Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘Thanks for that, buddy. What’s the background noise? What are you doing?’

  ‘Beating eggs. I’m making pancakes.’

  ‘Pancakes.’

  ‘Yeah. Is that all right?’

  ‘For how many?’

  ‘Two, actually. Since you ask.’

  ‘Hmm. How old did you say she was?’

  ‘Geoff. It’s just pancakes. Go eat and then punch some zeds, will you?’

  ‘Catch you.’ Click.

  They were, according to Mai Ling, divine. It was not a word he had heard used to describe his cooking before, and not one he had expected to pass her lips.

  ‘You are very good in the kitchen. I can see that,’ she said.

  ‘I have to be, to live. No-one cooks for me if I don’t.’

  They were eating off Lance’s polished teak table, for which, he’d told Barrett, he had paid seventy-five thousand dollars. It was his wedding present to his wife: clearly he was besotted with her. Sun streamed across it, highlighting the left side of Mai Ling’s face as she spooned jam and whipped cream onto her third pancake. While eating and sipping juice she looked around the apartment as if noticing her surroundings properly for the first time, which was probably the case.

  ‘This is a lovely apartment, Barrett,’ she said. The use of his name struck a note: she hadn’t said it before. He was actually surprised she had remembered it, and then he thought she might have overhead the Dolphin man, Langley, addressing him.

  ‘It is,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately I don’t own it, however. Belongs to a friend.’

  ‘Ah. You’re house sitting.’

  ‘I am house sitting. It’ll be tough leaving when the time comes.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Around … three months.’

  ‘Your friend is away overseas?’

  ‘Yes, in Europe. On his honeymoon. As we speak, he and his lovely wife are in a luxury hotel in Cap d’Antibes.’

  She put down her utensils and smiled. ‘And where is Cap d’Antibes exactly?’

  ‘On the French Riviera. It’s a holiday resort for rich people.’

  ‘She’s a lucky woman.’

  ‘In some ways, yes.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, she has to live with Lance, for starters.’

  ‘Isn’t your friend a nice man? Does he … hurt her?’

  ‘Good God, no. Just kidding, Mai Ling. He worships the woman. He … goes before her, scattering rose petals at her feet.’

  She laughed then, and resumed eating. ‘You’re a funny man.’

  ‘Oh, I have the occasional hilarious moment.’

  ‘Tell me … have you been to Cap d’Antibes?’

  ‘Nope. But I’ve been near there, a long, long time ago when I was backpacking around Europe.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘I was … let’s see. I must have been … twenty-two or three.’ Christ – more than half my life ago.

  ‘I wanted to travel around Australia once, but there was that man murdering tourists. I was too scared someone would shoot me.’

  ‘The Belanglo killer. He’s locked up now. But it’s still a dangerous thing to do, especially on your own. There are plenty of other dud machines out there. You’re better off not doing it.’ Shit, he thought, I am getting old – all I tell her is not to do things, or be careful. Was the world that bad a place? It probably was, but even so. A spirit of adventure was to be encouraged in a young person, not suffocated with warnings. He wondered if Mai Ling thought so.

  ‘So, you live by yourself?’ she said.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘You are not married?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Nope. Not married. I have been, however.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You should find a new wife, like your friend Lance. Do you have children?’

  He had never known a person to ask so many personal questions without even knowing him. He didn’t mind at all, however: she was young and curious, not prying. He was actually enjoying the attention and interest.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  In supplying these answers it seemed to him that he was not in possession of much at all: no house of his own, no wife, no children. No life? There was work, pleasure, this and that, time being filled – but no cement, no crowning achievement, no sense to it. No point. Sometimes it felt as if he inhabited the fringes of existence, merely engaging in a succession of activities, while missing out on the main game – whatever that was. No matter: whose lives made any sense when you put them under the microscope? Lance’s, because he had a trophy wife and a vault full of money? But it did say a lot about Barrett that he could reach the half-century and find himself utterly alone in the world, like an orphan. Well, he was an orphan. On the positive side of the ledger, it could be said that he was travelling light, the way he preferred it. He could please himself what he did – or didn’t do.

  Mai Ling said, ‘You need children to look after you when you are old.’

