Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  Shaun waited a moment, then said,‘You can still be arrested for conspiring to import or traffic, whether or not you have it in your possession. Doesn’t matter if the cops seize the stuff first—it’s still hard evidence.’

  ‘True. Maybe they were planning to bust George, but his son got to him first.’

  Shaun sat still. He hadn’t been truly angry in a long time, if ever, but something—something—was on its way, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to control it.

  Turner said, ‘All that careful planning and scheming amounted to zero. You can see how certain people might be aggrieved about that. As I told you, I’m past caring, but others are still waiting for the ship to come in.’

  Shaun sat silently, trying to assimilate this new information.

  ‘I hope all that made your trip worthwhile, McCreadie.’

  Shaun said,‘Know what I think? You’re full of shit, Turner.’

  ‘Yeah? Tough guy. Listen, McCreadie, you’re the one who came here looking for answers. I gave them to you. Don’t blame me if they weren’t the ones you wanted. Once you start stirring up a fuckin’ snake pit you want to be careful, son, because something might jump up and bite you in the face.’

  Blood surged through his veins. Suddenly there was the roar of something other than surf in his ears. ‘Go and fuck yourself, you lying bastard. If you weren’t already dying—’

  ‘You don’t worry me, son, any more than these fuckin’ flies do. Your jailhouse crap doesn’t cut it. Old and sick as I am, I’d take you on and I’d whip you too. Go home and think about it. Face the truth if you have the guts. You got Vincent O’Connell killed because of your fuckin’ Boy Scout antics, blowing the whistle and tryin’ to be the hero when he was in no real danger. And you indirectly caused the deaths of Alvarez and Corcoran because you were dumb enough to get caught.’

  Turner didn’t see or even sense the blow when it came crashing into his face, so he was wide open. Shaun’s right fist caught him flush on the right eye and the bridge of his nose. There was the crack of bone on bone; Turner let out a muffled grunt and disappeared off the end of the bench, sprawling onto a tangle of exposed tree roots. Shaun leapt up and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He was a dishevelled mess with blood all over his face, and eyes that flickered on and off. Shaun hauled the old man to his knees and shaped to punch him again. Blood streamed from his damaged eye and nose. In disgust he threw Turner onto the sand, face-first, and kicked him in the ribcage. The blow was not hard, since he was only wearing soft loafers, but it was enough to make Turner squeal and start scuttling away sideways like a sand crab. Shaun twisted his head around: it was a mess of blood and caked-on sand. He hit him five or six times with an open hand. Blood shot from Turner’s nose. He shook him and flung him down, then grabbed him again and slapped him around some more. Turner was howling and Shaun’s right hand was awash with blood from the split eye and bloody nose. He wanted to shake him until he came apart and died right there on the beach. In the end he satisfied his rage by hitting him one more time, a short right fist in the mouth, then dropped him. Turner groaned and rolled around on the sand, wanting to hold his face with his trembling hands but not able to because of the pain. Shaun marched away without saying a word, heart pounding like a hammer in his chest. Turner’s cries and groans receded into the background and were soon lost in the boom of surf.

  Shaun noticed all the blood on his arm and hand, and waded into the sea to wash it off. There was no-one on this part of the beach. As he came out of the water he looked back and saw that Turner had dragged himself up to his knees. He seemed to be retching or vomiting. Shaun felt much better for the next five minutes as he made his way back to the motel room. His fist was starting to throb. It was still clenched, and he could not unclench it. He went into his room in a daze and sat on the bed. His chest was still hammering hard. He sat there and waited for it to die down.

  19

  It had always been Oliver McEncroe’s practice to counsel a client with the blunt, unpleasant reality of his prospects rather than give false hope in the face of facts that indicated the opposite. It made sense: no-one thanked a lawyer for losing a case that they were supposed to win.‘It doesn’t look too good for us, I’m afraid,’ he would honestly say. Oliver made a point of using the plural us, to give a false sense of solidarity: nothing bad awaited Oliver, regardless of the verdict. Not that he drew satisfaction from watching his client sink into depression as Oliver’s words proved to be correct, but what was the use of bullshitting? If events turned out better than he expected, it was a bonus, and then they did thank him for overcoming the odds.

