Flank Street

by A. J. Sendall

  The Beretta looked new. I held it in my right hand, the familiar weight and angle of the grip transporting me back to London in the 80s. I thumbed the safety on and off, ejected the magazine and palmed it back. There was an easy and reassuring click as it locked in. When I stripped the weapon, there were no signs of use. I reassembled it and put it, and the box of cartridges, in an overhead cupboard, knowing I would need to find a more secure cache later.

  There was $11,900 in cash, more than doubling my fee. Perhaps I should have told Carol she didn’t need to pay me, but I didn’t. A deal’s a deal. I put it alongside the five thousand she’d already paid me, then packed the tools into the rucksack and hid that too.

  It was late and I needed sleep, but I still had to lock up after Meagan left. At quarter to two, I went down to find the place empty other than Meagan sitting on the public side smoking and waiting for me to pour shots, which I did. As was the custom, we slammed them, and then lit a smoke. Meagan chained hers from the one she already had burning. She was quiet and moody. I asked her about the evening, but she replied in mostly monosyllabic mumbles. When I started counting the tills, she got the message and left with a brief, ‘See ya.’

  I wondered then if it was time for me to quit. I had some cash and could find something more suitable. Yet if I stayed, there was the chance of getting to know a few people, people that might need my skills.

  That night’s burglary had felt good and reminded me of why I’d chosen The Cross as a place to hang out and make contacts. I’d never have guessed the first job would come from a woman being blackmailed by a lawyer who kept a nine beside his bed.

  Despite only five hours sleep, I felt fresh and invigorated the following morning, and with half-an-hour’s yoga before going downstairs, my head felt clear, sharp.

  The mobile phone was in my pocket. I was expecting her to call early. After changing a couple of kegs in the cellar and unlocking the door so Mandy could get in, I switched on the coffee machine and sat at the bar reading the paper. I was curious to see if there were any early reports about a break-in on Beattie Street. The mobile chirped as I was scanning page five. I pressed the button and listened.

  ‘Micky?’

  ‘The library. Ten-thirty.’

  The line went dead. I made coffee and continued scanning the paper.

  Mandy arrived early. She was a good worker, quiet and methodical. I knew nothing about her other than what I could glean from her appearance and speech. She was not the stereotypical cleaning lady. She dressed fairly well, didn’t smoke, and didn’t swear much. She had kids, but there was never any mention of a husband. Just one more solo mother trying to make ends meet, I guessed.

  It was a pleasant thirty-minute walk to the library via the Botanic Gardens: the usual assortment of joggers, strollers and pram-pushers. I had my well-worn pack hanging from one shoulder, looking like any other tourist seeing the sights of Sydney.

  At ten-fifteen, I entered the library, pulled The Telegraph from the paper rack, and sat at a desk close to where we met last time.

  At exactly ten-thirty, she sat opposite me, a warm smile lighting her face.

  She nodded at the paper. ‘Anything interesting in there?’

  ‘Same old shit.’

  She moved her hand towards mine, her fingers briefly brushing the back of my hand. ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘Coming into the bar last night was stupid. Stay away. I don’t want anyone thinking that I know you, that we’re friends or anything ridiculous like that.’

  ‘Okay, Micky. Sorry.’ She was patronising me, but what did I care. ‘But did you get it?’

  ‘Did you bring the rest?’

  She reached into her purse and laid a brown paper bag on the table between us. It looked like just what it was: a handover.

  ‘Put that back in your purse and come with me.’

  She looked confused as I stood and left, but by the time I reached the street, she was walking beside me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I’m not very good at this.’

  When we reached the edge of the gardens, I pulled a plastic shopping bag from the pack and handed it to her as we walked. The .38 was wrapped in an old hoodie in the bottom of the bag.

  ‘You can keep the hoodie,’ I said when she peered into the bag.

  ‘Thanks, but it’s not my colour.’ She hesitated, fingering her purse. ‘Shall I give it to you now?’

  ‘Put it in the front pocket of the pack,’ I stopped and turned my back to her. There was a slight tug as she pulled the zipper closed. We walked on.

  ‘What happened last night? How come you lost him?’

  ‘He went into a room where I couldn’t see him, or follow.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I made sure he did. I knew where he was going last night and was there when he arrived. I tried to look surprised to see him.’

  ‘Think it worked?’

  She slowed her pace and shrugged. ‘I better get home and let you get back to work.’

  ‘I guess. And don’t carry that around the streets any longer than you have to.’

  ‘Thanks again, Micky.’ Her look lingered as if there was something else she wanted to say. She lightly kissed the ends of her fingers and blew.

  Hoodwinked

  It was Saturday night, three days after breaking into the house on Beattie Street. Carol hadn’t called, there’d been nothing in the papers, and nothing had changed in my life other than having a fat wad of cash burning a hole in my pocket.

  I knew the drill. Any change in behaviour or sudden spending would put up a flag for anyone watching. I felt confident I’d been professional and careful. I hoped Carol could keep her mouth shut. Even though I tossed the place to make it look like a regular housebreak, she would have to be Barry Hedges’ prime suspect. If she refused to play ball anymore, he would put two and two together in a wink. I wanted to call her, to prime her to not doing anything stupid, but I let it go, trusting in something like providence. She would just do what she was going to do, so what was the point?

