Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Are you working for the friendly Albanians too, Barbara?’ Les asked.

  Barbara nodded. ‘Yes. I help Bodene run the pizza shop. Do the ordering and the books and that.’

  ‘Cool,’ Les nodded back.

  ‘We’re no more than a couple of hard-working shop assistants,’ smiled Topaz.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Les, returning Topaz’s smile. He took a sip of coffee and placed his cup down. ‘You know, there’s something I have to ask you girls.’

  ‘Sure. What’s that Les?’ answered Barbara.

  ‘Lasjoz,’ said Les. ‘Is he…?’ Les gestured with one hand. ‘Is he a bit Doris?’

  The girls exchanged quick glances and Les didn’t have to be psychic to read Yes, he is, and How did you know? in their eyes.

  ‘Lasjoz, gay?’ replied Barbara. ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘No,’ added Topaz. ‘He’s as straight as they come. He’s always trying to hit on me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Les. ‘I was just curious. Some friends of mine saw him up Oxford Street a few times, that’s all. Does he live up there?’ Les enquired.

  ‘No. He lives in Bondi,’ said Barbara. ‘In Curlewis Street. The block of flats next to the car wash.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Les.

  Barbara nodded to Norton’s head. ‘Since you got bashed up by those two Tootsies, you’re seeing poofs everywhere, Les.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Barbara,’ agreed Les. ‘I’m developing a creeping homophobic paranoia.’

  Topaz glanced at her watch. ‘We might have to get going soon, Barbara,’ she declared.

  Barbara glanced at her watch also. ‘Yes, you’re right, Topaz. Golly. Where did the time go?’

  Topaz turned to Norton. ‘What are you doing tonight, Les?’ she asked.

  Les pointed to his black eyes. ‘With a face like this, what do you think? Staying home where no one can see me.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong,’ agreed Barbara. ‘It’d scare a buzzard off a shit cart.’

  ‘How would you like me to come over and cook tea for you?’ asked Topaz. ‘And we could watch a DVD.’

  Les couldn’t believe his luck. He intended getting Topaz’s phone number and asking her out when his face healed up. ‘That would be lovely, Topaz,’ he replied. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Better still,’ said Topaz. ‘I’ll bring you over some of my mother’s chicken soup and banana-rhubarb pie.’

  ‘You got me,’ beamed Les.

  ‘About seven, seven thirtyish?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I might catch a taxi and we can have a few drinks.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Les. ‘I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘No. That’s okay,’ said Topaz.

  ‘Okay. Well at least let me shout the coffees.’

  Les paid for the coffees, cheesecake and bagels. Barbara was parked in Consett Avenue. Les said he’d walk down to the corner with them, then go and have a look at the ocean. He gave Topaz his address, told her he’d see her that night, said goodbye at the corner and continued on to Campbell Parade.

  There were no shortage of people eating or walking around Bondi enjoying the day when Les got there, and although the westerly had blown the surf out, a pocket of waxheads were jammed in the corner at the south end of the beach, surfing the most miniscule break imaginable. After all the coffee he’d drunk, Norton’s mouth felt gluggy, so he thought he’d have a mineral water. He was standing outside Ravesi’s and the bar wasn’t crowded. Les stepped inside and got a middy of mineral water, ice and slice. He found a stool where the windows opened onto Campbell Parade and sat there sipping his mineral water while he checked out the punters.

  Les was perving on a young Brazilian girl walking past, who had somehow managed to squeeze her heartbreak behind into an incredibly tight pair of cut-down jeans, and he didn’t notice a tall man with straight brown hair and a straight face approach him on the right. The man was wearing a blue suit, matching tie and sunglasses, and although he appeared fairly nondescript, the way the man moved amongst the backpackers and local street freaks, it didn’t take long to figure out he was a cop.

  ‘Hello, Les,’ said the man in the blue suit. ‘How are you?’

  Les slowly moved his eyes away from the young girl’s behind and looked up. ‘Hey, Rod,’ he smiled. ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Not bad. What are you doing?’

  Les nodded to the girl disappearing amongst the crowd along Campbell Parade. ‘I was just watching that sensational little arse go past. I nearly fell off my stool.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Rod. ‘I’ve been tailing her since the Biltmore Hotel. It’s something else, isn’t it?’

