Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘What’s that – a whorehouse?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘How about a real drink? I can meet you at the Sheaf in half an hour.’

  ‘The Sheaf? You’re on,’ Barrett said. He glanced at the account, threw thirty bucks on the table and left.

  Barrett had plenty to think about in the back seat of the taxi. It was the first time he had been asked to kill someone, and although he’d had little problem saying no, it could have been different. If he had been shagging Mai Ling, if he’d done his nuts over her … In the end, it was fine line between citizen and contract killer, between free man and convict. History was littered with the ruined lives and violent deaths of dick-driven men and their female counterparts. He could still feel the faint imprint of her hand squeezing his. When she’d first done it, he’d experienced a shiver, and now the little mice feet scampered up and down his spine again. I’d be very good to you, starting now if you wish. She’d missed, but she hadn’t been far off the mark.

  The Sheaf Hotel in upscale Double Bay had changed a lot since the eighties, when it had been a regular hangout for criminals, cops, lawyers, bookies, anyone on the make. In the old Sheaf, crim/cop deals were cut, conspiracies were hatched, proceeds from armed hold-ups were brazenly whacked up. There used to be plenty of punch-ups too, and firearms were sometimes produced as argument-settlers. But all the main players from that era were gone now – old, dead or locked up for good. Now the place had cleaned up its act enough to attract tourists, the sockless Gucci loafer set and semi-respectable boozers such as Geoff O’Mara and his cronies.

  As soon as he had a schooner in his hand, Barrett told him the story. Geoff listened attentively, without a flicker of surprise on his face. You could tell him the Pope had run away with Scary Spice and he’d cop it stone-faced.

  ‘And you knocked her back?’ he said, and made half his beer vanish.

  ‘Course I knocked her back. You’d need fucking rocks in your head to fall for that one.’

  ‘That’s a horny little chick you’re spurning, mate. I’d fucking do it in a flash.’

  ‘Bullshit you would.’

  ‘Christ, are you mad? She’s dead right – cops wouldn’t give a blind fuck if Diaz bit the fucking dust. There’d be so many suspects they’d have to go through the phone book. I can’t believe you could be so … so selfish, so callous as to leave her swinging like that. What about chivalry?’

  ‘What about twenty years in the nick?’

  ‘Nah. No way.’ He drank more beer, looked thoughtful and added, ‘Put it this way. She’s going to do it herself – or try to – and if she succeeds, the prick’s dead anyway, and you don’t get to enjoy the benefits of her everlasting gratitude. Where’s the sense in that?’

  There was a certain distorted logic there. ‘True. But I get the distinct feeling she comes with more than her share of problems.’

  ‘Christ almighty, man, you don’t have to marry her, do you? The way I understand it, this is a purely carnal agreement.’

  ‘Maybe you should have a word to her.’

  ‘Maybe I will. Have you still got Diaz’s gun?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tell you what I’d do. I’d take him somewhere out of the way, some lonely outpost, shoot him in the head and then set it up to look like suicide. Queensland coppers used to do that all the time in the good old days. It was in the training manual, along with brown paper bags, members, for the use of. But you’d need to make sure you killed him outright with the first shot. Otherwise it could be messy.’ Clearly he was referring to a long-running case south of the river in which a woman was supposed to have committed suicide by shooting herself twice in the brain.

  ‘That’d work, I guess. But it’d take two to do it, because you’d have to leave his car there. And a note, if you could persuade him to write one.’

  ‘No problems at all. I’m in.’

  Barrett looked at him, and they both laughed. Sometimes you couldn’t tell with Geoff. At the heart of his jokes, there was always a core of seriousness. The harder he laughed, the more he meant what he said.

  They fell silent for a few reflective moments, then Geoff said, ‘Why don’t you give me his piece anyway? Bastard’s got mine. I’ll give the matter some thought.’

  Barrett shrugged: typical Geoff O’Mara bar-room bullshit. ‘My buy,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Geoff said, when Barrett had returned with fresh schooners, ‘what’s the latest on that Palm Beach thing?’

  ‘Fuck-all. The cops are returning my car – no result there. They’re working on the actual bomb, so maybe they can find out where the dynamite came from. There aren’t too many legitimate sources of the stuff.’

