Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Not exactly by the rules,’ smiled Les. ‘But apart from that, Glen, this place is absolutely fantastic. Okay if I stay here again?’

  ‘Hey, Les,’ gestured Glen, ‘any time, mate. Just give me a couple of days’ notice.’

  ‘Unreal,’ beamed Les. ‘Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again, Glen.’

  ‘Les,’ smiled the manager, ‘it was a pleasure having you here.’

  Les walked down to the garage, threw his gear in the Berlina and left the resort. After a quick lap of Terrigal he reluctantly nosed the Berlina towards The Entrance Road and the F3.

  While the shops at Erina were going past, Les rehashed what he’d been thinking about earlier in the car with Marla. It burnt his arse something awful having to end his holiday because of a few would-be tough guys. But it wouldn’t be much fun if a whole team of idiots jumped him one night or whenever. And you could bet they’d be the ones with the baseball bats. Then there was the local wallopers. They’d have no trouble nailing him on an assault charge. It was his word and Marla’s against four others. Plus, with all his form, they’d oppose bail. And a cell in Gosford wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice as his apartment at Ocean Star Resort.

  Les was also spooked about Rose the tarot card reader’s uncanny predictions. She said he’d find someone from the past. And he bumped into Houston. He’d find something really old. And Marla took him to a cave full of Egyptian hieroglyphs. And along two trails. She also told him to expect the unexpected. The last thing he expected was to get into a fight, and for the pricks that started it to go running to the police and turn his quiet holiday on its head. So all up, he was better off getting out of town while he was still in front. Which wasn’t the end of the world. Everything would eventually blow over and he could come back, stay at the resort again and catch up with Marla. Thinking of Marla made Les smile. What would she say when the widowed millionaire motel owner turned up at her door, driving a battered Berlina with a rotten smell coming from the back? Before Les knew it, he’d climbed out of Kariong and was at the F3. He slipped on a tape and with Adam Harvey twanging out ‘Genie in the Bottle’, helped of course by Rod McCormack, Les put his foot down and headed for Bondi and home.

  The traffic going back to Sydney was awful. A caravan flipped on the southern side of the Moonee Moonee Bridge, a car caught fire a kilometre back from the Hawkesbury River, a bus caused a pile-up at Killara and to top things off, a truck broke down on an approach to the Harbour Tunnel. When Les pulled up outside Chez Norton, it felt like midnight and his happy hat had vanished, he was starving hungry and bursting for a leak. He stormed in the front door, threw his bag in the bedroom and strode to the bathroom. When he finished, Les stared at the miserable face looking back at him in the mirror.

  ‘Welcome home, Shithead,’ he grunted.

  Les went to the kitchen, almost ripped the door off the fridge then snarled his way through two bananas and a glass of Ovaltine. He was that filthy he wouldn’t talk to himself. He didn’t even want his shadow hanging around. Norton didn’t get like this too often. But when he did, he knew there was only one thing to do. Go somewhere ‘away from the madding crowd’ and run it out. Les changed into his training gear and drove down to Centennial Park. After parking at the bottom of Birrell Street, he did a few stretches, wrapped an old sweat rag round his head and took off. Going nowhere in particular. Just burning up an hour, jogging around the duck ponds and bush trails till he got over an extreme case of shit on the liver.

  It was dark when Les returned home. He walked straight into the kitchen, took a large bottle of mineral water out of the fridge and started drinking. Although his heart rate was still up, his feet were sore and he stank of BO. Norton felt much better. While he was gulping down water, he checked the answering machine. There were no messages and something else dawned on him: the whole time he was away, he never turned his mobile phone on. Les got it from his bag, clicked it on and left it on the kitchen table, then threw his smelly gear in the laundry and got under the shower.

  When he got out, Norton’s condition continued to improve. He had to dodge around a few cuts and bruises when he was shaving. But looking at the face wincing back at him in the mirror as he gingerly dabbed a little bay rum on it, Les was convinced he’d returned to his shiny, happy, loveable, laughable self. He changed into a clean white T-shirt and a dark blue tracksuit, then went back to the kitchen and took an icy cold long neck from the fridge. Norton was enjoying it and wondering how much food would be enough for dinner when his mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, my friend.’

