Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  While he stood there nursing his beer, Wes’s thoughts repeatedly made their way back to Shaun McCreadie. Christ, if he’d known who it was he might have thought twice about tailing him. The guy had done some serious time and obviously didn’t mess around. He recalled there was something in the news a while back to the effect that McCreadie’s final appeal had been upheld, but Wes didn’t know the ins and outs of it. Apparently he claimed he didn’t shoot George and Stephanie, but then he would, wouldn’t he? Some crafty shyster must have come up with a convincing line of bullshit for that one to fly. Wes’s own shyster, a useless, smarmy piece of shit with a ponytail and a cheap suit from Sire’s, could never deliver that kind of result. For financial reasons, however, Wes had no option but to stick with him. At least he allowed Wes to run up a decent account.

  Something else—who was this Bernie Walsh? That name came from left field at the last minute. What were Simmonds’ words? ‘You’d be a better man than Bernie Walsh ever was.’ Didn’t ring any bells.

  But wait on—Fat Man said McCreadie had killed someone a few days ago. Was he referring to this Walsh guy? Smashed as he was, Simmonds wouldn’t come out with that unless it was right. He’d know. There was a definite ring of truth about it. Very indiscreet of him to let that one drop.

  Bernie Walsh, whoever he was, was dead. Wes was pretty sure of it now. That was why Simmonds had laughed. The misfortunes of others always made him happy. The implication being—Walsh had unsuccessfully tried to separate Shaun McCreadie from his ill-gotten squillions. Was that why Wes had been hired, to replace Bernie Walsh?

  Wes Ford was not stupid. Bill Simmonds was wrong to underestimate him. All kinds of crazy ideas raced through his brain while he stood at the bar nursing his Bravo. Gaming machines jingled continuously, bells rang, coins rattled into trays, players squealed and milled around an excited jackpot winner. Wes was too deeply immersed to notice any of that, however. A plan was shaping up in his mind—a dangerous plan. If it backfired he would wind up in diabolical strife. But Wes knew that success came mainly from confidence, and he had always been a confident player.

  Sometime later, in the hotel car park,he was about to climb into his Commodore when he spotted a Chinese or Vietnamese woman approaching, purse and car keys in her hand. His brain instantly flashed: ideal scenario—no witnesses. Acting independently, purely on impulse, his fingers started to unzip his fly as the adrenaline pumped through him. Excitement rose. But then—right at the last possible moment—the strangest thing . . . this voice at the back of his head seemed to say: ‘Whoa!’ His fingers froze on the zipper,which was already partially lowered, as the woman passed serenely, obliviously, by. Confused, Wes zipped up again. He had never suppressed the urge before,never wanted to. His reaction was mixed—disappointment and a sort of empowerment—as he fired up the engine. ‘Empower’ was a word the psychiatrists used a lot. Thick palls of blue smoke discharged from the rusted tailpipe as the vehicle coughed to life: pop-pop-pop-pop-VROOM. He reversed through the haze and his eyes stung and watered as if it were tear gas.

  About the same time, 5.30 pm, Raydon Steer was utterly spent. He was sitting—slumping—in the locker room putting on his shoes, and couldn’t help noticing how his fingers trembled violently as he tried to tie the laces. It was sheer, physical exhaustion following an hour and a half of royal tennis with that unscrupulous bastard, Oliver McEncroe. McEncroe was so competitive he would never concede a point even if his life and the lives of his children depended on it. Raydon himself was intensely competitive too, but today he had been no match for McEncroe.

  Raydon prided himself on his fighting spirit. It was like being in court—a fight to the death, no honour or glory to the loser.Establishing and maintaining an edge against the opposition was crucial. Lately, however, he didn’t seem to have much edge.

  McEncroe was standing next to him, doing up his tie. He was so damned cool: tall, slender, handsome—with that unruly mop of black hair constantly falling over his eyes—and gave no outward sign of exertion.

  Bastard.

  Raydon’s own hair was thinning noticeably, and he had developed a slight paunch. And while not exactly short in stature, he had a low centre of gravity, which made him appear a touch simian when naked.

  ‘Too good today, McEncroe,’ he said. It was a bitter pill, but etiquette required it. A man of Raydon’s bloodlines would have said the same thing as he lay dying on the frosty ground, having been mortally wounded in a duel. Form was important.

