Heroin Annie

by Peter Corris

  ‘You should've killed him’, she said.

  ‘No, he should have killed me.’

  The whole thing only took a couple of minutes and if any cars had passed during the action their drivers must have decided it wasn't their scene. A car cruised up now with a genuine citizen aboard; he wound down the window and put his big, bald head out.

  ‘Trouble?’ he said.

  I'd taken Hendrick's ID card out of his wallet: it carried the name Hendrick Hasselt and a photograph. I put my thumb over the photo and flashed the card.

  ‘No trouble. Making an arrest. Good of you to stop.’ I tried to look as if I always went about with three guns and thirty grand mad money on me. He didn't like the effect but he wasn't a fool; he nodded and drove on.

  Hasselt was wearing a rather nice line in paisley ties; it looked better around his wrists and he looked better on the back seat of the car, bleeding gently over his upholstery. Sam sat in the back with him and Annie drove us to Palm Beach. We had a quiet talk on the way; as she told it, she was right in the middle between Doc and Hasselt and his colleagues. It all rang true and when I asked her how she felt about a loan and a little trip abroad she gave me the first real smile I'd seen her use.

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I think so. I'll do it for Ma mostly. You, I'm not sure about. It depends how you feel about the junk.’

  ‘Never again’, she said. ‘Believe me.’

  I didn't say anything—what can you say? They opened the door to Annie and we all trooped in. I used the .45 to impress Doc and Dean, but after dumping Hasselt in a chair they didn't need much impressing. Paul was stretched out asleep on the sofa and the little packet of heroin was nowhere to be seen.

  Dean looked at Hasselt and breathed out slowly. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He got careless and he wasn't quite as good as he thought he was. Now you just be quiet and you'll get your gun back.’ I walked over to Doc and pushed him down into a chair, then I tickled his knee cap with the gun. ‘Tell Sam where the shit is, or you'll never walk again.’ He told her and she brought it out.

  Hasselt looked bad but he was taking an interest; one side of his face was darkening fast and he was working at a loose tooth with his tongue, maybe several teeth. I took out the plastic bag and showed it to him.

  ‘Can you cook?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Pity’, I said and dumped the cornflour in his lap, the dust flew up and he sneezed, and that caused him pain and he swore. I poured myself a small splash of Bacardi and sipped it, I could see why they drowned it with Coke.

  ‘Now’, I said, ‘let's all go to the bathroom.’ I finished my drink and we all trooped into a bathroom that had white and red tiles and good-looking plumbing. I tossed the plastic belt to Doc.

  ‘Open it up, Doc, and pour it all into the toilet bowl.’

  ‘No’, he screamed. ‘That's a hundred thousand …’

  I smiled at him. ‘As Henk said to me a little while ago, there's enough evidence here to arrange things anyway I like. If you're found dead, Doc, clutching a hundred grand worth of heroin, no one's going to ask too many questions. Start pouring!’

  He did, and the action seemed to cause him physical pain. When the water in the bowl was clouded up with the white powder I took the belt from him and held it under a running tap.

  ‘Now, flush the toilet like a nice clean boy.’ He did, and a hundred thousand dollars headed for the sewer.

  Back in the living room I put my .38 handy and unloaded the .45. I tossed the gun at Dean and told him to put it all down to experience. I took out the manila envelope and tapped it on the coffee table. Doc and Hasselt looked at it like cats eyeing a bird.

  ‘I was hired to look out for Annie’, I said, ‘and it turned out she needed it. Now you and you have got problems.’ I tapped the envelope again. ‘Do you know what this can buy me in Sydney in the way of people to take care of you two?’

  They didn't say anything, but they knew what I meant.

  ‘Right, now Annie's going away. She might be back soon or she might not, either way it's no concern of yours. Do you get me?’

  Doc nodded, Hasselt didn't move, it would have hurt him to nod.

  ‘The same goes for me. I'll put a little of this around, and you won't even piss without me knowing about it. If I hear that you have used my name or Annie's in vain, someone will get a chunk of this and you'll be missing.’

