Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  There were two muggers: a male and a female, both young – twenty, if they were lucky – and desperate. Lowlife junkies – skinny, hair like rope, tattoos, dirty clothes. The victim, a thirtysomething man in a suit, was bailed up with his back to the bank wall, his plastic card in his hand. Edward stopped dead. The male mugger had a big knife, like a butcher knife, which he was waving in the victim’s face as he ordered him to withdraw all his money, now, you cunt, or I’ll fuckin’ slice you. Do it! The chick, a nasty little piece, was spitting and screaming at him too. The poor guy was crapping himself. Apparently they’d mugged him before he’d made his withdrawal, which told Edward a lot about the intelligence of these people. I will, I will, just get the knife out of the way, the guy was yelling, but the muggers couldn’t seem to get the message that he needed to be allowed to turn around to put the card into the machine and punch the numbers. They were intent on threatening him, holding the blade against his throat, spitting and swearing and kicking him in the legs.

  Edward took a couple of steps closer. Up until then, none of them had noticed his presence. The screaming bitch turned to him and said, Fuck off, mate, just fuck off or you’ll get it too, you cunt. She raised her arm, and Edward couldn’t tell if she had something in her hand or not. What had he walked into here? Christ. He unzipped his belly bag and pulled out the big .44. She advanced a little further before noticing what he was holding, and the next thing she’s been smacked hard in the ear with the heel of the butt. That made her stagger. Then he cocked the weapon and stuck it in her boyfriend’s eye. Let the fuckin’ knife drop, asshole, or this wall’s gonna wear your fuckin’ excuse for brains. The blade fell, and Edward kicked it away. Then he pistol-whipped the shit-scared mugger, slashing him across the face, slicing it open, and then pounding him with the heavy butt. He went down on his knees, cradling his battered, bleeding cranium.

  Turning from him, Edward put the gun back in his bag and approached the woman, who was leaning on a car and whimpering, also holding her sorry head. Edward grabbed a bunch of ropy hair, lifted her face, and then bludgeoned it senseless with a barrage of solid, short-arm jabs. With each blow, her pulped head snapped back and forth on the flexible stem of her neck, like a speed bag. Threaten me, you fucking little slut. She folded without a squeak, and then Edward took a step back, steadied, and kicked her in the stomach. He felt everything inside her go to pieces then. Don’t, the boyfriend moaned; don’t hurt her, she’s pregnant. The fuck she is, Edward said, and kicked her in the groin this time. Who the fuck wants another one like you, anyhow, asshole?

  When it was over Edward dusted himself off and straightened his clothes. The incident had lasted less than a minute, but as Edward knew from experience, violence seemed to go on for much longer than it did. There was no sign of the victim – he’d had the good sense to scamper in the midst of the shit-storm. There didn’t seem to be any witnesses either, except for a handful of people who had crossed the street or backed off. Understandably, ordinary citizens have no wish to involve themselves in an ugly scene. Edward had inflicted a fearful summary punishment, but he was still angry and pumped up. He had zero tolerance of street crime, not for any social reasons but because it annoyed the shit out of him. These individuals were nothing but excrement. They were things. In his opinion they should all be rounded up, shot and bulldozed into a big hole, the way General Galtieri or good old Pol Pot would have handled things.

  He was a block-and-a-half away before he heard the police sirens. What he needed now was some place to clean up – there was blood on his hands and some spots on his shirt. Maybe there was some on his face too. He wiped an arm across his brow and it came away wet. Fuck it. Fortunately it was nearly dark, but you couldn’t wander around city streets for long looking like a raw steak. He came to a pub and went in through a hallway and followed it until he reached the toilets at the back. There was a man standing at the urinal, so Edward went into a cubicle and locked the door. When the man had gone, Edward came out and washed up at the hand basin, using a dirty little piece of soap and some paper towels. His face was fine, but he could taste blood. It was a funny thing – whenever he was in a fight, a fist fight or a combat situation, there was always the taste of blood in his mouth afterwards, even though he had not suffered an injury. The only explanation he could find for this strange phenomenon was that his anger became so intense and his blood so heated that he could actually taste it through the thin membrane of his mouth, or his gums.