  McEncroe snapped his suspenders over his shoulders and turned to face his adversary. ‘To me it didn’t look as if your heart was in it, Steer. If heart is the correct word.’

  ‘Well, I was trying. I just couldn’t play the difficult angles today, for some reason.’

  ‘Steer,’ McEncroe said, in the manner of a pronouncement—how Raydon hated that—‘this game is all about playing the difficult, unpredictable angles. If you can’t do it you may as well go home and play . . . carpet bowls.’

  Raydon could feel his face turning scarlet. Sometimes he could kill McEncroe, the patronising shit. He wore victory with all the grace and sportsmanship of a soccer yob swilling a bucket of lager.

  ‘Quite right, McEncroe,’ he said. ‘It is indeed all about playing the difficult angles. But I wouldn’t gloat too much if I were you. Every dog has his day.’

  ‘“Every dog has his day?”’ McEncroe said.‘That’s some bon mot, Steer.’

  ‘Best I can manage right now. I have the odd problem on my mind, as you know.’

  ‘Oh, is that your excuse?’ McEncroe said. ‘Something on your mind? Sure it isn’t below your waistline? Swinging between your legs, say?’ And he laughed.

  ‘Oh, do fuck off, McEncroe. You are such a pain.’

  McEncroe slipped on his dark jacket, viewing himself in the mirror as he shot his cuffs.‘Now, Steer, that won’t do. I’ve been toiling on your behalf, you know.’

  ‘I should hope so. What have you found out?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about the cops here. They’re not particularly anxious to cooperate with their Sydney counterparts—no love lost there, fortunately. They seem happy to let it ride for a while. But the Sydney end is cause for some concern.’

  Raydon waited. In his own time McEncroe would elaborate.

  ‘This nemesis of yours, this Tamsin Mascall creature, is, as we know, a prostitute operating out of a Potts Point escort service. She is also a runaway and a heroin user.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have my people in Sydney, Steer, same as you. Although I must say my contact is a lot more helpful than your Rumney.’

  ‘Rumney’s all right.’

  ‘Anyway, the Sydney rozzers are anxious to see your head on a pikestaff, Steer. This detective spoke very disparagingly of you. They harbour a deal of animus against members of our profession up there, particularly interlopers from down south. Can’t imagine why.’

  ‘What about the money—the fifty thousand?’

  ‘The extortion attempt?’ McEncroe said. ‘Well, that’s apparently being conducted on the side by Ms Mascall and her pimp. I haven’t discovered his identity yet—some underworld goon, no doubt. According to my man, it’s the racket of the month: compromising distinguished people such as your good self and then putting the squeeze on them. Often these Bacchanalian cavortings are videotaped with the victim’s consent, believe it or not. I trust you weren’t that stupid, Steer.’

  ‘Of course not.’ There was, however, a slight trace of uncertainty in his tone, as if a blurred, half-forgotten image had just sprung unbidden to mind . . .

  McEncroe continued: ‘Most of the victims are only too happy to pay up. There’s even some suggestion that the Sydney cops are in on the scam too. It’s a sort of pincer movement. Cops threaten to charge, victim pays a ‘settlement’ to the hooker, cops take a slice. Matter dropped.’

  ‘What are you planning to do?’

  ‘Locate the pimp, see what he ha
s to say. But I can’t string out the cops indefinitely. The Sydney press corps, swine that they are, will really want to get their trotters on this. They’ll be clamouring at the gates once word gets out. And once it’s published in the Sydney rags . . .’ He drew a finger across his throat.

  Raydon covered his face. ‘Find the pimp, McEncroe. Pay whatever he wants. Get whatever evidence they have.’

  Outside in the Richmond main strip it was rush hour. It was always rush hour here. McEncroe threw his sports bag in the back of his Mercedes and said, ‘Jo’s staying at East Melbourne, right?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You’ve had no contact?’

  ‘None.’

  McEncroe looked towards the city skyline. It was a five-minute drive.‘I might go and pay her a visit. It’s best she finds out about this from us rather than via the media—or the cops. If the press hyenas come around she’s a loose cannon. No telling what she might say in the heat of the moment. I’ll try to present you as an unsuspecting victim of a cartel of criminals. Squeeze some sympathy.’

