8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  By the time he reached his mid-twenties, Cornstalk’s criminal record was way above average: juvenile misdemeanours, assaults and burgs for which he’d mostly received suspended sentences; petty theft, shoplifting; some minor drug stuff such as buying an ounce of weed from an undercover cop. Most recently he’d done ninety days for a road rage incident in which he’d deliberately rammed another driver in front of him for being too slow at the lights, plus he’d spent a couple nights in the local cop shop for pub fights. But he’d never been busted for the vast majority of the stuff he’d done.

  It was time step up to a new level.

  One night, while he was enjoying Friday night drinks at his usual watering hole, a man he’d never seen before approached him.

  ‘You the one they call Cornstalk?’ the man said.

  Cornstalk looked him over. He didn’t like people to have an advantage that way, knowing who he was. This dude was a roughneck, dirty hands, AC/DC T-shirt. He was maybe thirty, with a few days’ growth on his face.

  ‘I might be,’ Cornstalk answered. ‘Or not. Depends.’

  The man drained his glass, noting that Cornstalk’s was nearly empty too. ‘What’re you having?’

  Cornstalk thought about it for a second, then shrugged. The guy wanted to buy him a beer, let him. ‘VB’s fine.’

  When the man came back with the drinks, he introduced himself as Dave Hegarty. The name meant nothing to Cornstalk. He also said he had a business proposition for Cornstalk.

  Cornstalk looked hard into Hegarty’s pale blue eyes. There was something quite magnetic about him. For a start, he never blinked. He was cool, obviously not intimidated by Cornstalk despite his size and potentially threatening body language. Cornstalk had been known to crack a man’s eye socket with his elbow just for spilling beer over him. People tended to shrink from his presence, but not this guy.

  ‘What business would that be?’ he said.

  ‘Let’s move over here,’ Hegarty said—away from the crowd Cornstalk was drinking with. Straight away Cornstalk’s antenna was up. Despite himself, he was already seeing dollar signs, without even knowing the first fact.

  ‘You’re in the body repair business, right?’ Hegarty said.

  ‘How d’you know that?’ Cornstalk said.

  It was Hegarty’s turn to shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter. Used to work for Les Dowd, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Les Dowd was the owner of the repair shop where they ran the insurance scam—the late Les Dowd.

  ‘I knew Les pretty well,’ Hegarty said with a not-so-subtle look. ‘He was a top guy.’

  Cornstalk nodded. By now he wanted Hegarty to get to it. Clearly he knew about the scam, and that was why he’d approached Cornstalk.

  ‘I got me own panel-beating business,’ Hegarty said. ‘Me and me brother, Rick. E-Z Body Repairs.’ He pronounced it ee-zee.

  ‘I know it,’ Cornstalk said. It was out on the Yass Road, on the fringe of town. Not far from where Cornstalk’s family still lived.

  ‘Wondering if you’d be interested in coming in with us.’ Just like that—no fanfare or explanation, nothing.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Cornstalk said. ‘I already got a job.’

  ‘I know,’ Hegarty said. ‘Silver Shield Body Shop. Mick Dunne’s a mate.’ Dunne was the owner of Silver Shield.

  ‘You know everyone,’ Cornstalk said.

  Hegarty grinned. ‘In this caper I do. Case of have to.’

  Cornstalk waited for him to make his play. But their glasses were empty, and now it was Cornstalk’s turn to hit the bar.

  When he came back, Hegarty didn’t mess around. ‘How’d you like to earn double what you’re getting now? Probably more than that.’

  Obviously Hegarty knew how much Cornstalk was earning. Irritation rose in his chest as it became increasingly clear that Hegarty had made Cornstalk’s private business his own. Hegarty appeared to sense his resentment, but just grinned as though he didn’t care. He was cool, confident—real confident.

  ‘If you want to hear about it, I’ll explain. If not, I’ll be on me way.’

  Cornstalk was definitely interested, but he didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic. ‘Go on.’

