Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (4 page)

Bodene was about to speak when two tall, dark-featured men appeared alongside him. They had impassive Slavic faces and sported plenty of bling with their smart casual clothes. Bodene stood up and greeted the men with equal impassivity, Lasjoz came to life and they all started talking in Albanian.

Les smiled at the two girls, gave the men a few polite moments then figured it might be time to leave. He caught Bodene’s eye. ‘Well, thanks for the coffee, Menny,’ he said. ‘I might get going. I think I’ve got everything I need to know. So I’ll be in touch. Where’s the best place to find you?’

‘Down here, Les,’ replied Bodene. ‘Is good coffee. And gives me break from shop.’

‘Fair enough. And I’ve got your phone number. I’d better give you mine.’ Les took a Biro and a piece of paper from the side pocket of his cargoes, scribbled his phone number down and handed it to Bodene. ‘There you go, Menny. If you need me, give me a call.’

Bodene shook Norton’s hand. ‘Thank you, Les,’ he said sincerely. ‘Let’s hope you can do something.’

‘It’s only been the once,’ winked Les, ‘but I haven’t let you down yet.’

‘No. You are good man. You have not.’

‘Goodbye, Barbara. Topaz.’

‘Bye, Les,’ smiled Topaz.

‘Nice to meet you too Lasjoz.’

‘Same for you, Les,’ growled the big man.

Norton turned and walked away just as the waitress in the BUCKWHEAT T-shirt came out of the café carrying two coffees. At the same time, a
jackhammer started up amidst the roadworks and another concrete mixer rumbled up amongst the dust and exhaust fumes with its air brakes hissing, while two motorists started beeping their horns and abusing each other. To add to the din, the little dog under the table started yapping at another dog again. Les caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to his ears.

‘Christ. How do you put up with all this bloody noise?’ he asked her.

‘It’s been like it for weeks,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’

Les shook his head. ‘You’re a better woman than I am, Gunga Din,’ he replied, before crossing to the opposite side of the road. Mulling over his meeting with Bodene Menjou, Les strolled past the panel-beating shop and the Rex Hotel TAB, then idly glanced through the wide doorway leading into the lounge at several people seated amongst the tables. Sitting at a bench table just back from the old surfboat hanging from the ceiling was his old fishing mate, Gary Jackson, and two other blokes Les had met before, but whose names he couldn’t remember. They were all dressed in shorts and T-shirts and Gary had his denim cap squashed onto his head as usual. On the table in front of them were three half-empty
schooners and an untidy mess of racing forms. Les slowed his step, thought for a moment, then turned around and walked into the lounge bar. Gary noticed him approaching and looked up smiling.

‘Les, mate,’ he beamed. ‘How are you, me old currant bun?’

‘Good thanks, Jacko,’ replied Les. ‘How’s yourself?’

‘I’m all right.’ Gary indicated his two friends. ‘You know the boys.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘How are you fellahs?’

‘Good, Les,’ replied the one with short blond hair.

‘Les,’ nodded his dark-haired mate, sporting what was probably the last mullet in the Eastern Suburbs.

‘So what’s doing, Les?’ asked Gary.

‘Gary,’ enquired Les, ‘those two mates of yours, Short Round and Weasel. Are they still taking things from people that don’t belong to them?’

‘Yes,’ replied Gary. ‘What are you after? They got some good sheepskin seat covers at the moment.’

‘No. I’m not after any seat covers,’ said Les. ‘I’m after a green woman’s handbag with a black eagle on the side.’ Les made an open handed gesture.
‘Now, God forbid, I’m not necessarily saying one of them took it. But it belongs to a mate of mine’s grandmother. And it’s got some papers and things in it she needs. So,’ continued Les, ‘it’s just possible they, or one of your vast network of friends, might know something. Yeah?’

Gary nodded slowly. ‘I’ll ask them when I see them. And I’ll, ah…put the word out as well.’

‘Thanks, Gary,’ said Les. ‘I’ll give you my mobile phone number.’ Les reached down for his Biro. ‘And if you do happen to find out anything, Gary, there’ll be a particularly nice drink in it for you.’

Gary rubbed his hands together gleefully and closed his eyes. ‘We can always do with a drink, Les,’ he said.

While Les was writing the number down on a coaster, Gary’s mate with the mullet looked up from his form guide.

‘Hey Les,’ he said carefully. ‘I notice Price has got one racing in the third at Rosehill today. Barrow Boy. Do you know anything?’