  ‘It’s a bit late in the day to worry about that. But thanks for the tip, Mai Ling.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘You’re not being rude. But I don’t seem to have any satisfactory answers to your questions.’ The idea of having children had never felt as foreign to him as it did now. Why had he passed up the chance when the time was right? He knew why: he was a cop. The time was never right. He was too busy staking out a killer’s beat all night, attending crime scenes or interrogating suspects. In truth he was married to the job, not his first wife, Lauren. After she’d left him he was too preoccupied trying to put his life back together to even think about producing children. In the end he had missed the boat twice. When he thought about that he felt both sad … and relieved.

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters, Mai Ling?’ he said, lifting a pancake onto his plate.

  ‘I have a brother.’

  ‘Does he live here?’

  ‘No. He is in Hong Kong. Would you like more coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  She topped up his cup from the percolator, and as she leaned across the table her dressing-gown, which was not properly tied, came apart. There was a good deal more than mere cleavage staring him in the face for the two seconds it took him to avert his eyes towards the window. She re-tied it, but only after she had finished pouring – almost as an afterthought. There was no sign of embarrassment. She hardly seemed to notice anything was amiss.

  ‘In Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He is a student.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘Of … information technology. He is … what do you call it? A computer nerd. He is going to be another Bill Gates, he imagines, and build a palace on the Peak.’

  They both laughed at that. She could be funny too, and infectious. Not the type of woman you would normally feel like biffing, unless you had a vital component missing from your brain.

  Afterwards he drove her to the clinic. At her insistence she left him in the parking lot, saying she would catch a taxi into town. There was a rank not far along. She thanked him profusely, apologised once again, and they shook hands.

  ‘You’re certain you’ll be all right?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Please don’t worry.’

  ‘Stay right away from Diaz, Mai Ling. If he comes to your house, don’t let him in. If he rings, hang up.’

  ‘I know. I will.’ But her eyes told him her connection to Diaz could not be so easily terminated. He wondered, and not for the first time, whether she was a prostitute, and Diaz her pimp. That was a neat explanation, but not, he thought, convincing. Having spent the greater part of his working life in the demi-monde of criminals, informers, drug dealers, corrupt cops, prostitutes and such denizens, he believed he had a sound instinct in these circles. He would certainly know if he were in the company of a working girl, even one as disarmingly charming as Mai Ling. No, she was no hooker.
You could be a pretty young Asian female some thug had used for a punching bag without being that. Her arms were pristine, and there were no other telltale signs that she tickled the needle: no faraway eyes, face tics or edginess. And she was not exactly pencil thin. There was nothing cheap or used about Mai Ling.

  He removed a card from his wallet and wrote his home phone number on the back.

  ‘Mai Ling,’ he said. ‘Take this. Call me anytime – and I mean anytime – if you need help. There’s a mobile number there too.’

  She examined the card, which read, in embossed lettering: Gold Shield Detective Agency. Beneath that: Surveillance & Corporate Security – Personal Protection – Anti-Stalking – Teenage Activity. Then, at the bottom: Barrett Pike (Ex-Homicide Squad, Vic Police).

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You do these things?’

  ‘I do, yes. Every day. Promise you’ll call?’

  ‘I promise. You didn’t tell me you were … ex-police.’

  He gave her a big smile. ‘I guess that was one of the few things you didn’t ask me.’

  She lightly touched his unshaved cheek with her slender fingertips. ‘Ciao, Barrett, and thank you once again.’

  ‘Ciao, Mai Ling. Watch out for yourself. But … enjoy your life too. Go backpacking around Australia and bungee jumping and stuff like that.’

  ‘I will one day. Well … not the bungee jumping.’

  She went into the clinic, pausing to turn and wave as she passed through the sliding glass doors. Barrett sat in the car for a few minutes, just in case. He noted the vehicles that turned into the parking lot, and those that passed by. No dark Mercedes. He waited long enough for a vehicle to make a second or third pass, but none did. So he went home to read the files on Seed of God and Titus ‘Bunny’ Delfranco, maybe ring up a girlfriend. Mai Ling’s little exhibition had stirred him. Who said he had no life?

  7

  On the answering machine there was one message: from Andrea Fox-Fearnor, part-time friend and lover. Since around half the males in Sydney were gay, available straight men came at a premium, particularly among women of a certain age who had shuffled off their used-up, useless first husbands and were in the market for some no-strings action. Barrett had a list of such names in his address book. Sometimes he called them, sometimes it happened the other way. With Andrea, it was normally a month, maybe two, between contacts, depending on her. She was currently features editor for a good food magazine called Indulge, so she was either heavily involved in work, in a plane or car, or at the gym, swimming and pumping iron.