  ‘That’s what I am, man,’ Raydon said indignantly.

  McEncroe jumped inside the sleek, silver ride, then lowered the passenger window and leaned over to speak, his elegant fingers dimpling the soft leather seat.

  ‘Should see yourself. Chin up, old sausage. It’s only another day in court, after all.’

  Raydon watched him drive off with a solid, heavy sensation, like a block of stone, sitting in his chest. It’s only another day in court, after all. This was an expression lawyers airily intoned when a client showed a long face after a gruelling day in the stand. Raydon himself used it routinely. It was hollow encouragement intended to prop up the poor devil when he was clearly about to disappear down the S-bend.

  13

  Shaun had been out having a haircut in Bridge Road, Richmond—not far from the royal tennis courts. It had become a lot more respectable and upscale since the old days when it was a nerve centre of hardcore crime and a permanent headache for local cops. Some of the worst people used to live here: armed bandits, contract killers, standover merchants, drug czars. The Lebanese gang was one of the worst, along with the Vietnamese and Hong Kong triads. Presumably they still operated somewhere. As a uniformed cop Shaun sometimes had to deal with serious assaults and the vicious tactics the triads in particular employed, and had been smashed over the head with a barstool himself in a pub brawl one time. That pub no longer existed—it had been reincarnated as a smart Vietnamese restaurant. There was now a big outdoor cafe scene—something that never existed—and many chic clothing stores. People were shopping, shopping, shopping, and the bars and cafes were full. Times had changed a lot.

  After the haircut—in an old-fashioned barber shop where the barber had Greek music on his radio and breathed strong coffee and stale tobacco over him—he walked as far as Coppin Street, and had a beer in the Spread Eagle. When he was in armed robbery Shaun used to meet a guy here called Hong Kong Charlie, who was a very wealthy gambler with connections in the Vietnamese underworld. There had been a spate of robberies targeting Chinese restaurants, and Charlie was an invaluable source of information that eventually led to the gang being rolled up. Shaun could still picture him, standing laughing at the bar in his shiny sharkskin suit, dripping with thick gold bracelets, gold Rolex, heavy gold rings on every finger: all the accoutrements of success were on show. There was nothing modest or understated about Hong Kong Charlie, who was actually from Taiwan. He had small, elegant feet on which he always wore hand-made crocodile skin shoes. Shaun wondered what had become of him. He was no doubt gone, along with most of that old, colourful culture.

  On the way back he stopped at Oppy’s Vine Hotel, where he’d had many counter lunches. Now it was a pokies joint. There were plenty of desperates playing machines and punting on horses, but none of the old crew—a different generation of desperates. And old Oppy himself was long departed. Looking around as he sipped his beer Shaun picked out a few he could tell had been in the slams, and one that he remembered from Barwon. He looked at the guy, and the guy looked back, but he didn’t seem to recognise Shaun. Either that or he didn’t want to.

  Shaun was also thinking about Bill Simmonds, the old, rabid dog that would not lie down. It was a miracle he was still alive, given his history and lifestyle. Clearly he was unkillable: you could chop at him with an axe all day long and what was left of him would keep coming at you, like the Terminator. Shaun was in his crosshairs. All these years he must have been sweating on his release, knowing he was the only person alive who could lead him to the missing stash. Now that he had a slight edge in the battle of tactics, Shaun needed to work out his next move. It made you wonder what his connection to the Petrakos incident was if it weighed so heavily on his mind that he arranged for Shaun to be followed—and murdered—the very morning he was released.

  And who else was in on it? A cardinal rule in war: know your enemy. But first you had to discover who they were. Bill Simmonds had had an extensive network of spies, thugs, ex-cops and semi-legitimate contacts he could tap into anytime. All he had to do was drop into a pub or pick up the phone. At least that’s how it was in the old days.

  A worrying thought was that he probably knew where Shaun was living,and was preparing to smoke him out somehow. The failure of Plan A would not stop him. Shaun did not want Jo mixed up in any of this, and yet . . . how realistic was that? Being his lover she was anyway, and didn’t seem to object, but she had no real comprehension of the sorts of people involved. She might know all about‘the evil that men do’via her husband’s profession, but not this—and definitely not first-hand.