  ‘Only every cow cocky in the place. Not to mention road builders, demolition firms, miners …’

  ‘They’re not sources. But you’re right, it could’ve been knocked off from anywhere. I don’t have high hopes for an early arrest.’

  ‘So you reckon they were mad Arabs, do you? What have you done to offend them? Have you been mouthing off about Saddam down at the local mosque?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure it was mad Arabs. I just saw these guys in the Mustang for a few seconds, through smoked glass. My immediate impression was Middle Eastern, but I could’ve been wrong. And I’m not even sure it was a Mustang at the house. I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It was a V8, though.’

  ‘Yeah, it was a V8. When they took off, I thought V8, and Mustang, because it had that note, the scream. It’s … distinctive.’

  ‘It is. But it’s not unique. A Corvette has the same throaty sound. Or a Trans Am.’

  ‘You’re right, they’re all similar. But it’s definitely an American muscle car we’re talking about.’

  ‘Sounds like. But you couldn’t say it was the Mustang with any certainty.’

  Barrett: ‘No. Shit. Of course it was the Mustang. How could it not be? What would be the odds on someone renting one to go to Palm Beach – using a stolen credit card – being a different pair of hoods from the ones who tried to blow me sky-high?’

  ‘They used a stolen credit card? You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Yeah, definitely a hot card job.’

  ‘In that case the odds would be, oh, about a million to one, at a conservative estimate.’

  ‘Exactly right. Especially in view of the fact that I checked the address they gave the rental firm and guess what? It doesn’t exist. It was an abattoir, but the site has been disused for ten years or more.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you. That’s the sealer then.’

  ‘Yeah. It is for you and me, but it’s not enough to bring in the cops, is it? Because I couldn’t stand up in court and swear it was the same guys.’

  Geoff was staring into his beer, assuming a thoughtful posture. ‘It seems they’ve gone to a lot of trouble on your behalf, old buddy. Why? Who would you put at the top of the hit parade?’

  ‘Christ, how far back do you want to go? I’d say there’d be twenty, thirty people I’ve helped put away or whose lives I’ve re-arranged one way or another. In homicide you put people in for fifteen, twenty years. Who’s going to stew over me for that long, find out where I am and make it their mission to blow me away? It takes a certain dedication. A passion, in fact.’

  ‘Well, crazoids have that in all four suits. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to depress you, but it would help if you could narrow the field down a bit. Leave ancient history to the archaeologists for the moment.’

  Barrett shrugged. ‘Since I’ve moved here, I haven’t racked up too many enemies in that league. Your mate, Diaz, the Tucci boys, and that’s about it. The rest of it’s been pretty harmless, really. Not stuff you’d kill for. A bit of corporate fraud here, some shoplifting there. Company surveillance has been the mainstay. Some domestic shit.’

  ‘Never underestimate that. But – putting Diaz to one side for the minute, because he’s mine – what about Ernesto? He hates your guts, obvious
ly. Does he hate ’em enough to try this?’

  ‘I’d say so. It’s the honour of the clan, all that Mafia crap. But you know, when Ernesto was threatening to kill me the other day, he didn’t refer at all to the Palm Beach thing. He was fucking fired up, mad as hell, and I reckon he would’ve made a crack, like: you were lucky the other night, you cunt, but I’ll get you. He would’ve. The fact that he didn’t tells me he didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll buy that. So we’re back to square one.’

  ‘That’s right. There’s just one tiny thing

  Geoff drank a heap of beer waiting for Barrett to assemble the idea. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, it doesn’t sound like much, but I can’t put it out of my mind. When I was fighting the guy with the jimmy, just before he belted me, I caught a whiff of something. For a split-second only, before I had other things on my mind. It was a strong smell, not unpleasant, but I’m fucked if I can remember what it was. When I think about it now, I think of … sailing ships.’

  ‘Sailing ships?’

  ‘Yeah. Not now, but back in the old days. You know, the clippers and galleons on the high seas.’

  ‘Jesus, mate, what have you been smoking? Galleons on the high seas? Next you’ll be saying he was a fucking pirate. Was it Captain Morgan, or … fucking Blackbeard, maybe?’

  ‘I told you it was a fuckwitted idea. But it’s all I can come up with when I try to remember that smell.’

