Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  Upper Perth to be precise.

  I changed into a grey, sleeved t-shirt, black track pants and a cap and joggers. As an afterthought I looked around for something solid. Under the sink I found one of Dad’s wrenches. I dropped that in my Duck, which was looking less handbag and more pregnant tyre.

  Before I fired up Mona, I rang Nick again.

  Jenelle answered this time.

  ‘Hi Jenelle. It’s Tara Sharp,’ I said.

  ‘Hi Tara. How are the feet?’

  ‘Fine,’ I answered. ‘How’s the Cayenne?’

  ‘Got a speeding ticket but no damage.’

  ‘Good for you.’ I grinned to myself.

  ‘If you’re looking for Nick he’s diverted his phone to me. He left for Sydney half an hour ago. Not sure when he’s back. I’ll be the last to know, of course.’ She sounded decidedly put out. ‘Shall I get him to call you?’

  ‘Just tell him I rang.’

  ‘Okey dokey. Bye Tara.’

  I hung up. Why had Nick rushed off to Sydney? After a moment’s puzzling I put that one away in the too-hard basket. I knew nothing about the man or his life. He could have gone there to play golf. Or visit his bondage mistress.

  Instead of wasting time worrying about Nick, I drove Mona down to Croker Street and followed it back towards the river. Whitey lived in a renovated thirties brick and tile along one of the intersecting streets. His mother had left it to him, and June had moved in shortly before the wedding. So Smitty said.

  I parked around the corner and did two walk-bys before ducking in the side gate and snooping through the back windows. No sign of Brains, or June, or Whitey; only a fat ginger tabby asleep on top of the agapanthus.

  I jumped back in the car and sped out of the western suburbs, cutting across the city into Upper Perth. Remembering the tobacco, I pulled up outside a dodgy looking deli, a stone’s throw from Nick Tozzi’s office. It was tucked in between a laundromat and a tired junk-and-antiques shop.

  Despite my hurry, there was something in the junk shop window that stopped me dead in my tracks. The ghastly pink and green of the glazing was what snagged my attention, and a second look confirmed it: a Wembley Ware dish. Before I knew it, my feet had taken a sharp left turn in through the door and transported me to the counter.

  The shopkeeper was older than most of her merchandise. She sat on a high stool, fanning herself, and gazed at me from under thick blue eyeliner and a curly brunette wig.

  ‘May I have a look at the glazed dish in the window, please?’

  Her expression was a rebuke, as if I’d committed a serious crime by asking.

  The process of retrieving the ashtray from the display took so long I began to jig.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, as she knocked her wig askew for the third time, trying to reach between a four-tiered glass cake stand and a stuffed one-eyed peacock.

  ‘Hold your horses, Missy,’ she scolded me.

  I gritted my teeth, and counted passing cars until her trembling fingers placed the pottery on the counter.

  I examined it closer, and my heart began to race. The plate had a grey marron attached to the edge, complete with pincers and painted-on feelers. This would improve my stocks with Mrs Hara.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Forty dollars.’

  I only had thirty on me. ‘Thirty,’ I countered.

  ‘Thirty-five,’ she said sharply, ‘and not a cent less.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Twenty and my handbag,’ I said, waving my Mandarina Duck in front of her nose. ‘It cost a squillion, you know.’

  The old woman scraped the front of her teeth with a yellowing fingernail then nodded.

  I handed her twenty and tipped the contents of my Duck onto the counter.

  She didn’t blink at the wrench, just fished underneath her till and found me a plastic bag.

  ‘Don’t bother wrapping it. Bit of a hurry.’ I scooped my things into the plastic, grabbed the marron plate, and ran out the door before I changed my mind.

  My Duck. My poor, poor Duck.

  I climbed back into Mona and sped past Tozzi’s office driveway, turning left at the park. The business district suddenly melted away, replaced by houses that made the streets in Bunka look pretty damn shiny. There were no half-starved, angry dogs, no hoons; just broken fences and boarded-up windows. I kept the doors locked as I sat around the corner from Wal’s and went over my plan. It was pretty much the same one I’d had at Whitey’s. Snoop around Sam Barbaro’s, find my bird, and get out of town – well, out of Upper Perth at least.

