White Meat

by Peter Corris

  “Since we’re all here, more or less, and nobody’s going anywhere until night time, I might as well tell it the way I see it.” I raised my eyebrows at Ricky. “OK, Ricky, you’re the one with the gun and the money?”

  “Watch him Rick, he’s a smartarse,” Perce said. “I’m going to finish off the wiring.” He started to get into the truck. The Bedford had been spray-painted grey and bars had been welded onto the front of it. A light metal frame had been welded up over the tray and I could see a couple of petrol drums on the tray just behind the cab. A tarpaulin that looked big enough to fit over the frame was lying on the floor beside the truck.

  “I’ve got a couple of bottles in my car Albie,” I said. “Be a bit warm but . . .”

  He got down and looked at Ricky. “Jeez, Rick, I could use a drink.”

  “No,” said Ricky. “Why do you keep calling him Albie mister?”

  “That’s his name, Albie Simmonds.”

  “Percy White’s my name, smartarse.”

  “You can call yourself Joh Bjelke-Petersen for all I care, but your name’s Albie Simmonds and you robbed a bank in 1966 with Joseph Berrigan.”

  “I knew it,” Ricky said softly. “I knew you was him.”

  “It’s bullshit,” Albie muttered. “I didn’t know Berrigan.”

  “He ever let Berrigan get a look at him Ricky?” I asked.

  “No, no he kept right out of the way.”

  “Berrigan would have known him, even after all this time. There’s a woman in the hospital here that knows who he is.”

  Albie’s sullen face showed some interest.

  “You see ‘er? How is she?”

  “I didn’t see her, the girl did.”

  He turned towards Penny, the shotgun forgotten, the rifle forgotten, everything forgotten but the woman. I was seven feet from the shotgun. I’d have to step over Noni who was slumped down by the running board. I looked at Ricky. He was angry and puzzled but he wasn’t careless. I’d never make it.

  “I saw her,” Penny said. “She isn’t well. She was badly hurt but she thinks there’s something else wrong with her. From the look of her she could be right. I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head and climbed into the truck.

  “How long Perce?” Ricky asked.

  “Coupla minutes.”

  Not long, not long enough. Noni pulled herself up and limped over to the bench. A handbag was lying beside the airline bag and she reached into it and pulled out cigarettes. When she had one lit she struggled to regain the arrogance that was ninety-nine per cent of her style. It was a real struggle and she didn’t quite make it.

  “What’s that about Ricky and me?” she said shakily. “What would you know about it? Who the fuck are you anyway?”

  “He’s a private detective, Noni,” James put in.

  “Don’t tell me you hired him, baby? Not to get little me back?” She tossed her head and puffed smoke. She was still trying.

  “No, not me, your father.”

  “Him. Fuck him,”

  Oh Ted, how much sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is.

  “He cares about you, Noni,” I said quickly. “With the trouble you’re in he’s your only hope. Ricky’ll drop you off at Oodnadatta crossing.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” she said wildly. “He wouldn’t.”

  “He’s been planning to from the word go. Look, I’ll tell you how it is. Ricky was looking for his father. Some kids who get dumped are like that, can’t think of anything else.” Albie quietly got out of the truck and stood listening. Ricky made no move to interrupt me so I went on.

  “He found out a bit, got a line on his father and Berrigan and the bank job. Then he met you and found out that you were connected with that Macleay scene. I think he probably had the kidnap idea planned first but I can’t be sure. When Berrigan contacted you Ricky saw it as a chance for the bank money if it was still around. He killed the boy at Bare Island to give himself a cover. God knows where he found him, and he stuck close to you and Berrigan, up here and back. When there was nothing doing on the bank money he hit on the idea of Berrigan fronting for the kidnap. You put Berrigan up to it, Noni, at Ricky’s suggestion. It worked, more or less, and he killed Berrigan. I know I didn’t because I fired low — ballistics will prove that — but Ricky didn’t care. He reckoned he had enough red herrings dragging around to get clear.”

