Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust (18 page)

‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ smiled Topaz. ‘Barbara was right. You are a big softie.’

‘I am not a big softie,’ wailed Les. ‘Oh all right then,’ he howled. ‘I am a big softie. But what do you bloody expect? Her bloody best friend’s got cancer. Her bloody father’s a bastard. It bloody turns out she can sing like a bloody nightingale. She pulls up outside the house in the van with the bloody speakers. And when they’re doing up the bloody house, they’re playing that bloody Fleetwood Mac song. Owhh, ahh wooo,’ Les blubbered, and blew his nose on a tissue. ‘Why did it have to have such a happy ending? I feel awful.’

‘All right, settle down, Les,’ said Topaz. ‘It’s okay. It’s only a movie.’

‘Settle down,’ sniffed Les, noticing Topaz was still dry-eyed. ‘You must have a heart of bloody stone if you didn’t cry at that.’

‘Les,’ said Topaz. ‘I’ve seen it five times.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes. It’s one of my favourites.’

‘Well, all right then,’ sniffed Les.

‘Ohh come here, you poor baby.’

Topaz cuddled Les to her bosom and gave him a gentle kiss. Les kissed her back and the kiss went on a bit. Topaz had lovely soft lips and she kissed beautifully. But it hurt Norton’s swollen mouth like he couldn’t believe. Topaz sensed Les wincing and drew back.

‘Does your mouth hurt, Les?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. A bit, Topaz,’ admitted Les.

‘How are you feeling after all that Valium?’

‘Pretty good,’ shrugged Les. ‘Why?’

Topaz ground herself up to Norton. ‘Well, all that wine’s made me as horny as buggery. I’d like a little sex.’

‘Shit,’ replied Les. ‘So would I, I suppose. But Valium ain’t actually Viagra. And my face and head is full of stitches. If I rip the stitches, my doctor will kill me.’

‘That’s all right,’ smiled Topaz. ‘You can lay back and I can get on top.’

‘Yeah?’ said Les.

‘Yes,’ nodded Topaz. ‘But there’s just one other thing.’

‘Yeah. What’s that? A condom? No worries.’

‘No,’ said Topaz. ‘It’s your face. All those bruises and black eyes. And stitches and bandages. It looks horrible.’

‘Well, there’s not much I can do about it,’ said Les.

‘Yes there is,’ replied Topaz.

‘Like what?’

‘How about putting a bag over your head?’

Les drew back and stared at Topaz in disbelief. ‘Would you care to repeat that, please?’

‘I said, how about putting a bag over your head?’ repeated Topaz.

‘You actually want to bonk me with a bag over my head?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Topaz. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

Trying to maintain his pride. Les took in a deep breath and gave Topaz an indignant once up and down. ‘Topaz,’ Les said, deliberately, ‘what would you do, if you were a bit on the ugly side, and I called round to your place, got half full of drink, then said, I’d like a root, but stick a bag over your head first?’

‘I’d tell you to get fucked and boot your arse
out the door, you male chauvinist pig,’ replied Topaz. ‘What sort of a moll do you take me for?’

‘Exactly,’ said Les.

‘So what’s your answer?’ said Topaz, taking an insouciant sip of her wine. ‘Yes or no?’

Les took a deep breath then exhaled. ‘Did you bring a bag with you?’

‘I certainly did,’ smiled Topaz
.
She reached into the white plastic bag and took out a brown paper Telstra bag with two handles on it. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I even cut two little eye holes in it for your eyes. And one for your mouth.’

‘Very considerate of you,’ said Les. ‘Okay. My bedroom’s at the front. Let’s go. And if anybody finds out about this, Topaz, you’ll never drink Margaret River Chardonnay in this house again.’

Topaz gave Les a quick, soft kiss. ‘You don’t really mean that.’

They got up and walked down to Norton’s bedroom where they got undressed. Les was a bit clumsy. But in no time Topaz was standing in the light from Norton’s bed lamp with nothing covering her voluptuous body but a lacy black G-string.