  I employed a fragment of forethought to ponder what could possibly go wrong. If Wal fell asleep I could just leave him, I mean he lived close by. If Barbaro turned up and got nasty I had my wrench. What else? My phone was charged, and I’d set Bligh’s number on one-touch dial. If the car wouldn’t start, or something like that, I could run to Tozzi’s office.

  Bok and Smitty would be proud of me; nothing impulsive going on here.

  Before I could put my perfect plan into practice, there was a knock on my window.

  When my heart steadied enough for my vision to return, I identified Wal in a once-white singlet, thongs and ripped blue jeans. I cracked the window. ‘Jesuus, Wal.’

  ‘There’s a lane behind. I’ll meet you back there,’ he said, sauntering off before I could answer.

  I started the engine and drove the short distance to the laneway. As I turned between two large fence posts onto the dirt road, I wondered if there was a connection between backalley lanes and heading down the wrong path in life.

  If so, I was screwed.

  Wal’s laneway was less salubrious than most. The dirt was covered in a carpet of shattered stubbies, and the back yards were demarcated by piles of plastic meth bottles and burger wrappers. If I looked closer I knew I’d see syringes and various other treats. I made a mental note to wear my hiking boots next time I visited derro’s paradise.

  Wal was already waiting for me, leaning against a gate. His hair was caught up in a ponytail and looked like something Brains might nest on.

  Brains. My heart thumped again.

  I pulled in close to the fence, so another car could get past me if it had to, and got out of the car. As I joined Wal, he shot his nicotine-stained fingers out to shake my hand and I slapped the Champion Ruby into them.

  ‘Thanks. How do, boss?’

  ‘Uuh. C-cool, I guess.’ It was gonna take a while to get used to the boss thing.

  ‘Barbaro’s place is over there.’ He lifted his head to indicate across the laneway to the back of a house that one time would have been a pleasant enough imitation Spanish hacienda: the pride of the suburb even. Now, though, the arches looked dangerously saggy, and the verandahs beneath them were piled with old clothes and broken things: pushbikes, wasted luggage, three-legged chairs. There was no ferocious dog roaming the back yard, but a mangy-is-too-kind-a-description cat and kittens had set up home in an old car tyre.

  Other than that it seemed deserted.

  ‘Tasty.’ My stomach began to churn.

  ‘He lives in that room.’

  I followed the direction of Wal’s nod, to the back corner of the house where the verandah arches had been enclosed with plasterboard.

  ‘There’s no window,’ I said.

  ‘Small one, round the side. No blinds or nothin’.’

  ‘You had a look?’

  ‘I can see the light at night when I walk around out here. Can’t smoke in the house,’ he added by way of explanation.

  I stared at the narrow gap along the side of the hacienda. It was barely a shoulder’s width to the fence. I really wanted to ask Wal to go and look in the window for me, but that was pretty cowardly. Leaning in the car window, I grabbed my wrench out of the plastic bag and tucked it into my waistband.

  ‘Watch my car,’ I said with more assertion than I felt.

  I hopped over the low chicken-wire fence and stooped down near the kittens. If anyone came out and accused me of tre
spassing I’d feign being a member of the RSPCA concerned about the welfare of the animals.

  As I reached into the tyre, the mother cat spat at me. I pulled my hand back and stared at the babies. Only a few days old, still blind and covered in black mite.

  Errk.

  Maybe I would ring the RSPCA when I got home.

  No one had burst through the back door, so I stood up and hurried over to the corner of the house. Now I was closer I could see that the plasterboard had a rough doorway cut in it, giving Barbaro a private alternate back entry to his room.

  I stopped for a second or two to steady my breathing, then inched along the side of the house towards the window.

  Wal was right. No curtain.

  I pressed the side of my face against the window frame and slowly rolled my head around it so that one eye could see in.

  A second later I was back to start position, my heart hammering. Barbaro was in there, sitting on his unmade bed. And he wasn’t alone.

  Johnny Vogue was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room, like a king on his throne, feet up on a dilapidated dresser. He looked surprisingly at home despite his expensive suit and shoes.