  Geoff said, ‘Trying to remember a smell is the same as trying to remember an orgasm. The only way you can relive it is by repeating the experience.’

  With that pearl Geoff went to the bar. Barrett lit a Stuyvesant, casting his mind back, trying hard to recapture the essence of that moment in Andrea’s front yard. But, like the smoke from his nostrils, it had gone into the ether.

  When he returned Geoff said, ‘Feel like a feed at some stage?’

  ‘Yeah, why not.’

  ‘We could go to Henry’s over at Five Dock.’ Henry’s was a top Malaysian restaurant, noted for its traditional fare.

  ‘Sounds cool to me. But I can’t have a big night.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘I’ve got to be bright-eyed in the morning. The Dolphin guys are bringing Titus Delfranco to the office.’

  ‘Ah. He’s in town already?’

  ‘Arrives tonight.’

  ‘Tonight. Well, you’d better hope he doesn’t get popped off on the way in from the airport.’

  ‘He’s Dolphin’s until they hand him over to me.’

  ‘So how are you going about this? He’s a bit reluctant, isn’t he? From what you’ve said.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s reluctant. I don’t know, maybe he’ll be more sensible face to face. He needs to understand the seriousness of the situation. Jesus Christ, how obsessive can you get? Is a gold medal worth more than your own fucking life?’

  ‘I think I can understand his reasoning. If you don’t accept it, then there is no threat. And if you do, it’s gotta put you off, hasn’t it.’

  ‘Yeah. Bullshit logic’

  ‘Elite sportsmen, mate. You can’t talk sense to ’em. They’re different from you and me. It’s the drugs.’

  ‘It’s going to be a prick of an assignment. All I can do is trail around after him, keep my eyes peeled, and if someone takes a pot shot, hope they miss. The thing is, this hit man, if he exists, stands to collect a million bucks, so presumably he has an escape plan. It’s not much good if you hit the jackpot and then spend the rest of your life in the big house. But how can he possibly escape in the middle of the Olympics?’

  ‘As you say, he’ll have a plan. What I can’t figure is, why kill him here? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier back in the States?’

  ‘Yes, but you have to understand the mentality behind it. This Khormitch guy, the sect leader, wants to attract maximum attention to his cause. What sweeter revenge is there than cutting the guy down at the height of his glory? That’s really playing God, isn’t it.’

  ‘It certainly drives the point home. But that contract is worth every cent of a million buckaroos.’

  ‘I wish I could approach it from the other end. If I had some idea where the threat might come from …’

  ‘Instead of just tagging along with the target, waiting for him to be taken out?’

  ‘Yeah, and maybe me along with him. Listen, you’ve got better police contacts than I have. Do us a good turn and check around the traps, will you? Discreetly, of course. Anything … unusual or suspicious going down, any clue at all would be a help. See if we can find the hitter before he finds us.’

  ‘I’ll do that. But don’t hold your breath. The cops are flat out like lizards drinking. There’s always shit going down, but the odds on finding what you want would be …’

  ‘… A million to one.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I know. But here’s an incentive. If you do find out something, and it leads to a positive result, I’ll split the reward bucks with you.’

  ‘Reward bucks? You didn’t say anything about that.’

  ‘There’s a hundred and fifty thou in it for me if I deliver him safely home. Tell you what – we’ll split it down the middle. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Barrett. That puts a whole new complexion on it. We stop this guy from getting himself put off over the next two weeks, and a lazy hundred and fifty large jumps in the skyrocket?’

  ‘That’s the deal, according to Mr Langley. The old man’s kicking it in.’

  ‘It’s the least he can do. Christ, how long’s this been going on? You should have mentioned that at the start. I would have shown much more interest.’

  ‘So I take it you’re in?’

  ‘My word. I was wondering how I was going to get my snout in the Olympic trough. So we find the goddamned hit man, wherever and whoever he is.’

  ‘Find the fucking hit man.’

  ‘Should be easy enough – like finding a new star somewhere out there in the galaxy. I’ll get on the Hubble right away. Well, not right away. Your turn to go to the bar.’