  Les recognised the raspy voice. ‘Deep Throat.’

  ‘That is right,’ replied the voice. ‘So where have you been, my friend? I have been trying to ring you.’

  ‘Where have I been? Nowhere. I forgot to turn my phone on. That’s all,’ Les lied.

  ‘I see,’ answered the voice. ‘So what happened on Sunday? Did you go to that address I told you?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah I did,’ replied Les.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘What happened? Nothing,’ said Les. ‘I had a good look around. But I’m buggered if I could see any bag. Are you sure that was the right address?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the voice. ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Well, there was nothing there,’ said Les. ‘A bit of a mess maybe. But that was all.’

  ‘I see. Ahhh…’ Suddenly the voice sneezed violently.

  ‘Gesundheit,’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. Something like that,’ sniffled the voice. ‘All right,’ the voice continued. ‘I have another address for you.’

  ‘You have?’ For a moment Les was going to tell Deep Throat what he could do with his latest address. But Rose the tarot card reader told him he needed guidance and she’d been spot-on so far. ‘All right. Where is it this time?’

  ‘Still in Bondi,’ said the voice. ‘In Lamrock Avenue. Near Chambers Avenue. It is a semi cottage.’

  ‘A semi. So how do I get in?’ asked Les.

  ‘That is up to you, my friend. But two women live there. Both are notorious thieves. They have the green bag with the eagle on the side.’

  ‘Are you sure this time?’ asked Les.

  ‘Yes. One hundred per cent,’ said the voice. ‘If you go there in the afternoon, there should not be anybody home.’

  Les thought about his zinger. This would be a snack. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a Biro?’ the voice continued.

  ‘Yeah. Right here.’

  The guttural voice gave Les the address. Les wrote it down and read it back.

  ‘That is very good,’ said the voice. ‘I wish you luck. Now I must go. I will be in touch.’

  ‘Hey listen…’ said Les.

  The line went dead. Les looked at his mobile, cleared it and left it on the kitchen table. Well, he thought, looking at the address, that’s not far from here. I might leave the car and take my bike. That way no one can get my number, and I can still make a quick getaway if things happen to go pear shaped. Les started on his long neck again when he remembered something. He’d promised to ring Marla. Les got her phone number from his bag and rang on the land line. He got a voice message saying the phone was turned off. Les left a message then hung up. He took another swallow of beer and stared at the phone.

  If he had any brains, he’d cook a steak and vegetables for tea. Lots of good, healthy protein and fibre. But Les couldn’t be bothered. He flicked through the list of phone numbers he and Warren used frequently, found their favourite pizza delivery shop and ordered a large pizza marinara, ribs, wedges and salad. He was told it would be there within forty-five minutes. Les finished his beer, got another one and checked out the TV guide. There were two good back-to-back documentaries on SBS about the Israelis and the Arabs. Perfect, beamed Les. There’s nothing like watching a lot of bloodshed, hatred, death and destruction on TV. And nobody can provide it with more panache, verve and flair than the Muslims and the J
ews. Les settled back with his beer to watch the news and current affairs while he waited for his meal to arrive.

  Les was halfway through a third beer and delirious with hunger when there was a knock on the door. He almost tore the cartons out of the delivery boy’s hand when he paid him, then raced into the kitchen and attacked. When Les had finished the rib bones were shining like ivory and there was barely a grease mark left on the pizza carton. With his hunger pangs gone, Les made himself a delicious and settled back to watch the bombings and killing on TV.

  The documentary turned out to be as grim and horrific as Les thought it would. Worse. Families were blown up on buses, bombs landed in people’s houses, little kids got shot in the face with rubber bullets. And more. Les shook his head sadly as the credits rolled past. And the conspicuous compassion brigade want to put the boot into Australia all the time so they can give themselves a warm inner glow. None of us know how lucky we are to be living here. The evening wasn’t a complete horror show, however. Les did get one laugh on the night.

