The Black Prince

by Peter Corris

  I pulled out the Colt and got between the heavies and the Scotts. ‘Keep out of it, boys. It’s a family matter.’

  They stopped but didn’t look scared. ‘It’s fucking Hardy,’ Baldy shouted above the alarm.

  ‘That’s right. Sorry I wasn’t at home when you called.’

  Ponytail edged closer. ‘He won’t shoot.’

  I shot, aiming well in front of him. More gravel flew, some of it into his face, and he flinched. The Colt makes a sharp report and it brought a scream from the house. Morris appeared on the porch.

  ‘Bindi, what the fuck’s going on?’ He pointed a remote controller at the Commodore and the whooping stopped.

  ‘Who’s Bindi?’ Baldy said.

  ‘No one you know. Get lost.’

  The gunshot must have startled and distracted Wes because Clinton broke free of him. He lashed out and caught his father with a glancing blow to the head. Wes reacted more out of surprise probably than from the weight of the punch. He stepped back. Clinton jumped forward and into the Camry. He gunned the motor and shot out through the gate in reverse, swerving, clipping the post as he went.

  ‘Clinton!’ Wes shouted, but tyres shrieked and rubber burned and he was gone.

  Stan Morris, wearing a silk dressing-gown, came across the gravel, wincing as it bit into his bare feet.

  ‘Will someone tell me what’s going on here?’ He pointed at me, still holding the gun more or less at the ready. ‘You’re the fucker who followed us from the fight. Bindi said he’d wiped you off.’

  ‘Not quite, Morris,’ I said. ‘There’s a very long story here and there’s been a car alarm and a gunshot. Do we get the cops in or what?’

  Wes had walked to the open gate and was staring out at the street.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Morris said.

  ‘He’s the father of the guy you know as Bindi. He’s not an Aborigine by the way, he’s a West Indian.’

  ‘Shit. And who’re these two?’

  Without their car and their target, Baldy and Ponytail seemed to be at a loss. I said nothing and waited for the sound of sirens or signs of consternation in the street. Nothing. Maybe the gunshot hadn’t been so loud. A backfire. And car alarms go off all the time. Morris’ thought processes were running along the same lines.

  ‘No cops,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ve got reason to believe you’ve got illegal substances in there, and if that hooker’s sixteen . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay. What d’you want?’

  Baldy and Ponytail were getting edgy, looking from one to the other. Ponytail felt for his mobile while Baldy lit a cigarette.

  ‘I think you’d better be on your way, boys,’ I said. ‘You can call yourselves a cab. Just for interest though, how’d you get on to this place?’

  Baldy obviously felt a whole lot better with two lungs full of tar. ‘We had two cars at your place. You ducked the first one but the second one picked you up and followed you here. Rex is going to want to talk to you, Hardy. We’ll deal with the boong later.’

  Wes, head bowed, was walking back towards us. I pointed to him with the gun. ‘If his father hears you using words like that you’ll have to crawl away. Piss off!’

  They trooped off towards the gate. Baldy turned around before they got there. ‘We know where you live, Hardy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘and I know what you used to drive. Explain that to Nickless and tell him I’ll be in touch.’

  The blonde girl was on the porch, smoking and wearing only her pink blouse. Morris shouted at her to go inside. She flicked ash at him but obeyed. Wes advanced on Morris.

  ‘I ought to kill you for using my boy like you have.’

  ‘Hey, hey, he came to me. He looked like a Koori, talked like one and he could fight. How was I to know what he was?’

  Wes shook his head and looked at me as I put the gun away. ‘I don’t know what to do. What’ll I tell Mandy? I didn’t even get to talk to him.’

  Morris’ confidence was flowing back. ‘I don’t think any of this is my fucking problem. You’ve entered my property illegally somehow. Probably done some damage and . . .’

  ‘Forget it, Morris,’ I said. ‘You haven’t got a legal leg to stand on. Wes, we have to go inside and look at Clinton’s things, see if the gun’s there and if we can get any idea of where he’s gone.’