  I took Annie home, and twelve days later she was off; after we worked things out with her parole officer and did an express job on her passport. I made her a small loan and paid Primo for the heroin and gave him a bit extra too. That left twenty odd thousand which I split into four lots and posted to deserving organisations. A month later I got a postcard from Annie; it had a picture of a naval gentleman on top of a high pillar; so I gathered she was in London—I couldn't read the writing.

  The luck of Clem Carter

  Clem Carter was the welterweight boxing champion of the Maroubra Police-Citizens Boy's Club in 1955. The title didn't mean much to most people, but it meant a hell of a lot to Clem; and it meant something to me too because I was the one he beat in the final of the tournament. He was a tough kid, Clem, working at fifteen as a brickie's mate; and he had a couple of stadium fights in the next few years while I was finishing school and not finishing university. Then I went into the army and Clem went to gaol. He got three years for GBH and he told me later that he had so many fights inside that he had to serve the whole time.

  After fighting, cars were Clem's big thing—when he was young he stole them, later he built and raced them. I met him a few times in the early seventies when he was racing stockcars; the boxing scars on his face were overlain with the marks of racing injuries, and he was drinking heavily. But he was cheerful—he was newly married and heading up north to manage a new speedway. Then someone told me that he'd been sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and then he was in the news—for escaping.

  I didn't think much about it. I was working on a mildly interesting job, trying to locate a union official who'd gone missing with a certain amount of money. It was hard to tell whether or not he was more crooked than the people who wanted him. I got home late this night, tired from covering some far-flung addresses, and dry. I hadn't had a drink all day. I edged the old Falcon into the small yard at the back of my house, got out, locked it, and felt the hard metal bite into my ear.

  ‘Put your gun on top of the car, Cliff.’

  I did, and turned around slowly. He was always a fast mover, Clem; he slid around, grabbed the gun and dropped the length of pipe he'd been holding. He could hit too, and got mean when he was hurt, so I smiled at him.

  ‘Hi, Clem, get sick of the food?’

  He jerked his head at the house. ‘Inside.’ He'd beaten me easily when he didn't have a gun, and there was only a crummy electro-plated cup riding on it, so I didn't fancy my chances now. I walked to the back door and opened it, went in, turned on lights and opened the fridge.

  ‘Drink, Clem?’

  He raised the gun. ‘No, you either.’

  ‘Christ, have a heart, I'm bloody dry!’

  ‘I haven't had a drink in five years, Cliff.’

  ‘You used to like a drink.’

  ‘Yeah. Make some coffee; I see you've got the fixings. Have you got a thermos?’

  I said I had, and got it out. I felt more than a little relieved, it sounded as if Clem was planning to travel. I put my car keys on the bench to help the idea along. The coffee pot is big and I gave it a full charge; and then I took a good look at Clem. He looked fit; he was quite brown and his body, under the prison denims and a knee-length plastic raincoat, looked hard. He looked a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him and that could only mean one thing—he'd kept fit for a reason. His face confirmed that; his jaw was set firm under his battered nose and he emanated purpose and plan. I fiddled around with the coffee things, wondering what to say to him; I didn't think Clem would shoot me,
but gaol does strange things to people and guns do go off. ‘How'd you get out, Clem?’ He gave a short, sour laugh. ‘You ever been in there?’

  ‘Yeah, just on remand, week or so.’

  ‘Remand! A playground. You should try the real thing. Well, I sucked up and got a job in the kitchen. I fixed one guard and a couple of the cons.’

  I poured the coffee and pushed the sugar across to him. I haven't used sugar since I went on my fitness kick a year ago. Clem ignored the sugar, sipped the coffee black. ‘Must have cost you’, I said.

  ‘Right.’ He looked at me carefully and put the gun down by his cup. ‘It's funny that, I had to get a mate to sell one of my cars. Joannie … ah, never mind, I'll sort it out.’

  I drank some coffee, still wanting a real drink. ‘What're you going to do now, Clem?’

  He picked up the gun. ‘You're driving me north. When we get there I'm going to use this on a man.’

  ‘That's crazy. That's life!’