  SBS had gone commercial and they were rerunning one Warren had produced for a brand of soap called Lotus Flower. It featured two Polynesian drag queens built like front row forwards, standing at a bar in a disco. They both had faces like gorillas and the first one was telling the other the reason she had such a beautiful complexion was because she used Lotus Flower soap. Her big line was. ‘Silly you,’ because her friend wasn’t using Lotus Flower. The commercial ended with the first drag queen leaving for the toilet, where she almost walks into the Gents. Instead, she turns to the camera, giggles, ‘Silly me,’ and walks into the Ladies. Les conceded to Warren it was a fairly humorous TV commercial. On the other hand, Warren had brought home a carton of Lotus Flower soap, and they were glad when it ran out, because both Les and Warren agreed it smelled like camel dung.

  By now Les was on the nod. He was tired from the night before and after a run, a pizza, a few beers and the odd delicious, Les was looking forward to bed. He switched off the TV, cleaned up what little mess there was and shuffled to his bedroom. Les had barely pulled the duvet up round his chin and closed his eyes before he was gone.

  The apartment at Ocean Star resort was definitely the lap of luxury. But as far as a country boy like Les was concerned, it was still nice to wake up in your own bed in your own home. Les yawned, stretched, did a couple of little, contented kicks, then reached across and drew back the vertical blind; although it was a little cool and cloudy outside, it was still a reasonably good day. Les pulled the duvet back round his ears and lay in bed for a while, then got up and went to the bathroom. His face hadn’t improved any. But Les felt it wouldn’t scare too many old ladies or little children, so when he finished, he put the kettle on, changed into his old grey tracksuit and strolled down to get the paper. Back in the kitchen he cooked some scrambled eggs and settled down to catch up on the news over breakfast. When Les had finished eating, he cleaned up and rang Marla again. This time she answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Marla. How are you? It’s Les.’

  ‘Les. Hey, how’s things?’

  ‘Pretty good. Are you at work?”

  ‘Yes. But I can talk for a few minutes. I got your message. Did you get home all right?’

  ‘Did I get home all right?’ repeated Les. He gave Marla a quick run down about the trip home, including having to run it all out before he choked somebody. ‘Fair dinkum. I was that hungry I would have eaten an elephant and chased the mahout.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Marla. ‘You get that every now and again, living on the Central Coast, Les.’

  ‘It’s still a nice part of the world though,’ said Les.

  ‘It is. Especially if you’re staying in a squillion-dollar apartment overlooking the Haven,’ said Marla.

  ‘Yes. That helps,’ agreed Les. ‘So what’s doing with the wallopers? Did you get another visit? Shit! I hate putting you through this.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Marla. ‘Yes. They called round again this afternoon. And like a good concerned citizen, I was able to help them with their enquiries.’

  ‘Well done, Marla,’ said Les. ‘I’m proud of you. So what did you tell the dropkicks?’

  ‘The truth,’ replied Marla. ‘I was drunk. You picked me up at the Point. Said your name was Larry or something and you ran a modelling agency in Sydney. You talked me into coming back to your place. And when you couldn’t get into my pants, you threw me in a taxi and told me to piss off. A typical Aussie bloke.’

  ‘Aren’t men bastards,’ chuckled Les.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Marla. ‘But all jokes aside, Les, when I told them you were only defending both of us, they didn’t want to believe me. So I think it was a good thing you went home.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re right,’ Les nodded into the phone. ‘But thanks for that Marla. I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart. Listen, Les. I don’t want to sound rude. But I’m up to my eyeballs in Bindi the Bashful Bilby at the moment. How about ringing me at home when I’ve got more time?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Les and Marla exchanged their home numbers and Les said he’d be in touch. After he hung up Les smiled at the phone. What a girl. Fair dinkum, if all the women on the Central Coast are anything like Marla, I’ll move up there tomorrow. Les was gazing at the phone when another thought occurred to him. He’d better ring Eddie and tell the beastly little killer what happened. He’d try his mobile first. Eddie was there.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Eddie. It’s Les.’

  ‘Les. Hey, how’s it going up in Terrigal?’

  ‘It’s not. I’m back in Bondi.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Randwick,’ replied Eddie. ‘I just been doing something for Price.’

