Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (8 page)

‘Kriminal! Kriminal!’ the old woman shrieked as she whacked into Les with the rake handle. ‘What you are doing in my belongings, kriminal? Go vay. Go vay, kriminal.’

‘Jesus Christ! Piss off will you,’ yelled Les, trying to ward off the blows.

Les was slipping and sliding around in the mud and rubbish when two women, a little younger but similar in looks and clothing to the older one, came from the door at the corner of the house and joined in the attack. One had a dust broom, the other a squeeze mop.

‘Kriminal. Kriminal,’ they shrieked, as they helped the older woman bash into Les. ‘Die, kriminal bastard. Die.’

Under a torrent of blows from the three women, Les staggered to his feet and picked up an overnight bag full of stinking wet rags. He hurled it at the younger woman on the left, who screamed as it knocked her on her backside amongst the piles of rubbish. This sent the other two women into an even wilder frenzy.

‘Bastard! Bastard!’ they spat at Les, furiously raining blows upon him. ‘Murdering kriminal bastard. Die, stinking shit bastard.’

‘Ohh fuck you,’ howled Les. ‘Stick your lousy rubbish in your arse.’ Les hastily stepped back out of the driveway to the other side of the footpath and stared at the three women in disbelief before beating a retreat to the safety of his car. The three women continued to shriek at him, still brandishing their cudgels.

‘Kriminal! Kriminal!’ they shouted.

‘Go from our street, kriminal!’

‘Yes. And doesn’t coming back. Bastard!’

‘Christ! You needn’t worry about that,’ said Les, painfully getting back behind the wheel. ‘You’re off your fuckin heads.’

Les started the car and the wheels spun on the wet road before he sped off, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the three maddened women in the shortest time possible.

Les hung two lefts before he pulled up for the lights at the Royal Hotel and checked himself out in the rear-vision mirror. As well as being soaking wet and covered in filth, there was blood all through his cap and trickles were running down his face and dripping off his chin. Under his top, he could feel welts along his arms and across his shoulders. A family pulled up alongside in a station wagon and they all stared at his condition. Les snarled back at them and roared off down Denham Street when the lights changed, not stopping till he pulled up outside Chez Norton. Checking to see there were no neighbours around, Les dragged his sorry arse out of the car, locked it and went inside.

In the bathroom, Les couldn’t believe the dishevelled, bloodied face staring back at him in the mirror. ‘Shit! Can I find them or what,’ he cursed. ‘This is getting to be a bloody habit.’

Les went to the laundry, stripped off and once again threw everything into the washing machine along with plenty of Dynamo and a liberal splash of Pine O Cleen. While that was going round, he got under the shower and let the hot water sting all the cuts as he washed away the dirt and blood. Under closer
inspection with a hand mirror, none of the cuts needed stitching, but he was covered in welts and the crazed women had landed a few blows across his jaw and nose. After a long, hot shower, Les ran a bath, added some Dettol and had a good soak while he cursed his luck once more. You hate me, don’t you, boss, he grimaced, staring out the bathroom window. I know you do. That’s okay, mate. I can handle it. But just tell me the reason. I do have rights, you know.

After getting out of the bath, Les dried off, dabbed some Dettol cream on his cuts and welts, and wrapped a blue check cotton scarf round his head. He changed into a grey, fleecy lined tracksuit, poured himself a delicious and settled down to watch the Sunday football. Brisbane vs Manly—which turned out a pretty good game, with Brisbane getting up at the death, 34–30. Half full of delicious, Les grilled a T-bone which he devoured with brown rice and salad, tea and toast.

Once he’d cleaned up in the kitchen, Les packed a bag with what he thought he’d need in Terrigal, including his Speedos and snorkelling gear. Satisfied he had everything, he dropped some Panadeine capsules, made a delicious, then
settled back in front of the TV with another one of Warren’s DVDs,
300.

It wasn’t the most boring movie Les had ever watched. But for all the hype, it was up there with them. The whole thing was nothing but a surge of flashing white grins and buffed-up six-packs topped by non-stop macho posturing in leather jockstraps. David Wenham traipsed around looking and sounding like Vincent van Gogh after he cut his ear off. Maybe it was all the paracetamol and delicious topped off by a bad day. But after the two-hundredth severed limb fell to the ground and the hundredth decapitated head rolled away, Les was on the nod. The only brief enlightenment occurred in the temple, when the king’s wife stabbed the bloke who porked her behind her husband’s back. By golly, thought Les, when he put the DVD away, not much point having a stray root back in old Sparta town. You’d be better off with a copy of
Playboy
and a full hand going alone. Les put his mobile phone on charge, switched off the lights and climbed into bed looking forward to an early night. His last thoughts, after he adjusted the scarf round his head, were—thank Christ I’m getting out of Bondi for a couple of days. Les gave one mighty yawn then blacked out.

