The Godson (57 page)

‘Les?' said Warren, as he walked into the lounge room. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren't you out with Janice?' Norton shrugged his shoulders and kept staring ahead. ‘I know.' Warren burst out laughing. ‘She's stood you up. She was drunk last night. Now she's sobered up and realised what she'd done. Ha!'

Norton nodded his head slowly and kept staring ahead. Still he didn't say anything.

‘The great lover,' laughed Warren. ‘Wouldn't get a fuck in a brothel with a suitcase full of fifties and a bunch of roses. Ha-hah! You fuckin' wally.'

Norton continued to stare into space. The silence and the weird half smile on his face finally got to Warren. ‘Are you all right?'

Norton nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Couldn't be creamier.'

‘No, you're not,' said Warren. ‘Something's wrong. What's going on?'

‘Big Danny couldn't make it so I have to go to work tonight.' Norton's voice was slightly indistinct and sounded like it was coming from far away.

‘Ohh, what a bastard.'

‘Yes, isn't it dreadful?' Norton turned to Warren with the weirdest grin on his face. ‘Isn't it… a shame?'

Warren shook his head. ‘I'm going to make a cup of coffee. You want one?'

‘No thank you, Warren.'

Warren made himself a cup of coffee then came back into the lounge where Les was still staring into space. Warren looked at him for a moment then glanced at his watch. ‘You mind if I switch on the news? It's almost six o'clock.'

Norton gestured towards the TV set. ‘Be my guest, Warren. Watch whatever you like. Watch the news. Watch ‘Sesame Street'. Watch re-runs of ‘The Don Lane Show'. Take the TV set into your room and crawl inside it.' Norton made a crazy little laugh. ‘Do whatever you wish.'

Warren shook his head again. He could understand Les having the shits about going to work when he could be taking a nice girl out. But generally when he was put out he ranted and raved around the house and carried on like a good sort. This mood he was in was most unusual to say the least. He ignored him and switched on the TV.

There was the usual promo for the station followed by the theme music for the news then the teletext printing out across the screen and the voice-over seemed to be concentrating on the main story.

‘
IRA bomb outrage stuns Royal Family
.'

There were two other minor news items, then the camera cut to a po-faced Jim Whaley. The backdrop on the screen behind him was a Union Jack, part of an Irish flag and a figure in a balaclava superimposed over that.

‘Hello, what's this?' said Warren. Even Norton seemed to come out of his strange mood at the sight of the figure in the balaclava.

Whaley was at his deepest and most serious. ‘Members of the Royal Family were plunged into grief today at the assas
sination of Lord Layton Myleford in Scotland,' he intoned.

‘Did he say Myleford?' said Norton, sitting up on the lounge.

‘Quiet, Les,' replied Warren.

‘Lord Myleford was killed instantly,' continued Whaley, ‘when his houseboat was blown to pieces by a remote-controlled bomb on Lake Dundenfillitch near the Scottish town of Linskygill one hundred and sixty kilometres from the English border.'

The camera then flashed to a picturesque blue lake scattered with wreckage. Police boats and police divers were probing the wreckage, helicopters were hovering overhead, army units were searching and patrolling the shoreline.

‘Also missing, believed killed in the blast, is Lord Myleford's nephew and baronet in line to the throne, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III.'

Les and Warren exchanged brief shocked looks then returned to the TV screen.

‘Sir Peregrine, who was only recently in Australia, was fishing with his uncle when the blast went off in the early hours of the morning, completely destroying the houseboat. Members of the Royal Family are unavailable for comment at the moment, but a spokesman for Buckingham Palace said the assassination is a particularly tragic blow because Lord Myleford was a revered member of the Royal Family and a favourite uncle of Prince Charles, who has been forced to cut short an official visit to Spain.'

The camera switched to a grim-faced Prince Charles arriving at Heathrow Airport and being hurried into a Jaguar saloon.

‘Police divers have recovered the body of Lord Myleford but are still searching Lake Dundenfillitch for the remains of Sir Peregrine. No one has claimed responsibility for the blast but police say the method and type of bomb used point to the IRA.'