  The man in the blue suit was Detective Rod Maroney, a good, straight-up cop from Bondi police station. He was an old friend of Billy Dunne’s since school, and like Billy, he wasn’t a bad amateur light-heavyweight boxer before he joined the police force. Now Rod’s kids played soccer with Billy’s and their wives went shopping together. He knew Les and the team and most of what they got up to and as far as Rod was concerned, what he didn’t know about them wouldn’t hurt him. They might not have been one hundred per cent solid citizens, but they weren’t drug dealers, rapists or armed hold-up merchants and they certainly didn’t steal old lady’s handbags. In fact the boys had helped Rod nick a few lowlifes that needed nicking badly for everybody’s good.

  ‘So what’s happening, Rod, old son?’ asked Les. ‘You out there patrolling the parks and streets, making sure they’re safe for people to take their drugs in?’

  ‘I’m doing everything I can to ensure that, Les,’ smiled Rod. The smile vanished and he tapped the window sill in front of where Les was seated. ‘Listen, Les,’ he said, seriously. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m going to give you some real good advice.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Les, seriously.

  ‘Don’t be seen hanging around Azulejos with Bodene Menjou.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Detective Maroney. ‘Keep right away from that lowlife Albanian dropkick. And his friends too.’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Les. ‘But I haven’t been…’

  ‘I don’t care what you’ve been doing, Les,’ cut in Rod. ‘Just keep away from the prick.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Les.

  ‘And those two sheilas. Barbara Lewis and Topaz Delimara. Play them wide, too.’

  ‘I just had a coffee with them up the road,’ said Les. ‘I know Barbara from when she used to work at the club.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, make that your last coffee with them,’ advised Rod.

  ‘Okay. Fair enough, Rod,’ said Les.

  ‘Now I have to get back to work.’ Detective Maroney pushed his sunglasses down over the bridge of his nose and smiled. ‘And like they say in your line of work, Les, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. All right.’

  ‘Say nothin’ to nobody,’ Les replied out the side of his mouth.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘All right. See you, Rod.’ Les raised his glass. ‘And thanks for the tip.’

  ‘No worries, Les.’

  Norton watched Detective Maroney walk off and continued sipping his mineral water. So. Rod must have seen me down there with Bodene on Saturday morning and thought I was up to something. Surely he knows me better than that. As for Topaz and Barbara, Topaz I don’t know. And apart from having a shonky boyfriend, Barbara’s harmless. Anyway, despite Rod’s advice, smiled Les, a sequence of events has been put into action that is impossible to stop. Topaz is calling round my place tonight with homemade chicken soup. And even if she’s running a terrorist network, she’s a good sort and I love homemade chicken soup. Nevertheless, concluded Norton, this whole missing bag thing is getting a bit weird. And the sooner I knock it on the head the better. Fifty grand or no fifty grand. Tarot cards or no tarot cards. But before I do, I might poke my head into one more nook and cranny. Lasjoz was there when the script went missing. There’s a chance he mi
ght have cooked up a scheme to nick Bodene’s script, and used one of his poof mates as a go-between. Les finished his mineral water, left Ravesi’s and walked down to Curlewis Street.

  He followed it to Glenayr Avenue, crossed over and continued on until he came to the block of flats next to the car wash. It was a typical old Bondi block of red brick flats built in the thirties. Six in the front and six at the back, divided by an entrance and stairs on the right. A narrow driveway ran past the entrance to an uncovered parking area at the rear, and a rickety wooden fence separated the block from the car wash. There were no verandahs, and towels hung from some of the window sills facing the street; pinned across a window on the second floor was a Jamaican flag. Les stood in the driveway and stared up at the flats, wondering which one belonged to Lasjoz and how he was going to time it so he’d be in there when Lasjoz wasn’t home. Les was pondering on this when a white Holden station wagon slowly reversed down the driveway towards him. There was a stepladder on top, mops, brooms and other cleaning equipment in the back, and behind the wheel was Gary Jackson. Les stepped aside as the station wagon drew level then tapped on the roof.