L
es woke up in fairly good spirits the next morning and rose not long after the sun.
Outside a few clouds were still hanging around in the light sou’wester, but the rain had gone, leaving a delightful crispness in the air. He went to the bathroom, took the scarf off and checked himself out. His face had seen better days, and he had welts all over him, however the bleeding had stopped and his clothing had protected him from the worst of the crazed women’s attack. He picked up his toothbrush and smiled at himself in the mirror.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ winked Les. ‘You’re still a handsome, handsome brute.’

When he finished in the bathroom, Les changed into a fresh pair of jeans, a white Jimmy Buffett T-shirt and a clean pair of AND 1 trainers.

He went to the kitchen, put the kettle on and made two toasted cheese sandwiches and a mug of tea. He’d have a bigger breakfast at Terrigal, and Les felt the sooner he got going the better. He cleaned up, put his phone in his backpack, snuck two thousand dollars out from behind the panel in his wardrobe and had a last look around. Satisfied everything was in order, Les locked the
house and took his bags out to the car. Ten minutes later Les was on the other side of Bondi Junction heading for the Eastern Distributor.

Traffic was light heading out of Sydney and Les fiddled around with FM radio to get some music and pass the time. After a non-stop barrage of gibberish, ads, and the Eagles playing ‘Hotel California’ fifteen times in a row, Les changed to AM for news and views. Apart from the usual ABC blandness, all he got was a right-wing shock jock on one station debunking global warming and cheering on the war in Iraq, and two politically correct schlock jocks on another station called Mutt and Jeff or something, trying to be funny. Mutt was trying that hard he was giving himself a strangulated hernia and still getting nowhere. I think the best way to sum those two up, thought Les, when he stopped near Gordon for petrol and the paper, is Mutt talks through his arse and Jeff talks through his nose. As soon as Les paid for his purchases, he pissed the radio off and slipped on a tape. Soon Steely Dan was bopping out ‘Cousin Dupree’ which cut into Gina Jeffreys’s raunchy version of the old Janis Joplin song ‘Mercedes Benz’. Before Les knew it, he was on the F3 and it was music all the way to the Central Coast.

Driving along with the music playing, Les reflected on his two previous trips to the Central Coast. The first time he met up with crazy Sophia and kind of had fun getting his brains bonked out. But the second trip when he teamed up with Jimmy Rosewater was sad. Jimmy had too much going for him and was too good-looking to die so young. Turning out to be George Brennan’s illegitimate son made it even sadder. But, mused Les, I guess that’s the way it goes. One thing for sure, ain’t nothing going to happen to me this time. No woman would give me a second look with my head the way it is. And I sure as hell ain’t getting into any fights. They can laugh, chaff and poke shit at me, I will not react. I’ll get my master key, kick back and relax with a few drinks at wherever it is I’m staying.

Before Les knew it, the Moonee Moonee Bridge was behind him and he was hanging a right at Bluetongue Stadium. He hung another right at Erina Fair into Terrigal Drive, and Alabama 3 were crackling into ‘Cocaine Killed My Community’ when Les cruised into Terrigal with the ocean on his left.

There’d been some development since Les had been there last, including a row of prestige units on the right. The Flathead Spot had grown and
moved next door and there was a new surf club. The road had been narrowed into a one-way strip heading towards the Haven and the footpath on the right was now a wide boulevard full of restaurants with outdoor dining. Les slowed down for the speed humps before coming to a three-way pedestrian crossing where the resort stood on the corner. May as well cruise the rest of the hood, shrugged Les, and hung a right.

The little butcher shop was still next to the fruit shop and there were two more restaurants with bars above overlooking the street. The church was still open for business, but the hardware store was now a gourmet pizza restaurant with a classy looking little bar next door called the Point. Les hung a right at the bank and came down Church Street.

