We went out to eat that night. Carol was in no mood to cook and probably less inclined to eat anything I cooked. I still had the old Valiant, never bothering to sell it back to the slapper at the car yard. It was rough, fast, and reliable.
We rolled up to Wiseman’s Ferry, an hour northwest of the city. It was a quiet, rural setting where the rigours of the city could be left behind for a few hours. By the time we’d enjoyed a slow dinner, drinks and chat, it was nine-thirty and she was in better spirits. She winced each time the alcohol stung her split and swollen lip, but it didn’t stop her putting away a few glasses of Jameson.
During the drive home, she kept her hand on my leg, occasionally rubbing my shoulder or touching my neck. It was a soft, almost affectionate side of her I hadn’t seen before.
When we got back to Dover Heights, I started to clean the kitchen, but she took my hand and led me to bed, where she curled up beside me, rested her head on my chest and pulled herself in tight.
She was still in that position the following morning, but the smile had returned to her face, blended with coyness. She’d exposed a facet of herself she normally kept hidden. I guessed she was feeling bashful.
I had to leave early. By the time I did, she was almost back to her old self. There seemed to be something on her mind other than McCutchen. She came out to the car to see me off, something she hadn’t done before. When I wound the clunky window down, she leaned inside and said, ‘Can you come again in a couple of days?’
‘Sure. I can come on Tuesday, if that’s okay.’
‘I might have our first job.’ There was light in her eyes again, and an upward curve to her split lip. ‘Sorry I didn’t say anything last night. I ... well, you know, I just didn’t want to talk about any of that shit.’
‘It’s understandable. I’ll see you Tuesday night.’
The V8 rumbled out of her driveway and I headed towards home, planning how to deal with McCutchen as I drove into the thick city traffic.
Meagan and I cashed up together after close that night. She was chipper as she sat on her usual stool on the public side. I poured shots, lit two small, fine cigars and handed her one.
She looked at it, put it to her lips, and sucked. Smoke wafted from her mouth. ‘Very nice. What’s the celebration?’
‘Nothing, I just fancied them for a change.’ She eyed me suspiciously, pulled on it again, searched my face for the truth.
We talked about the night: about the two drunk Russians we’d asked to leave; about the three old guys who were always there, sitting at the same table nearly every night, drinking slowly and talking non-stop; about the group of young girls who Meagan had refused to serve because they appeared under age. I gradually steered the conversation to her ex, Fish, and the Reed brothers.
‘Has he contacted you since we threw him out?’
‘You mean since you bashed his face on the bar?’
I shrugged, poured more shots. ‘Same difference.’
‘He called and left a message a couple of days after that, but I didn’t bother calling him. Why? What made you think of him?’
‘Someone mentioned a club out in the western suburbs, called... Cosmo, I think. Is that one of Reed’s places?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. The main one’s Black Cherry, which I have to admit, is quite a cool club. You know; great design and well put together. Just run by arseholes. There, and this pseudo-piano bar just over the road, where the Westies go if they think they’re sophisticated. Them and some of Reed’s cronies who think they’re wise guys from the thirties. Wankers.’
‘Wankers.’
A few weeks before, she denied ever having been there, now she seemed familiar with at least two places. That night it didn’t matter; what was important was getting information, so I let it go and probed deeper.
‘You ever come across a guy called McCutchen?’ The easy smile left her face as she tapped the ash from the end of the cigar.
‘What are you fishing for, Micky?’ she asked with a direct look.
‘Nothing. It’s just stuff I overheard from that same guy. Something about McCutchen being Reed’s arse-wipe.’ I tossed the vodka down and put the glasses in the washer. ‘Are you staying over or shall I get you a cab?’
She stretched and yawned. ‘Is my bed made up, Jeeves?’
‘The name’s DeWitt and it’s however you left it. Now do you want a cab or not?’
She leaned over the bar and gave me a playful shove. ‘Not.’
The Job
The sound of Mandy unlocking the staff door woke me a few minutes before nine. I felt as if I’d only just lain down. I wanted to pull the pillow over my head and sleep some more.
The room was stuffy, so I got out of bed and opened the window overlooking the street, letting in what passed for fresh air on the golden mile of Kings Cross: infused with the smell of alcohol, fast food and exhaust fumes, and came through the open window accompanied by the sound of close traffic and a distant siren.
Being groggy from sleep, or lack of, I lost my balance trying to pull on my jeans, stumbled, and crashed into the connecting door between my room and Meagan’s. The door flew open and I landed on the floor of her room with my jeans around my shins.
She pushed herself up onto one elbow, blinked a couple of times. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Micky?’
‘Nothing: just getting dressed.’
‘Laying there you’re getting dressed?’
‘Just go back to sleep. It’s still early.’
She looked at me as if I was some kind of handicapped relative on day-release that she had to tolerate, lay back down and pulled the duvet over her tousled head.
When I got downstairs, Mandy was well into her cleaning routine. I raised a hand in greeting, switched on the coffee maker, and grabbed the Yellow Pages from the phone stand. I ran my finger down the listing for nightclubs, found the Black Cherry, and noted its address. While I waited for the machine to heat up, I flicked through the newspaper, but soon tired of the same old dramas and political bollocks.
