Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (9 page)

‘Do you happen to work here at all?’ sniffed Les, giving the waitress a cavalier once-up-and-down.

The girl took a deep breath. ‘No,’ she replied indifferently. ‘They just pay me to stand around and make the place look good.’

‘Yeah? Well you can tell whoever owns the place, they’re wasting their money. Now if you’re finished talking to your boyfriend on the phone, I’d like to order.’

‘It’s not a phone,’ smouldered the girl. ‘It’s a…’ She was about to swear then stopped. ‘Palm Tec waiter’s pad,’ she replied.

‘Oh? And do you have to be a rocket scientist to work it, do you?’ enquired Les.

‘No,’ replied the girl. ‘You just have to be Jesus Christ to put up with some of the customers. That’s all.’

‘Oh? Is that right?’ said Les.

‘Yes,’ answered the girl. ‘And if you’re having trouble reading the menu,’ she added with an icy smile, ‘we have another inside with big letters and little bunny rabbits and monkeys on it.’

‘Really?’ said Les. ‘Well, while you’re on the subject of monkeys, do you mind if I offer you some advice?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ replied the girl. ‘What is it?’

‘If you happen to pass a woman in the street with a really nice hairdo, ask her the name of her hairdresser. And if she won’t tell you, grab her by the arm and start crying.’

The waitress studied Norton’s face for a moment. ‘And may I offer you some advice too, sir?’

‘Sure,’ smiled Les.

‘Don’t wear that mask when you’re out in public. You don’t only look stupid, you’re scaring the children and making the dogs bark. Now,’ she smiled back. ‘Would you care to order? Or would you prefer to sit there looking like you just got booted off
Big Brother
?’

‘No. I’ll have scrambled eggs and bacon on Turkish with grilled tomato, please.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah. An Al Pacino, thanks.’

‘A what?’ said the girl.

‘Sorry,’ apologised Les. ‘I forgot. I’m out in the bush. I’ll have a latte. And make sure it’s in a clean glass.’

‘Sorry. But we’re fresh out of clean glasses,’ apologised the girl. ‘How about a dirty one and a piece of newspaper to wipe it with?’

Before Les could reply, the waitress turned and walked off. He continued reading his paper and a few minutes later the girl was back with his latte in one hand and his cutlery wrapped in a serviette in the other.

‘If you’re curious,’ the girl smiled pleasantly, ‘the silver things are a knife and fork. You use them to eat with. The fork is the one with the little pointy bits at the end. Any problems,’ she purred, ‘tell me. And I’ll get you a nice big spoony-woonie and a nice little bibby-wib. Okay?’

Again the girl walked off leaving Les with his coffee and paper. Les sugared his coffee and took a sip. Shit! he thought. There’s nothing wrong with the coffee. It’s the grouse. Les read the paper
and by the time the girl came back with his breakfast, he’d finished his coffee.

‘There you are, sir. Scrambled eggs and bacon on Turkish. Sorry about the plate,’ she smiled. ‘But the chef’s using the bucket. Someone stole his spittoon.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Les. ‘Saves him using your handbag. But you can bring me another latte when you’re ready.’

‘Coming right up.’

Les watched the girl walk away, then started eating. His food was delicious. The eggs were creamy, the tomato was perfect, the bacon had been crisped on a char grill and the bread was toasted and buttered to perfection. Les ripped in. He was still ripping in when the girl arrived with his coffee.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ the girl asked, placing Norton’s coffee on the table, along with the bill.

‘Mmhglihrrf,’ Les nodded enthusiastically through a mouthful of food.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she answered.

The girl walked away leaving Les to his meal. He polished it off then lingered over the paper with his coffee. Several punters came and went, the boats bobbed up and down in the sparkling blue waters of the Haven and a flock of
screeching seagulls attacked a pile of leftover chips someone had thrown to them near the pine trees. Les finished his coffee, glanced at his watch and decided to make a move. He put his paper back in his bag, picked up the bill and walked over to the register where the girl was standing on her own. She glanced up at Norton’s arrival.

‘Everything to sir’s satisfaction,’ she asked, unctuously.

‘Absolutely delightful,’ replied Les, handing her a fifty.

‘Oh I’m so pleased,’ said the girl. ‘Otherwise my whole day would have been completely ruined.’