  ‘You’re not going . . .’

  Wes took a handful of Morris’ dressing-gown at the back and lifted him off the ground with one hand. Morris wasn’t light but Wes carried him towards the house with his feet some centimetres off the ground with no apparent effort until the fabric ripped and he fell, skinning his knees on the gravel. He yelped and the blonde girl poked her head out of the door and giggled. Morris shouted an obscenity at her and Wes lifted him up and shook him.

  ‘You’re a piece of shit, Morris. Go and turn the lights off. And I don’t want to see you again, understand?’

  Morris nodded and we went up the steps and into the house. The girl had her skirt and shoes on and was unshipping her mobile.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘Better. Did he pay you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Find his wallet and take what you’re owed. He won’t say anything.’

  She was pretty and not yet as tough as she would be in a very short time. ‘Right,’ she said. Wes started up the stairs and she followed with me bringing up the rear. She went into what was obviously Morris’ bedroom and came out flourishing some notes. I escorted her down the stairs and outside in case Morris had turned nasty, but he was standing in the carport looking at his damaged Commodore. The girl gave me a hard, painful tobacco-breath kiss on the cheek, tried for a high five which I couldn’t quite get my hand up for, and high-heeled it towards the gate.

  I went back into the house and up the stairs. I found Wes in a room at the back. He was looking sadly at his son’s meagre possessions: some clothes hung on a metal rack, jeans, T-shirts, a denim jacket—others lay on the floor or on the unmade bed. A few weight-lifting magazines and some newspapers added to the mess. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a litre-sized bottle of Coca-Cola were on the dressing table. Beside it there was a paperback copy of Charles Perkins’ autobiography, A Bastard Like Me, and a brimming ashtray.

  ‘He used to be so neat,’ Wes said. ‘I kind of worried about it. And he didn’t drink or smoke.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you about the drinking. I think it started to help him put on weight and disguise himself. The same for the smoking. I don’t know about now.’

  Wes shook his head sadly, sniffing the strong smell of smoke in the room. ‘He moved like Clinton, but he sure didn’t look like him. Shit, what a fucking fuck-up.’

  There were a few coins on the dressing table and a set of keys, presumably to the Tarago. No notes, no wallet. An op-shop bomber jacket hung on a hook on the back of the door. I felt through its pocket without much optimism. Wes opened some drawers and slammed them shut. There was no sign of the gun. We completed our search and looked at each other. I tried to remember what Clinton was wearing but it wasn’t necessary.

  ‘I felt something hard in his jacket when I grabbed him,’ Wes said. ‘He had on a tracksuit top with zippered pockets. I felt something hard.’

  I nodded. The effort of throwing the wrench, the recoil of the Colt, the whole fucked-up business had taken its toll. I reached for the bourbon, uncapped it and took a swig. I handed it to Wes who did the same.

  Morris appeared in the doorway. ‘What the fuck are you two doing? You’re trespassing, you’ve got no right . . .’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ Wes said. ‘My son. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know? Get out of my house.’

  Wes advanced on Morris and pulled him into the room. He backed him up against the wall, towering over him. If Morris was an Aborigine he was a pale one and even paler now. Wes looked like a black thunder god, about to send down a lightning bolt.

 
‘You deal in drugs and steroids,’ he said quietly. ‘You have a confederate who does the same in the western suburbs. He supplied steroids to my boy’s girlfriend and she died. He was a good boy, a student at Southwestern University like his girlfriend. Now he’s got a gun and the only reason he hung around with you was to meet up with this other scumbag and kill him. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Jesus, I thought . . .’

  ‘Never mind what you thought. I want the name of this man and where I can find him.’

  Morris shook his head determinedly. ‘I can’t do that. He’s a big player. I’m a dead man if I tell you about him. No way!’

  Morris’ dressing-gown was torn but it was a good quality garment, fastened with a sash. Wes untied the sash and looped it around Morris’ neck. ‘If you don’t tell me I’m going to hang you off the stair rail there. I might drop you and let your neck break or I might just let you strangle to death. That just depends on how quick you are, starting now.’

