Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust

by Robert G. Barrett

  It was a typical car wash. Huge roller brushes, water jets, long plastic flaps hanging down, big vacuum cleaners. Outside was a smattering of chairs and tables where the customers could sit and have a coffee or whatever while they waited for their car to be cleaned. Business was quiet and two men were Squeegeeing water from the driveway while Chamois was seated at one of the tables in a pair of black shorts, a black T-shirt and gum boots, sucking on a cigarette. He looked up as Les approached.

  ‘Hello Chamois,’ smiled Norton. ‘How’s things, mate?’

  ‘Les,’ replied Chamois. ‘How are you, mate?’ Chamois had a quick glance around. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘So what are you doing, Chamois?’ asked Les. ‘Taking a breather?’

  ‘Reckon,’ replied Chamois sincerely. ‘I’ve been working me ring off all morning. This is the first break I’ve had.’

  ‘How would you like to earn fifty bucks for five minutes’ work?’

  Chamois gave Les a suspicious once up and down. ‘Fifty bucks for five minutes’ work. What’ve I got to do, Les? Help you get rid of a body? Give you a lift with a crate of machine guns? Long Bay doesn’t appeal to me that much, Les. I’m quite happy to plug along here, workin’ at the car wash, baby. Just like in the song.’

  Les shook his head. ‘Jesus, you’ve got a low opinion of me, Chamois. No.’ Les pointed to the block of flats. ‘All I want you to do, is go up to that block of flats, knock on number nine and see if there’s anybody home. If a big bloke answers the door, just say you’re looking for Charlie Brown or whoever. Then tell him you’ve got the wrong address and leave.’

  ‘Fifty bucks?’ said Chamois.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Les. ‘I just want to know if this bloke’s home. That’s all.’

  Chamois stared at Norton for a quick second then butted his cigarette. ‘Righto. Wait here.’

  Les pulled up a seat and made himself comfortable as Chamois disappeared into the block of flats. Before long Chamois was on his way back. He walked up to Les and shrugged.

  ‘No one home,’ said Chamois.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Les asked. ‘How many times did you knock?’

  ‘Three times. Loud enough to raise the dead.’

  ‘Okay.’ Les stood up and handed Chamois two fifties. ‘There’s another fifty for luck.’

  ‘Shit! Thanks, Les,’ said Chamois, pocketing the money. ‘Hey. If you need me again. Just give me a yell.’

  ‘Righto, Chamois. I will.’ Les exited the car wash and stepped inside the entrance to the block of flats.

  Number nine was on the second floor. There was no dust or rubbish on the stairs going up, Jacko did a good job as a caretaker, and the walls and windows had been wiped clean of any scuff marks or dirt. Les arrived on the landing and stepped over to a wooden veneer door next to a disused servery. He knocked on the door a couple of times to be sure, then took out his zinger. A few seconds later Les was inside. He removed his sunglasses and had a look around.

  Lasjoz’s flat wasn’t very big. A kitchen on the left ran off a short hallway that led into the loungeroom, the bathroom was in the corner on the right and a bedroom was behind the loungeroom on the left. Furnishings were sparse. But the flat was very tidy. A black leather lounge sitting on a blue weave carpet faced a flat-screen TV and a small stereo. Against a wall on the left was a cabinet half full of CDs and DVDs; against the opposite wall was a solid wooden table, two chairs and a computer. Coloured bottles, vases and other bric-a-brac sat along the cornices and several travel posters of lakes and mountain scenes in Albania hung on the walls. Everything was neat and tidy and had a freshness about it that gave Les the impression Lasjoz hadn’t been living there long. Anyway, thought Les, I didn’t come here to do a spread for Home Beautiful. The sooner I do my shifty business and blast off, the better. I don’t even want to think what would happen if Lasjoz found me in here. I’ll start with the lounge.

  Les carefully went through the drawers in the CD and DVD cabinet first and found nothing, except that Lasjoz’s musical tastes were very middle of the road, ranging from Neil Diamond to the Beatles, and he was a Clint Eastwood fan. There was another set of drawers under the window and one next to the computer table. They revealed nothing either. Righto, thought Les, I’ll try the bedroom.