Les took his change then fished in the pocket of his jeans and came up with another fifty. ‘There you go gorgeous,’ he said, handing her the money. ‘Buy yourself a new hairbrush. Get four. One for each side of your head.’ Before she could reply, Les turned and was on his way. He’d just made it past the first table when a voice called out.

‘This better not be counterfeit, Ugly. We’ve had your type in here before.’

Cursing inwardly, Les tried to ignore her and left the restaurant. So what will I do now? mused Les, as he stood gazing around on the footpath. I could check out the punters in the
hood. But it’s not getting any earlier, why don’t I drive out to Long Jetty and get my key? He put his sunglasses on and followed the hill back to the resort.

Les didn’t bother going into his apartment. Instead he went straight down to the garage, got his car and headed off out the main gate. Now, if I remember right, Long Jetty is on the way to The Entrance, he told himself. So if I go back the way I came in, I should get there okay. Les switched the tape deck on and with Marcia Ball hollering ‘Louella’, did a victory lap of Terrigal via the police station then drove past the hotel opposite the lagoon and headed for Erina Fair and the roundabout onto The Entrance Road.

Before long Les had passed Forresters Beach and Bateau Bay Village. Then the road narrowed and it was all shops and business outlets on either side. Les checked the address on the piece of paper next to him. He went past Tuggerah Lakes RSL and an old hall further on, before he found what he was looking for on the opposite side of the road, between a surf shop and a hairdresser. Taylor’s Hardware and Paint. Keys Cut. Gas Bottles Filled. Les waited for the traffic, did a U-turn then pulled up out the front and cut the engine.

The front window was written over with whatever specials were on offer and in an alcove on the right, another window with less sign writing sat next to a fly-screen door. Les got out of the car, walked over and stepped inside. Along one wall were cans of paint, brushes, rollers and buckets, etc. Tables of paint and other items sat in the middle and on the other wall were gardening tools, rakes, pinch bars, drills, electric chainsaws and so forth. The counter was down the back with the cash register at one end and a paint mixer at the other.

Standing in the middle, wearing a grey dust coat, was a tall man with a long face and untidy black hair going grey. A pair of dark eyes set deep beneath his forehead seemed to say he’d seen it all, and a pair of glasses hung on a plastic chain round his neck. He looked up impassively as Les approached.

‘Yeah. What can I do for you, mate?’ he asked quietly.

‘Are you Kenny Taylor?’ asked Les.

‘I could be. Who wants to know?’

‘My name’s Les Norton. I believe Eddie Salita rang you about me yesterday.’

‘Ahh yes. You’re the man who wants a zinger. How are you, Les. I’m Kenny.’

‘Nice to meet you, Kenny,’ said Norton, shaking the offered hand. ‘So what is it you just said I needed?’ Les asked.

‘A zinger,’ replied Kenny. ‘That’s what I call my version, anyway. Wait here a sec.’

The owner disappeared through a door at the back and returned with a small black plastic box, longer, but half as wide as, a cigarette packet.

He placed it on the counter and flicked it open. Inside was a shiny stainless-steel object resembling a small torch. There was a black button on the top and at one end was a thin, shiny steel rod, flattened and serrated at the point. Kenny took the metal object out of the plastic box and placed it on the counter.

‘So that’s a zinger,’ said Les. ‘What’s it do?’

‘I suppose you’ve seen those secret-agent movies, Les,’ answered Kenny, ‘where one of Charlie’s Angels or whoever jiggles a thing in a lock and the door pops open.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘But they didn’t look like that.’

‘No. Because half of those things are bullshit. They do work, but mostly on one brand of lock. This opens the lot.’ Kenny picked up the zinger, slid his finger along the steel rod and opened a small aperture on the side. ‘Mine works on a
titanium oscillator and two A4 batteries. See?’ Les had a look and nodded before Kenny closed the aperture. ‘What it does, it dislodges the pins inside the lock. Takes seconds at the most.’

‘Right,’ nodded Les.

Kenny pressed the black button and the steel rod vibrated strongly, making a quiet, ringing sound. ‘All you do is poke the oscillator in the keyhole and keep your finger on the button till you hear the pins click. Then push the door open. Sometimes you might have to turn a latch. But that’s all. Here,’ said Kenny, switching off the zinger. ‘You have a go.’

Les took the zinger and pressed the button at the back. He ran it for a moment or two, then took his finger off the button and handed it back to Kenny. ‘Looks all right to me, Kenny,’ said Les. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty bucks,’ replied the locksmith, placing the zinger back in its plastic box.