  Hegarty leaned closer, checking both sides for inquisitive ears. ‘It’s, ah—not exactly legal, this job.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What we do, we bring in cars from interstate—Victoria, WA, SA. Prestige cars. Once we get ’em in the workshop, we pull ’em apart and reassemble ’em with parts from another unit, spray ’em a different colour and sell ’em to order.’

  ‘What about rego?’ Cornstalk said.

  ‘That’s all covered. We got a mate in the RTA gives us new plates, all the necessary paperwork. We’re selling virtually brand-new cars: Mercs, Beemers, Porsches; all the top-shelf brands, for about half price. Everything’s sweet, no one loses out. The original owners are covered by insurance.’

  Cornstalk understood. He’d heard about this car rebirthing scam, although he didn’t know much about how it worked. At the back end, everything seemed to be above board. Cars were stolen to order, so you didn’t have the worry of holding onto them, looking for a buyer, once they’d been fixed up. Vital parts such as engine, transmission, driveshaft and compliance plates were obtained from wrecked cars, write-offs, and everything else—the shell, upholstery, wheels and whatever—came from stolen vehicles. By the time these cars were totally cannibalised, the chances of their true identity being discovered were zilch. And it would be nigh-on impossible to trace them back to their original owners.

  ‘Need a new spray-painter,’ Hegarty said. ‘You come recommended.’

  Cornstalk drained his beer. He was thinking—or appearing to think.

  Hegarty didn’t push him. He produced a dirty, creased business card and gave it to Cornstalk. ‘You want in, give us a yell. Otherwise, we part company and you never heard any of this.’ Those last words were delivered with just a tinge of menace that sent a slight shiver through Cornstalk’s scrotum. There was definitely something dangerous about this Dave Hegarty.

  Cornstalk teamed up with Hegarty’s crew the following week. Some of the work was legit—in fact most of it—but then a hot car would roll in, and that was when things got busy. In two, three days, it’d roll out again with a new identity and gleaming new paintwork and fixtures, into the arms of its happy owner. It was a finely tuned system that went like clockwork. When there was a job on, they’d work nights—all night if necessary, until it was done. Hegarty’s was a large, fully equipped and well-lighted workshop, completely sealed off from the outside world during their long night’s labour—sometimes it could take a couple hours or more on the block and tackle just to get the engine and gearbox in situ. Nobody said much; it was all work. Speed was the go. Cornstalk found himself not just doing spray-painting, but oxy-welding too, reassembling chassis parts and exhaust systems as required. When they’d finished, and the car was in the oven for the paintwork to dry, Hegarty would crack open the fridge and they’d have a round of beers, even if it was seven in the morning. Some time not long afterwards, on a payday, Cornstalk would find his envelope contained a lot more money than usual.

  Sometimes he would get a phone call from Hegarty telling him that a particular car was due in on a certain day, and he would have make himself available to work the night shift, as he called it.

  *

  Cornstalk and Hegarty developed a strong friendship over time. They had plenty in common and seemed to identify these qualities in each other. Occasionally, after a session in the pub, Cornstalk was invited back to Hegarty’s home for dinner with his family. It was a plain, red-brick house with a neatly kept front lawn and a big shed out the back. There were a couple of kids running around, sometimes more if they had friends staying over. Cornstalk was never sure which of them belonged to Hegarty—they all looked pretty much the same. The wife’s name was Marlene, or Marl, as Hegarty usually called her. She was attractive in a weatherbeaten wa
y, premature lines on her face and around the corners of her mouth in particular.

  Often dinner was a roast chicken or leg of lamb with gravy and potatoes and all the trimmings. Cornstalk had never cooked a meal in his life, so this was a real treat. His idea of a meal was something frozen, pizza or takeaway of some kind. He knew how to operate a toaster and that was about it. None of his girlfriends had been any use in the kitchen either, so Cornstalk found himself a bit envious of Dave Hegarty’s setup and he’d never been averse to screwing other men’s wives or girlfriends. His attitude was: if you weren’t good enough to hold onto them, bad luck. And although he’d given Marl a bit of a sideways glance on occasion, imagining himself getting into her pants, he would never do it to Dave Hegarty. Even though he was sure Marlene’d given him the come-on.

