Book Read Free

Blindside

Page 31

by J. R. Carroll


  Nowadays it was a pit, frequented mostly by the current, dwindling generation of thirsty railway men and local pensioners who had come there all their lives. The price of a beer at the Unicorn had remained constant for years, and there were no visible signs that a single cent had been invested in modernisation or refurbishment since before World War II. Even the carpet gave the impression that it was held together with a sticky compound of beer, blood and cigarette ash. The reason it had escaped the ever-watchful eyes of developers was the same one that had been its raison d’être: a run-down location alongside unsightly spaghetti lines of railroad tracks and the derelict, boarded-up shop fronts that used to serve the local community before the advent of megastores and strip malls.

  When Shaun arrived at ten to eleven it was bright and cool. No breeze. He wore a black-and-white check shirt hanging loose outside his black jeans, and a pair of black Rivers boots. The heavily tinted windows gave no view of the interior. A painted sign said, HAPPY HOUR EVERY DAY 6-8PM $1.20 POTS. Around a dozen silver barrels were lined up on the pavement,waiting to be taken back to the brewery—so business was still reasonable. The main door was locked as he’d expected, so he walked around into the narrow side street. There he found an inconspicuous door with a wire mesh-reinforced window. The door opened when he pushed his fingers against its steel plating. As soon as he was inside he had the feeling he’d come to the right place. The grit floating in the air and the full ashtrays along the base of the bar reminded him of the dives he had often had to attend as a uniformed cop,when a brawl had broken out. It felt so long ago he could hardly believe such places still existed.

  Once inside he turned right from a short passageway into the main bar, past a fireplace that smelled of embers burned a long age ago. There was no-one around, but muted noises rose from somewhere deep in the pub’s bowels. He placed both hands on the bar, leaned over and saw that a rubber mat had been moved so that the cellar trapdoor could be lifted. He remained silent and waited patiently for whoever was down there to show himself. It was nearly eleven. He lit up a cigarette, and the sound of the lighter snapping on and off abruptly stopped the sounds below. Sure enough, a figure emerged through the trapdoor—first, a tousled head of thick white hair, then a plump, ruddy face that was overhung with winged, black eyebrows. Shaun knew those ridiculous-looking brows. When he was halfway out the man gave Shaun the once-over and said, ‘You’re a bit previous. We’re not open yet, pal.’

  ‘I know that,’ Shaun said, blowing out smoke.

  The man climbed out and lowered the trapdoor before taking a proper squint at his early bird customer. Between the fingers of one hand he carried three bottles of Johnnie Walker Red, which clinked together as he straightened up. It seemed to take a long time for recognition to dawn, but Shaun was in no hurry. When he realised who it was, the publican narrowed his gaze. This had the effect of making the winged brows darken his face dramatically. Shaun watched closely: first there was surprise, a split-second of shock—then glowering, blue-eyed hostility.

  ‘Hell’re you doing here, McCreadie?’ He put the spirit bottles on the counter next to the sink.

  ‘Public house, isn’t it?’ Shaun said.

  ‘Like I said, we’re not open.’

  ‘Why don’t you bend the rules, Burns? You’ve always been good at that. Be a gent and pour me a pot.’

  Neville Burns, former Internal Investigations goon, hesitated as he sized up his options, then picked up a glass and moved to the tap. This was all done with a measured slowness that suggested he was buying time. He took his eyes off Shaun for just long enough to fill the glass and shut off the tap. The first pour of the day was not one for the scrapbook.

  ‘That’s a pretty ordinary beer, Burns. Why don’t you put a decent head on it?’

  Burns put in a few extra squirts to produce some froth. Shaun took a mouthful and set down the glass. In moments the head had completely dissolved.

  ‘That beer’s flat,’ he said.

  ‘System’s not hooked up properly yet,’ Burns said. ‘That’s left over from what was in the pipe.’

  Shaun crushed out his cigarette, picked up the beer, leaned over the bar and tipped it down the sink.

  ‘It’s piss, probably from the slops tray. You’d be up for that.’

  Burns didn’t say anything.

