Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (6 page)

Micah was crawling aimlessly around the floor in circles, covered in blood and still cursing Les. ‘Get out of here, you cunt,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll fuckin kill you. I’ll kill you.’

Noticing the heavy iron pot lying on the floor, Les picked it up and flung it at Micah’s head, splitting it open. ‘Ohh, shut the fuck up.’

‘Ahhhrghhh. You rotten, fuckin cunt,’ Micah howled painfully as the iron pot bounced off his bloodied head and clattered across the hallway. ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll dead set fuckin kill you. You cunt.’

‘Good.’ Les ignored him and gazed around the faintly lit room. Besides those that had been knocked over, Les could make out another three tables stacked with gas rings, woks, pots, glass beakers, glass bowls, plastic trays, a set of scales, a pill press and other items, all being cooled by electric fans. The walls were covered with sheets of blue plastic and stacked against the walls were black drums with HAZCHEM markings on the sides; piled next to the drums were plastic bags of white powder and an assortment of other things. Fumes from a pot boiling on one of the tables caught in Norton’s throat and eyes and Les didn’t need a degree in chemistry to know he was standing in a drug lab. Stacked near a door in the corner were three brown plastic garden chairs
and sitting on the top one was a green leather bag with an eagle on the side. Well, I’ll be buggered, smiled Les. There’s Bodene’s bag. Unreal. I’ll put it inside a plastic one to make sure nothing falls out, then hit the toe.

Les picked up an empty plastic bag from a pile on a table, and was about to walk across to the stacked chairs, when the door in the corner opened and a skinny, sallow-faced man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail walked into the room. He was wearing a black T-shirt under a pair of khaki overalls, and cradled in a pair of heavily tattooed arms was a pump-action shotgun. The man spotted Les through the gloom and brought the barrel up.

For a brief moment Norton froze, then his adrenalin kicked in and he dropped the plastic bag and made a frantic leap to the right a split second before the bloke pulled the trigger and blasted a hole in the wall next to the hallway. The man swung the shotgun around and fired again, missing Les, but blowing a burner and the pot boiling on top of it across the room.

His eyes darting around the room, Les noticed a glass container half full of fuming liquid sitting on a table next to a whirling fan. Before Ponytail could pull the trigger again, Les snatched it up
and threw the contents in Ponytail’s face, making him scream, drop the shotgun and start tearing wildly at his eyes. Les flung the glass container aside, then picked the shotgun up by the barrel and swung the butt around, straight across Ponytail’s face, smashing his fingers and all his front teeth. Ponytail fell back against the wall and Les clubbed him over the head with the shotgun, then kept clubbing him until Ponytail slumped to the floor, covered in blood.

Les lowered the shotgun and gave Ponytail a light kick in the ribs. He didn’t move. Les gave him another, and again he didn’t move. Les suddenly noticed the blood and hair all over the gun butt. Shit. I hope I haven’t killed him, he thought. Ahh, fuck it. Too bad if I have. Les dumped the shotgun in the man’s lap then picked up the plastic bag from where he’d dropped it and slipped the green bag inside, feeling the film script and the little books of cartoons as he did. He had a last look around then stepped into the hallway.

Micah was still crawling painfully around the bloodied floor muttering to himself. Les stepped around him and as he did, Micah made a desperate grab for Norton’s leg and tried to bite him.

‘I’ll kill you, you cunt,’ he spluttered through his torn and broken mouth. ‘I’ll fuckin kill you.’

‘Ohh, why don’t you get fucked.’ Not feeling the best after almost getting blasted with a shotgun, Les stepped back and kicked Micah hard in the mouth, smashing several more teeth. ‘Now shut the fuck up, you pain in the arse,’ ordered Les, before kicking Micah in the face again.

‘Ohhrrghhh. You gunt,’ mumbled Micah, trying desperately to raise his battered and bleeding head. ‘I’ll gill you. I’ll gill you. Grrhhggh. Ahgrrhh. Ohhhrrhh,’ he garbled in frustration.