  Every atom inside every molecule in my arms, legs and torso wanted to run away, but my feet seemed to be under instruction from a different brain, carrying me back around the corner of the house to the door cut into the plasterboard. Barbaro’s room was in two parts, I was sure; the built-in verandah and the room I’d just looked into.

  The verandah door wasn’t locked and with infinitesimal care I eased it open. The only light in the small, dark room was coming from where I stood; enough for me to see the outline of another door beyond the piles of magazines and boxes of electronic gear – play stations, power cords and CD players. I slid inside, pulling the door over, and waited for a moment for my eyes to adjust. In the quiet I could hear the murmur of voices in the next room – Barbaro and Johnny Vogue.

  I also heard a sad little trill that sent my heart soaring.

  Peering around into the gloom, I located a rectangular wooden box in the corner on the floor. Barbaro had stuffed Brains into an old rabbit hutch and covered her over. I knelt down next to the hutch and clucked softly.

  She recognised the sound of a friendly, human voice and began to purr.

  I pulled off the cover and looked closer. Brains was huddled inside. No food. No water.

  My blood boiled.

  Galahs loathed being in the dark during daylight hours. And like most animals they didn’t survive long without water.

  I thought about carrying her out in the hutch then discounted the idea. It was too clunky, awkward and potentially noisy. Instead, I tucked the wrench back into my pants and unlatched the gate. She knew it was me and crawled out and onto my hand.

  We bonded for a couple of seconds; me scratching, her purring. But as I stood up she panicked and fluttered from my hand onto a high stack of magazines. Trust still wasn’t at the top of her agenda.

  I crept forward and stretched up on my tiptoes to reach her. ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I whispered. ‘Come to Tara.’

  She lifted her foot as if to step onto my hand, then quick as a flash snaked her head forward and bit me hard.

  I couldn’t control my yelp of pain.

  The murmur of voices in the next room stopped.

  Panicking, I reached down, grabbed the cover and tried to wrap Brains up in it. She dug her feet into the paper. But as I pulled her away she dragged a magazine with her and it slipped to the floor.

  The door between the two rooms flung open, then shut, and the light flicked on.

  I clutched Brains harder and she started squawking in earnest.

  Sam Barbaro stepped around a pile of mags and pointed a snub-nosed pistol at me.

  I’d thought about physical injury a bit recently. I mean, someone – maybe this guy – had been trying to run me over. But this was different. I might die, right here, right now. I felt it, down to the sphincter at the end of my large intestine.

  You never know how you’ll react in extreme circumstances: paralysis; panic; incontinence; hysteria. I suddenly learned mine was uncontrollable panic channelled into spontaneous movement.

  Before Barbaro could say a thing, I launched at the nearest pile of magazines with my shoulder and knocked it flying, showering him in his own porn collection. Centrefolds and lingerie crashed over him.

  He fired involuntarily.

  The bullet ricocheted somewhere.

  Not into me. Yesss!

  I rammed another pile at him and ran for the door.

  But Barbaro was an accomplished scrambler and had me by the neck before I could turn the handle. The pistol that had pointed at my chest a moment ago now pressed into my neck, just below my earlobe.

  My heart performed gigantic painful cartwheels against my ribcage, sending my vision spotty. I tried really hard to breathe but the air just wouldn’t go in.

  ‘Back away from the door,’ he ordered.

  I teetered backwards still clutching Brains, who was screeching fit to bust.

  ‘Shut the fucking thing up, or I’ll break its neck,’ he snarled.

  ‘C-c-can’t,’ I stuttered. ‘She-she’s scared.’

  ‘She’ll be dead in ten seconds then, and so will you.’

  I let go of the cover and Brains fell to the floor. At least she might get away if I didn’t. But she promptly crawled out from underneath the rag and onto my foot.

  Stupid bird! Never, NEVER work with animals.

  ‘C-cops will know it’s y-you,’ I said.

  ‘They’ll never find the body,’ he countered. ‘They wouldn’t have caught me doing that old woman’s place if it hadn’t been for you. What did you do with my stash?’

  Stash? ‘What do you mean?’

