by Peter Corris
Scanlon moved towards the bar. 'Having trouble sleeping, Edgar?'
'That's right. I . . .'
Scanlon's arm flung wide. Held one-handed, the shotgun smashed several bottles and decanters on a shelf behind the bar. Glass flew and the smell of spilt liquor saturated the air.
Georges glanced at the other man. Dunlop, that was it. Surely he wouldn't let this go on. But Dunlop hadn't moved. Georges' hand was shaking as he raised the glass to his mouth. He sipped and the drink tasted flat. His throat was dry with fear and he drank some more. 'What's this about, Dave?'
Scanlon laughed harshly. 'You want a drink, Luke? Edgar's having one. Could be his last.'
'No,' Dunlop said. 'Get on with it.'
Georges' mind raced. These two hard cases are in something together. Get on with what? An execution? Involuntarily, his weak bladder emptied, soaking his pyjama pants and sending a thin trickle of urine across the leather seat so that he was sitting in a pool of piss. Don't let me die like this. Don't let me die at all
'Dave, please . . .'
The shotgun came up, levelled itself at his quivering, cascading chins as he drew away from it.
'My daughter,' Scanlon said. 'Someone's taken her.'
It took every ounce of Georges' scant remaining courage not to babble. 'I . . . heard something about it.'
'You would,' Scanlon said, 'since Thomas Kippax hears about everything and you only shit when he tells you to. Unless you're scared. Scared now, Edgar?'
'Stop it, Dave,' Dunlop said. 'This isn't helping. Ask him or do him, one or the other.'
'I reckon he knows where she is,' Scanlon said.
'No, no . . . All I know is . . .' The cigarette dropped from Georges' fingers and rested on the chair arm where it burnt a hole in the leather. Dunlop picked it up and squashed it out in the ashtray.
'Ever see what one of these does up close, Edgar?' Scanlon said. 'Of course you have. Long and distinguished career like yours. It's DOA, isn't it? No worries. Now, let's hear it.'
Georges drained his glass. He was suddenly terrified that the information he had to impart might not be enough. He hadn't expected it to be as bad as this. I'm too old for this shit. He tried to make eye contact with Dunlop, to plead with him silently, but Dunlop had turned away to wipe his hands on the bar towel and look at the wreckage.
'Trish Tillotson,' Georges blurted.
Scanlon's left hand caressed the underside of the shortened barrels. 'Go on.'
'She went looking for the girl. That's all I know, I swear.'
Sweat was pouring from Georges' face, seeping into the collar of the pyjamas. He had delivered the message as instructed by Kippax and Scanlon appeared unsatisfied. There was only one thing to add and he couldn't volunteer it, had to wait to be asked.
'I hear that Trish's got a sidekick—big, fit-looking bloke. I always thought she was a dyke, didn't you?'
Georges' mouth was too dry to enable him to speak. He nodded, then shook his head. He had no answer to that one. Ask me, fuck you! Ask me!
'Any idea who that bloke might be, Edgar?'
Georges managed a croak. 'No.'
'All right. Now, where do I find Trish?'
Georges struggled to prevent the relief from showing on his face. It wasn't too hard to do, sitting with his balls in piss and his glass empty and the hole in his precious chair. The ludicrous thought that he'd need a new leather chair came to him just before he spoke. 'The trainees' hostel. She's a . . .'
The shotgun jabbed forward. 'Don't play games with me, Edgar. Where does she fuckin' live?'
'Bellevue Hill. Flat 4, 26 Hickson Street.'
'Phone?' Dunlop said.
Georges shook his head. 'Dunno. Dave, I . . .'
'Shut up,' Dunlop snapped. 'What's that?'
'Edgar?' The voice came from above them.
'My wife,' Georges said.
Scanlon was putting the shotgun back in the zippered bag. 'I feel sorry for her,' he said. 'Keep her quiet.'
Georges rose from the chair and waddled to the doorway, which he almost filled. 'It's all right, May,' he called. 'I'll be up in a minute.'
'If anything's happened to my girl,' Scanlon said, 'I'll be after you and Walter Loomis and Thomas Kippax and every other fucker responsible. You got that?'
Georges nodded.
