Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘It seems,’ Ray said, ‘that there’s been a major split in the ranks of this religious sect, Seed of God. The second in charge has jumped ship. Apparently this Khormitch dude is way out of control, off his nut and terrorising the shit out of one and all. Anyhow this deserter, a guy named Jerry Khan, told the FBI Khormitch had awarded the contract to one Edward Hickey, who is an ex-Marine. Khan was there when Khormitch interviewed this Hickey, who has some kind of amazing history. Garovich has put together a dossier for us, including a photo. Most of it is downloaded from the Internet.’ He put one of the sheets in the middle of the table. It was a scanned black-and-white photograph, a military mug shot complete with name, rank and serial number. ‘This was taken about twenty-five years ago,’ Ray said. ‘Soon after he graduated from Fort Bragg. They couldn’t come up with a more recent one, for some strange reason. He must be camera shy. But he should still be identifiable from this. So what do you reckon? Is this your Duane?’

  Geoff and Barrett studied the mug shot. ‘How is it Marines always have that crazy look in their eyes?’ Geoff said.

  ‘Because they are crazy,’ Barrett said. ‘You would be too if you went through half the shit they have to. It’s meant to transform half-normal human beings into brain-dead, go-get-’em automatons and super-efficient killing machines who obey without a second’s hesitation. That stare will paralyse you at a thousand yards. And yes, that’s Duane. Younger, thinner, fitter, but it’s him. Not a face you forget, even if you only see it for a few seconds.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Geoff said. ‘Although I didn’t really look at him in the Sebel. And it was dark when he took a ping at me. But I’m getting this fucking … vibe from the page.’

  ‘So am I,’ Barrett said. ‘This is a seriously dysfunctional individual.’ He finished his vodka and started on the Crown. Then the waiter came to take their food orders, and the three of them took a quick look at the menu.

  ‘The char-grilled three-inch New York cut sirloin and jacket potato for me,’ Ray said.

  ‘Make that two,’ Geoff said.

  ‘And again,’ Barrett said. ‘Let’s keep it simple.’

  ‘Excellent choice, gentlemen,’ the waiter said, scribbling.

  ‘Ashtray, please,’ Barrett said, getting out his Stuyvesants.

  ‘Coming up,’ the waiter said.

  ‘And … a bottle of the Coonawarra John Riddoch Limited Edition Cabernet Sauvignon,’ Geoff said, reading from the wine list. ‘The 1994 vintage. Don’t panic, lads. I’m paying.’

  ‘Shit,’ Ray said. ‘You all right? That’s a hundred and fifty buckaroos.’

  ‘Cheap,’ Geoff said. ‘Tell us more about this Edward Hickey, Ray.’

  ‘He comes from Concord, in New Hampshire. Enlisted in the Marines at nineteen, then went to Vietnam early ’75. Saw action there in the final stages of the war as an embassy guard. He was one of the last Americans to evacuate, along with embassy staff, from the rooftop.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Barrett said. ‘The last chopper out of Saigon.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, Hickey was on it. Earned a citation for bravery under fire. He returned to the States briefly, then apparently went to Laos to train the local rock apes to fight the communist insurgents. At this point it seems he was working for the CIA, and the stuff he did there is a bit … murky. Anyway he spent about two years in this advisory capacity, then they pulled the pin and sent him to Nicaragua in the early eighties, again as an advisor. His job was to undermine the Sandanista government, which was democratically elected but way too far to the left for President Reagan’s liking.’

  ‘The Dirty War,’ Barrett said. He grabbed a waiter’s attention and ordered another double Stoli.

  ‘That’s the one. In Nicaragua, Edward Hickey was code-named Agent Paragon. All this stuff is on the Internet now. He used to train hit squads in the style of General Galtieri in Argentina, and Pinochet in Chile. The Yanks weren’t supposed to have troops on the ground anywhere in Central America, but Hickey was a covert operator, running a hand-picked counter-insurgent crew nicknamed the Dirty Half Dozen, according to Garovich. They murdered a lot of people. And get this: one of their calling cards was to remove body parts – heads, hands, even hearts – and send them back to the families of their victims.’

