by Peter Corris
16
Busy day and not done yet. I didn’t know who Titch was but big, with a key and a port-wine birthmark had to be Des O’Malley. Barry had given me his direct line in the hospital and I rang it from a public phone.
‘Hardy, you bastard. You didn’t tell me Keith Mountjoy was dead.’
‘I was instructed not to upset you. Does it upset you, Barry?’
‘Yes and no. Shit, things are going to get out of hand while I’m stuck in here and they tell me I’ll have weeks of . . . what d’they call it?’
‘Convalescence.’
‘Yeah, fuck that. How are you going with finding my boy?’
Still not the time to tell him, I thought. ‘It looks as if Des had something to do with it.’
‘Des? I can’t believe it. He’s been with me for years.’
‘Et tu, Brute. I reckon he’s been a snake in the grass for years, too. Where does he live, Barry?’
‘He’s got a house across the street from me in Randwick. Number twelve. Little joint.’
‘Do you own it?’
‘No. Des came out of boxing with a bit of dough but not much. He bummed around for a while, doing odd jobs, security and that, until I took him on. I helped with the deposit on his house and I pay him enough for him to keep up with the mortgage. I can’t believe he . . .’
‘What does he do for you?’
Barry’s trust in me only went so far. ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘What’re you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m in the dark here, Barry. You know the cops’re keeping an eye on you and BBE.’
‘Have for years. I suppose you got that from your mate, Parker.’
‘No, from another source. And Sir Keith must’ve been involved in something big to finish the way he did. What is it? Can you tell me? I want to find Ronny for you but I’m stumbling around not knowing the big picture.’
I could imagine him chafing at the inactivity, confined to his hospital bed with tubes attached. Having been in that condition myself a few times I knew that nothing short of amputation can make you feel so helpless. The receiver was greasy and the phone box smelled of cigarette smoke.
‘It is big,’ Barry said at last. ‘Very big. It’s to do with petrol.’
One link forged perhaps: Mountjoy had been killed at a petrol station. ‘That could be federal,’ I said.
‘It is. I’m tired, Cliff. These drugs are rooting me. Just find Ronny and get him clear. Sky’s the limit, money-wise.’
He hung up and I got out of the foul box as quickly as I could. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten and I could feel my blood-sugar level was low. My totally irresponsible diabetic mother had forced me to be aware of such things. Low sugar equals slow thinking. I found a café in Oxford Street and ordered a BLT with chips. I stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee and closed my mind down while I ate and drank.
Despite what I’d said to Des O’Malley at the BBE party, going up against him wasn’t a thing to take lightly. He’d be a much tougher proposition than Titch whoever-he-was. I’d seen O’Malley fight and knew he was very good. He could have been better but he fell into bad habits, mainly gambling, which caused him to make money at boxing the dirty way. He was overweight now but he’d still have the moves.
The night was young and the time to tackle Des was late, when he’d had a drink or two and was tired. I went home for my gun.
‘Hello, Cliff.’ Bron stepped out from the shadow on the porch cast by the severely neglected rubber tree.
‘Jesus!’
‘You’re slipping. You should have spotted the Audi.’
She was right. Her car was parked in clear view on the other side of the street.
‘You looked purposeful until I scared you. What’s going on?’
I unlocked the door.
‘Are you going to ask me in?’
I nodded. ‘We need to talk.’
We went inside. She was wearing a blue dress with a linen jacket and medium-heeled shoes. I took off my suit jacket and dropped it on a chair. I’d already taken off the tie. I went to the cupboard under the stairs and reached into a deep zipped pocket in a denim jacket and took out my .38 in its shoulder holster. She put her bag down on the coffee table and leaned against a bookshelf.
I had a cleaning kit with the gun and I sat and proceeded to strip and clean it. She watched sceptically. ‘What’s this supposed to prove?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I think I know who grabbed Ronny and I’m going to pay him a visit. He’ll probably need persuading.’
‘Do you think Ronald will be there?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘I want to come.’
‘Not a chance unless you tell me more about your involvement.’
She shook her head.
I didn’t look up from what I was doing. ‘Let me help you. Barry Bartlett, Sir Keith Mountjoy, BBE and Christ knows who or what else are involved in some large-scale operation about petrol. A lot of the things about petrol—excise, transportation, price, security—are federal matters. It’s all a big deal since the oil crisis of a while back.’
She didn’t react. I reassembled the pistol, loaded it and replaced it in the holster. I held up my hands. ‘Have to wash up.’
She followed me out to the bathroom. I ran the hot tap, used the soap and grabbed a towel while still talking. ‘I don’t think you’re a member of a gimcrack state police unit, Bron. I think you’re either National Intelligence or Federal Police. How am I doing?’
Her voice was just above a whisper. ‘Federal, on secondment.’
‘Thanks.’
We went back to the kitchen and I held up the bottle of gin. She nodded and I made two moderate-strength drinks.
‘We’re not on opposite sides, Cliff.’
‘Not exactly, but not quite on the same team either. You want to use Ronny to get information about this business. Long-term project. First off I wanted to vet him for Barry; now I just need to find him.’
