Flank Street

by A. J. Sendall

  I closed my eyes. For the next two days, time stretched, then compressed in feverish, dream-ridden sleep.

  On the third day, I started eating again. The bruising down my right side was extensive, as if I’d been tagged with purple and yellow graffiti. Moving was difficult, but I felt some strength returning and wanted food instead of alcohol.

  Sonny and Tony arrived in the early evening.

  ‘Where do you stand in all this, Micky?’ Sonny asked after declining a drink. He sat opposite me at the small kitchen table and looked around. Tony braced his shoulder against the doorjamb and looked on.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘One of ours has been bumped; a response is needed. Ray thought, given your history, you might like to be involved.’

  I could see the angle. Ray, Mitchell, or whoever, gives me the green light to whack Fish and Cheever; the slate is balanced with no risk to themselves. Both the cops and the Reeds would believe I did it purely for revenge. I could see their angle, but I didn’t care.

  ‘If you want someone to off those two arseholes, I’ll do it for free.’

  ‘No one’s saying anything about bumping guys. We know you’ve had a few shaky months after that last job. We just need to know where you stand on this, and that you’re not going to do anything rash. No solo missions, okay?’

  I took a mouthful of cold coffee, lit a Camel: one of Meagan’s. I watched the end burn, remembering the girl who wanted affection and someone who would admire more than her tits.

  In time I said, ‘I want in, Sonny. I’ll do it in whatever way you say, whenever you say do it. But I want it.’

  Tony straightened up as his brother stood and pushed the chair back under the scruffy little table. Sonny reached into his trouser pocket and dropped a fold of bills on the table. I pushed it away.

  ‘Thanks, Sonny, but I’ll manage.’

  He was already walking away when he said, ‘Think of it as an advance.’

  When I heard the door close, I flicked through the wad of cash—two thou, enough to keep me in food and cigarettes until I was able to do a job or two.

  During the following week, my mind cleared of all the haunting images and chatter that had filled it since Carol. Focus returned, and I worked out each day, pushing my body, willing it to repair.

  I wasn’t surprised to get another visit from dickhead DC Norris. He had his usual jack questions and scumbag attitude, but nothing on me. That time, I pumped him for information, but he knew nothing. Still looking for witnesses and hoping my memory would return. Out of luck, Norris.

  After he left, I pushed the bed to one side, lifted the floor, and breathed a sigh of relief to see the waxed-paper package. I took it to the kitchen and opened it, surprised to see there was a small roll of cash with the pistol. I’d forgotten about it. I stuffed it into my pocket, stripped and checked the weapon. After re-assembling, I lay it on the table and lit a smoke. I was calm, calmer than I’d been in a long time. I knew what I was going to do.

  The Return

  Three weeks after Fish killed Meagan Silverton, and tried to kill me, I took a job on a slipway. It was menial work, cleaning and antifouling boats, but I didn’t care. It was a means to an end. After wallowing, I had a strong sense of purpose.

  Two days later I went to Ronnie’s, not to play the tables, but to try to connect with Ray or Sonny, or anyone who could get a message to them.

  It was a Friday night and the place was packed. I got a drink from the bar and found a space at the far end where I could sit and watch the comings and goings. Eventually I saw Mitchell sitting in a booth near the rear of the room. He must have been there all the time; I just hadn’t spotted him. If Mitchell was there, Ray or Sonny wouldn’t be far away. I tried to watch him through the mirrored bar, but people kept blocking my view. Just as I decided to approach him, there was a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You’re looking better than when I last saw you, Micky.’

  ‘Sonny. How’s things?’

  ‘Come over and have a word with Mr Mitchell.’

  I followed him through the crowd, which parted for the big Islander like the Red Sea for Moses. When we arrived at the booth, Ray was there as well. I hadn’t seen him or Sonny. That rumpus with the car must have dulled my wits.

  Mitchell said, ‘Sit down, Micky. Relax.’

  Ray watched my every move, as if I was going to pull a pistol. I remembered that’s how he was and saluted him with a tip of the chin. He remained watching and emotionless as I sat opposite him in the red plush booth.

  ‘You all healed, Micky?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Brand new, thanks, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘What’re you doing with your time?’

  ‘Mainly staying low; getting back in shape.’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Nothing illegal; I start a job on Monday. Figured it’d keep the jacks from wondering how I support myself.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Ray asked.

  I looked at his hard, psychotic features ‘Slipway slut at Fullman’s Marina, Ray.’ He held my gaze as he slowly leaned back in his seat, then looked at Mitchell and raised a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘I heard that you wanted to do a job for me,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘You heard right. Just give me the go-ahead and I’ll take care of it.’

  Nobody spoke for the next fifteen seconds. Both Ray and Mitchell looked, as if another answer was going to spring out of me. I took a drink, looked directly back at Mitchell. ‘So is it a goer or not?’

  ‘Go wait at the bar,’ Ray said.

  I did. Fifteen minutes later, Sonny stood beside me and said, ‘It’s on. Is there anything you need to know?’

  ‘All I need, Sonny, is a hardware man.’

