Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (2 page)

‘A film script?’ said Les. ‘I didn’t know Menny was into movies.’

‘Neither did I,’ answered Warren. ‘But I was having a drink with Beatrice at one of the local fleshpots last night and he happened to be there. I got talking to him. And he’s quietly offering fifty grand if anyone can find his missing film script. He specifically asked that I mention this to you. He thinks you’re a super sleuth and you might be able to find it for him.’

‘Does he now,’ smiled Les. ‘Okey doke, Woz. For that sort of money, I’m interested. What do I have to do?’

‘Right. I’ll give you his mobile number,’ said Warren. ‘But rather than ring him, he’ll be down Azulejos at Seven Ways this morning. He’d like to meet you there. You know it?’

‘Azulejos? Yeah. It’s a scene near the Rex. I can walk down in five minutes.’

‘Okay. You got a Biro?’

‘I sure have.’ Les picked up a Biro alongside a notepad on the phone table. ‘Righto Woz, me old mate. Fire away.’

Les wrote down the phone number then read it back to Warren. ‘Okay Woz. That sounds kosher. And he’s down there waiting for me?’

‘Yep. He’ll probably be with his girlfriend.’

‘Barbara Beauty Spot? Are they still an item?’

‘He was with her last night.’

‘Ain’t love grand. So what’s your story, Woz?’ Les asked.

‘I’ll be home later to pick up some clothes,’ replied Warren. ‘Then I’m off to Surfers Paradise to shoot a promo for the Grand Prix. I’m taking Beatrice and we probably won’t be back till Friday.’

‘Okay. You want a lift to the airport?’

‘No. It’s all arranged.’ Warren blew into a hanky at the other end of the line. ‘Shit! I just hope I’m not coming down with that same wog you had.’

‘I doubt if you got if off me, Woz,’ said Les. ‘I’ve been quarantined in my room all week.’

‘I doubt it, too,’ answered Warren. ‘You wouldn’t even give that away, you miserable arse. All right, Horrible. I might see you this arvo.’

‘Okay mate. See you then.’

Les put the phone down then walked back outside and turned off the ghetto blaster. After a quick glance at his watch, he strolled into the
kitchen, poured himself a glass of mineral water from the fridge, then took it into the loungeroom and sat down to have a think about Bodene Menjou.

Like a lot of other shifties around the Eastern Suburbs, Les knew him from the Kelly Club. A good card player who seemed to win more times than he lost, Menjou was a beefy, black-haired man around forty, who wore thick-rimmed glasses and always reminded Les and Billy of Ronnie Kray, one of the notorious London gangsters the Kray Twins. The resemblance was that close, the boys would often take the piss when he showed up at the club and put on cockney accents. Like Ronnie Kray, Bodene didn’t waste any smiles and was always in the company of one or two equally dour heavies. But if Menny had links to the Albanian Mafia, they were the most ruthless, violent criminals in the world. Even the Italian Mafia and the Chinese Triads based in London feared them and did nothing when they encroached into their rackets. They were into drug dealing and such, but their main sources of illegal income were prostitution and people smuggling, from which they made millions. Les wasn’t quite sure what Menny’s rort was. But not far from Norton’s house in Bondi,
Menny ran a pizza shop called the Lushnje 33, situated amongst a small cluster of shops on the way to Bellevue Hill. Les pulled up to sample the pizzas late one afternoon and noticed a bloke walk out of Menny’s shop with two takeaway coffees, which he casually tossed to a friend waiting in a car outside, who just as casually tossed them onto the back seat. Les figured the coffee either came in a new, completely spill-proof type of container, or it was as thick as tar, and decided to get a pizza somewhere else.

Bodene owned an immaculate old British racing green MG that got stolen around Christmas one year, sending the Albanian gangster slightly ballistic. Bodene loved his vintage MG and one night at the club he told Les of his bad luck, and if Les, who knew a lot of people, happened upon the perpetrators of this foul deed, there was a nice drink in it for him. Les wasn’t all that interested. But said he’d see what he could do.

