by Peter Corris
‘Could be a start,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. How did you get here?’
‘A taxi.’
‘We’ll go in my car then.’ We went down the stairs and out onto the street. My car was parked around the corner and I took her arm to steer her; her arm was incredibly slender but felt very strong. I was completely distracted by her physicality; the warmth and the light bones. I was utterly off-guard, and when the man moved from behind the car next to mine and dug the gun into my ribs it took me slow, dumb seconds to react. And that made it too late.
‘You and the lady get in the car. You in the front and her in the back. I’ll kill him, lady, if you don’t get in.’
I propped and she must have felt me go rigid as I gripped her arm. She got the message and went with me as I shuffled towards the black Fairlane. The gunman tapped me to indicate how I should bend and prodded me forward. I went. He was good; his big heavy body dealt with me and blocked her off at the same time. She got into the back with him, and I sat down beside a youngish Asian who started the car and got it moving quickly and smoothly. I felt the gun on my neck.
‘You got a gun?’
‘No, I don’t usually carry one when we go out for a drink.’
‘Don’t shit me, Hardy. You never met her before. We’ve been trailing you since Scholfield used you to chauffeur him to Hunters Hill. This is the first interesting thing you’ve done. That was Norman’s favourite pub.’
That made him information-rich as well as gun-rich, a dangerous combination.
‘She’s a client. What’s the idea?’
His voice was level, almost bored. ‘The idea is you shut up until we get where we’re going.’
‘Where’s that?’ He answered me with a vicious dig of the gun into my neck and I shut up. The Asian drove like an angel; his hands barely moved and he touched the brake pedal as if it was a soap bubble. The car glided back towards the city as the afternoon light died and a little sprinkle of rain settled the dust. The driver left the freeway at Darling Harbour and wound up through the streets that avoid the bridge approaches. It was dark when we stopped in a lane which dead-ended in a high, dark ruin that was overdue for demolition. The gunman hustled us out of the car, and the driver backed out of the lane and took off.
A dead-end and sheer brick walls on either side, there was nothing to do but obey the gun. He shepherded us to a deeply recessed door and ordered me to knock on it. I did and stepped back when bright light hit me as the door opened. A small, dark man in a suit stepped away from the door and the gunman motioned Louise Seneka and me to pass him.
‘Any trouble, Willie?’ the man in the suit asked.
‘None. What’s up? Why the suit?’
‘Appointment. I’ve got to go out.’
‘You mean you’ve got no guts for it.’
We were standing on frayed lino tiles in a lobby with an old lift and a badly hung door standing open. Through the door I could see a room with a chair and desk. The whole place had an uncomfortably spare feel to it, but the feeling might have just been a product of the rather strained conversation of our hosts.
‘This is a mistake,’ I said, just for the sake of saying something.
‘You might think so very soon,’ Willie said. ‘You’re staying, Barnes. Let’s get them in there and get on with it.’
Barnes took out a handkerchief, which was dirty. It looked strange coming out of the pocket of his clean suit; but then, he didn’t look as if he wore a suit all that often. He wiped his sweating, red face and then his hands. ‘All right,’ he said.
We all trooped through into the office-like room and Willie kicked the door shut behind him. There was a chair in front of the desk and he pushed me down onto it. Barnes pointed to the corner of the room behind the desk.
‘Go and sit over there.’
Louise Seneka looked at him. ‘On the floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
No one said anything to that; she walked across and crouched in the corner.
‘Right down!’ Willie barked. She sat, and looked defiant.
There was no natural light in the room, just harsh fluorescence; I could smell dust in the air, also fear, mostly mine. Barnes went behind the desk and Willie perched on it, about three feet away from me.
‘No beating about the bush,’ Willie said. ‘Norman Scholfield gave you something, you or the woman. It’s ours and we want it. Hand it over!’
I glanced across at the woman; she’d opened her coat and I could see her slim body, held straight and tense. Our eyes met and she shook her head.
