Out of the Blue

by JR Carroll

  Just before dawn he wakes with a blazing horn. She is sleeping on her back. He feels for her pussy, parts her legs. Penetrates as unobtrusively as he can, fucks with short strokes and creams quietly into her passive body. She has not moved at all and gives no sign of even the vaguest knowledge of his intrusion.

  At half-past eight she drags herself out of bed, has a shower, finds her clothes and gets dressed. He is dead. Before leaving she kisses the top of his head, whispers goodbye and goes to the door. Then a thought strikes her; she returns and sets his alarm for nine-thirty. She leaves the way she came in, down the outside steps, across the yard, into her car and out of his life.

  At six in the evening Frank Stannard came in wearing Bermuda shorts and long socks. Dennis was buoyed up from a night of sex and still groggy enough to be as insulting as he pleased.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ he said cheerily.

  ‘Dennis. Fellas.’

  Frank joined a couple of cronies, one of whom shouted a round. Dennis deposited the brimming glasses in front of them and, interrupting a conversation, said, ‘So how’s it going, mate? How’s Grimshaw?’

  Frank produced an unhappy expression that said, Oh shit, here we go again. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your good buddy, Inspector Grimshaw. You know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him my good buddy. I know him.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. I heard he rings you for advice.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Frank’s cronies started to get the drift, glancing this way and that.

  ‘Yeah, I did. You give him the benefit of your well-informed opinions. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Look, Dennis—’

  ‘No, look, Frank. Your pal Grimshaw got the word that Tony Gilhooley was doing something for me, and called you. You badmouthed me from here to Ballarat.’

  Frank shuffled, looked away.

  ‘Got Gilhooley in the shit, too.’

  ‘I don’t know any Gilhooley.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. He’s your actual copper, doesn’t mind doing his job.’

  ‘Dennis, Grimshaw asked me if I believed there was anything to the allegations you’ve been making. I answered honestly. The conversation lasted two minutes. End of story. Okay?’

  ‘You pack a lot into two minutes, don’t you?’

  ‘Just get off my back. I’ve about had a gutful of you.’ Inadvertently he had raised his voice in anger. Heads turned, talk ceased. Dennis smiled.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Frank,’ he said calmly.

  ‘And you’re a headcase. I mean that. You should be in a fucking straitjacket!’

  ‘Finish your drink and fuck off, Frank. I don’t want to see you in here again.’

  ‘You can’t bar me!’

  ‘I can bar whoever I like. You’re barred. Tell you what, the Blind Eagle could do with a better class of client. If you did all your drinking there you’d improve the standard of both establishments.’

  Frank, red-faced, went to the door. Eyes followed him. ‘You’re going to meet yourself coming the other way very soon, Dennis. I hope you suffer.’

  ‘Eat shit, flatfoot.’

  When he’d gone Dennis turned grinning to the cronies, as if he’d just treated them to an amusing prank. ‘How about another drink, boys? They’re on me.’

  After dinner a call came from Steve Donohue. Dennis had given up on him, convinced that for all his big talk he was piss and wind. But now he had come good, apologising for the delay which he said was caused by the fact that his mate from Russell Street had been away on leave. Steve had broached the mate, a senior sergeant named Des Carlysle, on the matter raised by Dennis, and Carlysle had said he would be prepared to help as long as this was just a one-off thing. On Dennis’s behalf Steve had said it would be, that there would be no comebacks. Des’s only other stipulation had been that he didn’t want any repercussions of this to rebound on himself in any way, and Steve reassured him on that account too.

  After giving him Carlysle’s home number, Steve advised that the best course of action was for Dennis to call him and be guided by Des.

  ‘I’d like to meet him personally, Steve. Would that be all right?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I have to ask you, Steve. How staunch is your man?’

  ‘Staunch? Oh, he’s solid, don’t worry. One of the originals.’

  ‘He’s a good mate of yours?’

  ‘Absolutely. He wouldn’t agree to help you otherwise.’

  ‘Thanks, Steve. I’ll call him soon. Keep this to yourself, won’t you.’

  ‘I know nah-thing,’ Steve said. He waited for a moment to pass, then said, ‘What about the other thing, Dennis? Have you thought any more about that?’

  ‘Sydney?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, to be honest I haven’t yet, Steve. I need to clear the decks a bit first.’