  ‘I didn't do that job, Cliff, he put me in.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘Don't chat about it! Five years … what've you been doing in the last five years?’

  I finished my coffee, didn't answer.

  ‘A few birds, Cliff? Bit of travel? I remember you used to read a lot; well, I've had plenty of time to read and to think. So I know what I'm going to do and I don't want to bloody debate it with you. Okay?’

  I nodded, Clem had done a bit of self-improving in prison; he'd never have said ‘debate’ before. He was all the more dangerous for it. I started to pour more coffee but he waved the gun. ‘Stick it in the thermos and make up some food, we've got a long drive.’

  I put together some bread, salami and cheese while Clem watched me. I took out the flagon of white wine but he shook his head.

  ‘Let's go and get some clothes, we're still about the same size.’

  ‘A bit of luck that’, I said.

  He grinned at me. ‘Not really; I told you I've thought this out.’

  We weren't welterweights anymore, more like heavy middles; but a pair of my jeans and a shirt and windcheater fitted Clem well enough. I could have taken a chance while he was dressing, but he was still very quick and I knew I wouldn't have been able to use the gun on him anyway. It was a weird feeling; I was alarmed by his manner and his possession of the gun but I couldn't really believe that old Clem would harm me, and in a way I was glad of his company.

  We went back downstairs and listened to the news. He listened intently but not with that inflated self-importance that leads criminals to keep scrapbooks and to want to be on TV: Clem wanted to find out what the cops were doing. The report was vague; Clem was described as dangerous and the police were appealing for help. It sounded as if they didn't have any ideas:

  ‘They'll be looking for you up north, Clem’. I said.

  He rubbed his hand across his face. Some bristle was showing through but his last shave must have been a very close one. ‘I know’, he said. ‘But they're pretty dim up there. I could get in and out with my eyes closed.’

  Suddenly I felt tired; I didn't want to go cowboying off north with Clem Carter while half the New South Wales police force chased us. I wanted a drink, several drinks, and I felt more like reading about chases in Desmond Bagley than being in one. So I tried it; while Clem was checking the food parcel I made a grab at the gun. It wasn't much of a try, but even so Clem's speed surprised me: he side-stepped, kept the gun up out of harm's vay and hit me in the pit of the stomach with his left. It was something like the left he'd dropped me with at Maroubra more than twenty years back and it had the same effect. I went down hard, and stayed down.

  ‘You shouldn't have tried that, Cliff, he said nastily. ‘I can beat you anytime.’

  I sat on the floor, feeling my guts re-arrange themselves. ‘I know, Clem, I just don't like guns pointing at me. What about a truce?’

  He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What sort of truce?’

  ‘Put the gun away and I'll do what you say short of getting myself in too much trouble. I'll stick with you. If you shoot at anyone I'll run away. If you shoot at me I'll try to do you in any way I can.’

  He gave the sour laugh again. ‘Okay. I'll let you drop off as soon as I can.’

  We picked up the food, turned off the lights and went out to the car. Clem set the safety and put the .38 in the waistband of the jeans. ‘You drive’, he said. ‘Take it easy, there's no hurry.’

  I worked the car out and we drove in silence through Glebe and Ultimo and on to the Harbour Bridge. There was rain in the air, threatening in the dark, purple-streaked sky, but the roads were still dry and the traffic was light. I told Clem I had to stop for petrol. He didn't like it much and made me keep going up the Pacific Highway until we hit a self-service place. Clem huddled down as I got out of the car.

  ‘Don't do anything silly, Cliff.’

  ‘Hell no, this is fun. Do you want anything, smokes?’

  ‘No, I've got no vices now. Just get on with it.’

  I fuelled up, checked the water and oil and tried to think of something clever but nothing came. When I got back in the car I handed Clem ten dollars.

  ‘What's this for?’

  ‘Give it back to me.’

  He did. ‘Now I'll consider you a client, Clem. It's as illegal as hell but it makes me feel better.’

  ‘You're full of shit, Cliff’, he said but he seemed to relax a bit. The gesture was pointless, a farce, but it lead him to talk about his mission.

