Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘… Yeah. I guess.’

  ‘You guess. Okay, you mental fucking giant, so who is it?’

  ‘Ah … Billy Connolly.’

  Diaz roared laughing, but kept the cannon firmly on Barrett’s nose. ‘Billy Connolly. I like it, I like it. The guy’s going down, he’s gonna meet the big man, and he can still crack a joke. Good one, Pike. Now let me tell you mine. It’s Descartes. That’s D-E-S-C-A-R-T-E-S. He’s the dude that said, “Cogito ergo sum” – “I think, therefore I am”, to an ignoramus like you. I guess the flip side of that is, “I don’t think, therefore I am not.” Which just about sums up your, ah, current predicament, Pike. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?’

  ‘… Yeah.’ Still working on the pain, sliding his hand further south.

  ‘You are fucked. Say it.’

  ‘… I’m … fucked.’

  ‘You’ll hear … a roar in your head, then you’ll feel yourself being sucked into a black void. Oblivion. End of story. Bye-bye Pike.’

  Barrett, throwing his last card: ‘What the fuck difference does it make. I die now, you die next week or next year or fifty years from now. We’re all taking that trip sometime, Diaz, and we stay dead for a time that … a time that never ends. That makes this … shitty little life span of ours look pretty insignificant, don’t you think? So I don’t believe you’ve got anything to fucking crow about, you worm. It’s just a matter of filling in time until it’s your turn. You won’t be far behind me, you and your stupid fucking tattoos and your three fucking million bucks a year.’

  ‘You are a fucking philosopher, Pike. Did Billy Connolly teach you all that? I am impressed, my man. Impressed, but not that impressed. Bye-bye now.’ He thrust the cannon deep into Barrett’s nose, making him flinch and shut his eyes, awaiting that roar in the head. ‘This is loaded with dum-dums. I want you to think about that.’

  Barrett said: ‘Wait on. Listen. I know I’m going to die, I don’t care about that anymore. I give up. But I have to know one last thing.’

  A smirk spread across Diaz’s face. ‘Ah. Seeker of truth. Barrett Pike, the ever-curious philosopher, to the end. What is it, soon-to-be-extinct Pike man?’

  ‘Jesus … just take the fucking gun out of my face for a second, will you? So I can speak properly.’

  Diaz lifted the piece an inch or two. There was a deep red circular imprint on Barrett’s nostril. ‘Come on then, fuck you – what is it? I don’t have all night to fuck witcha.’

  ‘I want to know … what does it feel like copping a bellyful of bullets?’

  Bambambambambambam.

  Diaz didn’t react immediately. Each round hitting him would have been like a short, sharp punch, but his shocked eyes, fixed on Barrett’s, told the story. He knew what had happened – knew before he had properly understood. But there was disbelief, puzzlement in those eyes, too – how did it happen? How? Fact was, he simply hadn’t seen Barrett’s right hand, innocently massaging his midsection, slide down inside his underpants and come out with the little Ruger .22, Diaz’s own gun. In fact, he never saw it. In the next instant Barrett had grabbed Diaz’s gun hand and flung him on his back, shaking loose the cannon. Now he had it in his own hand, pressing it hard into Diaz’s ear.

  ‘You are fucked, my man. Your lungs and mouth will fill with blood soon. Can you taste it yet? In a second you might hear a roar. But I don’t think so. I don’t think you actually hear anything. You’ll just feel yourself being sucked into a black void. End of story. Bye-bye, Diaz.’

  He pulled the trigger, putting up his left hand to shield his face. When the dum-dum round impacted, everything in Diaz’s head exploded out over the plastic sheeting – saving the new carpet, but not the far wall.

  After he had removed the gag and blindfold and cut her free, he said to Mai Ling: ‘Go and get dressed. Don’t look at him. Get dressed and pack a suitcase. Essentials only. Is there any sticking plaster in the house?’

  ‘… Yes’. She didn’t seem to know where she was or what she was saying.