Not long afterwards, Les was having a solo jog around the back streets of Bondi, burning up a lazy hour before lunch. He was jogging down Glenayr Lane, not far from Azulejos, when he noticed a garage with the roller door partially open. MGs are built close to the ground and Les got a glimpse of green. He knelt down to take a
look under the shutter and sure enough, there was Menny’s vintage MG. Later that day Les strolled up to the Lushnje 33 and gave Bodene an enthralling line of bullshit, about how at great expense and after a lengthy investigation that involved asking people from everywhere and all walks of life, he’d managed to find his missing MG. He gave Menny the details then left him to it. Later that evening, as Les was getting ready for work, Bodene called round Chez Norton, thanked Les and slipped him five thousand dollars. Les hid the money in his room and drove to the club, keeping what happened to himself. The following day, Les was having a coffee with the morning paper and on page three was an article. A house in Glenayr Lane Bondi had burned down and two bodies had been recovered. Les never mentioned this to Menny when he eventually showed up at the club and Menny never gave Les so much as a second look. But after that, Menny was very friendly towards Les and showed him a lot of respect.

Les finished his water and stared into the empty glass. Well, if I’m fartarsing around with the Albanian Mafia, I’d better fartarse around very carefully, he thought. Not that I can see myself getting into too much trouble looking for
a missing film script. It’s not like a suitcase full of dope or a box of machine guns. And finding it won’t be like fluking a car sitting in a garage. But, concluded Les, for fifty grand it’s certainly worth-having a look around and asking a few questions. Les stood up and took his empty glass out to the kitchen, then changed into a clean grey T-shirt with CANADIAN PANORAMA on the front, a pair of blue cargoes and his Balance trainers. Five minutes later he’d locked the house, and after adjusting his sunglasses under a white baseball cap, was strolling down Cox Avenue towards the corner of Hall Street and Glenayr Avenue with his mobile phone stuffed in a side pocket of his cargoes.

Hall Street was buzzing when Les crossed over into Glenayr Avenue, and by the time he reached Curlewis Street, he’d passed half-a-dozen coffee shops packed with the local café society. Further down he could see the shops at Seven Ways, and on the Warners Avenue corner was Azulejos.

Les had only ever been in there a couple of times. Originally, it was an old butcher’s shop and still had the rough, patchy yellow concrete floor, glass showcase and meat rails hanging from the ceiling. There was a magazine rack on the left when you walked in, alongside shelves of
organic and imported food, and high up in an opposite corner, looking down on the chairs and tables, were two framed posters Les would have loved to have had in his loungeroom: a Muslim woman with an AK-47, and a North Vietnamese girl cradling an MAT-49. The café still had the large bay windows and the doorway faced a small park, where two gum trees edged by sandstone blocks took pride of place. There were chairs and tables on the footpath and people would sit around under the trees, often on their own fold-up chairs. An empty shop stood next door and alongside that was an old shop that sold recycled designer clothes. Further round was another al fresco style restaurant, the Sonata.

Azulejos appeared to be thriving when Les reached the corner of Warners Avenue and punters were either standing around or filling the chairs and tables in or outside the café. At the same time, the council was ripping up the road and had most of the area cordoned off; a concrete truck was pouring slurry, there were workers in green fluoro vests everywhere and a young girl from the council was frantically running around amongst the noise and confusion with a STOP and GO sign trying to divert the impatient Saturday morning traffic. Les
ducked between the girl with the STOP and GO sign and a VW Golf and started to cross the road. As he did, he spotted Bodene with a man and two women, all sitting beneath the trees in fold-up chairs, next to two shiny Harley Davidsons. One of the women was Bodene’s girlfriend, Barbara Beauty Spot.

Barbara’s surname was Lewis and she got the nickname Beauty Spot because she had a mole on her neck shaped like a pineapple. She had worked at the Kelly Club prior to leaving for London, where she got nicked for fraud and did a year in a women’s prison before they deported her back to Australia. Back home, she got into modelling and a little acting and somehow finished up with Bodene. Barbara was likeable enough and honest when she worked at the club. But she wasn’t over-endowed with smarts and no one had been surprised when Beauty Spot got busted with a stack of forged traveller’s cheques.

As he got closer, Les checked out Bodene and his party. Menjou was wearing a pair of dark slacks, a black polo shirt and oxblood loafers, and Barbara seated on his left, looked relaxed in a denim skirt and red top, her blonde hair stacked on top of her head. The girl on
Barbara’s left, wearing a lacy pink V-neck top over a pair of white jeans, was an attractive green-eyed brunette and had fox written all over her. And seated on Menny’s right, the Slavic-featured man, wearing a pair of shin-length black shorts and a black and white checked shirt, was a monster, with a jaw like an iron gate and a big domed forehead beneath a crop of thick black hair. The way he was crammed into the fold-up chair made it look as if it was ready to collapse under him in a pile of torn canvas and twisted metal. Les couldn’t remember seeing the bloke before, but he felt he’d seen the girl somewhere.