  ‘Understand.’

  ‘When would you want an answer?’

  ‘I’d like to get things off the ground sometime in the new year, so … I guess early January would do. But we’re flexible.’

  ‘We’d need to discuss the whole business in detail first. As I told you, I wouldn’t have the first idea about that line of work.’ He added, ‘Frankly, I don’t know why you’re interested in me. There must be plenty of swinging dicks on the market better qualified than I am. Why don’t you advertise in the classifieds?’

  ‘I don’t want any old swinging dick, Dennis. I want someone with a bit of push. Someone who can operate unsupervised. Someone with a bit of bastard in him. You’re a squad man, you’ve been there. You’re motivated.’

  ‘Used to be.’

  ‘You don’t lose it that fast. You’re only two years out of Homicide. Don’t sell yourself short.’

  ‘Tell me about Greg Moss. He could be a worry.’

  ‘Greg?’ Steve laughed. ‘He’s all right. Greg’s a field man, a mechanic. He was in the Falklands, by the way. That wasn’t bullshit. Doesn’t say much, does he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He is, as they say, focused.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So you two will have a lot in common. He could teach you a few tricks, too.’

  ‘Mechanic. Sounds like that Charles Bronson movie. I think I can live without that.’

  Steve laughed again. ‘What d’you think this is, the assassination bureau? Jesus, man, we’re a legit business. We pay taxes. We work almost entirely within the law. I guarantee it.’

  ‘Okay, Steve. I’ll get back to you when things quieten down around here. And thanks for your help.’

  ‘No problem.’ Then he added, ‘I hope your numbers come up. Just don’t tell me about it.’

  That Friday and Saturday, race day, the Pyrenees was booked solid. No accommodation was to be had anywhere in Avoca or the neighbouring area. Striped marquees had gone up at the track, just outside town, and by noon the car park was full, gorgeously clad women were sipping their first glass of chilled chardonnay, serious punters were studying form, and children were playing in the dust. The course broadcaster, a local identity, went through his paces in preparation for the first event, a hurdle. Later, police units would cover all the exits to make sure they caught every single drink-driver. This was going to be a busy day for everyone.

  During the afternoon the town itself, however, was deserted, and Dennis sat alone in the bar of the Pyrenees, having given Brett, who had gone to the track, fifty dollars to invest for him—Brett had mail in the feature race, the Taltarni Cup. This was a good time to be working out moves. He phoned Des Carlysle.

  The evening was a different story. Well-oiled, sunburnt patrons packed the Pyrenees. Drinkers spilled into the hall and stood in doorways. The over-extended kitchen battled through, a hot-box of sizzling fat, confusion and short tempers, shunting out meals until eight-thirty and continuously clearing tables for the still starving. Later, in full party mode, half-a-dozen champagne-drinking roisterers cornered the old player piano, endlessl
y cranking out ‘By The Light Of The Silvery Moon’ and ‘Goodnight Irene’ and taking it in turns to pump the pedals. For the workers, breathing space was hard to come by until the bar shut shortly after one-thirty, when the last guests finally took to their beds. The hotel had been open an hour past the legal time, but Frank Stannard did not make an appearance.

  By lunchtime Sunday the tourists had all gone and a team of volunteers from Lions and Apex began to clean up the racetrack. Regulars returned to the two hotels and things quickly reverted to normal. Dennis was still tired—and sore—from his long night with Monica, and planned an early one. By five-thirty he was already dragging the chain, but wouldn’t be able to close until ten if there were still drinkers in the bar.

  At about this time, five-thirty, Teddy Van Vliet got out of a taxi and walked into the car park at Highpoint West shopping centre in Maribyrnong, Melbourne, with a screwdriver in his pocket. He found a vehicle that suited him, a ’78 Ford Marquis, and opened it with the screwdriver. Then he hotwired it and drove to De Marco’s hotel in Essendon for his rendezvous with Graham. When he got there Graham was waiting. No, there wasn’t time for a drink; he could have a big drink later. Graham seemed nervous to Teddy. He picked up his black travel bag and followed Teddy out to the Marquis. In ten minutes they were on the Calder Freeway. Inside an hour they would be in Ballarat.