  “What about his father, how does he come in?” Penny asked quietly.

  “He’d kept out of Ricky’s way for years, then he heard that Ricky’d been killed. He checked at the morgue and knew it wasn’t him. My guess is that he came in on it just because he thought Ricky would make a balls-up of it — which he has.”

  Penny started to cry quietly and Ricky looked at her amazed. For the first time the rifle wasn’t ready for instant use. I was encouraged. This seemed to be the right tack.

  “You had it alright there mate,” I said, “but maybe it’s not your fault, maybe it’s inherited.”

  He swung the rifle on me, but carelessly. I could see the black hole wavering and his eyes weren’t any steadier. “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “Albie, Perce, whatever you want to call him, he denies he’s your father, right?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Let me finish. Did you know he was on with the Baker woman, the one Berrigan bashed?”

  “No. So what?”

  “After Berrigan went to jail for raping Noni, so it was thought, Albie here and Berrigan had a meeting and a bad falling-out.”

  “So? Berrigan found out Perce was fucking his woman.”

  “No, other way round.”

  “I don’t get it.” The rifle was all over the place. Soon . . . soon.

  “Albie isn’t your father. Berrigan told him who was.

  Ricky shook his head. He took one hand off the rifle and brushed it over his face as if it was covered with cobwebs.

  “No. No . . .”

  “Right. You killed your father in the park Ricky.”

  Now! I jumped him and nearly made it. I pushed at the rifle and swung my foot at his crotch but be was strong and young. He went back and fended me off with a sweeping lift of the rifle. It caught me in the mouth and I went down. Everybody had moved — Albie bent for the shotgun and his foot caught it and he fumbled, getting it near the trigger guard — he was bent over it and he took both barrels in the face. His face disappeared and blood erupted as the gun’s roar was still filling the garage.

  Ricky took in the full horror of the man collapsing, faceless, and he made a leap for the cab of the truck. Noni screamed his name, snatched up the bag and clawed her way into the truck. Ricky had the thing started and revving and he drove it straight through the doors. The truck went thump thump as it passed over Bert and the doors splintered like matchwood. Then there was a big empty space where the truck had been and Penny was frozen like a statue. Blood had rained on her, drenched her.

  23

  I got up and went past Penny, out the back door and through the fence and the shop. The Datsun started like a dream and I swung it around in the quiet street and headed off after the throbbing, roaring truck. I scrabbled on the seat beside me and got the gun out of the parka as I drove. I put it on the floor on the passenger side. That way I’d have to think for a second or so before I could use it. The gun made me feel better. It shouldn’t have but it did.

  We were in a wide street and the Bedford was bucketing along ahead of me scattering the few cars around in front of it. They pulled over to the sides of the road haphazardly and I had to drive dodgem style to avoid them. A man jumped out of his oar and made flagging motions. Maybe he wanted to make a citizen’s arrest, make a hero of himself. I cursed him through some broken teeth with all the foul vocabulary I had picked up from school, army, pub and married bliss. He jumped clear. A quick look in the rear vision showed me what I should have expected — a yellow Mini burning along behind me just close enough to be a nuisance.

  The truck was blowi
ng thick, rich, blue smoke but going well, heading west, into the sun. We thrashed past the houses and the shops and the factories where people were pursuing their legitimate and illegitimate ends. We slewed around the corners and I could see the petrol drums bouncing just slightly on the tray of the truck; they were anchored well enough and were giving the Bedford stability. It had a big, strong engine for pulling loads and now it was just pulling Ricky, Noni, a hundred and five thousand dollars and the fuel. I could catch it, but Ricky drove like an angel and I couldn’t pass him. We left the wide, sealed road and got onto a thin ribbon of bitumen flanked by ten feet of gravel on each side. The wheel base of the truck could hold the bitumen but Ricky moved off and on it just enough to throw up a screen of dust and slow me down.

