Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  ‘Rule one: I always drive.’

  He stood straight and gestured him out of the car with a flick of chin. Devereaux slid out. He kept his face empty: unperturbed, and averse to small talk. He circled the back of the car and climbed in the passenger side. The Don got in beside him. He slammed his door, belted up with a flourish.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘You kept the tie.’

  He drove the car out onto Hobson and hit traffic lights. The Don exposited: ‘We’re not going far,’ he said. ‘Keep your fingers crossed, this might actually be worthwhile.’

  They worked north, down towards the harbour. Evening traffic was easy. McCarthy racked his seat back. ‘I’ve got an informant in an apartment down on the Viaduct. He’s been missing calls; I want to see what’s happening.’

  ‘And I’m your backup.’

  He adjusted the mirror. ‘Yeah … nice inference.’

  ‘Could be a lot of fuss just to find his phone’s off the hook.’ The sarcasm slipped past him. He shook his head. ‘Guy’s a shitbag. Can be a handful, time to time.’

  ‘What does he inform on?’

  ‘Everything. He’s got his ear to the scum current. He knows about all kinds of things normal people wouldn’t dream of.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as a certain series of robberies over the past couple of months. But we’ll see.’ He pulled sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket, dipped his wrist to pop them open. He slipped them on. ‘When they go to ground, you know they’re hiding something. Strong correlation. People start dodging more than one call, you know you’ve found a gold mine.’

  Devereaux didn’t reply.

  McCarthy said, ‘So. You’ve killed a man.’ Falsely casual.

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘You’ll have to eventually. It’s not the sort of thing you cart around by yourself. Or you can, but you’ll end up swinging by your neck in your wardrobe. Might even use that tie.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  McCarthy looked at him. A long glance, amid fast-flowing traffic. He said, ‘I thought you’d be more of a talker.’

  Devereaux turned and looked at him. ‘How far would you push me to make me say something?’

  Northbound on Nelson Street. They pulled up at another light. McCarthy squared his glasses, two-handed. ‘That some sort of underhanded accusation?’

  ‘I’m sure you must have had to work pretty hard to get Howard Ford to open his mouth.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘Don’t push your luck with me, boyo,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit there thinking you’re tough.’

  Devereaux held his tongue.

  ‘What? Nothing to say.’ He smiled to himself. ‘That’s the great thing. I’ve heard about you; I saw your interview transcript from this morning. Never short of a word, always got the right reply. So here we are, on the one hand you’re itching to hit me with something slick; on the other you’re remembering the fact your job’s on the line, and at some point you’ve got to stop pissing people off, or you’re going to end up unemployed.’ He turned. The glasses slipped on his nose. ‘It’s the beauty of the world. If you’ve got leverage, people shut up and stay in line. Conversely, if you want something from them, and they think you hold something over them, you won’t be able to shut them up.’

  They turned left on Fanshawe. The Don picked a gap in the traffic and U-turned back the opposite way. He maintained commentary. Devereaux didn’t know whether the aim was to educate, or whether he just liked the sound of his own voice.

  ‘Good thing about this sort of crime,’ he said, ‘is that nothing ever stays a secret. Too many angles to pin down. You’ve got to make sure your getaway driver doesn’t say anything. You’ve got to make sure your backup shooter doesn’t say anything. You have to make sure you don’t say anything. And it’s hard, I tell you. There’s a crack somewhere, you can guarantee it; someone’s bragged to a friend, someone’s told a spouse, someone’s mentioned something stupid to a guy in a bar. And it spreads, and it gets away on you, and as long as you’re persistent enough, as long as you push hard enough …’ He paused. ‘Long as you’ve got the right leverage, you can find out what’s been going on.’

  They turned off Fanshawe and made another right into the narrow streets fronting the Viaduct. It was high-class, high-rise living: modern apartment buildings overlooking the water, strolling distance from the marina and restaurants lining the harbour. They stopped out front of a building down the western end of Customs Street. It was a corner site a block back from the water, ground floor restaurant verandas forming a skirt along two sides. The Don slowed to idle for a second and ducked low to see the upper-floor windows, then turned into an alleyway adjacent. Deep, sheer walls and low sun left the space in grey shadow. McCarthy turned off the engine.

