Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘Who’s this Lyle,’ Barrett said, speaking for the first time, ‘and where does he live?’

  ‘Lyle Padstow. He’s a local drunk, wife-basher and general, all-round top citizen,’ Keeffe said. ‘Spends half his life in the lock-up here. And his address is … Christ, I should know it off by heart …’ He looked up a register of frequent offenders. ‘Here it is. 133 Greeve Parade, Redfern.’

  ‘He said the Yank lived next door, at 131,’ Cymric said. ‘The place on the other side is empty and boarded up.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Ray said. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

  ‘It might not be the same guy,’ Cymric said. ‘I mean … Lyle’s Yank doesn’t have to be this one. Plenty of ’em around.’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ Ray said.

  When they were gone, Keeffe turned to Bakker and Cymric and said, ‘Now I want you two to explain what you were doing in Hungry Jack’s when you were supposed to be on foot patrol.’

  ‘So what do you reckon,’ Barrett said as they drove. ‘Knock on the door – or stake him out?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about exactly that,’ Ray said. ‘Given the profile we’ve got on Hickey, we’d be nuts to just present ourselves to be shot. He doesn’t seem to care what the fuck he does. If we knock, and he’s in there, he’s just as likely to shoot us through the fucking door. We have to assume he’s in an evil mood.’

  Silence descended as they turned into Greeve Parade. Barrett felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, then his scrotum tightened. He also became aware that his fists were clenched white.

  ‘Jesus, I’ve got the creeps all of a sudden,’ Ray said, slowing.

  ‘Yeah. It means he’s here, Ray. I can feel it too.’

  They slid by 131 and kept going. No sign of life. A blind in the front room was pulled down. Junk mail spilled from the letterbox. An old woman tottered along on a stick. A couple of black men were trying to get into a car with a wire coathanger – it looked as if they’d locked the keys inside it. Ray parked a little further on, switched off and applied the handbrake. Barrett withdrew his Sig, checked the magazine, slammed it back home and worked the slide. Now he was all set. Ray looked at the gun, then at Barrett. There was sweat on his face, even though the airconditioning had been on.

  ‘Let’s sit for a bit,’ Ray said.

  But Barrett’s mouth was dry, his heart was pumping and he wanted to go. Even so he knew the smart thing to do was wait and see. ‘If he comes out,’ he said, ‘we take him, right? And if he’s got a gun in the belly bag he won’t get a chance to pull it.’

  Ray was looking sicker by the minute. ‘Let’s wait. Look, he’s probably not in there, anyway. Why would he spend anymore time than necessary in a dump like that? He’d be out somewhere this time of day.’

  Barrett checked his wristwatch: nearly three o’clock. Soon kids would be coming home from school.

  ‘Don’t wimp out on me, Ray,’ he said. ‘We’re here, and we’re going to fucking do it – whichever way it pans out. If he comes home, I’m going to nail the bastard with or without your help, and if he’s in his shit-hole the only way he’s coming out is in a fucking bodybag, same as Geoff.’

  Ray didn’t say anything.

  Twenty minutes crawled by. Some kids with schoolbags straggled along, kicking empty cans and swearing and pushing and shoving each other. But no-one went near 131. Barrett could feel himself going stir crazy, cooped up in the car with Ray, who was now strongly on the nose. He smelled as if he’d had on the same socks, shirt and underwear for a month, and his sour hog’s breath wafted around the cabin.

  ‘I’m going to check out the back,’ Barrett said, holstering the Sig. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything except look over his fence.’ He split before Ray could object. He was starting to think he had a real liability instead of an offsider on his hands now.

  In the lane he counted off the houses until he reached 131. The fence was high, so he had to grasp the top of it and haul himself up. The yard contained an old outhouse, a derelict clothesline and all the usual garbage: a deflated plastic pool, liquor bottles, pizza and KFC cartons, a rusted tricycle and other toys. There was also a tea chest standing against the back fence. A ripped blind on the back room was pulled right down. Barrett’s feeling was that no-one was at home. He was tempted to jump the fence and make sure, kick in the back door and give it a quick run-through, but he didn’t want to get up Ray’s nose too much. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Nothing,’ he told Ray, back in the Falcon. ‘I doubt if he’s there, but his vibes sure are.’