Mr Wobbly was quick to notice this and, full of Valium or not, he soon rose angrily to the occasion, demanding in on the action. Les found
a condom in his drawer, cracked it open and was just about to slip it on when Topaz eased him down on the bed, smiled and gave Les a brain-snapping polish that sent Mr Wobbly into a drug affected frenzy. Topaz finished and slipped off her G-string, Les slipped the condom onto Mr Wobbly and Topaz slipped the bag over Norton’s head.

‘Jesus, I feel like a nice dill,’ mumbled Les, from behind the hole Topaz had cut out for his mouth.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ smiled Topaz. ‘You got a hot body.’ She adjusted the pillow beneath Norton’s head, then got on the bed and straddled him.

It might have been the weirdest sex Les had ever had, but it still felt good. Topaz was tight and moist and Mr Wobbly’s nasty little head had swelled up like a big red Fuji apple. Topaz started off in first gear then slipped into second before she hit high gear and flattened it, making sure Norton’s neighbours on both sides knew what a good time she was having. Les lay back comfortably and through the holes in the paper bag, got a tunnelled vision of Topaz’s raptuous facial expressions framed by her beautiful dark hair swirling from side to side. Les would loved to have kissed her. But he was content to reach up
and feel the firmness of her body and breasts and softly massage her rock-hard nipples with his fingers.

The Valium and painkillers had slowed down Norton’s libido, so Topaz certainly got her money’s worth. But after a while Mr Wobbly could take no more and he exploded beneath the condom nearly blowing it to shreds. Topaz gave one long scream then settled down. After a few minutes they both got their breath back.

‘How are you feeling, Les?’ crooned Topaz.

‘Pretty good, thanks Topaz,’ replied Les. ‘Is it okay if I take the bag off now?’

‘Sure. And thanks for that, Les. It made all the difference.’

‘Anything to oblige, ma’am.’ Les took the bag off his head and tossed it down the side of the bed with the condom inside. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said, woozily, ‘and I’ll organise a taxi for you. Would you like a cup of coffee or something first?’

‘No. That’s all right,’ replied Topaz. ‘But stay there. I can ring.’

‘Righto,’ said Les.

Les pulled the duvet over himself and had a perv on Topaz while she got dressed. When she was fully clothed, she went to the kitchen and returned shortly with her two bags.

‘I turned off the lights,’ she said. ‘And I souvenired the rest of that Margaret River for a nightcap. Is that okay?’

‘Sure. Help yourself,’ said Les.

Topaz sat on the edge of the bed. ‘That was fun, Les. I really enjoyed it. I’d like to get with you again, when your face is all right and you’re not full of Valium. I reckon you’d be a tiger.’

‘On a good night, with the right moon and tide, I’m not bad,’ smiled Les. ‘I give it everything I got.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ A horn tooted out the front. ‘There’s the taxi. All you have to do now is go to sleep.’ Topaz kissed Les on the lips. ‘Goodnight, Les,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

‘Goodnight Topaz. And thanks for coming over. It was really nice of you.’

Topaz turned off Norton’s bedroom lights and disappeared out the front door, leaving Les in darkness. Well, I don’t know what to make of that, mused Les as he heard the taxi drive off. I degraded myself and sunk about as low as any man can go. But shit a brick! It was still a pretty good root. Les smiled and sprawled back happily into the pillows. The smile was still etched on his face well after he fell asleep.

L
ooking at himself in the bathroom mirror the next morning, Les could certainly understand why Topaz asked him to put a bag over his head.
And although there was a funny side to it, Les didn’t think he’d be telling too many people what happened. After finishing in the bathroom, Les walked out to the kitchen, put the kettle on and got some scrambled eggs together. He was late rising and after a solid night’s sleep, apart from the initial stiffness, he was feeling good. He would have liked a run or a good hit out on the bag. But Les knew he’d only tear the stitches; it was only through luck and Topaz’s audacity he didn’t tear any the night before. Les decided he’d go for another good long walk. After cleaning up, he changed into his old grey tracksuit, got his sunglasses and baseball cap and drove down to Centennial Park.