  ‘Our guy’s name is Shane Stanton,’ he said. ‘This is actually his girlfriend’s place, but it seems this is where he spends most of his time. He knows me so he shouldn’t be too much of a handful, but just bear in mind he’s done time for grievous bodily harm, so eyes forward. We’ll do it quick and no-nonsense, lean on him hard.’ He opened his door and put a foot outside. ‘Steer clear of his bodily fluids, too. He’s HIV positive.’

  McCarthy got out of the car and walked to the rear. He popped the lid with the key. Devereaux got out and followed. McCarthy unlocked the gun safe and prised a Glock 17 from the foam.

  Devereaux said, ‘Didn’t realise you were planning on clipping him.’

  ‘Contingency,’ he said. ‘In the event he decides to clip us.’

  He holstered the weapon above his right hip. He relocked the safe, slammed the lid.

  ‘I’d offer you one as well, but I understand you’re prone to premature discharge.’

  They rounded into the street. The elevator core and emergency stairwell accessing the upper levels were tucked next to the restaurant, on the alley side of the building. The street-front door was open, tiled foyer empty. The elevators required swipe-card entry. McCarthy took a multi-tool from his pocket and crowded close to the fire escape door. He kept his eyes on the exit and jiggle-picked the lock one-handed, touch only. A deft, ten-second job, and they were in. The Don led the way up, jacket pinched closed with one hand. They stopped outside a door on level four. McCarthy tried the handle: feather-light, fingertips only. Locked.

  The corridor was empty. McCarthy let his jacket gape and knocked hard. He turned square to the door and stepped close, filling the frame.

  A woman’s voice from inside: ‘Who is it?’

  McCarthy said, ‘Use the peephole.’

  ‘Is that Don?’

  ‘Good guess, Monique. Open the door.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just told you. I want you to open the door, please.’

  ‘Shane’s not here.’

  ‘Open the door anyway.’

  ‘Aw, now’s really not a good time. Can I just come out and talk?’

  ‘Monique, either you open it or I bust it. You choose.’

  ‘You can’t bust it.’

  ‘Five. Four. Three.’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay. Don’t break anything.’

  The door eased back; a wary ten mils only. The Don braced one outsized palm at mid-height and pushed it wide. He strode in: a swarm of blue suit that filled the little entry hall. Devereaux chased his wake, nudged the door closed with his heel.

  The entry hall expanded into the living area. A picture window neighboured by a strip of metal louvre gave a view of the harbour. Cardboard boxes were stacked chest-high. The woman named Monique fingered long hair behind one ear and propped an elbow up on a stack. It wobbled, but she held the pose and took her weight on her feet. Feigned insouciance. She might have been thirty. Stonewashed jeans lined with thin white rips. A grey sweatshirt with the cuffs rolled, thin taut limbs protruding. A ticking neck pulse betrayed anxiety. Her eyes stayed with McCarthy as he did a loop of the room.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

&nbs
p; ‘My plus-one. He’s making sure I don’t get too out of hand. Nice view.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  ‘I need to know where Shane is.’

  ‘Told you I don’t know where he is.’

  McCarthy said, ‘We’ll see.’

  The kitchen was left of the entry, a long counter segregating it from the living area. McCarthy wove a casual route through the boxes and raised a cordless phone from a cradle and hit redial. He saw the number displayed and set the phone down again.

  ‘You called his number,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘Don’t wind me up, Monique. I’ve got a gun.’ He pinned his jacket back on his hip, showed off the Glock and a Big Bad Wolf grin.

  Nobody spoke. Devereaux was still in the entry. He eyed up the boxes: computer units, DVD players, GPS systems. A dusty cardboard odour hung light. Monique’s eyes skittered between the pair of them, unsure how to read the play.

  ‘Where’d you get all this stuff?’ McCarthy said. He’d barely paused, maintaining aimless loops of the room, gaze in constant motion.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘What’s your drug use like these days?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  He broke stride and sidestepped in front of her, caught her jaw in two fingers and angled her face towards him. ‘How’d those pupils get so dilated? It’s not even that bright in here.’