‘Can’t help you,’ I said. ‘Spent two hours with the bloke. He made a delivery, I went along for company. That’s it’
‘Maybe the woman’s got it,’ Barnes said. Willie got off the desk and went over to the corner. ‘Well?’
She shook her head. ‘Just like him,’ Willie said. ‘Nothing to say. Could be he was protecting you?’
She looked at him with those dark, hooded eyes and if he could see anything in them except hate and defiance he was sharper than me.
‘Looks like it.’ Willie put his foot on her bent knee and pressed down. She gasped sharply but kept looking straight at him. Willie smiled and moved his foot. He stepped back and circled around behind me.
‘Put your hands behind you, ‘round the chair.’ He clipped me lightly on the back of the head with the gun as he spoke and I did what he said. I felt something rough bite into my wrists; I resisted, but with a couple of jerks and a steadying touch with the gun he had my hands tied.
‘Okay,’ Willie said. ‘Last chance. Anything to say?’
My shirt was wet by now and I could feel my scrotum tightening and a nerve dancing in my face. I shook my head.
‘Barnes.’ The small man loosened his tie and pulled his collar open. He bent and reached into the back of the desk. What he came up with was a small blowtorch. I watched, fascinated, while he primed and pumped it. The flame shot out, red and yellow, and the torch gave out a low roar. Barnes moved around the desk; he was sweating as much as me, but what really sliced into my consciousness now was that he liked it. He fought against it-probably every time-but come right down to it, this was his jollies. It was a nasty sight-the roaring torch, Barnes’s rictus of a smile and his running nose. I could feel the heat of the flame and I thought desperately for something to throw them, anything. Nothing came.
I heard Louise scream as Barnes brought the jet close to my ankles, but he was past hearing anything. The flame seared into my stretched skin and seemed to cut to the bone. I felt, rather than heard, my bellow and strength flooded into me, brimming me full. I lashed out with my feet and the torch and Barnes went flying back; I reared up and whipped around, carrying the chair with me. The back fell apart and I rushed at Willie before he could get his gun up. I hit him with everything at once-head, foot, shoulder; I threw my body at him like a missile and hurtled him back into the wall. He hit it awkwardly and hard and the breath went out of him in a rush. I stumbled and fell to my knees-both knees hammered down into Willie’s chest with my full weight.
It seemed like minutes before I could force myself back up. I heard the torch roaring softly and when the mist had cleared from my eyes, I saw Barnes lying on the ground, still and twisted. The jet of flame was playing on his outstretched hand, but he didn’t move. I went over, hobbling, and eased the torch away with my foot. My hands had been tied to the struts of the chair and there was some slack in the cord; I used the flame to cut through it. One side of Barnes’s face was a red-black mess; one eye was obliterated, the other was open and still.
Louise Seneka stood with her back to the wall. She looked like a bronze statue-a statue with a gun in its hand. The gun was pointed at Willie.
‘It’s all right,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t shoot him.’ I moved towards her and she swung the gun on me.
‘Stop there! I know about guns. Do what I say or I will wound you and kill him. Is the small one dead?’
&nb
sp; ‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘Good! Animal, both animals!’
‘Sure. Let’s get the police.’
‘No, not police. I must know why Norman was killed.’
‘We’ll find that out from Willie.’
Willie had recovered his breath-almost-and had propped himself up against the wall. He was cradling his shoulder and his pale, fleshy face was chalky white. There was red spittle around his mouth, but he didn’t look close to tears. His eyes were on the gun. The woman saw it and smiled.
‘He thinks I won’t shoot him. He doesn’t know about the Philippines. I have seen many people shot; I have seen my brothers shot and I have shot two men myself.’
‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘But we don’t want any shooting here. This one’s not a big fish, he’ll talk to save his own skin. We’ll find out what happened.’
‘No! He will have reasons not to talk. There will be lawyers and much time wasted. I want to know now! Get up!’