Les wasn’t the only person out enjoying the morning. There was no shortage of joggers and walkers and pods of bike riders. Some people walked or jogged past that he knew from around Bondi. But they didn’t recognise him behind his sunglasses with his cap pulled down, so Les didn’t have to stop and talk and answer any stupid
questions about his appearance. While he was strolling along Les pondered what he was going to do about Bodene’s script. Today was as good a day as any to have a look in Lasjoz’s flat and see if it was in there. If not, knock the whole idea on the head. Tarot cards or no tarot cards. But for the sake of a lazy fifty falling in, it was worth one last throw of the dice. Getting into Lasjoz’s flat was no problem. But how was he going to make sure the monster wasn’t there? By the time Les finished walking, he’d cooked up half an idea.

Back at Chez Norton, Les had a shower, then changed into his black cargoes, clean trainers and a white Margaritaville T-shirt he bought in Florida. He was standing in the kitchen drinking water when the phone rang in the loungeroom.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello Les. It’s Marla.’

‘Hey, Marla,’ smiled Les. ‘How are you?’

‘Real good,’ came the bubbly voice at the other end. ‘How’s yourself?’

‘Always better when I hear from you, Marla. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because your voice is the rain that makes the flowers bloom in the garden of my heart.’

‘Oh Les, you’re so sweet.’

‘I know. Mum told me never to go outside when it’s raining because sugar melts when it’s wet. So what’s doing, mate?’

‘Well,’ said Marla. ‘There’s been somewhat of a new development up here.’

‘There has?’ enquired Les.

‘Yes. My ex-boyfriend Milton got busted with two ounces of coke.’

‘Two ounces? Ohh lucky boy,’ said Les. ‘That entitles him to a free holiday. No problem at all.’

‘I know. He’s started already,’ chuckled Marla. ‘The court wouldn’t grant him bail.’

‘Yes. They’re funny like that with coke dealers.’

‘I always suspected Milton was using. But I didn’t know he was dealing.’

‘Didn’t he have the local cops on side or something?’ asked Les. ‘They were keen to bust my arse, I know that.’

‘These cops were from Newcastle,’ said Marla. ‘They arrived with a sniffer dog and everything.’

‘Fair dinkum?’

‘Anyway. When they were going through Milton’s house, the dog’s gone into Barry’s room—the bloke you punched out—and they found fifty deals of ice. And a gun.’

‘Even better,’ laughed Les. ‘The family gets to go on holiday.’

‘So those two cops looking for you have dropped Barry like a hot potato. He can forget the assault charges. All Barry’s got to look forward to when he gets out of hospital is going to gaol. Along with Milton.’

‘And a big fat lawyer’s bill. So who told you all this?’ Les asked.

‘My friend in the council,’ replied Marla. ‘But not only that. Hickey, the one that threatened he was going to get you.’

‘The dill with the nutty family,’ said Les. ‘What’s he done?’

‘They were coming back from the Bateau Bay Hotel drunk on Wednesday night, and Hickey rolled the car. They’re all in hospital. Hickey’s got two broken legs.’

‘Ohh, what a shame,’ said Les. ‘Let me know which hospital he’s in and I’ll make sure he gets some flowers and chocolates.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ laughed Marla. ‘So it looks like your guardian angel’s been working overtime, Les. And you can come back up here any time you like.’

Les looked at his battered face in the mirror above the bar. ‘My guardian angel, eh,’ he chuckled. ‘But that’s good, Marla. It’s made my day.’

‘I thought you’d like it. Anyway. I’m at work, Les. And it’s piling up again. How about ringing me at home tonight? And you can tell me when you’re coming back to see me.’

‘Okay Marla. I’ll ring you tonight,’ said Les. ‘Thanks for the call.’

‘Bye.’

Les hung up and smiled at the phone. I don’t know about guardian angels, Marla, he mused. I think with those dills it’s more like, you get what’s coming to you. Still, you never know. As for me coming back to see you? I’d love to. But I’d better get the stitches out first. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Operation Lasjoz.

Les went back to his glass of water in the kitchen. While he’d been walking earlier, Les remembered seeing one of Gary Jackson’s mates working at the car wash when he’d been perusing Lasjoz’s block of flats the day before. A tall skinny bloke with untidy dark hair. Chamois Davis, Jnr.