  14

  When Langley and Formosa brought him in, the first thing that struck Barrett about Titus Delfranco was his size. For no good reason he had anticipated a taller man, but Delfranco was a sort of compacted version of Mike Tyson, with muscle power that made your eyes pop. Langley had compared him to a steam train, but Barrett thought he was more like a small four-wheel-drive truck. His head, like every black sportsman’s, glistened as if spit polished; when he chewed gum, which was constantly, every piece of bone and tissue in his head moved in concert, as if all the components formed a perfectly coordinated system of interlocking mechanical parts. He was wearing the US team parachute-silk tracksuit pants and a loose-fitting, open-weave singlet, so there wasn’t much left to the imagination in the upper-body department. The neck, shoulders, chest and biceps were simply enormous. No hint of any body fat. Barrett’s first thought: steroids, by the bucketload. More of a coffee-and-cream mulatto than a pure black African-American, he seemed to have extremely thin skin, through which his myriad mapping of pumped-up veins and arteries were trying hard to force themselves. Looking at him, sitting in his presence, Barrett could not help but feel that this person was something very special, very rare indeed. Not a human, but a magnificent bionic creation, a modern marvel of advanced genetic engineering.

  Langley made the introductions, and Barrett was surprised at the softness of Delfranco’s handshake. It was almost as if he couldn’t be bothered. When the formalities were completed and everyone was seated around the office, Barrett said, ‘What do I call you – Titus or Bunny?’

  The athlete said, ‘No-one apart from my folks has called me Titus since I was a kid in short pants. It even says Bunny in my passport.’

  ‘Fine. So, Bunny. We have a slight problem on our hands.’

  ‘Might be a problem for you boys. It ain’t for me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You’re not worried some
one might try to kill you?’

  The big shoulders gave a listless shrug. ‘I got other things to think about.’

  ‘I understand that. But we have to be security conscious at the same time, right? It’s not much good winning a gold medal if you end up taking it back home in a box.’

  Barrett’s eyes were fixed on Bunny’s: he wanted to see every reaction, try to discover something of the real individual inside this manufactured carapace. Bunny’s deep brown eyes did not blink or flinch, and he paused from chewing as a big smile spread slowly across his face.

  ‘We all got to meet the maker someday, Barrett. I guess I’m as ready now as I’ll be in fifty years time. How about you?’

  It was Barrett’s turn to smile. ‘Bunny, in my line of work, someone always wants my guts for garters. I’m used to it. And I guess I’ve had more practice at getting ready to meet the maker than you have. I appreciate your point, however.’

  ‘People have tried to kill you?’

  ‘You bet.’

  Still grinning, Bunny slid a fresh stick of gum between his lips. ‘But you’re still here, I notice. The good Lord doesn’t want you yet.’

  ‘So it seems. But that’s my problem. Let’s talk about you. I appreciate you’re probably feeling jet-lagged, but I’d like to discuss some tactics, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I leave tactics to my coach.’

  To Barrett, Langley explained: ‘Bunny’s coach is Walter Motzing. He’s acutely aware of the situation, and agrees that steps have to be taken to ensure Bunny’s safety. Walter was supposed to be here now, but he called in to say he was tied up. You can arrange a meeting with him later today to work out some basic strategies. I have his mobile number.’

  Barrett said, ‘Thanks, I’ll do that. Bunny, I don’t want to interfere with your schedule anymore than is necessary, but that’ll be unavoidable to some extent. Certain measures are going to have to be implemented, as of now. A determined man with a gun only needs one clear shot. I take it you don’t want to make it too easy for him.’

  ‘No, sir. But, you see, back in the States we have this thing called civil rights. I assume you have it here too. Let me tell you something. I’ve been running fast since I was three years old. I used to race my daddy on a dirt road that went by our place, and it took me until I was nine before I could beat him. He was on the track team at college, so he was quick. It was the proudest day in my life when I did that, because he was my hero. My daddy predicted then and there that I would win an Olympic gold medal one day, if I put my mind to it, and that’s what’s been driving me ever since. It has become my dream. You have to understand that. You have to understand I’m not about to prejudice my chances of making that dream real on account of some redneck fruitcake thinks it’s cool to shoot troopers. You gonna shoot troopers, you better believe they’re gonna come for you, and you will pay the price. As for me, I’m here to do the best I can for my country, my family and myself. It can’t possibly be any other way.’