Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘The culmination of months of hard work has resulted in some big players in custody and a swag of hard drugs not finishing up in the veins of addicts.

  ‘We are all very pleased indeed. Champagne corks will be popping tonight,’ Inspector Donizetti said.

  In police cells last night were notorious underworld figure Ernesto Tucci, 36, Carla Wilkins, 38, Guido Tucci, 41, Salvatore Bresci, 44, Alphonse Breccia, 37, Evangeline Lugosi, 29, and a Chinese national, Ken Zhu Soong, 26.

  Simultaneously Hong Kong police have arrested three men who are believed to be members of a local Tong criminal network.

  Police in both cities expect more arrests to follow as the proposed scam continues to unravel.

  The trafficking operation began nearly five months ago at the instigation of the late businessman and underworld identity Anthony Diaz, who was recently murdered in what police believe to have been a gangland feud or payback.

  Diaz had flown to Hong Kong to arrange for a quantity of narcotics to be imported into Australia via Sydney Airport.

  Diaz did not know it, but from the beginning the National Crime Authority was on his trail. In fact the principals at both ends of the deal were under continuous police surveillance, following an early tip-off in Hong Kong.

  Police said the parties involved later discovered they were being watched, but were so committed by that stage that they decided to go ahead anyway and risk capture.

  In Hong Kong, Diaz met with the three alleged Tong members, Chen Shui-bian, 30, Huang Chun, 31, and Li Meng, 27, at the ritzy Shangri-La Hotel.

  Over an expensive dinner that included crayfish and top-of-the-range French wines they formulated their plans, which involved bribing or intimidating a young Hong Kong student, Roland King, to act as courier.

  The idea was that Diaz and his Sydney connections, Ernesto Tucci’s family, were to come up with the cash needed to purchase the drugs from a major Burmese dealer, after which they would be filtered through Sydney’s streets via Guido Tucci’s ‘honoured society’ contacts in the fruit and vegetable business.

  The syndicate suffered a setback when the courier, King, had second thoughts and pulled out of the scheme. He then dropped completely out of sight.

  Shui-bian, Chun and Meng then turned their attention to a hotel concierge and part-time musician, Ken Phuong Ha, who was a much more amenable player.

  When he came on board Ha was paid $2000 a week, with the promise of much more to come.

  At about this time, according to Chief Inspector Donizetti, the group became increasingly paranoid that they were under surveillance and that their telephones were being tapped.

  They began speaking in code and foreign languages, using various Chinese dialects, French and Thai.

  For meetings they chose open parklands, but apparently failed to notice the vans stationed nearby that were equipped with long-range video cameras, tape recorders and ultra-sensitive microphones.

  Eventually Diaz returned to Hong Kong with the necessary funds – believed to be around $300,000 – to purchase the product, and the plan was put into action.

  Ha, with the drugs strapped around his body and concealed inside a specially made travel bag with a lead-lined compartment, boarded a Qantas flight to Sydney. When he arrived, he was to stay in a motel room and wait for instructions via a telephone call.

  When the consignment was handed over, he was supposed to receive $50,000.

  ‘He never got paid,’ Chief Inspector Donizetti said.

  ‘He would have been a very relieved camper to get through customs without a hitch, but he was totally unaware he was being watched electronically and physically all the way to the motel.

  ‘After that it was simply a matter of waiting for him to receive his orders, then we followed him to a disused airport hangar near Warwick Farm.

  ‘It was a beautiful pinch: we got most of them under the one roof. They all seemed very surprised to see us.’

  Lawyers for the Tucci family angrily claimed both Ernesto and his wife, the solicitor and writer Carla Wilkins, were innocent.

  ‘It is a typically scurrilous NCA conspiracy,’ Marcus O’Leary, QC, said outside court after his clients were refused bail.

  ‘And part of a more widespread, ongoing vendetta against the Tuccis.

  ‘Ernesto Tucci and his wife have young children to whom they are devoted, for goodness’ sake. They would never knowingly become involved in drug trafficking.

