken completely by surprise, Les hardly had time to defend himself and a couple of punches managed to get through, catching him on the eye and mouth, and a kick got him in the groin where luckily the fork in his jeans blunted the blow. However, the man was in such a heightened state of rage, his kicks and punches were mostly ineffective. Not wasting any time, Les set himself and drilled the enraged man with a sizzling straight left, splitting both his lips. The bloke cursed, spat some blood, then came back swinging. Les nailed him with another, even harder, straight left followed by a filthy left hook that mashed the bloke’s nose across his face and sent him reeling back down the hallway into the wall. Les tore after him and kicked him in the stomach and kneecap, kneed him in the balls then whacked him with another left hook and kicked him in the stomach again.

  ‘You cunt,’ the bloke howled. ‘I’ll fuckin kill you. I’ll kill you.’ The bloke gave a roar, then bounced off the wall, furiously throwing punches at Les.

  Les moved to the side, set himself and belted the bloke with an awesome short right that shattered his jaw and knocked out several teeth. The bloke came straight back at Les, screaming obscenities and throwing punches. Blocking the punches, Les bashed the bloke with a left and a right, then took him by his bloodied T-shirt and slammed his head into the wall, before spinning him across the hallway and slamming his head into the opposite wall, then kicking out his other knee.

  ‘You cunt,’ screamed the man, still throwing punches through the pain and blood. ‘I’ll kill you, you cunt. I’ll fuckin kill you.’

  Les brought his boot up into the bloke’s balls again, elbowed him twice across his broken jaw, then followed up with two more left hooks and another pulverising straight right that sent globs of blood spattering across the walls and floor.