  So it was with Raydon as the two old friends sat drinking coffee in a small Italian cafe not far from Owen Dixon Chambers. Despite appearances it gave Oliver no joy to tell Raydon that his Sydney excursion had not been successful. Quite the contrary: his position was even more dire and difficult than it had been. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault, but that was no consolation.

  Raydon’s colourless face stared down into his coffee cup. From his pasty complexion Oliver judged he hadn’t slept properly in a long time, since this thing dropped in his lap.

  ‘A quarter of a million dollars,’ he said in a low monotone. ‘And wanted the fifty on account? What new shit is this?’

  ‘It was a try-on,’ Oliver said.‘But I was a tad too quick for them. Your money is safe for the moment. However, I’m afraid the mention of your illustrious name has attracted the extra premium. Serves you right for being so famous.’

  ‘A quarter of a million,’ Raydon said again. A waitperson approached with the coffee percolator and, at Oliver’s bidding, refilled their cups. When he’d withdrawn Raydon added,‘Why not half a million—or a million? Make it a nice, round figure.’

  Oliver remained silent. He knew what Raydon was thinking: that if he coughed up the quarter mill, these people would be back like bears to the honey pot for more. It was a cardinal rule never to pay blackmailers for that reason, but the rule had obviously been formulated by people who themselves had never been blackmailed. It was an ugly business. Every way he looked at it Oliver saw no solution. It was all very well for him to advise Raydon not to pay and to tough it out, call their bluff, but it wasn’t Oliver’s life and career in the balance.

  ‘It’s looking a shade grim,’ Oliver said.‘The fact that they’ve got Henry Agar on board is worrying. He’s a heavyweight up there and it means they’re in deadly earnest. He kills people, Steer.’

  ‘Agar is a lifelong criminal,’ Raydon said. ‘He should be in jail.’

  ‘If that were the only criterion, every other man in that city would be doing time,’ Oliver said. ‘Including the cop, Patchouli, who was the go-between.’

  Raydon didn’t smile at the attempt to lighten his mood. He was way beyond consoling at present. In his mind he was watching himself twist in the wind.

  ‘Who’s this Pritchett bastard?’ he said.

  ‘Some thug—Mascall’s pimp, no doubt. Clearly he’s worked out he’s hit the jackpot and called in Agar to manage the deal, and Agar has upped the ante to cover his share. They probably plan on splitting the quarter mill fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Not to mention the cops: whatsisname, Patchouli, and whoever else is on the fucking payroll. God, McEncroe, I may as well slit my own throat at this rate.’

  ‘Rather messy, Steer. I’m sure there are more civilised means at your disposal.’

  ‘I don’t care. And it takes too long to drink oneself to death. Well, come on—what are we going to do?’

  Oliver pursed his mouth. He had refrained from telling Raydon that he’d sooled Agar and Pritchett onto Shaun McCreadie for fear it might anger him, but at least this tactic had given them some breathing space. He decided to keep Raydon in the dark. If it turned out well for them, then Raydon would thank him; if not, if something bad happened, Oliver could easily deny all knowledge.

  ‘Do nothing for the time being,’ he said. ‘The ball’s with them at present.’
r />   ‘I would have thought the ball’s very much with us right now,’ Raydon said.

  Oliver chastised himself for the slip.‘Well,I mean,I indicated that we were not prepared to go to a quarter mill. Leave it where it is for a few days, anyhow. Give them time to rethink the situation. Maybe they’ll see they’re aiming too high.’

  ‘A few days,’ Raydon said gloomily.‘Christ, man—I could be locked up by then. I could be a dead man.’

  ‘When is the list of new judges being announced?’ Oliver said. ‘Any word?’

  ‘I have it on good authority that the names will be published very soon,’ Raydon said. ‘Imagine the full horror, McEncroe, of being promoted to the bench one day, then thrown in the caboose the next.’