  Devereaux said, ‘Let her go, Don.’

  Two sets of eyes on him: the girl’s, desperate, above a horribly pinched mouth, McCarthy’s, faintly surprised over his shoulder.

  ‘First name terms,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

  But he let her go. She was still leaning against the stack of boxes, pretence of calm undermined by the tears in her eyes. She worked her jaw and roamed her tongue behind her cheeks. Panelbeating out The Don’s pinch.

  ‘Gotta say,’ McCarthy said, ‘in light of the fact you’ve been convicted of receiving stolen goods, all these boxes seem a bit suspicious.’

  He looked at Devereaux. A long, narrow gaze that told him to get in line. Devereaux dealt deadpan calm in return, pulse hammering with the knowledge that if McCarthy touched the girl again, he was going to have to do something.

  Monique blinked. She traced her bottom lids with the tip of a cocked pinkie. Precision tear eradication. She began to follow him around the room. ‘It’s none of your business.’ Dangerous waver in her tone. Terseness yielding to tears.

  McCarthy, still traipsing round, ramrod rigid: ‘Monique, Monique, Monique. I pulled the property details for this address. I know your father owns the apartment.’ The threat struck a chord: she started to say something and caught herself, lips parted in heightened fear. He turned and faced her. She met his gaze. The height differential tilted her gaze back.

  ‘What would Daddy say, if he knew you were harbouring stolen electrical equipment—’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘—and doing drugs—’

  ‘I’m not. I swear I’m not.’ Wringing her hands, panic building.

  ‘—and keeping a shitbag like Shane Stanton around for company?’

  ‘I’m not, I’m not. I swear.’

  ‘Where’s that phone? Maybe I’ll give Daddy a buzz right now.’

  She jostled in front of him. ‘No. Don’t.’

  ‘Why not? You said you’re not up to any mischief.’

  ‘I’m not but—’

  ‘But what?’

  She didn’t answer.

  McCarthy dipped his knees, aligned himself face to face. ‘So then: Tell. Me. Where. He. Is.’

  ‘I told you.’ She choked, glanced at Devereaux, pleading. ‘I don’t know.’

  McCarthy shrugged. ‘Okay, Monique. Okay. We can do it that way.’

  He pushed past her, a solid shoulder-on-shoulder nudge that spun her in a half-turn. He stepped back into the entry hall, into the bathroom, the girl at his heels.

  ‘You can’t just search my place. You can’t do that, what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Just having a casual poke around. You know how it is.’

  Devereaux backed up to the front door. Part of him berating his own failure to step in more decisively, part of him knowing if he intervened and helped the girl he’d be unemployed by sun-up. McCarthy caught his eye again through the door: a sharp sneer as he rifled the woman’s medicine cabinet, testing how far he could push before something dropped. The girl was beside him, clawing at his arm, pleading for him to stop. Band-Aid boxes toppled, scissors clattered to the floor. She crouched and scrabbled for them, tear drops bright on the tile. The Don trapped them with a foot, caught her finger in the process. She shrieked and crawled away and sat against the edge of the bath, legs hugged to her chest.

  Devereaux watched from the bathroom door, fists clenched so tight his nails had drawn blood. McCarthy was still at the cupboard, nosing idly. His back was turned, arms raised. His torso was exposed. One kick would do it. Hard enough and with a bit of luck, he might rupture a kidney and kill the bastard.

  Do it. Take him down.

  The girl looked up at him from the floor, tear-stained and defeated, misery an instant sanction for what had crossed his mind. He waited.

  Do it. He’s way, way out of line.

  The cupboard door closed a fraction. The exterior was mirrored and McCarthy caught his face in the glass. Such confidence in that quick glance, resolute certainty of continued inaction: don’t kid yourself you’d actually do something.

  The moment passed. He stayed in the door. McCarthy reached up and felt above the cabinet.

  ‘Whoa. This feels promising.’

  He removed a worn and faded toilet bag. He unzipped it and peeped inside, expression faux eagerness.

  ‘Heavens. What’s this?’

