by Zane Lovitt
‘Meet me in the stairwell on the fourth floor. Don’t let Mush see you.’
Big starts to speak, but I end the call.
They manufacture Arnold handguns with the screws welded loose because their customers like to open the casings and get busy altering the trigger’s sensitivity or enlarging the calibre or drilling holes for a half-arsed silencer.
I’ve got about thirty seconds before Mush gets back.
Inside most automatic handguns are two inch-long pins called vaulting wires that lever back the hammer and snap it free. Without them, you might as well throw the bullets at people.
I use the pointed edge of the ice scoop like one half of a Phillips-head screwdriver, scraping and scratching at the grip screws, hacking at them to get them loose. The first one comes, but I’m so frantic with the second that I take a chip out of the bottom of the grip.
I’m sure Mush won’t notice.
I wedge the handle of the ice scoop underneath the vaulting wires and wrench at it with everything I’ve got, clamping the gun between my legs and twisting the scoop clockwise.
Very softly, from along the corridor, comes the tone of the elevator.
With my last effort I tear open the webbing in my left hand and with it the vaulting wires come free. As I jam the casing back together there’s a noise outside the door: Mush looking for his passkey.
I wind back the screws by hand, just enough for the gun not to rattle like a broken toy when he picks it up. I hear the relaxed sound of the hotel door unlocking and I drop the gun onto the bed and step over it into the en suite, into the bathtub, press myself against the tiles behind the fogged window that ordinarily you’d slide closed. There’s blood trickling down my hand and maybe Mush won’t notice whatever I splashed onto his bed and carpet.
I hold my breath to keep quiet, listen hard.
What happens first is that Mush tears into the bathroom.
After all those bourbons it shouldn’t be a surprise, but when Mush bursts in, pulling open his fly, I almost cry out in shock. I feel my pulse in my head as Mush moans like I’ve moaned so often, alone and uninhibited, projecting a steady stream into the toilet bowl. I’m not well-hidden this side of the shower screen. All it will take is one sober glance for Mush to see there’s some bloke standing behind it.
He flushes and turns to the basin, belches. He doesn’t wash his hands, just stands there, listens to the filling of the cistern. Again I panic, thinking he’s seen me, that he’s trying to make sense of my black silhouette in the bathtub, but gradually the sound of gushing water fades and reveals the sound of him, Mush, sniffling and coughing, weeping at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
And it builds. What begins as a subtle sob becomes a big cat giving birth, growls pumped out in sharp bursts between sharp inhalations. It keeps building, Mush becoming the Incredible Hulk, spitting words at the mirror:
‘You fuck…You fuck…Loser…You fucking loser…’
I look down to see blood dripping from my hand onto the white of the bathtub.
‘Pissweak faggot loser…Pissweak arsehole…You’re a fucking pissweak fucking loser…’
Sobs take over, loud and mighty, amplified by the bathroom tiles. Through the shower screen I can see his body slump, his head hanging below his shoulders, arms gripping the sides of the basin.
He takes two deep breaths, turns and he’s gone.
After the shortest of moments there’s the cracking open of what I suppose is the mini-bourbon, then silence when I suppose he’s drinking it. There’s more growling and deliberate moaning, more abuse directed at himself, as well as quiet moments when he drinks.
Then I hear the room door open and close, and I listen to that silence for about a second.
When I rush out of the en suite with a white towel wrapped around my hand, the gun is gone from the bed, replaced by the empty bourbon bottle. There are three drops of blood on the carpet that Mush either didn’t notice or thought were his own.
I move to the door and listen.
DING—the elevator tone. I give Mush three seconds to get on board, then I’m out the door, limping to the stairwell as fast as my ankle will let me, pain cutting through my shin. Down the stairs I have to hop three at a time and more than once I stumble and crash, unable to save myself because my good hand is on the other side from the handrail.
An hour ago I was watching the ice melt into my drink, not even licking my lips for fear of spoiling the liquor’s touch. Now there’s blood trickling into my eye from a graze on my forehead and when I think I’m wiping it away I’m actually just wiping blood across my face.
