Heroin Annie

by Peter Corris

  Gibbons shook his head and looked across towards Ginger, he saw me but nothing registered in his face. They started on their round and I was wondering whether to order another when the red phone on the wall near the school of five rang. One of the men answered it, and shouted for Gibbons. He came across and listened, looked over at me once and I started to move towards the door. Gibbons shouted ‘Get him!’ The redhead stepped in front of me and I swung and got him on the side of the head and he went down. Gibbons was putting down the phone but the front row forward was after me and moving pretty fast. I sprinted to the car and he wasn't far behind; I slowed down a bit to let him gain, put my hand in for the gun and swung around. He was about to grab me when I split his upper lip with the muzzle of the .38.

  ‘Stay there, fatty, or you're dead.’ He stopped and half-raised his hands. I nipped around to the driver's seat and had the car moving in record time. I had a flash of Ginger and Gibbons on the move and I thought Gibbons had something in his hand but by then I was concentrating on turning, missing other cars and getting out of sight.

  I was sweating freely and the beer was sour in my mouth and belly as I headed towards the Dempseys. He was going to have to talk to me whether he liked it or not. As I pulled up at some lights I noticed a truckie looking down into the car at the gun on the passenger seat. I put it away in the clip under the dashboard feeling rattled and inefficient. I hadn't used the gun for a long time, even to threaten, and I didn't feel easy with it. I parked down on the street in front of the house and ran up the drive. I must have looked pretty wild because Rosemary started building defences against me the minute she opened the door.

  ‘No, Mr Hardy, he's very ill. He can't…’

  I pushed her aside not too gently and closed the door. ‘He's got to see me, this is all getting very sticky. It'll be shooting next.’

  I went through to the main bedroom; Dempsey was sitting up wearing some kind of oriental robe and reading a paperback. The room was feminine, and Dempsey, unshaven and with rumpled hair, was the only untidy thing in it.

  ‘Hardy.’ He looked up quickly and then winced as a shaft of pain hit him. ‘Look, I'm very grateful for last night, I …’

  ‘Skip it’, I said. ‘It was Tommy Gibbons who bashed you, right?’

  He looked surprised, and stalled by carefully putting down his book. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I've just seen him, he's a very angry man, very upset and he's got a gun. I don't think it'll be third time lucky for you, mate.’

  ‘Third time’, he said slowly.

  ‘Don't shit me, Dempsey. Gibbons had a go at you a month or so ago, didn't he? You need help, and if I know the cops in a place like this they'll treat a communist stirrer like you as an ancient waiting to happen.’

  Rosemary was standing in the doorway listening and I had a feeling that she might be an ally. They looked at each other across the room and there was a lot in that look—trust and respect and other things. She gave a slight nod.

  ‘All right’, Dempsey said. ‘Gibbons had a go, as you say, a month ago, and it was him again last night. He told me to drop the campaign, the usual thing.’

  ‘Did Gibbons do the bashing?’

  ‘Well, he pushed me around a bit at first, but no, it was the other one, the heavy one, who hit me most. Gibbons seemed to be holding him back almost. But the big one hit me and kicked me and I think he would have done some more except that there was something that scared them off—a light or a car or something.’

  Rosemary said softly: ‘You say this man Gibbons has a gun?’

  ‘Yeah, and I think he's under some pressure to use it. Belfrage stands to gain if the road goes ahead eh?’

  ‘He certainly does. He controls the trucking, has an interest in the land and …’ He'd dropped into a lecturing tone and I held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘I get the idea. All this is known, is it?’

  ‘Oh no’, Rosemary said. ‘Bill's told people of course, but it's his research that shows what Belfrage is doing—he's got it all well covered with subsidiary companies and leases and things.’

  Dempsey looked modest and I tried to picture it—a known communist slandering a respected business man, boring people silly with details of companies and stand-ins. It sounded as if Belfrage was nicely under cover, while Dempsey was in the middle of a paddock without a bush in sight. Silence fell while I did my thinking and Dempsey broke it with an embarrassed cough.

  ‘Look, Hardy, I can't quite see what this had to do with finding Robert. Isn't that why you're here?’