‘Ohh, go fuck yourself.’

Les opened the front door and started to leave when he noticed a flicker of blue flame in the loungeroom. He meant to stop. But before Les knew it, he’d stepped outside onto the verandah and closed the door behind him. A worried look appeared on Norton’s face. Shit. I hope the place isn’t about to catch on fire. Noticing a silver Ford parked in the carport, Les walked over to have a look down the side passage when the sound of a dull explosion came from inside the house, and the room at the end of the hallway burst into flames. Les ran back to the front door when there was a louder explosion followed by another that blew the side windows out.

‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Les. He was about to kick the door in when a ball of fire framed in the stained glass at the top, came roaring up the hallway. Les stepped back and shook his head. ‘Sorry fellahs,’ he said. ‘You’re on your own.’

Les walked smartly back to his car, opened the front door and threw the bag on the passenger seat just as a violent explosion racked the house, blowing away the guttering and sending a hail of roof tiles clattering onto the houses either side and into the street. Les got behind the wheel, started the car and drove off, not turning the lights on till he reached Warners Avenue. By the time he got there, a quick glance in the rear-vision mirror showed the house completely engulfed in bright red flames that lit up the street and sent showers of sparks spiralling into the night sky.

Les returned home via Old South Head Road and came down O’Brien Street past Menny’s pizza shop. He hooked into Cox Avenue, then pulled up in front of Chez Norton, grabbed the plastic bag, locked the car and hurried inside.

‘Holy fuckin shit!’ exclaimed Les, switching on the lights and tossing the bag onto a chair in the loungeroom. ‘And I said I couldn’t get into too much trouble looking for a film script? I’m lucky
I’m alive.’ His eyes zeroed in on the liquor cabinet. ‘Where’s a bloody glass?’

Les poured himself a giant, enormous, Jack Daniel’s and Coke then bolted down half in one go. His eyes spun and his cheeks reddened, then he hoofed down some more.

‘Oh yeah,’ exclaimed Les.

Les had another mouthful then left the rest on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom to check himself out. He had a fat lip, some bark missing and a mouse under his right eye. But that was about all. However, he was spattered with blood and there were globs of it stuck to his Doc Martens. Les stripped off completely and threw all his clothes in the washing machine, added a liberal dose of Dynamo plus a good splash of disinfectant, then switched the machine on the extra heavy cycle. He finished his drink and, while his clothes were going round, hosed off his Doc Martens and left them out in the backyard to dry. After a long hot shower Les changed into a clean white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting grey shorts and, feeling better, poured himself another delicious then went into the loungeroom and sat down to inspect his find. I might have almost got killed, smiled Les, but I’ve survived. And now I’m fifty thousand in front. Maybe more if I string
things out a little. Les winked towards the night sky. Thanks, boss. Les had a sip on his delicious, put it aside and removed the leather handbag from the plastic one.

‘What?’

It wasn’t an eagle on the side of the bag. It was a bat. And when Les opened the bag, instead of finding a film script, he found a black, bound ledger. What he thought were little books of cartoons turned out to be plastic bags full of little white pills. Les pushed the plastic on one bag up against the pills, and stamped on each pill was the outline of a bat. He opened the black bound ledger. Written down the first page was a list of initials and numbers, starting with JB—200. BK—500. JD—500. MW—1000. TN—1000.

‘Oh bugger it.’

Les dropped the ledger on the coffee table, stared at the green bag and its contents and cursed his luck. This is what they were cooking up in there. No wonder that ratbag attacked me when I mentioned green bag. He was wired up to the gills on speed and thought I was some heavy come round to rip off their dope. The bat’s their brand name or whatever and the ledger’s full of dealers and amounts. What a cock-up. Thanks to bloody Irish John, I stumbled onto a team of
meth cooks and nearly got my head blown off over a bag of rotten fuckin Lou Reed. Les stared sourly at the green bag. Right. Well I know where all this is going.

