Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (32 page)

Les gave a bit of a shrug. ‘According to one of the fire brigade blokes, some sheilas living in the flats have got a band. They threw a street party and overloaded the power in the laundry, and the gas mains blew up.'

‘Jesus Christ! Was anyone hurt?'

Norton shook his head. ‘No. Evidently everybody was out in the street when the place went up.'

‘Bloody hell! It looks like a bomb hit it.'

‘Yes, it does, doesn't it?' Norton tried hard not to smile at the look of anguish on his boss's face. ‘So what brings you over here, anyway, Price? You're a bit out of your way, aren't you? And you look like Philip Mar-lowe in that outfit.'

‘Huh? Oh... I... ah, I had to give one of the boys a lift home. I was driving past. And I... ah... I saw the fire trucks, so I thought I'd stop and have a look.'

‘Ohh, right. Yeah,' nodded Les.

Price turned away from Norton and moved a little further along the footpath towards the old block of flats;
his apprehension and nervousness was now bubbling to the surface. Les let him go and studied him from behind for a few moments. And as the remaining pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place, he felt like going over and kicking his boss right up the arse. Norton may have pulled off the perfect crime; but for the last few years, Price had pulled off the perfect mistress.

You rotten, shifty old bastard, thought Norton. No wonder you talked me into buying that stinken block of flats. That way you didn't have to take the risk of putting her up somewhere and with slackarse me owning the place you knew I'd never come over, and there'd be no chance of anybody else buying the dump and tossing her and the rest of them out. Buy this block of flats, Les. A great investment, Les. You'd be a mug if you didn't, Les. You arsehole. A lousy 100 bucks a week, plus a few bucks here and there for a painting or whatever, and not a soul knew she existed — except maybe George. Good one, Price. And you wouldn't have told her some bloke working for you owned the joint. In fact I don't know what you've told her. She's not all that bright, and you've got to be one of the best con men that ever existed. You taught my everything I know. Norton continued to study his boss, staring over at the flames. And the last couple of weeks the moll wouldn't have mentioned Les the new caretaker, because half the time the bitch didn't even know I existed. She sure didn't want nothing to do with me, the moll. Yes, Price, old fella. I was conned into buying that lemon just so you could have somewhere to do your late-night bonking. You bastard. I ought to break your neck. And haven't you made a nice pig of yourself the last few nights you've been getting away early? Bad heart and all. Norton gave a bit of a sour chuckle. But you weren't the only one seeking Miss Garrett's favours. Hope the others were wearing condoms.

Norton stared after Price and then somehow found he still couldn't help but admire him. I've got to give you one thing, though, when it comes to getting a mistress
or whatever; you've still got taste. She's got to be one of the best sorts I've ever seen. And not a soul knew about it. Despite himself Norton had to laugh. I hope when I'm sixty I'm still bonking good sorts like that forty years younger than me. But all that moralising over the years about being a good Catholic. Oh well, who gives a fuck? Norton shook his head, then walked over and once again tapped his boss on the shoulder and this time tried to look concerned.

‘I'd get back over here, if I were you Price. All these drunken mugs around. Anyway, what do you want to be hanging around like a gig for? You've seen one fire, you've seen the lot.'

Price was still more than a little vague. ‘Yeah, I suppose you're right, Les,' he replied slowly. He walked back towards the BMW with Norton, but his eyes were still on the fire. ‘Are you sure no one was hurt?' he asked again.

‘Positive,' answered Norton. ‘In fact the only casualty up here tonight's been me.'

‘You?' Price screwed his face up slightly and gave Les a quick once up and down. ‘What's up with you? You look all right to me. There's not a mark on you.'

‘Oh, I'm not talking about physically, Price,' said Les. ‘I'm talking... monetarily.'

‘What!!?'