  ‘Our day in court will come, and we will fight these trumped-up charges most strenuously, I can assure you.’

  30

  The telephone was ringing constantly and Barrett was not responding. He had disconnected the answering machine days earlier. Damned if he was going to pick up. He had always hated the thing and had once pulled one from its socket and buried it in the back yard. Even after he’d got into private investigating, he only carried a mobile grudgingly and left it switched off whenever he could, if he were not expecting an important call. One thing he would not die from was brain cancer from phone radiation.

  He was not even faintly curious to know who was calling him, but one thing was for sure – it wasn’t the bearer of good tidings. It was cops, probably. In the ten days since he’d killed Edward Hickey he’d spoken to a lot of cops, some more polite than others, and had spent too much time in police station interview rooms. They brought back unhappy memories, and he did not appreciate sitting on the other side of the table while a detective in a shiny suit asked him question after question and refused to answer any Barrett put to him. But in the end, Ray Ward had assured him the chances of him being charged over the killing of Hickey were nearly invisible. Evidence supported Barrett’s claim that Hickey had pulled a pistol from his belly bag and would have shot Barrett if he hadn’t fired first. So it was a clear case of self-defence. And his firearm was licensed, so that was in order.

  There was a range of other issues the cops wanted to ask him about – the matter of Geoff O’Mara’s death, for one. What did Barrett know about that? What had been his movements that day and night? What was going on? And what was he doing in the back lane when Hickey jumped the fence after he had been specifically instructed to remain in the car? Was he embarking on a vigilante-style crusade to avenge his friend’s murder? Did he intend to shoot Hickey, no matter what? There were other matters, some more technical than others, and Barrett got the distinct feeling they badly wanted to hit him with something, but couldn’t find a handle. It was understandable: they’d lost three of their own, and two others had serious injuries. One was on the critical list and might not make it. The perpetrator was dead, but they still wanted blood, they felt cheated and embittered, as if Hickey had got away with it because they hadn’t killed him. Someone had to pay for that.

  The Games had come and gone, with the Americans dominating the medal table as expected. Bunny Delfranco had won the hundred with two metres to spare in a new Olympic and world record of 9.73 seconds – the same time he’d run with wind assistance in Kansas City. Now it was official. In the post-race interview, he said it was quite possible he could break the 9.70 barrier at the next Pan American Games, and no-one was arguing with him. He was a freak. He was also the linchpin in an easy US victory in the four x hundred relay, careering right away from his rivals to hit the tape in another world and Olympic record.

  Sydney partied hard and late on closing night, and when the sun came up in the morning the city was strewn with more garbage and wrecked citizens than Woodstock. There was no outbreak of anthrax, toxic gas or any terrorist activity, and the world did not come to an end on Carter Khormitch III’s sixtieth birthday.

  Barrett had driven Bunny to the airport when it was all over, and when the flight was called they at first shook hands, then came together awkwardly in a silent, prolonged bear hug. Barrett’s heart and soul felt ripped to pieces; his eyes filled with stinging tears, and when they came apart he was gratified to see that Bunny’s, too, were shining with liquid.

  Before hefting b
ags onto his rippling shoulders and joining his countrymen the sprinter said, ‘Barrett, I’m real sorry about your good buddy. And I’m sorry it was all because of me.’ Barrett reassured him it was not his fault, that Geoff’s murder was an evil act that had its origins in the twisted imaginings of some very demented individuals. He watched Bunny’s back as he validated his boarding pass and disappeared into the departure gate, half expecting him to turn and wave at the last minute. But it didn’t happen.

  When he got home from the airport there was a postcard from Hong Kong waiting for him. It was inside an envelope, with the sender’s address on the back. In very neat handwriting Mai Ling said: ‘Just to let you know I am here as ordered. Everything is going well – so far. With the money you gave me I have sent my brother away for a while, until things are quieter. I hope you are well and not in trouble. I want one day to come back and go backpacking around Australia. Maybe you could come too.’ It wasn’t as wild an idea as it sounded.

