Flank Street

by A. J. Sendall

  Just another slap.

  An hour later, I was back on Crown.

  I was almost broke again. I was haemorrhaging cash, mostly in clubs and bars, where I’d stand drinks for any dame who’d sit and talk, then I’d drop a hundred on a bar girl who’d sit close and tell me lies.

  The gaming room at Ronnie’s had lost its appeal since Polly gave me the cold shoulder. I still yearned to play blackjack, just not there.

  I knew I needed to get back on track, to stop pissing away all my cash, but I’d fallen into a pattern, and either couldn’t or wouldn’t pull out of it. Sure, guilt was in there: self-destruction, self-hate. I know all that now, but when it’s you, and you’re in the middle of it, you’re blind to logic and common sense. Like a young lad out on a date and getting to first base, the only thing that matters is slaking that male thirst and satisfying the overwhelming chemical rush. No logic or self-admonishment can overpower those feelings. For me, it was anything that removed me from reality. Alcohol, bud, or lies from soft red lips.

  In a moment of clarity, I booked in for some acupuncture at a place in Newtown. I’d used Chinese medicine many times before, and that particular morning, as I drank coffee instead of whiskey, I felt it would help me get straightened out. Hell, I even thought of doing some yoga. Later, maybe.

  That afternoon I felt clear-headed as I drove back from my session. As usual, I’d fallen asleep with the needles in my back, and woke an hour later feeling calm and rested. That feeling carried on through the afternoon and into the evening.

  By nine-thirty I was cleaned up, shaved and still sober. I drove to The Cross, walked the last ten minutes to Darlinghurst Road.

  Meagan was in there, working the bar in her friendly, energetic way. She smiled when she saw me and indicated the end of the bar. I followed and sat on a stool.

  She laid a shot in front of me. ‘How have you been, Micky?’

  ‘Great: and better for seeing you.’ I picked the shot up and looked at her questioningly.

  ‘Too early for me; I’ve got hours to go yet.’

  I shrugged and tossed it back. ‘Maybe later then?’

  She gave me an awkward smile. ‘Two o’clock closer?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for quids.’ I looked at the clock behind the bar. There were four hours to kill. Meagan moved away to serve. I slid off the barstool and left.

  Four hours to kill without getting pissed or losing a stack of money on the tables at Ronnie’s, only a five-minute walk away.

  I wanted to be sober when I went back at close: didn’t want to look like a derelict. I guess I wanted her friendship back, after rejecting her for Polly and blackjack. I also wanted to tell her what I’d done to keep her safe, to stop Ray beating down on her. I’d never be able to. I didn’t know how far in she was with Ray. There was obviously a lot of trust between them, but I’d no idea how deep it ran.

  The next four hours seemed like ten. I spent an hour at Jimmy’s Pizza Place getting indigestion, walked it off up and down the Golden Mile and around on to William Street, where I swapped banter with a group of five hookers working the corner.

  At twelve-fifteen, I was still sober. I’d found a table at the back of a bar one block off the main drag. It was easy to sit there and watch the people come and go as I nursed a glass of Jameson and smoked. As I crushed yet another into the ashtray, I wondered how this night would go, and why that felt so important to me.

  When I left at quarter to two, the crowd in the bar had thinned, but as I walked back onto Darlinghurst, The Cross was still humming.

  I was surprised to see the place almost empty when I walked in. Meagan was leaning against the bar, as if waiting for someone to serve. She pulled a tight smile, turned away.

  A hand touched my shoulder as I moved towards the bar. Instinctively I spun and moved sideways, ready to engage. Sonny was facing me, hands raised, palms facing me in a disarming manner.

  ‘Easy, Micky. Ray wants to talk to you.’ He nodded towards the back of the bar.

  Ray was sitting at a table with Scarface. He was staring at me with that cold hostility he always wore. I relaxed; Sonny dropped his hands. I was expecting him to follow me to the table where Ray was sitting, but instead, Scarface left the table and moved to the bar where Sonny was sitting on a stool talking with Meagan. Meagan who’d set me up. My mind reeled through the things I’d done that might have pissed somebody off. Nothing came to the fore, other than Carol.