When I turned to make my coffee, Ray was standing behind me. He had that look on his face I’d come to know as his signature. It was one of imminent hostility and disdain for all around him.
‘Hi, Ray. I was just making coffee; you want one?’
His facial expression didn’t change, his voice the perfect deadpan. ‘No.’
I made myself one, ignoring his presence, then said, ‘What can I do for you, Ray?’ I sat back at the bar.
He looked around, then back at me. ‘Mr Brookes is pleased with the changes you’ve made.’ He sniffed contemptuously. ‘Mr Brookes wishes to express his appreciation for the book you gave him.’ He held out a wad of hundred dollar bills. I tried to take it from his hand, but he kept his grip. ‘Mr Brookes does not want you taking revenge on McCutchen for slapping your girlfriend.’ He hard-eyed me for several seconds, then released his grip on the roll, his constant stare unwavering. ‘Understand?’
‘Sure. Sure, I understand, Ray.’ There was no point in asking how he knew about me and Carol, or my intention of slapping the little fucker down. He knew, and that was enough.
‘Strong: no milk, no sugar.’
I jammed the wad of cash in my back pocket, poured a straight black, and handed it to him. He added a shot of Scotch from an optic, drank it in one, and handed me the mug.
‘There will come a time,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a thick hand. ‘But it’s not now. Understand?’
‘Sure, I understand, Ray.’ I didn’t, but didn’t want to get into it with him.
He turned and left. I assumed his cryptic last statement was to indicate that one day I’d be allowed to deal with McCutchen one way or another.
I walked through to the back room to make sure he’d gone. Mandy was standing there. She’d been waiting for him to leave before coming through to finish cleaning.
‘It’s okay, Mandy. Go ahead.’ She smiled nervously and hurried into the bar. I wondered ab
out her relationship with Ray and these underworld goons. Did they get her to do favours, to gather information? Was it her who’d told them Carol and I were friends... more than friends? Those five minutes had reinforced in me the understanding that you can trust no one, not Mandy, Stella, Meagan, or Carol Todd.
I arrived at Carol’s house mid-afternoon. The fresh northeast wind carried the first chill of autumn and light rain was starting to fall. I could hear the ocean beyond the reserve, pounding the cliff face below.
Carol was standing by the open door.
‘Yearning for the ocean?’
‘Just thinking how glad I am not to be out there today.’ I followed her inside.
‘It’s supposed to crack-up this evening, heavy rain and cold wind, so I made a big pot of stew: simple but homey food.’
She’d covered the bruising under her eye with make-up, but the swelling was still visible: same with her lip. She’d glossed over it with lipstick, but the split looked painful.
‘How’s the lip feel?’ I asked, cupping her chin and turning her head to the light.
‘Almost fixed.’
She seemed back to normal. I’d decided not to tell her about Ray’s early morning visit and his warning to stay away from McCutchen. I still hadn’t ruled out visiting the piano bar or the Black Cherry, just for the hell of it.
The chill room had become the place where we sat and talked. It was cosy, calm, and intimate.
‘So are you going to tell me about the job?’
She put a cushion behind her back and wriggled it in. ‘Easy-to-steal bearer instruments.’
‘Say what?’
‘Bearer bonds. They’re a financial instrument owned by whoever’s holding it, rather than having a registered owner. Just like a hundred dollar bill, except these are worth thousands. So if you steal it, it’s ours.’
‘And what do we do with these bonds?’
‘Sell them. I know a guy who’ll pay seventy cents on the dollar. He’s a shady prick who works the financial markets, futures, that sort of thing. He told me long ago that if I could ever get my hands on them, he’d buy them from me.’
‘And I take it you’ve found some for us to steal.’
She had a pleased look on her face. ‘Quite a few, I believe.’
‘These are just papers, certificates?’
‘Just papers.’
‘And you’re not going to kill anyone and burn their house this time? And please, tell me they do not belong to a gangster.’
She shook her head and grinned. ‘Nope: no fires, guns, or wise guys.’
‘Okay. Tell me about it.’
She took a map from one of the bookshelves, unfolded it, and spread it on the table in front of us. It covered an area that looked vaguely familiar. I looked at the title: Tamborine Mountain.
‘Your parents’ place?’
‘A neighbour who never stops skiting about what he has, and what he does. Drives Dad nuts. When I was speaking with them about a week ago, Dad mentioned he’d seen him at one of those nosy citizens’ meetings, and he’d been running off at the mouth again about what he had. When Dad mentioned this neighbour had been going on about bearer bonds, my ears pricked up.’
‘Is that all we know; that he probably has these bonds? What about security; are they in a safe; does he have a dog; does he come and go at regular hours? Or did you expect me to just go up there and wing it?’
‘Yes,’
‘What yes?’
‘Wing it,’ she said as if it should be obvious, even to a half-wit such as me. ‘He’s taking a month’s holiday in Thailand. I think he’s got a taste for some of the local delicacies, if you know what I mean.’
‘Go on.’
‘He doesn’t have a dog or any other animal. There’s a cleaner who comes in once a week, but probably not while he’s away.’
