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

Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, the cops would have been around before the fire alarm rings on track three. Les breezed through the rest of the paper then opened up the sports section.
    ‘Oh shit,’ chuckled Les. ‘Have a look at this.’
    Under the heading FLAMBOYANT CLUB OWNER PULLS OFF MASSIVE BETTING COUP was a photo of Price standing next to the jockey and trainer. He was holding onto Barrow Boy’s bridle and grinning like a rat with a gold tooth.
    ‘Good on you, mate,’ said Les. ‘Good on you.’ Les read the article and the football results, then got a pair of scissors and cut Price’s article out for his scrapbook. After reading the comics to make sure Torkan had despatched the baddies and got the comely wench, Les opened the Sun-Herald to find the drug lab article and photo was almost identical to the Telegraph’s. Les finished the papers then put them aside and checked his watch. He poured another cup of tea and took it into the loungeroom to watch Sunday.
    The fire at the drug lab was the third item on the news and apart from the old brick chimney, there was nothing left of the house. A tired-faced police commander reiterated the problem police faced with drug labs, then the news finished and it was onto the feature stories: the ice epidemic sweeping Sydney, and Melbourne gangsters.
    The ice story centred mainly around some skinny gay bloke who’d lost count of how many blokes had bonked him while he was out skating over the last three years. But it was all cool. He was straight now and had his shit and his tush together. The Melbourne gangster story was better: a baby-faced killer who could still smile after getting a thirty-five-year lagging. But although he’d moved millions of dollars’ worth of pills and either murdered or organised the murders of a raft of rivals in the drug trade, his parents said he was a terrific kid with a great sense of humour, loved animals and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, that’d be right, agreed Les. If me and Eddie got arrested for all the people we’vesent to an early grave, our parents would say the same about us. My oath they would. Sunday finished with a great story about a young Bondi girl who could play bass guitar like a demon and was killing them overseas.
    Les cleaned up in the kitchen and by the time he’d put the last plate away, things were stirring inside him. Tea was always nice. But the big red-headed Queenslander needed a cup of coffee. A flat white or a cappuccino would suffice. A crisp latte would be even better. Les changed into a clean pair of jeans, a blue Brazilian soccer T-shirt he bought at the op-shop in Hall Street and a black hooded tracksuit top. After plonking his baseball cap on his head, he put his mobile in the front pocket of his top, locked the house and strolled nonchalantly down to Gabrielle’s and Liza’s.
    The owner and the staff gave him a welcoming smile when he walked in and Les was delighted to see Louise and Jenny, wearing jeans and fleecy tops waving to him from the old, blue Chesterfield inside. Les ordered a latte, eased his frame through the other punters and joined his two workmates.
    ‘Hello, ladies,’ smiled Les, pulling up a seat. ‘How are you this morning?’
    ‘Good, Les,’ said Louise. ‘How’s yourself?’
    ‘Not too bad, thanks,’ replied Les.
    ‘Shit! What happened to your face?’ asked Jenny.
    ‘I was sparring with a bloke down the surf club. And he got a bit carried away.’
    ‘So I imagine you sorted him out,’ said Jenny.
    ‘Yes. You could say that,’ replied Les.
    ‘God. I’d hate to have your job,’ said Louise.
    ‘Yeah, well. Someone has to do it,’ shrugged Les. He looked up as his coffee arrived, thanked the girl then turned to the others. ‘So how was it up there last night?’
    ‘How was it?’ echoed Jenny exchanging glances with Louise. ‘It was unreal.’
    ‘Oh?’ said Les, taking a sip of coffee.
    ‘After work,’ said Louise, ‘we were having a few staffies. And Mr