  ‘Bring me some and I’ll dress that cut on your neck. Hurry, Mai Ling.’ She tottered off, stepping over the corpse, its legs and arms still in spasm, and averted her eyes from the horrific spray of blood and brain pulp. Barrett immediately got to work arranging the scene. The .22 he wiped clean and dropped on the floor. It was Diaz’s: no way could he be connected to that. Thank Christ he had not given it to Geoff. Then there was the matter of Diaz’s cannon. He picked it up – there was blood on the barrel. ‘Fucking Heckler and Koch nine-millimetre,’ he said half-aloud. ‘Where do they get these damned things?’ He wiped it too, put it in Diaz’s right hand to make an imprint, then removed it and placed it on the floor, not far from the hand. There were no powder burns on Diaz’s hand, but that couldn’t be helped. The Sig he returned to the back pocket of his jeans. Oddly, it was the only gun present not to have been fired in anger. He took the knife to the kitchen, rinsed it and put it in a drawer. Diaz’s blood was streaked on his face: he washed it off, and washed his hands, making sure there was no blood left in the sink. There were blood streaks on his shirt, but the leather jacket would conceal those. What the police would make of it all he wasn’t sure – there was confusion, a gun too many, and too many wounds for suicide, .22 and nine-millimetre slugs in the body. Possibly it was some sort of underworld shoot-out. Wouldn’t be surprising, given Diaz’s history and criminal connections. As an afterthought he lifted Diaz’s wallet from his back pocket and opened it. There was a thick wad of notes, which he fanned through. They were hundreds, fifties – nothing smaller. I wipe my arse with fifty-buck notes … It had to be ten, fifteen thousand. He kept the cash, wiped the wallet and threw it on the dead man’s blood-soaked Hendrix T-shirt.

  Stepping back, Barrett surveyed the scene. Neither he nor Mai Ling had stood in the blood, so that was fine, and he did not believe he had left a fingerprint anywhere in the house. It all looked right to his ex-cop’s critical eye. During his time as a homicide detective he had examined many horrific crime scenes. It was not usually difficult to tell which ones had been ‘staged’, as they called it. He stuffed all the pieces of electrical tape into his pocket and put the chair back in its proper place, then made a mental note to pick up the tyre iron outside before leaving. The window he decided to leave open. As far as he could determine there was nothing to say he had ever been here. When Mai Ling appeared with her suitcase, he patched her up with the sticking plaster then he switched off all the lights, using a handkerchief, and they went out the front door.

  20

  In the car, deep in thought, he became aware that Mai Ling’s hand was on his thigh, the long nails digging into him. I’d be very good to you … There was, however, nothing even faintly sexual about it – this was a grip of terror; it was the grip of someone who had been miraculously spared from a certain death, and couldn’t yet believe it. Mai Ling had hardly said a word and was clearly still frozen from trauma. She was in a state of wild dishevelment, her face was stained with tears, and now and then she used a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose. Barrett prised her hand from his leg and placed it on her own.

  ‘Tell me what it was all about, Mai Ling,’ he said softly.

  Mai Ling sniffed, gulped, drew in a deep breath.

  ‘It’s my brother, Roland.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘… I wasn’t lying to you about that.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were lying. But you weren’t telling me everything.’

  She took her time, apparently arranging the story properly in her head before speaking. ‘A while ago … I mentioned to Diaz that I had a brother in Hong Kong. That was it. But then … later, he said he wanted Roland to meet some Chinese friends of his – in Hong Kong – about some business deal. I didn’t know what he was talking about. But then Roland rang me to say he had been visited by these men who he thought were Tong.’

  ‘Gangsters.’

  ‘Yes, gangsters. They … they asked him to take a small amount of drugs into Sydney for them.
It was to be during the Olympics, when the customs people would be too busy to pay much attention …’

  ‘Right. And he agreed?’

  She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘You don’t say no to these people. These are Tong. When they ask you to do something, it is … an order.’

  ‘Understand.’ Barrett checked the rear-view mirror: there was a police car behind him. His heart gave a leap. But they were not after him – just behind him. Didn’t mean a thing. He slowed down, and they cruised past, not even looking at him.