Menny looked up as Les appeared in front of them and an unusually warm smile spread across his face. ‘Les, my good friend,’ he said, standing up and offering his hand. ‘Thank you for coming down.’

Les shook Bodene’s hand. ‘That’s okay, Menny,’ he replied.

‘And how are you?’

‘I’m good, thanks Menny. How’s yourself?’

Bodene gestured. ‘How is it, you Aussies say? Wouldn’t be dead for quids?’

‘That’s good, mate,’ smiled Norton.

‘Les. You know Barbara.’

‘Yeah. How are you, Barbara?’

‘Fine, thanks Les,’ nodded Barbara. ‘And this is Topaz.’

Les offered the other girl his hand. ‘Hello, Topaz. How are you?’

Topaz shook Norton’s hand and gave him a very heavy once up and down from behind a pair of cool, green eyes. ‘I’m really good, thank you, Les. What about yourself?’ she purred.

Les nodded to Menny. ‘Like Bodene said. Wouldn’t be dead for quids.’

‘And this is Lasjoz.’

The big man lumbered to his feet and Norton barely came up to his chin. ‘Hullo Les,’ he said in a friendly growl as he offered his hand. ‘Bodene tells me many things about you.’

‘All good I would imagine,’ smiled Les, shaking the big man’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Lasjoz.’ Les noticed a couple in black berets and sunglasses getting up from a table in front of the restaurant. ‘I’ll grab a seat.’

Les picked up a chair and sat down in front of Bodene as Lasjoz squeezed himself back into his. At the same time, a dark-haired waitress walked over in a pair of black jeans and a white T-shirt with a piccaninny’s face on the front saying
BUCKWHEAT.

‘Can I get you something else?’ the waitress asked, picking up their empty cups.

‘Yes. The same again,’ said Bodene. ‘Les?’

‘Yeah. I’ll just have an Al Pacino thanks.’

‘No problem,’ said the waitress and walked off with the empties.

Les watched her for a moment then turned to Bodene. ‘Okay Menny,’ he said, dramatising a little. ‘We’re both busy men. Let’s get down to cases. Warren tells me you had a film script knocked off, and you think I might be able to find it.’

‘Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe I dunno, you know. But you were very good before,’ said Bodene.

‘And you were very generous,’ said Les. He nodded towards the Rex Hotel. ‘Not far from here, either.’

‘Not far at all,’ nodded Bodene.

‘So where did this happen?’ asked Les.

‘Outside my pizza shop,’ said Bodene. ‘It was in bag in the back of my Mercedes.’

‘Right,’ nodded Les. Just then two cars started bipping each other and another concrete mixer rumbled up spewing diesel fumes everywhere. At the same time a little white dog under a table started yapping at a bigger one passing by. ‘Shit! It’s noisy here,’ said Les. ‘It’s a wonder you don’t
have a coffee at your place, where it’s a bit quieter.’

Menny gestured. ‘I have to get out. Otherwise is like I’m married to the job.’

‘Fair enough, I suppose,’ agreed Les. ‘But I didn’t know you were into the film game, Menny.’

‘Hey,’ said Bodene, ‘this is Bondi-Wood on the sea. What else do you do round here?’

‘That’s true,’ nodded Les.

‘Actually, I’m making two movies,’ smiled Bodene.

‘Two?’

‘Yes.’ An ironic smile flickered around Bodene’s eyes. ‘You know what I like about Australia, Les?’

‘What?’ said Les.

‘You’re weak.’

‘Weak? Hey, turn it up, Menny. Haven’t you heard of the Anzac spirit? Our bronzed Aussie life-savers?’

‘I don’t mean like that,’ gestured Bodene. ‘You’re weak because you want to appease everybody. You roll over and let the world scratch your stomach and kick your arse at the same time. Political correctness. And to make bad with the worst: conspicuous compassion.’

‘Conspicuous compassion?’ queried Les.

‘Yessss,’ sniggered Bodene. ‘Look at me everybodys. I’m crying for what happened to the stolen generation. Look at me everybodys. I’ve got my mouth taped up for the peoples in the detention centre. Look at me everybodys. I’m rolling in dog shits for the childrens overboard.’ Bodene gestured dismissively. ‘Is bullshit.’

Les thought for a moment. ‘You know, you’re half right, Menny.’

‘Of course I’m right,’ smiled Bodene. ‘And if you say different, Les, I call you a racist.’

‘Hey. As you should, mate. You’re a wog.’

‘In my country,’ asserted Bodene, ‘these bullshit peoples don’t last five minutes before they get knife in ribs. Charity begins at home in Albania. Is that right, Lasjoz?’