  He narrowed his eyes and thrust out his jaw. ‘Zach says you been followin’ him. We don’t like nosy bitches.’

  ‘We? You mean Johnny Vogue?’

  ‘I mean,’ he jabbed the pistol into my ear, ‘none of your fuckin’ business. You shoulda got the hint when I took the bird, you –’

  His term of endearment was drowned out by the motion of the door in front of me bursting open.

  As Barbaro automatically swung the pistol towards the invader, I chopped at his extended arm at the elbow with every ounce of strength in my body. Barbaro gave away about six inches to me and a few kilos. He staggered. And the pistol fired again.

  Not into me. Strike two.

  I grabbed the wrench from my waistband and whacked him in the stomach while he was off balance. He doubled up and fell.

  Wal Grominsky shoved a semi-auto into Barbaro’s mouth before he could recover, then stamped his heel into Barbaro’s hand. ‘Grab it,’ he ordered me.

  With Brains stubbornly clinging to my foot, I stuck my wrench back in my waistband and shuffled over to Barbaro, using a magazine to pick up his pistol so I didn’t get any prints on it. I was relieved I could think a little at least.

  ‘In here.’ Wal held a pouch on his belt open.

  I dropped the pistol into the pouch.

  ‘Get the cables out of the other side of my belt,’ Wal instructed next.

  For the next few minutes I did an inexpert job of securing Barbaro’s hands and feet with what looked like giant plastic rubbish-bag ties while he groaned and grunted. When Wal was finally satisfied he nodded at the internal door. ‘Anyone inside here you think?’

  My heart stopped for a second. Where was Vogue? Why hadn’t he come to Barbaro’s aid? ‘Viaspa was in there,’ I whispered.

  Wal reached into the pocket of his trackie pants and pulled out his own pistol. It had a long barrel and looked well used. He flicked off the safety catch with his thumb and passed it over to me. ‘Keep this on him.’

  I put my hands behind my back and shook my head. Tying people up was one thing but –

  ‘Lissssten to me and do it!’ Wal hissed, giving me that kind of crazy, intense look that meant, maybe, he’d shoot me if I didn’t do
as he said.

  On reflex I accepted the weapon.

  It felt weird holding a gun; surreal, terrible, weird.

  And kinda interesting. It was heavier than I expected. My hand was sweating so much, it felt loose in my grip.

  Wal manoeuvred around the magazine piles and over to the door, where he crouched down and reached up to the handle, shoving it open quickly.

  ‘Nuthin’,’ he pronounced.

  He stood up and came back to me, taking the pistol from my clammy fingers. ‘Out.’

  I hopped over to the fallen cover, grabbed it and bundled Brains up tight.

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I was out of the yard before Wal could put his pistol back in his pocket.

  He backed out after me, stuffing the nozzle of his rifle into the kitbag that he’d dropped at the door.

  By the time we reached Mona, Barbaro was yelling his head off. ‘You’re dead, bitch. And so’s he. I know him. DEAD! Someone lemme out of this fuckin’ . . .’

  I unlocked the car and dropped Brains on the back seat. She immediately began wrestling her way free of her cloth prison.

  Wal and I had an awkward moment across the boot of the car.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  Wal twisted his mouth, suddenly uncertain. ‘Tricky one.’

  ‘I could ring the cops,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Tell ’em you broke into someone’s house and slogged him with a wrench?’

  ‘He stole my bird.’ I bit my lip, antsy to get out of the laneway before Viaspa or someone else came.

  ‘My phone rang. I answered it automatically. ‘’Lo.’

  ‘Missy?’

  I nearly collapsed with relief. ‘Mr Hara. You’re back!’

  ‘OK everything?’

  ‘Noooo,’ I wailed.

  ‘Missy, you wanna come over? We sort.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Right away. Can I bring someone with me?’

  ‘Sure, sure. Mrs Hara’s making minestrone.’

  I hung up and stared at Wal. ‘You can’t stay here and I know someone who –’

  The door of Barbaro’s back room flung open, and four guys piled out into the yard. It didn’t take one of Einstein’s neurons to work out they were armed and dangerous.