  For no good reason I suddenly remembered that I hadn't had breakfast and now it was early afternoon and I was hungry. Also I was curious about Zelda and why she'd taken off so abruptly. You're not supposed to be like this—distracted, thinking of your stomach—in the middle of an investigation, but it happens. I was confused and finding it hard to get a grip on the things I was supposed to be good at.

  I muttered something about it being no good to find one brother and lose another, and then asked Rosemary if she could give me something to eat. She looked surprised but drew on her bottomless well of politeness and agreed to make me a sandwich. I asked Dempsey a few questions about his brother whom he barely remembered, but my heart wasn't in it. His eyes drooped and his colour wasn't good and I started to leave the room.

  ‘I am a bit scared you know’, he said quietly. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘I don't suppose you've got any trained fighters on your side—good men with the boot, a gun or two?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn't …’

  ‘Didn't think so. Well, the thing is to stop Belfrage.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell him a story’, I said.

  I ate a beef sandwich in the kitchen under Rosemary's curious eye. She offered to open a bottle of wine for me, but I refused, I couldn't afford to get into the habit of opening bottles of wine for lunch. I had to get to Belfrage somehow and play the one weak card I had. I told Rosemary about Zelda's behaviour, and she shrugged.

  ‘She's very sensitive, you must have upset her.’

  ‘Me? With my manners? Never.’

  She smiled. ‘I'm sure you can make it up. She's terrific isn't she?’

  I said she was, but I wondered what she meant. Suburbia, you never can tell. I finished the sandwich and drank some coffee. Rosemary touched me on the shoulder as I rinsed the cup and plate.

  ‘We're very grateful for what you're doing, Mr Hardy. I don't know anything about guns, neither does Bill. And he has children to think of.’

  ‘Don't worry about it.’ I'd heard that line before; somehow your life is worth less if you haven't got children. ‘If you want to return the favour, tell Zelda what a prince I am.’

  ‘I will.’

  I walked down to my car thinking about the Dempseys and wondering what the mother had been like. I had my hands on the wheel when I felt the blade nip me behind the ear.

  ‘Just sit still, mate’, a reedy voice said, ‘and nothing bad will happen’.

  I sat. Tommy Gibbons got in beside me and dug a vicious punch into my ribs. ‘That's for Stewie’, he said. A green Datsun drove slowly down the street and Gibbons waved to the driver—the muscle man with the split lip.

  ‘Tell me where the gun is or I'll get my mate to cut off a bit of your ear.’

  I told him and he undipped the .38 and put it in his waist-band. ‘Okay, drive.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Where you were this morning, you fuckin' spy.’

  The blade moved away and I started the car and drove. Ginger sat in the back smoking and doing a little bit of work on the upholstery with his knife. The upholstery is shot anyway but I still didn't like it. Halfway across town I noticed that the Datsun had fallen in behind us; he stayed back a bit and on my right which cancelled any ideas of leaping out of the car—if I knew Stewie, he'd put the front wheels over me and smile. When we got to Belfrage's place Gibbons directed me down a track which ra
n alongside the east fence. Near the end, well away from the main building and the trucks, was a gate. Inside the gate was a small shed. I stopped, Gibbons unshipped the gun and we went through the gate and into the shed.

  It looked like it had been made out of car crates, the timber walls were rough and there was a crude skylight instead of windows. The afternoon light fell on Belfrage; who was standing inside, leaning against the back wall.

  ‘Well, well, you did something right for once.’

  Gibbons stepped forward, he held my gun in his hand and he waved it crazily. ‘Listen Harry, stop riding me. I won't take anymore of it. He's here, now get off my back.’

  Stewie came in then which made five of us in the shack. Ginger pulled up a packing case and sat down to work on his fingernails with the knife. Stewie sat on an old sea chest and gave me dirty looks. His lip was puffy and he worked with his tongue at a bottom tooth as if it was loose. That left three of us standing; Belfrage was mean, Gibbons was angry and I was scared.