  ‘That would indeed be horrendous,’ Oliver said with an inward shudder. Now that would be something to slit your throat about. ‘Chin up, old fellow. We’re not done yet.’

  After midnight, and Stan was sitting in his spare bedroom with a big glass of ouzo and ice. On his lap was a photograph album. Sometimes, usually at a late hour when he was half-stung and overcome with nostalgia, he would come in here and time-travel with the albums and scrapbooks. He had a shelf full of them, going back to when he was born and even before that. He was bare-chested, and as he turned the pages and lovingly touched the aged snaps with his fingertips, a tear might form in his right eye and burst onto his cheek. He gazed at an ancient shot of his mother sitting astride a bicycle on a dusty road, with some trees in the background. She was so pretty in a floral summer dress, and so young. Stan didn’t know for sure, but he guessed she was probably about nineteen or twenty. Big smile on her face—she didn’t have a worry in the world.

  Standing alongside with his arm around her waist and a battered straw hat on his head was the empty space where his old man used to be. He had been surgically removed with a razor blade.

  Stan pushed his fingers through his copious chest-hair as he gazed at the shot of his mother. Her name was Iris, Iris Barrow.

  He turned the page. Here was a picture of Iris watering the back lawn at her home, somewhere in the outer suburbs. There was a black cat nuzzling at her legs, its tail upraised. Iris was smiling at the camera with a splash of bright sunlight across her face. She had on an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit, and you could see that she had lovely, shapely legs. Stan traced his fingers over the picture, very delicately, as if not wishing to disturb her.

  Next to it was a dinner-table shot of the Barrow family. There was an older sister, now deceased, and a younger brother. Stan had no idea what had become of him. He was Uncle Ray in Stan’s childhood memory. Uncle Ray used to visit them in his utility, which was always full of tools and building materials. He was a fun-loving, irresponsible sort of guy who was never married in the time Stan knew him. Stan and George junior loved Ray because he brought candy and comics, and because he took them for rides in the utility, always driving too fast and swerving around corners like a daredevil. Stan was never scared, though. Uncle Ray was one of those people who made you feel you were in safe hands no matter what he did. He was a good driver, but Iris used to say he was a mad lair. Once, high up on scaffolding, he pretended he was about to fall just to scare the pants off Iris, who had brought his lunch for him. Stan couldn’t remember the last time he saw Ray. He stopped coming after Iris’s death and dropped out of Stan’s life forever.

  Stan took a big pull on the ouzo. He had tears spilling down his face now. He turned the page and pored over some more pictures from about the same era. One of his all-time favourites was a candid shot of Iris sitting on some grass in a park or a yard, leaning on one arm with the other one curled around her legs. Her head was turned slightly, so that she was looking over her bare shoulder, an expression of mock surprise on her face. She had on a white cotton dress and a bonnet with a feather in it that made her look like a movie star. The way she always gazed so knowingly at the camera with wide eyes and a little ghostly smile on one side of her lips never failed to stab Stan in the heart. In this particular shot there was an empty space next to her where the old man had been.

  There was a shot of Stan and his brother running in a race at a picnic. Stan remembered that occasion. All the adults finished up drunk, and there was a lot of fighting and screaming by the end of the day.

  Over the page, there was a big colour photo of the family at Christmas. Everyone was sitting in front of the tree surrounded by gifts. The tree was fabulously decorated and lit up. Again the old man had been cut out.

  Next, a studio head-and-shoulder shot of Iris, looking wistfully off to the side. It was in sepia tones, and the handwriting on the back said it was taken in 1958. Since she was born in 1941 that meant she was 17 at the time. She had the beauty and softness of an angel. In 1960 she married the old man, and she was rarely happy after that.

  Stan drank some more ouzo. He was sobbing quietly. With the album on his lap he stared at the wall and thought about Iris. Even now he could see her oval-shaped face, the luscious red lips and manicured fingernails. She was never less than perfect in her personal appearance. Stan remembered an occasion as a toddler seeing her sitting in front of a mirror in her petticoat and high heels, dabbing at her throat with a powder puff. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the dresser, with bright red lipstick on the filter. She didn’t see Stan at first. He watched silently as she sprayed on some perfume and brushed her shiny brown hair. Occasionally she paused to draw on the cigarette before replacing it in the ashtray. All her actions—even something as simple as that— were done with style and elegance. When she noticed him in the doorway she smiled in the mirror and offered him the silver brush. Later on he and his brother used to squabble about who would brush their mother’s hair while they watched TV at night.

