Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  After that he decamped again and kept on moving, living in one no-account town after another before eventually finding himself in Denver, Colorado. It was fucking cold in winter, but there’d been plenty of work around and lots of loose, single chicks working in bars and diners. Edward was always keen for some snatch, but never again would he tie up with one. As a species, he decided, females were completely untrustworthy. They were good for shagging and breeding and nothing else. Women had a different kind of wiring inside their heads, and they spoke a foreign language. They were so sneaky. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the one in Phoenix had planned on turning him in to the CIA for the fucking reward. But he still thought of Olivet with affection and sadness – and anger, directed at Milo Caspar. He wrote and sent money to her occasionally, never expecting a reply, but then a scribbled note and a photo of his child had come from from her mother. She’d informed him Olivet had been murdered by the contras, but that the child – a girl named Cristina – was alive and living with the surviving members of Olivet’s family. She’d also thanked him for the money, and after that Edward made a point of sending cash whenever he could afford it, never knowing if it arrived safely or had been stolen by corrupt postal officers.

  13

  Sitting at his desk, still nursing a sore head as he sifted through the Dolphin file on Titus Delfranco, Barrett Pike received two calls from the police. The first was to inform him that his car was being returned from the forensic facility. Unfortunately, the only prints they had been able to lift were Barrett’s, which surprised him not at all. Investigations, the cop said, would continue. They had the bomb itself to work on, and that would certainly provide some leads. Barrett thanked him and disconnected, and immediately the phone rang again. This time it was a senior constable from Parramatta telling him that, in view of the fact that neither party wanted to press charges, no action would be taken regarding Barrett’s stoush with the Tucci brothers outside the courthouse. All the same, the cop said, Barrett should watch out for himself, and have nothing to do with the Tucci tribe if he valued his life. Barrett told him it was a bit late in the day for that, since he was giving evidence against one of them in a major fraud matter. The cop seemed to think that was a rather stupid thing to do.

  Then at around six, just as he was checking his e-mail and packing up for the day, in came a surprise visitor – Mai Ling King. She was wearing a tight, black, belted dress, ultra short, a red silk bandanna to match her vermilion finger and toenails, very dark glasses. Black platform sandals. Her legs were so smooth and glossy they must have been waxed that morning. Barrett would not have minded doing the waxing job. On her back she carried a tiny leather drawstring bag, also black, that looked barely big enough to hold anything more than a purse and a phone. The minimalist outfit made her look slighter, but no less attractive. Quite the reverse, in fact.

  ‘Mai Ling,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about you, wondering how you were.’ They were standing in the outer office; Mai Ling had helped herself to a plastic cup of water from the cooler.

  ‘I am all right, Barrett,’ she said, smiling in the sad way she had – the smile of a victim. She finished her drink and disposed of the cup in a swing-top bin.

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t sound too … convinced.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ She removed the glasses, and he could see that the lump on her eye had gone down considerably. The eyes themselves, however, were reddened – as if she had slept little, and cried a lot. But there were no fresh marks, at least that he could see. ‘I am all right,’ she repeated. ‘Truly. I only wanted to see you, because …’ But she faded away, seemingly unable to complete the sentence.

  ‘Never mind. You don’t need a reason, Mai Ling. What about Diaz? Has he been coming around?’

  She didn’t answer, but her silence told the story.

  ‘He has, hasn’t he? Mai Ling? Look at me.’

  ‘I can’t stop what he does,’ she said sharply. ‘He has power. I have … none.’

  ‘You have legal rights. You don’t have to put up with it. You could get an intervention order issued against him, so he can’t come near you. I’ll help you do that, if you wish.’

  ‘Intervention order? He wouldn’t give a shit about that. He would tear it up and laugh in my face. A little piece of paper? I don’t think so. A knife in the heart would be better.’

  She had a point. ‘Mai Ling, hold on a minute, will you? I’ve got one or two things to fix up, then we’ll go for a drink and discuss this. I know a good place, a quiet bar not far from here. Do you want to do that?’

  ‘Go for a drink? Sure.’

  ‘Good. Now sit down and relax.’ Pointing a finger: ‘I’ll be back.’

  The venue was a chi-chi downtown bar called Toute à L’Heure. Barrett had frequented it a number of times with female friends of the kind he wanted to know more intimately. It had a Left Bank look and feel, even down to the green-striped awning, the zinc bar and the European spigots that dispensed exotic draft beers such as Kronenberg and Beck’s. They even had bottled French mineral water for only ten bucks a throw.

  Barrett returned from the bar, having ordered a Dewar’s on ice for himself and a gin and tonic for Mai Ling. The gin and tonic was high-poured with a flourish by a flamboyant young barman from a litre bottle of Gordon’s into a large goblet filled with crushed ice, to which a wedge of lime and a splash of the Schweppes tonic were added. The two drinks and the split of tonic were set down on their table, along with a bowl of pistachio nuts, under which the account had been discreetly slipped.