  The bedroom contained a king-size bed with a black and white duvet, a dressing table and mirror and a solid wardrobe with a mirror on the front very similar to the one Les had in his bedroom. Carefully again, Les went through the drawers on the dressing table. There was no green bag. But Lasjoz kept his T-shirts, sox, Reg Grundys and hankies folded tidily and neatly separated from each other. As he was going through the drawers, Les noticed every T-shirt was size XXXL and a few beads of nervous sweat formed on his forehead. He looked at his watch and moved across to the wardrobe.

  There was plenty of light coming from the window above the dressing table, Les opened the wardrobe and peered inside. Hanging up were two dark-coloured suits, several shirts, two leather jackets and a grey check sports coat. All Lasjoz needs, smiled Les, is a few Hawaiian shirts and an East German Navy jacket and this could almost be my wardrobe. Suddenly the ACME Pty Ltd, Wile E. Coyote light bulb lit up above Norton’s head. Oooh. What’s that you say, Shintaro? Les asked himself. My wardrobe? I wonder? I just fuckin wonder? Les tapped on the rear of the wardrobe and sure enough, it had a hollow section. He ran his hand along the bottom of the panel and poking out of the wood was the end of a self-tapping screw. Well, what do you know, smiled Les. Great minds do think alike. Les pushed the screw to the left and the panel slid open.

  Inside was a plastic bag full of fifties which, at a rough guess, Les estimated to be five thousand dollars. There was another, smaller, locktop plastic bag full of pills, which could have been anything from LSD to ecstasy. And stuffed down the back was a green leather handbag with a bronze clasp on top and a black eagle on the side.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Les. ‘What have we here?’

  Les put everything else back and closed the panel, then took the green bag out into the loungeroom and unzipped it. Inside was a plastic bound film script with The Case Of The Talking Pie Crust, copyright Post No Gravy Productions Pty Ltd, Australia, on the front. A floppy disc. Another copy of the synopsis for Gone With the Willy Willy. And three small hardcover books of old cartoons by Emile Mercier called Gravy Pie, Sauce or Mustard, and My Wife’s Swallowed a Bishop.

  ‘What I have here in my hands,’ grinned Les, ‘is a new hybrid car. Thank you, Lasjoz. And thank you, Bodene Menjou.’

  Les put everything back in the bag and zipped it up. He was about to leave when there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the landing before the door opened and Lasjoz stepped into the flat wearing a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans with a short-sleeved blue shirt hanging out over the top. He closed the door behind him then his face clouded over when he turned around and noticed Les standing in the loungeroom.

  ‘Les Norton,’ he growled. ‘What you are doing in my flat?’

  ‘What I am doing in your flat, Lasjoz?’ swallowed Les. He held up the green bag. ‘Looking for this.’

  Lasjoz’s eyes narrowed. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You find bag.’

  ‘Yes. I find bag,’ said Les.

  ‘How you find bag?’

  ‘Because I’m clever, Lasjoz,’ replied Les.

  A crooked, mirthless smile appeared on Lasjoz’s jowly face. ‘Maybe too fucking clever for your own fucking good, Les Norton.’

  ‘Now hold on a second, Lasjoz,’ said Les. ‘You don’t have to be like that. There’s no reason we can’t work something out here.’

  ‘Work something out. What?’

  ‘I’ll tell Bodene I found the bag somewhere else,’ suggested Les. ‘And you and I can split the reward money. Sixty-forty your way.’

  ‘Split fucking money,’ exclaimed Lasjoz. ‘Why you think I stole bag in first place? So I can share fucking money?’
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  ‘Well, no. But why did you steal the bag?’ asked Les, figuring while he was talking, Lasjoz wasn’t trying to choke him and he could work out an escape.

  ‘For fucking money. Why you think?’ shouted Lasjoz. ‘Bodene pay me shit.’ The big man indicated round his flat. ‘Look what I live.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Les. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Where? Fucking Bangladesh.’

  ‘Jamaica?’

  ‘Pah!’ Lasjoz spat on the carpet. ‘So how come you know I steal bag?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have used one of your gay pals as a go-between,’ said Les. ‘Bodene picked up on his voice. And shit. Even I know you’re gay.’

  ‘How you know I am gay?’ demanded Lasjoz.

  ‘Your clothes.’

  ‘My clothes?’

  ‘Yeah. And the way you walk,’ answered Les. ‘You want to learn to take bigger steps.’