Chamois’s real name was Marshall Davis, Jnr. His father, Marshall Davis, Snr, had been a fairly famous golfer and named his son after him. Marshall never rose to any great heights and was content to hang round the beach and work at the car wash. Marshall came down the hotel one night trying to sell his friends some chamois
leathers he’d nicked from work and a drunk nicknamed him Chamois Davis, Jnr. Which got shortened to Chamois Davis then plain old Chamois. Chamois was always on the hustle for a dollar and Norton felt he might be the answer to his problem. Les finished his glass of water, got the zinger from his bedroom, put his cap and sunglasses on and left for the car wash.

There was the usual bustle of people in Hall Street and no shortage of punters seated in the sun around the local coffee shops. Les was tempted to stop for a quick caffeine fix, but kept on down Glenayr Avenue. As he turned left at Curlewis Street, he noticed Bodene and his friends in the distance seated outside Azulejos and the council still digging up the road with what appeared to be a few extra council workers standing around, busting their arses trying to avoid doing any work. He couldn’t see Lasjoz. But Topaz and Barbara were seated under the trees with Bodene and the same three men as the day before, and the coffee shop was doing a brisk trade. Les strode past the old block of flats and straight into the Curlewis Car Wash, situated next door, on the left-hand side of the service station.

It was a typical car wash. Huge roller brushes, water jets, long plastic flaps hanging down, big
vacuum cleaners. Outside was a smattering of chairs and tables where the customers could sit and have a coffee or whatever while they waited for their car to be cleaned. Business was quiet and two men were Squeegeeing water from the driveway while Chamois was seated at one of the tables in a pair of black shorts, a black T-shirt and gum boots, sucking on a cigarette. He looked up as Les approached.

‘Hello Chamois,’ smiled Norton. ‘How’s things, mate?’

‘Les,’ replied Chamois. ‘How are you, mate?’ Chamois had a quick glance around. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘Home.’

‘Oh?’

‘So what are you doing, Chamois?’ asked Les. ‘Taking a breather?’

‘Reckon,’ replied Chamois sincerely. ‘I’ve been working me ring off all morning. This is the first break I’ve had.’

‘How would you like to earn fifty bucks for five minutes’ work?’

Chamois gave Les a suspicious once up and down. ‘Fifty bucks for five minutes’ work. What’ve I got to do, Les? Help you get rid of a body? Give you a lift with a crate of machine
guns? Long Bay doesn’t appeal to me that much, Les. I’m quite happy to plug along here, workin’ at the car wash, baby. Just like in the song.’

Les shook his head. ‘Jesus, you’ve got a low opinion of me, Chamois. No.’ Les pointed to the block of flats. ‘All I want you to do, is go up to that block of flats, knock on number nine and see if there’s anybody home. If a big bloke answers the door, just say you’re looking for Charlie Brown or whoever. Then tell him you’ve got the wrong address and leave.’

‘Fifty bucks?’ said Chamois.

‘That’s right,’ answered Les. ‘I just want to know if this bloke’s home. That’s all.’

Chamois stared at Norton for a quick second then butted his cigarette. ‘Righto. Wait here.’

Les pulled up a seat and made himself comfortable as Chamois disappeared into the block of flats. Before long Chamois was on his way back. He walked up to Les and shrugged.

‘No one home,’ said Chamois.

‘Are you sure?’ Les asked. ‘How many times did you knock?’

‘Three times. Loud enough to raise the dead.’

‘Okay.’ Les stood up and handed Chamois two fifties. ‘There’s another fifty for luck.’

‘Shit! Thanks, Les,’ said Chamois, pocketing
the money. ‘Hey. If you need me again. Just give me a yell.’

‘Righto, Chamois. I will.’ Les exited the car wash and stepped inside the entrance to the block of flats.

Number nine was on the second floor. There was no dust or rubbish on the stairs going up, Jacko did a good job as a caretaker, and the walls and windows had been wiped clean of any scuff marks or dirt. Les arrived on the landing and stepped over to a wooden veneer door next to a disused servery. He knocked on the door a couple of times to be sure, then took out his zinger. A few seconds later Les was inside. He removed his sunglasses and had a look around.