  EIGHTEEN

  At nine-fifteen they were parked in a poorly-lit street behind the Pyrenees Hotel. From this position the building itself was not visible, but they could see the back fence and the opening to the driveway of the yard. There was time to kill yet, about fifteen minutes, Graham thought. Teddy smoked.

  Graham opened the black travel bag and withdrew two sawn-off shotguns, giving one to Teddy. There were loose cartridges rolling around in the bag; he took two of these for himself, gave two to Teddy and together they broke open the guns and loaded them. Graham then produced woollen balaclavas and gloves, a set each, and these they pocketed for the time being. The last thing to come out of the bag was a half-bottle of J&B, which Graham unscrewed and held to his lips. Teddy watched him take a long swallow.

  ‘Got a dose of the quicks, Graham?’ Teddy said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The runs. Shitting yourself.’

  Graham passed the bottle across. ‘I don’t mind fessing up to a slight attack of nerves, Teddy. Unlike you I’m new to the business of robbery with violence.’

  Teddy drank, then said, ‘This is a bit different from flogging holidays to Bali, eh?’

  Graham glanced quickly at Teddy. ‘It is indeed,’ he said neutrally, and let it pass.

  Teddy grinned and gave him the bottle back. ‘You’ll be all right. Just don’t shoot me up the arse, will you.’

  ‘Your arse is perfectly safe from me, Teddy, don’t worry.’

  Graham screwed the lid back on the bottle and put it on the seat beside him. They waited. Teddy drank more J&B and passed the bottle to Graham. ‘Thanks,’ Graham said. Teddy smoked another cigarette, then Graham looked at his watch. Nine thirty-five. ‘Christ. Time to wriggle. Let’s proceed with our great enterprise, Ted my old cohort. Guns in the bag, please. We don’t want dear old Plod nabbing us in the street, do we? Got your woollies?’

  ‘Check,’ Teddy said.

  They got out. House lights were on, but the street was deserted. A dog that had just emptied its bowels on the nature strip sniffed what it had done. They walked quickly to the hotel driveway, scanned the yard. Over the back door a bare globe shone brilliantly on the flower-bordered lawn. Concealing themselves in shadows, they donned their hoods and gloves, nodded to each other, then dashed to the outside stairs. On the landing they paused, listening. Nothing. Teddy tried the door—it opened. They nodded at each other. Teddy poked his face inside. The upstairs lights were still on and he could hear people speaking in the lounge below. He came in and Graham followed quickly, shutting the door silently. To their right the door marked PRIVATE was not locked either, as they had not believed it would be, so Teddy opened it cautiously, not knowing at that moment whether anyone was inside. He wished he had the gun in his hand then. A light was on, but that didn’t mean anything. Teddy’s heart thumped. He held the door slightly ajar, looking in and listening. Graham kept his eyes on the hallway and the stairs and Teddy could feel him wanting Teddy to hurry up and get inside so they could shut the door and catch their breath for a minute.

  Inside the lounge room Graham unzipped the bag, removed the guns and gave Teddy his. Then he brought out a roll of black electrical tape and whispered, ‘For Mr Gatz’. Teddy nodded. Graham seemed to have thought of everything. Graham looked at his watch. Nine forty-five. Graham whispered, ‘We might have to stay here for half an hour. Depends. But be ready to take him if he walks in.’

  ‘Right,’ Teddy said. He checked over the shotgun, making sure he knew how to work it. Everything seemed straightforward, although he wasn’t certain if the safety catch was on or off. Teddy lacked experience with guns, but he wasn’t about to let Graham know this. He decided that if it became necessary he would have time to try both positions without Graham noticing if he’d fucked up the first time. Just to be on the safe side he wouldn’t pull back the hammers until they were ready to go. It might have a hair trigger—he’d heard shotguns were a bit like that.

  On the stroke of ten Dennis shut the bar and gave the last boozers a few minutes to finish their drinks while he and Brett went around putting up chairs and switching off lights. The boozers got the hint and left.

  Bringing glasses to the bar for Dennis to load into the machine, Brett suddenly said, ‘Shit, I forgot those rabbits.’

  ‘Rabbits? Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it, mate. Tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m going to Maryborough tomorrow. Early.’