  When I sat opposite him, he stared at me for ten seconds before saying, ‘I hear you’ve been throwing a lot of money around for the past month.’

  When all I did was give a non-committal shrug, his face hardened. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table between us. Ray wasn’t someone I wanted to piss-off. I knew I could take care of myself on the street, but Ray was different. My guess was he was some kind of sociopath. Even without that, he had most of the muscle of Kings Cross behind him.

  ‘What’s your point, Ray?’

  ‘Just free advice. It’s always better to keep a low profile in your profession, especially if you want to do some more work for my employer in the future.’

  ‘More work?’

  ‘There might be a job coming up that would suit your ... nautical talents, Mr DeWitt.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Keep your nose clean, your boat ready, and stay out of gambling dens. Now go and have your shots. I’ll contact you if and when.’

  He leaned back in his seat and took a drink. The meeting was over.

  I wanted to tell him I’d sold the boat, that it was never going to be ready, but I didn’t find the words.

  I stood and moved to the bar, passing Sonny and Wink on the way. Meagan was red-faced and could barely look at me.

  ‘It’s okay, Meagan. I’d have done the same.’

  ‘Same as what?’

  ‘I would have set you up the same way.’

  ‘I didn’t fucking set you up. He said he wanted to see you, that’s all. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘It’s all right. Everything’s cool.’ I sat on a stool.

  She poured two shots.

  In the mirror, I could see Ray and his two guys walking to the door. Something passed between Ray and Meagan as she laid the shot glasses on the bar.

  Jimmy Nono

  The following day I called the broker, cancelling the sale. He was well pissed-off and started talking penalty clauses. I told him it was just temporary and that I’d see him right.

  The thought of going back to the boat made me feel uneasy, almost sick. I didn’t want to think more about Ray’s offer of work. I could guess what that would entail: dropping a body over the side or delivering narcotics. Neither appealed, but Ray wasn’t going to take a refusal, and he had Carol’s death as leverage over me. In fact, he had a lot of leverage: Carol, the break-in on Beattie Street, and the death of the lawyer, which I was in the frame for, even though Carol did the deed. Long story short, I was under Ray’s control.

  After I’d procrastinated for a couple of hours, I rolled to the marina in the Falcon. I could see her from the parking lot, looking as beautiful as ever from a distance. I mentally slapped myself, told myself to toughen up, get down the dock, clean her off again, and dump the bad memories in the dumpster of my screwed-up past.

  The car door slammed behind me as I strode doggedly towards ‘Nina’, the yacht that had carried me around the world and brought me here to Sydney, where I had violated her. That might sound strange to those who haven’t crossed oceans on a small boat, but there’s a bond, almost a love affair with that boat when your life depends upon its integrity and strength; two values I’d often lacked, and which escaped me still.

  I stood on the dock and looked at her gentle lines. My sense of purpose started to slip as the memories muscled past the newfound resolve. I slapped again and stepped onto the side deck, entered the cockpit, opened the hatch and went below. It all looked the same, but it felt stained.

  For the next
four hours I worked at eradicating Carol’s pervading presence, not with whiskey, as had become the norm, but with hard labour, bleach and broom. I sweated in the warm, early spring day. Hunger rose and I stopped to eat, then plunged into it again until I was exhausted and the yacht was ready to go at Ray’s urging.

  Four days after that, I got the call. Ray told me to be at a club called the Blues Room at eleven that night.

  I’d never been in there before, but had seen it from the street many times, as it was just a block from Frankie’s. There was a discreet wooden door with a wavy glass window: a hefty doorman, courteous but serious.

  Inside was surprisingly sophisticated, or maybe pseudo-sophisticated is more accurate, but I was impressed.

  Walking in from the strip, with all its hustle and commercial push, you were met with a calm, retro, Fifties feeling. A four-piece band backed a female singer on the semi-circular stage. She was wearing a shiny blue, full-length dress—silk, I guess—and crooning some old tune that I vaguely recognised. I watched her for a short while before spotting Ray and Mitchell in a booth at the back of the room. Ray always sat in the back seats, watching everything and everyone. He was looking at me with his usual hostility, his brow knitted, jaw set. Sonny was there, and another fat guy I hadn’t met.