  The girl didn’t answer, near catatonic on the floor. McCarthy inverted the bag. Half a dozen three-mil hypoderms dropped and ticked gently into a wide scatter across the tilework. Cotton wads, a tourniquet, three zip-lock bags of white powder followed suit. McCarthy stepped back from the mess, lined up a big kick, and swung through. A zip-lock bag went airborne and hit the girl in the forehead and fell in her lap.

  McCarthy dropped to his haunches. His cuffs hiked: white socks, rolled over a half-inch. ‘Don’t push me,’ he said. ‘You pathetic little shit.’

  No reply.

  McCarthy pouted. ‘Who do you want me to call first,’ he said. ‘Daddy, or the Drug Squad?’

  ‘Please. Just leave me alone.’

  ‘Please won’t cut it, sweetheart. Where’s Shane-o?’

  She wiped tears. She bit her lower lip.

  McCarthy took his phone from his pocket. He waggled it in two fingers. ‘Daddy or Drug Squad. Daddy or Drug Squad?’

  He thumbed a key. Close walls amplified the tone.

  ‘Okay, okay. Don’t. He’s gone to Pit. He’s gone up to Pit.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Earlier.’

  ‘Give me numbers, Monique.’ He waved the phone in her face. ‘Specificity keeps the hounds off your heels.’

  ‘I dunno. Around six.’

  McCarthy thought for a moment. ‘Pit the bar?’ he said.

  She snorted hard. ‘Good guess, you fuck-head.’

  McCarthy tipped his head back and laughed. ‘What a charmer.’ He stood straight, shook his hands in his pockets to get his trouser cuffs settled right. He looked at Devereaux and jerked his head. ‘Let’s go, hotshot.’

  The girl was huddled in the corner as they went out the door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 8.33 P.M.

  Devereaux led the way back down the stairs. He kept a quick trot, but The Don slipped ahead on the second floor landing and boxed him in tight against a corner. Whiskers in close-up, a soft hiss of breath through a small smile. McCarthy spread both arms and placed his hands flat against the two adjacent walls. Devereaux’s eye line reached the cleft in his chin.

  �
�What was that all about?’ McCarthy said.

  ‘What?’

  No response. The stairwell was a tall concrete chamber. The question’s echo lingered. Devereaux assessed options. The John Hale conflict doctrine stipulated ‘Take him down hard’. Tempting: The Don’s solar plexus was a short straight-right away. Both his knees were in heel-jab range. A head-butt would break his front teeth, both storeys.

  Devereaux took a breath, went for it. ‘You were out of line,’ he said.

  A long, long pause. The Don’s gaze was deliberately above his head, highlighting the height advantage. Devereaux could see a slow pulse ticking: barely one per second. Coma-calm. McCarthy’s weight shifted from one foot to the other. Devereaux braced for a knee in the balls.

  ‘That’s troubling,’ McCarthy said. He flexed his hands slightly against the walls. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Probably less than I should have.’

  The Don let out a long breath. Devereaux felt it on his forehead.

  ‘Here’s the great thing, Sonny Jim,’ McCarthy said. ‘I’ve been around such a long time, what I say tends to matter. If I say that Sean Devereaux shouldn’t have killed that guy like he did, and needs to be gotten rid of, you can bet your back teeth someone’s going to take it as gospel.’

  Devereaux smiled. ‘If I spread the word about what just happened in there, you can bet your back teeth someone’s going to take it as gospel.’

  McCarthy smirked it off. ‘I’ll put it in binary terms for you: either shut up and maybe keep your job, or blab and definitely lose it.’

  He squared up Devereaux’s tie knot for him. ‘You didn’t do her any favours. In her eyes, you’re passively responsible. She only hates you slightly less than she hates me.’

  He stepped away and put his hands in his pockets, started back down the stairs. ‘Don’t try to take me on, Skippy. I’m The Don.’

  Pit was uptown, a ground floor unit in the back of a long, low-rise stretch that fronted onto Queen Street. The bar itself was below street level, at the base of a wide pool of carpark that dipped down from the road behind the building. Age and weak light did no favours: the place looked like a black eye.