Les handed Gary the coaster and tightened his face. ‘I’m not supposed to say anything. But yeah. It’s a good thing. I’ve just been to the TAB myself. That’s why I’m down here.’

‘Shit!’ Mullet circled the horse in his form guide.

‘It says eight to one here,’ said Gary’s friend with the blond hair.

‘Yeah. I got a bit better than that at the TAB.’ Les put his Biro back in his cargoes and turned to leave. ‘Anyway. I got to get going. And hey. I never told you anything. Okay?’

Mullet motioned as if he was zipping his mouth. ‘No. Sweet, Les. I haven’t seen you. None of us have.’

‘You weren’t here,’ said his blond mate.

‘Good,’ nodded Les. ‘Okay, Gary. I might hear from you.’

‘No worries, Les,’ replied Gary.

Ahh, you can’t help but like Jacko and his mates, smiled Les, as he continued on up Glenayr Avenue. Staunchies to the last. I just hope they don’t lose too much money on that old hayburner of Price’s. Shit! The last I heard, Barrow Boy was in worse shape than that woman in Bodene’s silly bloody movie and on its way to the glue factory. Les headed home, stopping once in Hall Street to get the papers.

Back at Chez Norton Les made himself comfortable in the loungeroom with a big Fuji apple and started perusing the papers. He was reading a column in the
Australian
when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, you lazy big prick. What are you doing?’

‘Getting bigger and lazier by the minute. How are you, Billy?’

‘All right. Lyndy tells me you rang earlier. You’re still crook.’

‘Yeah. I’m heaps better than I was. But I thought, bugger it. I’ll take a few more days off. Royce is going all right, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah. Good as gold,’ said Billy. ‘Some sheila even gave him her phone number last night.’

‘Yeah? Well he’s not a bad-looking bloke. So, been any dramas up there?’ asked Les.

‘Not really,’ said Billy. ‘Anything been happening with you?’

‘Sort of,’ replied Les.

Les told Billy about his meeting with Bodene and the others. What Menny was offering to get his script back and how he intended to become a critically acclaimed Australian film producer. Billy had a good laugh then settled down.

‘I’ve seen that Lasjoz bloke around,’ said Billy. ‘He’s a monster. But there’s something a bit strange about him.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Les.

‘I dunno. Just something. But I’ll tell you what, Les,’ advised Billy. ‘Be careful with Menny. I know
we put a bit of shit on him now and again, but he can be a bad cunt if you cross him.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Billy,’ said Les. ‘But I’m only looking for a film script. Which I doubt very much is going to turn up anyway.’

Billy went quiet on the phone for a moment. ‘Hey, I got to go, Les. I got to take the boys to soccer.’

‘Righto, Billy. I’ll give you a yell through the week.’

‘See you then, mate.’

Les replaced the phone and sat back for a few seconds. Something strange about Lasjoz, eh. Yeah. His bloody head. It’s a big as a dump bin. But it can’t be too bad if he’s got a girlfriend like Topaz. Les dropped his apple core in the kitchen tidy and went back to reading the papers.

By the time he got to the weekend magazines Les was getting restless. He didn’t particularly feel like going down the beach and having a run. He didn’t feel like a paddle on his ski, either. In the backyard he’d rigged up a scaffold and a heavy bag. That would do splendidly. Les changed into a pair of old shorts, a black T-shirt and a sweatband cut from another black T-shirt, then after a glass of water, put the ghetto blaster on again, donned a pair of mitts and pounded the
bag mercilessly for half an hour. This was followed with a series of crunches and throwing a kettlebell around for fifteen minutes. By then Les was in a lather of sweaty BO and badly in need of a shower. After getting cleaned up, Norton’s stomach was rumbling and he was badly in need of more food. He drained a bottle of mineral water, changed back into what he was wearing before and walked down to the Hakoah Club.

Being Saturday, it was quieter than normal. But there were still plenty of people in there eating, drinking or pumping their hard-earned through the poker machines. Les had a steak and vegetables, followed by mudcake and ice cream. After that Les was in dire need of a coffee. The coffee at Hakoah was
very
good and Les had coffeed at almost every scene in Bondi. But he felt like a latte at his favourite coffee shop. His scene.