  Whatever had been bugging Meagan had gone. She was back to her usual self, which was a relief. I liked her company and she was tip-top behind the bar. She’d started to wear make-up. Just light, but it enhanced her eyes, which were the pretty part of an otherwise plain face. I guess I’d grown used to being around her and didn’t notice it anymore. She was just Meagan, great behind the bar and not bad in the sack.

  That night, Lenny came in for the first time in two weeks. Pinklips wasn’t with him. He was edgy and snapped at Meagan for no good reason.

  When Meagan was on the public side, cleaning tables and collecting glasses, Lenny leaned over the bar and said in a low voice, ‘You know that high-ender that comes in about once a week and drinks Jameson, calls herself Carol? Did she speak to you about doing a job for her?’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean, Lenny.’

  ‘Course you fucking do. I’ve seen you talking to her.’

  ‘I talk to nearly everyone who comes in here, that’s why you pay me so much.’ The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Meagan and then said, ‘If she did, and if you did, then you could be up to your neck in shit.’

  I turned and poured a shot of whiskey and laid it in front of him. ‘Here, drink that; you’re not making any sense.’

  He held my gaze for several seconds and then tipped the whiskey back. ‘Don’t say I didn’t try and warn you.’

  ‘Look, Lenny, do you want to explain what you’re talking about or shall I put it down to mixing your drugs?’

  He sighed and looked down at the empty glass. I poured another shot and got one for myself, partly to make him feel I was with him, partly to steady myself. I wanted as much detail as I could get. If that meant spilling whiskey and telling lies, that’s what I’d do.

  ‘She approached me two or three weeks ago, said she needed somebody to do a little job, and asked what you were like. I asked her why you, in
particular, and she just said she wanted an out-of-towner. You know, somebody not connected to any of the crews around here.’ He took some more whiskey.

  ‘How come she asked you?’

  He ran his fingers through his dark, oiled hair. Still looking down at the bar, he said, ‘She knows I’ve got a thing for her.’

  ‘A thing,’ I said derisively.

  ‘She knows I fucking fancies her. All right?’

  I lit a cigarette, took a drink, and waited for him to continue.

  After a long pause, he said, ‘A few nights ago, an associate of Kurt Reed had his house broken into.’

  He looked up at me, waiting for a reaction or maybe trying to read my face. I stonewalled him.

  ‘Something was taken that could cause some nasty fuckers real trouble if it ends up in the wrong hands. They are very keen to learn of its whereabouts, who took it, and why.’

  ‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground, Lenny, and let you know if I hear anything.’

  He looked at me sceptically, then went and sat at a table near the door. A few minutes later, Pinklips came in and sat with him.

  I needed to talk to Carol to find out what sort of shit-storm she’d dragged me into. I couldn’t afford to have anyone see me with her, or get caught talking to her on the phone. Did they suspect her? If they did, it would take them just a few seconds to wring it out of her, and she would dump me in it at the same time. Since the run in with Fish, I always carried the sap. Perhaps it was time to start carrying that Beretta. Maybe it was time to sail towards some distant horizon.

  ‘What did Lenny want?’ Meagan’s words pulled me out of my reverie.

  ‘Just pub stuff; you know how he worries. Like a bloody old woman at times.’

  ‘What’s to worry about with you and me here, eh?’ She was in good spirits again and gave a playful nudge with her chest as she moved past me.

  When I looked again, Lenny and Pinklips had gone.

  At close, we had our usual shots and smokes. She seemed to have forgotten about Lenny and his dark mood. After giving me a hand to count the tills, she led me upstairs.

  The next day I called Carol’s number a dozen times. I kept getting the same message: switched off or out of range. I had no idea where she lived or where she might be hanging out. The only option was to wait it out.

  As hours turned into days and still she didn’t answer, I knew she’d duped me. I’d always been a sap for a sultry voice and soft red lips.

  It was a Friday morning, ten days after the break-in. I was about to go down and unlock for Mandy when I heard Lenny call out.

  ‘Micky, you up there?’

  When I got to the bar, Lenny was sitting on the public side nursing a tumbler. Beside him sat a well-dressed man in his thirties, tall, square-shouldered, and sharp-eyed. He didn’t look at me as I walked in, neither did Lenny. I had a bad feeling, and stayed on the work side waiting for someone to speak. Ray was sitting at his usual table. I realised the tall guy was the same one I’d seen in here with him a few weeks before. How did Meagan describe him, Mr Logistics for shady underworld types? I was trying to recall the name Meagan had told me.

  He spoke.

  ‘Micky, sit down: get yourself a drink.’

  I stayed standing and braced my shoulder against the wall.

  He gave me a hard look for a few seconds. ‘You stole something that belongs to an associate of mine. He wants it back—and you’re going to get it for him.’

  Lenny was looking past me, his face flushed. The prick had sold me out without knowing I did it.

  ‘We know you didn’t know any better, didn’t know whose property it was, that you were pussy-whipped into it, but that does not excuse you. You’ve got a week; if it’s not here by then, that man over there,’ he said, tipping his head towards Ray, ‘will start to cut pieces off your friend.’