  Sonny said something to the fat boy, who got up and left. I sat in his place, nodded to Ray and Sonny, waited for Mitchell to speak.

  He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘How’ve you been, Micky?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Staying away from those tables, Micky DeWitt?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Sure, Ray, and thanks for the advice.’ His face darkened and he looked to have the urge to thump me.

  ‘How’s your boat?’ Mitchell said.

  ‘She’s good. All ready for sea.’

  ‘That’s good, Micky,’ Mitchell said with a smile of forced politeness. ‘That’s good.’ He sipped his drink, paused, and continued. ‘I want you to take somebody for a sail next week. Just like you did with that blackmailing bitch. Understand?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, feeling the anxiety rise at the thought of having to off somebody from the boat.

  ‘I don’t care how you do it: sharks, hammers, or a gun.’

  ‘But the more painful the better,’ Ray said with a contorted grimace.

  ‘I don’t do torture, Ray.’

  ‘You do what I fucking tell ya—’

  ‘Just get it done,’ Mitchell said, cutting him off. ‘However seems most appropriate at the time.’ He stood and shrugged on his jacket. ‘Ray’ll fill you in on the details.’

  Mitchell and Sonny left. The fat boy fell in behind them as they reached the door. I turned to Ray.

  ‘Next Tuesday you’re going to take a scumbag out for a sail. He’ll think he’s going with you to collect a package from a passing fishing boat.’

  ‘Why not just take him into the outback and shoot him?’ He gave me a look of subdued frustration, as if he was giving simple instructions to a half-wit.

  ‘You’ll tell him nothing, other than you do occasional jobs for acquaintances. Understand?’

  ‘Sure, but won’t he get suspicious? What if he does, and tries to bolt?’ I got the look again.

  ‘He’s a greedy fucker who thinks he’s getting a bankroll when the job’s done. That’ll be enough to keep his feet dry. Just take him out there a few miles and give him a shove.’

  ‘Okay. If that’s how you want it.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘And what’s in this for me, Ray?’

  He looked about the room, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, then finally said, ‘Ten large.’

  ‘For a bump? That’s a bit light, isn’t it?’

  ‘And brownie points that’ll get you more work down the line. Take it or leave it.’ He leaned back in his seat, knowing leaving it wasn’t an option. Now we’d gone this far, I was in or I’d be next.

  ‘Okay. Where do I meet him? It can’t be at the marina.’

  ‘How about Watson’s Bay?’ he said with a sick grin that told me he knew that was where I’d picked up Carol before taking her out to sea.

  ‘How about Blues Point Road? I could meet him at the jetty and dinghy him round the corner to the boat away from prying eyes.’

  He stared at me for a five-beat. ‘Okay. The Commercial, midday next Tuesday; if you fuck this up, keep heading east until you hit something hard.’

  ‘Do I need to know anything else about him?’

  Ray emptied his glass and stood. ‘No.’

  I watched him walk through the crowd. He walked a straight line to the door, expecting people to get out of his way, and they did.

  After Ray left, I felt trapped, almost claustrophobic. I left shortly after, walked home lost in thought, and paced the apartment until dawn.

  In the morning, I was surprised by how calm I felt. I was also sober.

  Part of feeling better was knowing I was working, earning money. I didn’t like Ray, or trust Mitchell. Ten grand was a pittance to bump somebody, even a scumbag, but it gave me a sense of being on the up, after my recent slide into gambling pissed nearly all my money away.

  I drank coffee, watched the harbour through rain-spattered windows that needed to be cleaned; the whole apartment did.

  When I walked into the Commercial the following Tuesday, I’d been sober for four days and hadn’t gambled. I’d had a pleasant night on the Saturday catching up with Meagan, and life had felt almost normal.