  ‘Give us a can of Victor Bravo,’ Shaun said. ‘Something you can’t contaminate.’

  Burns opened a dairy case door and produced the can, which he popped before setting it down.

  ‘Two dollars fifty cents,’ he said.

  Shaun dropped some coins in front of him, but Burns made no move for them. He hadn’t taken his blue eyes off Shaun since pouring the flat beer.

  ‘I repeat my question. What are you doing here?’

  Shaun took a slug from the can. Then he produced his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up before dropping the pack and his lighter on the bar towel. Burns’ eyes momentarily fell on them before switching back to Shaun.

  ‘How long’ve you had this dump?’ Shaun said.

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘Bit of a comedown, isn’t it?’

  ‘It does me.’

  ‘You must miss the old days, Burns, pushing people around, stitching them up. All you can do now is toss out the pisspots.’

  Burns had no comment.

  Shaun walked around the room, examining the yellowed photographs of old-time footballers in their heyday, going back to the twenties and thirties. In addition there were pictures of various racehorses standing with their proud owners, also long dead and gone.

  ‘Whyn’t you spruce the joint up, Burns? Attract a better class of customer.’

  ‘Whyn’t you mind your own business?’

  ‘But I am.’ He returned to the bar and took another slug from the can. Burns stood still, watching over Shaun as if he thought he might lift something otherwise.

  Neville Burns had to be sixty now, slightly younger than Simmonds. Ever since Shaun had known him he’d had a mop of grey hair. He’d probably had it prematurely in his twenties, along with the bushy brows. He was of medium stature and built like a bulldog, with watery eyes that were perpetually red-rimmed. Shaun had always assumed that was caused by excessive boozing, but later he’d been told it was a medical condition that required him to put drops in his eyes every day. It seemed his lids didn’t function properly, which caused the chronic redness. Now, with the ruddy complexion and thicker waistline, he looked like a retired pug who had somehow managed to avoid major rearrangement of his dial. He also consumed far too much from the top shelf nowadays, if the purplish, roadmapped nose was any indication.

  Shaun threw down his cigarette and said, ‘So, you stay in touch with any of the old crew, Burns?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ It was an instant response, as if he’d been waiting for the question. Shaun could see Burns was trying to read his face, but Shaun wasn’t giving him anything to read.

  ‘That’s not strictly accurate, is it?’

  Burns shrugged one shoulder. ‘Nothing to do with you, who I see or don’t see.’

  Shaun checked the time: quarter after eleven. ‘Matter of fact, I had a call this morning from your old partner in crime, Bill Simmonds.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yeah. Said he had something of mine, and if I wanted it back to meet him here at eleven. Sounds a bit mysterious, doesn’t it?’

  Burns shrugged again. But the mention of Simmonds’ name had wrought a definite change in his manner. One of his brows arched, and there was a slight smile at the corner of his lips, as if he knew something Shaun didn’t—as if the odds in this little standoff had suddenly shifted to his corner.

  ‘Well,’ Shaun said.‘I’m here, and it’s after eleven. Where is the cunt?’

  From around a corner he heard a door open—the same one he’d come through. It closed, and then came heavy-sounding footsteps.

  ‘Careful what you wish for,’ Burns said, unable to resist a broader
smile now. ‘Might be him now.’

  Shaun looked down at his beer can. Both his hands were on the bar. A shiver of dread swept right through him as the footsteps approached from behind. If it’s Simmonds, he thought, I’m not leaving this hotel alive. But how could it be . . .

  He didn’t dare turn around, fixing his gaze instead on Neville Burns, as if he were a mirror. Burns looked over Shaun’s shoulder at the new arrival. From his expression Shaun tried to ascertain if it was indeed his nemesis, but before he could decide anything the man was alongside him at the bar.

  ‘Well, well,’ the man said.‘Who have we here?’

  Shaun looked sideways. It took two seconds, maybe three, but he tried not to show that he was either surprised or ruffled in any way. The whole plan was to let the cards unfold, play them as they were dealt.

  ‘Brent Wollansky,’ he said.