  ‘Cheers, Mai Ling,’ he said, then, as an afterthought: ‘Good health.’

  ‘Good health. I’ll drink to that.’ She lifted the goblet, which looked ridiculously oversized in her elegant fingers. When she sipped from the straw, drawing the cold liquid into her mouth, Barrett suddenly knew he had more than a protective interest in her. She seemed to see it too, at that instant. He thought, there is no way you can suppress the sexual indefinitely. Like a seed in the ground, it will perforce succeed in breaking the surface. But this was pathetic: she was certainly young enough to be his daughter. He sipped the Dewar’s as he studied her face. The red bandanna gave her the look of a Khmer Rouge fighter from the seventies. The bruise on her eye had turned yellow, although she had done a good job of disguising it with pancake make-up, and the deep vermilion lipstick effectively blotted out the stitches on her lip. Her tanned shoulders were bare except for two shoulder straps that were no thicker than shoelaces, and from where he sat, Barrett did not see how she could be wearing anything in the way of a bra. Altogether, not a bad look, not too bad at all. In fact it could have been contrived to give a man a hard-on.

  ‘How old are you, Mai Ling?’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘I’m twenty-six,’ she said. ‘Is that old enough?’

  ‘Old enough for what?’

  ‘Old enough to be taken seriously as an adult.’

  That made him laugh. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I suppose because … I’ve always been treated as a child. I don’t know.’

  But he could see exactly where she was coming from. Mai Ling may have been twenty-six, but everything about her screamed: eternal teenager. Precocious, but a teenager nonetheless. These qualities, while endearing, could certainly invite unwanted reactions, such as being smacked around for disobedience.

  ‘How’s the drink?’ he said.

  ‘Fantastic. I love gin and tonic.’

  ‘I’m told they make the best gin and tonic in Sydney here. It’s all in the high pouring, apparently. They pinched the idea from the Basques in Spain.’

  ‘You’re bullshitting me.’

  ‘Actually I’m not. But whoever told me the story might have been bullshitting.’

  ‘He didn’t spill any, did he?’

  ‘Nope. He’s mastered that little trick.’

  She fished the lime wedge out of her glass, sucked on it and grimaced. It was exactly the kind of th
ing you would expect a kid to do. Barrett gave it a minute or so, then said, ‘So you’re fine. And there’s nothing you want to talk to me about?’

  She saw then that her time was up. She stirred her drink with the straw, staring into it, and said, ‘He’s been making threats – serious threats.’

  ‘As in, death threats?’

  She nodded.

  ‘On the phone, to your face, how?’

  ‘Both. And he sent me a letter. He didn’t sign it, but I know it’s from him.’

  ‘Is it handwritten?’

  ‘No, he’s not that stupid. It’s printed on a computer.’

  ‘Still, it may have his fingerprints on it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I tore it up and threw it away.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Mai Ling. That was important evidence. That could have nailed him.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I was angry and upset. I didn’t think.’

  ‘If he’s repeatedly threatening to kill you, then that would justify putting an intercept on your phone and recording all incoming calls. Police could take action on the strength of that.’

  She looked him dead in the eye for the first time since they’d sat down. ‘It isn’t me he is threatening to kill,’ she said. ‘It’s my brother.’

  ‘Your brother in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Holy Christ. What is going on here, Mai Ling? Why would he want to kill your brother in Hong Kong?’

  ‘He has his reasons. It’s … too hard to explain.’

  ‘Does your brother know about this?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You think so. Have you spoken to him about it?’

  ‘Yes. On the Internet.’

  ‘So let’s get this straight: Anthony Diaz is making death threats against your brother through you, not directly to him. Is that right?’

  ‘I think … the threats are both direct and indirect.’

  ‘What’s your brother’s name?’

  ‘Roland.’

  ‘Tell me this, Mai Ling. How does Roland, an information technology student in Hong Kong, fit into the picture here? Does he know Diaz?’

  ‘… He knows him.’

  ‘Through you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Has he done anything to offend Diaz?’

  Without warning, Mai Ling burst into tears. Heads turned towards them. Barrett experienced a flash: telling Andrea her husband was screwing rent boys and seeing her go to pieces in front of him – an inauspicious beginning to their affair.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mai Ling. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

  She reached into her bag and came out with a little packet of tissues, pulled one loose and wiped her eyes and nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘For embarrassing you. I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been much more embarrassed than that.’ She laughed and cried at the same time as Barrett fired up a Peter Stuyvesant. He was getting a niggling feeling about this – how far into her affairs did he really want to get? There was more than enough stuff going on already, for Christ’s sake. A thought occurred to him.

  ‘Does Diaz know you’ve come to see me?’

  ‘No. Not that I’m aware of.’

