Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust Read Online Free PDF Page A

his head in amazement. ‘That’s fantastic, Menny,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fantastic. But unfortunately, mate, political correctness isn’t about being happy.’
    ‘It’s not?’ queried Menny.
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    ‘No,’ replied Les. ‘It’s all about grief and sorrow. And making people feel miserable and guilty about themselves. You can’t have a happy ending to your movie, Menny. They’ll laugh at you.’
    Bodene thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I forget. Conspicuous compassion.’
    ‘Exactly. So what about this,’ suggested Les. ‘The party’s in full swing, and who should walk in the door? A Maori suicide bomber protesting about the Treaty of Waitangi. He detonates his explosives belt and kills everybody. Then, as the dust settles on all the blood and guts, and the smoke drifts away in the wind,’ Les slowly moved his hand for emphasis, ‘the words materialise on-screen: Gone with the Willy Willy. Roll credits. Light the lights.’ Les smiled confidently. ‘What do you reckon?’
    Bodene stared at Les. ‘What do I reckon?’ he said, reaching across and shaking Norton’s hand. ‘Les. You are genius. You should be writing movies yourself.’ Bodene turned to the others. ‘What do you think?’
    The others all nodded in agreement.
    ‘Is good idea. I like very much,’ said Lasjoz.
    ‘Hey,’ shrugged Les. ‘Making an Australian movie ain’t rocket salad.’
    ‘Don’t I know,’ said Bodene.
    ‘Only trouble is, Menny,’ sighed Les. ‘They’ve knocked off your script. So you’re kind of stuffed.’
    ‘No, no. Not at all,’ gestured Bodene. ‘Gone with the Willy Willy is only movie to get me established as brilliant, critically acclaimed, Australian film producer. The movie I want to make money with, the one bastards stole my script for,’ cursed Bodene, ‘that I pay bloke in Melbourne plenty to write, is called The Case of the Talking Pie Crust .’
    ‘The case of the what?’ asked Les.
    Bodene eased back and smiled at Norton. ‘Les,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of Emile Mercier?’
    Les thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’
    ‘Hah!’ laughed Bodene. ‘I know more about Australia than some of you so-called dinky-di Aussies.’
    Just then, the waitress came back and placed their coffees on a sandstone block in front of them. After she put Norton’s cappuccino down, he slipped her twenty dollars. Not too ostentatiously. But enough for Bodene and the others to notice. Specifically Bodene. ‘Keep that for yourself,’ Les said quietly into the girl’s ear.
    ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ smiled the girl.
    As she walked away, the Albanian gangster’s smile vanished. ‘Les. What you are doing?’ he demanded. ‘I pay for this.’
    ‘I know that, Menny,’ shrugged Les. ‘I was just giving the girl a tip. That’s all. She works hard.’
    ‘Oh. Oh.’ Bodene was impressed by Norton’s generosity. So were the others.
    Les dropped a packet of sugar in his cappuccino, stirred it and took a sip. ‘Hey. This is bloody good coffee,’ he said.
    ‘Yes. Yes it is,’ nodded Bodene. He sugared his coffee and took a sip. ‘Now. Where was I?’
    ‘Emile Mercier,’ said Les.
    ‘Yes. Right.’ Bodene had another sip of coffee. ‘Okay. Emile Mercier was Sydney cartoonist back in nineteen forties and fifties for old newspaper called The Sun. This was before your time and mine, Les my friend. But believe me, back then Sydney was super squaresville. Pubs close at six o’clock. No TV. No rock ’n roll. Wear bikini on beach, say word bloody, get you arrested.’
    ‘I’ve seen photos,’ said Les.
    ‘Women look like frumps. Men dress like shitkickers,’ continued Bodene. ‘Unless you bookmaker or crooked cop or politician. No one got money. No better than Russia.’
    ‘Price often mentions that,’ agreed Les.
    ‘Yet this man, Emile Mercier, draw fabulous cartoons.