by Peter Corris
Prick, Tate thought. Game-playing prick. Well, he could play games with the best of them. 'I read you. Half up front, as before.'
'Right. Point of collection is . . . ?'
Tate reflected. He'd enjoyed the ride, a change from running. He felt good It'd be good to do it really early in the morning in a day or so when his bike-riding muscles were ready again. 'Like today. Make it seven-thirty a.m., day after tomorrow. Park opens at seven.'
Time for me to make the drop and get clear, Reuben thought. 'Check,' he said and hung up.
Tate said, 'Fuck you,' into the dead phone.
Grant Reuben had found a phone box in Elizabeth Bay, only a few blocks from his office in Potts Point and not far from Bayswater Road where he'd dropped Vance Belfante that morning. He dialled the number of the club. Belfante answered. 'Grant? Shit, you should see the fucking mess this place's in. I thought you were looking after things.'
That's the last piece of crap I take from you, Reuben thought. 'Never mind that, Vance. You know the bloke who did the job on Ava? I've got a line on him. You interested?'
14
The house was in Little Lloyd Street, not far from the Victoria Barracks. In fact two houses had been taken over, tiny coachmen's cottages with narrow fronts, two rooms upstairs and two down. From the street, they appeared to be separate but there were connecting doors on both levels. The narrow street had been closed to vehicular traffic and residents parked their cars in reserved areas in nearby side streets. Dunlop and Ann approached the house on foot.
'Ava moves in this afternoon,' he said. 'Roy Waterford's already installed in the house next door.'
Ann surveyed the houses—sand-blasted brick, colonial colours on the woodwork and wrought iron, deeply worn stone steps leading to the doors. 'Cute,' she said.
'Let's hope Ava thinks so. There's a narrow lane at the back. Tempting, but easy to watch. You can't get really close in a car, which we think is a plus.'
Dunlop opened the door of Number 4 and handed Ann the key. He stepped aside and let her enter first. It took only a few minutes to inspect the place—the front door led straight into a small living room with a sofa and two chairs, a coat stand and a coffee table. Built-in shelves held a TV and VCR and a sound system; an eat-in kitchen nestled at the back of the building; a pocket handkerchief bathroom was tucked in under the narrow staircase. The upstairs bedrooms both had small balconies and were warm and bright, sunshine flooding in through the French windows and overhead skylights.
Ann looked down on a miniature paved courtyard, well-stocked with potted plants. 'And whose room is whose?'
'You switch around. That's the safest.'
Ann dropped her bag in the back bedroom and they went downstairs. Dunlop tapped on the door, scarcely visible beside the coat stand in the living room. The door opened and a man stepped through. He was of medium height and muscular, wearing white jeans and a purple T-shirt. His fair hair was cropped short; he wore an earring, lipstick and eye shadow.
'Roy Waterford, Ann Torrielli,' Dunlop said.
Waterford held out his hand. Ann shook it, struggling to conceal her surprise.
Waterford laughed pleasantly. 'Pleased to meet you, Ann. Do I detect a certain chemistry between you two? Hmm?'
'None of your business,' Dunlop growled. 'Roy's a poofter, but I know he could knock the shit out of me in thirty seconds. Isn't that right, Roy?'
'You bet.'
'I see,' Ann said. 'Well, it's always good to have a man around the house.'
Waterford laughed again. 'Only sometimes. I've got some Ava Belfante outfits upstairs that would knock your eyes out. Not exactly my taste, but there you go. Wigs, too. D'you think she'll be blonde or redhead, Lucas?'
Dunlop shrugged. 'She was a redhead yesterday but today, who knows? All dolled up, Roy can pass for Ava in a poor light.'
'Unkind,' Waterford said.
Dunlop went back to the kitchen and began making coffee. 'It could be a useful strategy. Our guy thinks he's up against two helpless women and in fact he's facing two armed officers of the law.'
Ann frowned. 'Is that what we are? What are we, exactly?'
'Don't ask,' Dunlop said.
Ann looked at him. 'Where will you be?'
'Around,' Dunlop said. 'He knows me so I've got to be careful. You'll have a standby number for me and a bit of a backup team we've got handy. We've done some dry runs. Help can be here inside two minutes.'