  Most of the women Barrett knew had jobs like Andrea’s. They were promoters, fashion designers, agents, publicists, media personalities, managers of art galleries, wine marketers, consultants in an array of fields; most could be seen at places like Spargo’s, the Bayswater Brasserie or Citron from lunchtime onwards, especially in the second half of the week. He had been intimate with a line producer for a film company, a hairdresser, a corporate headhunter, a creative director for an advertising agency, a cabaret torch singer – who classified herself as a ‘chanteuse’, and could slip into a convincing French accent – and even a food stylist. That one had him stumped for a while. It all seemed like a bit of a fraud, everyone having these make-believe occupations that were really forms of recreation. But that was the essential Sydney – giant fun park and a great place to live as long as you were cashed up.

  Andrea had called to say she was free for the weekend, and if he was interested to call her on her mobile. She lived in Palm Beach, about an hour’s drive north of the city, on the Barrenjoey Peninsula. By saying she was free for the weekend she meant for him to come up for an extended session of sexual athleticism, the odd cool drink and leisurely strolls along the sand at sundown. That was what normally happened when they got together. She also produced a mean oyster and crayfish platter, made the best crab bisque Barrett had ever tasted and had a first-class wine cellar. Among other things, Andrea Fox-Fearnor had been a caterer, a chef and a travel writer of note, with a syndicated column in papers far and wide. Currently she also had a fifty per cent share in an Indian restaurant off Oxford Street, near Taylor Square. Barrett had been there a couple of times: the food was all right, and there didn’t seem to be enough patrons to keep the place ticking over if the times he visited were typical. Andrea’s role in it was behind-the-scenes management rather than hands on, and her business partner, an Indian, was pretty scarce too. It was hard to see how the place survived in a cut-throat field, but Barrett understood enough about it from his years in the force to know that the corporate world was a strange and often devious one. You never knew what was going on beneath the surface …

  Andrea’s was a fine, two-storeyed cedar residence with a wraparound verandah and a magnificent view of the Pacific from the upstairs decking. Early evenings, they would usually relax there with a gin and tonic or a glass of fine French champagne, giving themselves time out from the afternoon’s physical exertions. Despite her name, Andrea was no toff, but a tough, determined woman of working-class stamp who knew how to get what she wanted. The house, its contents and the Range Rover that went with it were all part of her divorce settlement. Andrea’s ex, once-famous film director Ivan Fearnor, had bought a one-way ticket to the wild side – hard drugs and rent boys – and was now in the last throes of AIDS and Hepatitis C in a tawdry little hospice, staffed by volunteers who were mostly themselves dying. Andrea was not a vindictive woman, but she shed no tears for the ex, or wasted kind words on him. Instead she had an expression: ‘He finally ran into himself coming the other way.’ As far as she was concerned, he was lucky not to be wasting away in jail.

  Barrett lost no time in returning her call. Having anticipated his response, she was down at the fish co-op when he rang, getting some fresh produce. Andrea was so organised and practical. She was forty-ish, platinum blonde with brown-reddish roots, and had a physique like a Russian hammer-thrower: standout quadriceps and calves, eye-catching bumpers front and rear, a taut, glossy skin tone. Deeply tanned all year round. She also had a vertical scar on her stomach from a Caesarian section. Her son – and only child – was a surfie-cum-dropout somewhere. She only ever heard from him via reverse-charge phone calls, when he needed money urgently – to buy drugs or pay off his supplier, she presumed. About a year ago he had called for money and to inform her that he had got married and was living with his wife and some other feral-type hop-heads in an abandoned shack deep in a rainforest, in the vicinity of Murwillumbah – prime marijuana-growing country. He was also insistent that the Poles were rapidly melting, and to fix the problem – and save the world from being drowned, à la Deep Impact – he planned to go to Antarctica and plant trees in the ice. Andrea’s response: to send him a Far Side wedding card containing an acorn and a c-note, care of the local post office, and she hadn’t had a word from him since. Assuming the worst, she always half expected a policeman to come knocking on the door to give her the bad news. Happy families.

