Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  Andrea didn’t respond. They sipped, and her eyes met his for the first time. They seemed flat, almost … glazed.

  ‘Can we sit over there?’ he said, picking up the bottle and indicating the rear section of the open-plan living room, where there was an expensive leather lounge arrangement.

  ‘If you like. But Barrett, it really isn’t ...’

  ‘If we’re going to drink good champagne we may as well be comfortable. Don’t you agree?’

  She shrugged and followed him to the back of the room. Barrett sat on the couch, which faced the floor-to-ceiling window and sliding doors opening onto the back yard. From there he could see the barbecue and paved entertaining area. Andrea settled into a wing chair opposite the couch, and placed her drink on the coffee table in front of her. A goose-necked lamp next to Andrea threw a slash of light between them.

  ‘Why didn’t I what?’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘When you opened the door you said, “Why didn’t you …?” Why didn’t I what?’

  She ran a hand over her eyes, drawing back strands of hair. ‘Oh … nothing.’ She seemed about to go on, then shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  They sipped.

  ‘How’s the restaurant business?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, how’s the restaurant business?’

  Another shrug. ‘It goes.’ Her eyes darted. She sipped the wine, and he could see she was using it as a prop. ‘That’s a strange thing to ask.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m not with you, Barrett. Look …’

  ‘That’s funny. I’ve had the distinct impression – many times – that you were with me. All those times in bed, for instance. Or … in the yard, or on the front of the car, when we couldn’t wait to get to bed. I felt sure there was something going on between us then. But evidently I was mistaken.’

  Andrea played with her champagne glass, twirling it around by its stem and studying it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

  ‘What exactly do you expect me to say?’ she said flatly.

  It was a good question. Barrett didn’t know the answer. ‘Just be honest with me,’ he said.

  Now she looked at him. ‘I’ve always been honest with you,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not quite true, is it? What you mean is, you’ve always been honest with me – until now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’

  ‘You’re wrong. And I have no idea what you’re on about, Barrett. You’re speaking in riddles. And quite frankly, I don’t …’

  ‘That’s a very apt word, riddles. Before, you said it was a strange thing for me to ask how your restaurant was going. You’re right, Andrea. But then, strange things have been happening lately – very strange things. Someone planting a bomb under my car is just one of them. Is it any wonder I speak in riddles? All I see around me are fucking questions that have no answers. I feel as if I’m spinning around in circles, like that glass in your hand.’

  Andrea stopped twirling the flute and opened her mouth to speak, but Barrett felt he had some momentum up and needed to keep pushing home his advantage. ‘The thing is, you see, I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure out who hates me enough to blow me up like that. There’s no shortage of candidates, don’t worry, but … somehow, when I go through the list one by one, none of them seems right for it. It doesn’t add up, no matter how I move the different parts around in my mind. And the cops are no use – I doubt if they’ve even figured out where the dynamite was stolen from yet. The thing is, there’s been so much demolition and construction going on in preparation for the Olympics, it’s always going to be a hell of a task tracing the stuff.’

  Andrea sipped and said, ‘I agree with you, Barrett. But what’s it all got to do with me?’

  ‘I’ve spent a bit of time this afternoon on the phone, Andrea. So much so the battery’s nearly had it. And I’ve done a lot of thinking. You see, I’m a snoop, and I can’t help myself. I had a contact check the Company Register. Your restaurant, Trunk Road Tandoor, lists two directors: yourself and one Mohsin Pivarran. This Pivarran, it turns out, has been associated with a series of failed enterprises over the years. He is actually not important; he’s a front for the financier who brokered the deal to set up the place. And this broker put together one-and-a-half million dollars to purchase the freehold and start up Grand Trunk Tandoor – right?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with you, Barrett. It’s my private concern. Do you mind?’