  All four of his right knuckles were split. He rubbed at the spots on his shirt until they were hardly visible. When he was checking himself out in the mirror, he noticed his shades were missing from the top of his golf cap. Shit. They were probably back at the teller machine. Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter a single hair in a whore’s beaver. He unzipped his bag, took out the pistol and ran some water over it: there was blood on the barrel and the butt-heel. There were also little fragments of chipped bone on the butt, which he wiped off. Probably infected fucking blood, full of HIV and Hepatitis C. As if malaria wasn’t bad enough. Goddamned assholes. He wished he’d finished them off. One thing for sure: that cunt would not be giving birth to any lowlife babies.

  At Circular Quay, Edward strolled around like everyone else, watching the ferries dock and the people getting off and on. As far as he could see, every other person was Japanese. He found there was a last ferry going to a place called Balmain, which sounded like somewhere a royal family might live, and decided to pay it a visit. According to his map, it wasn’t far. He got aboard and sat outside, at the rear of the craft. It was a nice feeling travelling on water, soft air on his face, the bridge and the bright lights of downtown Sydney to stare at.

  When the ferry docked about fifteen minutes later, Edward caught a bus that went to the main strip, which was called Darling Street. He got off with everyone else at the Town Hall stop and wandered along. It was full of tourists here. Every second place was a bar or restaurant. He selected one that was more a cafe than a restaurant, ordered a Maker’s Mark and ice as he passed the counter and sat down, facing the street. The windows were fully open, allowing the clean night air to waft through. Edward lit up a Camel and waited for his drink. A young woman, sitting with her boyfriend at a nearby table, turned around and gave him a filthy look, and Edward smiled and blew smoke towards her. She gagged, fanning her face and generally putting on a performance, and the two of them picked up their glasses of iced water and moved away. Good. He waited for the bourbon to arrive, then withdrew the torn-out phone book pages, flattened them out on the table and started calling hotels. On his ninth call, he hit paydirt.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not able to provide that information,’ a woman’s voice said – bit of an Irish burr in it.

  ‘That’s okay, ma’am,’ Edward said. ‘My name is Ted Sylvester. I’m a sports journalist from the States. I was wondering if I could have a quick interview with Bunny, if he’s staying there. Maybe you could check with him first. I’ll hold on.’

  It worked. The woman hesitated, there was a wait of maybe a minute, then she said, ‘Putting you through.’

  Bunny picked up on the second ring. ‘Hel-lo.’

  ‘Bunny Delfranco?’

  ‘You got it, buddy.’

  ‘Hi there. I’m Ted Sylvester, as in Stallone. Call me Sly, Bunny – okay if I call you that?’

  ‘That’s my name, man.’

  Edward could hear a TV in the background. He had the distinct impression he was competing with ‘Peak Practice’ for the man’s attention. ‘Right. Bunny, I’m a freelance sports-writer out of Cleveland. My stuff is syndicated through twenty-seven states. I was wondering if I could have a brief word or two, kind of a personal profile, for the folks back home.’

  ‘Sure. Ask your questions, Ted.’

  ‘Thank you. First off, how are they treating you Down Under? I take it this is your first visit here.’

  ‘Yes it is. I like it fine, Ted. The people here are real nice, very hospitable and friendly. Th
ey’re lookin’ after me. I must say, I am surprised – I didn’t think Sydney was such a big town. In my mind I had it around the size of Atlanta, but it puts me more in mind of Dallas, or maybe San Francisco.’

  ‘Uh-huh. So have you seen the sights yet?’

  ‘No, sir. I did catch the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House when the plane came in to land, but that’s it so far. I’m on a tight training schedule.’

  ‘Sure. There’ll be time for that. Bunny, I understand you have an interest in racing greyhounds back home. Would you like to tell me a little bit about that?’

  ‘Well, I have three dogs at present – Midnight Kiss, Sweet Georgia and Connie’s Caper. That’s in order of their age. Connie’s Caper is named after my mom. She spoiled him when he was a pup. But Sweet Georgia is the quickest – she’s already won three open races. Midnight Kiss, well – he pays his way, but he ain’t no great shakes.’