  He seemed to have two choices: try to evade Simmonds, or tackle him head-on. Crash through his defences and catch him by surprise. And then do what? Make him eat a bullet? That was hardly an option. He could probably be compromised, exposed as corrupt, but dealing with that was meat and potatoes to Simmonds. But if Shaun could somehow infiltrate or undermine his organisation, run some interference, maybe turn his own people against him . . . What was that line from the squad days? ‘Mischief, thou art afoot . . . Let slip the dogs of war.’ Someone had written it on a whiteboard, alongside a drawing of a pack of snarling pit bulls on chains, straining to rip into some armed-up bad guys in balaclavas.

  A big problem was, Shaun was only one man, and Simmonds had numbers—or he used to. In the squad days they were a team: the dogs of war had sharp teeth, and many of them. It might be a problem, but it could also be an advantage. He didn’t have to rely on anyone else, he was independent, he could move how and when he chose. Something else—he had money. And bribery was always an effective leveller.

  One thing for sure: he could not simply sit and wait to be picked off.

  When he let himself in the front door he immediately became aware of a new presence in the house, even before he heard the voice. He stiffened momentarily, absorbing the vibe and listening as he closed the door softly. There was a man’s voice coming from the drawing room, to the left. He smelled cigarette smoke—Lucky Strike—then heard Jo say, ‘Nice to see you too. How’s Eugenie?’

  The man said in an affected, cultured tone,‘Oh, Eugenie’s splendid. Sends her love.’

  ‘Does she?’ Jo said. ‘That’s nice.’

  Shaun relaxed. This was not a man with a gun. He pushed open the drawing room door and stepped inside.

  What he saw was Jo sitting in a tan chintz lounge chair with one leg crossed over the other. She was wearing a shimmering green top and a black skirt with a split along the side, so there was plenty of leg on show. Nothing on her feet. She turned her attention to him and smiled warmly, causing the man sitting on a sofa to notice him also. He immediately sprang to his feet, in the manner of a gentleman, but was clearly put out by this uninvited stranger suddenly—soundlessly— violating his presence.

  ‘Hi there,’ Jo called. She had the poise not to stand, but extended her hand as an invitation for him to join her. He crossed the room, ignoring th
e other man, and enclosed her hand in his as if it were a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence.

  ‘I approve,’ she said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘The haircut.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He ran his other hand over it—it had completely slipped his mind.

  ‘Oliver,’ she said casually, waving her free hand. ‘This is Shaun. Shaun McCreadie—Oliver McEncroe.’

  Shaun separated from Jo long enough to take a step towards Oliver and clasp his hand. Each gave the other a wary nod. Shaun’s impression while they shook was that this man’s hand had never done any pick and shovel work: the fingers were white, slender and quite effeminate, as was the delicate shape of his lips and chin. There was, however, a surprising degree of firmness and strength in the grip, as if he didn’t wish to appear unmanly.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted,’ Shaun said.

  ‘Oh, not at all,’ Oliver said in a polite but completely insincere way that was hard to miss. A mop of dark hair fell across his face, obscuring his pale, baby blue eyes. He was tall— taller than Shaun—and thin as a rail. This was a very pretty man, and clearly an aristocrat.

  ‘Oliver’s an old friend,’ Jo said, making the effort to rise. ‘He’s just dropped in. How about a drink, everybody? It is cocktail hour, I see.’

  There was a silver tray of various spirit bottles, decanters and crystal glassware on a cabinet. She flourished a bottle of Glenfiddich, which met with nods of approval, then splashed three generous serves into heavy tumblers.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said when they were all armed.‘Here’s to . . .’ she looked at Shaun, shrugging.‘Here’s to friends—and lovers.’

  ‘Good health,’ Oliver said, but plainly his heart was not in it. Why was he toasting this interloper? Nor was his mind on the very fine Scotch.

  ‘Jo . . .’ he said, his voice trailing away.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, interlocking arms with Shaun and leaning against him.

  ‘I was . . . in fact I was rather hoping to have a word with you alone.’ He did not look at Shaun, but concentrated on Jo, as if privately beseeching her to cooperate.