Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  In the aftermath,however,he discovered an insurance policy on the old man’s life, which the authorities couldn’t hook their claws into. That kept him going, but it wouldn’t last forever.

  Stan arrived at his car, which was just how he’d left it. That was a relief. He drove home, popped a Valium and hit the unmade cot. For the next several hours he slept as if he’d been hit over the head with a tree stump. This was how Stan slept most of the time—from the high board of a wrecked physical or emotional condition. Rest did not come into it: Stan crashed or collapsed, usually in an out-of-mind state.

  And why did he scream at people in the street, and threaten nightclub doormen? He did not know. Fact was, Stan lacked the ability or even the will to self-diagnose. He functioned mainly at a level of cunning that was laced with a need to either impose his will by any means or deal with whatever or whoever opposed him by blunt force. A refusal to comply with Stan’s wishes was an act of provocation that made his blood boil and his fists clench. In the manner of a tethered animal, intelligence only carried him a short distance in any direction, and after that his need to dominate and the abnormal chemistry in his brain—aided and abetted by illegal or controlled substances, alcohol and deviant sexual episodes—took over.

  From a deep, troubled sleep he surfaced to the sound of a ringing phone. In his dreams he was trapped in a crawlspace, trying to escape . . . but there was barely room to move and he was suffocating. He was wedged tight and the earth was pressing down on him. There was a powerful buzzing sound somewhere ahead,and he crawled on towards it . . . then there was a trapdoor above, which he tried to open. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed and pushed until finally it opened a crack. The buzzing grew louder. He heaved the trapdoor open with all his reserves, dragged himself out of the crawlspace and saw he was in a workshop full of tools and machinery. In front of him was his brother George,slumped over a bench with the circular saw still spinning through him,ripping him to rags and sending a shower of blood and bone all over the shop,in Stan’s face,everywhere . . .

  He sat on the bed, still groggy from Valium and the residue of whatever else was in his system. His eyes would not come open. The phone rang on in the living room. He stood up, steadying himself. He was clad only in underpants and socks, but as usual had no memory of undressing. Scuzzy after-images from the horrible dream flickered and flashed in his brain as he staggered out and searched for the portable handset, which was . . . somewhere.

  Finally he dug it out from under some porn magazines on the sofa.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sitting down, rubbing his face and trying to focus on his wristwatch.

  ‘Wolfman?’ Suzen’s voice said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sound like shit.’

  ‘What time is it?’ He still could not focus on his watch.

  ‘Time you came out for a drink, maybe,’ she said.

  ‘Gimme half an hour,’ he said, and hung up the phone. Then he lay down on the bed again, just for a minute, and slept for two hours without moving.

  15

  ‘What are you on about, buddy?’ Shaun said. ‘And who the hell are you, anyway?’

  ‘Name’s Wes Ford,’ Wes told him through the car window, and waited to see if it meant anything to Shaun. It did to most people, but whether that applied in the big house was another question.

  ‘Wes Ford . . .’ Shaun was lowering himself onto his haunches so he was level with Wes. ‘I feel I know the name from somewhere . . .’

  ‘If you’re interested in football it’d help,’ Wes said, smiling. He was feeling quite relaxed so far—the guy was being reasonable.

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ve got you. Wes Ford. Shit, you were a star, man. Number 11. Frank Zappa moustache, white headband . . . Left-footer. Bit handy close-in. Short-arm jolt specialist, if I remember correctly.’

  Wes laughed.‘That part of my game has been greatly exaggerated over the years.’ He rubbed his lower face.‘The Zappa moustache went out of fashion. And it wasn’t a headband, but a bandanna. I had to tie it up, stop it from coming off during the game.’

  ‘You decked Bobby Sharples during the finals series back in . . . ’88, or ’89.’

  ‘Second semi-final, 1989. Twenty-seven minutes into the third quarter. And for what it’s worth, Bobby Sharples was a sly hit man whose number happened to come up when I was alongside him.’

  ‘Right . . . but my memory is that you were somewhere behind him.’

  ‘Whatever. People remember incidents in all kinds of different ways, but the result never changes at all.’

  ‘And only results count.’

