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

waters of the Haven and a flock ofscreeching seagulls attacked a pile of leftover chips someone had thrown to them near the pine trees. Les finished his coffee, glanced at his watch and decided to make a move. He put his paper back in his bag, picked up the bill and walked over to the register where the girl was standing on her own. She glanced up at Norton’s arrival.
    ‘Everything to sir’s satisfaction,’ she asked, unctuously.
    ‘Absolutely delightful,’ replied Les, handing her a fifty.
    ‘Oh I’m so pleased,’ said the girl. ‘Otherwise my whole day would have been completely ruined.’
    Les took his change then fished in the pocket of his jeans and came up with another fifty. ‘There you go gorgeous,’ he said, handing her the money. ‘Buy yourself a new hairbrush. Get four. One for each side of your head.’ Before she could reply, Les turned and was on his way. He’d just made it past the first table when a voice called out.
    ‘This better not be counterfeit, Ugly. We’ve had your type in here before.’
    Cursing inwardly, Les tried to ignore her and left the restaurant. So what will I do now? mused Les, as he stood gazing around on the footpath. I could check out the punters in thehood. But it’s not getting any earlier, why don’t I drive out to Long Jetty and get my key? He put his sunglasses on and followed the hill back to the resort.
    Les didn’t bother going into his apartment. Instead he went straight down to the garage, got his car and headed off out the main gate. Now, if I remember right, Long Jetty is on the way to The Entrance, he told himself. So if I go back the way I came in, I should get there okay. Les switched the tape deck on and with Marcia Ball hollering ‘Louella’, did a victory lap of Terrigal via the police station then drove past the hotel opposite the lagoon and headed for Erina Fair and the roundabout onto The Entrance Road.
    Before long Les had passed Forresters Beach and Bateau Bay Village. Then the road narrowed and it was all shops and business outlets on either side. Les checked the address on the piece of paper next to him. He went past Tuggerah Lakes RSL and an old hall further on, before he found what he was looking for on the opposite side of the road, between a surf shop and a hairdresser. Taylor’s Hardware and Paint. Keys Cut. Gas Bottles Filled. Les waited for the traffic, did a U-turn then pulled up out the front and cut the engine.
    The front window was written over with whatever specials were on offer and in an alcove on the right, another window with less sign writing sat next to a fly-screen door. Les got out of the car, walked over and stepped inside. Along one wall were cans of paint, brushes, rollers and buckets, etc. Tables of paint and other items sat in the middle and on the other wall were gardening tools, rakes, pinch bars, drills, electric chainsaws and so forth. The counter was down the back with the cash register at one end and a paint mixer at the other.
    Standing in the middle, wearing a grey dust coat, was a tall man with a long face and untidy black hair going grey. A pair of dark eyes set deep beneath his forehead seemed to say he’d seen it all, and a pair of glasses hung on a plastic chain round his neck. He looked up impassively as Les approached.
    ‘Yeah. What can I do for you, mate?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘Are you Kenny Taylor?’ asked Les.
    ‘I could be. Who wants to know?’
    ‘My name’s Les Norton. I believe Eddie Salita rang you about me yesterday.’
    ‘Ahh yes. You’re the man who wants a zinger. How are you, Les. I’m Kenny.’
    ‘Nice to meet you, Kenny,’ said Norton, shaking the offered hand. ‘So what is it you just said I needed?’ Les asked.
    ‘A zinger,’ replied Kenny. ‘That’s what I call my version, anyway. Wait here a sec.’
    The owner disappeared through a door at the back and returned with a small black plastic box, longer, but half as wide as, a cigarette packet.
    He placed it on the