'I'm a master of disguise,' Waterford said. 'As anyone who went to the Mardi Gras will tell you. Ava's going to make certain selected expeditions with you and without you. I'll be along, in one costume or another. I do a great bikie and an even better black hooker.'
'Pretty good nun, too, I'm told,' Dunlop said. 'But that's easy.'
'You try it,' Waterford said.
'Jesus,' Ann said. 'Give me some coffee. I wasn't expecting anything like this.'
'Neither is he,' Dunlop said grimly. He poured the coffee. 'This won't be fun. It's going to be a combination of boring and scary. You can still back out, Ann, if you want to.'
Ann bent and opened the tiny bar fridge. She took out a carton of low-fat milk and added some to her coffee. Dunlop accepted milk; Waterford flexed a large bicep and refused.
'No fear,' Ann said. 'I'm in. I was just wondering if I could dress up like Roy sometimes. What do you think?'
The two men laughed. Dunlop kissed her.
'You'd better go and get Ava,' Waterford said to Dunlop. 'Don't worry about Ann. She'll be safe with me, in every sense of the word.'
Vance Belfante found the carpets in the club sticky underfoot. The bar was a mess, the toilets were grubby. The performers' dressing rooms were a sea of cigarette butts and marijuana roaches, crushed cans, empty bottles and discarded tissues. He found a syringe and a hand mirror with grainy white powder adhering to the dusty surface. He was still a bit pissed from boozing with Grant Reuben. He felt the blood pounding in his head as he completed the tour of inspection.
He struggled to stay calm. 'Cleaners on strike?' he asked Geoff Caulfield, the manager
Caulfield shrugged. 'Economising, Vance. Things have been crook.'
'How crook?'
'Have a look at the fucking books.'
Vance took the ledgers to his office and looked them over. His grasp of accountancy was rudimentary, but he knew enough to see that the club was losing money fast. The phone rang. He snatched it up and heard Reuben's voice.
'Grant? Shit. You should see the fucking mess this place is in. I thought you were looking after things.'
Belfante listened to what the lawyer had to say, then he went to the bar for a reviver and caught the manager sniffing and wiping his nose guiltily. Vance mixed himself a bourbon and Coke. 'Looks bad,' he said.
Caulfield nodded and sniffed again.
Vance knocked back half of his drink. 'Remember George Frost?'
'George? Sure.'
'He'll be back soon.'
Fear flickered in the manager's eyes. 'Yeah? Good.'
'That's right. Good.' Vance moved forward. He put his drink on the bar and smashed his right fist into Caulfield's face. Caulfield reeled back, cannoned off the wall. Vance met him with a strategically raised knee, a skill retained from his soccer-playing days. Caulfield made a soggy, sick-to-the-stomach sound as the knee connected. He sagged. Belfante hammered him down with a left hook to the ear. Caulfield vomited and blood spurted from the ear and flowed onto the carpet.
'You'll clean that up,' Belfante said. He rolled the manager over with his foot and removed a fat wallet from his back pocket. The wallet was stuffed with notes. It also contained seven packets of white powder.
Belfante sank his foot into the fallen man's ribs. 'You've been dealing in my club, you fucking prick. What's this? Smack?'
'Coke.'
Belfante kicked him again. 'Clean up this shit. Then piss off.' He removed the money and cocaine and dropped the wallet into the mess on the floor. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and went back to his offic
e. After two drinks he felt better, after a third he felt worse. He'd smoked all the cigarettes he had on him and hunted through the drawers in his desk without finding any.
'Fuckers're robbing me blind,' he muttered.
He lurched out of the room, heading for the cigarette machine, and almost tripped over Candy, one of the strippers. 'What're you doing here this early?' Belfante growled.
'Hi, Vance. Good to see you, baby. I ah . . . I was looking for Geoff.'
Candy was American, a tall, lean bottle blonde wearing a leather miniskirt and a see-through blouse. Vance felt a throb of lust cutting through his anger and distress. He took hold of Candy's skinny upper arm. Her heavily made-up eyes went wide with alarm, but Vance's touch was gentle.
'You came to score, didn't you, love? Geoff's been selling coke in my club. Is that your drug of choice, Candy? Coke?'
She tried to pull away. 'No, Vance, I . . .'