  The road started to climb and wind and I could get a look ahead as far as a hundred yards; the sides of the road were baked clay now and Ricky threw up less dust. Twice vehicles came from the other direction and Ricky barrelled straight at them, forcing them off the road. For a minute I thought the shape I could see up ahead of us was just another citizen, then the Bedford picked up speed and seemed to be driven with some mad purpose. I strained my eyes and was able to make out the distinctive shape of a police wagon. Ricky drove straight at it but the wagon veered off the road onto some cleared space and I could see the driver fighting to turn the thing as the Bedford rocketed by.

  I braked and the cop was back on the road and giving the wagon all he had. It was probably the most excitement he’d had in years. The pace picked up and I stayed a bit back of the police vehicle, letting him do the work. James stayed back of me. The cop was pushing Ricky to the limit and I caught a glimpse of the Bedford swaying as she went round a bend, then we were on a long, straight stretch, climbing hard.

  The grey truck dipped on one side and started to go into a slide. Ricky fought it and stopped the thing from turning over but he went into a sideways spin that took him off the road and ran the front of the truck into a clay embankment. I braked and stopped fifty yards short of the truck. The police wagon shot past and the driver plastered rubber on the road getting it to stop. Two cops jumped out and started to run the thirty yards or so back to the truck. I heard a sharp crack and they stopped, turned and raced back to the wagon. I got out of the car after grabbing the Colt and saw Ricky on the running board sighting along his rifle. With a shriek a bullet whipped off the hood of the wagon.

  One of the cops rested a rifle on the mudguard of the wagon and opened up. A window shattered in the cab and Noni climbed down and started to run back towards me. She dropped the airline bag in the first stride and half-turned back for it. I screamed at her to keep coming and sprinted towards her. I reached her and thumped her hard onto the road. We were twenty yards from the truck when a bullet went into the petrol drums. A thousand heavy guns went off and a fiery wind blew over our heads. My eyeballs were scorched when I raised my head to take a look — the Bedford was a dark, ghostly shape inside a bright, dancing ball of yellow and orange fire.

  James was standing beside his car and I lifted Noni up and half-carried her back to him. She collapsed into his arms and started to cry into his shoulder. He lowered her into the car seat and crouched by her, stroking her hair and murmuring in her ear. I started to walk towards the cops when one of them dropped to one knee, brought up a pistol and pointed it at me.

  “Drop the gun,” he yelled.

  I looked at my hand, the Colt was still in it. I dropped it and came on.

  Petrol had leaked from the truck and the ground around it was a pool of fire, somewhere in the middle of which was the money. Pity. One of the cops was inside the wagon frantically using the radio; the other held his gun shakily on me while I talked. He let me show him my documents but he was too nervous to take in much of what I said. I tried to keep out of direct line of the pistol while reinforcements arrived. What had happened on the road was going to take some explaining. Other things would take even more explaining. It was going to be a long night.

  24

  It was. They bundled us into police cars and took us into town. I told them about the garage and who Noni and James were. They let Noni clean herself up a bit but she needed much more than a bath, she needed a lot of expensive medical treatment. I hoped she wouldn’t talk too much but she let James protect her and she scarcely said a word. With luck, I thought, I’d be able to get her out of this and back to her father fairly clean. Maybe that wasn’t letting all the cards show but I recalled what someone had once said to some cops: “Until you guys own your own souls you don’t own mine. Until you guys can be trusted every time and always, in all times and conditions, to seek the truth and find it and let the chips fall where they may — until that time comes, I have the right to listen to my conscience, and protect my client the best way I can.”

  That’s how I felt. The cops sure as hell didn’t seem too concerned about an incinerated black man and another the same colour with no head to speak of. That’s how I thought I’d play it, but Penny threw a spanner into the works, or tried to.

