Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (20 page)

‘That’s okay, Les,’ said Detective Maroney. ‘I don’t blame you.’

‘So what are you doing up here, Rod? How come you’re not down there in the thick of it, guns blazing and the rest of it? Looks like they plugged a couple of them too.’

‘They sure did,’ nodded Detective Maroney. ‘No. I’m just waiting here for back-up and we’re going round to arrest the big bloke. Lasjoz Malicnisc. He managed to slip through the cracks. He only lives down the road a bit.’

‘Yeah. Next to the car wash,’ nodded Les. ‘Flat nine.’

‘Oh. You’re a regular fountain of information, aren’t you, Les,’ said Detective Maroney.

‘I just been round there,’ said Les. ‘Lasjoz had the bag.’

‘What?’

‘Rod, I’m going to level with you,’ said Les.

Les told Detective Maroney pretty much what happened. He had an idea Lasjoz had the bag, he broke into the flat with a piece of perspex, Lasjoz caught him, they had a fight and Les was lucky enough to choke him out.

Detective Maroney was astounded. ‘You choked that big monster out? You must be fuckin Superman.’

‘Not really,’ replied Les. ‘But if you go round there and kick the door in, I reckon you’ll still find him lying on the floor. And if you look in a panel in the back of his wardrobe where I found the green bag, you’ll find a plastic bag full of pills. You can nick him for those, too.’

‘A plastic bag full of pills?’ said Detective Maroney. ‘And you left them there?’

‘Of course I did,’ replied Les. ‘I didn’t want the fuckin things.’

Detective Maroney was impressed. ‘Good for you, Les.’

Two police cars pulled up on the corner with four beefy detectives in each vehicle. Les looked at them for a second then turned back to Rod.

‘Rod. Do you want to do me a favour?’ Les asked.

‘It all depends, Les,’ answered Detective Maroney. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you mind if I go home, run a hot bath, put a Neil Young CD on and slash both my wrists. Then come down tomorrow morning and make a statement?’

Detective Maroney thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, go on, Les. Everything’s sweet. I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll have a coffee or something.’

‘Thanks Rod. See you in the morning.’ Les watched Detective Maroney get in the first police car and drive off, then turned and, without giving the scene at Seven Ways a second look, started walking back up Glenayr Avenue towards home.

Back at Chez Norton Les placed the green bag on the coffee table in the loungeroom, then put the zinger back in his bedroom and counted the money he stole from Lasjoz. Three thousand, five hundred dollars. Better than a poke in the eye with a Phillips head screwdriver, I suppose,
figured Les. He tossed the money in a drawer and, without bothering to get changed, went back to the loungeroom and poured himself a large Vincent Van Gogh Dutch Chocolate Vodka and mineral water and sat down on the lounge. He took a swallow, then another and stared at the green bag. Well, here we are again, smiled Les. More green bags full of goodies. Let’s have another look at what I got my head bashed in and almost got myself killed for. Les opened the bag.

The script he wasn’t interested in. Nor was he interested in the floppy disc, and he’d already read the synopsis. He looked at one of the little books of cartoons titled
My Wife’s Swallowed a Bishop.
On the cover was a man and his wife with a chess board between them. The man was on the phone obviously ringing a doctor and his wife was clutching her throat. Next to her a scraggle tailed black cat was jumping up in the air. Les opened the little book and started flicking through the cartoons.

They were a black and white time capsule of Australia in the forties and fifties. All the men wore hats, the women looked frumpy and every snotty-nosed kid had a patch in his pants. There were no TV sets, the cars were all bombs and any references to money were in pounds, shillings
and pence. But every cartoon was sketched with a laconic zaniness that had you laughing before you read the titles. And everywhere were these subtle references to gravy. Fried gravy, gravy on toast, gravy in aspic. Gravy Road. Gravy Town Hall. Post No Gravy. I think I see where Emile Mercier’s coming from here, chuckled Les. A Frenchman, arriving in Australia in nineteen forty, used to eating beautiful garlic and wine sauces, would find it somewhat disconcerting to discover all we ate back then was food drowned with lumpy fuckin gravy. Especially a Frenchman with a sense of humour like he had. For a lowlife wog criminal, Bodene sure had his shit together for a good Australian movie. Les flicked through the other books of cartoons, drank some more vodka and had another look in the old green handbag.