And I’m thinking, I wasn’t even the first choice for this job.
The stairwell doors in the Pioneer feature small, 1950s-style fire windows and Big is peering out the one on the fourth floor when I get there. Without glancing back at me he says, ‘Don’t worry, he hasn’t gone in yet. He’s getting into the zone.’
Then he turns and sees me and laughs.
‘Jesus…What have you done to yourself?’
Peeking through the fire window, I see Mush in another dim corridor lined with doors. He’s running a hand through his hair and taking the same deep breaths as before, only quieter. The lump is back there under his jacket and he’s decided that the least suspicious thing to do is to walk back and forth along the corridor, holding his hand to the lump and talking to himself.
‘He’s been there about a minute,’ says Big. ‘He’s acting all fucked up.’
‘He has to get himself raw before he can go through with it.’ I grunt, getting my breath back.
‘If he doesn’t get a move on he’ll sober up.’
Big leans against the concrete wall, grinning. Either because what he said was funny or because that’s the only outlet he’s got at this moment.
‘Are you going to tell me now why the fuck we’re not stopping him?’
Now Mush is turning circles on the carpet, slapping his hands against his hips, a few metres down from the closed and unsuspecting door of room 412. His fly is still undone after his trip to the bathroom.
‘Benedict’s skipped bail, right? Or at least he will have, about forty-eight hours from now.’
Big doesn’t respond, just taps his foot on the floor, full of nervous energy.
I wipe the blood from my forehead with the towel. ‘His legal team wants me to take him back to Sydney before that happens. But I’m guessing Billy doesn’t want to go back to Sydney because he doesn’t want to find out that everything he ever heard about jail is true. So my theory is that Mush and a gun can help scare him into it.’ I shrug at Big and say, ‘That’s what we’re doing here.’
Behind his knitted brow and his fat eyebrows, he’s working through it, tapping away with his foot and nodding. Then he looks back at me. ‘And who’s Mush?’
‘Benedict ripped off a lot of people. I’m guessing Mush is one of them.’
Mush is wiping the sweat from his palms on his pants leg, right outside Benedict’s door.
I say, ‘Get ready.’
Big smooths back his hair and cracks his neck. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mush is about to knock.’
‘So then what? Benedict opens the door and Mush shoots him?’
‘Maybe. Maybe Mush will want to talk first. He’s never shot anyone before. To do that, he’ll have to get into the room.’
‘How are we going to get in?’
I look Big in the eye and make a face, which he understands, even though my face in this condition must look ridiculous.
‘Fuck you,’ he shakes his head. ‘Fuck you. It shows up on their database whenever I use it. They’ll want to know why.’
‘We’ll figure out something to tell them.’
Big is about to protest more, but I say, ‘Here we go.’
Mush knocks. And waits, shaking his hands, trying to loosen them up, swaying from foot to foot.
Big says, ‘What if he just shoots him?’
‘He won�
�t. His gun doesn’t work.’
The door to 412 opens.
From this angle I can’t see inside the room or who is there, only that Mush is talking, probably having trouble because he’s hammered. Something’s said back to him and he listens, then speaks again, then gives up and out comes the Arnold. He holds it low and close to his body, gestures like there’s water dripping out of the barrel and he’s splashing the doorway with it. Then he steps into the room, closes the door quickly behind him.
We move out of the stairwell and quickly down the hall. Or at least Big does; I’m still hobbling. There’s no one else in sight, which is good, because if anyone saw me with this much blood smeared on my clothes they might call the police. We park outside Benedict’s room, listening.
‘How long before we go in?’ Big whispers.
‘Just long enough for him to see that Mush is for real.’
Through the door comes a slamming sound, which could be violence, or it could just be someone closing a dresser drawer. Big reaches into his pocket for what I expect is the passkey. What he brings out is his own revolver.
‘You won’t need that.’
