‘You want to identify this hit man?’ Ray said. ‘Take care of him before he takes care of your principal?’
‘That’s the deal. Find where he is and eliminate him from the equation, as they say.’
‘Jesus, you don’t want much, do you. You should’ve nailed him when you had him in your sights. I saw that item in the paper this morning, but it didn’t mention any names.’
‘I was too busy ducking and weaving,’ Geoff said. He gave a description of the unknown assailant, mentioning too that he was American – or at least spoke with an American accent. ‘And that cannon of his packed a wallop. Heavy duty – a nine, or a .45, something like that. Nearly took off my right ear – I could’ve been one half of Chopper Read.’
Ray laughed. ‘Maybe you should get Chopper on the job.’
‘I’ve got you on the job, mate – haven’t I?’
‘Yeah, I’ll see what I can find out. It’s dodgy, though – you’re pre-empting a police matter. Give you a buzz later in the day.’
In the meantime Bunny was cooling his heels watching a raucous US sitcom while Barrett flicked through the Daily Telegraph. On page three there was a piece about an Annandale man who’d been fatally shot in broad daylight while walking to the local primary school to pick up his daughter, in what police described as a ‘classic drive-by scenario’. The assailant was apparently known to the victim – a brief altercation had taken place before the shooting. Apparently a military-style assault rifle had been used, sparking a fresh outcry from the anti-gun lobby. On the same page there was also an item about the discovery of a body in the water at The Gap, a notorious jumping-off place for suicides at South Head. The partially shark-eaten body had been wedged between rocks, which prevented it from being washed out to sea. When the police winched it up with the aid of a helicopter, they found what was left of the corpse to be riddled with bullets.
The victim was identified as Ronald Stafford, better known as Runaway Ronnie. Aged fifty-seven, Stafford was a lifelong burglar who had escaped from prison more often than the legendary Darcy Dugan. His boast was that he had been in and out of more tight spots than Casanova. Runaway Ronnie was a shifty, street-wise ex-jockey, still skinny enough to slip between prison bars or wriggle out of handcuffs. Now someone had seen fit to top him. Police admitted they had ‘no idea’ where to start looking for his killer – Runaway Ronnie knew hundreds of people, all of whom were criminals of one sort or another.
On page five, in the In Brief section, there was also an item about a violent teller machine mugging in the city. Christ. This town’s becoming more like Los Angeles every day. Soon we’ll have rival crack gangs led by warlords armed with AK-47s and surface-to-air rocket launchers. We’ll have barricaded neighbourhoods, no-go zones and private vigilante squads patrolling the streets. Barrett was also making and fielding one or two calls of his own. In particular he needed to discuss a couple of matters with one of his colleagues, who was temporarily taking over part of Barrett’s case load. Between the two of them, the phone calling had been going on most of the morning – Bunny talking to his team officials and fellow athletes, bringing them up to speed and making arrangements for a training session and a team meeting after the move-in. Then the Kings Cross dicks called to arrange a time for Bunny to come in and look at mug shots. It was getting under the athlete’s skin – Barrett could see he was becoming edgy, antsy, instead of the Joe Cool he’d been before the attack. Being cooped up obviously disagreed with him – he needed to be out there, moving around, running. Bunny made another call, to someone who wasn’t there, then yet another one to a party he referred to only as ‘man’. And the talk itself was coded to exclude Barrett. Nothing sinister about that – he was entitled to his privacy.
After Bunny had uttered his last ‘man’ and snapped the phone shut, Barrett said, ‘Have you called your father?’
‘Nope.’
‘Don’t you think you should? He’d probably be interested to learn the facts of the situation from you rather than pick it up second-hand from a news report.’
‘I know that, man. I’ve thought about it. But I don’t want to tell him in case he has a heart attack. He’d freak out, I know it.’
‘Your father has a heart condition?’
Bunny gave a nod. ‘Already had one attack. Runs in the family. His daddy died of it in his early forties.’
Barrett let that one pass. In the brief silence his phone rang.
‘Pike.’
