Flank Street

by A. J. Sendall

  The office hadn’t produced much other than the contents of the safe, so I left Carol to sort through papers and two small boxes while I started on the other rooms.

  The master bedroom was as brassy as a Turkish brothel. Wall mirrors, purple satin sheets, and a canopied four-poster. I scored some gold cufflinks and other bits and pieces from the dresser, but that was it: nada from the other two bedrooms.

  When I went back downstairs, Carol was in the kitchen eating a Pop-Tart.

  ‘I was hungry,’ she said defensively before I had a chance to say anything.

  ‘Well, just don’t leave your prints and body fluids everywhere. That new DNA testing the jacks use can nail you from a spitball.’

  She shrugged and chewed. ‘Want one?’

  ‘What did you find?’

  She chewed and swallowed. ‘Plenty.’ She bit off another mouthful. Eventually she said, ‘The bonds are there, lots of them. There was cash in one of the boxes, about 20,000, I’d say.’ More chewing. ‘And these.’ She rubbed at crumbs around her mouth with her forearm, picked up a box from the bench, and held it open. ‘They’re pearls.’

  They certainly were; an eighteen-inch triple loop of high-grade triple-A pearls worth easily over a hundred thousand. I’d seen one similar, in London years before, that fenced for fifty thousand pounds. That find was a real job sweetener.

  ‘Okay, put them in the bag with all the bonds and cash. I’m just going to toss the lounge. There was nothing upstairs, so probably nothing in there either.’

  Five minutes later we left the same way we entered and walked calmly back into the forest to the hire car.

  This was a moment of trust: a moment that could make or break our fledgling partnership. I looked at her as she put her rucksack in the trunk. ‘Dinner tonight? Or are you eating with your mum and dad?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up in front of the hotel at eight.’

  She gave me a cunning smile.

  I wondered if I’d just done something remarkably stupid.

  At eight-thirty that night, we pulled into the car park of Omonia, an exclusive Greek restaurant close to the main drag of Surfer’s Paradise. She’d booked under her name, reserving a corner window seat, from which we could watch the comings and goings. The Maître d’ greeted her as if he knew her, or at least recognised her.

  She glanced at the wine menu, and ordered a Duval Leroy Blanc de Blancs. I ran my finger down the list and let out a low moan when I found it with a tag of $280.

  ‘I’d be happy with whiskey.’

  ‘Simmer down, this is on me.’

  ‘Two-eighty a bottle? That paint we serve at Frankie’s is less than ten.’

  ‘Like you said, paint. Now sit back and enjoy it.’

  The sommelier brought the champagne, opened it with a discreet thupp, and poured a taster. I screwed up my face and was about to reject it when I caught Carol’s foot in my shin. She smiled at the sommelier and told him it was just wonderful, and please excuse the English sense of humour. He looked confused, poured two flutes, pushed the bottle into the ice bucket and left. It was good, but not fifty bucks a glass good.

  The main course was great, the desserts fabulous. We finished with brandy and cigars. Carol got a few looks as she drew on a small Havana, but it only made her play the role harder.

  ‘We were good today, weren’t we?’ She rolled ash off the end of the cigar as she waited for me to answer.

  ‘We did okay, other than eating bloody Pop-Tarts in the middle of a job.’

  ‘I get hungry. It’s the excitement, but other than that we did okay, eh?’

  ‘Did you tally up?’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s 470 in bonds, 35 in cash, and I reckon another 100 for the pearls.’

  I did the maths. Assuming we got 70 cents on the dollar for the bonds, and split the cash, we’d take about 180,000 each. Then there were the pearls. They were a bonus, but a big risk as well. Without them, only the two us and the bonds man were involved. If we fenced the pearls, it would draw in other players, with the risk of someone getting careless or caught.

  ‘Nice haul, partner.’ I raised my glass. She touched it with hers, looking a bit suspicious, either because I called her partner, or she must have seen something in my eyes.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Just thinking about the numbers. If we leave 60 grand in as working capital for next time, we’ll both pull about 150 with the cash and bonds. It’s a good score for a morning’s work.’