‘You did the first job—you found out he wasn’t Bartlett’s son.’
‘Right, but I haven’t told Barry yet. Did you tell your people that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell them about me?’
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
She knocked back some of her drink. ‘I . . . I wanted to keep it separate if I could. I really like you; fuck it, I more than like you. I’m conflicted.’
So was I. We sat looking at each other, nursing the drinks that were inadequate for the moment. Physically and emotionally I liked everything about her, but trust was another matter.
She must have been thinking the same thing. ‘The suit,’ she said. ‘You went to the brothel. That’s how you got your lead. You weren’t going to tell me, were you?’
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘You still haven’t.’
‘No. How about you—the dress, the shoes?’
She finished her drink. ‘I wanted to look good for you.’
It takes a stronger man, more confident of his attractiveness than me, to resist something like that. We were out of our seats almost simultaneously and kissing. She grabbed me so fiercely I had to steady myself against the bench. It seemed like minutes before we broke apart.
‘Let’s find the little bugger,’ I said, ‘and decide what to do after that.’
17
The pact was unspoken but sealed. I went upstairs and changed into more workaday clothes. When I came down Bron was examining a Glock she’d taken from her bag.
‘Never fired in anger,’ she said.
‘Let’s keep it that way.’ I strapped on the underarm holster. ‘This one, too.’
‘Which car?’ she said.
‘Yours. Des O’Malley, the guy we’re calling on, might know mine and we could lose the element of surprise.’
I gave her the address and settled into the passenger seat, comfortable after I’d adjusted it. She drove in an expert
but not flashy style and seemed to know her way around Alexandria and the easiest way to Randwick. I realised as I sat beside her that I knew almost nothing personal about her.
‘You’re a Sydney girl,’ I said, ‘from your knowledge of the geography.’
‘That’s right, Bronte.’
‘Brick. A step up from me. I’m fibro, Maroubra.’
‘And proud of it.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Tell me about this O’Malley.’
‘You’ve seen him. He was the guy on the door at the BBE party.’
She touched the side of her face.
‘Other side, but that’s him.’
I told her about O’Malley’s history and Barry’s surprise that he would be anything but loyal. I mentioned the man called Titch and then a thought struck me and I let out a grunt.
‘What?’
‘You’re the one who looks out for cars. Ronny’s ute wasn’t at the flats when we looked there, was it?’
‘No, definitely not.’
‘Then O’Malley or Titch must have driven it away. They must have restrained Ronny in some way. It’s not good, Bron. Utes . . .’
‘You don’t have to spell it out. Utes are good for dumping stuff.’
Barry’s house, where I’d been a couple of times after fights, was built of sandstone, almost a mansion, set on a big corner block. It was surrounded by a high brick wall and had a security gate across the driveway. O’Malley’s place across the road was a narrow detached cottage with no obvious security apparatus, which didn’t mean there wasn’t any. We cruised past it and parked in a side street about a hundred yards away.
‘No sign of the ute close by,’ Bron said. ‘I wonder what that means.’
‘It could mean it was used to dump Ronny and is now sitting torched somewhere in the Blue Mountains.’
She looked at me.
‘Joking,’ I said.
‘Shit. How do we handle this?’
‘What did they teach you in cop school?’
She swivelled in her seat and I could feel her eyes boring into me. ‘Why’re you being like that?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m worried about you being here. I feel responsible for you and it doesn’t help . . . planning.’
‘Bugger you. I can do whatever’s necessary.’
I remembered how she’d conducted herself at the siege. ‘I know you can. I’m sorry.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry and come up with a plan.’
‘Two options—barge in at the front or scout along the lane at the back and get in that way if we can. Which do you like?’
‘I get a vote, do I? The back. We can check for lights and movement and security.’
‘How about I send you in the front looking gorgeous and you dazzle old Des or little Titch with your beauty?’
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘The back it is.’
I’d brought a torch, a short jemmy and a lock pick.
‘Illegal,’ Bron said.
‘You bet. I’m worried about your heels, much and all as I like the look of you in them.’
She reached over to the back seat for a sports bag, took out a pair of sneakers and, with the sort of flexibility I could only envy, shed the shoes and put on the sneakers.
We left the car doors unlocked and the keys on a shelf immediately under the ignition in case we needed a fast getaway. The lane behind the houses was festooned with NO PARKING signs but it was evidently rubbish pick-up time the next morning and there were one or two wheelie-bins outside most of the back gates. O’Malley’s place was four houses along. It had a roller door that didn’t quite meet the side fence and only one bin.
‘I don’t see Des as a recycler,’ I said.
‘Shut up, you’re making me nervous with the wisecracks.’
She tested the stability of the bin, took one step back and sprang up onto the top of it and looked over the gap between the roller door and the fence.
‘What?’ I said.
She whispered, ‘First, no dog. No light at the back. Easy drop to the yard.’
‘If I can get up where you are. Getting a bit stiff in the joints these days.’