‘Mate.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve seen him. He’ll call back later,’ Geoff reported.
‘Good. What are you doing now?’
‘Driving one-handed. You want me there?’
‘No, you’re sweet for a while. But Bunny’s move-in is at three, so if you could make it before then that’d be good. We’ll take him there together.’
‘Fine. Tell you what – I’m going to the office for a little while, fix up some stuff, then why don’t I pick up some lunch for us? I could be at your place in … an hour and a half.’
‘Sounds the goods to me.’
‘What does Bunny want? I’m not fucking getting … grated carrots and raisins and shit like that.’
‘I’ll ask him. Hey, Bunny, what do you prefer for lunch? Geoff’s bringing takeout.’
‘Ah … some pasta would be nice, or a pizza. I ain’t real fussy.’
Barrett relayed the information, Geoff said ‘got it’ and the phone went dead. Barrett had never once known him to sign off in the conventional manner – he simply disconnected when the conversation was over, the way they do in the movies. The challenge was being able to anticipate when he was going to do it – on numerous occasions Barrett had been cut off before he’d finished, yelling ‘wait’ into a dead phone, then having to call him back.
Geoff brought in three family-size pizzas, all Mexicana – ‘Decided to keep it simple, so you guys wouldn’t fight. And it might remind Bunny of home, even though it is on the wrong side of the Rio Grande.’
Bunny laughed – it was really the first time he’d done so spontaneously. ‘I ’ppreciate it, Geoff,’ he said, and started in. Like true bachelors they set the food on the dining table and ate it out of the boxes, at a rate of knots. Three phones were on the table, and when one rang they all picked up. It was Geoff’s.
‘O’Mara here.’
‘I’ve checked around,’ Ray Ward said, ‘regarding that matter of yours.’
‘Yeah, mate. Excuse me, I’ve got a mouthful of pizza.’
‘Why aren’t I surprised? Anyway, the name Mick Dawes cropped up in discussions. If anything’s going on in Sydney, he’ll have the skinny on it.’
‘Old Early? I thought he was dead.’
‘Not yet. He’s sort of semi-retired, but he makes a living as a gun wrangler. He is in fact the numero uno armouror to the underworld.’
‘Go on. Last time I saw him on television he could hardly breathe. That was about five years ago, on ‘A Current Affair’, I think. He had one leg in the grave.’
‘He’s a tough old bastard. They don’t make ’em like that anymore, mate. Crims these days are all a bunch of candy-arse fairies. They’re tough as long as they’re holding a gun. Take it off ’em and they cry.’
‘Anyone’d cry if you took it off ’em – ’cause you’d thrash the daylights out of ’em with it. Then you’d crush their fingers so they couldn’t wipe their arse for a year.’
‘Go easy. Anyway, Mick was reluctant to spill anything at first, which I found puzzling, so then I had to remind him that ICAC investigations have uncovered fresh evidence linking him to a string of unsolved murders dating back to the sixties. We have to decide whether or not to proceed, on the advice of the DPP, but Mick knows he couldn’t possibly make it through the committals, let alone the trials. It would also leave him without a bean, which in turn would leave his poor old wife with nothing when he does go – except the tab for all his legal costs, as well as his funeral. So anyway, he ve
ry guardedly said, in his usual devious fashion, that a mate of his recently supplied some specialist guns to an American. This guy wanted a high-powered sniper’s rifle – with a scope – and a heavy-calibre pistol.’
‘American,’ Geoff said, and stopped eating. On hearing the word, so did the others.
‘Yeah. Ah, this mate of Mick’s – read between the lines – said he had a one-off job. And he didn’t plan on sticking around after it.’
Geoff glanced at Bunny, who was all eyes. ‘Jeezus H. Christ.’
‘Sounds like your man.’
‘Is there a name attached to this person?’
‘Called himself … Duane, apparently. No surname.’
‘Description?’ He was writing on his half-empty pizza box, brushing aside pieces of bacon and salami.