  ‘And the pearls?’

  I drained the brandy and waited a five-beat. ‘Keep ’em. They’ll suit you.’

  She paused, mid-smoke, her mouth hanging open, smoke drifting lazily from it. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Sure. I’d like you to have them. Think of it as goodwill.’ She probably saw the angle, but radiated gratitude anyway.

  I stayed at the St Bernard’s another three days. Exploring local attractions during the day and hanging out at the dog pound in the evenings. By the time I checked out, I was almost a local. Carol had flown back to Sydney the previous day.

  I was antsy to get back. Meagan and Stella were good, but I was still answerable to Brookes through Mitchell and Ray. I drove the thousand kilometres in one long day down the New England Highway. There was little traffic and no cops, so I gave the Valiant some gas and kept the needle up around one-forty.

  I parked in my usual side street and walked the final half-kilometre.

  It was a typically quiet Tuesday. Meagan had the place under control. I checked in with her and headed upstairs to sleep.

  The room felt cramped and airless after the fresh-air and open views of Tamborine. I was starting to miss being on, or close to the water. I’d been neglecting the boat. That had to change. I knew Carol was angling to have me move into her Dover Heights place. I didn’t know why though, and despite the success of the previous week, and the improved working relationship, I was still leery.

  I’d always had trust issues. It was partly a survival instinct, partly from seeing people lie and betray throughout my childhood. I was programmed to expect people to behave that way. Carol’s initial deceit hadn’t helped. She’d tried to justify it a couple of times, but I’d just switched off—didn’t want to hear it.

  I fell asleep churning ideas. I didn’t know which way I’d jump, but jump I would.

  The Dilemma

  It was a week after the break-in on Bateke that I next saw Carol.

  We’d spoken briefly on the phone, but nothing about business. During those days, I’d thought about how to play the next few months. It was going to be hard to get out from under Brookes and my responsibilities at the bar. I’d need to turn things so they wanted me out, but not badly enough so they wanted me permanently gone. The last heist with Carol had been good, but it could just have been a flash-in-the-pan, red-hot one day, nothing the next.

  Both problems stemmed from the same thing; I was no longer independent. I’d done this in the past, been snookered into an association that hemmed me in. I always had the option of sailing away, and now I had cash, I would always keep that option open.

  The tail end of a tropical storm was battering the coast. I stopped in a side street that directly overlooked the ocean and spent twenty minutes just staring out through the driving rain. The wind buffeted the car, the waves smashed into the base of the cliff, sending spray high in the air. My mind cleared. I knew what I had to do.

  When I opened the door and walked into the warmth and stillness of the sitting room, I could easily have back-flipped on my recent resolution. Carol was in the chill room, her legs curled up on the sofa, an open book on her lap. She had an easy, languid smile, as if she might have just woken from a nap.

  ‘Hi, Micky.’ Her voice soft and sleepy. ‘How is it out there?’

  ‘Windy. Raining.’

  ‘The forecast is for another day of this. I made a Guinness stew so we don’t have to go out. Is that okay?’

&n
bsp; I felt on edge, as if she was luring me into a cage. I wanted out, and I wanted to stay in. I wanted both sides of the pie. I wanted to screw her and push her away at the same time. Micky, the lone wolf, Micky, the fuck-up: Micky DeWitt’s MO. It was all in the pursuit. Once I was there, or could reach out and take it, the thrill and drive died. It was never about the acquisition, never about owning, just about the challenge. Proving to myself I could, that I had what it took. Some measure of self-worth I’d always lacked. It was why I initially went to sea, just to prove I could, I wasn’t afraid, wasn’t too normal. It’s why I ended up sailing to the more remote and dangerous places, not only to prove I had the juice, but I had more of it than the other guys.

  I sat beside her, laying a hand on her leg. ‘Sounds great. Have you spoken to your bonds man?’

  ‘Yes. I’m meeting him tomorrow night. I didn’t give him any details, just that I had some paper he might be interested in.’