‘I know. It isn’t loaded.’ He lifts his eyebrows like I’m in on the joke and stuffs the gun in his waistband.
When the voices start to carry through the door there’s anger in them, in the dynamic of highs and lows that combine to make a roar, and Big knows this is it. He swipes the passkey and we go in.
I feel as though there’s something I should say, something to announce our entrance, but nothing comes. There’s nothing that would have any effect or reason behind it. And no one would hear anything over Benedict anyway. He’s cowering on the bed in a hotel robe, his arms up over his face, hollering a stream of nonsense:
No no no wait wait wait no please wait wait no.
Mush stands over the bed, the Arnold hanging lazily in his right hand, like he’s about to deliver a warning shot into the doona. This is the first time I’ve seen Mush up close and he’s more like a child than ever, a child saying to his parents, this is my angry face. As we enter he whirls around, his freckles exploding with surprise.
The Arnold rises, levels at Big, who stops his approach. His arms come up in surrender.
I move for Mush. His mouth gapes. He swings the gun to point at me. As I get close his jaw juts sideways.
He pulls the trigger. The weapon makes no sound at all.
A man with a gun, soaked in booze and sweat and blood and hatred, he might do that if you surprised him. The shock reacts before he does. He doesn’t know who I am, so Mush trying to kill me isn’t something I should take personally.
I don’t take it personally, but I do pull the gun from his hand and get a fistful of hair.
‘Take him back to his room,’ I growl at Big, pushing Mush at him. The angry face opens to let out a squeal of panic.
I say to Big, ‘Find out who he is, and who else knows he’s here.’
Looking at Benedict, there’s concentration in his eyes, like he’s willing me to really be saving him.
Mush flails against Big’s grip. ‘Wait, I…I didden do anything!’ He says it to me as Big takes hold of his collar, hauls him in close. ‘What’re you doing? I didden do anything!’
Big raises his jacket to show Mush the revolver.
‘Don’t fuck me about, understand? This gun works.’
Big muscles Mush out the door and when they’re gone it’s quiet and I have to say I’m happy with how quickly that happened. Benedict’s still concentrating on me, caught up in the crumpled bedsheets that glisten with moisture. He’s wet the bed, but the adrenaline has kept him from noticing. He tries to speak, but can’t seem to summon any words.
I limp to the mini-bar and make a drink. Vodka, why not? Mixing my drinks isn’t going to make tomorrow’s hangover any worse. I pour in tonic water.
‘You want one?’
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t seem to hear the question.
Leaning against the bar fridge, sipping gratefully, I’m suddenly very impressed with Neil Bighuty. Benedict is unkempt and unshaven, looks like he hasn’t slept for weeks. Even behind a hat and sunglasses, Big recognised him from a distance of ten metres, with only a small black and white photo as a reference. I’ve seen Benedict in the papers for most of the last year and I doubt I’d pick this messy Caucasian out of a line-up. But it’s Billy Benedict all right. Not looking much like an accountant, looking more like a fugitive who thought he was about to die.
‘How do you feel, Billy?’
Benedict doesn’t answer, stares at the ceiling. A silver crucifix hangs in the vee of his robe. He must have been about to take a shower.
‘You feel like you want to throw up?’
Groggy-eyed and slow, he looks back at me and says, ‘No.’
‘Well, that’s on its way, I guess.’
He looks around the room like he just woke up and doesn’t recognise it. Then something rational occurs to him.
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘Well…That’s the big surprise.’
‘Are you a cop?’
‘If I were a cop you’d be under arrest for using a fake ID. But the cops don’t need to know about that.’
This is too much information. He says ‘What’ and ‘Huh’ both at once and it comes out, ‘Whuh?’
‘Terry Linehan hired me. I’m here to take you back to Sydney.’
The blood drains from his face and wherever it goes, it makes him angry.
‘Fuck it. I fucking knew it. Tell Linehan to go fuck himself.’
‘I don’t think he’ll accept that.’