There was nothing else. But on one side was a small zippered pocket. Les opened it up and inside was a frayed white hanky and knotted in the corner of the hanky were some coins. The knot had been tied for years. But Les was able to prise it open and take the coins out. There was a two-shilling piece, a sixpence and two pennies. Well, there you go, smiled Les. It wasn’t such a prick of a day after all. I made three thousand,
five hundred dollars, two shillings and eight pence. Or in today’s currency, three thousand five hundred dollars and twenty-seven cents. Les raised his glass and laughed ironically.

‘To Rose the tarot card lady,’ he said. ‘You were right. I did get my reward. And I did find something else that was old. You little beaut.’

Les replaced everything back in the bag and folded the coins up in the hanky. He sipped on his vodka and stared balefully into space, once again agreeing George Brennan had every right to tell him he had a pumpkin for a head, when the front door opened. Footsteps sounded in the hallway before Beatrice appeared in the loungeroom dressed in a pair of green slacks, a white shirt and a matching green vest. Her long black hair was shining and she had a smile on her face, which soon disappeared when she saw Les.

‘Hey. Hello Beatrice,’ smiled Les. ‘How are you, mate?’

Beatrice studied Les from behind her glasses. ‘My God, Les,’ she said. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I got into a fight, Beatrice,’ replied Les.

‘Crikey. Who with? Anthony Mundine and his father?’

‘No. Just some horrible punters. So how was the Gold Coast?’

‘Not all that good,’ smiled Beatrice. ‘It rained. And Warren had a bad cold the whole time.’

‘Where is he?’ Les asked.

‘Bringing his things out of the car.’

‘Right,’ nodded Les.

Beatrice sniffed the air and looked at Norton’s glass. ‘Are you drinking Dutch Chocolate Vodka?’

‘I sure am,’ replied Les.

‘Can I have one?’ asked Beatrice.

‘Beatrice,’ said Les. ‘You don’t have to ask if you can have a drink when you’re round here. Just help yourself. You’re part of the scene.’

‘Yeah, I know but…’

Beatrice went to the kitchen, got two glasses and ice and made two drinks the same as Les was having. She brought them into the loungeroom, kept one and placed the other on the bar.

‘I made one for Warren,’ she smiled as she sat down on a lounge chair. ‘Otherwise he might get the shits and start beating me up.’

Les raised his glass. ‘That’s our Woz. He’s a brute when it comes to women.’

The front door closed, more footsteps sounded in the hallway and Warren appeared in the loungeroom wearing a pair of jeans and a matching denim shirt. His hair was untidy and he looked somewhat tired and drawn.

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

‘Better than you, ugly,’ replied Warren. ‘Jesus Christ! What happened to your fuckin head?’

‘Like I told Beatrice,’ replied Les. ‘I got into a fight.’

‘I made you a drink, Warren,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s on the bar.’

‘Thanks.’ Warren picked up his drink, took a sip and sat down on a lounge chair facing Les. ‘So what happened while I was away? Did you find the missing bag?’ Warren spotted the green bag sitting on the coffee table. ‘Is that it? Is that the bag?’ he said excitedly. ‘So you did find it. You’re a genius.’

‘Yes. I found it, Warren,’ replied Les.

Warren sipped some more vodka. ‘Did you have any outside help?’ he enquired. ‘Or did you do it all on your own?’

‘No. I did it all on my own, Woz,’ replied Les.

Warren looked at Les a little askance. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘There’s no stopping you, is there?’

‘No. There’s not.’

‘So I guess all you got to do now is pick up your fifty grand off Bodene.’

Les shook his head. ‘There is no fifty grand, Warren. Bodene just got busted.’

‘Is that what happened?’ Warren turned to
Beatrice then back to Les. ‘We just drove past his pizza joint and there were cops everywhere.’

‘That’s what happened, Warren. Bodene’s off to the pokey. And my fifty grand is going with him.’

Warren tossed back his head and laughed that hard he started to cough. ‘So you went to all that trouble and got your head bashed in for nothing. You moron.’