  Mai Ling said, ‘He was supposed to carry the drugs inside a special laptop computer. He didn’t want to do it, but he had no option. But then later, they visited him again and said he also had to carry an attache case containing more drugs in a false bottom, as well as some strapped to his body in a money belt. Altogether, eight or ten kilos of smack and amphetamines. He said no. They beat him up. They put a gun in his face. They said I would be killed unless he agreed to do it. Roland was very frightened. He told them the X-ray machine at the airport would detect so much drugs, or the dogs would sniff it. He knew he would look so nervous they would search him. They said not to worry, they would let him through because there would be so many people arriving. And they were going to pay him ten thousand dollars.’ She wiped her nose. ‘He was … freaking out. He didn’t know what to do. If he got a conviction for carrying drugs, he would never have a career. His life would be ruined. But if he didn’t do it …’

  ‘Diaz would kill you.’

  She nodded, wiping away tears. ‘But he decided to kill me anyway, no matter what Roland did. It didn’t make any difference to him. And … after what happened in the restaurant, he wanted to kill you too. So he worked out this plan, made me call you … I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘He had the knife at my throat …’

  ‘Mai Ling, he’s dead now.’

  ‘Yes. He’s dead.’ She sighed deeply. ‘It seems impossible. But he is, I know …’

  In fifteen minutes they arrived at a motel – the Lamplighter in Edgecliff Road. Barrett knew the place – it was the kind of motel where couples who were married to other people met, where no questions were asked, and where they left you to your own devices. Barrett had been here himself, several times, with a married woman. That was a hot affair, exciting at first, but then it got too crazy and he had to ditch her. He met her here for the last time, told her it was over, and she went completely postal on him. It was not a pleasant memory, especially the part when she threw the electric kettle at his head. It was full of boiled water at the time.

  Barrett said, ‘Listen to me, Mai Ling. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m okay. Where are we?’

  ‘It’s a motel. I want you to check in there, using a false name. Can you do that?’

  ‘… I guess.’

  ‘What name will you use?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know … Melissa McKee.’

  He laughed. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘I made it up.’

  ‘Fair enough. Have you got your phone?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘When you get in there, ring the airport and book yourself onto the next flight to Hong Kong. There’s one tomorrow morning, I’d say – Singapore Airlines, or Thai International. Make sure you’re on it, Mai Ling. Get out of the country for a while. Keep your head right down.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Till things cool off here. Six months, a year. Do you have a Chinese passport?’

  ‘Chinese and Australian.’

  ‘Got them both with you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was something he meant to do, or say, but it was lodged in the back of his mind, inaccessible for the moment. ‘There’s nothing you can do for Roland here. But over there you might be able to help him. I think … when these Tong characters find out what’s happened to Diaz they’ll give it up, because there’s no Sydney end. The deal will fall through.’ I hope.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. She didn’t sound convinced, however. ‘He might have had someone working with him. I heard him speak on the phone …’

  ‘Quite likely.’ He produced a business card. ‘Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Yes.’ She scrabbled around in her bag and came out with a felt-tipped pen. Barrett gave her the card.

  ‘Write down his full name and address.’

  She did so, and returned the card to him. ‘They might do something to him for revenge.’

  Barrett had thought of that. ‘It’s a possibility. Not much we can do about that from here, unfortunately.’

  ‘… No.’

  ‘So you’ll do as I say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Send me a postcard when you get there, so I know. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He put on his leather jacket and zipped it up, got her trolley suitcase from the trunk, hefted it onto the sidewalk and pulled out the handle. The neon lights of the motel beckoned like a flowzy tart offering no-frills, no-strings satisfaction: come on, honey, let me do it for you. She followed his sight line down the driveway. In Saigon, the girls would call in sing-song voices from doorways: ‘Hello Joe. Jig-jig, ten dollar, hand relief, five dollar. Come on, Joe, let’s go.’ Hand relief. It had seemed such a quaint term for a fifteen-year-old Asian girl to use.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ she said.

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Please, Barrett. I don’t mean … You don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to be alone tonight, that’s all. I’m … scared.’