  He put up a hand, fingers spread. ‘Just bear with me. I did some company stuff when I was a cop, so I have a bit of a handle on this. I know about Pivarran because I’m currently involved in a case against Charlie Tucci, Ernesto’s brother, and I’ve done some research on him. Back in the eighties, Charlie was involved in a string of business scams with – guess who? – Mohsin Pivarran. What happens, and what has happened in the past, is that the mystery broker puts in his man as part of the deal, you both sign the contract with the banks or whoever, and away you go. However, the broker’s screwing you from day one. For a start, the purchase price is heavily inflated – it isn’t worth anything like what you paid for it – but because the funds are forthcoming, who cares? It’s just a set of numbers on a contract that will be more than taken care of when the company goes into profit. But the company never does go into profit, because Mohsin Pivarran is in cahoots with the broker. His job is to spirit all the funds into a network of bogus accounts, leaving the cupboard bare. You don’t know what’s going on, but how would you? You’re hardly ever there, and it’s simply an investment as far as you’re concerned. You never examine the books. But then the loan repayments dry up, the bank institutes inquiries, demands an audit … next thing you know, the fraud squad’s knocking on the door. Am I getting warm?’

  ‘It’s bullshit, Barrett. Total bullshit. And I want you to leave now.’

  ‘Hear the end of the story first. And remember, for Christ’s sake, I’m on your side – even if you don’t want me to be. We’re talking about a million-and-a-half bucks, Andrea. Think about it – people die on the fucking street for a hit of smack these days. Imagine what this team is prepared to do. Anyway, once the cops are involved, the shit hits the fan. Pivarran goes into smoke with his share, and the mystery broker is protected by a complicated bullshit corporate structure that distances him personally from the scam. That leaves you. You’re a signatory to the deal, remember? Even though you’re an innocent dupe, the cops want to nail someone. So do the banks. The money’s gone, so is Mohsin Pivarran. What they really want is the broker, of course – and you know who he is. They’ve been after him for years. I’m not sure if he always uses the same name, but he’s been running this type of rort for some time now. The key to it is recruiting a high-profile respectable party such as you, someone with assets to secure the funds, then they systematically strip the company clean, fold and vanish. They’re known as the Indian Mafia – and you’re their latest victim. I’ll bet you put your house up as collateral. Did you?’

  She didn’t answer. Barrett’s mouth was dry. He drank some champagne, watching Andrea’s face betray the story. She didn’t need to say anything. He’d been doing this on the fly, not really knowing but strongly suspecting, and now it was clear. The further he got into it, the more he knew it was right.

  ‘Andrea, when I was fighting that guy out the front, I thought I could smell something on him, very briefly. It was spice – Indian spice. Not the smell someone has when they’ve eaten a curry, but when they work with the stuff all the time. It was dry spice, like cardamom, turmeric … and it was in his clothes, his skin and hair … He was an Indian, Andrea. It was probably Pivarran and an accomplice. And it wasn’t me they wanted to kill, but you. I just happened to be here. They put the bomb under my car because … I don’t know, maybe they thought it was yours, or maybe … It’s hard to be quiet when you’re walking on gravel, Andrea. Your Range Rover was half in the ga
rage as usual, on gravel, but my Commodore was parked on the grass. That’s a lot quieter, and anyway what does it matter whose car it is when you’ve got enough dynamite to blow up the whole fucking house? I suppose they could have just left it on the front doorstep, but they might have activated a sensor light.’

  She was staring at him now, stroking her chin and looking more drawn and colourless than he had ever seen her. He decided to finish quickly.

  ‘So why do they want to kill you? My guess is you’ve got a sweetheart agreement with the cops. You help them nail the real culprit, the head of this so-called Indian Mafia, and they no-bill you for your part in the scam. It makes sense: being dragged through the courts for this kind of thing isn’t going to do much for your image or career prospects, is it? Once the shit hits you, it sticks. And you didn’t want me in on it because you knew I’d eventually run it down, bring it all out in the open. You didn’t want me to rock the boat – so you kicked me overboard.’

  Andrea sipped, staring at him. Seeing her in this half-light, it was hard to recognise her. It seemed a different sort of face from the one he’d known intimately, a different woman from the one he’d loved – and still did.