Paper rustled at the other end. ‘Ordinary-lookin’ rooster – average height, heavyset, shorts and long socks. Black cap. And he wore yellow shades.’
‘Yellow shades. That’s unusual.’
‘Yeah. The ones sportsmen wear. Plastic.’
‘I know ’em. Did Mick’s mate have any idea where he was living?’
‘Afraid not. That’s about it.’
‘Thanks, Ray. I’ll stand you a lunch when this is over.’ He clicked off before Ray had a chance to say anything back.
They all looked at each other, Bunny’s eyes darting between Geoff’s and Barrett’s.
‘Duane, he called himself,’ Geoff said.
‘Could be a bullshit name,’ Barrett said.
‘Could be. Sounds like bullshit. Christ, I’d love to know where …’
Barrett said: ‘Hold on a minute. Hold that fuckin’ front page.’ He jumped up and grabbed the newspaper he’d been perusing. ‘Now where …’
‘What?’ Geoff said.
‘There was an article in here somewhere … here we go. Take a look at this.’ He spread the newspaper over the table, on top of the pizza boxes. There was an item headed ‘MYSTERY SURROUNDS ROBBERY ATTEMPT’, about a mugging at a city teller machine. Barrett raced through the text, slowing at the end. ‘The gun-wielding attacker was described as Caucasian, aged in his mid-forties, of medium height and stocky build, with a fair complexion and possibly an American accent. He was wearing a casual light blue shirt, light brown pants and a black cap.’ Remind you of anyone? And here he is, on candid camera. Is that your Duane?’
Geoff studied the grainy videotape still, showing a man thrusting a large, semi-automatic pistol into the face of a terrified woman. ‘That’s the bucko,’ he said softly. ‘Ever seen this head before, Bunny?’
Bunny looked hard. ‘No sir, I have not. But I didn’t see whoever it was anyway last night. I was eatin’ the sidewalk.’
‘I saw him,’ Geoff said, tapping the picture with his beefy index finger. ‘He’s Duane.’
‘That’s three times he’s turned up,’ Barrett said. ‘Bit of a coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ Geoff said. ‘Do you?’
‘Never have,’ Barrett said. ‘Tell you what. I’d say a little visit to old ‘Early’ Dawes might be in order.’
‘Have we got time? Before the move-in?’
‘No. Let’s get that out of the way, then one of us can go and see Dawes. You, I’d suggest, since you’ve had personal contact with Duane. And Ray’s your mate, not mine. Mick’d probably tell me to fuck off.’
‘Fair enough. Have to find out where he lives first. I’ve got a feeling he won’t be in the phone book.’
He picked up his phone and punched in Ray Ward’s number.
18
By the time Geoff was ringing Mick Dawes’s doorbell the sun had dropped below the horizon. From where he stood he could hear the breakers crashing on Curl Curl Beach. Mick had done pretty well in his semi-retirement – his two-tiered town house was a short walk to the Pacific Ocean. A stiff sea breeze, thick with a salt tang, slapped him in the face. He rang the bell again, and as he took his thumb away the door opened.
‘Yeah, what is it?’ a voice said from behind the heavy screen door.
‘Mr Dawes?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘My name’s Geoff O’Mara. I’m a friend of Ray Ward’s. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’
‘What about?’
‘About an American called Duane.’
No answer from behind the screen door. It was made with such a heavy steel mesh that Geoff couldn’t see Dawes, and had no way of knowing if his words had made any impact or not.
‘You a cop, or what?’ the voice said at last.
‘No, not a cop. I’m a private investigator.’
‘Well, I don’t see …’
‘Mr Dawes, can I please come inside? I’m not here to make any waves for you. I just need some information, and that’s the end of the story. It’s a private matter. If you would be so kind.’
The screen door opened and Mick Dawes stood before him in his brown-checked dressing-gown. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and there was an old man’s smell coming off him. He coughed, and Geoff could hear the phlegm in his sunken chest. So this was the legendary Mick Dawes, former king of crime.
‘Come in,’ he said, the coughing attack over. ‘What’d y’say your name was?’