The camera then flashed to Buckingham Palace, film of Lord Myleford and a photo of Peregrine.

‘Meanwhile,' continued Whaley, ‘a tight blanket of security has been thrown around all members of the Royal Family in case there may be further attempts on their lives.'

The camera rolled onto more film of Lord Myleford, another photo of Peregrine while Jim Whaley spoke of Lord Myleford's war record, and a little more about Peregrine's trip to Australia.

Norton wasn't listening to any of this. He just stared at the TV set as if in a trance, Peregrine's letter still clutched in his hand.

‘Jesus Christ! Can you believe that?' said Warren. ‘Poor bloody Peregrine. They got him.' He turned to Les. ‘All that trouble you went to, he wasn't home five minutes and the IRA blew him up. Jesus! I don't believe it.'

Norton still didn't say anything. He kept staring ahead almost as if he was in a coma.

‘God almighty,' Warren shook his head. ‘And to think he was only in this house a couple of weeks ago.' He turned back to Norton and noticed something strange. Funny little sobs were coming from Les, jerking his chest like small whimpering coughs. From where Warren was sitting it was hard to distinguish whether Norton was laughing or crying. It was a strange sound. ‘Les, are you all right?' he asked.

Then Les turned to Warren and Warren's jaw dropped. Two tiny teardrops were slowly squeezing themselves from the corners of Norton's eyes. They were having a hard time getting out, but eventually they did and rolled down Norton's cheeks like two tiny diamonds.

‘Les!' said Warren. ‘You're crying. I don't believe it.'

Norton's face was now pure misery. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head as the same strange sob shook his chest and stomach.

‘Les Norton crying.' Warren shook his head in amazement. ‘Well, I'll be buggered.' He watched as another two teardrops forced their way out of Norton's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. ‘I knew you and Peregrine finished up good friends, Les. But Jesus! I never knew he meant that much to you.'

Norton's face looked so miserable it was hard for Warren not to laugh. ‘Warren,' he said. ‘You'll never know just how much Peregrine did mean to me. Here,' he wailed, and handed Warren the letter. ‘Fuckin' read this.'

A
ND IN A
grimy tenement house, squashed in amongst a row of equally grimy tenement houses not far from The Falls Road in Belfast, a grey-haired old lady and her grandson were sleeping soundly. If the police or the authorities had been near Lake Dundenfillitch earlier in the day they may have seen the old lady and the little boy playing with a remote-controlled toy aeroplane at the lake's edge. If they had looked into her car they may have wondered why she had a spare remote control console for the aeroplane. They may also have wondered why the old lady threw the lot into a ravine when she drove home to her Belfast house through the police roadblocks, barbed wire,
boarded-up houses and burnt-out cars to watch the news on TV. But the sight of killings in the street and bodies being pulled out of a lake didn't worry old Mrs Frayne too much. She was well used to that sort of thing by now.

Robert G. Barrett
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids

As far as fighting went, Les wasn't really a scientific fighter and for all he knew the Marquis of Queensberry could have been a hotel in Parramatta. Whenever Les went off it was anything goes
…

Look out Sydney – Les Norton has just hit town!

You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
is a series of adventures involving Les Norton, a big red-headed country boy from Queensland who is forced to move to the big smoke when things get a little hot for him in his hometown.

Working as a bouncer at an illegal casino up at the Cross, Les gets to meet some of the fascinating characters who make up the seamier side of one of the most exciting cities in the world – gamblers, conmen, bookies, bouncers, hookers and hit men, who ply their respective trades from the golden sands of Bondi to the tainted gutters of Kings Cross … usually on the wrong side of the law.

As raw as a greyhound's dinner, Les is nevertheless a top bloke – fond of a drink, loves a laugh and he's handy with his fists. And, just quietly, he's a bit of a ladies man too … Les Norton is undoubtedly Australia's latest cult figure.

 

Robert G. Barrett
The Boys From Binjiwunyawunya

The big Aussie Rules player hit the roadway in a tangle of arms and legs. His head came up just in time to see Norton come leaping out of the tram and the Cuban heels of his R.M. Williams riding boots land on his chest, with fifteen stone of enraged Queenslander behind them. If the earlier onslaught of punches hadn't done Rick's internal organs much good, the final serve completely destroyed them. He gave one hideous moan and passed out
.