  ‘So you are.’ It was Brett’s day off; he’d planned to visit his parents, help with running repairs to a rotted section of roof, slash some grass, then work out at his dojo for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

  ‘Better get ’em. They’ll be thawed out—I took ’em out of the freezer this morning. Won’t take ten minutes.’

  ‘Please yourself. I’ll still be in here.’ He slid the tray of glasses in and pressed the button. When Brett was halfway out the back door he called, ‘I’ll leave that one unlocked for you, Brett.’

  ‘Right,’ Brett said.

  Sneaking a look through parted curtains upstairs, Graham watched Brett cross the yard and leave the way he and Teddy had come in. ‘There goes Goldilocks,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ Teddy said. ‘We don’t want that fucker around.’

  ‘No, we don’t. He’s a big fucker, isn’t he?’

  ‘Fuck ’im.’ Teddy was tapping the gun-barrel onto his gloved palm. The waiting and Graham’s nervousness had infected him. Now he was getting the quicks too. It was ten-fifteen. He said, ‘That should just about do, shouldn’t it?’ His heart pounded and he could feel his palms sweating inside the gloves.

  ‘All right, Teddy. We’ll just take a peek down the stairs first, make sure there’s no other fucker around. You go ahead, okay? I’ll play second fiddle behind you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s go. Let’s do it.’

  They crept to the stairs. Down below there wasn’t much light. They could hear someone moving around, then a till being emptied out. No voices. Teddy crouched for a decent look. The lounge was empty and the front bar was in darkness. There was only a light on in the bar itself. In it he saw Dennis at the till with his back to them.

  He turned to Graham and nodded. They went on down.

  Dennis came out of the bar with the till takings in a white cloth bag and saw first one, then two masked men coming through the lounge with guns aimed at him. He stood still.

  Teddy ran at him, screaming. ‘Drop the bag, mate! Hands in the air! Come on, fuck ya!’

  Dennis dropped the bag immediately and put his hands up.

  ‘Get down! Get on ya fuckin’ knees! Come on! Down!’

  Dennis did
so, fast. Teddy was all over him, pushing and shoving and shouting. Dimly he could see the other man standing back doing nothing except cover Dennis with the gun. Teddy punched Dennis in the face and pushed him onto his back, holding him down with his knee, shoving the gun in Dennis’s face.

  ‘… blow ya fuckin’ dumb head off, cunt! I fuckin’ mean it! Blow it right off! Hear me, cunt?’

  Dennis nodded. Teddy thrust the gun into his cheek, jabbing it; Dennis could see that both hammers were pulled back. ‘Now sit up! Sit on ya fuckin’ knees! Sit on ’em, fuck yer!’

  Dennis scrambled onto his knees. The twin barrels were right in front of him. He could see the silver where they had been sawn and filed. The other man, who had not said or done anything yet, suddenly jumped at Dennis and launched a kick into his midsection. Dennis doubled over, holding his gut, and the same man punched the back of his head and then pulled him up by the hair and said, up close, so close Dennis got a faceful of sickly aftershave, ‘Enjoying yourself, old man?’ Then he slashed Dennis across the face with the jagged edge of the gun-barrels and a band of scarlet immediately burst on his skin. Dennis felt a blow to the side of the head and then another one and saw bright lights popping; then he was on his back, a foot on his chest, gun in his mouth; he tried to focus and could see along the barrels to the cocked hammers and black gloved hands and then the black-hooded face with the eye-holes and mouth-hole. The man said, ‘Wake up, sir! Time to die.’ Dennis thought, This is it, here it comes. The barrels rattled in his mouth. The man set himself to shoot. His black hands tensed, trembled; Dennis closed his eyes, the WHUMP-WHUMP of chopper blades filled his skull; sun blazed, dust swirled, choking; one week in the country—men leapt, fell, tumbled; WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP; Yank pilot banked, backed off: GOTTA GO GOTTA GO GOTTA GO!!—men screamed unheard, ran, pack-laden; he scrambles, gets to his knees, bullets fly, the dry pop-pop-pop, twigs snapping; someone yells: IT’S THE WRONG ZONE!!! He gets up, runs, ankle gone; pain shoots; he screams: HELP ME! No one hears, all chaos, he crawls, hears bullets splitting air; sees black-clad Charlie, AKs, panics, cries out: HELP ME—SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!