Scanlon lifted the cushion on the wet chair to reveal the pistol. He took it, wiped it on the cushion, and put it in his jacket pocket. He also took Georges' cigarettes and lighter. 'And don't tell Trish we're coming.'
'I told you—I don't know her number.'
'I believe you, Edgar. I believe you.'
Georges watched at the window until the Laser pulled away from the kerb. It seemed to take an age to do so. Then he went up to the first landing on the stairs and told his wife that he wasn't well and would stay up for a while. The brandy and scotch decanters had been smashed. He poured vodka over ice and took a long drink before picking up the phone and dialling Kippax's number.
'He was here. I told him,' Georges said. '
Kippax said, 'Good. His mood?'
'Aggressive.'
'To be expected.'
'He smashed up my bar.'
'You've been more than compensated over the years. Anything further?'
'Yes. He's got that WPU bloke with him—Dunlop, he calls himself. You'd better tell Trish it's not going to be easy. I think I might . . . take a bit of leave for a while.'
'Good idea,' Kippax said. 'Goodnight.'
Georges held the dead phone in his hand for a long time before replacing it. You cold cunt, he thought. He was fairly sure that he knew what Scanlon had on Kippax—the killing of his brother. But Georges had no details and certainly no proof. He was glad of the fact. He drank some more vodka and became aware of the wet pyjamas clinging to him. He surveyed the damage to his bar and favourite chair and contemplated the loss of his pistol. Dave Scanlon had taken all the points. Well, the pyjamas could be washed, the mess could be cleaned up and the chair replaced. With crusading independent politicians, the SCCA and witness protection programs, the game was getting tricky. Edgar Georges began to think of accelerating his retirement to Horse Bay.
'Tough stuff,' Dunlop said when they were back in the car.
Scanlon lit a Rothman's, drew deeply and blew the smoke out the open window. He coughed and inhaled again. 'He's a gutless wonder, always was. A pretty good bagman, though. I'll give him that.'
Dunlop started the car. 'D'you think you could shoot someone in cold blood?'
'I don't know,' Scanlon said. 'We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? What I can't figure is why you're going along with all this so quietly. You're supposed to be a hot-shot at this protection stuff. What've you got up your sleeve?'
'Fuck all. You don't need any protecting at the moment People might need protecting from you. I'd have done something if you'd let go with the sawn-off.'
'I wanted to.'
'I could see that. But you just broke some glass and spilled a bit of booze like any pissed-off hoon in a pub.'
'Drive.' Scanlon coughed violently and fought for breath. He swore, spat phlegm and threw the cigarette out into the gutter. 'We're going to Bellevue Hill.'
Dunlop moved away and saw the curtain in Georges' window flicker as he did so. 'From what you tell me, Trish's going to be a tougher proposition than Edgar. What're you going to do?'
'Get Mirabelle back.'
Dunlop shook his head. 'Come on, Dave, use your head. If she's in this really deep she'll have worked out something to stop you doing that.'
'Like what?'
'I can think of a dozen ways to freak out a concerned father—an item of clothing, a bit of hair, a polaroid.'
'If I can get close to her . . .'
'Unlikely. I think you've lost it a bit, mate.'
'What the fuck do you mean?'
Dunlop drove a considerable distance before he answered. The late night traffic was light, easy to handle and he seemed to be getting a ki
nd of second wind. He felt physically tired but mentally sharp. He knew from experience that it was a treacherous condition that could quickly reverse itself or result in complete fatigue. 'It's too pat,' he said. 'Edgar was scared all right, but he wasn't just scared of you. When he gave you the address he was relieved, glad to be getting rid of it. I've seen it before.'
'Fuck,' Scanlon said. 'You think she knows we're coming?'
'That's my guess. What will you do, Dave?'
'Negotiate.'
'I hope so,' Dunlop said.
15
Trish Tillotson was wearing tight jeans and a red silk shirt. She had showered and renewed her make-up. Unknown to Phillip, she had taken two amphetamine capsules—one quick acting, the other slow release—and she was feeling fresh and ready. She hung up the phone and took a pistol and a disposable syringe from a drawer.
'They're coming,' she said as she stripped the wrapping from the syringe.
'What . . . what's that for?'