  ‘To encourage the others,’ Barrett said half to himself. His vodka arrived, and he took a slug.

  ‘Something like that. Anyhow it all came unstuck during the Irangate scandal, so the program was discontinued. Hickey returned to the States, was discharged shortly afterwards, then his trail goes cold. Seems he moved around a lot, using different names in the belief there was a CIA bounty on his head. He has no family or close friends, no-one to shed light on his movements after Nicaragua. However, it is believed he lived in Seattle for a time, and was in fact interviewed during the Green River Killer investigations.’

  ‘The Green River Killer,’ Geoff said. ‘They ever get that guy?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Ray said. ‘I don’t think so. They say he’s knocked off about eighty people.’

  ‘It’s not Hickey,’ Barrett said.

  ‘No, no … he was just living there at the time. But there is something interesting, somewhere here …’ He shuffled papers, searching. ‘Ah … blah, blah … bullshit, bullshit … Here we go. There’s a possibility he lived in Calgary, Canada, at some stage … and after he left there, like, two years later, they found a body in a flooded quarry that had dried up. The Mounties couldn’t figure out who it was, because, note, the corpse had its head and hands removed.’

  ‘Smoke … there’s fire,’ Geoff said.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? And being a well-drilled Marine, a creature of habit, Hickey could just be the prime suspect, wouldn’t you think? Especially in view of the fact that a man fitting his description was working there as a factory storeman at the time, and blew town soon after the victim went missing.’

  Barrett said, ‘So he’s turned killer outside the army.’

  ‘A killer and a butcher. That’s the theory, according to Garovich. There are other unsolved murders and disappearances around the States that he might be right for. But I guess they’ll never get him for those either. No witnesses, no corroborating evidence, not even any certainty that Hickey – or whatever he was calling himself – was in these places at the time. But obviously he has a history of killing, he’s as cunning as a shithouse rat – and he’s here, after your man.’

  Ray paused for a drink.

  ‘Mind if I look at that? Geoff said.

  ‘Keep it,’ Ray said. ‘I’ve got another copy right here.’ He patted his jacket, which was hanging on the back of his chair.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Geoff said. ‘Christ. If I’d known what a psycho he was when he took a shot at me … I’d have shit myself good and proper.’

  ‘I thought you did anyway,’ Barrett said.

  ‘That was the smell of fear, mate. Not quite the same thing.’

  Barrett laughed. They all had a drink. Soon the waiter came with their meals. Geoff folded the pages into a square and put them in his shirt pocket as first the plates were set down, then the bottle of wine.

  ‘I hope this has been breathing,’ Geoff said to the waiter.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘It’s been positively snoring.’

  The vodka had sharpened his appetite some, but Barrett worked his way through the prime cut of beef without the zest of the other two. He knew then that something was definitely wrong. He had only ever gone off his food on occasions when he had been seriously under the pump, mentally and emotionally. And part of the pattern was that he hit the spirits harder too. They consumed two more bottles of less expensive wine – some of which found its way onto Geoff’s shirtsleeve – and a couple more Crowns to finish off. At around five they went their separate ways: Ray back to work – whatever that meant – Geoff to his apartment and Barrett likewise – to touch base, collect mail and see that it hadn’t been turned into a squat.

  As t
hey were dispersing for their cars, Geoff said to Barrett that he would visit The Kalamata, the Greek restaurant, and talk to the owner. If Hickey ate there, he probably lived in the vicinity. Barrett thought it was a bit late in the day for that, but said nothing. Sitting in his car he noticed, in the rear-vision mirror, Ray attract Geoff’s attention, as if he had just thought of something. A brief exchange followed before Ray waved and headed off. Then Barrett saw Geoff’s Statesman being de-alarmed. Feeling more pie-eyed than he’d been in a long time, he thought maybe he should taxi or even walk home – a DUI rap wouldn’t exactly advance his career. Then he thought: fuck the career. Who cares? He fired up the Commodore and made the short trip to Woolloomooloo, concentrating hard and hoping no copper would notice him.