  ‘If you have done a deal with the fraud squad, I’d be very careful, Andrea. Remember they are cops first, last and always. They’ll dump on you the minute it suits them, no matter what they’ve told you. They are professional bastards.’

  ‘I haven’t done a deal with the fraud squad,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Please go away.’ But her face was in her hands, golden hair a mess, as if she couldn’t bear to hear so much truth in one hit.

  ‘Not yet. There’s still a bit to get through. I’ve also done some checking up on your old pal, Dr Duncan Murray.’

  ‘Murray? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve been thinking about him for a while now, since I decided it wasn’t me they were trying to blow up. Number one, he is a very dodgy bill of goods. Always has been. Number two, he is very rich when he has no business being so. He is listed with the Taxation Office as an “investor”. That’s a word that covers a multitude of sins. I’ve known drug dealers who call themselves investors. Number three, he was here when I arrived for lunch that day – hours before the bomb was planted. Bit of a coincidence? I don’t think so. I watched the way he addressed you, the pointed way he squeezed your shoulder. I’d interrupted something, hadn’t I? He said he couldn’t accept your invitation to stay for lunch, when it was clear he was not invited. He’d called in unexpectedly, to speak to you, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?’

  She looked up through her tangled hair. ‘He called in to speak to me, yes. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘And not to have lunch.’

  ‘… No.’

  ‘You didn’t invite him.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But he said you did. And when he squeezed your shoulder, he was sending you a message: Be a good girl, Andrea.’ Barrett’s mouth was dry again, so he drank some more champagne, then topped up their flutes. ‘Or was he saying goodbye? Maybe it was a final consultation. Maybe he didn’t expect to see you again. That’s more likely.’

  ‘I fail to see how you can drag him into your … fantastic story. There’s no basis for that.’ She sniffed and looked towards the front door, as if she’d heard a noise.

  ‘It so happens,’ Barrett said, more quietly, ‘that Duncan Murray has a house in Palm Beach. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I knew that.’

  ‘He probably doesn’t live there all the time, but he was there that weekend, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose so. How would I know?’

  ‘Andrea, when I was driving up here, I was passed by a red Mustang containing two men. A bit further on they stopped, and one of them got out to speak on the phone. Reception can be bad in a car because of electrical interference. This man had his back to me, but he was medium height, slightly overweight, thick black hair. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt. Does that remind you of anyone?’

  ‘No. Should it?’ She threw another quick glance towards the front door.

  ‘Just asking. Anyway, I am almost certain that Mustang was the car used by the bombers. I saw them on the road, Andrea, and then when they took off out the front here I thought it was the same car, the Mustang. But the thing is, they hit town about lunchtime, so what did they do all day? Where did they go? When we went down the main street, going for our walk on the beach, I kept my eyes open for them. I was looking for a red Mustang and an overweight man with black hair and a blue T-shirt on. They weren’t around. For what it’s worth, my guess is they were at Duncan Murray’s place, cooling their heels. Finetuning their little device.’

  ‘A guess isn’t worth much, Barrett. You’re groping in the dark.’

  She was more right than wrong. However, the mere fact that she was behaving so passively told Barrett he was hitting some raw nerves, and he ran with it.

  ‘Okay. Here’s another one. My gut feeling tells me that the man in the blue T-shirt was your partner, Mohsin Pivarran. And I think you know, or at least suspect, that.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Barrett. Dead wrong.’

  ‘I also believe Duncan Murray is in this up to his suntanned neck. And I’ll tell you something, Andrea. If I can find a link between Murray and Pivarran, I’m going after both of them. And believe me, they won’t know what hit them. They might not have known it, but they put that bomb under my car. They tried to kill me.’ He swallowed some champagne. ‘If the link exists, I’ll find it. You know that.’

  Barrett was feeling desperate for a cigarette. He had his Stuyvesants in his pocket, but even in the circumstances felt it was unacceptable to smoke in the house.

  ‘Is that it?’ she said. ‘All done?’

  He leaned forward, clasping his hands. If he stood, he could reach across and touch her. It didn’t seem a wise career move.

