by Peter Corris
It cost five dollars to go in which meant that this blonde, if she was still paying, was running up a fair bill for the night's fun. For the five dollars you got strobe lights and dark corners, mirrors to hate yourself in and noise. The beat of the music coming over the amplifiers was regular to the point of monotony and about as loud as the guns at Passchendaele. It was early for the action at this sort of joint; a girl was dancing with another girl and three men were dancing together on the polished floor. A few people sat drinking in plump-cushioned booths and my foursome sat up at a long bar. There were mirrors behind the bar which had the prices of the drinks written on them in white paint—a scotch cost two dollars and fifty cents, a Bloody Mary cost three dollars. I sat at the far end of the bar and ordered a beer. It wasn't an ideal place for a surveillance; alone and over thirty I stood out like a carthorse at the Melbourne Cup. Also I didn't know what to make of it: Annie was out with some friends consuming alcohol, the fact that she had a bad case of the shakes and that three of the party looked as if they didn't have fifty cents while the other was wearing five hundred dollars on her back was interesting, but nothing more.
We all had another drink or two and I was thinking about calling it a night when he came in. His platform soles lifted him up high enough for you to call him short; he had on a dark three-piece suit with a dark shirt and a white tie. His body was plump but his head was abnormally small, it looked as if it was trying to duck down out of sight. He had a thin pasty face and stringy blonde hair, wispy on top and worn long. He looked as if he'd been made up out of leftover parts. He walked straight up to my party and the blonde bought him a green drink. They had a few giggles and then got down to what looked like serious talk, argument even. Annie shook her head a couple of times and Shorty downed his drink and made as if he was going to take the high dive off his stool. Then they all calmed down and the head shaking turned to nodding. Shorty got down and walked off towards a door with a sign over it that read ‘Powder your nose till it glows’. Annie and leather jacket followed him, and thirty seconds later I followed them.
After the door there was a short, dark corridor and then a set of narrow, carpeted stairs. I went up the first flight, made a turn and then something like the Queen Mary hit me behind the ear. My face hit the carpet hard and a front end loader scooped me up and threw me down the stairs. I flipped over, hit my head more than once and never reached the bottom. I went down into the blackness and then down some more.
When I came out of it a cat was walking across my face and talking. I told it to be quiet and tried to brush it away but it stayed there and talked louder. At least it wasn't scratching, but I thought it might, so I opened my eyes. It wasn't dark at the bottom of the stairs anymore, there was a bright light burning about a hundred miles away and it was getting closer. I closed my eyes again.
‘He's alive’, a woman's voice said.
Another woman giggled. ‘How alive?’
I decided to kill the cat so I opened my eyes again. The light was closer this time, but not as bright, and the cat was a fur coat. Its owner also wore a pink leotard and spike heels. ‘What happened to you?’ She had the same voice as the cat.
‘I fell down the stairs.’
The giggler giggled again. ‘Break anything?’ She was small and dark with a big bright smile. She'd have been just the girl to take to an execution.
I located my arms and legs and flapped them. I didn't fly but I did manage to crawl up the wall and stand there with my head throbbing. Two versions of the big figure in the fur coat stood in front of me, I tried to fuse them into one.
‘I'm okay’, I said.
‘Oh’, said the small one, and I thought I detected a note of disappointment.
‘You need a drink.’ Fur coat, leotard, spike heels and practical, too—my dream girl. I mumbled something and staggered through the door back to the fun parlour. There were more people around, more drinkers and dancers but no sign of the frolicsome four.
I didn't have the drink; being knocked unconscious disturbs the normal behaviour patterns. I plodded out to the street and walked two blocks before I realised I was going the wrong way. The walk back to my car was like a month on the chain gang. I stumbled and ran into things and people on the streets drew the natural conclusion; each collision sent daggers of pain stabbing into my head and only a strong mixture of pride and stupidity got me to the car. I sat in it for a while looking at the cars—the new fast ones and the old ones and the people who were just the same. When everything had settled down to a steady hum of distress, I drove home. My mirror showed me a right eye that was darkening and a swelling on the side of my head. There was no blood to speak of, and I did what I could with wet cloths and pain killers and went to bed. Just as I drifted into sleep I had one of those half-dreams where you fall off a step or a gutter, except that my step was high and over an endless void; I twitched like an electric shock victim.
I didn't wake up until nearly midday and waking up was no pleasure. My head and body ached and I felt weak as if I'd had a long illness; maybe I had, maybe it was this work I was doing. I dragged myself out to the kitchen for some food, ate it and went back to bed again. I did some more sleeping and it was dark when I came out of it to hear the phone ringing. I stumbled down the stairs.
‘Mr Hardy? Mr Hardy, I'm worried. What's going on?’ Ma's voice was urgent with concern and something else, maybe anger.
‘Not sure I follow you Ma’, I said. ‘I got knocked on the head last night by one of Annie's friends. I was going to tell you about it when I felt better. What's got you upset?’