  They picked her up in the garage. When she came to see us in the police building she’d washed the blood off and was wearing some kind of policewoman’s smock. They’d told her about Ricky. It didn’t seem to touch her. Then she told me that she’d given the cops who came for her something to take with them and be careful of the fingerprints — a crank handle. Her eyes glittered maliciously when she told me this. Noni was within hearing but it was wasted on her. She was burying herself in James’ warm solicitude, a good beginning for the attitude she’d have to take up when all Ted’s money started working for her.

  It was very complicated and I didn’t help by refusing to tell them anything until the lawyers got there. Cy Sackville came up the next day and some smoothie Ted got to handle Noni’s part in it. Sackville spoke for James, too, but he was pretty much in the clear. The cops didn’t like it one bit. There was nothing in it for them but trouble. They tried to stick me with various things from conspiracy down to dangerous driving, but their hearts weren’t in it and Sackville brushed them aside. Penny they didn’t even hold and she stayed for a few days with relations in town, then she left without contacting me.

  The lawyer took Noni back to Sydney and I never saw her again. I heard later from Cy that Ted’s lawyers had headed off any charges connected with Bert’s death. The crank handle held her fingerprints alright but she claimed that Bert had tried to rape her. If his body had been in the state it was when I saw it, the coroner might have wondered how many blows with a crank handle to the head it took to prevent a rape, but the truck wheels had passed over Bert’s head, front and back, making a mess that no-one could interpret. I was pretty sure she’d been in on the kidnap idea with Ricky, but there was no way of proving it and it wasn’t in my interest anyway.

  I saw a fair bit of Saul James in the few days I spent in Macleay straightening things out. After they pried him loose from Noni he seemed to have no direction, no purpose and sort of attached himself to me. I asked him about his part in the play.

  “Gone,” he said wryly. “The understudy was too good, he filled in on the first rehearsal I missed and now he’s got the part.”

  “Tough.”

  He shrugged. “I wonder what will happen to Noni?”

  “Overseas trip if I know Ted. She’s no loss to you James.”

  He looked hurt.

  “At least there’s one consolation. It didn’t cost you any money.”

  “I thought the money was burnt?”

  “It was, but I wrote down the serial numbers of your share, you’ll get it all back.”

  He looked at me as if I’d betrayed him instead of saved him five thousand dollars. I’d denied him his little bit of martyrdom.

  I finally got clear of the cops and of James. I flew back to Newcastle, played games with some more cops and got my car out of their clutches. Someone had washed it by mistake while it was impounded and it was with pride that I drove it back to Sydney.

 
That took me back to the let-down that follows cases like this one. I mooched into the office and screwed up circulars and paid a few bills in anticipation of Ted Tarelton’s cheque. I sat around at home reading novels and writing a report on the case. My .38 came back from the Balmain police. Berrigan’s case closed. I heard from Grant Evans that the Macleay cops were glad to have the bank robbery off their books. They hadn’t revealed any of this pleasure to me.

  Three days went by like this, slowly and with little ends of the Tarelton case being tied up. Ailsa’s return was imminent — there was that at least to look forward to. I was at home in the middle of the day in the middle of the week when the phone rang. I put my book down and looked at it reluctantly. I answered it reluctantly. My stomach lurched when I heard the voice on the other end. For a fraction of a second I thought it was Ricky Simmonds.

  “Hardy?”

  “Yes. Jimmy Sunday?”

  “Right. You sorted it out — Ricky and Noni and that?”

  “You could say that. It’s over anyway. Who told you?”

  “Penny.”

  “Oh, how’s she?”

  “Alright. You see Jacko’s fight with Rosso’s coming up on Friday?”

  I hadn’t seen; I’d pushed the whole Aboriginal-Italian business away into a corner of my mind, a worry corner but a corner. I associated it with the Tarelton business and that was cleared up. Besides, no-one would pay me for interfering in Coluzzi’s plans. I was a mercenary wasn’t I? That reminded me, Ted Tarelton hadn’t paid my account yet.