  ‘Sure feels like it when you’re drinking from the winner’s cup. You know, in eleven years and one hundred and seventy-eight games I played in two premiership sides, represented the state six times and won a big swag of awards—including this very car, as a matter of fact. I was also reported twice, and acquitted both times. But all people ever remember is poor Bobby Sharples’ busted jaw, as if I’d punched out Bambi.’

  Shaun was smiling guardedly and nodding.‘People only care about how you finished, Wes. Especially if you screwed it up.’

  ‘Sadly, that is too true.’

  They locked eyes, and in that instant Wes experienced a moment when he believed he and Shaun could actually get along—there was a palpable rapport even at this early point.

  The man was warming to him. This was no big surprise. After his retirement Wes had done guest commentary spots on radio and TV, conducting interviews with coaches and players and, with his ‘special comments’ during a telecast, providing acute insights into the way a game was shaping up. So, putting Fat Man to one side, there was nothing wrong with his people skills at that level. He had a man-to-man charm and a resonant, testosterone-driven voice, was quick and funny on his feet and never nervous or rattled in front of a camera. He was a natural media talent, and was in fact being primed for a permanent TV slot before blowing his chances. After that he was a leper.

  ‘You still haven’t answered my first question,’ Shaun said.

  ‘Which was, why am I here?’

  ‘I don’t believe you parked outside my place so we could have a chat about your life and times, interesting as they’ve been.’ Now he cocked an eye, indicating that he was up to speed on Wes’s off-field escapades too. Which was fine.

  ‘Okay,’ Wes said, deadpan.‘Does the name Bill Simmonds mean anything to you?’

  The effect was instantaneous. The man’s smile vanished, and for a moment Wes thought Shaun was going to reach inside the car and grab him by the throat. He remembered: this man is a killer.

  ‘You’re Shaun McCreadie,are you not? Did I get that right?’

  ‘You seem to be holding all the cards, Wes. All I have is some croissants, which I plan to eat sometime soon.’

  ‘I’ve been running errands for Simmonds,’ Wes said. ‘Following you around town, reporting back. He has a major interest in your activities.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Enough to have you tagged 24/7. I was there when you turned in the rental car over at the Bush Pig place in Mitcham. Then you checked into the Hyatt . . .’

  Shaun was still on his haunches, giving Wes his full attention.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He knows where you live.’ Wes elevated his gaze, directing it towards the wrought-iron first-floor balcony across the street. ‘Knows about your girl.’

  Shaun twisted his neck around, following Wes’s line of sight. Jo was standing on the balcony, not exactly watching them but casting her eyes here and there. She had on her white satin dressing gown, which flashed in the sun, and a trail of smoke curled up into the still morning air from the cigarette burning in her hand.

  ‘He’s got the dirt on a certain Bernie Walsh too,’ Wes continued. ‘Killed in action at the front, apparently. Not that I’d know.’

  Shaun seemed to receive this information in his stride. If any of it touched a nerve it didn’t show. After a lengthy pause he said, ‘Why don�
��t you tell me what’s on your mind? I don’t imagine Simmonds would be thrilled to learn you were ratting him out—if that’s what you’re doing.’

  Wes knew his response to that. ‘Fuck Bill Simmonds.’

  Shaun studied Wes’s features, sizing him up exactly how Dave Wrigley had done with him before reaching a decision he would have to live with.

  ‘You’d better come inside, Wes,’ he said, standing up.

  Wes found himself sitting at a table in a spacious downstairs kitchen, directly opposite the vision on the balcony. Still wearing the satin dressing gown, she was cupping her chin with one hand and dabbing at croissant flakes on her plate with the other. There was some decent cleavage on offer, from which Wes disciplined himself to avert his gaze. It wasn’t easy. Shaun was next to her, arms folded on the table. They were both watching Wes, as if expecting him to jump up and do something interesting any second. A clock ticked on the wall, and the air was rich with the smell of freshly brewed espresso coffee.