She disappeared over the gap, landing with barely a sound. I used a stray milk crate to clamber onto the wheelie-bin and heaved myself over the fence without too much trouble or noise. As we approached the back of the house a sensor light came on and we ducked into the shadows, but there was no further activity.
The porch had been built in and fitted with a screen door. I used the torch but couldn’t see any signs of an alarm system and the screen door and the solid one behind it opened easily and quietly. The door to the kitchen stood open and I could hear the hum of the refrigerator motor but no other sound.
A light was showing in one of the rooms beyond the kitchen. We moved towards it with our pistols in our hands. The Smith has a double-pull safety and I hoped Bron’s was similarly secured. She moved with no more sound than a shadow on a wall. The short passage led to a living room with its door ajar enough to allow the light to seep out, as well as a low moaning sound. I gestured to Bron to move the door open with her foot and then step back to let me in first.
The room was a shambles of overturned furniture, broken glass and the acrid smell of spilt blood. A man was sitting slumped against a wall. A very small man. His stumpy legs stretched out in front of him were twitching and he was making choked murmuring sounds. One side of his white shirt was dark with blood; he was sitting in a pool of it that had flowed from the wound and was still seeping.
Bron went straight into action. She shoved her gun into her bag, bent over the wounded man and unfastened his shirt, then took a packet of tissues from her bag, ripped it apart and made a thick wad that she pressed against the wound. The pad immediately darkened.
‘Find a phone,’ she said.
‘I want to talk to him.’
‘Jesus, Cliff . . .’
‘He’s finished, most of his blood’s on the floor.’
Titch, it had to be him, gave a gasp. The blood-soaked pad fell away and a gout of blood flowed. A section of green-grey intestine bulged from the wound. Bron turned away, retching.
‘What happened, Titch?’ I said. ‘Did you take Ronny Bartlett?’
The use of his name seemed to energise him, as if he knew it was the last time he’d hear it.
‘Yeah. We fucked up.’
‘Who? . . . And where’ve you stashed Ronny?’
‘It all went wrong. I got shanked . . . Some bastards broke in and fuckin’ Des got out fast. Left me here to fuckin’ die.’
And that’s what he did. He tried to suck in a breath but blood welled up into his mouth and his head fell sideways. The ugly gash in his belly stopped oozing as his heart ceased its pumping. Bron had recovered and was squatting, watching. I helped her to her feet.
‘We have to get out of here,’ I said.
‘We can’t. He . . .’
‘He’s out of it, but we’re not. Do you want to explain what you’re doing here to the local cops? What you’re doing cooperating with someone like me? How’re your federal colleagues going to take that?’
‘You’re a bastard.’
‘When I have to be. This is for your sake as well as mine. I’ll call this in anonymously when we get clear. That’s the best we can do for him.’
She nodded. ‘How do we leave?’
‘The way we came in.’
I took a handkerchief from my pocket and folded the blood-soaked pad into it. She looked at me as if I’d broken wind in her face.
‘You weren’t here,’ I said, ‘and neither was I.’
18
I drove. I made the call from a phone box in Alison Road. I got back in the car and found Bron giving me a hard stare.
‘You’ve done that before,’ she said.
‘Made anonymous phone calls? Sure.’
‘Had men die in front of you and not been upset.’
‘Who says I wasn
’t upset?’
‘Didn’t seem to be.’
‘At times like that you have to think clearly. Being upset doesn’t help. If we’d stayed until the police came I’d have been more upset and so would you. Bleeding to death from a stab wound isn’t the worst way out. The shock deals with the pain. You’re right, I’ve seen it before in the army, and if you’re upset the next thing you’re likely to be is dead.’
‘Okay.’
I put my arm around her and she leaned against me and we sat there, illegally parked, while cars flashed by us, some honking in protest. A loud blast from a bus roused her.
‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘We’d better move. Let’s go to my place and think about where we are now with this mess.’
I drove to Surry Hills. She used the remote control device to access the underground carpark and we rode the lift up to her floor. She carried her bag and her shoes. I carried the jemmy, the torch, the lock pick and the blood-soaked wad of tissues. Inside she pointed to a waste bin and I dropped the wad into it.
‘I’m not as green as you think,’ she said. ‘I was in a squad that raided a backyard abortionist and I coped but it was a while ago. All that just sort of reminded me . . .’
I arranged the burglary equipment on the coffee table. ‘Got anything to drink?’
It was a couple of hours later and in her bed that we got around to talking about the night’s results.
‘If O’Malley has stashed Ronny somewhere to put pressure on Barry, he might not mean him actual harm,’ Bron said.
‘At least not immediately. But who exactly is O’Malley working for and why do they want to put pressure on Barry?’
‘I get the feeling there’s some sort of power play going on between all the people involved in this.’
‘All the people being . . . ?’
‘If I knew that . . . But they all seem to want to use Ronald to get at Bartlett . . . okay, okay, I know that’s what we were doing too, but we wouldn’t have killed anybody to do it.’
‘You wouldn’t, maybe, but what about your colleagues?’
Lying naked that close together I could almost feel her brain cogs meshing . . . evaluating . . . wondering.