  Lasjoz banged his huge fist against the wall. ‘Enough of this fucking bullshit,’ he thundered. ‘Now you die, Les Norton. Clever, stupid bastard. Then I cut you up. And take you for swim with sharks.’ Lasjoz advanced towards Les with his huge hands open and a horrible smile on his face. ‘How you want die, Mr Clever? Easy? Or hard?’

  Les stared grimly at Lasjoz for a second. ‘Hard,’ said Les. ‘Real fuckin hard.’ Saying that, Les hurled the green bag at Lasjoz’s head.

  The bag hit Lasjoz in the face and only made him blink angrily. Les stepped forward and belted the big man with a straight left and a right cross. It was like punching a bag of cement. Lasjoz rocked on his feet for a second, then spat a little blood from a split lip and smiled.

  ‘Stupid little man,’ he said, then swung his massive right arm round and backhanded Les across the face.

  The force sent Norton’s cap flying and knocked him over the lounge before he landed on his back, seeing stars. He shook his head and started getting to get to his feet when Lasjoz reached down, grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt, and hurled him across the other side of the room. Les managed to cover his head before he crashed into the computer table, sending the computer one way and anything else on the table the other. Les sucked in some air before Lasjoz took him by the scruff of his T-shirt and flung him back over the lounge. Les covered up again and barrelled noisily into the CD cabinet scattering CDs and DVDs everywhere. Les got up and shook his head, then set himself and kicked the advancing Lasjoz in the groin and punched him in the face with two sizzling left hooks. Norton’s heart sunk as Lasjoz stopped and smiled at him.

  ‘Is that best you got?’ sneered Lasjoz. ‘And you call me poofter.’

  Lasjoz grabbed Les by the front of his T-shirt with one hand and the front of his cargoes with the other, lifted Les up and flung him over his head across the room. Les covered up and yelped as he sailed over the lounge and crashed back onto the computer table, smashing it beneath him before landing on the floor amongst the wreckage.

  ‘Ohh fuck!’ winced Les, holding his ribs.

  Lasjoz laughed menacingly. ‘Funny you should say fuck, Les Norton. Because that is what I do before I kill you. And you like my fuck. Guarantee. But before this,’ said Lasjoz, looking down on Les. ‘I have fun. Like cat with little mouse.’

  Ripping the neck open, Lasjoz grabbed Les by his T-shirt and hurled him back across the room into what was left of the CD cabinet. Les barely had time to glimpse the stars spinning round in front of him before he felt himself being flung across the room again into the TV set, sending it and the stereo crashing onto the floor. Les gulped in some air as Lasjoz grabbed him by a leg, flung him against the lounge, then threw him across the room into the wall opposite the wrecked computer table.

  ‘Hey. How you like so far, little man,’ laughed Lasjoz. ‘Is good? Well, don’t worry.’ The monster rubbed his groin. ‘Best is yet to come.’

  Les looked up at Lasjoz laughing at him from across the other side of the room and the beads of nervous sweat he felt earlier when he was searching the big man’s bedroom were now streaming down his face. Norton knew if he didn’t do something, and quick, he was gone. Rose the tarot lady warned him the time might come when he would have to dig deep. She was right. Without a knife or a gun, there was only one way he could stop Lasjoz. Les was going to have to use the fearsome Mongolian Death Lock.

  Les learnt the Mongolian Death Lock by sheer chance after school one day in Dirranbandi. Of all the people in the world, a family of Mongolians stopped at Dirranbandi for two weeks on a cultural exchange. They had two sons, Hatgal and Halvan, who attended the local school to mix with the kids and learn a little about Australian education. Although Hatgal and Halvan’s English was limited, Les and his brother Murray befriended them and liked the strange clothes they wore, especially their pointy-toed boots. But kids are kids. And fat Buddha Bailey, the school bully, wanted to fight the Mongolian kids, who weren’t at all interested. Young Les and Murray were walking home from school one afternoon with the Mongolian kids when Buddha Bailey appeared on the scene and started shoving Hatgal around. Before Les and Murray had a chance to intervene, Buddha was lying on his back gasping for breath and they thought he was going to die. Buddha never knew what hit him and Les and Murray weren’t sure either. But they asked Hatgal to show them what he did. Hatgal reluctantly agreed, but warned Les and Murray only to ever use the death lock as a last resort. Because as well as being unbreakable, it was deadly. And even if you were strong enough to break it, you only had seconds to do so before you either blacked out or died.