  Belfrage lit a cigarette and coughed as he drew on it. Veins stood out in his face and he let his belly go even slacker when he coughed. He was in bad shape. ‘Okay, Tommy’, he said. ‘Take it easy. Where'd you get him?’

  ‘Where d'you think’, Stewie growled. ‘At that prick Dempsey's place.’

  Belfrage blew smoke in my face. ‘All right, you. You snoop around here, you spy on my boys in the pub and you hang around with Dempsey; what the fuck are you doing?’

  I shot a quick, uneasy look at Gibbons and tried to look shifty. ‘Well, it's hard to say, couldn't just you and me have a talk about it?’

  Belfrage laughed. ‘Bullshit. Stewie, why don't you show him that I don't like bullshit.’

  Stewie got up slowly and took up his position about three feet in front of me. I felt sick and regretted the sandwich; being hit by blokes like Stewie is no picnic but it was something I had to go through. I swayed away from the first punch and ducked the second but his third swing got me high on the cheek. I felt the skin open and I went down harder and more clumsily than I needed to. Stewie stood over me rubbing his knuckles and grinning crookedly with his battered mouth.

  ‘What d'you say now, smart arse?’ Belfrage said.

  I got up, swayed a bit and rounded on Gibbons. ‘You bastard’, I snarled. ‘You've got the gun, use it for Christ's sake!’

  Gibbons' jaw dropped and he looked down stupidly at the .38 in his hand. ‘What're you on about?’

  It was too much for Stewie who didn't react at all, Ginger stopped excavating and looked at Gibbons. Belfrage was getting that over-heated-look again. ‘What's this?’ he snapped. ‘What's this?’

  I put my hand up to my bleeding cheek and tried to look abject; I was on thin ice and it wasn't hard. ‘All right Mr Belfrage, I'm a spy, I admit it. Dempsey hired me. But I'm not the only one. Dempsey's got inside your show properly. He knows everything, Gibbons is working for him too.’

  Gibbons gave a forced, throaty laugh. ‘What crap, Harry that's bull.’

  ‘Hasn't he gone easy on Dempsey twice?’ I said quickly. ‘Didn't you tell him to put Dempsey right out of it this time?’

  Belfrage looked at Ginger. ‘Well? You were there, what d'you say?’

  Ginger didn't know which horse to pick—Belfrage in fury or Gibbons with the gun. ‘I dunno, dunno’, he stammered. ‘Tommy went sorta easy but …’

  ‘He's Dempsey's brother’, I said. I'd measured the distance to Stewie's crotch and reckoned I could get to Ginger before he could do anything with the knife. ‘He's his older brother, and he's a commie as well. They're going to screw you, Belfrage.’

  ‘No’, Gibbons said weakly, ‘no, it's not true.’ But he looked at me, and Blind Freddie could see that he was lying. Belfrage was almost purple now and he bent down and picked up a length of pipe from the floor.

  ‘Harry!’ Gibbons threatened him with the gun. ‘Harry, listen!’

  ‘I can prove it’, I yelped. ‘I scrabbled in my pocket and pulled out the clipping. ‘Look!’ I held it out to Belfrage. ‘That's him on the picket line.’

  ‘So what’, Gibbons sneered. ‘I've done a lot of things, Harry …’

  I checked my distances again before I said it. ‘That clipping came from Dempsey's mother, Belfrage. She kept it till the day she died.’

  ‘Died!’ Gibbons voice was an anguished groan. ‘Died, no …’

  Belfrage swung the pipe, I put my right foot into Stewie's groin and nearly tore Ginger's head off with a roundhouse left: the .38 cracked twice and a sharp, acrid smell filled the shack. Belfrage went back, buckled and went down. Gibbons let the hand holding the gun drop to his side. I bent and looked at Belfrage; one bullet had taken him in the throat and the other had gone through his jaw and up.

  I took Gibbons arm at the elbow and shook it gently; he dropped the gun. ‘I couldn't kill my brother’, he said.

  ‘I know’, I said. ‘Why did you stay here?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don't know, Harry paid well. I've done time. I made a fuckup of everything. I thought I could discourage Bill, talk to him later maybe … I don't know.’