  ‘That’s interesting, and a cute story about Connie’s Caper. You hope to catch some dog racing while you’re here?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it, to be honest. But now you mention it – sure.’

  ‘They have a dog meeting here Thursday nights, at a place called Wentworth Park.’

  ‘Wentworth Park?’

  ‘Wentworth Park, yeah. It’s not that far from town. In a suburb called Glebe, I believe.’

  ‘I could do that, sure. I’m not up until the first qualifying round on the Friday. I could maybe fit in something like a dog meet.’

  ‘I’m a big dog fan myself. Maybe we could run into each other there. They have real live bookmakers, not just pari mutuel betting. It’d be a fun time.’

  ‘Sounds like.’

  ‘Okay, Bunny, I won’t take anymore of your time. Oh, before I go – I understand some crazy outfit has made threats against you. For the record, are you concerned at all about that?’

  ‘No, sir. I got my mind on one thing and one thing only – doing the best I can and winning gold.’

  ‘But I assume you have, uh, protection of some kind.’

  ‘Oh, well, you have to take reasonable care. No sense in gettin’ killed for nothin’. But then I might get run over by a bus, anyhow.’ Bunny laughed, and Edward joined in.

  ‘Too true. Good luck for now, Bunny, and thank you for your time. I hope I see you at the Wentworth Park dog meet Thursday.’ Edward wanted to make sure the name was lodged firmly in Bunny’s mind.

  ‘Sure thing, Sly. See you around, man. Have yourself a real good one.’

  ‘You too, buddy.’ Edward clicked off. So far, so good. He sat back, relaxing. He could tell Bunny was being polite about the dog meet, but at least the idea had been planted. He put the phone back in the belly bag. Then he caught the waitress’s attention and ordered another Maker’s Mark.

  Barrett Pike was lying on his back, watching with intense interest as the slender form of Mai Ling King slowly – teasingly – snaked its way up to his face. When she got there, she took his head in both hands and started kissing him, very gently and sweetly. Then she introduced her tongue into his mouth, and that was a different story. Barrett could feel her small, perfect breasts rubbing on his chest hair as she continued kissing him, sliding her tongue around his lips and then plunging it in again. All the while his cock grew harder and harder, pushing and driving against her stomach. In her own good time, she reached down and took it between her fingers – lubricating it by placing her fingertips in his mouth, then smearing the engorged head – before tucking him up inside herself with a deft, two-fingered movement. No doubt she’d done that before. Then she swallowed him whole. I’d be very good to you, starting now, if you wish. Barrett’s eyes fluttered, then closed. Mai Ling was tight, slick, thrilling past description. She was releasing so much liquid, his pubic hair was saturated with it. As his excitement grew, he felt a powerful desire to turn her on her back and take charge, but she pinned him down with surprising strength – clearly she intended to remain in the driver’s seat. His hands skated over her shoulders and back, tracing the fluid rippling motion of her spine before progressing to the damp cleft area of her buttocks. This he caressed with minimal contact, and that really hit the G-spot. She sped up her action, smothering his body with her slippery one, and then a plaintive sound, like the sob of a distressed child, issued from her throat. She clung to him as she came and came, and when she’d finally had enough she held herself still, letting him thrust upwards to come off as he pleased. He felt hot, it was on the way, it was there; he opened his eyes to look into hers on the edge of ejaculation …

  … But it wasn’t Mai Ling on top of him anymore. It was Karen – at least it was her face, framed in Andrea’s blonde hair, and she wore a quizzical expression, as if she had caught Barrett doing something wrong, and couldn’t believe it. Did she know it was Mai Ling feeding his fantasy as he made love to her? Could she see inside his mind from her vantage point, somewhere in the afterlife? His eyes opened, this time for real.