  Morris’ eyes bugged from his head with terror. He could see that Wes was serious, but his nerve held just long enough for one more throw. ‘What good would that do? Bindi doesn’t know who he is or where to find him. And anyway, he’s barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Wes . . .’ I said.

  ‘Shut up, Cliff. What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘Bindi . . . your kid . . . whatever the fuck his name is, his girlfriend’d be black, right?’

  ‘Aboriginal,’ Wes said.

  ‘Well, this guy, he hates all blacks like poison. He wouldn’t have supplied a black chick with anything. No chance. Not in a million years. Slants, yes, blacks, no.’

  It was too much for Wes. He slackened the loop and let the sash drop away. Morris gathered himself and pushed past us towards his bedroom.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, following him with Wes drifting off back to Clinton’s room. ‘You’re part-Aboriginal yourself, aren’t you?’

  Morris smirked as he pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. He rubbed his neck and worked his shoulders. ‘Yeah, but see, this guy doesn’t know that. But, hey, if Bindi wanted to know who supplies the stuff at that university, I could’ve told him. Be happy to.’

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, who?’

  I turned. It was Clinton, standing just behind me in the passageway and holding my gun pointed straight at Morris.

  ‘Clinton!’ Wes’ voice was filled with alarm. He didn’t forget his military training though, and turned out the light in the room behind him.

  ‘Stay back, Dad!’

  ‘You wouldn’t shoot me, son.’

  ‘No. But I’ll fucking well shoot Stan if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know and I just might shoot Hardy as well for fucking interfering.’

  Morris laughed. Despite everything that was wrong with him he had some guts. He came out of the bedroom, turned off the light, and stood in the doorway.

  ‘You’re a crazy bastard, Bindi. Sure I’ll tell you. Kinnear, Teddy Kinnear. He’s the man you want.’

  Clinton reached up and smashed the overhead light with the pistol. The area was suddenly completely dark and Clinton was just a rush of fast-moving air as he bolted down the stairs. Wes and I collided as we both went after him and I yelled as my ribs took some of the impact. Wes lost balance and fell on the first stair, tumbling heavily to the landing. Above us in the dark, Stan Morris laughed again.

  24

  By the time we’d collected ourselves and made it to the front door we knew we were too late. The roar of an engine and the protest of tortured tyres told us that Clinton was away again.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Wes said. ‘I had two chances at him and screwed up both times.’

  I was rubbing my ribs and feeling for the bottle of pills. I needed them, and the whisky if possible. I yelled to Morris to bring it down. He came down with the bottle and the phone in the passage rang. He answered it as I took a swig.

  ‘Yeah, well you nosy old cunt, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get fucked!’

  He slammed the phone down and snatched the bottle from my hand. ‘Neighbour—old cunt.’

  ‘So you said. You realise you left the gate open after your playmate arrived.’

  Morris wiped the neck of the bottle on his sleeve and drank. ‘Shit.’

  ‘He came back to beat information out of you, you know. You’re lucky we were here.’

  ‘That’s a laugh. I wish I’d never seen you or him and you can get out right now.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Wes said. ‘Do you know where this Kinnear lives?’

  ‘Not a fucking clue. Out west somewhere, that’s all I know. Look, I’d tell you if I knew. It’s nothing to me.’

  ‘I believe him, Wes. Hang on, let me think. I know the name.’

  Wes rubbed the slight bruise on his cheek where Clinton’s punch had caught him as if it was a way of maintaining contact with his son. I repossessed the bottle and hoped the pain-killers and whisky would stimulate my memory. They didn’t. I knew I’d written the name down and I mentally flipped through my notebook.

  ‘Got it! He used to be the university basketball coach. His assistant’s taken over. Clinton must know him and he probably knows where he lives.’

  ‘He’s irrational,’ Wes said. ‘He could kill him. We have to stop him.’

