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

green bag.’ Bodene rolled his eyes. ‘Some fucking luck. Bag and everything else gets stolen. Bastards.’
    ‘Yeah. You can say that again,’ agreed Les. He drained his coffee and smiled at Bodene. ‘So all up, I’m looking for a green handbag with a black eagle on the side, containing a script, a floppy disc and three books of cartoons by a bloke called Emile Mercier.’
    Bodene was about to speak when two tall, dark-featured men appeared alongside him. They had impassive Slavic faces and sported plenty of bling with their smart casual clothes. Bodene stood up and greeted the men with equal impassivity, Lasjoz came to life and they all started talking in Albanian.
    Les smiled at the two girls, gave the men a few polite moments then figured it might be time to leave. He caught Bodene’s eye. ‘Well, thanks for the coffee, Menny,’ he said. ‘I might get going. I think I’ve got everything I need to know. So I’ll be in touch. Where’s the best place to find you?’
    ‘Down here, Les,’ replied Bodene. ‘Is good coffee. And gives me break from shop.’
    ‘Fair enough. And I’ve got your phone number. I’d better give you mine.’ Les took a Biro and a piece of paper from the side pocket of his cargoes, scribbled his phone number down and handed it to Bodene. ‘There you go, Menny. If you need me, give me a call.’
    Bodene shook Norton’s hand. ‘Thank you, Les,’ he said sincerely. ‘Let’s hope you can do something.’
    ‘It’s only been the once,’ winked Les, ‘but I haven’t let you down yet.’
    ‘No. You are good man. You have not.’
    ‘Goodbye, Barbara. Topaz.’
    ‘Bye, Les,’ smiled Topaz.
    ‘Nice to meet you too Lasjoz.’
    ‘Same for you, Les,’ growled the big man.
    Norton turned and walked away just as the waitress in the BUCKWHEAT T-shirt came out of the café carrying two coffees. At the same time, ajackhammer started up amidst the roadworks and another concrete mixer rumbled up amongst the dust and exhaust fumes with its air brakes hissing, while two motorists started beeping their horns and abusing each other. To add to the din, the little dog under the table started yapping at another dog again. Les caught the waitress’s eye and pointed to his ears.
    ‘Christ. How do you put up with all this bloody noise?’ he asked her.
    ‘It’s been like it for weeks,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’
    Les shook his head. ‘You’re a better woman than I am, Gunga Din,’ he replied, before crossing to the opposite side of the road. Mulling over his meeting with Bodene Menjou, Les strolled past the panel-beating shop and the Rex Hotel TAB, then idly glanced through the wide doorway leading into the lounge at several people seated amongst the tables. Sitting at a bench table just back from the old surfboat hanging from the ceiling was his old fishing mate, Gary Jackson, and two other blokes Les had met before, but whose names he couldn’t remember. They were all dressed in shorts and T-shirts and Gary had his denim cap squashed onto his head as usual. On the table in front of them were three half-emptyschooners and an untidy mess of racing forms. Les slowed his step, thought for a moment, then turned around and walked into the lounge bar. Gary noticed him approaching and looked up smiling.
    ‘Les, mate,’ he beamed. ‘How are you, me old currant bun?’
    ‘Good thanks, Jacko,’ replied Les. ‘How’s yourself?’
    ‘I’m all right.’ Gary indicated his two friends. ‘You know the boys.’
    ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘How are you fellahs?’
    ‘Good, Les,’ replied the one with short blond hair.
    ‘Les,’ nodded his dark-haired mate, sporting what was probably the last mullet in the Eastern Suburbs.
    ‘So what’s doing, Les?’ asked Gary.
    ‘Gary,’ enquired Les, ‘those two mates of yours, Short Round and Weasel. Are they still taking things from people that don’t belong to them?’
    ‘Yes,’ replied Gary. ‘What are you after? They got some good