Coffee shops had sprung up everywhere and the punters grouped outside one opposite the police station gave it the appearance of a scene. Les hung another right at the end and found a Subway franchise, and the one-man barber shop opposite the TAB was gone, replaced by a juice bar. Les turned right again at a fish café next to an Italian restaurant sitting alongside the local cake shop, then checked out the water through the towering pine trees. He continued on past the
resort where an open-air restaurant facing the beachfront caught his eye, then checked the address again as the road rose past the Skillion. Where it curved towards the approaching houses and units, he found what he was looking for: Ocean Star Apartments, a spreading complex of clay-coloured units with rounded balconies and bay windows facing the ocean. Les pulled up at a blue wrought-iron gate set in a wide driveway flanked by palm trees and pressed the buzzer.

‘Hello?’ a voice crackled over the intercom.

‘Yeah. Is Glen Kaplan there please?’ asked Les.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Les Norton. Eddie Salita’s mate. I rang you yesterday.’

‘Sure, Les. Come straight in. I’ve been expecting you.’

‘Thanks.’

The gate swung open, Les switched off the car stereo and followed a curved driveway past a tennis court to the main entrance where a bank of shimmering glass windows faced a magnificent three-tiered fountain nestled amongst several fat palm trees. He stopped and cut the engine just as a dapper man with short grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache appeared from behind a glass door wearing a
red striped shirt with a button-down collar and jeans. He waited till Les got out of the car and stepped up to him with a friendly smile.

‘Les,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘I’m Glen. The manager.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Glen,’ replied Les, shaking Glen’s hand.

‘How was the trip up from Sydney?’

‘Good,’ nodded Les. He cast an eye around the units and the beautifully landscaped grounds thick with healthy palm trees. ‘Crikey. Not a bad spread you’ve got here, Glen.’

The manager winked. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, mate. Grab your stuff and we’ll get you stowed away.’

‘Righto.’ Les got his bags from the back seat of the Berlina and followed Glen into the lobby. ‘Do I have to fill in a form?’

Glen patted Norton’s shoulder. ‘No. Don’t worry about it. You’re a special guest.’

‘Thanks.’

Les was impressed from the moment he stepped inside. The resort was all class and good taste. Original oil paintings hung along sparkling white walls and stands holding up teak yachts with metal sails reflected off scrupulously polished wooden floors. A tan leather lounge
faced the front desk and office where a carved wooden Buddha, decorated with frangipanis, sat near the windows. Everything was softly lit and pleasantly air-conditioned. Glen led Les along a short hallway to an elevator and pushed a button.

‘So where do you know Eddie from?’ asked Les, as they waited for the lift. ‘Through Price?’

Glen shook his head. ‘No. I used to live next door to him in Sydney. He did me a couple of favours.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. One of my daughters had a hot-blooded boyfriend who didn’t know what adios and goodbye meant. So Eddie had a word with him.’

‘And you never saw him again, I presume,’ smiled Les.

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Glen. ‘In fact no one has, for that matter. Him or his hot-blooded brother.’

‘Yes. Eddie’s very efficient like that,’ said Les.

Glen smiled. ‘He tells me you’re very efficient at what you do too, Les.’

Before Les had a chance to reply, the lift stopped and he was following Glen down a hallway hung with more oil paintings, till Glen opened a white door numbered eight.

‘There you go, Les,’ said Glen, moving aside. ‘That do you?’

Les stepped inside and gave a double blink. ‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘Who owns this? The Sultan of Brunei?’

Les dropped his bag in the hall and followed Glen into a huge loungeroom where a caramel-coloured ottoman that would have held a football team sat on ankle-deep white carpet. All around, the apartment was done out in Italian white marble, and next to the lounge was a dining room with a glass table and eight tapestry chairs. Crystal chandeliers tinkled from the ceiling, copper urns filled with artificial flowers sat on glass tables and a stereo and a widescreen TV faced the lounge, while the predominantly white decor was broken by the striking blue of several Brett Whiteleys. Three bedooms ran off the hallways and adjacent to the lounge was a fully equipped, state-of-the-art kitchen. Glen slid open a glass door and allowed Les to step out onto a massive balcony spread with top-of-the-range outdoor furniture and a view that went from the boats in Terrigal Haven to the lighthouse at Norah Head.

‘Not a bad view, Les,’ said Glen.

‘Reckon.’ Les pointed to a chain of tankers anchored out to sea. ‘What’s with all the ships? It looks like the D-day invasion.’

‘They’re coal loaders,’ replied Glen. ‘There’d be at least seventy between here and Newcastle waiting to load up.’ The manager glanced at a pager on his belt. ‘Les. I have to go. I’ve got twenty Germans arriving any minute.’