  When he got home there were plenty of messages on the machine, but none from Andrea. Not that he’d expected her to call, but a man could always hope, and right now he was riding the percentages. Feeling buoyed with the bravado alcohol brings, he toyed with the idea of calling her, but had the sense to back off. Instead he called the Dee Why cops and asked to speak to the detective in charge of the investigation into the attempted car bombing at Palm Beach – Barrett had forgotten his name. A cop identifying himself as Floyd came on the line. Barrett gave his name and asked if there was any progress in the case. Floyd told him the sticks of dynamite used to make the bomb came from a batch stolen months ago from a construction company, and they were following up on that. No suspects yet? Barrett asked, and the cop evaded the issue, saying they were keeping an open mind. Barrett remembered using the same expression many times to the media: We are keeping an open mind at this stage. Translation: we haven’t got diddley-shit, man.

  He had a large Courvoisier, then began to feel distinctly whacked. It was nearly six. Shaking off his lethargy he went out for a walk up to Victoria Street and back down the steep set of steps to the naval base. He looked at the vessels for a while, chain-smoking and thinking. Then he passed the old Woolloomooloo dock warehouses, which had been reincarnated as apartments, and the Café De Wheels. Further along he picked up a newspaper and, on his way back, called into the Bell for a couple of quiet beers and a read. He found it hard, however, to concentrate on the print, which had a tendency to dance around. Leaving the paper and a half-consumed schooner of Resch’s, he left, and slowly made his way home. Why did he have this bad feeling? It wasn’t just the booze, but something … something that felt like a snake, wrapping itself around his vital organs and getting ready to sink its fangs in. And the sirloin sat heavily in his stomach, as if refusing to be digested. Goddamned – what in the fuck is wrong with me? He kicked off his shoes, stripped and lay on the bed. Sleep … That’s what I need. Yeah. The first sentence of his thoughts had not been formed before his eyes closed and he went down for the count.

  In his dreams he was back in the Bell, trying to make his phone work. But the damned thing was dead, so he pulled it apart and found it was only a shell. Then a fight broke out in the pub: a man was being blocked from attacking another man, but eventually he broke through, pulled a gun and shot his adversary in the face as he lay on the floor. Barrett felt he should do something, but what? His phone was dead; he couldn’t call for help. Then bells started ringing, loudly and persistently. He wondered where the bells were, what they meant. Of course – I’m in the Bell. When he opened his eyes he knew instantly something bad had happened. The bells were the phone, which was ringing out in the living room. He staggered to his feet. His face was cold and sticky with sweat. He rushed out and snatched up the handset, heart thumping.

  ‘Pike.’

  A voice wheezed before answering. ‘Barrett. It’s … Ray – Ray Ward.’

  ‘Yes, Ray. What is it?’

  Ray was hesitant, breathing hard. ‘Mate. Listen. There’s an old abandoned garage … in Surry Hills. Near the corner of Salisbury Street and … wait on … Billings Terrace. Come straightaway. Now.’

  ‘… Jesus … What’s wrong, Ray?’

  ‘Just get here, okay?’

  ‘On my way. What’s the time?’

  ‘It’s … eleven-thirty.’ Click.

  Barrett put the receiver back in its cradle. His chest pumped. He went to the sink, swallowed water, splashed his face, then rushed to dress, nearly panic-stricken.

  27

  Barrett double-parked alongside a police car close to the corner of Salisbury and Billings. There was a hot centre of brightly lit activity ahead: uniformed cops, detectives, ambulance officers, crime scene people, revolving red-and-blue lights everywhere. Bursts of copspeak issued from car two-ways. There was also a handful of spectators – teenagers holding skateboards. He pushed through them, went under the blue-and-white crime scene tape, into the knot of cops. That was when the hand grasped his shoulder.

  ‘Barrett.’

  He turned and looked into the face of Ray Ward, which was alternately red and blue, red and blue. He was not the sanguine man Barrett had lunched with that day, but a ravaged, agonised figure with dead, putty flesh and cracked lips. His eyes were cavernous, almost invisible inside pools of black shadow. Barrett opened his mouth to speak, but the words were choked off by the horror etched in Ray’s features. Instead he followed the man’s guiding arm towards the corner, the site of an ancient Esso garage. The bowsers had long been uprooted and the workshop left to rot in this least salubrious of neighbourhoods. Graffiti covered every surface. Shreds of age-old pennant flags fluttered overhead. Police parted for them as they stepped onto the concrete driveway and into the blinding arc lights. There was a door to the workshop, which was wide open. It too was arc lit. Inside, Barrett saw cops and men in white coats moving around and the occasional popping of flashbulbs.