Les fished a roll of hundreds from his jeans and slid them across the counter. ‘Why don’t we make it a thousand, and call it square.’

‘Thanks very much, Les,’ said Kenny, transferring the money to a pocket in his dust coat. ‘And if anybody should ask you, you never got it from me. Okay?’

‘If anybody should ask,’ replied Les, ‘they’ll get the same answer they always get. I got it off a bloke down the pub. And he didn’t tell me his name.’

‘Lovely.’ Kenny looked behind Les, and Les turned to see an elderly lady in a blue dress with grey hair and thick glasses approach the counter. ‘Hello, Mrs Bennett,’ said Kenny. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I need a couple more keys cut, Ken,’ said the woman.

‘I’ll do them for you right now,’ replied Kenny.

Les picked up the black plastic box. ‘I’ll get going, Kenny. Thanks for that.’

‘No worries, Les. Nice doing business with you.’

Les exited the shop then got back in his car and headed for Terrigal. Shit. How good’s this thing? he smiled, as he passed the RSL. Apart from doing break-ins, couldn’t you have some fun with it. Like getting square with those two narks across the road who’re always whingeing about everything from Warren parking his car to Mrs Curtin’s old cat. I could sneak into their house when they’re out and drop a big steaming Henry in the loungeroom. Wouldn’t that give them something to whinge about. Les was so engrossed
in the potential of his new toy, he didn’t even bother to turn the stereo on and before he knew it, he was back at the resort and the car was in the garage.

Les was whistling softly when he got out of the lift and walked down the hallway to his apartment. He was about to put the key in the door then stopped. Yeah, why not? Les put the key back in his pocket and got the plastic box from his bag. He removed the zinger, poked the oscillator in the keyhole and pushed the button.There was the familar faint ring, followed by the sound of pins rattling. Les removed the zinger, turned the handle and the door swung open. Well how about that, smiled Les. He put the zinger back in his bag, walked inside to his room and finished unpacking.

When he’d finished, Les poured himself a glass of water and took it out onto the balcony. It was a beautiful warm day and, across the road, the water in Terrigal Haven looked blue and inviting. The boats were still rocking gently at their moorings and a flock of pelicans were either paddling about in the water or waddling around on a small beach in front of a dive centre sitting beneath a restaurant and a coffee shop. Les finished his glass of water, then changed into a
pair of shorts and thongs, put his snorkelling gear in his bag and headed for the Haven.

Les spent a delightful afternoon snorkelling. The cool water felt good on his cuts and he saw several stingrays, a few blackfish and whiting and found a rusted old watch when he was diving up and down amongst the boats. He dried off then strolled down to the Flathead Spot and had an excellent feed of fish and chips, which he washed down at a table out the front with a crisp salad and a bottle of ginger beer. On the way home, a little blonde with a cute backside working in the local cake shop caught his eye, along with an Italian restaurant next door called Eudosia’s. Les checked the restaurant’s menu and thought he might have dinner there. He stopped at the bottle shop and got some Gentleman Jack, Hahn and mineral water then got a pleasant smile from an attractive woman wearing glasses when he bought a copy of
New Dawn
at the newsagent’s. Walking past Serene’s, Les couldn’t see the cheeky waitress from earlier in the day.

Back in his apartment, Les wasted no time putting his booze in the fridge before opening a bottle and taking it out on the sundeck with his magazine. Three beers later Les was reading an article called ‘The Tao of Detox’ when the peace
and quiet, the luxury of his surroundings and the old drinking-beer-in-the-sun syndrome caught up with the big Queenslander, and he dozed off.

The sun was long gone and there was a slight chill in the air when Les came to life. A little puzzled at first, he blinked and stared over the balcony at a beautiful sight. All the ships waiting to load up now had their lights on, and in the soft darkness looked like a necklace of glittering jewels strung across the horizon. Les gazed at the lights for a while, then stood up, stretched and went inside. After switching on the lights, he tuned the stereo to some local FM and had a shower and a shave. Now wide awake, Les wrapped a towel around himself, poured a delicious and sipped it while he changed into his jeans and a dark blue polo shirt with a denim collar. The first delicious left Norton with a delightful glow, so he had another followed by a beer, which he took out onto the balcony to watch the ships again. By the time he’d finished his beer, Norton’s stomach was growling ferociously. So he got into his black bomber jacket and left the resort for the short walk to the restaurant, stopping at the bottle shop for two long necks.