Directly across from the Hakoah Club was a café called Gabrielle’s and Liza’s that also doubled as a secondhand bookshop. The open dining area was at the front, then you stepped up into three large rooms with polished wooden floors and walls crammed with shelves of great books: everything from Jack Kerouac to Vladimir Nabokov; Aldous Huxley to the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The rooms
contained large wooden tables and comfortable chairs, where students or whoever liked to sit with their notebooks and laptops studying or doing research. Les preferred the first room, where he liked to sit on a comfortable old blue Chesterfield set against the wall. The stocky, brown-haired woman that ran the place knew Les by sight and always gave him a smile when he entered, as did the staff in the kitchen. There was always a good sort in there to catch your eye and some of the staff at the Kelly Club who lived in Bondi had claimed Gabrielle’s and Liza’s as their scene also. Les liked nothing better than to bump into his workmates and catch up on a bit of gossip around town over a blueberry bagel and coffee that was, in Norton’s opinion, the best in Bondi.

When Les walked in the owner gave him her customary warm smile and Les was pleased to find dark-haired Jimmy the barman from work sitting in the first room with two of the waitresses: copper-haired Louise, a country girl from Blayney, and Jenny, a rope-haired blonde who grew up in Five Dock. They were all casually dressed in T-shirts and jeans and just as happy to see Les as he was to see them. Les ordered a latte and pulled up a chair.

Three lattes for Les and a lot of laughs later they all went their separate ways and Les found himself at home again, fired up with caffeine, wondering what to do with himself. He was in the kitchen glugging down water and hoping to dissolve some of the toxins when his mobile phone rang on the table. Les picked it up and pushed the green button.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello Les, my main man. My rock. How are you, mate?’

‘Price,’ smiled Les. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re at the races.’

‘And killing them,’ chortled Price.

‘Hello. What have you done this time, you villain?’

‘What have I done?’ answered Price. ‘Well, for starters, I’ve taken that fat turd Harold Hedges to the cleaners for over three hundred grand. You should see the shit of a thing. His face looks like a dropped pie.’

‘How…what?’ asked Les.

‘Barrow Boy,’ wheezed Price. ‘He waltzed home by two lengths. And, at the sweet odds, I might add, of nine to one.’ Norton’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘No. I’ve been planning this for months,’ chortled Price. ‘I’ve cleaned them all out. I’ve
tugged over a mill. I’ll need a wheelbarrow to collect the money. Two wheelbarrows.’ Price suddenly started singing into the phone. ‘Barrow Boy, Barrow Boy. All you had to do was back…old Barrow Boy.’

Les could picture Price dancing round the Members’ Lounge with a Scotch in one hand and his mobile in the other. ‘Jesus, you’re not bad, Price. I’ve got to give it to you.’

‘Yes. I have my moments,’ rejoined Price. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t let on. But I had to play this one extremely close to my chest.’

‘That’s okay. I’m not as keen as I was on the punt anyway.’

‘But I promise. When you get back to work. Boh-nusss.’

‘Thanks, Price,’ said Les. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

‘And talking about work,’ said Price, ‘when are you coming back? Billy said you’re still a bit crook.’

‘Yeah. I’m not a hundred per cent, Price. But I reckon I should be okay by the end of next week, with a bit of luck.’

‘Yeah. Well, don’t leave it too long. I breathe easier when my ace man’s out the front.’

‘Don’t worry, Price,’ Les assured him. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good. Shit! I’ve got to go. They just jumped at Flemington. Give me a ring through the week.’

‘Okay, boss. See you then.’

Les clicked off, put his mobile back on the kitchen table and shook his head. Bloody Barrow Boy. That cunning, shifty old bastard. He’s unreal. One thing for sure, grinned Les. Gary and his mates down the pub will think the sun shines out of my arse. Anyway. What now? Les walked into the loungeroom and picked up the TV guide to find Easts were playing Balmain on Foxtel. He tuned in as the Tigers converted a try to lead 8–2. Les settled back on the lounge and was absorbed in the game when the front door opened and Warren clomped down the hallway and stepped into the loungeroom, wearing cowboy boots, a pair of jeans and a red and white striped shirt, and looking tired and in need of a shave.

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

‘Just,’ Warren replied glumly.

‘Funny you should say that,’ enthused Les. ‘I’ve never seen you looking better.’

‘Yeah.’ Warren went to the bathroom and came back with four Panadeine capsules. He got a glass from the kitchen, made himself a Jack Daniel’s
and Coke and washed them down with half his drink.

‘Feel all right now?’ Les asked him.

‘Yeah,’ replied Warren, his eyes spinning as he downed another good mouthful of bourbon. ‘Yeah. I do.’

‘Good. So where’s Ugly Betty?’