‘Warren,’ chided Beatrice.

‘Not quite nothing, Warren,’ smiled Les. ‘I ended up with two shillings and eight pence.’

‘With what?’ said Warren.

‘Two shillings and eight pence. In fact this might interest you, Beatrice.’ Les took the hanky out of the old green bag and unfolded the coins. ‘There you are, Beatrice. A two shilling piece, a sixpence and two pennies.’

‘Wow. How about that,’ smiled Beatrice. She peered over at the old coins. ‘Tell me the dates, Les,’ she said. ‘You never know. They might be worth something.’

‘Righto.’

Les had a mouthful of vodka and with Warren watching him while Beatrice sipped her glass of vodka, Les started checking the coins.

‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘A 1950 two shillings.’

‘Two shillings, 1950,’ said Beatrice. ‘Mmmhh. Maybe ten dollars.’

‘A 1947 sixpence.’

‘Mmmhh,’ Beatrice murmered again. ‘Depending on the mint mark. About the same. If it’s in good condition.’

‘A 1942 penny.’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘A dollar if you’re lucky.’

‘And a 1930 penny,’ concluded Les.

Beatrice stared at Les. ‘What did you just say?’ she asked.

‘A 1930 penny,’ replied Les.

‘Show me.’ Beatrice reached over and took the coin out of Norton’s hand. ‘My God. You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is a 1930 penny.’

Beatrice was examining the old coin and Les wasn’t taking a great deal of interest when Warren sneezed violently.

‘Gesundheit,’ said Les.

‘Yeah. Something like that,’ rasped Warren, reaching for a hanky in the pocket of his jeans.

Suddenly a deafening silence descended on the loungeroom. Beatrice was staring at the old penny while Warren dabbed at his reddened nose with his hanky. In the middle of the silence, Les turned to Warren, and fixed him with an icy gaze.

‘What did you just say, Warren?’ Les asked him, very slowly and very distinctly.

‘What did I just say?’ replied Warren. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘You just sneezed, Warren,’ Les said quietly. ‘I said, Gesundheit. And you replied, Yeah. Something like that.’

‘So?’ replied Warren, nervously.

Norton’s eyes were two narrow slits of loathing. ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Something like that. Why you rotten little…’

Warren put his drink down and stood up. ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, Les,’ he said. ‘If you ask me, you’ve been punched in the head too much.’

‘Punched in the head too much,’ echoed Les. ‘The raspy voice. The Bondi markets. That old house. Those two drag queens from that fuckin soap ad. You underhanded little prick.’ Les sucked in some air then placed his drink on the coffee table and lumbered to his feet like a monster rising from a slab in a Hammer horror film. ‘You…’

‘Now Les. Control yourself,’ said Warren, quickly moving towards the hallway. ‘You know what you’re like when you get things fucked up.’

‘Control myself,’ snarled Les. ‘I’ll show you control myself. You cunt of a thing.’

Beatrice looked up at Norton, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Les,’ she said. ‘This is a 1930 penny.’

‘It is?’ replied Les. ‘Well give it here.’ Les snatched the coin back from Beatrice and glared at her. ‘Did your grandmother ever have a saying, Beatrice? You can stick that where the monkey stuck the penny?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Beatrice. ‘Yes she did, actually.’

‘Good.’ Les held the coin in front of Beatrice’s face and gave her a crazed smile. ‘Because guess where this is going.’ Holding the old penny, Les raced off down the hallway towards the open door. ‘Come here, Warren,’ he howled. ‘I got something for you—my friend.’

To find out more about Bob and his books

visit this website:

www.robertgbarrett.com.au

HarperCollins
Publishers

First published in Australia in 2007
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollins
Publishers
Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Psycho Possum Productions Pty Ltd 2007

The right of Robert G. Barrett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the
Copyright Act 1968,
no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Author: Barrett, Robert G.
Title: Les Norton and the case of the talking pie crust / Robert G Barrett.
Publisher: Pymble, N.S.W.: HarperCollins, 2008.
ISBN: 978 0 7322 8397 1 (pbk.).
ISBN: 978 0 7304 0039 4 (ePub).
Subjects: Norton, Les (Fictitious character) – Fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.3