  Barrett glanced out the window, half expecting to see a dark Benz glide by. Then he remembered he still had Diaz’s pistol, in the safe with his Sig.

  ‘Just tell me this, Mai Ling. What is your relationship with Diaz?’

  ‘We are … ex-lovers.’

  ‘That’s all? And he’s mad at you because you’ve broken it off? That’s why he’s threatening your brother?’ It seemed a bit far-fetched, even for Diaz. But she was nodding yes.

  ‘It’s probably all bluff. I don’t see how he can harm Roland in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Yes, he can. He has friends there.’

  ‘Does he. And these friends … have they made contact with Roland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That was more serious. And people did crazy things in these love-gone-nasty circumstances. And yet, what could Barrett do? What did she want him to do? Nothing, probably: she was getting it off her chest. But why not go to the cops?

  ‘Why not go to the cops?’

  ‘I don’t trust cops. And they won’t do anything, anyway. They say go away. They only do something once the crime has been committed. Big bloody deal. Too late then.’

  There was no arguing with that. All the same, the niggling feeling at the back of his neck told him Mai Ling wasn’t being completely straight. He’d had to drag information out of her, and even then he felt sure there was a lot she was holding back. It was tricky darts. He had just about decided to pass on the matter when she placed her hand over his, and squeezed lightly.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘That’s why I came to you. I’m scared stiff.’

  Barrett said, ‘I’d like to help, Mai Ling. I said so and I meant it. But …’

  ‘… What?’

  He didn’t know what to say next. The words on his lips were I don’t trust you, but there had to be a more politic way of putting it. Her hand was still on his. Looking at it, then at her pretty, imploring face, he said, ‘I don’t see how I can.’

  ‘You could get rid of him,’ she said softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was an article in the paper about a private investigator who did that for someone.’ Barrett was having trouble believing what he was hearing. ‘Christ, Mai Ling. That guy is looking at fifteen years in the cooler. Do you mind? No thanks.’ The case she was referring to concerned a private detective and the wife of a wealthy tycoon. They’d fallen hard for each other and concocted a plot to top the husband and live happily ever after on his mega-millions. The idea was that the private detective would enter the Vaucluse house in the dead of night via a window she had left open, and shoot the sleeping husband with a silenced pistol. This would not be difficult, since he drank a bottle of Scotch every night and started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. So while this was happening, she was supposed to wake up, scream, then scramble out the window to safety while he put a few bullets into her side of the bed, to make it look good. It all went more or less according to plan, but unfortunately the wife cracked under intense interrogation and gave them both up. Result: instead of rooting her until he saw polka dots in front of his eyes and living like a prince, the gumshoe found himself being led handcuffed to a cop car with a jacket over his head. The fatal flaws in their brave plan were plain to see, but there was no underestimating cunt power: it could make a law-abiding, rational man do some pretty strange things.

  ‘But you could get away with it,’ she said. ‘He has a lot of enemies. How would they know it was you? The police probably wouldn’t even care if he died.’

  ‘Listen, Mai Ling, I do a lot of things in my line of work, some of them dodgy, but not that.’

  ‘I saw you deal with him in the restaurant. He’s scared of you. You could do it easily.’

  ‘Sure I could. So could anyone. But I was angry then. This is different.’

  ‘I am angry.’

  ‘I know you are. I can see that. And I don’t want to sound as if I don’t care, because I do, but …’

  ‘I’d deeply appreciate it. I don’t have money, but … I would be good to you, if you understand my meaning. I’d be very good to you, starting now, if you wish.’

  She squeezed his hand again, and Barrett had to swallow. Shivers ran up and down his spine like little mice feet.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m desperate. I don’t want my brother murdered.’

  ‘Nor do I. But you’ve got the wrong man. Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t find me … appealing?’

  ‘Christ. Of course I do. That isn’t the point, however. And to be honest, Mai Ling, I don’t believe you’ve come clean on this whole deal. Isn’t that true?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘What haven’t you told me?
’

  ‘You’re wrong, Barrett. I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘No. You are keeping me in the dark. I can tell.’

  She let go of his hand. ‘You won’t do this for me?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then I’ll have to. That’s all there is for it.’ She started getting up.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Sit down.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t matter. It was a long shot, I know, but I had to try. I thought you were more of a man, but I was wrong. Anyway, thanks for the drink.’

  She spun around and was gone from the place. Barrett, half on his feet, gave a second’s thought to going after her, then resumed his seat. What was the point? Christ. Kill Diaz, and Mai Ling would be his sex slave. Nice one: the pact you made in hell. He brought the Dewar’s to his lips, and as he did so his phone delivered an up-tempo rendition of ‘Dixieland’.

  ‘Pike.’

  ‘Barrett. It’s Geoff. Where are you?’

  ‘A place called Toute à L’Heure.’