'The needle's to remind Dave of what can happen to little girls who get into bad company. The gun's because he'll have one for sure.'
Phillip was dressed and had washed his hands and face and combed his hair. The brandy-laced coffee had picked him up momentarily, but he could feel the energy already beginning to drain away. He stared at Trish's thin, tight rump and the shape of her legs above the medium-heel shoes. Everything about her excited him, even the syringe and the gun, although he couldn't get rid of the feeling that they were stage props, not real. The sharp click as she checked the mechanism, slotted home the magazine, dispelled that illusion, but he still couldn't believe he was a participant in this bizarre event.
'What . . . what are we going to do?'
Trish crossed the room, bent down and kissed him. 'You're not going to do anything. You're not going to be here. Go down to the garage and wait. Here's the key and the torch.'
'The garage. But . . .'
'I can handle it. Believe me. There's nothing to worry about. And Phillip . . .'
'Yes?'
'You don't need to have any thoughts about protecting me. It just isn't like that. Do you understand?'
'But what if . . .?'
'There's no if. In an hour or so they'll be gone and I'll come and get you. Then we can fuck again if you want to. Get going, darling!'
Phillip pulled on his jacket and left quickly, surprised to find his legs a little shaky on the steps. His back was sore too, and he knew why. He grinned as he opened the garage door and slipped inside. He shone the torch around but avoided playing the beam on the boxes. He opened the Saab's passenger side door and sat down. He adjusted the seat, pushing it back and altering the rake so that he could stretch his legs and recline comfortably. He found he was able to forget about the dead girl and her dangerous father and the whole bizarre business. His mind went blank for several minutes and he was suddenly alarmed when he realised that this had happened. For years his habit had been to analyse and assess, evaluate and decide, and here he was thinking nothing and leaving all the decisions to a woman he'd met a bare few hours before. Am I having a nervous breakdown?
He fought down the panic, let his head rest against the padded seat and closed his eyes. He was asleep almost at once and was soon dreaming about Trish and Thomas Kippax. They were having a meeting at which he was present but unable to make a contribution. Each time he tried to speak Trish opened her blouse and showed him her breasts while Kippax wrote a cheque and threw it at him. The cheques accumulated in front of him and he was rampantly erect, but unable to speak or move. The dream faded and then he was driving his car along a pier that stretched away into the distance. Trish was beside him, shining a torch out onto the boats tied up on either side. The tyres bumped on loose boards and the sails flapped on the yachts and Trish told him to drive faster . . .
'How smart are you feeling, Luke?' Scanlon said as the Laser turned into Hickson Street.
'Not very,' Dunlop said. 'If she knows we're coming she must reckon she holds all the cards. Have you got any idea of how to get an edge on her?'
'No. She's a murderous bitch is all I know. What worries me is I might do my nut when I see her.'
Dunlop went past the block of flats—quiet, respectable-looking, ample parking in the driveway, pleasant, professionally tended garden. He turned at the end of the street and came back slowly, watching for movement, oddly situated cars, unaccountable-for lights.
'I could do the talking, but it's you she'll want to see. You know the best way to stop yourself from doing anything silly, don't you?'
'Yeah.' Scanlon's foot prodded the overnight bag. 'Leave it behind.'
'And the piece you took from Georges.'
'No way. That's insurance against you, nothing else.'
They left the car and walked up the driveway, inspecting the flats carefully. Several lights were burning and there was music playing softly from a second-floor balcony. Scanlon pointed at an entrance with several flat numbers etched into the glass beside the doorway. Dunlop nodded. He took a set of pick-locks from his pocket and set to work on the security door.
'Illegal,' Scanlon said.
The lock gave and Dunlop hissed with satisfaction. 'After a while in this game, you forget what legal means.'
Scanlon grunted, hit the time-lapse light switch, and went ahead of Dunlop who hung back, watching for watchers. When he was satisfied, he followed Scanlon up the stairs. There was no sound from the ground-level flats or from the others that shared the first landing with Flat 4. The light went out and Scanlon pressed the switch. He examined the door, noting the hinges encased in tempered steel and the recessed lock.
'Lousy security downstairs but pretty good up here,' he said. 'I'll bet that door's more metal than wood.'