Les took the bags of pills out of the green bag then carried them into the bathroom and tipped the lot down the toilet. It took more than one go. But before long, Les had flushed a fortune in speed through Bondi’s sewerage system. After that, he got a pair of heavy duty scissors and cut the green bag up on the kitchen table along with the clear plastic ones, then compressed everything into a plastic shopping bag. Next, Les ripped all the pages out of the ledger with numbers and intials on them, tore them up and pushed them into the plastic shopping bag as well. Leaving the bag on the kitchen table, Les got a Wettex, some Spray and Wipe and a torch, then went outside and had a good look around the front of the car. There were a few smears of blood on the steering wheel and brake pedal, but that was all. Les cleaned everything off then stuffed the Wettex into the plastic bag with everything else. Satisfied, he went into his room and put on a pair of trainers for a quick stroll down to the coffee shop on the corner.

Leaving the house, Les knew he wasn’t being over cautious. If someone took his number as he
drove off and the police were able to connect him to four deaths in a drug lab, he’d be in very deep shit. And from a callous perspective, the unexpected fire was a good thing. It destroyed any evidence of him being there. As for Irish John and Jacko, if they did mention anything to him, he would simply say, yes, he drove round there. But the place had burnt down. What a bummer. Say no more. Say no more.

When he got to the coffee shop, Les opened their Otto bin and dropped the plastic bag inside, covering it with other rubbish. Convinced his arse was totally covered, Les brushed his hands and after a cursory look around, headed home to settle down in front of the TV with another delicious.

When he picked up the TV guide, Les rolled his eyes in disbelief. The Saturday night movie was
Speed,
with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock. Yeah, that’d be right. Les couldn’t be bothered checking out Foxtel. So he went to a pile of DVDs Warren had brought home from the advertising agency and chose
Walk the Line
with Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon.

Les enjoyed it immensely and couldn’t believe Joaquin Phoenix did all his own singing. He was great. So was Reese Witherspoon and the bloke
who played Jerry Lee Lewis. Les also had to choke back a tear when Johnny Cash proposed to June Carter on stage and she said yes. By golly, sniffed Les, when the movie finished and he put the DVD away. You can’t beat a feel-good movie. I might even buy the soundtrack.

By now Les was bone tired and drained. It’s not every day you beat death by a whisker and have to fight a gang of nutters, after just getting over the flu. He switched off the lights, cleaned his teeth and climbed into bed. Tomorrow he would wake up happy and shiny to another delightful day in beautiful downtown Bondi; and make some more new friends. Les scrunched his head into the pillows, yawned once and nodded off.

L
es woke up in reasonably good shape on Sunday morning to find it was cooler and cloudier than Saturday.
He climbed out of bed, stretched out a couple of yawns, then went to the bathroom. There was no missing his fat lip and the mouse under his right eye. But compared to what could have happened, it was nothing. After finishing in
the bathroom, Les went to the kitchen and put the jug on, then without bothering to get changed, climbed into his trainers and walked down to get the papers.

Back in the kitchen, Les made a pot of tea and decided what he’d have for breakfast. When everything was ready, he sat down relaxed and opened the
Telegraph.

A nasty plane crash in Indonesia took up the first two pages. But on page three was a photo and the heading
BONDI DRUG LAB EXPLODES IN FLAMES. FOUR BODIES FOUND.
Les read avidly over his smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.

The story had come in late, and although the photo was dramatic and the journo had managed to beat the story up as best he could, it still didn’t say any more than Les had surmised. A gun was found in the house. A burnt-out car was in the driveway. Police still hadn’t identified the bodies. And despite Bondi Fire Station being just round the corner, the blaze was so intense, firefighters couldn’t save the house and were pleased they managed to contain the fire to the immediate premises. Police said this was typical of the danger drug labs and other clandestine operations of this nature held for the public. Etc., etc., etc. One sentence made Norton laugh out
loud over his scrambled eggs. Up until the explosions started, neighbours hadn’t heard anything. Yeah, that’d be right, nodded Les. I almost kicked a screaming speed freak to death in the hallway. I fought two other blokes through a drug lab, knocking shit all over the place. A bloke fires a shotgun at me. Cars pull up. Doors are slammed. Blokes are yelling out at the tops of their voices. And the neighbours don’t hear a thing. If someone had been in there smoking a joint and listening to Pink Floyd’s
Dark Side of the Moon,
the cops would have been around before the fire alarm rings on track three. Les breezed through the rest of the paper then opened up the sports section.