  ‘Got it in one,’ Wollansky said.

  It was no mean achievement, given that he hadn’t seen Wollansky for fifteen or sixteen years. Brent Wollansky: former armed robbery squad detective, and Mitch Alvarez’s sideman before Shaun’s time. Wollansky was an operator in the professional sense, a class act and the designated public face of the squad because of his smooth delivery and sartorial good looks. He was a departmental fashion plate well before it became mandatory among the new generation. In fact, his nickname in those days was ‘Smooth’Wollansky. No-one ever called him Brent, although Shaun did on the odd occasion they’d met socially, because he never knew him in the job. Wollansky worked the Stan Petrakos case with Mitch, and when it snapped back in their faces like a slingshot everything changed for both cops. That famous night when they trashed themselves at Bobby McGee’s and had to be thrown out was effectively the last rites, whether they knew it then or not. Wollansky left the robbers soon afterwards and rotated through several other squads to get his twenty years up, then quit and started his own security company.

  As far as Shaun was aware that company had grown from its humble, one-man origins to a prosperous business. His appearance certainly gave that indication—he wore a quality single-breasted charcoal suit, a crisp, white Oxford shirt with French cuffs and antique gold cufflinks, expensive black shoes that were polished to a high shine. The straight, perfectly combed jet-black hair for which he was so famous was now seasoned with silver, making him every inch the top-level CEO. He had to be mid-fifties, but his face was as classically handsome as ever—bright, brown eyes, aquiline nose, even a cleft in his chin—and the smooth, close-shaved skin was so evenly and deeply tanned it had to be a sunlamp job.

  His manner was friendly enough, but significantly he did not offer his hand. Keeping his own on the bar, Shaun noticed a quicksilver exchange of glances between Wollansky and Burns before Wollansky returned his attention to Shaun.

  ‘How’s it been for you, Shaun? I saw that you were . . . among the living again.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s a good way of describing it, Brent. This’s a lot better than the other place, I’m here to tell you. The place of the living dead.’

  Wollansky was studying him intently.‘You were at Barwon, right?’

  ‘Mostly. Pentridge, Metrop Reception Centre, Barwon . . . I honestly can’t recommend any of them, Brent. No money, love, hatred or revenge is worth one day of it.’

  Wollansky nodded. He was paying close attention. One of his great skills—a major asset to any detective—was that he was a terrific listener. When you engaged him in conversation he made you feel as if you were the only person in the universe who mattered at that moment. It was an effective technique— and a highly seductive one that made suspects want to confide in him.

  ‘Were you in protective custody? I mean, being a cop . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I was for a fair bit of the time. It’s only a different kind of punishment, Brent. Might’ve saved my life, but what life was being saved? You have to ask yourself that—is it worth it? I preferred to take my chances out in the open.’

  Wollansky nodded again, and Shaun felt the former detective’s eyes assessing him without appearing to. What did he see? An ordinary guy in a check shirt and jeans, having a beer before noon in a pub that wasn’t even open . . .

  Wollansky’s mind was almost visibly working. Shaun could feel the buzz of his circuits and synapses hard at it, as if he were plugged into the same power board. There was an intense force field around Smooth Wollansky that was every bit as palpable as flesh and bone. But Shaun’s brain too was working hard—assessing, readjusting, arranging words and planning moves, all under cover of some polite chitchat that mainly served to give both men some breathing space.

  Shaun said, ‘How’s business, Brent? I hear you’ve got the game stitched up.’

  ‘Making a dollar,’ Wollansky said. ‘Can’t complain.’

  ‘Got a card there? You know, in case I’m out of a job, man.’

  ‘Shaun, I can always use good staff,’ Wollansky said benevolently. He flipped open a black billfold with gold corners, in which the banknotes were held by a gold clip. After fishing around he found a card and handed it across. It said SKYLINE SECURITY.

  Pocketing the card, Shaun said matter-of-factly, ‘What brings you here at this early hour, Brent? You don’t qualify as a desperate, and our friend the publican informs me that he isn’t even open yet.’