  Wes picked up his cup and sipped. Shaun had introduced him to Jo (‘Meet Wes Ford, the man who punched out Bambi’) and explained the situation in two or three sentences. Jo hadn’t said or done much, except to nod and touch Shaun. From where he sat Wes saw that there was some serious chemistry happening here. Jo seemed to have no problem with whatever was going down, with this stranger suddenly factored into her living space. She was certainly more relaxed than Wes felt. Now she was draping an arm on Shaun’s shoulder, still intent on Wes but ensuring that the love of her life wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. For his part, Shaun McCreadie seemed content to allow someone else to make the next move. It was a strange situation, not unlike being scrutinised in a police station interview room.

  ‘What does this Bill Simmonds person want?’ Jo said. The question was directed at Wes.

  ‘Hasn’t told me in so many words. But he’s not doing this for his amusement. No doubt he has a big picture, but I’m not in it.’

  ‘But you must have some idea,’ she said. Shaun gave her an approving sideways glance, evidently pleased to see her taking the initiative. Then he turned his gaze back to Wes, an eyebrow raised, awaiting his reply.

  Wes interlocked his fingers, forming a peak with his thumbs, which he then began tapping together in time with the ticking of the clock. ‘When I saw him yesterday—’

  ‘Where was that?’ Shaun said.

  ‘A waterfront dive called the Sebastopol Arms. Know it?’

  ‘Yeah. From long ago.’

  ‘It’s one of his regular watering holes. Must be tight with the management, because he’s on the free list there. Anyway yesterday he was tired and emotional—totally shit-faced—and when he’s in that condition he tends to be loose-lipped. He let slip something about a guy called Bernie Walsh, who I gather was on your case, but no longer.’

  Shaun nodded, not in agreement, but to indicate he was receiving. Jo gave his neck an affectionate little squeeze before separating her arm from his shoulder, and getting up to fetch more coffee from the still-steaming pot on the stove top. Whenever she moved, the satin dressing gown slipped and slid all over her contours like molten silver skin, giving Wes a cool shiver.

  ‘Is that all?’ Shaun said.

  To distract himself Wes chewed on a piece of croissant. ‘Pretty much, so far. But I got the distinct impression he believes you have a large stash of money. If so, he wants it.’ He swallowed, then added: ‘One thing’s for sure and certain, this is not official police business. He’s moonlighting.’

  ‘Bill Simmonds has always been a moonlighter,’ Shaun said. ‘He made it an art form.’

  ‘More coffee, Wes?’ Jo said next to him, on his right side, poised to pour.

  ‘Please,’ Wes said. He didn’t turn towards her face because he didn’t trust himself—the cleavage was right there at eye level. In fact the satin material brushed his upper arm as she leaned slightly to top up his cup. Something else, which he had noticed earlier: there was another smell—cooking oil. It was on Shaun outside, now he smelled it on Jo. Strange.

  ‘So you’re offering to switch teams,’ Shaun said.‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what would you expect in return?’

  ‘Well, if I can deliver any important information, I’d want financial recompense. There aren’t too many employment opportunities out there for washed-up footballers.’

  ‘Does Simmonds pay you?’

  Jo was back at her seat and sliding into it sideways. Wes’s eyes flicked from Shaun to her, then back to Shaun.

  ‘Simmonds pays shit,’ he said, more vehemently than he’d intended.

  Shaun didn’t say anything, obliging Wes to explain some more. ‘The reality is,’ he said, trying to arrange the words sensibly before speaking them,‘that . . . I’ve been snitching for Bill Simmonds for a few years now. He doesn’t particularly like me—he doesn’t seem to like anyone—but I’ve delivered for him often enough. He trusts me to do the job. Believe me, we are not brothers.’

  ‘Why have you snitched for a man who doesn’t like you, and who pays shit?’ Shaun said.

  ‘There have been fringe benefits,’ Wes said. He was prepared to be upfront about this. ‘If I happen to have a runin with the law, say, he steps in and has a word on my behalf.’

  ‘I see. And you find yourself in need of his services at present?’

  Wes nodded. ‘Unfortunately.’

  Shaun sat back in his chair.‘This is becoming complicated, Wes. You propose doing the dirty—dogging—on Bill Simmonds, who everyone knows is an unforgiving, disagreeable person. If he finds out you’re double-dealing him he will be displeased. He will certainly not intervene on your behalf in your current situation with the law.’

