Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust by Robert G. Barrett Page A

waitress a cavalier once-up-and-down.
    The girl took a deep breath. ‘No,’ she replied indifferently. ‘They just pay me to stand around and make the place look good.’
    ‘Yeah? Well you can tell whoever owns the place, they’re wasting their money. Now if you’re finished talking to your boyfriend on the phone, I’d like to order.’
    ‘It’s not a phone,’ smouldered the girl. ‘It’s a…’ She was about to swear then stopped. ‘Palm Tec waiter’s pad,’ she replied.
    ‘Oh? And do you have to be a rocket scientist to work it, do you?’ enquired Les.
    ‘No,’ replied the girl. ‘You just have to be Jesus Christ to put up with some of the customers. That’s all.’
    ‘Oh? Is that right?’ said Les.
    ‘Yes,’ answered the girl. ‘And if you’re having trouble reading the menu,’ she added with an icy smile, ‘we have another inside with big letters and little bunny rabbits and monkeys on it.’
    ‘Really?’ said Les. ‘Well, while you’re on the subject of monkeys, do you mind if I offer you some advice?’
    ‘Not at all, sir,’ replied the girl. ‘What is it?’
    ‘If you happen to pass a woman in the street with a really nice hairdo, ask her the name of her hairdresser. And if she won’t tell you, grab her by the arm and start crying.’
    The waitress studied Norton’s face for a moment. ‘And may I offer you some advice too, sir?’
    ‘Sure,’ smiled Les.
    ‘Don’t wear that mask when you’re out in public. You don’t only look stupid, you’re scaring the children and making the dogs bark. Now,’ she smiled back. ‘Would you care to order? Or would you prefer to sit there looking like you just got booted off Big Brother ?’
    ‘No. I’ll have scrambled eggs and bacon on Turkish with grilled tomato, please.’
    ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Yeah. An Al Pacino, thanks.’
    ‘A what?’ said the girl.
    ‘Sorry,’ apologised Les. ‘I forgot. I’m out in the bush. I’ll have a latte. And make sure it’s in a clean glass.’
    ‘Sorry. But we’re fresh out of clean glasses,’ apologised the girl. ‘How about a dirty one and a piece of newspaper to wipe it with?’
    Before Les could reply, the waitress turned and walked off. He continued reading his paper and a few minutes later the girl was back with his latte in one hand and his cutlery wrapped in a serviette in the other.
    ‘If you’re curious,’ the girl smiled pleasantly, ‘the silver things are a knife and fork. You use them to eat with. The fork is the one with the little pointy bits at the end. Any problems,’ she purred, ‘tell me. And I’ll get you a nice big spoony-woonie and a nice little bibby-wib. Okay?’
    Again the girl walked off leaving Les with his coffee and paper. Les sugared his coffee and took a sip. Shit! he thought. There’s nothing wrong with the coffee. It’s the grouse. Les read the paperand by the time the girl came back with his breakfast, he’d finished his coffee.
    ‘There you are, sir. Scrambled eggs and bacon on Turkish. Sorry about the plate,’ she smiled. ‘But the chef’s using the bucket. Someone stole his spittoon.’
    ‘That’s okay,’ said Les. ‘Saves him using your handbag. But you can bring me another latte when you’re ready.’
    ‘Coming right up.’
    Les watched the girl walk away, then started eating. His food was delicious. The eggs were creamy, the tomato was perfect, the bacon had been crisped on a char grill and the bread was toasted and buttered to perfection. Les ripped in. He was still ripping in when the girl arrived with his coffee.
    ‘Everything all right, sir?’ the girl asked, placing Norton’s coffee on the table, along with the bill.
    ‘Mmhglihrrf,’ Les nodded enthusiastically through a mouthful of food.
    ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she answered.
    The girl walked away leaving Les to his meal. He polished it off then lingered over the paper with his coffee. Several punters came and went, the boats bobbed up and down in the sparkling blue