  Through his sweat, pain and ripped clothing, Les blinked up at the leering Lasjoz. He didn’t particularly want to kill him and go through a great hassle with the police. But if he could apply the grip just long enough, he could get away, take the script to Bodene and spill the beans on Lasjoz, who would no doubt get a bullet or three in the head from his boss. Les half rose to his feet as Lasjoz swept the lounge aside and came slowly and confidently towards him.

  ‘Now little man,’ Lasjoz scoffed from behind the sinister smile on his face, ‘I think I put your head down shithouse. Drown you little bit like rat. Then fuck you. Before I slit your throat.’

  Les flicked the huge Albanian a thin smile. ‘Lasjoz,’ he said, evenly. ‘You wouldn’t have a dick big enough, or a knife that sharp.’

  Les waited till Lasjoz was almost on top him, then leapt to his feet and with all the strength left in his body, hit Lasjoz in the heart with a perfectly timed left rip. It wasn’t enough to flatten the giant. But it made him grunt with pain, shut his eyes and stop for a moment. This was all the time Les needed to quickly step behind Lasjoz and kick his legs away. As Lasjoz fell back against him, Les slipped his right arm around the big man’s throat, jammed the edge of his wrist against Lasjoz’s Adam’s Apple then closed his right fist and gripping it tight with his left hand, pulled the big man back down to the floor. When he landed on his rump, Les jammed his right knee into the nape of Lasjoz’s huge neck then sat back and started crushing Lasjoz’s throat between his right knee and his wrist.

  With the oxygen supply to his brain completely cut off, Lasjoz gagged and coughed and tried frantically to tear Norton’s arms away. But to no avail. Les kept squeezing Lasjoz’s throat in a vice-like grip till the big man’s eyes began to burst. The seconds ticked by and Lasjoz’s kicking and flailing attempts to free himself got weaker and weaker before they finally stopped and he slumped unconscious in Norton’s arms. Les held the Mongolian Death Lock for another second or two, then released it and stood up to get his breath back.

  Lying on his back at Norton’s feet, Lasjoz’s bloodshot eyes were bulging out of his head, his face was dark blue and his tongue was protuding through a pair of blackened lips. Les was sure he’d killed him, when a ghastly rattling sound escaped Lasjoz’s mouth and he managed to suck a little air into his lungs. Les stepped across and kicked him in the balls several times with the heel of his trainer in case he looked like getting up. The only movement from Lasjoz was another tortured gasp of air and a feeble at
tempt to place his hand against his ruptured throat.

  Les stood back and smiled down at Lasjoz. ‘Well Lasjoz,’ he said. ‘I hate to tell you this old mate, but from where I’m standing, I’d say you’re the one that just got fucked.’

  Les tucked what was left of his T-shirt in and glanced around the flat. There was broken furniture and other wreckage strewn everywhere. The only things that survived were the lounge and two Albanian travel posters. Les limped into Lasjoz’s bedroom to check himself out in the wardrobe mirror and couldn’t believe what he saw. His T-shirt was torn and there was a red mark where Lasjoz had backhanded him. And there was no doubt he was going to wake up with a shitload of bruising the next day. But apart from that, he didn’t have a mark on him. Not even a stitch got broken.

  ‘Well, how about that,’ smiled Les. ‘Hey. While my luck’s in.’

  Les opened the wardrobe, reached down and pulled the panel back and took out the packet of money. After pocketing the plastic bag, Les shut the panel then closed the wardrobe and returned to the loungeroom.

  Lasjoz hadn’t moved and was still lying on the floor barely breathing. Les gave him another kick in the balls for good luck then picked up his cap along with the green bag from where it fell after he flung it in Lasjoz’s face. The zinger was still in his pocket, but Les didn’t have a clue where his sunglasses were and didn’t particularly care. He had a last look at Lasjoz then moved towards the door.

  ‘Adios Lasjoz, me old China,’ saluted Les. ‘Don’t bother getting up. I can find my own way out.’ Les opened the door then stepped out onto the landing, closing it quietly behind him.