  ‘Nothing here either,’ Ray said. ‘Except more kids. If he shows, we can’t do anything, mate. There’s too much danger to bystanders.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Barrett said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ray said. ‘It’s no good playing this like a couple of cowboys. It’s got to be done properly, through channels. It’s too dodgy otherwise. He’s not going to be lounging around in his jocks watching TV with a can of beer in his hand when we go in, is he? He’s going to be fucking ready.’

  ‘So am I. Christ, mate. It’ll take a fortnight to set that up. He’ll be gone by then.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll fix it through Area Command for tonight.’

  Tonight? That’s hours away. ‘I want to talk to that Lyle Padstow character next door,’ Barrett said. ‘Run these pictures past him. If he agrees with the cop, Cymric, then we can be absolutely certain we’ve got the right place and the right man.’

  ‘Fair enough. But be careful.’

  Barrett got out again. Knocking on 133, he looked up and down the street, then back at Ray. He understood that Ray was a serving cop and had to do things right, but damned if he was going to let this opportunity slip by.

  A woman opened the door. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Lyle, please.’

  ‘Christ, not you bastards again. Leave us alone, will you?’

  ‘I’m not the police, ma’am, and Lyle’s not in any trouble. I just need to see him for a minute.’

  ‘You can’t. He’s not home. He’s down the pub. That’s if they haven’t kicked him out.’

  ‘Ah – which pub would that be?’

  ‘The Three Crowns, where else? Down the end of the street and turn right. It’s on the next corner.’

  ‘Thanks. How will I know him?’

  ‘He’s tall. He’s got a mouth as big as the moon. And he’s drunk.’ She shut the door.

  The Three Crowns was a couple of notches below the Hollywood, but more popular and much noisier. The corner bar contained a couple of dozen drinkers and pool players who mostly looked as if they’d been lined up outside when the doors opened that morning. Barrett looked for the tallest man present, and sure enough he had gashes under his eyes. He had three brothers with him, and they all had schooners in their hands. Feeling as welcome as a cockroach he approached the tall man, who eyed him suspiciously as he drew closer.

  ‘Are you Lyle Padstow?’ he said.

  ‘Depends who’s askin’.’

  ‘My name’s Pike. And no, I’m not a cop. Can I have a quiet word with you?’

  ‘Fuck off. What’ve you possi’ly got to say that I want to hear, mate?’ The three brothers were giving Barrett their full attention, and the level of hostility in the atmosphere suddenly shot up.

  ‘It’ll only take a minute. It’s about your neighbour. The Yank that gave you those cuts.’

  Now Lyle was interested. ‘What about the fucker?’

  Barrett produced his pictures and shoved them in Lyle’s face. Stuff the brothers – they could look too. ‘Is that him?’

  They all looked without touching; Barrett could see Lyle’s eyes dancing from one picture to the other, then back again. Of the army mug shot he said, ‘Can’t really tell from this. Could be. But the other one … man, that is him.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘You walk head-on into a bad-arse wildman like that and he stays inside your head, ma
te.’ And he touched the gashes under his eyes. ‘Has he done something?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s done something. Thanks,’ Barrett said, and turned to go.

  ‘Hey,’ Lyle said, and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingertips. ‘Ain’t no free service in this fuckin’ world, buddy. Gotta pay your freight.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Barrett said, and handed him a fifty, which disappeared from view the instant it hit Lyle’s palm.

  He rejoined Ray in the car outside.

  ‘Well?’ Ray said, and fired up the Falcon.

  ‘Lyle’s in no doubt. That’s confirmation in my book.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take you back to your car, then get on it for tonight. I’ll let you know when it’s arranged. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  It was after eleven and Barrett was sitting in his car smoking and waiting. There was a light drizzle floating down. He was parked well back from the house, as Ray had asked him to, and could not see any of the police activity up ahead. Ray had told him he had a team of six, who were armed with pump-action shotties. That ought to do it, but Barrett still had an uneasy feeling that the raid was not going to work out according to plan. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then, through the drizzle, he saw a figure approach and felt himself tense. Ray tapped on the window and he slid it down a couple of inches.