‘You can’t make me go back,’ he says, rising to his knees. ‘You can’t make me do anything. And neither can Linehan. Who are you, anyway? Another fucking lawyer?’
There’s blood smeared on my trousers and on my face and on the towel that’s wrapped around my left hand. My right foot can’t take any weight. I don’t know what about me looks like I’m a lawyer.
‘Awwww shit,’ Benedict moans, holding up his wet hand. He’s discovered the wet patch all over himself and on the bed. Rather than crawl off, though, he falls back into the mess, sobbing, then springs back onto his knees. Wanting me to see how upset he is.
‘I’m not going back to Sydney,’ he splutters. ‘I just want everybody to leave me alone. Why can’t everybody just leave me—’
My slap catches him more on the ear than the cheek, but it quiets him down. ‘Look at me.’
He clasps his ear, stunned. Shies away in case I hit him again.
I say, ‘Look at me.’
His eyes come up.
Poor Billy. He’s used to a different kind of treatment at hotels like this. He’s used to betting the highest hand limits in Australia, and everything that brings with it: free meals and show tickets and escorts.
I say, ‘I didn’t go through what I’ve been through today so you could opt out.’
He’s used to chocolate boxes full of ‘lucky money’ and genuflecting staff.
I say, ‘If you come back with me now, no one but Linehan’s people will know you ran.’
He’s used to private jets and penthouse suites.
I say, ‘That’s the only way you’ll be safe from people like Mush.’
And look at him now. Vomiting.
It splatters across the doona cover which is already a mix of tears, sweat and piss. With it comes that retching sound you can’t fake, the one that comes straight from your stomach, so I step away, make another drink and sit down by the balcony door.
On the small writing desk I put down Mush’s weapon and find a brown wallet. Inside are forty-five dollars and a driver’s licence for Aaron Bernardo. The photo looks something like Benedict, but it isn’t him.
Outside has become night. Little lights blink back at me, twitching at the sounds of Benedict’s muffled sobs. I want to go upstairs and bring Mush down here, show him this weeping mess on the bed.
Then Billy speaks, more throat th
an voice, ‘I’m sick…’
He comes out from under his arms. There’s an impossible length of saliva stretched from his mouth to the bed that he wipes away on the pillowslip. ‘I’m sick…I’d like to go to the bathroom please.’
‘Go ahead.’
Benedict stumbles delicately to the en suite and runs the tap, leaving the door open. I strip the bed and wrap the soiled sheets into a ball that’s going to be a fine discovery for housekeeping tomorrow. Then I call the trains, watch Benedict splash water over his face and gargle a miniature bottle of hotel mouthwash. There’s a train for Sydney two hours from now. I’m about to call Linehan when I stop myself—we can do that from the station. If there’s a dozen other men around the country looking for Benedict, getting an hourly rate, they’ll probably appreciate the extra couple of hours before Linehan calls it off.
Benedict comes back in a fresh robe and sprawls headlong across the naked mattress. I pour him a glass of water. When I give it to him, he says, ‘So Linehan knew I’d done a runner?’
‘Reckons he’s got a sixth sense for it.’
Benedict smirks and shakes his head. ‘He’s one arsehole, that Linehan…’
‘Do you know Rene Mush?’
‘Not his face. When he told me his name, yeah, I knew who he was.’
‘Someone you fleeced?’
‘Superannuation, insurance bonds, I can’t remember. He lost a lot.’
‘I thought they all got their money back.’
‘Not all of them. I was never authorised by ANR to accept clients online. Which means the clients who came to me independently and never came in the door of ANR weren’t covered. Fucking small print, right? Fucking ANR. They’re the ones who fucked him. But I guess he sees it differently.’
‘How did he know where to find you?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘When was the last time you had contact with him?’
‘I can’t fucking remember.’
He waves me off, like thinking is too hard for him right now. Then he stares vacantly at his water glass, thinking. ‘Did he really want to kill me?’
‘Looked like it to me.’
He stares at the water.
I ask, ‘Why did you come to the Pioneer?’