‘Geoff O’Mara.’
‘O’Mara,’ Dawes said, rubbing his spittle-flecked lips with a finger. ‘Rings a bell from somewhere.’
‘Maybe from ICAC,’ Geoff said. ‘I’ve given evidence there once or twice. Our paths could’ve crossed at the hearings. Or you might’ve seen something in the paper.’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ Dawes said, still puzzled – and not a little suspicious. ‘Wait a minute – Geoff O’Mara. Aren’t you that jack from Queensland?’
‘That’s who I am.’
‘That’s it. The only squeaky-clean copper in the whole sunshine state. Fuckin’ world’s champion whistleblower, you and the bag man – what was his name?’
‘Jack Herbert.’
‘Jack Herbert, that’s the one. Christ, you must have stitched up a top deal.’
‘Nearly as good as yours, mate,’ Geoff said. Dawes laughed, but the laughter soon got the better of him and became a coughing fit.
When he had recovered he said, ‘I have seen you in the paper – and on television. You were in some court case …’
‘Anthony Rugulio Diaz. The witness eliminator.’
‘Diaz. That shitman. Had dealings with him recently, matter of fact. Yeah, yeah, it’s all coming back now …’ He seemed to drift away, then pulled himself up. ‘So what can I do for you, anyway? Come on in.’
Geoff followed him upstairs. On the way he noticed an elderly, troll-like woman sitting at a kitchen table and muttering as she examined her face in a small hand mirror. She didn’t seem to be aware of Geoff’s presence, or if she was, showed no interest in him.
‘That’s the wife,’ Dawes said. ‘Pay no attention. I’d introduce you, but it wouldn’t do any good.’
They reached a first-floor sitting room that was crammed with furniture, including a loud-ticking grandfather clock in one corner. That same old man’s smell made the atmosphere heavy – it was the smell of medicine, decay and death, and it made Geoff want to throw open a window. Dawes settled into a large armchair and gestured for his visitor to park himself on a floral sofa with antimacassars on the armrests. Next to Dawes’s chair was a drinker’s stand with a can of Toohey’s Draft on it.
‘And how’s the quiet life treating you, Mick?’ Geoff said.
‘Quiet, be buggered,’ Mick said, and chugged on his beer. ‘Excuse me – would you like one of these? I always have a few ales this time o’ night. One of the few pleasures left to a person.’
‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Geoff said. Dawes got up, went to the staircase and yelled at his wife to bring up a can. Then he sat down again.
‘I wish it was fuckin’ quiet,’ Dawes resumed. ‘I’m going to be seventy next month, got half a lung workin’, and the bastar
ds won’t leave me alone. You’d reckon they’d call it quits and cut a man loose after all these years, wouldn’t you? Should have a … what d’you call it? A reconciliation.’
‘Which bastards are these, mate? The cops?’
Dawes waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nah, nah, not the cops. They’re waitin’ their turn. This is the fuckin’ tax man I’m talkin’ about. Let me show you somethin’.’ He got up again, rifled through some letters on a desk, found what he wanted and brought it over to Geoff. ‘Listen to this, from the Australian Tax Office: “Dear Mr Dawes, further to your request for an extension, blah, blah, blah” – where are we – “Failure to lodge the full amount owed, including interest and penalties, by the due date will result in immediate legal action to recover the debt.” And do you know how much they want? Half a million. Half a fuckin’ million, mate. Do I look as if I got that kind of bread? Jesus Christ. They reckon this is all on the basis of undeclared income goin’ back to when Adam was on the tit. What a load of cow’s manure. Undeclared proceeds of crime, they reckon. They’re just settin’ me up, the bastards. They couldn’t give a fuck whether they kill me off or not.’
‘You didn’t make income from crime,’ Geoff said.
‘Not fuckin’ much, I can tell you that. There wasn’t much bread around in those days. There was no heroin, hardly any drugs at all, that’s for sure. Life was tough, mate, and there were no fuckin’ free kicks. You copped what you could.’
‘So how did you make a living?’
Hard Yards Page 19