  ‘We’re ready,’ he said. Barrett saw he was wearing a flak jacket and carrying a shottie.

  ‘Are you sure he’s in there?’

  ‘He was observed entering the premises three hours ago. The lights are on and we can hear a TV.’

  ‘All right then,’ Barrett said, and began to get out.

  ‘You can’t be part of it,’ Ray said. ‘It’s a police operation, mate, and you’re a civilian. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Barrett told him, even though he had expected this. ‘I’ve got every right. I found the bastard for you. Something happens to me, it’s my tough luck. Come on, Ray.’

  ‘It’s still a no, Barrett. And that’s final. You shouldn’t even be here, this close. Make sure you stay in the car until it’s over. Don’t worry about it – we’ll get him.’

  Barrett was going to tell him: That isn’t the point. But it was, and in his heart he knew that. He also knew Ray was not about to budge.

  ‘Stay in the car until it’s over,’ Ray said again. ‘I’ll inform you when.’ Then he slipped away into the dark. Barrett sighed and checked his wristwatch: twenty after eleven.

  Inside the house, Edward carefully turned down the TV. He’d had his suspicions for a while that something was happening in the street, and now he was sure enough to put his contingency plan into place. It took less than a minute. Leaving the front room light and the TV on, he killed the hall light and withdrew to his bedroom, where he upended the first jerry can. Tough about the luggage, but he was carrying everything he would ever need. There was going to be one hell of a shit-storm very soon. His ears pricked up as he heard the iron gate squeak open, and then there was a rapid series of deafening crashes and the sound of splintering timber as the front door gave way to the sledgehammer. In the midst of the noise and confusion, Edward tipped the second jerry can down the darkened hallway, setting it on its edge and letting the fuel pump out onto the carpet. Then he lit a book of matches and very carefully placed it on top of the jerry can.

  He was already out the back door when the three explosions hit, one after the other: Whump. Whump. Whump. It was a beautiful sound to his ears. System still works. The ground shuddered, seemed to split under his feet, then the whole house lifted from its foundations and re-arranged its component parts into flying shrapnel. After that came the ferocious whoosh of flames engulfing the interior, roaring up through the ceiling and roof, blowing the old slate tiles to bits and showering the night sky with debris, shooting sparks and curling red-and-black tongues of billowing fire.

  He leapt onto the tea chest that he’d placed against the back fence and was over it in an instant. Already sparks and hot ash were drifting over his hair and clothes as he hit the laneway, sprawled, then quickly got to his feet and prepared to run.

  ‘Stop there, Hickey. Right there.’

  Christ. Who the fuck …

  He turned around to find himself dazzled by a powerful flashlight aimed straight at his face, and put a hand up to shield his eyes.

  ‘It’s a Sig nine, loaded with hollow points,’ Barrett shouted above the roaring flames and the screams of burning men. ‘It’ll punch big holes in you.’

  Edward was trying to see who it was. The flashlight was too bright, but the red glow of flames enabled him to see the weapon the man was holding, aimed at Edward’s head.

  ‘What is it, buddy? What’s your beef? You a cop or what?’

  Flames lit up Barrett’s face, which Hickey could now see was hard and set. ‘Shut your mouth, Hickey. Get ready to die. It’s all over for you.’

  ‘Shit, I know you. You’re that bodyguard. Bit out of your zone, aren’t you, friend?’ His mind was working overtime; he had to get away from here soon.

  ‘You’re the one out of his zone, Hickey. You should never have come here and done what you did. It isn’t Nicaragua, you know. Get your hands away from that belly bag. Put ’em on your head.’

  Edward did as he was told. Barrett took three, four steps closer, gun arm fully extended. Edward could see it very well now. It was rock steady and pointed straight at his nose.