‘Oh shit,’ chuckled Les. ‘Have a look at this.’

Under the heading
FLAMBOYANT CLUB OWNER PULLS OFF MASSIVE BETTING COUP
was a photo of Price standing next to the jockey and trainer. He was holding onto Barrow Boy’s bridle and grinning like a rat with a gold tooth.

‘Good on you, mate,’ said Les. ‘Good on you.’ Les read the article and the football results, then got a pair of scissors and cut Price’s article out for his scrapbook. After reading the comics to make sure Torkan had despatched the baddies and got the comely wench, Les opened the
Sun-Herald
to find the drug lab article and photo was almost identical to the
Telegraph’s.
Les finished the papers then put them aside and checked his watch. He poured another cup of tea and took it into the loungeroom to watch
Sunday.

The fire at the drug lab was the third item on the news and apart from the old brick chimney, there was nothing left of the house. A tired-faced police commander reiterated the problem police faced with drug labs, then the news finished and it was onto the feature stories: the ice epidemic sweeping Sydney, and Melbourne gangsters.

The ice story centred mainly around some skinny gay bloke who’d lost count of how many blokes had bonked him while he was out skating over the last three years. But it was all cool. He was straight now and had his shit and his tush together. The Melbourne gangster story was better: a baby-faced killer who could still smile after getting a thirty-five-year lagging. But although he’d moved millions of dollars’ worth of pills and either murdered or organised the murders of a raft of rivals in the drug trade, his parents said he was a terrific kid with a great sense of humour, loved animals and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, that’d be right, agreed Les. If me and Eddie got arrested for all the people we’ve
sent to an early grave, our parents would say the same about us. My oath they would.
Sunday
finished with a great story about a young Bondi girl who could play bass guitar like a demon and was killing them overseas.

Les cleaned up in the kitchen and by the time he’d put the last plate away, things were stirring inside him. Tea was always nice. But the big red-headed Queenslander needed a cup of coffee. A flat white or a cappuccino would suffice. A crisp latte would be even better. Les changed into a clean pair of jeans, a blue Brazilian soccer T-shirt he bought at the op-shop in Hall Street and a black hooded tracksuit top. After plonking his baseball cap on his head, he put his mobile in the front pocket of his top, locked the house and strolled nonchalantly down to Gabrielle’s and Liza’s.

The owner and the staff gave him a welcoming smile when he walked in and Les was delighted to see Louise and Jenny, wearing jeans and fleecy tops waving to him from the old, blue Chesterfield inside. Les ordered a latte, eased his frame through the other punters and joined his two workmates.

‘Hello, ladies,’ smiled Les, pulling up a seat. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Good, Les,’ said Louise. ‘How’s yourself?’

‘Not too bad, thanks,’ replied Les.

‘Shit! What happened to your face?’ asked Jenny.

‘I was sparring with a bloke down the surf club. And he got a bit carried away.’

‘So I imagine you sorted him out,’ said Jenny.

‘Yes. You could say that,’ replied Les.

‘God. I’d hate to have your job,’ said Louise.

‘Yeah, well. Someone has to do it,’ shrugged Les. He looked up as his coffee arrived, thanked the girl then turned to the others. ‘So how was it up there last night?’

‘How was it?’ echoed Jenny exchanging glances with Louise. ‘It was unreal.’

‘Oh?’ said Les, taking a sip of coffee.