  Morris was listening, interestedly but unsympathetic. ‘You’d better call the cops. But not from here.’

  Wes shook his head, ‘We can’t. Put the police up against an armed black man looking the way he does? That’d be signing his death certificate.’

  I caught the last few words as I went through the door. I took the steps as fast as I could and hobbled back towards our hole in the fence. Wes caught me at the carport.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  I handed him my keys. ‘Just get to the car and get it started.’

  He didn’t argue. He had the motor running when I reached the car. I climbed in, said, ‘West,’ and reached into the glove box for my notebook. I located Kathy Simpson’s number and punched it in, hoping she was home.

  ‘This is Kathy.’

  ‘Kathy, this is Cliff Hardy, remember me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hardy. How are you?’

  ‘Okay. Now this is terribly important. Have you got an address and telephone number for Ted Kinnear, the old basketball coach?’

  ‘Not here. It’d be at the desk at the gym.’

  ‘Is it still open?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a game on tonight.’

  ‘Kathy, this is literally life and death. It’s to do with Mark and Clinton and Angela and all that. I have to have that number and address. Can you ring the desk and get it and phone me as soon as you have it. Here’s the number.’

  She was up to it. ‘Just a minute, I’ll write it down.’

  I gave it to her and tried to think if I’d covered everything. ‘Last thing. Have you any idea where he lives.’

  ‘Parramatta,’ she said. ‘I think, but he’s sick and . . .’

  ‘Quick as you can, Kathy.’ I rang off and let out a slow breath. ‘Parramatta, Wes. Somewhere in Parramatta.’

  We drove for a while and I felt the codeine and alcohol take effect. I took out the Colt and checked the action.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t pull that out when Clinton was pointing the gun at Morris.’

  ‘I didn’t even think of it.’

  ‘Good. Don’t!’

  I put the gun in the glove box and drummed my fingers on the dashboard. The phone rang and I snatched it up.

  ‘Mr Hardy. I’ve got what you want.’

  She gave me the phone number and address and I thanked her abruptly, rang off and called the number.

  ‘This is Ted Kinnear. I’m not in at the moment but I won’t be away long. Leave your name and number and I’ll call back.’

  ‘What?’ Wes said.

  I scrabbled through the dog-eared, broken-spined Gregory’s for the street. ‘Good news. He’s out. Gives us
some time.’

  We drove in silence for a while and I could feel the tension building in Wes. He drove too fast but skilfully and I tried to think ahead to what we might be confronting but there were too many imponderables. I reflected that, like most of the important moments in my life, this one was impossible to plan for and all I could do was play it out by instinct and experience and hope for good luck. I wondered if Wes felt the same and doubted it. He’d plotted his life’s moves with shrewd intelligence and, besides, he had a hell of a lot more at stake here than me.

  ‘D’you want to call Mandy, Wes? Give her some idea of what’s up?’

  ‘No. I want to be able to tell her that Clinton’s with me and he’s safe and everything’s all right.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said but I thought, I hope to Christ you can do that.

  I phoned Kinnear several times on the drive but got the same message. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about his address—a suburban house in a suburban street. When we arrived there was something remarkable, to us at least—a blue Camry parked further down the street. We stopped behind it. There was a scattering of cars parked in the street.

  ‘He’s here,’ Wes said.

  ‘Yeah, probably inside. Wonder what he made of my phone calls.’

  Wes opened the door. ‘I’ve got to go in and talk to him. Make him see sense.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Look there.’

  A station wagon passed us and pulled into the driveway of Kinnear’s house. The gate was open and the car drove in and out of sight behind some shrubs. Wes jumped from the car and sprinted towards the house. I grabbed the Colt from the glove box and followed him at the best pace I could muster.

  The house was a double-fronted weatherboard with a California bungalow-style wide front porch on a large block. The garden had been carefully tended at one time but had been let go—the grass was long and weeds had invaded the flower beds and were sprouting up around the bases of the shrubs. Wes hesitated at the porch and I caught up with him.