  ‘Cut his hands off now, if you want. I don’t give a shit, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No, no, no, not Lenny,’ Ray said, standing and smiling at me. ‘Meagan. The one you’ve been fucking after hours.’

  Lenny shot me a look as if he didn’t know and was pissed off. It was a bullshit move for the audience.

  I remembered the tall guy’s name as he stood. Mitchell, Gary Mitchell.

  ‘One week, Micky. One week.’ He stopped and turned as he reached the door. ‘Oh, and by the way, I want you to kill her. Understand?’

  Lenny slumped as soon as the door slammed closed.

  ‘You fucking prick, Lenny. What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing—’

  ‘Fucking bullshit you didn’t.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It was her.’

  ‘Carol?’

  ‘Who the fuck do you think? She’s trying to fucking blackmail Johno-fucking-Brookes. Do you know who he fucking is?’

  He must have seen the confusion on my face. He tipped the tumbler and pushed it towards me to refill. He looked defeated, broken.

  ‘I know he owns this place, runs other clubs and bars in The Cross. You want to tell me the rest?’

  He ran his fingers through his hair, threw down the second Scotch, and said, ‘The .38 you stole and gave to that bitch was used to shoot a cop.’

  ‘Shit! She told me she’d shot someone, but she didn’t say anything about it being a bloody copper.’

  ‘It wasn’t her, you fucking twat,’ he spat, frustration in his eyes. He was in a spot he couldn’t get out of, and he knew the consequences of failure. ‘That gun has Brookes’ prints on it. She’s trying to blackmail the boss of The Cross. You are in deep shit, Micky DeWitt.’

  It started to sink in. She’d played me like a piano: those big, sad eyes and pouting lips; the sob story about being some snot-nosed lawyer’s sex slave. Now I did want to find her and kill her.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Lenny. Now what?’

  ‘This is your mess—’

  ‘Which you put me in, and I could easily twist the story to Mitchell and get you in shit up to your ears.’

  His eyes flicked up at me when I used Mitchell’s name.

  ‘That’s right Lenny, I know who he is. I know a lot more than you think. You can help me find her or I’ll stir the shit for you with both hands.’

  He snorted derisively but wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘Are you going to sit back and see Meagan get hurt? This could go as badly for you as anyone. You’ll lose this place—and your hard-won street cred.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea where she is, for fuck’s sake. If I knew, I would have told them, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Come on, Lenny, you had the hots for her. Think about what you know.’ I poured him another. ‘She must have said something that we can start with.’

  ‘We? There’s no fucking we.’ He gulped the drink, crushed his cigarette, and immediately lit another. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, which is next to fuck-all, and that’s it.’ He looked up at me at last, smoke drifting from his nostrils, jaw firmly set, a challenge in his eye.

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘She used to work as a hooker or escort, had a place on Turnbuckle Lane, off Crown Street.’

  ‘Is that how you met her?’

  ‘I think it was number 78.’

  ‘Think? What about a phone number? How did you contact her? What about people? She must have had friends in this area. Other hookers, clients?’

  ‘I only know one, and I haven’t seen her in a while, another escort who goes by the name of Heather.’

  ‘Where do I find her?’

  ‘You could try the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘Funny. Anything else?’

  ‘She hangs at some of the clubs sometimes. Not working, just hanging out.’

  ‘Who are her friends?’

  ‘Johns.’

  I was getting nowhere and Lenny was either too scared or too dumb to help. I needed to find her place on Turnbuckle and get a lead on the other escort called Heather.

  Mandy arrived and started cleaning. Lenn
y drifted off. I went upstairs to prepare. I had no idea what I was up against. I took everything. The break-in tools went in the bottom of the bag, followed by the twenty-odd thousand in cash. I stripped, checked and reassembled the Beretta, made sure the magazine was full and palmed it home. I slipped the pistol into the back of my jeans, threw a couple of clean shirts into the pack and left.

  I needed a car so I was mobile, and as a surveillance base. It pissed me off having to spend money on a car I didn’t want or need, outside of finding and killing Carol.

  I took a cab to Parramatta Road: two kilometres of back-to-back car yards, telling the driver I wanted fast and cheap. He dropped me at Andy’s Autos, which had a mix of cars on the yard.

  Almost before I stepped onto the lot, I was approached by a woman in a low-cut top: tanned, leathery skin—fast and cheap.

  ‘Looking for something special?’

  I continued looking around the lot before answering. ‘Tell me about the Valiant,’ I said, tipping my head towards the aging black Chrysler.

  ‘You after something quick, are ya?’

  ‘And cheap. How much have you got on it?’

  She cat-walked over to it, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times to see I was following, or at least looking at her arse. She flicked the catch and raised the hood. The V8 was grimy, but not oily. I pulled the dipstick, rubbed oil between my fingers and sniffed, as if I knew what I was doing.

  ‘Smell all right?’ She opened the door, leaned in and turned the key. The engine turned slowly, kicked and fired. The low rumble of the V8 sounded sweet. The price painted across the windscreen: $4,999. She saw me looking at it.