  After the meal, the two men would usually disappear into Hegarty’s shed with a bottle of Jim Beam. He had a fridge full of beer in there as well. Hegarty had two cars: a battered Holden ute for work, and a shiny Holden Statesman, about a ’79 model. It was beautifully maintained. There was also a motorcycle: a black Harley hog with apehanger bars.

  They’d sit out there among Hegarty’s treasured possessions, gulping from the Beam bottle and shooting the breeze about cars, life, women, work, whatever. When he talked about his wife, Hegarty once said: ‘She’s hard as nails but a good woman, good mother to the boys. She ever thought I was rooting around, she’d cut me dick off.’

  He didn’t seem to be kidding. Cornstalk wasn’t sure if that meant he was rooting around or not, but it was probably on. Why not? He’d have no trouble pulling chicks.

  When they talked about business, the rebirthing caper, Hegarty could become quite philosophical, especially as the Beam kicked in later at night. He was proud of their work; they were all artists in the workshop. He was proud of the dedication and loyalty of his team.

  ‘You know what?’ he said after a slug from the bottle. ‘The beauty of this business is that the cops are nowhere in sight. They haven’t got a clue. And because the cars all come from interstate, it’s out of their jurisdiction, so they don’t give a shit anyway. Why would they make work for themselves when they don’t have to? They’re just lazy country coppers.’

  The more he got to know Hegarty, the more Cornstalk felt vaguely envious of his life. He had a looker of a wife, kids, a decent home and his own business. By contrast, Cornstalk was rootless, a gun for hire, nothing permanent or stable in his personal life. He was incapable of keeping a girlfriend for longer than a year or so before growing bored with her, and he still lived in a rented dump. But Hegarty had qualities that Cornstalk admired: a degree of self-satisfaction, confidence and a certain style that made people respect him. He was a natural leader. So was Cornstalk, but in a different way. Hegarty never lost his temper or even raised his voice except to shout over the din of workshop noise; he somehow managed to get what he wanted with a minimum of effort. Cornstalk went off like a firecracker if someone crossed him, and nearly always settled disputes with his fists or a beer bottle. As he approached thirty years of age he was still trouble at large.

  Out front on one of their Friday nights, saying goodnight before Cornstalk drove home, Hegarty said, ‘We’re a tight-knit group. That’s the way it has to be. You’re a good mate, Corny, and a top worker, but I ever found out you ratted us out or did the dirty in some way … well, it’d be a case of bye-bye, Cornstalk.’

  He said this completely without emotion, as if he were discussing the chances of the Canberra Raiders that weekend. But Cornstalk was left in no doubt that he meant every word. One thing for sure: he would not be putting the hard word on Marl.

  Cornstalk got good and drunk on the day he turned thirty. He was a happy man, with plenty of cash in his pocket, and a small band of loyal mates. By this time, he realised in his drunkenness, he was a committed outlaw. Not for him the life of the citizen, the working stiffs of the world. He didn’t understand what motivated them to get out of bed every morning.

  9

  Friday, 6.25pm

  The day had got away from Jimmy Raines. Half the day, more accurately. Much of the morning had been spent on a surveillance job at a shopping centre and other locations, snapping pictures of a suspected fraudster meeting with a prospective business associate at a coffee shop and a TAB. The fraudster appeared to be anxious about being watched or tailed, which explained why he did his wheeling and dealing on the move. He was right about that, but what he didn’t know was that the other man was an undercover policeman working for Jimmy, and that the meeting was set up as a sting operation. The agent was wired, so with any luck they’d have him pretty much wrapped up before the day was out.

  The fraudster was clever enough to evade police charges so far, but he had a mouth on him, and that would be his downfall. It usually was.

  That part of the day—up until lunchtime, when he photographed the two shaking hands outside a TAB agency—went by in real time for Jimmy. Being a senior detective in the Territory Investigations Group—otherwise known as the TIG, the investigative arm of the Australian Federal Police—he didn’t often work in the field these days, but he’d volunteered for this job for a change of scenery, plus he was handy with a camera.