  ‘As I said, I don’t hold anything against you, Andrea. I’m on your side. But you obviously don’t think much of our relationship, keeping me in the dark when you knew what was going on.’

  She said a surprising thing – surprising because she didn’t deny the latter part of his statement. ‘There are different kinds of relationships, Barrett. Same as wearing different clothes, depending on the occasion. I can’t be held responsible for what was going on in your mind.’

  ‘Yes, there are different kinds of relationships, and I suppose ours is – was – one of convenience.’

  She shrugged and pulled down her mouth. ‘We’re supposed to be adults, Barrett. But you seem to have emotional problems in that regard. You behave like a child.’

  ‘Do I? Perhaps you’re right. I do think a lot of you, and I can’t do much about that. Tell me, what’s your relationship with Todd Bowman? What outfit do you wear with him?’

  ‘Todd? Todd’s a dear friend.’

  ‘Is he now. A dear friend. I suppose he’d have to be, the way he was hanging off you and calling you darling, like a pet puppy. Todd Bowman’s a prize flake.’

  ‘That’s your opinion.’

  ‘Karen, if he’s not, I’m … Xena, the warrior princess.’

  She gave a hollow sort of laugh. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You’d never cut it. And it’s Andrea you’re talking to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Andrea – not Karen.’

  ‘Oh, shit – I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. But it proves my point, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What point was that?’ – as if he didn’t know.

  Before Andrea could respond the front door opened, and a camp, melodious voice rang out.

  ‘Hel-lo. Anyone home? It’s the Candyman.’ He sang a few bars of the Sammy Davis Jr song as he shut the door and meandered inside. He was part way across the room before he noticed there was a third party present. In the gloom he couldn’t see Barrett, because of the c
ouch. But, twisting his head around, Barrett saw him all right. The Candyman was Todd Bowman, and in his right hand he held a small plastic zip-lock bag, the kind banks and businesses use to hold currency. Before Bowman whipped it into his pants pocket, Barrett estimated it contained a full gram of fine white powder.

  ‘Hello, Todd,’ he said.

  ‘Oh … ah … Don’t tell me …’

  ‘Barrett Pike. We met all of a day ago.’

  ‘Cor-rect, at the Olympic stadium. Well … what a nice surprise, seeing you again.’

  ‘Grab a flute and help yourself to some of this champagne, Todd. In fact, you two can finish it off. I was just … leaving.’ He glanced at Andrea: she dropped her eyes, sucking her lips.

  ‘Oh,’ Todd said, standing there, and the relief stamped on his face was palpable.

  Barrett said goodnight and slipped out into the evening, past the fig tree. This time he avoided the wind chimes. For a second or two he wondered if he should check his car for a device, but then his phone played ‘Colonel Bogie’s March’.

  ‘Pike.’

  ‘Tex, mate. Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘Palm Beach. On my way in now. Did you get a root?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. She’s been and gone – had to get back before the old man came home.’

  ‘Christ, are you rooting married women?’

  ‘Well … else … there? Children? Farm animals, maybe?’

  ‘Don’t disgust me. Is everything sweet? You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Yeah … sweet. Except … just had a … from … Ward. A body’s turned up … a paper recycling plant … Chatswood. Guess …? Michael “Early” Dawes.’

  25

  It was a long, lonely drive back to Homebush Bay. Barrett cursed himself over and over, repeatedly hitting the steering wheel, for that idiotic slip of the tongue. Up until then he’d believed Andrea – despite herself – was prepared to hear him out because she needed these revelations to be made. He understood how hard it could be, putting on a false face while carrying heavy shit like that around in your head. She wasn’t prepared to spill, not yet, but the signs were there. He felt he was on the money about Mohsin Pivarran and Duncan. The details might not have been completely accurate, but he was close to the bone. The mere presence of those players in the same game meant something. Andrea knew that; she was cracking. She was coming around … and then he had to blow it all with one inexcusable error. With a single wrong utterance he had coughed up the ball and undone all his good work. Goddamned.