  Clem had been managing the Gismore speedway and making a fair fist of it for six months. They were taking a few thousand dollars a meeting and the prospects looked good. He bought a house which was attached to an older timber mill and this gave him a big covered space for a workshop. In his spare time he worked on improvements to his cars. According to Clem it was the owner of the speedway, a guy named Riley, who came up with the idea of holding meetings for six days running, a sort of tournament for the different models of cars. For the last meeting, Riley gave Clem the night off. He went home, collected his wife and set off for the movies, but the car broke down up in the hills. Clem was still working on it when the cops came. The speedway had been knocked over with close to $30,000 in the till. Riley, who'd taken a shotgun blast in the shoulder, identified Clem as one of the heavies. He also said that the six day meeting had been Clem's idea. The cops found a dust coat, mask and a sawn-off shotgun with one barrel recently discharged in Clem's car. Clem's only witness was his wife, Joannie, and she didn't impress anyone. They searched the house and found letters from Riley giving Clem hefty advances on his salary. Clem said he'd never seen the gun or the mask or the coat before, nor the letters. Riley spent some time in hospital and he closed the speedway. The town lost jobs and entertainment. No one wanted to start a Clem Carter fan club—and he got fifteen years for armed robbery and wounding.

  The way he told it impressed me. Clem was never known for his imagination and the story hung together pretty well. A few things bothered me though.

  ‘This Riley'd be stealing his own money, wouldn't he?’

  ‘No. He had big overheads, loans, salaries, taxes; this was a gift.’

  ‘Wouldn't he have moved on by now?’

  Clem was staring ahead up the road. ‘You'd reckon he would, wouldn't you? But he hasn't. I expect I'll find out why when I get there.’

  ‘He'll move when he hears you're out.’

  ‘I've got a mate up there, he'll keep me informed.’

  ‘I still don't see what you reckon to get out of it.’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘Bullshit. You're going to kill a man for revenge, bullshit!’

  ‘All right, Cliff, I'll tell you. I'm not going to kill him, I just said that to sound hard. You're a smart man, you must be able to guess why I'm going after him.’

  ‘The money’, I said.

  ‘Right. He hasn't touched it, it's still around somewhere and I'm going to ask him nicely where it is.’

  ‘And t
hen …’

  ‘You meet some interesting people in gaol. If I can get my hands on the money I can get out of the country, no worries.’

  ‘If you can get the money it'll prove you didn't do the job.’

  He sneered at me. ‘How?’

  I could see his point—after some thought-chances were if he walked into a police station with a bag full of money they'd say thanks very much, and send him back to the slammer. Still, I was liking it less and less; it sounded like unpleasantness followed by deserted beaches or airfields. I like to do my travelling in the daylight with a lot of people taking the same risks. As I was thinking, I raised the speed a bit.

  ‘Take it easy, Cliff, I don't want to draw any attention. I want Riley to sweat, but I don't want him to know whether I went north, south, east or west.’

  We got to Newcastle around midnight, and I watched the motel signs flashing by and thought about sleep. I put the question to Clem and he uncorked the thermos for an answer. That worked for a while, but after an hour on the open road I was sagging and letting the car drift a little.

  ‘Okay, let's not be statistics’, Clem said. ‘Pull over when I tell you and we'll rig something up.’

  We turned off the highway down a dirt road which had trees, widely spaced, growing alongside. We went in through the trees and pulled up about thirty feet back from the road, pretty well sheltered. Clem rummaged around in the back of the car and came up with a long piece of flex. He wound the middle part of it around my ankle and took the two ends to tie around his foot. I stretched out in the front seat and he took the back. There was a coat and a blanket in the car and he slung the blanket over to me. It was cold and uncomfortable, and I soon needed a piss. Clem's breathing was steady but whether he was asleep or not I couldn't tell. Eventually I slept in snatches; but I was cramped, stiff and bursting at first light when Clem stirred in the back.

  ‘Have a good night, Cliff?’

  I grunted something uncomplimentary and he laughed. ‘You should try a stay at the Bay, Cliff, this is a picnic’ He untied us and pushed his door open. ‘Splash the boots, Cliff, and let's get moving.’