He handed Les a key ring with what looked like a small black ceramic crayon attached to it. ‘There’s the key to the door. The pointer’s for the security gate and the garage. Just follow the signs downstairs to the garage.’

‘Righto,’ replied Les, taking the key ring.

Glen started to move off. ‘Anything you want. Give me a bell.’

‘Okay. And thanks, Glen. This is…I don’t know. What can I say?’

‘No worries, mate,’ winked Glen.

The door opened and closed and Glen was gone, leaving Les to his own devices. He gazed at the view for a few moments then got his bag from the hall and took it into the master bedroom.

Like the rest of the apartment, it was mainly white Italian marble. A queen-size bed with a white duvet sat against one wall, and amongst the plush trappings another Brett Whiteley and a William Dobell faced a bay window with the same view as from the balcony. A sparkling white ensuite ran off the bedroom. Shit. How did I
fluke this? Les asked himself as he placed his bag on the bed. I’m going to have to milk Glen for another couple of days. A fortnight would be even better. Les started to unpack, then thought it might be a good idea to move his battered old car from the driveway first; he left his bag and took the lift back to the lobby. Just as he got behind the wheel, a tour bus pulled up behind him and disgorged a party of very sober, very correctly dressed men and women. That’s got to be the boxheads, smiled Les, checking them out through his rear-vision mirror. All oudt for extremely serious fun unt games, ja? Les slipped the Berlina into drive and moved off.

Les followed the signs down and came to another gate. He pushed the pointer into a small aperture in the wall and the gate swung open. A little further on he found a three-car garage with the door open and number eight on the wall alongside. Les parked his car and without bothering to lock the garage, caught the lift back up to the lobby and went for a walk around.

A landscaped path edged with lava rock led down to an open-air pool and a restaurant that faced a waterfall splashing down into pool full of golden carp. Les watched several fat carp blowing bubbles amongst the water lillies for a moment,
then followed another set of stairs back up to the fountain.

To the right was a cosy snooker room and library hung with spectacular Tim Jones and Bosko surfing photos, taken at Teahupo’o in Tahiti. Les dwelled on a ripper shot snapped inside a filthy four-metre barrel by the mighty Bosko, then left and walked back out round the fountain and past the tennis court. Through a landscaped alcove a glass door led to a fully equipped gymnasium, and a door opposite opened onto a heated indoor pool. Les let himself in and found comfortable wicker chairs and tables on this side of the pool, and life-size Egyptian murals of pharaohs and priests, alongside panels of Egyptian hieroglyphics on the wall opposite. The ceiling above the pool was a thick cobalt blue and dotted with tiny lights that twinkled on and off like stars. This would look something else at night, surmised Les, and was thinking of taking a closer look at the murals, but a woman was using the pool, so rather than look like he was perving on her, Les left the woman to her splashing about and returned to his room.

After pouring himself a glass of cold water from a jug in the fridge, Les took it out on the
balcony to enjoy the view again. He drained the glass and was about to finish unpacking his bag, when a rumbling in his stomach reminded Les all he’d eaten that morning were two paltry toasted cheese sandwiches. It was time for something more substantial. He could have eaten in the apartment. But Les decided he’d walk down to the shops, where the open-air restaurant he’d noticed beneath the resort looked all right. Les picked up his backpack and with his faithful green Bugs Bunny cap firmly on his head, caught the lift down to the lobby. He let himself out the security gate, adjusted his sunglasses and strolled happily down to the beach front, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with any passersby.

The restaurant was called Serene’s and sat in a half-circle of shops that belonged to the resort. Chairs and tables were set out in the open and there was an indoor dining area and kitchen where a colourful mural of a village scene covered the walls. Les chose a table near the hotel’s beer garden and settled down with his morning paper. Several waitresses in black were hovering around the punters at the other tables, including an Asian girl with a flower in her hair and a tall woman with glasses. Les was studying the menu when an attractive waitress with dark brown hair pulled
back in an untidy ponytail that had a pair of sunglasses jammed in it, appeared at his table holding a Palm Tec waiter’s pad. She had big boobs and a solid backside and the way she stood next to the table seemed to display an aura of haughty insouciance. Les wasn’t sure whether it was his perception of the girl’s attitude, the trouble she appeared to be having with the electronic waiter’s pad, or the smartarse that always came out in him when he wore his Bugs Bunny cap, but Les felt compelled to have a go at her. He watched the waitress vexatiously stabbing the pointer at her waiter’s pad for a moment, then closed the menu and looked up.