  In the afternoon he had attended a meeting with his surveillance crew until around three thirty, after which he had a twenty-dollar haircut at his longstanding barber downtown. Then he met with another undercover operative for a debriefing—a long-running and complex case involving a medical clinic that had for years billed Medicare for ghost consultations. It was an elaborate scam that had netted the three doctors who ran the clinic several millions over a decade or so. The only reason they’d got away with it so far was that they’d restricted the scale of their scamming, so it passed under the radar for a good while, until a suspicious office manager blew the whistle.

  One thing Jimmy Raines had learned in his many years as a cop, both in Sydney and the ACT—and as a private eye between careers—was that, where there was ill-gotten cash to be siphoned, someone would find a way of doing it. That was a given. Schemes would be developed and perfected. Perhaps man’s greatest gift was his imagination and ingenuity in devising ways of ripping off the public purse—exploiting tax concessions, government grants, industry subsidies, tenders, medical benefit schemes, whatever. No amount of scam-proofing could stop the best white-collar criminal brains from finding a way through it. Tighten up the laws, close up the loopholes, and they find a new one. If only all that intelligence could be put to a positive use.

  But if investigators were determined and persistent enough, these scam artists invariably came unstuck. Greed, egotistical posturing and overspending got the better of them. Ego, in particular. They began to think they were bulletproof. They did stupid things: paying cash for a Ferrari, for instance. Telling the world on Facebook what they’d been up to: ‘Thug, enjoying the high life’, and so on, often detailing their crimes.

  After leaving the office at the Winchester Police Centre in Belconnen, he met with his ex-wife Vicki for a drink. They’d been divorced a long time, but remained friends, for some reason. In fact, their relationship had improved a great deal since living apart. There was nothing at stake any longer and they got on fine, like any pair of old drinking buddies. Friday sessions at the same cocktail lounge at the Hilton had become a fixture in Jimmy’s week.

  When he got home he threw his briefcase on the couch and turned on the TV as usual. Jimmy had lived alone for two years, since his last girlfriend took off for greener pastures. At the time, he was forty-four, and he felt her loss keenly. He figured her for his last chance at someone to grow into old bones with. She had other ideas, hooking up with a celebrity chef with three ex-wives and five kids in tow.

  He’d largely given up on romance these days. It all seemed too hard, and ultimately not worth the effort and the eventual angst.

  He poured himself a glass of red and threw a T-bone steak into the frying pan before sifting through the mail he’d brou
ght home from the office—another part of his weekly routine. Most of it could wait.

  Inside a padded bag, which had arrived by courier late in the afternoon, there was a bubble-wrapped CD with no label, nothing written on it. Wrapped around the CD, held in place with a rubber band, were three photocopied pages of printed matter. On the plastic disc cover was a yellow sticker that said: ‘Jimmy—u might want to listen to this. FYI only. Destroy everything afterwards—POD.’

  ‘POD’ was Pat, a mate in the force, formerly of the TIG.

  The T-bone sizzled on the stovetop. Jimmy put down the CD and turned the steak over; took a gulp of the wine. But his eye returned to the CD on the table and curiosity got the better of him. He switched off the gas flame, went to the lounge room and slipped the disc into his CD player. Then he sat down with the glass in his hand—and listened.

  *

  Twenty minutes later he turned off the player and ejected the disc. By now he’d lost interest in both steak and wine.

  Pat O’Dwyer was a member of Strike Force Unicorn, a combined ACT and New South Wales police operation targeting the amphetamine business, particularly the importation of ingredients from overseas and the manufacture and distribution of ecstasy tablets.

  Jimmy didn’t know a lot about the operation, it wasn’t in the papers and Pat only spoke of it in passing. What he did say was that they had a number of people in their sights, including underworld heavyweights, a couple of high-profile sportsmen—Olympic athletes—a respected public figure and assorted riff-raff from the bikie scene. According to Pat, the bikers were the chief instigators and the most organised of any of the players. He never mentioned any names, or how much progress was being made. He was very discreet that way.