  ‘Give me your mobile number.’

  He tapped it into his phone as I recited it, his thick fingers surprisingly swift across the tiny keys.

  ‘There’s a Frenchman. Name’s Max. I’ll send you his number later. He’s a bit of a prick, like most French, but he should have all you need. Tell him Leroy sent you.’

  ‘Who’s Leroy?’

  Sonny grinned and shook his head slowly. ‘Just tell him.’

  He left me standing alone, uncertain if I’d been dismissed or not. When I was still alone after thirty minutes, I left and walked back to the empty flat.

  The following morning there was a message on my phone, just a name and number. When I called the number, the voice that answered was gruff and accented.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Leroy gave me your number. I need some hardware.’

  There was a long silence and the sound of a door closing. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Like I said, a friend of Leroy; that’s how I got your number.’

  He gave me an address in Five Dock and told me to be there nine o’clock that night.

  I arrived at the address ten minutes early. I had the Beretta tucked into the back of my belt and the sap in my front pocket. He opened the door and looked me up and down, then looked past me into the street before mumbling, ‘Come in.’

  Inside, what I assumed to be his home was a pigsty. There was stuff lying everywhere and the place hadn’t seen a clean in years. He closed the door, and I wondered if I should be dealing with him.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked in his heavily accented English.

  ‘No.’

  I took the Beretta from my belt, dropped the magazine out, and racked it a couple of times to show him it was fully unloaded. ‘I want a silencer for this, plus two spare mags, a box of HPs and a throwaway .38. Can you do it?’

  I watched him as he examined the Beretta. He was a grizzled, square-jawed pisshead from way back, his face bearing the scars of a lifetime love affair with nicotine and the bottle.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked with a smile I didn’t like. There was something feral about him. My guess was he was a closet fag with a bent for violence and not many friends.

  ‘C
an you do it, Max?’ The smile left his face as I said his name.

  ‘Sure I can.’ He lit a Gauloises and rubbed at his stubbled jawline with a meaty, gnarled hand. ‘It’ll cost you a nice round thousand: up front.’

  I counted it out and dropped it amongst the debris on the stained coffee table.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Sit down and have a drink. We can talk more about it.’

  ‘No, thanks, I need to keep moving.’ I walked towards the door, opened it, and said over my shoulder, ‘Two days?’

  ‘Sunday. Come back on Sunday after church.’ He laughed uproariously. I closed the door behind me, glad to be away from him.

  Despite my misgivings, when I returned on the Sunday evening, he had all I’d asked for. Again, he wanted me to sit and drink with him. Again, I had some place else to be. I left him drinking port alone as I wandered away with all I needed to catch a fish.

  That first week working at the slipway passed quickly. I had plenty to do: worked hard and kept my head down. There were two other guys doing the same work as me, both younger and often stoned. They’d disappear for a while, and I’d smell it on them when they returned happier and more focused than when they left.

  The manager was a guy in his fifties called Ben O’Hare. He knew plenty about boats, but nothing about people, and could often be heard berating one of his workers or foul-mouthing a customer behind their back. I marked him down for a slap some time.

  After getting paid on Friday afternoon, I went straight home, showered and changed, then prepared. I had no car, and didn’t want to steal one, in case I got caught staking out the Black Cherry in a stolen car carrying two hand guns. I needed to be in the club, so needed to change my appearance.

  The bald head felt strange; the glasses, even being plain glass, made me feel awkward, but when I looked in the mirror, the shaved head, glasses, and beard I’d been growing for the past two weeks made a radical difference. I felt like a right dork, but figured it was enough to get me close.

  It was ten by the time I left. I’d decided not to muck around with Fish, but to kill him at the first opportunity, so went fully loaded and ready. I’d take care of Cheever at the same time, if I could. If not, he’d die later.

  Sometimes things work against you, other times they fall into place. That night they fell into place. I’d dressed smart casual: grey slacks, button shirt, and a sports jacket. The tails of the jacket hid the Beretta. The .38 I’d bought from the Frenchman was in a homemade ankle holster.

  The cab dropped me at the corner, a hundred metres from the piano bar I’d visited before, looking for McCutchen after he slapped Carol. I wondered if the same barmaid would be in there, and if she’d recognise me. There was an empty table just inside the door. I sat down and ordered a beer from a waitress, scanned the room a section at a time, looking for familiar faces. Nothing doing.

  An hour later I left, crossed the road towards the Black Cherry, then turned on my heel and walked away. Twenty metres further on I stopped in a doorway, lit up, and looked back at Fish standing outside the Black Cherry talking with the bouncer. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  I could feel the silencer against my tailbone and itched to set it free. I walked back to the piano bar and read the menu in a glass case beside the door. I could see them in the reflection. He was smoking and talking, posturing whenever clients went in or out, especially when it was young females. The prick was a predator. How did Meagan get taken in by him? And how come she was with him at the same time as working for Ray? Was she fishing for information? I remembered how she’d stood behind me, baseball bat at shoulder height, ready to swing. At that moment, I wanted that bat. It seemed a more appropriate weapon to end his worthless life. A bullet was too clean.

