Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust by Robert G. Barrett Page B
Authors: Robert G. Barrett
Tags: Fiction
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front of Chez Norton, grabbed the plastic bag, locked the car and hurried inside.
‘Holy fuckin shit!’ exclaimed Les, switching on the lights and tossing the bag onto a chair in the loungeroom. ‘And I said I couldn’t get into too much trouble looking for a film script? I’m luckyI’m alive.’ His eyes zeroed in on the liquor cabinet. ‘Where’s a bloody glass?’
Les poured himself a giant, enormous, Jack Daniel’s and Coke then bolted down half in one go. His eyes spun and his cheeks reddened, then he hoofed down some more.
‘Oh yeah,’ exclaimed Les.
Les had another mouthful then left the rest on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom to check himself out. He had a fat lip, some bark missing and a mouse under his right eye. But that was about all. However, he was spattered with blood and there were globs of it stuck to his Doc Martens. Les stripped off completely and threw all his clothes in the washing machine, added a liberal dose of Dynamo plus a good splash of disinfectant, then switched the machine on the extra heavy cycle. He finished his drink and, while his clothes were going round, hosed off his Doc Martens and left them out in the backyard to dry. After a long hot shower Les changed into a clean white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting grey shorts and, feeling better, poured himself another delicious then went into the loungeroom and sat down to inspect his find. I might have almost got killed, smiled Les, but I’ve survived. And now I’m fifty thousand in front. Maybe more if I stringthings out a little. Les winked towards the night sky. Thanks, boss. Les had a sip on his delicious, put it aside and removed the leather handbag from the plastic one.
‘What?’
It wasn’t an eagle on the side of the bag. It was a bat. And when Les opened the bag, instead of finding a film script, he found a black, bound ledger. What he thought were little books of cartoons turned out to be plastic bags full of little white pills. Les pushed the plastic on one bag up against the pills, and stamped on each pill was the outline of a bat. He opened the black bound ledger. Written down the first page was a list of initials and numbers, starting with JB—200. BK—500. JD—500. MW—1000. TN—1000.
‘Oh bugger it.’
Les dropped the ledger on the coffee table, stared at the green bag and its contents and cursed his luck. This is what they were cooking up in there. No wonder that ratbag attacked me when I mentioned green bag. He was wired up to the gills on speed and thought I was some heavy come round to rip off their dope. The bat’s their brand name or whatever and the ledger’s full of dealers and amounts. What a cock-up. Thanks to bloody Irish John, I stumbled onto a team ofmeth cooks and nearly got my head blown off over a bag of rotten fuckin Lou Reed. Les stared sourly at the green bag. Right. Well I know where all this is going.
Les took the bags of pills out of the green bag then carried them into the bathroom and tipped the lot down the toilet. It took more than one go. But before long, Les had flushed a fortune in speed through Bondi’s sewerage system. After that, he got a pair of heavy duty scissors and cut the green bag up on the kitchen table along with the clear plastic ones, then compressed everything into a plastic shopping bag. Next, Les ripped all the pages out of the ledger with numbers and intials on them, tore them up and pushed them into the plastic shopping bag as well. Leaving the bag on the kitchen table, Les got a Wettex, some Spray and Wipe and a torch, then went outside and had a good look around the front of the car. There were a few smears of blood on the steering wheel and brake pedal, but that was all. Les cleaned everything off then stuffed the Wettex into the plastic bag with everything else. Satisfied, he went into his room and put on a pair of trainers for a quick stroll down to the coffee shop on the corner.
Leaving the house, Les knew he wasn’t being over
‘Holy fuckin shit!’ exclaimed Les, switching on the lights and tossing the bag onto a chair in the loungeroom. ‘And I said I couldn’t get into too much trouble looking for a film script? I’m luckyI’m alive.’ His eyes zeroed in on the liquor cabinet. ‘Where’s a bloody glass?’
Les poured himself a giant, enormous, Jack Daniel’s and Coke then bolted down half in one go. His eyes spun and his cheeks reddened, then he hoofed down some more.
‘Oh yeah,’ exclaimed Les.
Les had another mouthful then left the rest on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom to check himself out. He had a fat lip, some bark missing and a mouse under his right eye. But that was about all. However, he was spattered with blood and there were globs of it stuck to his Doc Martens. Les stripped off completely and threw all his clothes in the washing machine, added a liberal dose of Dynamo plus a good splash of disinfectant, then switched the machine on the extra heavy cycle. He finished his drink and, while his clothes were going round, hosed off his Doc Martens and left them out in the backyard to dry. After a long hot shower Les changed into a clean white T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting grey shorts and, feeling better, poured himself another delicious then went into the loungeroom and sat down to inspect his find. I might have almost got killed, smiled Les, but I’ve survived. And now I’m fifty thousand in front. Maybe more if I stringthings out a little. Les winked towards the night sky. Thanks, boss. Les had a sip on his delicious, put it aside and removed the leather handbag from the plastic one.
‘What?’
It wasn’t an eagle on the side of the bag. It was a bat. And when Les opened the bag, instead of finding a film script, he found a black, bound ledger. What he thought were little books of cartoons turned out to be plastic bags full of little white pills. Les pushed the plastic on one bag up against the pills, and stamped on each pill was the outline of a bat. He opened the black bound ledger. Written down the first page was a list of initials and numbers, starting with JB—200. BK—500. JD—500. MW—1000. TN—1000.
‘Oh bugger it.’
Les dropped the ledger on the coffee table, stared at the green bag and its contents and cursed his luck. This is what they were cooking up in there. No wonder that ratbag attacked me when I mentioned green bag. He was wired up to the gills on speed and thought I was some heavy come round to rip off their dope. The bat’s their brand name or whatever and the ledger’s full of dealers and amounts. What a cock-up. Thanks to bloody Irish John, I stumbled onto a team ofmeth cooks and nearly got my head blown off over a bag of rotten fuckin Lou Reed. Les stared sourly at the green bag. Right. Well I know where all this is going.
Les took the bags of pills out of the green bag then carried them into the bathroom and tipped the lot down the toilet. It took more than one go. But before long, Les had flushed a fortune in speed through Bondi’s sewerage system. After that, he got a pair of heavy duty scissors and cut the green bag up on the kitchen table along with the clear plastic ones, then compressed everything into a plastic shopping bag. Next, Les ripped all the pages out of the ledger with numbers and intials on them, tore them up and pushed them into the plastic shopping bag as well. Leaving the bag on the kitchen table, Les got a Wettex, some Spray and Wipe and a torch, then went outside and had a good look around the front of the car. There were a few smears of blood on the steering wheel and brake pedal, but that was all. Les cleaned everything off then stuffed the Wettex into the plastic bag with everything else. Satisfied, he went into his room and put on a pair of trainers for a quick stroll down to the coffee shop on the corner.
Leaving the house, Les knew he wasn’t being over
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