  ‘Jacko,’ said Les. ‘How’s things?’

  Gary stopped the car and looked up. ‘Les. What’s happening mate?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ replied Les. ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘I’m the caretaker here.’

  ‘You’re the main man,’ beamed Les. ‘Well, how about that.’

  Gary winked. ‘You know the old Russian saying, Les. There’s no menial jobs. Only menial attitudes.’

  ‘Exactly, Gary,’ smiled Les. ‘Never swap your backbone for a wish bone. Hey, talking about Russians, Gary. I’m looking for a bloke lives here called Lasjoz. Great big bloke with black hair. You wouldn’t know which flat he lives in, would you?’

  ‘That’d be Lurch,’ replied Gary. ‘He lives in number nine at the back.’

  ‘Lurch. That sounds like him,’ said Les.

  ‘That’s what I call him anyway. I’ll tell you what though,’ said Gary, ‘he’s got to be the strongest cunt I ever seen in me life.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My oath. I was out the back one day, and I asked him if he’d give me a lift with an old washing machine. Fair dinkum. He didn’t say a word. He just picked the fuckin thing up and threw it in the back of the wagon like it was a packet of Sao biscuits.’

  ‘Yeah. That’d be him,’ nodded Les. ‘And he lives in number nine?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Gary. ‘He might be home. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘Thanks, Gary.’

  ‘No worries,’ replied Gary. ‘Hey, and thanks again for that tip, Les. Shit, we’re still counting the money.’

  ‘Any time, mate,’ smiled Les. ‘Oh, and tell Irish John I went round to that house in Brassie Street. But it was burnt down.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gary. ‘It was a bloody drug lab or something. Strike me hooray. What’s Bondi coming to?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s got me stuffed,’ said Les.

  ‘Mate. I got to go,’ said Gary. ‘I got a heap of work on today.’

  Les stepped aside. ‘Go for your life, Gary,’ he said. ‘Get out there and taste that sweet smell of success.’

  ‘You got it. Either lead, follow or get out of me fuckin road. Hey, what happened to your eye Les?’

  ‘Occupational hazard, Jacko,’ smiled Les.

  ‘Say no more. Say no more.’ Gary bipped the horn and drove off.

  Well, there you go, smiled Les, as he started walking away. Lurch lives in flat nine. I could get my zinger and come back. But I might leave it for the time being. Best I put my Bugs Bunny hat on and do some very heavy concentrationing on this. If Lasjoz can throw a washing machine in the back of a station wagon, if he sprung me in his flat he’d throw me straight out the window. And number nine ain’t on the ground floor. Les turned right into Glenayr Avenue and continued home.

  Back at Chez Norton, Les placed his phone on the kitchen table and had another glass of water. He was still revved up and bouncing around from all the coffee and wondering what to do with himself. He knew he couldn’t do anything strenuous. But he had to do something. I know what I’ll do, thought Les. I’ll go for another walk in Centennial Park. Les changed back into his old grey tracksuit and was about to leave the house when his mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello my friend,’ rasped the voice at the other end.

  Norton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Deep Throat. How are you, mate.’

  ‘I am good.’ Suddenly Deep throat sneezed violently. ‘Oh. Maybe not so good. Shit.’

  ‘Gesundheit,’ said Les cheerfully.

  ‘Yeah. Whatever. So tell me, my friend,’ continued Deep Throat. ‘How did you go yesterday?’

  ‘At that place in Lamrock Avenue?’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. That one. What happened?’

  ‘I found the bag,’ said Les.

  There was silence at the other end for a moment. ‘Say again, please.’

  ‘I found the green bag with the eagle on the side,’ lied Les. ‘And everything else.’

  ‘You found it?’

  ‘That’s right—my friend. And I got you to thank.’

  ‘But. Well, that is good, my friend. Very good. And it was in the house?’

  ‘Sure was,’ said Les. ‘The front door was unlocked. I walked straight in. And bingo! There it was. Sitting on the lounge. In. Out. Five minutes.’

  ‘That is amazing,’ said Deep Throat.

  ‘It sure is,’ said Les. ‘Now seeing as I’m going to get a reward out of this, I think you and I should meet up, so I can throw a bit your way.’