  As soon as I entered the public bar, I spotted Sonny sitting at a table with another man. He was about thirty, slightly built, close-cropped hair, and the look of a weasel. I immediately felt better about offing him.

  Sonny greeted me with a tip of his chin and introduced the other guy as Jimmy Nono.

  He studied me for a few seconds. ‘I haven’t seen you around before.’

  I returned his gaze and shrugged.

  Sonny said, ‘Have you got a problem, Jimmy? I can get somebody else to do this if you’re not up for it.’

  ‘Yeah, no, no; it’s all good, Sonny.’

  The name made sense. That response, his accent, and feral look confirmed him as a Kiwi. I had nothing against New Zealanders, but I’d noticed the antagonism towards them in Sydney, especially in The Cross.

  Sonny slipped me a scrap of paper. I glanced at it, keeping it close like a hand of poker, pushed it into my pocket. I stood, looked at Jimmy Nono, walked to the door. I wanted the upper hand from the beginning, so when I heard him behind me, I gave one brief glance over my shoulder and kept walking. Some of the anxiety started to slip away. I didn’t like Jimmy Nono. Killing him was going to be easier than anticipated.

  I heard him quicken his pace until he was beside me.

  ‘Done this before, I suppose?’

  ‘Everything I do today, I’ll have done before.’

  He seemed to be perplexed by my words and edgy from my attitude. I wasn’t going to get into any kind of dialogue with him. We weren’t mates and never would be, never could have been. He wasn’t the sort of person I’d ever hang out with, that much I could tell already. When you’ve lived the way I have, you get to know people. You get to know characters: who’s solid, who’s a shifty arsehole. Jimmy Nono fell into the latter category. Some people draw you, others repulse. Jimmy was repulsive and I wondered why someone like Mitchell had him on the payroll.

  When we arrived at the dinghy, I got in and started the motor. He looked briefly for an explanation. When it didn’t come, he got in and sat awkwardly on the port pontoon.

  As soon as I was away from the dock, I accelerated hard and turned towards the headland that separated the dock from the yacht. For the two minutes it took, Jimmy hung onto the grab handle for all he was worth, which wasn’t very much.

  He was quick to climb out of the dinghy when I stopped beside the boarding ladder. He stood uncomfortably on the side-deck as I climbed up and tied the dinghy to a stern cleat.

  ‘Nice boat. Is it yours?’<
br />
  ‘Sit in the cockpit. I’ll be five minutes getting ready to leave.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes, sit in the cockpit.’

  I turned the key and the engine rumbled into life. He sat down and looked around at things he knew nothing about. Neither did he know they would be some of the last things he’d ever see.

  When I sat at the chart table and looked at the paper Sonny had given me, there were no coordinates, just a phone number. I lifted the lid of the table and laid it on top of the pile of charts.

  The chart for the approaches to Sydney was already on the table. I’d marked a line beyond which I needed to go to be sure of there being nobody to see me dump him, and for the water to be deep enough that he didn’t end up being caught by a trawler. To cross that line, I’d need to sail forty nautical miles due east, about six hours in good conditions. The day was good, enough breeze to sail at seven knots.

  An hour later, we passed South Head. I looked back at The Gap and remembered how I’d planned to bump Carol off the cliffs to certain death. I turned my back and looked at the empty horizon to the east.

  Jimmy had tried saying a few things to me, but after a series of short replies, he’d given up. He sat rigid on the windward side of the cockpit, occasionally looking up at the sails as if he understood. I didn’t know what he’d done to piss off Mitchell, or maybe Brookes, and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know anything about him, other than he was soon to be the late and not lamented Jimmy Nono.

  It was still just light as we sailed towards my imaginary line, the end of the line for Jimmy. The sun had gone down; an hour of twilight before it would be totally dark. I rolled away the headsail, put a reef in the main, and turned the bow to the north, as if waiting for someone. He was watching everything with a look of consternation. He was looking a bit green and seasick.

  When I rigged a fishing rod with a lure, he asked, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Waiting.’ I trailed the lure astern as we moved slowly forward and rose up on each wave. ‘If you’re feeling sick, sit in the side deck and fish.’