He caressed the smooth, tight skin. 'C'mon, c'mon, you can tell Vance. I just beat the shit out of Geoff and gave him the arse, but I'm not mad at you.'
'Okay, well, yeah. I use a bit—recreationally, you know? And Geoff had some great stuff.'
'I've got it now.'
'What?'
Vance released her but blocked off any escape with his body. He held up one of the packets. 'Want some? Free?'
'Well, sure.'
'Be nice to me, then.'
Candy leaned down and kissed him. She could taste stale tobacco, beer and whiskey on his breath and he smelled of sweat and cheap soap. Candy didn't care. The plastic envelope glittered in her mind like a jewel and she put everything she had into the kiss—tongue and teeth, ten years' experience. Vance flicked the packet away like a conjurer and handed her a fistful of change. 'Get me some smokes. Filters. And come to my office.'
He hurried back to the little room, opened one of the packets and made two ten-centimetre lines on the top of the desk. The other envelopes he dropped into the ashtray. He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his jacket, shirt and trousers and sucked in the gut that was bulging over his jockey shorts. He took a pull on the bottle. Candy entered the room and put three packets of Peter Jackson on the table beside the cocaine. The miniskirt had a zip in the front. Vance reached for it. Candy dropped her straw bag and stepped back, taking care to poke out her breasts as she did so.
'Toot first,' she said.
Vance made a lordly gesture and moved away from the desk. He tore the wrapping from a packet, lit a cigarette and watched as Candy removed a red plastic straw from her bag. She bent over the desk. The skirt was tight over her narrow buttocks, her thighs were apart. Vance put his hand between her legs, inside her pants, as she inhaled. He inserted his finger and imagined he could feel the sensation running through her as she sucked up the powder. He tried to turn her around but she struggled, attempting to snort the other line. Vance spat out his cigarette and yanked her by the hair. She screamed, but her head lifted away from the desk and she turned towards him.
'Please, Vance.'
He pushed her down until her knees buckled and she was crouched in front of him. 'Suck it!'
She freed his penis and put it in her mouth. She cradled his testicles and used her tongue, bit gently, heated and cooled him with her breath. The organ remained limp.
'God damn it,' Vance moaned. 'Fucking Jesus.'
Candy used her hand to no effect. 'Have a line, baby. Let's both have a line. I guarantee you it'll make a difference. Never fails. I guarantee it.'
Vance nodded. Candy sprang up, opened another envelope and tapped the powder out. She found the straw on the desk and snorted quickly. Then she helped Vance, eased his head down, held the straw, stroked his tense neck.
'That's it, baby. That's it. Wait for a minute. No, don't have a drink. You won't need it.'
She took off her blouse and bra and dropped them on the desk, scooping up two of the plastic packets from the ashtray and folding the blouse over them. She unzipped her skirt and pulled her pants down. Vance was leaning back against the desk with his eyes closed. Candy wondered whether she could risk doing another line, decided against it and began to rub herself against him. Vance's hands went to her breasts, crushed them.
Candy moaned, 'That's it, baby. That's it. Oh, you're big. You're a big boy. A big beautiful boy.'
Vance's cock was engorged, throbbing. She pumped him with her hand and he came copiously, spurting onto the carpet.
'Ooh, sensational,' Candy said. She moved with the speed and grace of an ice skater, picking up her clothes, holding the blouse carefully. She gave Vance a quick kiss and darted from the room.
Vance sat on the edge of the desk. The orgasm was still going on in his head, on and on, an impossible pleasure. All the colours he could see inside his eyelids were beautiful and all the sounds he could hear were sweet. It was a long time before he detected the stink of his cigarette burning through the carpet.
Tate got word about Ava the day before he was due to collect his advance payment. His informant was a professional gambler who had seen her in a TAB agency. The transaction was handled by an intermediary Tate met by arrangement at the Coogee Bay Hotel. The man was drinking at a table in the beer garden. Tate sat down opposite him and shook his head when the jug was pushed towards him.
'Let's not piss around. He's sure?'
'Dead sure. Knows her well. Got the money?'
Tate slapped his jacket pocket. 'Description.'
'Blonde. Bit thinner than before, still flashy, but. Fuckin' great bandage on her arm. Walking a bit funny. Like something hurts.'