  ‘Obviously that didn’t deter you,’ Wollansky said, glancing at the Victor Bravo can and smiling. The smile tightened the skin across his unblemished face, making it shine. He looked like a million dollars.

  ‘No. Well, would you care to join me?’ Shaun said. ‘I wouldn’t try the leftover slops in the pipe if I were you.’

  Burns, who had stood immobile and silent, bridled and seemed on the cusp of chipping in with a comment before Wollansky cut across.

  ‘I’ll have what he’s having, Mr Burns. Provided you have no objection.’

  Burns wordlessly popped a can and set it in front of him. Wollansky didn’t bother putting out any cash, and Burns didn’t seem to expect it. He leaned back against the dairy case and crossed his arms.

  ‘Here’s to it,’ Wollansky said, and lifted the can to his lips. When he’d had a hefty swallow he gave a satisfied gasp and put the can down, slowly twirling it around and studying it in a way that indicated he was deep in thought, and not altogether comfortable with the current situation, not too sure which way to jump.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Shaun said.

  Wollansky turned to him. ‘No, I didn’t, did I? You know how it is with cops. We ask the questions—we don’t answer ’em.’

  Silence filled the room. Shaun finished his can and indicated he’d like another, which was duly served. This time Burns didn’t take for it.

  ‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ Shaun said. ‘I’m here because Bill Simmonds told me he wanted to see me. He didn’t say why, though.’

  ‘Really,’ Wollansky said, studying his beer can.

  ‘Yeah. Said to be at the Unicorn at eleven. It’s now . . . eleven-thirty. He’s late.’

  Interested as he transparently was, Wollansky didn’t take his eyes off the can. ‘Not like Bill Simmonds to be late.’

  ‘You obviously know him better than I do,’ Shaun said.

  ‘Well, considering your enforced absence, that would be true in relation to nearly anyone.’

  ‘That’s true, Brent. Good point. So, why is he late? And what’s going on? What’s he want?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you,’ Wollansky said.

  ‘I am in the dark,’ Shaun said. ‘I wish someone would enlighten me.’

  ‘No doubt all will be revealed when he arrives.’

  ‘If he arrives. I have the feeling I’ve been stooged for some reason.’

  ‘There’ll be an explanation,’ Wollansky said dubiously.

  ‘You were expecting him too, weren’t you, Brent?’ Shaun said, tightening the ratchet a couple of notches.‘I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?’

  Wollansky looked at him. ‘I don’t
know why you would think that. I’m here because I’m here, to visit my old comrade-in-arms, Mr Burns. There’s no mystery.’

  Shaun decided to throw in a wild card while he had Wollansky slightly off-balance.

  ‘I’ve just been up north visiting your other old buddy, Leon Turner.’

  ‘Turner? That so?’ Wollansky said. Very good, Shaun thought, very good indeed—total surprise feigned with impeccable sincerity. Or, wait, maybe he really didn’t know . . .

  ‘Brick Turner, yeah. Lives in Nambucca Heads now. Did you know that?’

  Wollansky considered before obviously deciding that was something he could reasonably be expected to know. ‘I did, as a matter of fact. He’s been up there for a few years now.’

  Shaun swallowed some beer. ‘He’s dying, as you probably realise.’

  Wollansky nodded grimly at his VB can. ‘Yeah. Prostate’s got him,’ he said.

  ‘Told me he had maybe three months left.’

  Wollansky nodded again. ‘Most unfortunate. Can happen to any of us. Well, maybe not you. You’re still a bit too young for that one.’

  Now Shaun nodded. ‘Only on the outside, Brent.’ He was thinking, Wollansky knows Turner is dying. But Turner himself only got the diagnosis five weeks ago, so they’ve been in contact with each other recently. Probable conclusion: Brent Wollansky told Turner that Shaun was out of jail . . .

  It felt right, but a direct question would no doubt elicit a denial delivered with all the panache and conviction of a leading man on the set. He decided to try for it anyway.

  ‘Have you spoken to Turner?’

  ‘Didn’t I just admit to that?’

 

‹ Prev