  Stan wondered then, as he did now, how someone that gorgeous got mixed up with his pig of a father. He wasn’t even rich then—just a car salesman who succeeded in selling himself to a young woman who was way above him in every respect.

  ‘Whatcha doing, Wolfman?’ came Suzen’s dreamy voice from the bedroom doorway. She had been asleep, substance-affected, with the light on. Suzen had this pathetic need to sleep with the light on. Stan usually switched it off after a while, but being absorbed in his photographs he hadn’t yet. Now she was awake.

  ‘Nothing,’ Stan said. His glass was empty; he went to the kitchen for a refill.

  ‘I was dreaming,’ she said.‘Wasn’t very nice . . . wild animal trying to eat me. I was crawling away. Ugh.’ She shuddered and hugged herself.

  Stan looked at her. She was wearing nothing except her array of strange tattoos and the usual bits of silver metal attached to various parts of her anatomy. In fact she seemed to have even more now. Her hair was a total bird’s nest. Suzen’s body was so wasted, the tits so scrawny—there was nothing womanly or attractive about her. Even now, at her age, there were spots on her face, from lack of proper nourishment no doubt. She would have to lift her game if she wanted to work in the brothel, even as a Madam Lash dominatrix in leather and chains. Men wanted flesh on a woman’s bones, not waif-like creatures with acne. However, when she was done up and in full flight there was a certain animalistic drawing power there, no doubt about it. Despite her physical shortcomings she had a primeval quality that stirred his loins when little else could. Whatever the reason, Stan felt an affinity with her. He didn’t really have a handle on it, except that she was similar to him in some ways. And she obviously cared for him.

  Walking past her he gave her a slap on the belly.‘Wouldn’t get much of a feed, would it?’

  Suzen sighed and followed him into the spare room.

  ‘Lookin’ at your pictures again,’ she said as Stan resumed his seat and reopened the album.

  ‘I was, yeah,’ he said. He took a decent pull on the ouzo and set it down. Suddenly he seemed to make a decision. He snapped the album shut and stared at the wall as if he’d spotted a bug on it. Then he opened a drawer and withdrew something—a gun of some sort
.

  ‘What are you doin’ now?’ Suzen said.

  ‘Questions, questions, questions,’ Stan said.‘Go back to bed, Suzen.’

  He pushed the gun down the front of his jeans. She followed him out to the lounge room, where he picked up his shirt from the couch and threw it on. As he buttoned it up he said, ‘Just goin’ to see a friend, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘With that?’

  ‘Go back to bed,’ he said again. ‘Or something.’ He swept up his car keys and was out the door before she could get another word out.

  Stan knew Rick would be up even before he saw the light on in the front room. That guy never slept. He always said he didn’t need to—never felt tired enough. He’d doze for an hour in the lounge chair watching TV, and that was it. Hardly ever hit the bed. Rick drove a taxi for a living, and sometimes after he’d finished a day shift, he’d go home for an early dinner and then turn around and drive all night too. That’s when he wasn’t selling dope.

  Stan rapped on the door. He heard some shuffling as someone got up out of a chair, then Rick’s voice:‘Who is it?’

  ‘Just me, mate,’ Stan said.

  The door opened.‘Bit late for a social visit, isn’t it?’ Rick said.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise . . . Well, you gonna invite me in or what?’ Stan said sheepishly.

  Rick hesitated, then went back inside, leaving the door ajar. Stan made a show of wiping his shoes and followed him. His shirt was hanging outside his jeans, so the gun was out of sight. Rick sat in his flea-bitten lounge chair. As usual there was a bottle of Captain Morgan rum and a pack of Stuyvos on the coffee table in front of him, along with an overflowing ashtray, ash all over the place.