  ‘Does he know this address or your real identity?’

  She looked either confused or mildly pissed off.

  ‘All he knows about me is that I hang at The Cross and associate with some of the underworld faces. He wouldn’t even know my last name.’

  ‘Do you know his?’

  ‘I know him by his nickname, nothing more. You know how that works, Micky.’ She put the book on a side table and shuffled to get comfortable. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘No. I don’t think that would be a good idea at all. It might spook him, and putting such an obvious link between us is not a good idea either.’ I saw her face tighten, as if I’d said I was ashamed to be seen with her, so tried to soften the words. ‘Not yet anyway.’ I gave her leg a squeeze and forced a smile.

  We didn’t talk much about the job, although I sensed she wanted to. My head was full of conflict and broken mirrors reflecting shards of my spectacular failures. I didn’t want to be there, but didn’t want to leave, so compromised by putting an arm around her and saying I felt like a movie evening like a regular couple. It was a lie that seemed to please her.

  ‘I hoped you would. I bought us one of those new laser disc players; the picture quality is amazing.’ She jumped up and took a small pile of laser discs from the shelf. ‘You choose, I’ll pour a drink.’

  There were three mob movies, another called Mermaids, and another called Wild at Heart, with a pathetic, simpering Nicholas Cage on the front. I couldn’t stand him then and still can’t.

  ‘How about we start with Mermaids and work our way up to Godfather Three via Miller’s Crossing?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ she said as she returned with two tumblers filled with whiskey over ice.

  She laid the disc on a turntable, closed the lid, and fiddled with the remote until an image appeared on the screen.

  It was easy to get lost in the thin plot and corny lines. It allowed me to drift into thought and easily catch up if Carol commented on something—and I was glad to be looking at Cher instead of Cage.

  We ate on our laps as Bernie was dragged into the forest at Miller’s Crossing, and curled up with a bottle in front of The Godfather. By that time, the dark thoughts and unease had washed away. I stayed over and slept like a dog.

  By morning, the wind had increased to thirty knots, gusting forty. Almost before I’d said it, Carol was preparing for a walk along the cliff. I should have known she’d want to.

  She slipped her arm through mine as we walked with our heads bowed to the wind, and squinted against the stinging rain. I had to fight off the urge to pull free of her, and dismiss the feeling of control and implied ownership. I had to tell myself it was natural, a normal thing that normal people do.

  There was nobody else walking. The drivers of the only two cars to pass us gave us a look of sympathy, perhaps envy.

  An hour later we arrived back home; that’s how I thought of it, as home. We were soaked through and chilled to the bone, but we both felt alive, energised.

  Hot showers followed by coffee with a slug of Scotch. Wrapped in thick towelling robes, we sat and looked at the rain lashing at the bedroom window. For that short time, I felt close to her, would probably have moved right in, but nothing like that lasts for me. Others attain that domestic nirvana, but I knew if Carol and I were to shack up that way, it would end in blood and tears as we coaxed and cajoled one another closer to the edge.

  I worked the bar that night, trying to stay busy and take the load off Meagan, who’d been picking up my slack for weeks. She was bright and chipper, and knew not to probe about where I’d been, or who with.

  As we sat at the bar having our traditional shots, there was a noise in the back room. I reached for the axe handle that I kept near the register. Ray walked in, followed by Sonny.

  Meagan tossed the shot, crushed her cigarette, and left with a quick wave.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Enjoying running this place?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Sure. Is everything okay?’ I was trying to gauge what the mood was. They didn’t seem hostile, but with Ray, it was so hard to know.

  ‘We have a new job for you; one you might like better, one that you could be well suited to.’

  He was neither friendly, nor hostile. He was simply telling me what I would do. ‘Remember that fire up in Pittwater, the one where they found some poor bastard turned to ash? Well, it seems like he might have died for no good reason. It seems that he might not have been behind the attempted blackmailing after all.’

  I turned cold at the implication of his words and what he wasn’t saying.

  ‘I don’t follow you, Ray.’