  ‘Why don’t you call round to my joint?’ suggested Les.

  ‘Righto,’ said Eddie. ‘See you in about fifteen.’

  Les hung up and walked out to the backyard. He had time to bring in what little washing there was when there was a knock on the front door. Les opened it. Eddie was standing there wearing a black leather jacket over a brown check shirt and a pair of jeans.

  ‘So what happened in Terrigal?’ he asked, stepping inside as Les closed the door behind him.

  ‘I give a couple of mugs a smack in the mouth,’ replied Les.

  ‘Is that what happened to your head?’

  ‘No. That’s another story. You want a coffee or something?’

  ‘How about a sparkling mineral water?’

  ‘Ice and slice, sir?’

  ‘Of course. What do you think I am, a fuckin peasant?’

  ‘Sorry,’ apologised Les.

  While he poured two large glasses of mineral water and added ice and a slice of lime, Les told Eddie what happened in Terrigal. They went into the loungeroom and Les explained to Eddie the reason his head looked a bit rough and everything else that had happened. When Les had finished Eddie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

  ‘Jesus, you can get yourself into some bother,’ said Eddie. ‘You’re un-fuckin-real.’

  ‘I’m not bad, am I,’ said Les.

  ‘But what about that sheila Marla? How staunch was she, the way she handled the cops.’

  ‘She was a good sort, too,’ said Les.

  Eddie eased back in his lounge chair. ‘Billy already told me you were doing business with Menny Menjou. Looking for a film script or something.’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Les. ‘Nothing heavy. But it’s worth fifty grand if I find it.’

  ‘Fifty or five hundred, Les,’ said Eddie, ‘be careful with Menny. Or any of his team for that matter. They think mercy is French for thanks.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Les. ‘But I’ve only really met one of his team. A big bloke called Lasjoz.’

  ‘Lasjoz,’ smiled Eddie. ‘I’ll tell you a funny story about him.’

  ‘O
h. What’s that?’ asked Les.

  ‘My missus gets her hair done in Oxford Street,’ said Eddie, ‘where she also likes to waste my money in the local boutiques.’

  ‘As she’s entitled to,’ chided Les.

  ‘Yeah, terrific. Anyway,’ continued Eddie. ‘She’s spotted Lasjoz up there a few times. And she reckons he’s Doris Day.’

  ‘Lasjoz? Gay?’ Les screwed his face up. ‘Christ! He’s eight foot tall. I watched him ride a Harley Davidson. And he threw it around like it was a Vespa scooter.’

  ‘So?’ shrugged Eddie. ‘What about that big forward used to play for Souths? Remember when they were playing Manly and the fullback called him a poof. He knocked all his teeth out. They’re still digging teeth up under the goal posts at Brookvale Oval.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Les. ‘Shit. Does Menny know this?’

  ‘He wouldn’t want to,’ said Eddie. ‘Menny’s team are all Muslims. They hate poofs.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Les.

  ‘Don’t say that in front of Lasjoz,’ winked Eddie. ‘He might have your pants off. And wooshka!’

  ‘Ohh yuk!’ grimaced Les. ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘A la carte,’ smiled Eddie. ‘So did you get your zinger?’

  ‘Yeah,’ answered Les. ‘Did I what.’

  ‘Have you tried it?’

  ‘Reckon,’ said Les. ‘They’re unreal.’

  ‘They sure are.’ Eddie leaned forward in his chair. ‘Just between you, me and the gatepost, I had to pop a bloke a few weeks ago. You know Tuxedo Tovar?’

  ‘That skinny Hungarian pain in the arse?’ said Les.

  ‘That’s him. He lives, or lived, out at Rockdale. He came home. And I’m sitting in his loungeroom eating a peanut slab. He says, “Eddie. What you are doing here?” And I said. “Waiting for you to come home, Tovar, so I can shoot you. What you think I are doing here?” I put two in his clock and another in the back of his melon and left him there.’

  ‘What about the body?’ asked Les.

  ‘Unless Tovar’s smack-dealing mates haven’t got rid of it by now,’ shrugged Eddie, ‘if it’s not on the nose, it will definitely be on the turn.’