  Right now, ten in the evening, he was sitting on his balcony in shorts and T-shirt with a bottle of Stolichnaya next to him and the binoculars in his hands. Across the way she was at it again, prancing around in nothing except a white bikini top. The apartment was lit up like a Christmas tree as usual. There was no sign of the boyfriend, and the feeling even from this distance was that she now lived alone. He had been watching her for an hour, pausing occasionally to drink and refill his glass, and although she paid him no attention he felt sure she was putting on a show. He was actually waiting for her to take off the top, but so far it wasn’t happening. She’d been sitting on the bed watching TV with a glass of champagne and a plate of food, after which she’d gone into the bathroom for a while, out of sight. When she came out, she brushed her long hair as she walked restlessly around the apartment, still just wearing the top. She did not look out the window once, which encouraged Barrett to believe she knew very well she was being observed, and didn’t mind a bit.

  She replenished her glass, then came out onto her own balcony, which was walled on either side. She stood against the rail, looking down at the street, then slowly raised her head and gazed directly at Barrett. A cool frisson passed through him; he kept the glasses fixed firmly on her. She sipped her champagne with her eyes still locked onto him. He could not gauge from her face what was going through her mind at this point. Then, with a deliberate gesture, she set the glass down on a table, then moved both her hands behind her back. In the next moment, the bikini top fell away to the floor. Barrett leaned forward. He could see that the top rail of the balcony was pressing against her mound, which she was moving ever so slightly from side to side. Then she began caressing her breasts, lowering her gaze to look at them as she did so, pushing them upwards and together and spreading her fingers all over them. Then at last her hands slid down to her pubic zone, the legs parting a fraction as she began pleasuring herself. When she looked up at him again he could see her open mouth forming words, but could not decipher their meaning.

  Was she simply teasing him, telling him he was a sad, sick fuck – or was she inviting him over? It didn’t really matter: intensely curious voyeurism was one thing, but a strange sort of … deadness spread through his limbs even as the peep-show unfolded in front of him. In the end there was no pay-off; no flickering fire of a hard-on, or even a smutty sexual thought. Clearly the mind was elsewhere and the body had taken its leave too. He put down the binoculars and went inside.

  In the morning he woke before dawn from a bout of unspeakable nightmares. He was clammy and cold and his body felt like a piece of dog shit. He had a long shower, shaving as he did so, and decided to give himself another day off. Why the fuck not? The telephone rang and rang and he ignored it. After three coffees he drove to the North Sydney pool and swam laps until his arms could no longer support him, then sat in a sauna for an hour. That was much better. Back in the car he drove, and drove, not wishing to return home but not knowing where he was headed. Then he saw a sign saying he was going towards Bondi, so he made that his destination.

  It was a perfect Sydney day for Bondi Beach. Under a brilliant sky he sat on the sand in front of the pavilion and stared at the water for a long time, watching the surfers paddling out to the first line of breakers and then riding their long boards in, again and again. All the time he was thinking and wondering, trying to grapple with bizarre notions that beat like a tom-tom in his head and drove him half-crazy. Then he became aware that the sun was burning him through his hair, so he went to a hotel and sank a couple of schooners while he tried to put it all together and make some sense of it.

  In the car again he opened the glove compartment, grabbed his mobile, switched it on and punched numbers.

  When a voice answered he said, ‘Ray Ward please.’

  He waited. Ray came on and he said, ‘Ray. Barrett.’

  ‘Right. How are you travelling, mate?’

  ‘Oh, you know … fairly shithouse.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I haven’t been taking any calls, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. Well, I don’t know …’

  ‘Ray, I was wondering. Can we meet later on?’

  ‘No problem. Anything in particular on your mind?’

  ‘No, not really. I just feel like a drink and a bit of a debriefing. Can you make the Sheaf at five?’

  ‘Sheaf at five? I reckon I can do that.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. I’ll see you then.’