  He was breathing hard, his heart raced, and there was a sticky coating of sweat on his face and throat. He sat up in the bed, switched the lamp on and took stock. His mouth was dry. Christ, that had been so real – an interactive sex dream. He had actually been going at it with Mai Ling. He was so goddamned horny, and he still had the diamond-hard erection to testify to it. The build-up had been vivid, the explosion near, and now he felt unspeakably let down. He sat there for a little while, contemplating Mai Ling, how she had managed to insinuate herself inside his head, and how he wanted her to come back, just for a little while, and finish what she’d started. The only way you can relive it is by repeating the experience. The feeling he had was that she had led him on to the brink before morphing into Karen/Andrea. He saw and felt her again in fleeting glimpses at first, then in longer, more colourful sequences. Soon he closed his eyes again, concentrating, fixing on her, and with not a little help from his right hand, the nocturnal emission that had so narrowly evaded him in sleep found its way out.

  16

  The following evening, Geoff O’Mara was using his index finger to move the ice around in his club soda while he watched the people cruising around the hotel’s lobby – guests checking in or out or asking tiresome questions of the concierge, who was a most obliging and patient man. A feisty couple demanded to change their room to one with a better view, and he had to explain to them five different ways that there weren’t any vacant rooms here or anywhere else in Sydney to change to before they got the message. What a rotten job. Foreign accents dominated, especially American, Canadian and German. Not many Chinese or sons of Nippon were in evidence at the Sebel Town House.

  Geoff sipped his soda and munched on some complimentary nuts. He had positioned himself in the cocktail lounge so he could see – and hear – all the action at the main entrance as well as the lobby and lift area. Nothing out of the ordinary was going down, no-one out of place caught his eye. Geoff had done a fair whack of this surveillance caper; he reckoned he could spot the potential assassin among the general run of harmless punters. In his experience, a suspicious-looking person cannot help but look suspicious, no matter how he tries to blend in. One of the giveaways was that they were too keen-eyed and sensitive to their surroundings; there was an intensity, a sense of devious purpose written over them. If they were carrying a concealed weapon they were usually conscious of it, and it showed in their body language. There were only so many places you could hide a gun, and Geoff’s eyes scanned all the possibilities whenever a new head came into view. Not even matronly females escaped his penetrating scrutiny.

  Geoff was dressed in slacks, open-necked shirt and cream sports coat, the last serving to conceal his own weapon – the legal one, a snub-nosed .38 which was in a shoulder rig rather than on his hip, where it would be more easily noticed. Barrett had suggested he do this first shift, since Bunny didn’t know him and wouldn’t feel he was being watched over. They had decided it might be a good tactic to operate as a tag team, at least for openers. It was a strange bird who obje
cted to being protected. Usually it was the other way around in the bodyguarding business, and Geoff wondered if Bunny had a hidden agenda. He sipped the soda again, and his phone went off.

  ‘O’Mara.’

  ‘Just me.’ It was Barrett’s voice. ‘Everything cool?’

  ‘All quiet, mate. Dead boring, in fact. No talent around, either.’

  ‘Good. Don’t want you getting distracted. No signs of the principal?’

  ‘Nope. Must be watching television. Either that or he’s got a chick in his room.’

  ‘That’s always possible. Give me a buzz if anything develops. If he goes out, and I haven’t called you, trail him. Discreetly, of course.’

  ‘Will do, amigo.’ He clicked off. As he did so, a man in a spotted shirt and powder-blue shorts approached and asked if he could have Geoff’s ashtray. Geoff nodded, giving him the cursory once over. Geek. He watched the man sit down and light up, then returned to the folded newspaper he was using as a prop. It was opened at the crossword, but he hadn’t got far with it.

  Half an hour later a young black man in a tracksuit came out of a lift. Geoff had never seen Bunny Delfranco in the flesh, but he knew who it was straightaway. Not merely from the photos Barrett had shown him, but from the charismatic field, the glow that radiated from this dude as he casually dropped his room key into the slot and sauntered out the main door, into the street. He was alone. Geoff watched him stand on the steps and take a good, hard look both ways before slouching off to the right. Geoff dropped some shrapnel on the table, picked up his paper, put it in his jacket pocket and sidled out after him, as inconspicuously as a one hundred and fifteen-kilogram private detective can. It was almost nine when he exited the automatic glass doors.