Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (3 page)

‘Is right for sure bastard,’ growled the big man.

‘I see what you mean,’ agreed Les. ‘If these…conspicuous compassionistas carried on about the old diggers and kids with cancer as much as they do about illegal immigrants and such, we might be a lot better off.’

‘Yes. But there’s no show and glow for them in that, Les,’ said Barbara.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Bodene. ‘So what I’m going to do to get started, Les, is make most politically correct, conspicuously compassionate movie ever filmed.’

‘You are?’ queried Les.

‘Hundred per cent,’ enthused Bodene. ‘Director and producer will be critically acclaimed. It will scoops the pool at Australian Film Industry Awards. All the actors will get warm inner glow, hot enough to melt Antarctica. Film Council will finance me to buggery. And,’ beamed Bodene, ‘best part is, no one in right mind will go see this load of critically acclaimed horse shits. So me, being wog producer, I can put more horse shits on Australian general public for being insensitive racist bastards, and take moral high ground, enough to give me nosebleed. I can’t go wrong. They might even make stamp and name street after me.’

Les drew back. ‘I’m in the presence of genius.’

‘Tell me about it, Dude.’ Menny took an envelope from a bag at his feet and handed it to Les. ‘Here. Read this. Is…’ He turned to the girls. ‘What is word? I can never say.’

‘Synopsis,’ replied Topaz.

‘That is the one. Sirnopsusis. Anyway. Movie is called
Gone With the Willy Willy.
Read on, my friend Les. You like. Writer does good job.’

Les carefully opened the envelope then took out a sheet of neatly typed foolscap paper and started reading.

This is the sensitive and ambitiously moving story of Dulcie Dugong, a hygenically challenged, hunchbacked, Aboriginal lesbian from Alice Springs. Dulcie, after drinking a flagon of ’72 Grange Hermitage, confronts her demons and hitchhikes to Woomera. There she breaks into Baxter Detention Centre and frees Ibrahim, a gay, HIV positive, Lebanese Muslim asylum seeker. Pursued by crypto-fascist police and a gang of neo-Nazi skinhead kangaroo shooters, Dulcie and Ibrahim happen upon an outback Ku Klux Klan rally, where they steal the Grand Dragon’s Holden Kingswood and flee to Sydney. There they meet up with Mehitebel, a friend of Dulcie’s from when they were temporary visitants of the correctional system. Mehitebel, a diabetic single mother with a glass eye and a club foot, works at the heroin injecting centre in Kings Cross and lives in a housing commission home at Redfern with her thalidomide son, Sherwin, an asthmatic with a blocked heart valve. Dulcie receives an Arts Council grant to write a book of gay and lesbian poetry and uses some of the money to buy Sherwin a solar-powered wheelchair. The group
join a non-gender-specific forest alliance, become vegans, and although economically marginalised, find commonality of purpose and co-exist happily until their harmonious existence is suddenly threatened by Mehitebel’s next-door neighbour, Hurlbert, a sexist, homophobic warder at Long Bay Gaol with a primitive masculine identity problem. Hurlbert is also a member of the Sporting Shooters’ Association, owns two Rottweilers he feeds baby seal meat and is an organiser for One Nation. Despite their tribulations and Dulcie’s contradictions, Dulcie, Ibrahim and Mehitebel forge a lasting relationship on a tri-level basis of understanding and go on a journey of discovery. On their journey, they find spirituality, sexuality and social justice culminating in Ibrahim editing a gay newspaper and becoming the first Muslim to have a float in the Gay Mardi Gras. To add to their joy, Sherwin takes bronze in the men’s backstroke at a handicapped swimming carnival and Hurlbert dies after accidentally shooting himself in the head while cleaning one of his guns.

Les glanced through the synopsis again, then carefully folded it back in its envelope and returned everything to Bodene.

‘Well, what do you think, Les?’ asked Bodene. ‘Pretty good, huh!’

‘What do I think?’ replied Les. ‘Menny. It…it’s brilliant.’

‘You like?’

‘I do. Yes,’ nodded Les. ‘Except for one small thing.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’ questioned Bodene.

‘There’s no Jews in there. You’ve left out the Jews.’

‘Jews?’

‘Yeah. They’re a minority group,’ explained Les. ‘And a very important one, too. Leave them out, and people will say you’re anti-Semitic.’

‘Anti-Semitic?’ Bodene looked shocked. ‘Hey. Don’t tell me about anti-Semitic and Jews. During the war, my grandfather Zoltan and my uncles Laszlo and Gyorgy were in the White Eagle Brigade. They killed hundreds of Jews. I know plenty about Jews, boy.’