'Okay. Where?'
'TAB.'
'I fucking know that already. Where?'
'Keep your shirt on. Paddington.'
'Paddington. Oxford Street?'
'Right.'
'Alone? On foot? Driving? What? Where'd she go?'
'Take it easy. She was on her own, near as he could tell. Carrying a couple of shopping bags. Looked like she lived there. No car.'
'So, he followed her home?'
'Nah. She crossed the road. The lights beat him and he lost her.'
'Shit!'
'You don't want much, do you?'
Tate slapped the envelope down into a puddle of spilt beer and walked away. The day was bright and warm, winter easing towards spring. Tate walked along the foreshore, sucking in deep breaths of the salty air. There were a few board riders in wetsuits bobbing in the water, waiting for waves. People walked on the beach and several dogs ran along in the shallows, barking at the waves. Tate was fond of dogs, particularly bull terriers. He'd thought of breeding American pit bulls as a sideline when he got to Tasmania, but recent restrictions on the importation of the breed looked likely to hit that idea on the head. Tate thought such concerns wimpish. Maybe he'd breed them anyway.
He sat on a park bench and watched the dogs. He was thinking ahead more and more these days. Thinking about Tasmania. Dangerous that, with an important job still to do. Well, he was on the trail again now. Paddington. Poofter territory. The dogs there were probably all poodles and Old English sheepdogs with pink ribbons in their hair. Tate got up and was pleased to feel that the cycling muscles weren't feeling stiff. Early morning ride tomorrow. Pick up the money and then go to work. No mistakes this time. Clean and simple. Just cross them off.
15
Dunlop met Roy Waterford in Hyde Park, near Whitlam Square. The young man was sitting on a bench flicking crumbled potato chips to the park pigeons. He was wearing jeans, motorcycle boots and a leather jacket. Dunlop sat beside him, took a handful of the chips and ate them himself.
'Selfish bugger,' Waterford said.
'So, how's it going?'
'Ann and Ava are getting along all right. I'm going to have to watch my figure.'
'How's that?'
'Ava's lost a lot of weight. I had a bit of trouble getting into some of her gear. We had a dress-up last night. Ann said she couldn't tell us apart. Flatterer. She's a very nice woman, Lucas. You done good ther
e.'
'How's she shaping in the street, on the watch?'
'Fine. She's good.'
'Anything happening?'
'Nope. Thought we had an interested onlooker, but it turned out he just had the hots for older women. Ava's shed about five years with the poundage though. One problem—she keeps saying she wants to see you.'
Dunlop frowned. 'She knows why she can't.'
Waterford scattered the rest of the crumbs. The birds fluttered, pecked and scratched in the grass. 'I think you might have to meet with her sometime. Just to keep her happy. Anything going on at your end?'
'Reuben knows, or guesses, he's being bugged. Or maybe he's just cautious. He takes evasive action for certain phone calls.'
Waterford grinned. 'So do I. How about the hubby?'
'Collected by Reuben, went to his club and stayed there. We're spread too thin to watch him. He's not really a player, anyway. If nothing breaks we might have to drop him a hint or two, but not yet.'
Waterford stood and shook crumbs from his jeans. 'Better get back. You know the schedule. Ava shops this arvo, with me tagging her. She goes to the doctor tomorrow . . . What's wrong?'
Dunlop was staring at a bus making a turn into College Street. It carried a large, colourful advertisement for holidays on Great Keppel Island—'Get wrecked on Great Keppel'.
'I've been dumb,' Dunlop said. 'Listen, Roy, hop back there and ask Ava where she got the brochures for the Oasis Resort. What travel agency. And ring me on the car phone. Straight away. Immediately. It's important.'
Waterford headed to where his motorbike was parked. Dunlop hurried to his car and drove in the direction of Balmain. Waterford's call came as he was passing over the Glebe Island Bridge. He turned into Darling Street and crawled along in the thick traffic until he located the Sunrise Travel Agency on the left, just past the Village Arcade. He had to track through several narrow backstreets to find a parking place and was short-tempered when he entered the agency, which was empty of customers. The smile on the face of the man behind the counter faded as Dunlop produced his credentials.
'How can I help you, officer?'
'A woman came in here a few weeks back. Big woman, red hair . . .'