  ‘Take it easy, friend. I got no problem with you. I was just here to do a job, that’s all.’ He moved backwards. Ash and sparks came down; the fierce roar and cracking of fire and the crashing down of roof and walls engulfed them both in their own private inferno. It worried Edward, because he saw this was the perfect setting for him to be wasted.

  ‘I would’ve let you live,’ Barrett said, ‘but not after what you did to my partner.’

  Edward lifted his hands slightly from his head. ‘He was your partner? You’re pulling my dick.’

  ‘Don’t fuck around with me. There’s no point. You’ll never see your million bucks, Hickey. You’ll never see daylight again.’

  ‘Hell. The money was never for me, if that means anything to you. I was planning to give it to someone … far away. Close, but … far away. Anyhow what the fuck. You’re right. Come on, get it over. I got a brain tumour the size of a tennis ball, so if your aim’s good you might blow the whole thing away for me.’ He continued moving backwards as he spoke, but the gun hand moved with him, never wavering. Barrett tightened his trigger finger. The man was right there, waiting to die – why didn’t he shoot? He felt angry and determined enough, but somehow he couldn’t quite do it. He was finding it was hard, a lot harder than he’d thought, to kill a man in cold blood. What he needed was an excuse, for Hickey to provoke him in some way, to try something … But he wasn’t doing that. He had surrendered. For his part, Edward had become alert to the fact that his adversary did not have the stomach for the job, and quickly made up his mind to act.

  ‘You’re going to have to shoot me in the back, friend,’ he said. ‘Because I’m turning around and walking away.’

  Barrett did not speak or move as Edward turned. The heat and din of fire was everywhere as he watched Hickey retreat. The gun was fixed squarely on Hickey’s back. He watched, willing himself to do it … then saw Hickey’s right hand move to his front. In the red glow, he glimpsed the nickel-plated pistol as Hickey spun around, bending his knees and swinging his right hand in a sweeping, circular motion. Before it locked onto Barrett, three shots tore into Hickey’s chest, spinning him further around and flinging him backwards at the same time as the handgun sailed through the air, picking up the fire’s red-and-yellow lights as it clattered onto the flagstones. Barrett advanced quickly: there were footsteps and voices coming from behind. Stooping and putting the flashlight on Hickey’s face, he saw he was still breathing, but in extremis. Blood was spilling from his mouth and one of his eyes was way off centre. He was g
runting and convulsing, as if he were trying to bring up the bullets that were killing him.

  ‘Come on, friend,’ he whispered. ‘You can do it. Blow that tennis ball clean away.’

  Barrett shut his eyes and fired twice. One of Hickey’s legs kicked out and then he was still. In the next second there were men everywhere, and a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He turned, and it was Ray Ward, panting hard.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Ray said.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Fucking good job … Unbelievable, mate. I’ve never seen anything like it. Fucking incredible … There were tripwires; he had the fucking house booby-trapped, and he’d flooded it with fucking gasoline … I’ve got three men down, all dead … fucking blown up and burnt to a crisp … Two more hurt bad … It’s a shambles, a fucking disaster … Oh, my fucking God. Thank Christ you killed him.’

  Wailing sirens filled the air as the fire crackled and sang. Glass exploded; bricks and timbers crashed; voices cried and screamed. Looking up, it seemed to Barrett that the stars had turned to blood. Then he looked at Ray’s face: glimmering red, porcine, brows bristling over those punched-in eye sockets. For a moment, he thought he was looking into the face of Satan himself, and then he thought, I must look like that too.

  29

  POLICE NET SCOOPS BIG FISH IN DRUG STING

  By Lyndsay Sanchez

  In a major international operation involving four law-enforcement agencies stretching from the northern hills of Burma to Hong Kong and Sydney, ten people were arrested yesterday and charged with possession and trafficking of crack cocaine, raw opium and rock heroin with an estimated street value of $25 million.

  Code-named Hector, the operation incorporated Hong Kong police, Interpol, Australia’s National Crime Authority and the Australian Federal Police.

  Coordinating the operation in Sydney was Chief Inspector Alan Donizetti of the Federal Police, who described the arrests as ‘very satisfying’.