  Ginger was unconscious and Stewie was holding his balls and not taking much interest. Gibbons had a glazed, resigned look and I remembered the proud austerity of the father, the warm hopefulness of the sister.

  ‘Get moving, Robert’, I said. ‘I'll give you an hour. I'll have to tell them you shot Belfrage but I'll put it in the best light I can, maybe there won't be too much heat. Go north, go a long way.’

  He nodded and went out of the shack. I sat there for half an hour chatting to Stewie and Ginger. When the flies started to settle on Belfrage we went off to look for a telephone.

  I told it to the cops pretty straight, leaving out the connection between Gibbons and Dempsey. After our little yarn about assault and abduction Stewie and Ginger were content to let me tell it—Stewie hadn't understood what happened too well anyway. William and Rosemary Dempsey and I got together over some Black Label, and a couple of policemen interrupted us and it took a while to sort things out. The upshot was that Belfrage was officially unmourned for various reasons as much as I was unwelcomed. I got a much better welcome from Zelda; she forgave me for being work-obsessed that morning and we went out to eat and back to her house for a short session with the bottle and a long session between the sheets. Turned out she was work-obsessed too and we left it that I'd go down again to do some swimming when the weather was warmer.

  I drove back to Sydney, and Rosemary and Bill came up to have a pow-wow with Susan. They paid me my fee but I never got to make my report to old Hiram: he went into hospital while I was away and the news was that he was in a coma and sinking fast.

  Susan came to deliver the cheque in person; she was elegant but subdued, which made her look even more elegant.

  ‘What will you do with the land?’ I asked.

  ‘Keep it, Robert might come back.’

  ‘Yeah’, I said. ‘He might.’

  Mother's boy

  It was one of those fifty-fifty days in Sydney; half the sky was grey, half was blue and it might rain or the temperature might hit thirty. Just then, in my office, which has spare lines as to furniture and a draught under the door it wasn't hot, but my client was sweating. Mr Matthews was the sweaty type—his suit was a bit tight for his early middle-age spread; he carried too much flesh to be comfortable except perhaps in the bath or in bed. Still, there were no holes in his shoes and he was my first client in eight days.

  ‘He's like a leech, Mr Hardy’, he said. ‘Like a vampire.’

  The two descriptions didn't line up for me, did he mean something slug-like and fat or a sleeker, classier bloodsucker? But I got the idea and he was the client, he could use whatever similes he liked. It was his old mum he was worried about.

  ‘I've been told that you're good’, he said nervously. ‘I mean …’

  ‘You mean I won't blackmail you?’ I said. ‘That's right, I'm no good at blackmail, I can never find the right word
s in the newspapers to make up the threatening letter.’

  His hands were pale and puffy, and he clasped and unclasped them as if he was practising handshakes. He looked even more nervous than before—nervousness is standard in a client, a sense of humour is a bonus.

  I sighed. ‘I'm pretty honest, Mr Matthews, and I might be able to help you. Tell me more about this leech who has his hooks into your mother.’

  He looked at his watch and I guessed he was in his lunch hour; leisured clients are a vanishing breed. ‘My father died six months ago’, he said. ‘He was old, it was expected. He left my mother quite well provided for. She has a house free of debt, his superannuation and some income from shares and such.’

  ‘Do you live with her?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no, I have a flat quite close. I'm single, but I left home many years ago.’ He let the words hang there for a bit, awkwardly. ‘I didn't get along with my father,’ he added.

  ‘I see. What was this vampire's name again?’

  He looked puzzled for a second, the colourful language he'd used wasn't his usual style. ‘Oh, that was a bit excessive perhaps—Jacobs, Henry Jacobs. He handled the arrangements for my father's funeral, that's how he and my mother became acquainted. He's been dancing attendance on her ever since.’

  ‘What sort of attendance?’

  ‘Flowers; I suppose he gets them cheap. He takes her to dinner, it's appalling.’

  ‘How old is your mother, Mr Matthews?’

  ‘Oh, not old, fifty-five I suppose. She was younger than father.’ Again, he hadn't finished, he seemed to have a need to explain. ‘I'm an only child.’