  ‘Are you kidding? He’ll do whatever he can to put me away for as long as possible.’

  ‘At the very least,’ Shaun said.‘I remember a case years ago, a snitch, in fact, named Richard Popadich, who was known to have connections with Bill Simmonds. He was called ‘Bully Beef ’ because he was so tough. They found him cut up into pieces in a tip somewhere.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jo said, and reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes and lighter in front of Shaun.

  ‘Sorry, baby,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to point out to Wes that he’s playing a dangerous game. This Simmonds guy does not fuck around with people who rat on him.’

  ‘I know that,’ Wes said. ‘But, shit, he’s seen better days. He is not in good shape.’

  ‘He might be past doing it himself, but he probably has people who would do it for him for nothing. Or for pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll back myself.’

  ‘How often do you see him?’ Shaun said after a bit.

  Wes shrugged, as Jo shot out a plume of smoke over the top of his head. ‘He could call anytime. It all depends.’

  ‘So you’ll maintain the relationship, learn what you can . . .’

  ‘And pass it onto you.’

  Silence descended over the table as all three considered the pros and cons.

  ‘What can you tell me about Bernie Walsh?’ Wes said.‘Just so I know.’

  ‘Walsh was an ex-cop mercenary hired by Simmonds to kill me,’ Shaun said without feeling. ‘But he lost out.’

  A light came on in Wes’s head. ‘Wait on. Is he the dude that’s missing up in the mountains?’ He’d seen it on the TV news, but not made the connection until now.

  ‘That’s him,’ Shaun said.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Wes said.‘I hope he’s got thermal underwear.’

  Jo exploded into laughter, and Shaun smiled.‘Wouldn’t do him any good,’ he said.

  Outside on the footpath Shaun said, ‘Sure you want to do this?’

  ‘I’m sure if you are,’ Wes said.

  ‘It’ll be bad for you if he finds out. Seriously.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not go there again,’ Wes said with a grim little laugh. ‘At the very least I’d expect a severe kneecapping—but probably worse. I’d probably finish up on th
e missing list, like your pal Walsh.’

  Better hope not, Wes. ‘For Christ’s sake don’t tell anyone what you’re up to. Not even anyone you trust. Especially not anyone you trust.’

  ‘I’m not that stupid, man. Give me some credit.’

  Shaun said, ‘You’d be surprised what people do—even smart people—when they get in over their heads. They stop behaving sensibly for some reason. Not that I can talk.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Wes said. ‘But don’t worry on my account. You haven’t seen Simmonds for a while, right? He’s a mess, he’s a total piss-head. Still makes a big noise, but he doesn’t scare me. At all.’

  ‘Don’t undersell him. He still carries weight in more ways than one.’

  ‘I know, I know. He wouldn’t do it himself. It’d be someone he owns, like me—or you.’

  ‘Just watch your back.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s a nice chick, by the by.’

  ‘Yeah, thought you were impressed.’

  Wes grinned. ‘I’ll be in touch sometime.’ They had exchanged phone numbers inside. Wes began crossing the road to his beat-up set of wheels when Shaun called,‘Oh, and Wes. Try not to attract attention. If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Who, me?’ Wes said, giving him the thumbs-up.

  When he arrived back in the kitchen Jo was facing him with one hand in her pocket and the other resting on the top of a chair. Her lips were slightly apart. Even from the door he saw what was on her mind. Without a word he released the cord of the dressing gown and opened it. She wanted to slip it from her shoulders, but he said, ‘Leave it on. It’s sexier.’ Straightaway he was feeling her high and low and then fingering her. When he put his finger in his mouth it tasted of cold-pressed extra virgin and her own natural free-flowing juice. She watched and waited like an attentive pupil while he cleared a space on the table, then sat her on it. With her feet anchored on the edge she lay back and showed him the whole fun fair. He ripped off his shirt, pushed down his newly purchased Polo Ralph Lauren pants and shunted hard into her with such force it rattled the crockery and made her catch her breath. He curled his arms around her, inside the dressing gown, and with his green eyes alight went about it almost savagely, as if he were repeatedly driving a fist into her. A cup fell from the table and smashed on the floor.