Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (5 page)

‘Home getting packed. You don’t think I’d bring her round here, do you? You were always trying to grass-cut me with Clover. It’d be the same with Beatrice.’

‘Yeah. You’re right, Woz,’ said Les. ‘It’s all I can do to stop myself from tearing all the buxom wench’s clothes off, and ravishing her in front of you.’

Warren sat down on a lounge chair and half looked at the TV. ‘So did you meet up with Bodene Menjou?’

‘Yes. I did actually,’ replied Les.

Les told Warren about his meeting with Menny. Including the two film scripts, the noise at Azulejos, Topaz and Bodene’s big friend. Warren listened intently, getting up once to make himself another Jack Daniel’s and Coke.

‘So bottom line,’ said Warren, eased back in his lounge chair. ‘You’re looking for a green handbag with a black eagle on the side.’

‘That’s about it, Woz,’ said Les.

‘You sound like Sam Spade and
The Case of the Maltese Falcon
.’

‘Whatever,’ shrugged Les. ‘But if I fluke it, fifty grand could fall in. Maybe even more, yet already.’

Warren stared at Les for a moment then glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway. I’d better make a move.’

‘You sure you don’t want a lift out to the airport?’ asked Les.

Warren shook his head. ‘No. I’m good.’

‘Okay.’

Les went back to his football. Warren took his empty glass out to the kitchen then went to his room and packed his bags. Easts were leading by two points when Warren walked back into the lounge and sat down. He was still wearing the same jeans, but he’d changed into a clean denim shirt.

‘Shit I envy you, Woz,’ said Les. ‘You and the beautiful Beatrice, up there in that warm Queensland sunshine. Eating mud crabs. Drinking untold bottles of chilled Portaloo Sauvignon. You’re a lucky bastard.’

‘Yeah terrific,’ muttered Warren. ‘The film crew are a bunch of over-aged fuckin emos. And I’ve
also got to deal with a team of whingeing, argumentative wog racing-car drivers who think their shit doesn’t stink.’

‘The correct expression, Warren,’ chided Les, ‘is Latin temperament.’

Warren was about to say something when a horn beeped outside. ‘Shit! Here’s my driver.’ Warren stood up and straightened his jeans. ‘Okay. I have to get going. I’ll see you when I get back.’

‘All right, Woz. You take care. And say hello to Ugly Betty for me.’

‘I will.’

The front door opened and closed, leaving Les to his football, with Easts ending up winners by six points. A result even sweeter for Les because Balmain had three tries disallowed and George Brennan would be spewing. Les walked out to the kitchen to get another big juicy Fuji apple when his mobile phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Les. How are you, mate? It’s Jacko.’

‘Gary,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s things?’

‘How’s things?’ slurred Gary. ‘Well, how do you think things are, mate? Barrow Boy. Ten to one on the TAB.’

‘You backed it.’

‘Backed it? Me’n Ray had the double. Arthur had the double and boxed the trifecta. Plus we backed it. We’ve cleaned up.’

‘Good on you,’ said Les sincerely, picking up on the noise in the background. ‘So now I imagine you’re having a quiet drink.’

‘Quiet drink. Quiet fuckin drink. None of us are going home,’ rasped Gary.

‘Well, why not,’ said Les.

‘Hey, Jesus you’re a good bloke, Les,’ said Gary. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘My pleasure, mate. But remember, you never got it from me. Okay?’

‘Les. Say no more. Say no more.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Les.

‘Anyway,’ said Gary. ‘I’ve rung up to return the favour.’

‘You have?’

‘Bloody oath I have!’ declared Gary. ‘You know Irish John.The Postman.’

‘Irish John? Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘He’s not a bad bloke. But he’s a shocking pisspot.’

‘Yeah. Well, we all know that. Anyhow. His run goes up near the fire station on the corner of Old South Head and…

‘Gilgandra,’ said Les. ‘I know a girl lives up there.’

‘Right,’ answered Gary. ‘Well, down the end of Brassie Street, Irish John said there’s a team of shifties living in a house, don’t do much work.’

‘Go on.’

‘Anyway. Irish John reckons he’s doing the mail up there. And he saw one of them walk into the house carrying a green bag with a black eagle on the side.’

Norton’s ears pricked up. ‘Irish John told you this?’

‘As sure as I’m standing here, Les.’

‘Righto. Give me the address.’ Les got a Biro and wrote it down. ‘And Irish John’s fair dinkum about this?’