  31

  The Sheaf at five on a Friday was predictably busy, mainly with patrons who looked to be regulars, in schools of between six and ten. They always seemed to have large drinking schools in Sydney, for some reason – often spilling out onto the footpaths.

  Barrett had a schooner of Resch’s in his hand at a quarter to five. It had always been his practice to arrive early for appointments – another legacy of his life as a cop, when he was frequently meeting dodgy people in dodgy places. Getting there first gave him an edge if things didn’t pan out right. He picked a spot near the front door, alongside a cigarette machine. When he dropped some coins in and picked up a pack of Stuyvesants, the machine said: ‘Thank you for your custom.’ Fuck off.

  Ray came in at ten after, looking slightly flushed and under strain. He looked like a man with heart and blood-pressure problems. He had already taken off his tie and undone the first two shirt buttons, revealing a thick bunch of chest hair.

  ‘Thanks, mate. I could use this,’ he said, accepting a schooner and immediately tipping it back and emptying much of it down his gulping throat. ‘Ah, shit, that’s a whole lot better.’

  ‘Have they been giving you a hard time?’ Barrett said.

  ‘You better believe it. This thing’s going to have repercussions for a long time to come.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Barrett drank deeply, then said, ‘I still can’t believe he’s not here anymore. I keep expecting him to walk in the fucking door.’

  ‘I know, I know … It’s a bad fucking dream, mate. Trouble is we’re wide awake.’

  ‘I just can’t understand how he could’ve allowed it to happen. He was too … too smart.’

  ‘Yeah. Says a lot about Edward fucking Hickey, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Edward Hickey. Know what he said before I shot him? Said he had a brain tumour the size of a tennis ball.’

  ‘Is that right? Shit. Maybe it made him crazy.’

  ‘I think he was probably always crazy. And yet … he didn’t seem that way. When I talked to him, he was quite, I don’t know, reasonable isn’t the word, but he was kind of … calm, thoughtful, even resigned. I think it reached the point where he wanted me to shoot him.’

  ‘Well, I’m fucking glad you did, mate. Saved the trouble of a trial.’ He collected Barrett’s empty glass and went to the bar.

  When he came back Barrett said, ‘Where were you when you called Geoff that night?’

  ‘At the office.’

  ‘What time was that again?’

  ‘When I called
him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘… About … half past ten, I’d say. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to get everything straight in my head. At the moment it’s full of … confusion. Do they always flog you that hard?’

  ‘Yeah, they do, actually. Matter of fact I have a fold-up bed in my office, which I use more than I care to. I would probably average about twenty hours of overtime a week, without pay. That includes weekends. There are no easy bucks out there anymore, mate.’

  ‘No, there aren’t.’

  They finished their schooners and Barrett went to the bar. He had to wait while a school of young, professional-looking men and women ordered a round of schooners and exotic mixed drinks. Standing there, it suddenly hit him hard that Geoff O’Mara was actually dead. Gone. He could feel the fact of it sinking in and taking hold, like a powerful fist clenching around his heart. There was a shudder through his nervous system, then he felt slightly dizzy and unsteady on his pins for a moment. He looked around at Ray, who was gazing reflectively out the window, stroking his chin and throat.

  When Barrett returned with the drinks he took a mouthful and said, ‘Ray, did you get a good look at that crime scene?’

  ‘Geoff’s?’

  ‘Yeah, Geoff’s.’

  ‘I got a good look at it. As much as I wanted to. What about it?’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of crime scenes in my life, mate. I know you have too. You develop the ability to decode them after a while, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose you do.’

  ‘You know, the telltale little things that reveal what actually happened – as opposed to what someone wants you to think happened.’ He saw he had Ray’s attention, so he paused to drink, then said, ‘I took a good, hard look at the scene. After I’d thrown up, I made myself go back and study it. I wanted to make sure I’d never forget any part of it. The whole thing was burnt into my brain, and I’ve been having nightmares about it ever since. All I see are these … images. Images direct from hell. Horrendous stuff. But the thing about it is, there are a few features of that crime scene that worry me. I can’t get them out of my mind.’