  ‘I think you do. I think you’re quite a smart fucker on the quiet.’

  I was still gripping the axe handle. I slowly laid it back on the shelf. ‘Are you saying there was someone behind him?’

  ‘In front of him, or underneath him; I don’t give a shit. It was her all along.’

  ‘But what about the book? He’d been planning for ages to screw you guys. It must have been him.’

  ‘It was her, and that leaves you in a tight spot; in breach of our verbal agreement to kill the fucker who was blackmailing my boss. So what are you going to do about it?’

  The inevitability of what he was saying came crashing down on me. They’d found out somehow that it was Carol all along.

  ‘You owe Mr Brookes one blackmailer, and Mr Brookes wants his blackmailer. He wants her dead, and this time he means fucking dead.’

  There was no point in arguing, bargaining, or anything other than agreement. ‘So the bitch conned me? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘You were pussy-whipped. Mr Brookes understands that, but now you have to make amends.’

  ‘Fuck. Do you want me to bring her to you?’

  ‘Take her away, far away, and get rid of her. Oh, and this time Mr Brookes wants proof.’

  ‘What sort of proof? Does he want her head?’

  ‘An obituary and an understanding that if there are any mistakes, or anything leading back to The Cross, it will be Meagan next. Just like last time.’

  ‘There won’t be any mistakes, Ray. The job’s right.’ I tried to look hard and out for revenge, cool under pressure and ready to carry out a hit.

  Ray spoke again, cutting into my thoughts. ‘There’s no mad rush. Plan it, execute it, and call me when it’s done.’

  ‘Sure. No worries, Ray. But what about this place?’

  ‘Move your stuff out by Friday. We’ve got a replacement starting Friday night.’

  He held my eyes with his gaze for a beat of five, turned and left. Sonny was already gone when I looked around.

  I lit up with shaky fingers and poured another shot. It was almost three o’clock and I’d just been given a contract. Setting it up would be easy—she trusted me—but carrying it out would be hard. She trusted me.

  Sleep eluded me that night as I alternately planned how and where to do it, and schemed how we would both bolt and never see Sydney again. I’d never as much as slapped a woman in ange
r, and now I had to kill one; one that I knew, one that I screwed.

  When Ray had originally sent me after her, I’d never thought about the moment, and whether I would or could. It was different then; I barely knew her and she’d just conned me. My options were slimmed down to two; take off back to sea or kill her. If I didn’t kill her then somebody else would, and then they’d kill me if I was still around. Taking her to sea with me wasn’t an option I was going to consider. She wasn’t the sea-going type.

  Pittwater

  It was Thursday. The following night the new guy was coming in to take over and I’d be a fading memory. I didn’t know his name and had no interest. I’d miss Meagan for a while, but I’d missed people before and soon got over it. She was surprised that I was leaving, however she was plenty street-smart and would have put together my departure with Ray’s late night visit a few days earlier.

  We sat at the bar with shots and cigarettes for the last time, and stayed that way until nearly four, neither of us wanting to quit before the other. Eventually we climbed the stairs and lay together, both of us too tired and drunk to do more than drift in and out of sleep ruined by too much alcohol and unspoken words.

  When dawn crept in through the stained windows, I rolled out sideways and left Meagan sleeping.

  My few clothes fitted easily into a canvas grip. I looked around for the last time, kissed Meagan on her exposed neck, and left.

  It was too early to go to Carol’s, and it wasn’t where I needed to be. I guess I just wanted that, but what I needed was solitude to plan.

  The air inside the boat was stale. I opened the overhead hatches and portholes, letting in the cool morning air. The chronometer struck eight bells as the percolator hissed and bubbled, masking the sad smell of neglect. I didn’t want to be outside because I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to be seen, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Fleeting memories of past contentment teased my mind as I sat at the grimy saloon table sipping coffee and staring blankly at nothing.

  The situation was grim, no matter which way I looked at it. I needed to turn it around. Losing the bar was nothing. I’d wanted out anyway, but wanted out in order to move on and do more jobs with Carol.