Les shook his head. ‘That’s…very good, Menny,’ he said. ‘But it won’t help your movie. You’ve got to have a Jew in it. And he’s got to be a Holocaust survivor too.’

‘Shit!’ Bodene quickly opened the envelope and hurriedly read through the synopsis. ‘Shit!
You’re right,’ he said. Menny paused and thought for a moment. ‘Okay. I know what I’ll do. I’ll make Dulcie’s neighbour on the other side a Jew. Schlomo. And I’ll also make him a dwarf.’

‘A dwarf, Jewish, Holocaust survivor. That’s fantastic, Menny,’ said Les. ‘You’ve hit the politically correct jackpot there.’

Bodene suddenly got excited. ‘And…and…What about this, Les? When Sherwin wins the medal at the swimming, Schlomo throws a big party. And on the wall he hangs a huge photo of Adolf Hitler.’

‘Adolf Hitler?’ said Les.

‘Yes. And the peoples say to him, “Schlomo, after all you went through, you put a photo of Hitler on your wall. Why?” And Schlomo holds up his arm. Smiles. And shows them the numbers tattooed on his arm. “Hey. See these numbers,” he says. “I put them in at newsagents, and win Powerball. Five million dollars. Now I spend the rest of my life. Heil Hitler.”’

Les stared at Bodene, shaking his head in amazement. ‘That’s fantastic, Menny,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fantastic. But unfortunately, mate, political correctness isn’t about being happy.’

‘It’s not?’ queried Menny.

Les Norton Talking Pie Afmt fina-lpp ECJ 30/5/08 1:38 PM Page 31

‘No,’ replied Les. ‘It’s all about grief and sorrow. And making people feel miserable and guilty about themselves. You can’t have a happy ending to your movie, Menny. They’ll laugh at you.’

Bodene thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I forget. Conspicuous compassion.’

‘Exactly. So what about this,’ suggested Les. ‘The party’s in full swing, and who should walk in the door? A Maori suicide bomber protesting about the Treaty of Waitangi. He detonates his explosives belt and kills everybody. Then, as the dust settles on all the blood and guts, and the smoke drifts away in the wind,’ Les slowly moved his hand for emphasis, ‘the words materialise on-screen:
Gone with the Willy Willy.
Roll credits. Light the lights.’ Les smiled confidently. ‘What do you reckon?’

Bodene stared at Les. ‘What do I reckon?’ he said, reaching across and shaking Norton’s hand. ‘Les. You are genius. You should be writing movies yourself.’ Bodene turned to the others. ‘What do you think?’

The others all nodded in agreement.

‘Is good idea. I like very much,’ said Lasjoz.

‘Hey,’ shrugged Les. ‘Making an Australian movie ain’t rocket salad.’

‘Don’t I know,’ said Bodene.

‘Only trouble is, Menny,’ sighed Les. ‘They’ve knocked off your script. So you’re kind of stuffed.’

‘No, no. Not at all,’ gestured Bodene.
‘Gone with the Willy Willy
is only movie to get me established as brilliant, critically acclaimed, Australian film producer. The movie I want to make money with, the one bastards stole my script for,’ cursed Bodene, ‘that I pay bloke in Melbourne plenty to write, is called
The Case of the Talking Pie Crust
.’

‘The case of the what?’ asked Les.

Bodene eased back and smiled at Norton. ‘Les,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of Emile Mercier?’

Les thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’

‘Hah!’ laughed Bodene. ‘I know more about Australia than some of you so-called dinky-di Aussies.’

Just then, the waitress came back and placed their coffees on a sandstone block in front of them. After she put Norton’s cappuccino down, he slipped her twenty dollars. Not too ostentatiously. But enough for Bodene and the others to notice. Specifically Bodene. ‘Keep that for yourself,’ Les said quietly into the girl’s ear.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ smiled the girl.

As she walked away, the Albanian gangster’s smile vanished. ‘Les. What you are doing?’ he demanded. ‘I pay for this.’

‘I know that, Menny,’ shrugged Les. ‘I was just giving the girl a tip. That’s all. She works hard.’

‘Oh. Oh.’ Bodene was impressed by Norton’s generosity. So were the others.

Les dropped a packet of sugar in his cappuccino, stirred it and took a sip. ‘Hey. This is bloody good coffee,’ he said.

‘Yes. Yes it is,’ nodded Bodene. He sugared his coffee and took a sip. ‘Now. Where was I?’

‘Emile Mercier,’ said Les.

‘Yes. Right.’ Bodene had another sip of coffee. ‘Okay. Emile Mercier was Sydney cartoonist back in nineteen forties and fifties for old newspaper called
The Sun.
This was before your time and mine, Les my friend. But believe me, back then Sydney was super squaresville. Pubs close at six o’clock. No TV. No rock ’n roll. Wear bikini on beach, say word bloody, get you arrested.’