‘Well, I've done my arse, haven't I? The fuckin'joint wasn't insured. The land's not worth two bob. Plus I've done the money I put up in the first place. I'm right up shit creek in a leaky boat.' Les moved his face a little closer to Price's. ‘I only wish I'd never let you talk me into buying the cunt of a joint in the first place.'

‘Hey, hold on a sec, Les. Nobody put a gun to your head and made you buy it. You were pretty keen, if I remember.'

‘In fact,' said Les, ignoring Price. ‘Seeing as you talked me into buying that shit fight, I was thinking of snipping you for a lazy $50,000, just to show what a good bloke you are.'

‘What!!?' Price Galese looked shocked. ‘Get out! Listen, like I said, nobody made you buy the place. You're a big boy now — you can stand on your own two feet.' Price shook his head. ‘Besides, it's not like the old days. The casino's finished, I've had to sell a couple of horses — I couldn't find fifty grand even if I wanted to.'

‘Ohh, I dunno,' drawled Les. ‘You could always sell one of your paintings.'

‘Paintings? What fuckin' paintings? I haven't got any paintings. There's a couple back at the house and they're worth fuck all. I'm not into art.'

‘Yeah? That's funny. I heard you had a really valuable collection.'

‘Well, you heard wrong.' Something in the tone of Norton's voice made Price give Les a bit of a suspicious, once up and down. ‘Where did you get this shit anyway?' he asked.

Norton gave a bit of a shrug. ‘Off an art dealer in Double Bay. He said paintings by some sheila called Sandra Jean Garrett are worth a fortune these days.' Norton moved his face almost right up to Price's. ‘And he reckons you've got the lot.'

Price stiffened. His jaw dropped fractionally, his eyes widened then narrowed. ‘Why, you dirty low cunt, Les Norton. You miserable, despicable bastard.'

Norton looked evenly at his boss. He gave him another friendly pat on the shoulder then tugged gently at the lapel of his trench coat. ‘That's right, Philip Marlowe. And if you behave yourself and weigh in that fifty grand, I won't tell a soul just how many you've got.'

Robert G. Barrett
The Godson

‘I wonder who that red-headed bloke is? He's come into town out of nowhere, flattened six of the best fighters in Yurriki plus the biggest man in the valley. Then he arrives at my dance in an army uniform drinking French champagne and imported beer like it's going out of style. And ups and leaves with the best young sort in the joint... Don't know who he is. But he's not bloody bad.'

Les Norton is at it again!

Les thought they were going to be the easiest two weeks of his life.

Playing minder for a young member of the Royal Family called Peregrine Normanhurst III sounded like a deadset snack. So what if he was a champagneguzzling millionaire Hooray Henry and his godfather was the Attorney General of Australia? Les would keep Peregrine out of trouble... So what if he was on the run from the IRA? They'd never follow him to Australia...

Robert G. Barrett's latest Les Norton adventure moves at breakneck speed from the corridors of power in Canberra to the grimy tenements of Belfast, scorching the social pages of Sydney society and romping through the North Coast's plushest resorts to climax in a nerve-shattering, blood-spattered shootout on a survivalist fortress in the Tweed Valley.
The Godson
features Les Norton at his hilarious best, whatever he's up against — giant inbreds, earth mothers, Scandinavian au pair girls, jealous husbands, violent thugs and vengeful terrorists.

If you thought Australia's favourite son could get up to some outrageous capers in
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids, The Real Thing
and
The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya
, until you've read
The Godson
, you ain't read nothin' yet!

 

Robert G. Barrett
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids

You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
is the book that launched Les Norton as Australia's latest cult hero.

Follow Les, the hillbilly from Queensland, as he takes on the bouncers, heavies, hookers and gamblers of Sydney's Kings Cross, films a TV ad for Bowen Lager in Queensland and gets caught up with a nymphomaniac on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

In one of the funniest books of the past decade you will laugh yourself silly and be ducking for cover as Les unleashes himself on Sydney's unsuspecting underworld.