‘After work,’ said Louise, ‘we were having a few staffies. And Mr Galese came around with the biggest bag of money I’ve ever seen. And gave everyone a thousand dollars.’

‘A thousand bucks?’ said Les.

‘Yes. Cash,’ said Jenny. ‘Fifties and hundreds.’

‘Shit,’ groaned Les. ‘And I have to take the night off.’

‘I’ve had my eye on this dress up in Bondi Junction for months,’ said Louise. ‘It’ll be in my wardrobe tomorrow morning. With a matching handbag and shoes.’

‘What a boss,’ said Jenny, taking a sip of her flat white. ‘Honestly. He’s a saint.’

‘He’s a knight,’ smiled Les. ‘I can verify that.’

The girls were in a great mood as they all chit-chatted away over their coffees about work and other things. He also agreed with the girls that Billy’s cousin Royce was a bit of a spunk and Eddie always looked sinister when he wore his black leather jacket. The conversation swung round to movies and Les was telling them about
Walk the Line
when his phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Les Norton?’

‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

‘You don’t know me,’ said the voice. ‘But I’m a friend of Bodene Menjou’s.’

‘Hang on.’ Les turned to the girls. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said, then stood up and took his phone out onto the footpath. ‘Now what did you just say? You’re a friend of Bodene Menjou’s.’

‘That is right, my friend.’ The voice was guttural and sounded foreign.

‘So what are you ringing me for? And how did you get my phone number?’

‘Through a mutual aquaintance.’

‘All right,’ said Les carefully.

‘I hear you’re looking for a film script. In a green bag with an eagle on the side.’

This took Les back a little. ‘I could be,’ he answered. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I might be able to help you,’ said the voice.

‘Oh? And what’s your end?’

‘Satisfaction. That’s all.’

‘Okay,’ said Les, somewhat mystified.

A sudden sneeze sounded at the end of the line, before the voice asked. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Not much. Having a coffee. Kicking back.’

‘Go down to the Bondi Markets. Check out the stalls. And ask the woman who does the tarot reads. You might find what you’re looking for.’

‘The Bondi Markets?’ said Les.

‘That’s right,’ said the voice. ‘I’ll ring you back later.’

‘Hang on. What…?’ The voice hung up. Les thought for a moment, then put his phone back in his top and went in to rejoin the others.

They ordered more coffees and talked for a while before they were all caffeined out and ready to go their separate ways. ‘So what are you girls doing now?’ asked Les.

Louise shook her head. ‘I’ve got a stack of housework to do. Starting with a pile of washing.’

‘I’m going to Bondi Junction and check out the specials,’ smiled Jenny. ‘What about you, Les?’

‘Me,’ replied Les. ‘I might go down and check out the Bondi Markets.’

‘Not a bad way to spend Sunday afternoon,’ said Louise. ‘I wish I was going with you.’

They paid the bill then stepped outside and went their separate ways. The girls walked up to Six Ways, where Louise had left her car. Les strolled down Hall Street towards Campbell Parade.

Well, that’s a funny one, thought Les, as he neared the Post Office. Some rooster ringing me up out of the blue, telling me where to look for Menny’s script. Whoever it is, they know what they’re talking about. I wonder if it was Lasjoz? He could have got my number off Menny and the voice had a gravelly, European sound. Deep Throat, smiled Les. That’s what I’ve found myself. A Deep Throat. Yeah. Between Irish John and Deep Throat, you can bet I’ll finish up in more deep shit. Les joined the Sunday push along Campbell Parade and walked down to Bondi Beach Public School.