‘Mate. He’s over playing pool,’ said Gary. ‘You want me to go and get him?’

‘No. Don’t bother,’ said Les. ‘All right, Gary, thanks for that. I’ll go round and have a look.’

‘No worries. And thanks again for the other, Les.’

‘Any time, mate.’

Les hung up then sat down in the kitchen and took a chomp on his apple. He had another look at the address, then got the street directory from the phone cabinet and came back to the kitchen. Brassie ran between Gilgandra and Warners; about five minutes’ drive away. Les closed the
street directory and looked out the kitchen window. Noticing it was getting dark, he glanced at his watch. I’ll have a bite to eat and watch TV for a while, he thought, then go round and see what’s going on. But between Jacko and Irish John half full of ink, you can bet I’ll be wasting my time. Les finished his apple then made himself a Promite sandwich with all the trimmings and took it into the loungeroom with a cup of tea.

The TV was off, it was completely dark outside and Les was standing in the kitchen dressed in a black bomber jacket, the same grey T-shirt, Levis and a pair of black, ten-hole Doc Martens. So what am I going to say to these kind folks when I knock on their door, he mused, absently jiggling his car keys. Good evening. My name’s Les. Do you mind if I have the green bag with the eagle on the side, please? I know what they’ll say. Les shook his head and stared out at the darkness. Oh well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose. He switched off the lights and locked the house, then climbed behind the wheel of his battered Berlina and drove off.

The lounge at the Rex was in full swing as Les cruised past. But they were long gone at Azulejos when he turned left into Warners Avenue, and Barraclough Park was deserted when he hung a right into Brassie. The house was sitting between two other cottages facing a block of four home units near the end of the street. Les pulled up beneath a streetlight on the opposite side of the road and left the engine running while he checked it out.

It was an old, single-storey brick cottage with a white brick fence at the front divided by a metal gate. A short path lead through weeds and long grass to a small verandah and a front door set between two heavily curtained windows facing the street. A faint light shone through a small pane of stained glass on top of the door, and on the right an empty carport sat in front of a wooden gate leading to a passage running alongside the house. The house was in silence, the surrounding buildings were quiet and the street was empty. Les did a U-turn and parked down from the house with the car facing Warners Avenue, then got out and walked back.

The gate creaked slightly in the darkness when Les opened it; he closed it quietly behind him, then he stepped up and knocked on the door.
There was no immediate answer. But Les was sure he heard movement inside. So he waited a few moments and knocked again. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, then the door opened and Norton found himself facing a lean man with a dark buzz cut and skinny sidelevers, wearing jeans and a dirty white T-shirt several sizes too big for him. From deep in a gaunt, lined face, two bloodshot eyes were spinning around like crazy and he oozed paranoia. Les snatched a quick glance behind the man and saw a short, badly lit hallway with two doors on either side and a dirty wooden floor that led to another door at the end. The man glared wild-eyed at Les, his face a volatile mixture of hatred and suspicion.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled. ‘What do you fuckin want?’

‘Mate,’ said Les easily. ‘All I want is a green bag. That’s all.’

Les was about to explain it belonged to a friend of his, just give it back, he’d be on his way and there’d be no hard feelings, and if he was wrong he’d apologise, when suddenly the bloke started to hyperventilate and the crazed look on his face switched to complete lunacy.

‘Green bag,’ he shrieked. ‘Green fuckin bag. I’ll give you nothing, you cunt. I’ll fuckin kill you.’
Without warning, the man attacked Les in a hissing, cursing hail of punches and kicks.

Taken completely by surprise, Les hardly had time to defend himself and a couple of punches managed to get through, catching him on the eye and mouth, and a kick got him in the groin where luckily the fork in his jeans blunted the blow. However, the man was in such a heightened state of rage, his kicks and punches were mostly ineffective. Not wasting any time, Les set himself and drilled the enraged man with a sizzling straight left, splitting both his lips. The bloke cursed, spat some blood, then came back swinging. Les nailed him with another, even harder, straight left followed by a filthy left hook that mashed the bloke’s nose across his face and sent him reeling back down the hallway into the wall. Les tore after him and kicked him in the stomach and kneecap, kneed him in the balls then whacked him with another left hook and kicked him in the stomach again.

‘You cunt,’ the bloke howled. ‘I’ll fuckin kill you. I’ll kill you.’ The bloke gave a roar, then bounced off the wall, furiously throwing punches at Les.