  The idea of spending the night with Mai Ling and not doing anything made Barrett smile – tightly. She was such a wicked, instinctively sexual and knowing little person. He steeled himself, shook his head. ‘Mai Ling, I have things to do. I can’t stay with you. It’s important we’re not seen together anyway. We have to split up. Check in, make the call, then go to bed and try to sleep. You’ll be safe.’

  She nodded silently, face downcast.

  ‘And listen. You must not speak to anyone – anyone – about what happened tonight.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘If you do, we’ll both be in deep strife, Mai Ling. You’re not supposed to shoot people, even scumbags like Diaz. Understand? We’ll be dragged through the courts and finish up in the nick.’

  She nodded again.

  Barrett said, ‘Come here.’ Like a meekly compliant child she went straightaway into his arms. He held her, feeling the soft coolness of her youthful skin and smelling her salty tears. She did not speak. He held her hard, harder, and she pressed herself into him. He flashed onto a motel bed scene: he was slow dancing with Mai Ling, rocking and rolling. Sensing his thoughts, she insinuated her thigh between his legs, folded into him and nuzzled him like a cat. His right hand slid under her top and caressed her bare back, tracing lines along her spinal column. Then without thinking he kissed the side of her neck – just a moment’s fleeting lip contact, nothing more, but her response was instant, magnetic. Sex flowed from every part of her. He understood that violence was a turn-on – he’d been there before. He had killed a man once, down south, and then the only thing he’d wanted to do for the next twenty-four hours was fuck non-stop. His heart thudded – or was it hers he could feel? One thing for sure – she had to be acutely aware of his sudden and dramatic transformation. It was right there, pressing into her. She moved against him, slinkily, cat-like, almost had a hand on it when he drew back, holding her at arm’s length.

  ‘No. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  Simple question – to which he had no answer. She pushed his arms down, took a pace forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He closed his eyes, let his head drift. The kiss was not passionate, but expert way past her years: playful, lingering, the hint of a darting tongue, the tingle of fingertips skating over the sandpapery stubble on his face. When it ended she murmured in his ear, �
�We don’t have to fuck, Barrett. I told you that. All I want is for you to hold me – take me to bed and hold me in your arms until I fall asleep. You can even keep your clothes on, if it makes you feel safer. Please. Pretty please.’

  Put like that it seemed mean to deny her. What man could do that? And what was the harm in it, anyway?

  ‘An hour,’ he told her. ‘Not one minute more.’

  And that was when his phone played strains of ‘Shanendoah’.

  ‘Pike.’

  ‘Been trying to reach you. Had your phone switched off?’ Geoff said.

  ‘Sorry, mate. I’ve had some sorting out to do. Fill you in later. What’s the situation?’

  ‘We’re in the hotel. I’m there right now.’

  ‘Good one. What’s it like?’

  ‘Okay. Third floor, good view of the village. Cable TV, fully stocked bar fridge, Spanish handmaidens laid on. All the essentials.’

  ‘How’s Bunny?’

  ‘Spoke to him not twenty minutes ago. Said he was having an early night. All pretty quiet around here.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be there in …’ He glanced at Mai Ling, who was waiting patiently. ‘I’ll be there when I can. Sometime tonight.’

  ‘See you when.’

  Gone.

  He clipped the phone to his belt, grabbed the suitcase handle, put his other arm around the slender waist of Mai Ling. She covered his hand with hers, pressing firmly on it.

  ‘One hour,’ he reminded her.

  Mai Ling said, ‘In China, one hour can be a very long time.’

  He put the suitcase back in the trunk, then idled down a gently sloping driveway to the motel office. The sign in the window said NO VACANCY.

  ‘This is going to be easier said than done,’ he said, applying the handbrake.

  ‘You saved us from Diaz – you can get us a motel room,’ she said, and he looked at her sharply. She was smiling at him in the gloom, then slid a hand across and rested it on his upper thigh. He swallowed and climbed out.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the manager said through the sliding glass window. He was mid-forties, with fair, wavy hair and an open face. Barrett was wondering if he might be susceptible to a little friendly persuasion. ‘Sign means what it says. Maybe you heard we have a thing called the Olympics on at the moment. There wouldn’t be a room anywhere between here and Goondiwindi.’ Sounded as if he’d said that line to a few people.