Willie could see she meant it; he hoisted himself up, still supporting one arm.
‘Shoulder’s broken,’ he said.
The blowtorch sputtered, coughed and the flame died. We all looked at it. The woman gestured with the gun.
‘Go out to the lift.’
We went out into the lobby and I pressed the button to call the lift. My ankles were screaming where the flame had touched them, but I could walk; standing still was harder. I leaned against the wall while we waited for the lift in the silent building. It came. She herded us in and pressed the button for the top floor, the eighth. The lift was old and creaky and slow. As we passed the floors it looked more and more as if the building was unoccupied.
The top floor was stripped clean; it was bare boards and peeling walls. There were large windows along one wall with some of the city night light coming through them, not much. Louise glanced around and saw a heavy swivel chair near the lift.
Willie stood stiffly, watching her, watching me.
‘Get over to the window, animal! Hardy, bring the chair.’
The window was an old-fashioned job which had a low, knee-high sill and extended up above head height. She pointed at it.
‘Break the bottom part of the window with the chair.’
Willie got the idea a fraction ahead of me. ‘No!’ he said.
‘Break it!’
I slammed the chair into the window frame; the old wood gave and the bottom panes fell through, leaving an empty space for about a metre above the sill.
‘Sit there!’
Willie sat on the sill, keeping his feet firmly anchored on the floor and as much of his body inside as he could.
‘Move the chair this way, Hardy, and stand by the window-there.’
I did as she said and she sat on the chair, facing Willie and the open gap and about a metre and a half back. She raised the gun.
‘Tell me.’
Willie got it out in gulps and gasps: the people he worked for had a double scheme running-counterfeiting, and removing the dye from hot money. The plan was to get both kinds of money into circulation by confusing the authorities. It was all to do with serial numbers and switching denominations-elaborate stuff. Norman had been in on the counterfeiting side of it and had flipped when he’d heard about the other aspect of the deal. He’d wanted out, and tried to get some leverage by nicking one of the counterfeiting plates. The masters said the mess was Barnes and Willie’s responsibility and Willie said they were handling it alone.
‘Anyone know you picked us up?’ I said.
‘No. The driver doesn’t know who you are.’
‘What did Norman tell you about the plate?’
Willie spoke carefully, watching his balance, ‘He said something about a coat, that was all. Then he shut up. Wouldn’t say a word.’
She looked at me. ‘The coat, at my place. He protected me from the animals.’ She looked back at Willie. ‘So you killed him. You threw him from twenty storeys.’
‘It was an accident. I was just trying to scare him.’
She sighed and seemed to relax. ‘You tell me, Hardy, that in this country a murderer goes to gaol for a long time.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, but I was thinking-some times.
She moved up from the chair; Willie leaned in from the sill. She beckoned me close and handed me the gun. I took it. An automatic, S amp; W model. 38, I thought. Willie eased forward and up.
Louise Seneka moved faster than Carl Lewis; she spun the chair and rammed it hard into Willie’s midsection; he doubled-up, reeled back and she whipped the chair into him again. He went through the window in a helpless collapse and his scream seemed to flow back in through the gap and fill the room. I rubbed my sleeve over the chair and the lift buttons; she didn’t even look into the room at the bottom and I didn’t go in. We hadn’t touched anything in there. We were out of the building and had covered a couple of couple of blocks before the sirens started. She didn’t speak in the taxi and neither did I. We collected my car in Balmain and drove to her flat in Bellevue Hill, still with the minimum of speech.
The flat was big and light and had just enough east Asian decoration to be interesting. She opened a closet and took out a heavy tweed overcoat on a hanger. From an inside pocket she pulled out a flat, brown paper-wrapped package about the size of a video cassette. She handed it to me. A post office box number and address was printed boldly on the brown paper.
‘You think I was wrong?’
‘You said taking revenge would make you feel better-did it?’
As I spoke, my eye fell on a bright poster on the wall; the burst of colour reminded me of the blowtorch flame and I went cold inside. She considered my question.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Good.’