  ‘In there,’ he heard Ray tell him in a voice like sandpaper.

  He swallowed and entered the cramped space, which smelled of dust, oil and rusted metal. Oil containers, old cable spools and junked car parts of every description were stacked and strewn around. Skeins of cobweb hung from the roof. To the right were a worn, blackened workbench and a pegged board on which tools had once hung. And on the floor in front of the bench, its legs splayed, sat the body of a man.

  He stepped closer, and that was when the stench smacked him full in the face. Catching his breath, he had to blink and look twice before he saw that the shape on the floor was Geoff O’Mara. Blood sang in his head as the saliva sprang into his mouth. Then he gave a stifled cry, gagged and stumbled outside, where he threw up his lunch in the full glare of the arc lights.

  When he had finished heaving, he broke the string of spittle that swung from his mouth and half straightened up. He was aware of Ray next to him, patiently waiting for the attack to pass. After dry-reaching a couple more times, he sighed and swore and sighed again, then felt Ray’s comforting hand on his shivering back.

  ‘Oh, fuck me, Ray. What kind of person …’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. I don’t fucking know.’

  Barrett breathed deeply, triggering a chain of shudders right through his system. He put his hands to his face, and it felt cold and slimy, like flesh that had rotted underwater. The vile taste of vomit filled his throat.

  ‘I … have to go back in there,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ray said. ‘You’ve seen it, mate.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Don’t do it to yourself. There’s no point now.’

  ‘I’m going back.’ Brushing off Ray’s restraining arm, he turned and re-entered the workshop. No-one stopped him; no-one wanted to know who he was or what business he had being there.

  After bracing himself he stood, then squatted, in front of the cadaver that was once Geoff. There was a neat bullet-hole in his forehead from which blood had run down over his nose, mouth and chin. His eyes, wide open, were turned upwards, as if they had followed the trajectory of the bullet all the way to the point of impact. His jacket had been pulled back, exposing the butt of his pistol in its shoulder holster, and his shirt and pants had been ripped apart. But that
was not all.

  That was far, far from all.

  Geoff’s stomach had been sliced open with a deep vertical slash, from his sternum to his groin. A thick layer of yellow fat stomach lining showed through, and his insides, all his insides, had spilled or been pulled out. Some blood-soaked sheets of paper were scattered over him and on the floor. There was more blood on and under the corpse than Barrett could believe came from one man, even one as big as Geoff. He was sitting in a lake of it. The gizzard was all shiny and blue and the stomach sac itself had been cut open to reveal its contents. His heavily bloodied hands were cupped on his lap, and in them was his severed heart.

  Barrett squatted on his haunches for a long time, never shifting his gaze from the awful, riveting spectacle, until eventually he became aware that the crime scene people had finished their work, and it was now time to remove the body. He stood slowly, his joints cracking. An aura of detached unreality, of complete numbness, seemed to have settled over him as he watched the men in plastic gloves and protective coats get to work with the bodybag. Once removed, the blood-soaked pages proved to be the scanned photograph of Edward Hickey and the rest of the FBI fax. Very tentatively, the officers started to move Geoff, prompting further spillage of his internal organs, and that was when Barrett shut his eyes and went outside.

  He smoked in the street with Ray as police continued to scour the vicinity in search of weapons. The ambulance carrying the corpse had long departed for the morgue. The skateboarders had been questioned and told to go home. Barrett’s stomach hurt and his throat was worn ragged from vomiting and dry-reaching. Apart from that, he felt oddly calm, almost light-headed. It was as if he had reached the point of no return, after which nothing could touch him. In a way he felt like the living dead – as dead as Geoff was.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ he said to Ray, throwing down a butt and crushing it out.

  Ray cleared his throat. ‘The skateboarders noticed the garage door was open, so they decided to check it out. Then they ran to the local cop shop.’