For a cloudy day, the markets were in full swing, with no shortage of casually dressed punters looking for bargains. Les tended to
avoid the place because of the crowds. But now and again he’d pop in to buy a T-shirt, a book or some CDs and it was always a good perv. He stepped through the school gate and joined the throng meandering past stalls selling designer and recycled clothes, paintings, bric-a-brac, body oils, sunglasses, all types of jewellery, Tibetan prayer flags, Laotian fisherman’s pants, miniature musical instruments, hip flasks, and T-shirts with anyone on the front from Che Guevara to the Three Stooges. Or cryptic messages such as VOTE PEDRO or EVERYTHING BEGINS WITH E. Next to a tent offering Thai massage, Les stopped at a stall selling badges and buttons. A yellow one saying I’M NOT REAL SMART BUT I CAN LIFT HEAVY THINGS caught his eye. Just what I need for work, smiled Les. He paid the bloke and put it in his pocket.

Les drifted up to the stalls at the back selling secondhand goods. He found umbrellas, shoes, toys, kettles, toasters, rolling pins and an assortment of junk you’d probably get cheaper in an op shop. There were backpacks and handbags. But the only green bag was an old vinyl thing with a loose clasp. He checked the stalls thoroughly then looked for the woman that did tarot readings.

Les found her sitting in a small clearing under a tree at a fold-up table covered by a blue cloth. She had a friendly, studious face and straight brown hair, and had on a black top under a loose-fitting blue shirt. A pair of glasses sat halfway down her nose and a gemstone necklace rested across her top. She was on her own, idly shuffling a well-worn set of tarot cards. Les caught her eye and walked up to the empty chair in front of her.

‘G’day,’ said Les. ‘All right if I sit down?’

‘Please do,’ offered the woman.

Les sat down and shuffled the chair a little closer to the table. ‘My name’s Les.’

‘Hello, Les. I’m Rose,’ smiled the woman.

Les waited a moment. ‘What do you know about a green bag, Rose?’

The woman’s smile disappeared and she tilted her head up to fix Les through her glasses. ‘What?’

‘A green bag with a black eagle on the side. I was told you might know something about it.’

Rose looked at Les as if he’d just walked into her house and across her carpet with dog shit all over his shoes. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Yeah. I’m fine,’ replied Les.

‘Are you a policeman?’

Les shook his head. ‘No. Not at all.’

‘Do you work with my son at the brewery?’

‘No. I…work at the Cross.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The woman picked up a brown tapestry bag from near her feet and put it on the table. ‘There. That’s my bag,’ she said, then pointed to the cards and the sign above her saying TAROT READINGS. ‘And do I look like I deal in bags? she asked.

Les felt like a complete idiot. ‘I’m really sorry, Rose,’ he blurted. ‘I’ve…I’ve got you mixed up with someone else.’ Les got up to leave, then hesitated. ‘Hey, while I’m here. Why don’t you give me a tarot reading?’

‘I charge fifteen dollars,’ said the woman, placing her bag back at her feet. ‘Have you got any money—Les, is it?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Les. ‘Yeah I got money, Rose. Heaps.’ Les pulled a healthy roll of fifties and twenties out of his pocket. ‘Do you want me to pay you now?’

‘No. That’s all right,’ said Rose. She pushed the cards across to Norton. ‘Okay, Les. Shuffle the cards.’

‘Righto.’

Automatically, Les shuffled the cards like they did at work. He flicked them around, cut them several times and handed them back to Rose.

‘I see you’ve done that before, Les,’ smiled Rose. She had a soothing manner and Les began to feel less uncomfortable as she took the cards.

‘Yeah. I play a bit of manilla at a friend’s house,’ he replied.

‘All right, Les,’ said Rose. ‘We’ll just do a six card read. Pick six cards.’ Carefully Les did what he was told. ‘Now put them down on the table like a cross.’ With Rose directing him, Les again did what he was told. ‘How long since you’ve had a tarot reading?’ asked Rose, putting the remaining cards to one side.

‘I’ve never had one,’ answered Les.

‘Well. Different readers have different interpretations. But I’ll give you my interpretation. I’ve been told I’m fairly accurate. Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got here.’ Rose turned the cards over in the order Les had placed them on the table. She studied them for a few moments, and raised her eyebrows.

‘All right, are they?’ asked Les. ‘I’m not going to get run over by a bus, am I? Or hit by lightning?’