  Barrett was more than ready for Andrea. In fact he had been thinking about phoning her for three or four days, and would have this morning if she hadn’t got in first. Andrea radiated the kind of sensual promise that made his cock grow hard just by being in her orbit. He threw a few things into an overnight bag and hit the road, leaving the Dolphin file locked in a safe – the same safe that contained his pistol, a German Sig Sauer nine-millimetre automatic – at home. It could wait for Sunday night. Hitting 130 on Pittwater Road he was light-hearted and buzzing with expectation. Then he saw a motorcycle cop booking someone up ahead, and slowed down to 110. He had never been comfortable driving within speed limits on open roads, and as a result had earned more than his share of fines and demerit points over the years. His car, a supercharged SS Commodore Series 11, was as smooth and soundless as a bullet train moving on a cushion of air. It was his one extravagance, and he loved to sool it along, feeling that effortless power surge underneath him when he exerted the slightest pressure on the accelerator. Right now George Hami
lton IV was singing ‘Abilene’ on the radio. He lowered the tinted, electric window to let some sun and a sea breeze waft in. Mai Ling King and Anthony Diaz slipped from his mind as he crooned along with George …

  In the rear-view mirror he noticed something rushing up to him at a rapid speed. It steadied right on his tail, then veered out to overtake twice before being able to do so. It was a red Mustang, late-eighties/early-nineties model. There weren’t too many of the more recent Mustangs in Australia, but he knew what it was from the pony in the radiator grille. Two heads – male, dark-haired, thirties – in the front. One with a moustache, he thought. All this information was processed automatically. Barrett was sitting on 135 now, hardly touching it, and these dudes cruised alongside him – pausing for a fleeting second – as if he were glued to the bitumen. Once in front, they catapulted into the distance with a full-throated V8 scream and flew out of sight like shit off a shovel, and were gone. Christ, they were moving. He made a mental note of the registration: CALLME 3. No real reason – just another old habit surfacing.

  In time his thoughts came back to Bunny Delfranco and the bounty hunter – or hunters – supposedly on his trail. Barrett had done the required course to qualify as a bodyguard, but that was only intended as an extra string to his private investigator’s bow. Since then he’d done his share of it: once for a rock star who was convinced the US Mafia was after him, then for a criminal who had turned state’s evidence in the ongoing investigation into police corruption and related matters. This underworld figure, a self-confessed hit man and major league extortionist who had spent over half his life behind bars, was absolutely paranoid that top-level cops had contracted out a hit on him. Barrett looked into it, found no real basis for his fears, but the man insisted on being protected around the clock, even inside his home when he was watching TV. He didn’t care how much it cost, and neither did Barrett. That guy was a cash cow, and a supreme egotist.

  On another occasion he had looked after a radical animal rights activist whose mission was to save pigs and cattle from the chop, and to stop horse and dog racing. She got up a lot of noses, was arrested a few times for making a pest of herself, but there was no threat to life and limb, no real test for Barrett. Then along came Melvyn Platt, the case Langley had mentioned. Platt was an American virtuoso pianist who had been hailed as the next Glenn Gould. He also had a fanatical stalker who followed him everywhere, even from New York to Sydney. This man had unspeakable designs on Platt – he’d written him hundreds of letters and made countless phone calls to describe how he was going to fuck him and then kill him by making a spit roast out of him. This guy was every bit as deranged as Steven Spielberg’s longtime stalker. Barrett never let Platt out of his sight for a second during his ten-day tour, even staying in the same hotel suite. As they were loading Platt’s gear into a limousine to go to the airport, the stalker had appeared from nowhere and put a gun to Barrett’s head and a second gun on Platt. He was armed to the teeth and looked wild-eyed and desperate, like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. The limo driver turned and ran, and distracted, the stalker had taken the gun from Barrett and aimed at the fleeing driver – which was all the opportunity Barrett needed to disarm and beat the tripe out of him before the cops arrived. The guy was found to have three more guns concealed on his person. That incident made a big splash in the papers, and Barrett Pike’s brave deed somehow linked him with the legendary Rufus Youngblood, John F. Kennedy’s and LBJ’s chief protector. There was even an old photo of the shaven-haired minder in his regulation snappy suit and dark shades, alongside a shot of Barrett. The connection was a strained – and embarrassing – one for him, but it had earned him a certain reputation, and got him this assignment, for better or worse.