‘And you know all this second-hand from a conversation with Murray?’
‘And Mum. It’s a small community, Micky: people talk.’
‘Neighbours?’
‘The house is set well back on the property, so it’s not level with the house on either side. The one on the left has high bushes or trees anyway, so they can’t even see the house.’
‘Do the neighbours have dogs?’
‘I don’t know. The property backs onto national park. It’s steep, but an easy way to get there without using the street. I thought we could—’
‘Not we. There’s no we. If this job sounds do-able, it will be me, not we.’
‘I thought we trusted each other now.’
‘Then trust me when I say it is far better you stay outside and away from the house.’
There was connivance in her eyes and a pout on her lips.
Before she could respond, I said, ‘When’s he leaving?’
‘He’s already gone. He left at the weekend, so we have four weeks to plan and execute. There’s no telling what else we—I mean you, will find in there. Could be a rich haul, Micky, with very little risk.’
I wanted this. It was why I took the barhop job with Lenny, why I’d hung at The Cross all this time, trying to pick up scraps of information. Here it was falling into my lap, literally.
On the surface, it sounded like a breeze. Even if the guy had security, I could easily cut or bypass it. Access and escape would be simple through the national park. I looked intently at the map, trying to visualise what I would have to do. The idea started to take hold and my lingering suspicion of Carol faded.
We spent the rest of the afternoon, and well into the evening, discussing what we did and didn’t know. The more we talked, the easier it sounded. Then I had a blinding flash of deja vu.
The last time we’d discussed a job, she was convincing and the job sounded easy, which it was. Only thing is, that time she was screwing me. What about this time?
I needed space to think clearly without the distraction of Carol enticing and cooing from below lashes that looked like they’d been curled, lengthened and strengthened.
At eight o’clock I left, promising to return the next day to discuss things further. The plan sounded fine, the house easy to get into and the rewards well worth the risk, but....
It was no good going back to the bar. All I’d do there is serve the undeserving and make flirtatious banter with Meagan. I headed west on Parramatta Road in search of the Black Cherry.
As Meagan had said: well laid out, the sound system awesome, the floor full. I felt a bit out of place with most of the clientele being late teens/early twenties. I had one drink, played the slots for five minutes and left, asking the bouncer how to find the piano bar. He pointed to a dimly lit building almost opposite and looked at me as if I was a dope.
I walked in, found an empty table, and sat down. Almost immediately, there was a cocky young waitress waiting to take my order. While she was getting my beer, I looked around for anyone who might look like a player. There were less than a dozen people in there, mostly couples: nobody that looked remotely dangerous. It was a failed attempt at sophisticated. The pink baby grand was set on a piano-shaped stage in one corner. A thirty-something-year old white male, with a tux and a bald head, was playing some old 40s melody I recognised, but didn’t know the name of. The carpeting was cheap, as were the tables, chairs, and waitresses.
When my waitress returned and laid the beer on a coaster, I paid her with a fifty and said, ‘Worked here long?’
‘Couple of years.’
‘Is McCutchen in here tonight?’
‘No.’ She coloured and looked down. ‘Why’d you want to know?’
I handed her a twenty from the change she’d given me. ‘What would be a good night to find him here?’
She looked at me wearily and palmed the twenty. ‘Saturday; he’s nearly always in on Saturday nights.’
Another twenty. ‘Time?’
‘Nine, ten, eleven: depends.’ She straightened up ‘If you’re here, I’ll point him out.’
After one drink, I left, not even sure why I’
d gone there in the first place. Slapping him around in front of his gangster mates wasn’t going to work. Feeling restless, and on edge, I went to the only place I knew I could be alone to think things through.
As I sat in the cockpit looking out across still water, the duality of my persona hit hard again. It was something that had surfaced many times throughout my life, taunting and ridiculing me, only to be pushed rapidly back behind the public veneer of whatever face I was wearing at the time.
In Sydney I was the burglar, barhop and arsonist. Six months ago, as I crossed the Pacific, I was the laid-back, philosophical world wanderer, living healthily and helping fellow sailors or islanders wherever and whenever I could. I didn’t know whether it made me balanced or a complete fuck-up.
Carol? What was really going on with her? Was it a dysfunctional co-dependency that would end in more flames? Either way, I knew I needed to skew our relationship. The Beretta with her prints gave me leverage over her, but I didn’t want to do it that way. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted to be close enough to her to be able to know I could trust her, to know we were a team, not opponents in a race to see who could screw who hardest and fastest. The Berlin Wall between us needed tearing down and replacing with a criminal détente focussed on pulling off lucrative heists. No blackmail, no high-risk adrenaline junkie bullshit: just well planned and executed jobs with a high return.
What did I know about her? Wait. What did I think I knew about her?
She was lonely, or at least appeared to be. She was wealthy enough, which indicated she had been, or maybe was still successful as an escort, and didn’t suck it all up her nose or shoot in between her toes. And yes, she was good looking. She didn’t hold her drink well and could eat like two horses.
It was past midnight, getting cold by the time I turned in. There had been no insights or revelations, no plans set other than to do the job in Tamborine and see what came next.
Flank Street Page 13