  I’d been there looking too long and would soon raise suspicion, so turned and walked slowly away, passing in front of the Black Cherry. I crossed the road, heading straight for him. The bouncer looked up at me, crushed his cigarette under his shoe, and looked away. I posed no threat. Fish said something, shook the guy’s hand, and walked in the same direction as me.

  I choked my enthusiasm, drew on past discipline, and stayed ten paces behind him. There was a small cross street fifty metres ahead. I moved to the other side of the road and quickened my pace until I was walking almost level with him. He gave me a quick glance, but didn’t break his stride. When he turned left into the cross street, I turned right, then stopped and drew my weapon.

  The two spits from the nine could hardly be heard. Max had done a good job. Philip Pfiscanski, otherwise known as Fish, hit the pavement silent and still. There was blood pooling, but I had to make sure. I crossed quickly, put one in the brain and disappeared into the night.

  Cheever must have become cautious once I’d bumped Fish. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I checked in with Sonny and he said the same thing. The guy had gone to ground. I’d stake out Frankie’s, and at times, Janet’s flat, but didn’t see him until almost a month after I’d hit Fish.

  He was leaving her flat just as I arrived, so I fell in behind him. He was a bit twitchy, looking around until he got to his car a couple of hundred metres away. He got in, took one more look around, and then drove straight towards me. He drew level and slowed at the intersection where I stood. The driver side window turned white as I let three rounds go. Two were headshots. I walked away down the side street. I didn’t need to check for a pulse.

  With those two scumbags dead, I felt a sense of relief. It should have been the other way. I should have been looking around for payback, but all I had was a sense of having evened the score, of having enacted retribution for my friend’s death. Now it was time to move on.

  About two months later, after the fuss died down and the jacks had stopped asking questions, I met Ray and Sonny.

  ‘Still working at that marina?’ Ray asked.

  ‘It pays the rent, Ray.’

  ‘This will for a while.’ He slid a package across the table.

  I pulled it towards me and raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Payment for that last job.’

  ‘That was a freebie, Ray. No need for this.’

  ‘Keep it anyway. Mr Mitchell was pleased with how it went. So pleased, in fact, that he has another job for you if you’re up for it.’

  I was, and he knew it. After bumping Fish, I’d decided I could earn a living at the same time as taking violent and greedy men off the street.

  That’s how I got started as a hit man. I never became one of them, was never part of a crew or gang. I was a freelancer and called nobody boss.

  I moved out of Meagan’s flat; one last vodka shot before leaving. I wasn’t sad to go, but sad she had gone. I’d taken an apartment in Balmain, close to the one I had before. I viewed that part of my life as a breakdown of sorts. I suppose it was. I try hard not to think about it now.

  Two years later, I’d amassed enough cash to lease a small slipway close to home. It was rundown and had few customers, but with time, cash, and perseverance, I started to build it up again.

  I’d do the occasional job for Mitchell, and sometimes get referred by him to someone outside Sydney. I made it a rule only to take contracts on hardened villains, men who had messed others up, usually gaining large sums of money in the process.

  I still loved to steal, and would pick one or two prime targets each year to keep my hand in and top up the coffers.

  It was November 1995. Sonny gave me a call one day, asking for a meet. As usual, Mitchell and Ray were there when I arrived. Ray and Sonny went to the bar, leaving me alone with Mitchell.

  ‘How’s the marina, Micky?’

  ‘All good, Mitch; about time you got a boat yourself, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I get too seasick for that. I’ve got a little job for you—on Flank Street.’

  Epilogue

  To get where I am, I’ve had to be, amongst other things, a thief and a liar. I’ve stolen from you and betrayed your trust. I stole your time and used your trust in the nar
rator’s voice to deceive you.

  I didn’t kill Carol? Why would I? She was the key to the life I craved. I needed psychopathic Ray to believe that I had, and you got caught in the crossfire of lies.

  We were close to Sydney Heads on the return journey from Pittwater when we saw a swirl in the water, looked down and saw the two hammerheads feeding on the remains of some poor soul.

  Carol shuddered, turned away and said, ‘That could have been me.’ She turned, grabbed my upper arms, and looked at me wide-eyed. ‘Micky, that could be me.’ It took me a few moments to understand what she was saying. Once again, she seduced me with one of her hare-brained schemes, convincing me it was just too good an opportunity to miss. She also told me about Heather, who never was.

  The jacks never knew whose remains washed up on the beach near South Head. They just assumed it was Carol because of the car and her reported disappearance.

  While I was pretending to have a breakdown and be a bum, she had some slight changes made to her face. Now she always goes by the name of Heather and meets me at night wearing a triple loop of pearls.

  We killed Meagan as a way of getting Mitchell to allow me to kill Fish and Cheever—yes, it was Carol driving—and for me to get tight with Mitchell. I would never have been safe while Fish was alive, and I wanted to kill him anyway.

  Was I sad about Meagan? Sure, I liked her a lot, but when push came to shove, I chose me.