‘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 h
is 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.
‘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.’
Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust Page 8