‘Annie, of course. She didn't come home last night and she hasn't been at work. I don't know where she is. I thought you might know. What happened? I mean, why'd you get hit?’
‘I'm not sure, but I know your Annie's in bad company.’
‘The bloody drugs?’
‘I think so. But one day out of sight doesn't mean anything necessarily.’
‘It's more than that. She was supposed to see her parole officer today. She didn't turn up and he went to the shop. Now she's in real trouble. Mr Hardy, Cliff, can you …’
I put my hand to my head, the swelling was large and pulpy and very tender to the touch. ‘Yeah, yeah. I'll try to find her Ma. If she's ducking parole she won't want to see me. I might have to be rough.’
‘You do what you bleedin' have to.’
I told her I'd work on it and keep her informed. She asked if she could help, but I couldn't see how she could. Then she said to be careful; that was nice, not many of my clients told me to be careful.
I had a cautious shower and shave and got dressed gingerly. Some food and a little wine and a careful checking of my gun made me feel better.
It was a little after six when I got to the house in Erskineville. There didn't seem to be any point in subtlety. I banged on the door, and when a hairy man in a dressing gown opened it I put the .38 to his right cheek.
‘I want the tall, thin guy. Where is he?’
His mouth opened but no sound came out. I jabbed him a little with the gun. ‘Where?’
‘He's gone. Went this morning.’
‘Show me.’
We went down the dark hallway to a room at the back of the house. It had a bed and some basic furniture and was fairly clean. There were marks on the walls where posters had been torn off and dust mark on the floor showed where a bag or a box had stood. I motioned the man to stand in a corner while I looked in the cheap wardrobe: it was empty and so were the top two drawers beside it. I felt around in the bottom drawer and came out with a plastic syringe, the disposable kind. I held it up.
‘Diabetic, is he?’
‘No, no’, he stammered. There were three roaches in an ashtray by the bed.
I looked at the man who was fiddling with the cord of the dressing gown. ‘What's his name?’
‘Paul.’
‘Paul what?’
‘I don't know.’
‘Where did he go?’
&nbs
p; ‘Don't know.’
‘Don't know much, do you?’
‘I don't know nothing. He stayed here a few weeks, paid his rent sometimes, not lately. I'm glad to be rid of him.’
There was no point in pressing it. I put the gun away and left. Things were stirring in Annie's little circle and it wasn't too hard to guess what was causing the movement.
The next stop was Primo Tomasetti's tattooing parlour which is just down the way from my office. For a consideration Primo lets me park my car in the yard behind his establishment. I pushed the door open and entered Primo's surrealistic cavern: the parlour consists of a one big room which is decorated over every inch with designs, large and small, which Primo promises to transfer to the skin. His creations range from the hetero-sexual—nautical to the most vivid, eastern-philosophy-inspired fantasies. I usually gape a bit on entering Primo's because he is capable of changing the motif of a wall overnight: I once saw disgusting imaginings involving mermaids changed into inter-galactic, time-capsule obscenities over ten hours. Primo paints on the walls and sticks needles into skin. There was a cowbell hanging from the ceiling and I rang it. Primo leapt into the room from somewhere dark and gloomy behind: that's how he moves, in jumps, except when he's wielding his tool of trade.
‘Primo, caro, bonno sierra!’
He winced and adjusted the bow tie, spotted, red on white, he wears with the business shirt, the white coat and the dark slacks.
‘Cliff, you are the least talented linguist I have ever had inflicted on me.’ He reeled off some liquid sounds with gestures, and I watched admiringly.
‘Mondo cane’, I said, ‘L'adventura, Hiroshima mon amoure. Primo, old friend, I need your help.’
‘At last!’ He clasped his hands together and looked skywards like a bishop. ‘I see a Walther PPK, gun metal, under the left nipple.’
‘I see a little plastic bag, a sealed sachet maybe, colourless, with some white powder within.’
‘Stick to the wine and the Scotch, Cliff; it takes longer and you can still be interested in girls and food.’
‘Primo, I wouldn't touch it unless I had something terminal, you know that. Just now, for a reason, I need a little leverage. Come on, amigo, I'll pay you now and you keep ten per cent if I return it.’
He looked at me like a parachutist inspecting his pack, looking for wrinkles, folds, imperfections that shouldn't be there. Then he shrugged and ducked back into the darkness. I examined the murals some more while I waited; Primo does not celebrate the drug culture, his preoccupations are carnal and his mission is the cure. He gives junk away, sells it, cuts it, feeds people, pays their hospital bills. The junkies respect him and very seldom stand over him, the cops leave him alone—he has a plan, a design, which no one else has ever understood but which most people take on trust. He came back with a flat, plastic square the size of a single serve of instant coffee. There was a teaspoon of white powder inside.
‘First quality shit’, he said, sounding like a dealer except that he waved my money aside.