  ‘No, no. That is quite impossible. I cannot meet you.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Les. ‘Come on. Let’s get together. I want to shake your hand and thank you personally. You sound like a good bloke.’

  ‘No. I am sorry my friend. I cannot do this.’ Suddenly Deep Throat sneezed again.

  ‘Yes you can,’ said Les. ‘Come on. I’m dying to meet you.’

  ‘No. You have the bag,’ sniffled Deep Throat. ‘Everything is good. Now I must go.’

  ‘No. Don’t go,’ said Les.

  ‘Goodbye my friend.’

  ‘Hey, don’t go. Hello? Hello? You there?’ The phone went dead in Norton’s hand. ‘Fuck you! You dopey fuckin wog cunt!’ Les shouted into the phone.

  Les clicked off and tossed his phone back on the kitchen table. Bugger it, he fumed. I certainly blew that. I should have strung the prick along a bit more. Too bloody late now. Les drummed his fingers irritably on the table. Shit! I’d love to know who it was. Les calmed down, had a glass of water then locked the house and drove down to Centennial Park.

  Ambling along, taking his time and thinking about this and that, Les walked for almost two hours. The sky had clouded over, cooling the afternoon down, so he hardly raised a sweat and it was a leisurely way to spend the end of the day. When he’d finished, Les drove home, had a Promite special sandwich and a cup of tea, then filled the bath and had another soak.

  You know, thought Les as he sat in the bath, gingerly shaving away the stubble while he held a hand mirror, life ain’t too bad. Okay, I might be a bit battered and bruised. But there’s ten thousand bucks sitting in my wardrobe that I didn’t have to raise a finger to earn. I got a good sort coming round later with some food. And I don’t have to get up and catch a bus to work tomorrow. Besides that, smiled Les, when I dry off and get changed, I’m going to drop some more of those little white pills and things will get better again. I don’t know whether Topaz is keen for a root, but I’m not. Imagine if I went for a face full of ted and she ripped all the stitches out. Ouch! Les placed the mirror and razor on the side of the bath and stared out the bathroom window at the darkening sky. Yes. I suppose we have our differences now and again, boss. But all up, we don’t get on too bad. Thanks, mate. Les pulled the plug, dabbed on a little Tabac, then dried off, gave his dark blue tracksuit another ru
n and went out to the kitchen.

  Norton’s two packets of mother’s little helpers were still sitting on the table. Les smiled, poured a stiff delicious, and washed down two from each packet. Right, he told himself, rubbing his hands together. I’ve got about half an hour before I turn into a blancmange. What will I do? Leave the front door ajar, so I don’t have to get up off my big fat arse when Topaz gets here and open it. And make sure there’s something nice for her to drink. There’s enough booze in the bar to supply a cruise liner with Long Island Teas. But I imagine like most women, Topaz would enjoy a glass of chilled white wine. Les checked the back of the fridge and smiled. Warren had left two bottles of Cullen Margaret River Chardonnay behind the meat cabinet. That should suffice admirably, smiled Les. He closed the fridge, half opened the front door then slipped a CD on and settled back to await Topaz’s arrival. Down to the Bone were halfway through ‘It’s A Long Way To Brooklyn’ and Les had hit the wall when there was a knock on the front door.

  ‘Yeah. It’s open,’ Les called out. ‘Step right on in.’

  The door closed and Les heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Next thing Topaz was standing in the loungeroom wearing a pair of crutch tight black jeans and a lacy grey top under a grey leather jacket. A vapour trail of Chanel No. 5 hung in the air behind her, cleavage was being pushed to its limits and her shining dark hair was swirling round her shoulders like freshly spun silk. Over one shoulder was a red leather handbag and in her other hand she held a large white plastic bag.

  Norton’s face spread into a beautiful, friendly wide grin. ‘Hello Topaz,’ he said happily. ‘How are you? And might I say, you look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.’

  ‘I’m good,’ said Topaz. She looked at Les a little suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been smoking dope, have you?’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. But I was in a lot of pain. So I took some prescription drugs the doctor gave me.’

  ‘Prescription drugs,’ said Topaz. ‘Like what?’