'That'd be my choice,' Dunlop said. 'If I was in her line of work.'
'I was never much good at this bit,' Scanlon said. He kicked at the door, his Reebok sneakers making a dull, drumming sound on the unyielding surface.
Scanlon and Dunlop looked up automatically as a voice came through the intercom mounted above the door. 'I can see you, Dave. Christ, you can't imagine how fucking ugly you look through this lens. That gut's an eyesore.'
Instinctively, Dunlop moved to his right, into the shadows.
Trish's laugh crackled through the intercom. 'It's a wide-angle lens, arsehole. I can see the whole landing. You want to talk to me, Dave, or fuck me? Done a bit of both in the past, haven't we?'
'I wouldn't fuck you if you had the last cunt open,' Scanlon said. 'Where's my daughter?'
'So we know where we stand. We'd better talk. Take all your clothes off, both of you.'
Scanlon's jaw dropped. 'What?'
'If you and fucking Carter-Dunlop there want to come in and talk to me you're going to have to do it in the buff. I know you'll have a gun, Dave. You can stick it up your arse if you like. I'll take the chance.'
'Trish . . .'
'No chat, Dave. This is non-negotiable.'
Scanlon glanced at Dunlop, who shrugged. He was intrigued by the harsh voice with its acquired, cultivated accent. As a professional in dealing with threatening situations, he recognised the expertise and experience behind Trish Tillotson's proposal. Naked meant vulnerable, vulnerable meant a strong likelihood of losing. But long odds could ease. 'Dave?'
Scanlon bent to unlace his sneakers. He unfastened one shoe and kicked it off. He started on the other, groaned, lost his balance. His arms flailed as he reached for support that wasn't there. He fell heavily and flopped over onto his back.
'No fucking tricks, Dunlop.'
'It's not a trick,' Dunlop said. He crouched beside Scanlon, whose breathing was irregular. The vein was throbbing in his forehead again and he was rigid down his left side. 'He's a sick man. Open up. We've got to get a doctor for him.'
The door opened and Trish stepped out. She held a pistol in one hand and in the other an electronic stun-gun. 'Lie flat,' she said. 'I was a nurse. I'll take a look at him. Move an inch and I
'll use this tazer on you till you piss blood. Get down!'
Dunlop flattened himself, pressing his face into the carpet with his head turned towards where Scanlon lay. He saw Trish perform a brisk, efficient-looking examination before straightening up. The pistol was inches from her right hand, grip forward. The stun-gun, held left-handed, had remained pointed at him the whole time. 'Angina, I'd say. Typical. It's a wonder he made it up the fucking stairs. This is just a turn. He'll be okay. Probably should have a bypass pretty soon.'
'You're all heart,' Dunlop mumbled.
Trish patted Scanlon's pockets and found the .38. She skidded it back across the carpet through the open door into the flat. 'Now yours. Gently.'
Dunlop slid his pistol across to her as Scanlon stirred and muttered incoherently.
'All things considered,' Trish said, 'I'll let you keep your clothes on. Haul the old bastard in, if you're strong enough.'
'He needs a doctor.'
'When we finish here you can book him into St Vinny's for all I care. Come in or piss off.'
Scanlon was conscious and struggling to rise. Dunlop helped him to stagger into the flat, down a short passage and into the living room. He guided him to a chair and Scanlon flopped into it, breathing heavily. Trish appeared, holding her pistol in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Dunlop took the glass and held it for Scanlon to drink. A good deal of it spilled down his sweat-soaked shirt but he drank some, spluttering. Colour returned slowly to his face and his breathing became less laboured. He rubbed his left arm and shoulder with his right hand.
Trish leaned against the wall. 'Crook ticker you've got there, Dave. Too many steak sandwiches and schooners of old. Still on the Chesterfields?'
'Where's Mirabelle?' Scanlon gasped. 'If you've hurt her you'll be sorry you were born.'
'You're a windbag. Why should I want to hurt her?' Trish stared at Dunlop, who was sitting quietly on the arm of Scanlon's chair. They know she's been hurt, she thought. She licked at her split lip and felt the swelling where Phillip's passionate, clumsy kissing had bruised her. 'You've been to the boat.'