I patted his arm, put the stuff in my pocket and went back to the car. My head was aching again as I pulled up in front of the flats in Double Bay. They must have been expensive to buy or rent, because the residents were proud enough of their occupancy to put their names over the letterboxes. There was a Major Cahill, a Robert Something, a Henry Something-else and a Mr and Mrs and a Solomon Isaacs. The sixth flat was occupied by Samantha Coleman and her name plate was a fetching shade of pink.
I went up two flights of stairs and knocked on her door. I could hear disco music playing inside, it was loud and I had to knock again, hard. The door opened to the length of its chain, about eight inches. She was barefoot and wearing a Chinese dressing-gown; her eyes were hollow and the dark roots of her hair were showing. She looked at me, taking in the well-worn clothes and face, including the black eye.
‘Yes?’ Her voice was husky, accented. I caught a glimpse of suitcases on the floor behind her.
‘Annie Parker’, I said. ‘Paul, you and a little guy with lifts in his shoes and a white tie.’
Her eyes opened injudiciously; a network of tiny wrinkles sprang into life around them. ‘So’, she said.
‘I want to talk to Annie, I wanted to talk to her last night.’ I lifted my hand to touch the damaged eye.
‘Oh, it's you, Mr Nosey. Go away before you get hurt.’
I brought out Primo's sachet and held it up for her to see. I looked around the deserted landing before I spoke.
‘First quality shit’, I said. ‘Guaranteed.’
‘You're selling?’
‘Bargain basement, while stocks last. But I only deal with little orphan Annie.’
‘I'll have to make a phone call.’
I waved my hand airily and the door closed. It was the sort of wait the weak-willed fill in with a cigarette. I filled it with doubt and fear. I waited longer than a phone call should have taken, unless she was discussing the pricing of oil. When the door opened she'd arranged her hair, put on her make-up and slipped into jeans and a sweater. She kept the chain on while she wriggled her feet into a pair of high-heeled sneakers.
‘Have you got a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘I'll take you to Annie, but I should tell you something first.’ She put her hand on the chain and jiggled it a little. ‘We'll be seeing a man who knows every narc in Australia, every one. Still want to go?’
I nodded; she slipped the chain and came out pulling the door shut behind her. She went down the steps wriggling her shoulders and swinging her bum as if she was trying to get herself in the mood for something exciting. I followed, watching the show with a mixture of feelings—arousal, amusement and pity.
In the car she wrinkled her nose at the smell of age and neglect. I scrabbled in the glove box and came up with a cigarette packet containing three stand-by joints. I lit one and passed it to her.
‘Thanks.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see.’ She sucked the smoke deep and held it before offering me the joint.
‘No. I mean what general direction; I've got to drive it haven't I?’
‘We going north, man.’ The accent again, South African, Rhodesian?
‘North coast or north inland?’
‘Coast, what d'you think. Palm Beach … oops, well, there it is, boy.’ She was enjoying the grass and she gave me a smile as she waved a hand signalling me to start the car. I started it and drove north.
‘You don't smoke?’ she said as she stubbed the joint out. ‘Sometimes, not when I'm working. Where are you from, Samantha, South Africa?’
She giggled. ‘Close. Salisbury, Salisbury Sam that's me. Greatest country in the world till the blacks took over.’
‘Good times, eh?’
‘The best man, the best. The best of everything. Can I have some more of that grass?’
‘Help yourself.’ She lit up and settled back to smoke. I drove and thought. We took the turn at Pymble and headed for Mona Vale. I pulled the car up at a small mixed-business shop set back a bit from the road. Samantha looked sleepily at me and I told her I wanted chewing gum. In the shop I bought a packet of corn flour, some bananas in a plastic bag, the evening paper and the gum. I put about a quarter pound of the flour in the plastic bag and wrapped it up in some sheets of newspaper. On the way to the car I stuffed the package down in the bottom of a little bin outside the shop. I got back in the car and handed Samantha a banana.
‘Drek’, she said, so I gave her some chewing gum instead.
We rolled on up through the northern beaches playspots until we hit the biggest playspot of them all. It was nearly ten, and everything along the strip was going full blast—it was all chicken fat and pinballs and the popping of cold, cold cans. Samantha directed me off the main road and down a few side streets which were discreetly bordered by ti-tree and money. After the last turn, the ocean stretched away in front of us like a vast velvet cloud.
The house was one of those st
ructures that have been pinned to a hill like a butterfly to a board. The steps down to it were steep and the house touched land only along its rear wall; the rest was supported by pillars which must have been fifty feet high at the front. Before I left the car I made a show of putting the big Colt into the clip under the dashboard. Sam watched, looking bored, but I had the short barrel .38 tucked in safe under my waistband at the back.
They were all there in the bright living room watching TV and drinking Bacardi rum—Annie beanpole Paul, the guy in the leather jacket and the near midget. Shorty was wearing a lime-green safari suit tonight, and highly polished boots with Cuban heels. Sam headed straight for the bottle and poured herself a big slug over ice. She offered it to me and I shook my head.
‘Hello, all,’ I said. ‘Hello, Annie.’