Les Norton is back in town!

There's no two ways about Les Norton – the carrot-topped country boy who works as a bouncer at Sydney's top illegal casino. He's tough and he's mean. He's got a granite jaw, fists like hams, and they say the last time he took a tenner from his wallet Henry Lawson blinked at the light.

Lethal but loyal, he's always good for a laugh. In this, the third collection of Les Norton adventures, Les gets his boss off the hook. But not without the help of the boys from Binjiwunyawunya.

Les then finds himself in a spot of bother in Long Bay Gaol then in a lot more bother on a St. Kilda tram in Melbourne …

Robert G. Barrett's Les Norton stories have created a world as funny as Damon Runyon's. If you don't know Les Norton, you don't know Australia in the eighties.

 

Robert G. Barrett
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

Okay, so it looks like the Kelly Club is finally closing down – it had to happen sooner or later. And it isn't as if Les Norton will starve. He has money snookered away, he owns his house, and his blue-chip investment – a block of flats in Randwick – must be worth a fortune by now. Except that the place is falling down, the council is reclaiming the land, there's been a murder in Flat 5, and the tenants are the biggest bunch of misfits since the Manson Family. And that's just the good news, because the longer Les owns the Blues Seas Apartments, the more money he loses.

This time Les Norton's really up against it.

But whilst he's trying to solve his financial problems, he still has time to fight hate-crazed roadies, sort out a drug deal after fighting a gang of bikies, help a feminist Balmain writer with some research she won't forget in a hurry, and get involved with Franulka, super-sexy leadsinger of an all-girl rock band, The Heathen Harlots.

And with the help of two ex-Romanian Securitate explosive experts, he might even be able to sort out his investment.

But can Les pull off the perfect crime? Of course and why not throw the street party of the year at the same time?

 

Robert G. Barrett
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie

All Norton wanted was a quiet coffee and Sacher cake at the Hakoah Club in Bondi, and to be left alone to sort out his troubled love life. How he let notorious conman Kelvin Kramer talk him up to Surfers Paradise for five days, Les will never know. Supposedly to mind KK and his massively boobed girlfriend, American model Crystal Linx, in Australia to promote her latest record. Though it did seem like a good idea at the time. Apart from the President of the United States arriving and Norton's domestic problems, there wasn't much keeping him in Sydney.

Norton went to the Gold Coast expecting some easy graft in the sun, an earn and possibly a little fresh romance. Les definitely got the earn. He certainly got the girl. But what Norton mainly got in Surfers Paradise was trouble.
In a size 40 Double-D cup
.

 

Robert G. Barrett
And De Fun Don't Done

They don't call him Lucky Les for nothing. A ticket in a raffle and Norton was off to the US of A Siestasota, Florida, where it turned out hot, red hot, and it wasn't just the weather.

Night club brawls, mafia hitmen, too many girls called Lori, gun crazed Americans and the whole lot washed along in a sea of margaritas. Even for Les Norton it was just too hot to handle.

So it was off to ‘greener' pastures – the Caribbean for reggae, rum and Rastafarians, not to mention Sultry Delta, sweet-lipped Esme, and Millwood Downie, schoolteacher, historian and would-be stand-up comic, who helps Les trace his family tree and possibly uncover the biggest earn ever.

The world is finally Norton's oyster. All he has to do is get the shell open.

 

Robert G. Barrett
Rider on the Storm and Other Bits and Barrett

For more than a decade now, Robert G. Barrett has been entertaining Australians with the cocky Queenslander Les Norton and his outrageous exploits. In this collection, as well as more great Les Norton stories, Robert G. Barrett offers his views on getting published, getting famous, getting the dole, and getting a date.

Barrett on acting:
‘You get instant fame and recognition: drunks want to fight you everywhere you go.'

On getting published:
‘If you are seriously thinking of making a living out of writing in Australia, make sure the people in your local dole office read your books. And hope to Christ they like them.'