Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online

Spade and The Case of the Maltese Falcon .’
    ‘Whatever,’ shrugged Les. ‘But if I fluke it, fifty grand could fall in. Maybe even more, yet already.’
    Warren stared at Les for a moment then glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway. I’d better make a move.’
    ‘You sure you don’t want a lift out to the airport?’ asked Les.
    Warren shook his head. ‘No. I’m good.’
    ‘Okay.’
    Les went back to his football. Warren took his empty glass out to the kitchen then went to his room and packed his bags. Easts were leading by two points when Warren walked back into the lounge and sat down. He was still wearing the same jeans, but he’d changed into a clean denim shirt.
    ‘Shit I envy you, Woz,’ said Les. ‘You and the beautiful Beatrice, up there in that warm Queensland sunshine. Eating mud crabs. Drinking untold bottles of chilled Portaloo Sauvignon. You’re a lucky bastard.’
    ‘Yeah terrific,’ muttered Warren. ‘The film crew are a bunch of over-aged fuckin emos. And I’vealso got to deal with a team of whingeing, argumentative wog racing-car drivers who think their shit doesn’t stink.’
    ‘The correct expression, Warren,’ chided Les, ‘is Latin temperament.’
    Warren was about to say something when a horn beeped outside. ‘Shit! Here’s my driver.’ Warren stood up and straightened his jeans. ‘Okay. I have to get going. I’ll see you when I get back.’
    ‘All right, Woz. You take care. And say hello to Ugly Betty for me.’
    ‘I will.’
    The front door opened and closed, leaving Les to his football, with Easts ending up winners by six points. A result even sweeter for Les because Balmain had three tries disallowed and George Brennan would be spewing. Les walked out to the kitchen to get another big juicy Fuji apple when his mobile phone rang.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Les. How are you, mate? It’s Jacko.’
    ‘Gary,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s things?’
    ‘How’s things?’ slurred Gary. ‘Well, how do you think things are, mate? Barrow Boy. Ten to one on the TAB.’
    ‘You backed it.’
    ‘Backed it? Me’n Ray had the double. Arthur had the double and boxed the trifecta. Plus we backed it. We’ve cleaned up.’
    ‘Good on you,’ said Les sincerely, picking up on the noise in the background. ‘So now I imagine you’re having a quiet drink.’
    ‘Quiet drink. Quiet fuckin drink. None of us are going home,’ rasped Gary.
    ‘Well, why not,’ said Les.
    ‘Hey, Jesus you’re a good bloke, Les,’ said Gary. ‘Thanks for that.’
    ‘My pleasure, mate. But remember, you never got it from me. Okay?’
    ‘Les. Say no more. Say no more.’
    ‘Exactly,’ replied Les.
    ‘Anyway,’ said Gary. ‘I’ve rung up to return the favour.’
    ‘You have?’
    ‘Bloody oath I have!’ declared Gary. ‘You know Irish John.The Postman.’
    ‘Irish John? Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘He’s not a bad bloke. But he’s a shocking pisspot.’
    ‘Yeah. Well, we all know that. Anyhow. His run goes up near the fire station on the corner of Old South Head and…
    ‘Gilgandra,’ said Les. ‘I know a girl lives up there.’
    ‘Right,’ answered Gary. ‘Well, down the end of Brassie Street, Irish John said there’s a team of shifties living in a house, don’t do much work.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘Anyway. Irish John reckons he’s doing the mail up there. And he saw one of them walk into the house carrying a green bag with a black eagle on the side.’
    Norton’s ears pricked up. ‘Irish John told you this?’
    ‘As sure as I’m standing here, Les.’
    ‘Righto. Give me the address.’ Les got a Biro and wrote it down. ‘And Irish John’s fair dinkum about this?’
    ‘Mate. He’s over playing pool,’ said Gary. ‘You want me to go and get him?’
    ‘No. Don’t bother,’ said Les. ‘All right, Gary, thanks for that. I’ll go round and have a look.’
    ‘No worries. And thanks again for the other, Les.’
    ‘Any time, mate.’
    Les hung up then sat down in the kitchen and took a chomp on