‘I’ve seen photos,’ said Les.

‘Women look like frumps. Men dress like shitkickers,’ continued Bodene. ‘Unless you bookmaker or crooked cop or politician. No one got money. No better than Russia.’

‘Price often mentions that,’ agreed Les.

‘Yet this man, Emile Mercier, draw fabulous cartoons. Funny as circus. Take piss from everything. Make everybody laugh fit to bust.’

‘And how did you get onto him?’ asked Les.

‘Through students at pizza shop.’

‘Students?’

‘Yes. Students live in Bellevue Hill. Buy pizzas from me,’ said Bodene. ‘Two are French. Same as Emile Mercier’s family. They study him at university and show me copies of cartoons he does. Plus comic book called
Super Dooper Man.
And
The Case of the Singing Pie Crust
.’

‘
The Singing Pie Crust
?’ said Les.

‘Exactly,’ Bodene nodded over his coffee. ‘So I start thinking. Lot of movies today are digitilised cartoons. Like
Shrek. Happy Feet. Ice Age.
You know the ones, Les.’

‘Sure. Warren brings home the videos,’ said Les. ‘They’re good.’

‘So I think again. Why not make Australian movie about dysfunctional Australian family? Make it half Emile Mercier cartoons and half actors. And call it
The Case of the Talking Pie Crust.
Australians like a good laugh at themselves. They’d lap it up.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Les. ‘Sort of
Who Killed Roger Rabbit?
meets
The Castle’.

‘Right on,’ nodded Bodene.

‘Have you got the money to make the movie?’ asked Les.

Bodene answered Norton’s question with a dismissive wave. ‘Money is no problem,’ he said. ‘Only problem is, pricks knock off my script. Plus floppy disc and three little books of Emile Mercier cartoons. Which also cost me plenty and are impossible to replace.’

‘And this is what you’re willing to pay fifty thousand to get back?’ said Les.

‘Fifty. Maybe more,’ said Bodene.

Les stared at Bodene for a moment. ‘Okay. I’ll give it a lash.’

‘Give it a lash,’ smiled Bodene. ‘You sound like person in Emile Mercier cartoon.’

‘Whatever,’ Les smiled back. ‘All right. So when did all this stuff go missing again?’

‘Thursday. Thursday afternoon.’

‘And it was in a bag, in the back of your car?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What sort of bag?’ Les gestured. ‘A post bag? An overnight bag?’

Bodene exchanged glances with Barbara and looked uneasy. ‘Actually. It was an old woman’s handbag,’ he admitted.

‘An old woman’s handbag?’ said Les.

‘A green one,’ nodded Barbara. ‘With a black eagle on the side.’

Bodene was about to speak, when his expression changed and he gave Lasjoz a nod. The big man rose out of his chair and stepped across to one of the gleaming Harley Davidsons. He put a helmet on that was hanging off the handlebars, then got on board and started the engine, revving it loud enough to shake the life out of the other punters seated outside Azulejos and almost blow the froth off Norton’s cappuccino. Les watched as Lasjoz jumped the Harley over the gutter, then circled the roundabout several times, revving the engine every time he changed gears. The noise was horrendous and set the alarms off in several cars parked nearby. Finally, he drove the big American bike back to its original position, parked it and switched off the engine. After the racket from the Harley, any noise the council workers were making sounded like children playing. Les watched Lasjoz squeeze himself back into his chair then turned to Bodene.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Les.

‘Battery in motorbike is flat,’ replied Bodene. ‘Have to give it charge now and again.’

‘Fair enough.’ Les had a sip of coffee then
looked up at Bodene. ‘Now what’s all this about a bag with an eagle on the side?’

‘Is nothing really,’ said Bodene. ‘Thursday morning I was looking at house in Rose Bay. Deceased estate. Some of the old woman’s things were still in house and in closet, amongst all the shit, I notice green bag with black eagle on side, looks like eagle on Albanian flag. So I say, hey yes. I have this. I give to Barbara. Estate agent doesn’t notice. So I throw it in back of car where I have film script. And…I don’t know, maybe for good luck, I put film script and everything in green bag.’ Bodene rolled his eyes. ‘Some fucking luck. Bag and everything else gets stolen. Bastards.’

‘Yeah. You can say that again,’ agreed Les. He drained his coffee and smiled at Bodene. ‘So all up, I’m looking for a green handbag with a black eagle on the side, containing a script, a floppy disc and three books of cartoons by a bloke called Emile Mercier.’