Lasjoz’s flat wasn’t very big. A kitchen on the left ran off a short hallway that led into the loungeroom, the bathroom was in the corner on the right and a bedroom was behind the loungeroom on the left. Furnishings were sparse. But the flat was very tidy. A black leather lounge sitting on a blue weave carpet faced a flat-screen TV and a small stereo. Against a wall on the left was a cabinet half full of CDs and DVDs; against the opposite wall was a solid wooden table, two chairs and a computer. Coloured bottles, vases and other bric-a-brac sat along the cornices and
several travel posters of lakes and mountain scenes in Albania hung on the walls. Everything was neat and tidy and had a freshness about it that gave Les the impression Lasjoz hadn’t been living there long. Anyway, thought Les, I didn’t come here to do a spread for
Home Beautiful.
The sooner I do my shifty business and blast off, the better. I don’t even want to think what would happen if Lasjoz found me in here. I’ll start with the lounge.

Les carefully went through the drawers in the CD and DVD cabinet first and found nothing, except that Lasjoz’s musical tastes were very middle of the road, ranging from Neil Diamond to the Beatles, and he was a Clint Eastwood fan. There was another set of drawers under the window and one next to the computer table. They revealed nothing either. Righto, thought Les, I’ll try the bedroom.

The bedroom contained a king-size bed with a black and white duvet, a dressing table and mirror and a solid wardrobe with a mirror on the front very similar to the one Les had in his bedroom. Carefully again, Les went through the drawers on the dressing table. There was no green bag. But Lasjoz kept his T-shirts, sox, Reg Grundys and hankies folded tidily and neatly
separated from each other. As he was going through the drawers, Les noticed every T-shirt was size XXXL and a few beads of nervous sweat formed on his forehead. He looked at his watch and moved across to the wardrobe.

There was plenty of light coming from the window above the dressing table, Les opened the wardrobe and peered inside. Hanging up were two dark-coloured suits, several shirts, two leather jackets and a grey check sports coat. All Lasjoz needs, smiled Les, is a few Hawaiian shirts and an East German Navy jacket and this could almost be my wardrobe. Suddenly the ACME Pty Ltd, Wile E. Coyote light bulb lit up above Norton’s head. Oooh. What’s that you say, Shintaro? Les asked himself. My wardrobe? I wonder? I just fuckin wonder? Les tapped on the rear of the wardrobe and sure enough, it had a hollow section. He ran his hand along the bottom of the panel and poking out of the wood was the end of a self-tapping screw. Well, what do you know, smiled Les. Great minds do think alike. Les pushed the screw to the left and the panel slid open.

Inside was a plastic bag full of fifties which, at a rough guess, Les estimated to be five thousand dollars. There was another, smaller, locktop
plastic bag full of pills, which could have been anything from LSD to ecstasy. And stuffed down the back was a green leather handbag with a bronze clasp on top and a black eagle on the side.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Les. ‘What have we here?’

Les put everything else back and closed the panel, then took the green bag out into the loungeroom and unzipped it. Inside was a plastic bound film script with
The Case Of The Talking Pie Crust,
copyright Post No Gravy Productions Pty Ltd, Australia, on the front. A floppy disc. Another copy of the synopsis for
Gone With the Willy Willy.
And three small hardcover books of old cartoons by Emile Mercier called
Gravy Pie, Sauce or Mustard,
and
My Wife’s Swallowed a Bishop.

‘What I have here in my hands,’ grinned Les, ‘is a new hybrid car. Thank you, Lasjoz. And thank you, Bodene Menjou.’

Les put everything back in the bag and zipped it up. He was about to leave when there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the landing before the door opened and Lasjoz stepped into the flat wearing a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans with a short-sleeved blue shirt hanging out over the top. He closed the door behind him then his face clouded over when he turned around and noticed Les standing in the loungeroom.

‘Les Norton,’ he growled. ‘What you are doing in my flat?’

‘What I am doing in your flat, Lasjoz?’ swallowed Les. He held up the green bag. ‘Looking for this.’

Lasjoz’s eyes narrowed. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You find bag.’

‘Yes. I find bag,’ said Les.

‘How you find bag?’