Les moved to the side, set himself and belted the bloke with an awesome short right that shattered his jaw and knocked out several teeth.
The bloke came straight back at Les, screaming obscenities and throwing punches. Blocking the punches, Les bashed the bloke with a left and a right, then took him by his bloodied T-shirt and slammed his head into the wall, before spinning him across the hallway and slamming his head into the opposite wall, then kicking out his other knee.

‘You cunt,’ screamed the man, still throwing punches through the pain and blood. ‘I’ll kill you, you cunt. I’ll fuckin kill you.’

Les brought his boot up into the bloke’s balls again, elbowed him twice across his broken jaw, then followed up with two more left hooks and another pulverising straight right that sent globs of blood spattering across the walls and floor.

‘Ohh, you cunt. I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin kill you.’ Despite being on the end of a ferocious beating, the enraged man kept coming at Les, his lacerated face twisted into a mask of tortured anger.

Les ducked under another flurry of punches, grabbed the bloke round the knees then picked him up and body-slammed him hard onto the wooden floor, amost breaking his back.

‘Aaarrgh! You cunt,’ hollered the bloke, throwing punches from the floor. ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin kill you.’

By now, Norton’s blood was up. Feeling the bones crunching through his Doc Martens, he kicked all the bloke’s ribs in along one side, then kicked him several times in the head. He jumped on him, jumped on him again, kicked all his other ribs in, kicked him in the kidneys then stomped on his head, grinding the bloke’s face into the floor.

‘Ohhhh, you cunt,’ came a pitiful wail. ‘I’ll kill you. Fuckin kill you.’ Slipping and sliding in his own blood, the bloke made an agonised attempt to get to his knees. ‘You cunt,’ he panted. ‘You’ll get nothing. I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin kill you.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ railed Norton. ‘What are you? A fuckin replicant?’

‘Fuck you,’ the bloke cursed.

‘Yeah, and fuck you too.’ Les stepped back and gave the bloke a solid kick in the ribs followed by another in the head that dropped him flat on his face.

‘Aaarrghh, you cunt. I’ll kill you. I swear to God. I’ll fuckin kill you.’

Les was about to break one of the bloke’s arms, when the front of the house was washed with light and a car pulled up in the driveway. Doors slammed and two men appeared in the doorway dressed much like Les. One had a mop of tight
brown curls, the other’s hair was dyed white and cut close to his scalp. The curly-haired man looked at Les, then noticed the bloke he’d been fighting lying on the floor covered in blood, still cursing Les and punching the air.

‘Shit. That’s Micah,’ yelled the bloke with the curly hair. ‘Get the cunt, Zack.’

‘You go for his throat, Brett,’ his mate yelled back, slamming the door shut behind him.

The two men charged straight at Les, who stepped back to ride the shock. At the same time, Micah managed to push himself to his knees and the two men tripped over his broken, battered body, tumbling clumsily into Les instead of tackling him. Behind a flailing tangle of arms and legs, Les was pushed backwards through the partially open door at the end of the hallway into a dimly lit room, knocking over a Laminex table behind him and everything on it. Managing to stay on his feet in the melee, Les had a moment or two to set himself before Brett scrambled up first, ready for another go.

Stepping back a little, Les pivoted and Brett walked straight into a right cross that sent him crashing over the nearest table, scattering the contents noisily across the room. Turning quickly to his left, Les just had time to move back as Zack
swung a right front kick at his head. Norton stepped around the kick and caught Zack behind the knee with the crook of his right arm, smashed him in the face with a left backfist then slammed his left knee into Zack’s back. Zack howled with pain, then howled again as Les swept him off his feet and he came down hard on his spine onto a heavy iron pot lying on the floor. Not wasting any time, Les stomped a Doc Martens into Zack’s balls, then booted him in the solar plexus before kicking him in the temple, knocking him out cold.

Brett was still groggy. But he got to his feet and came at Les throwing wild punches from all angles. Les went underneath and doubled him up with four solid combination punches that made him gasp with pain. Almost in one movement, Les grabbed Brett by his mop of curly hair, held his head down and smashed his knee up into Brett’s face, spreading his nose across his cheekbones. Still holding Brett’s hair, Les let him fall towards the floor then spun his face around and pounded it with short rights till Brett’s eyes rolled back and he went still. Hearing noises coming from the hallway, Les dropped Brett and stared apprehensively through the open door.