‘You need treatment for your legs.’
I looked down; from the instant Willie had gone out the window until that moment, the burn hadn’t hurt. I saw that the synthetic material of my socks had singed and hardened, and was sticking to the raw, burnt flesh. It hurt like hell.
‘I know a doctor, better get to him.’
‘I would like to pay the expense, also for your help, Mr Hardy. Thank you.’
She held out her hand and I shook it. Her skin was warm, and there was the same strength in her hand that I’d felt in her arm. She was strong all over and inside as well. She’s the most beautiful thing in the world, I thought, and then I realised that the pain was making me dopey.
‘Okay, Miss Seneka,’ I said. ‘I’ll send you a bill.’
I headed for home, wincing every time I had to use the clutch and brake. At home I could phone my Doctor mate, Ian Sangster, who’d come over and dress my wounds and prescribe some pills I could take with alcohol. Before I got there, though, I stopped at the end of Glebe Point Road, hobbled to the rail and threw the parcel and the S amp;W. 38 as far as I could out into the dark water.
‹‹Contents››
P. I. Blues
Nothing was going right; I hadn’t had a client in two weeks and I hadn’t paid a bill for a month. That’s the way you have to look at it in this game-it’s clients balanced against bills. If it ever gets to be clients balanced against bank account I won’t know what to do. My ex-wife, Cyn, once told me that I was a private investigator because I didn’t have the character to starve in a garret. Maybe she was right; anyway she didn’t stick around to starve with me and make it romantic.
My mind was running on romance when the phone rang-maybe this was it.
‘Hardy Investigations.’ I realised I was crooning like Kamahl. ‘Hardy speaking,’ I said gruffly.
‘You sound like two different people.’ The voice was young, female and educated, a winning combination for someone who is more or less the opposite.
‘Not really, I was thinking about two different things at once. I can do that sometimes. How can I help you, Ms…?’
‘You can help me by thinking about just one thing-how I can get my ex-husband to pay me the two hundred thousand dollars he
owes me.’
‘It sounds well worth thinking about,’ I said.
‘She said you’d be interested. She also said you were good at your work.’
‘She being?’
‘Kay Fletcher.’
‘Aha.’
‘She said you’d say that too. I’ve got a letter from her for you.’
‘Did she tell you what I’d say to that?’
‘No. She didn’t know. Will you see me?’
Kay Fletcher was a journalist I’d had a brief affair with a few years before. She was based in Canberra then and had moved on and up to New York since. We’d clicked well at first, and then her ambition and my inertia pulled us apart. I’d thought of her often but had not made contact beyond a letter and a card.
My caller’s name was Pauline Angel, and I asked her to come round to my office from her hotel in Double Bay. That gave me time for a quick shave and brush up, and a clearing of the rubbish off the desk and a general rough dusting with a copy of Newsweek.
She was everything her voice had promised; there was New York stamped on her clothes and the city had brushed her Australian voice a bit. I put her age at around thirty, which would have made her a few years younger than Kay and a few more still younger than me. Her class was middle, her intelligence was upper. She handed me the envelope and I put it away in a drawer.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’
‘Not until I’m wearing my silk pyjamas.’
‘I’m not sure I like that remark; it’s cheap.’
‘You don’t have to like it. I’d be embarrassed to read the letter in front of you-I might laugh or cry. Tell me about the two hundred thousand.’
‘Ben and I split up a year ago, in New York actually. We had an apartment near the park and we sold it-Ben sold it, but it was in both names. I signed the papers. Just over four hundred thousand dollars. Jesus!’ She got a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and lit it. I passed an ashtray across and tried to concentrate on the two hundred grand rather than a few cents worth of cigarette smoke. I didn’t find it easy.
‘You’re legally divorced?’
‘Sure. Ben’s married again. But we didn’t make any legal arrangements about a settlement or anything-it was just understood that the money’d be split fifty-fifty.
