Peter Corris - Burn and Other Stories

He ordered a scotch and ice and appeared to be ready to give Logan about one minute of his time. The Dingo said something quickly in his ear and cleft-chin scowled. He grabbed a handful of Logan’s jacket and polo-neck sweater and hustled him straight towards the toilet door. The action was so quick and neat that I was the only person in the bar who noticed. I went after them. Steep steps dropped away immediately inside the door. I heard scuffling sounds and went down the steps fast and quiet. Cleft-chin had Logan bent forward over a hand basin. He was so big it was hard to see the Dingo’s body at all, but I could tell that his feet were scrabbling for a purchase on the slippery tiles and his head was getting wet. The big man was running water with his right hand and holding Logan’s head down with his left.

I came up behind him and jabbed my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson hard into the base of his spine. His head lifted and he saw me in the wall mirror behind the basins. I ran the muzzle of the gun up a few vertebrae and then moved it away.

‘Let him go,’ I said, ‘or I’ll make you a worse cripple than he is.’

Logan spluttered, pulled free and headed for the door. The big man let him go and I could feel him ready to turn his aggression on me. I backed away and kept the gun steadied on his wide mid-section.

He shook water from his hands, some of it in my direction. ‘You’re not going to use that,’ he growled.

‘You can’t be sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ He moved forward, getting balanced.

The door opened and a man came in with his hand already dropping towards his fly. His jaw dropped when he saw the gun. ‘Hey,’ he said weakly, ‘what is this?’

‘Stand aside,’ I said. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m arresting this man. You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Clark?’

He swore, bullocked past the man at the door and went up the stairs. Three steps up, he kicked back savagely at me. I was ready for it. I grabbed his leg and jerked him down. He bounced against the wall, flailed his arms for a split second and then fell clumsily to the bottom. He landed heavily with his ankle turned under him. The would-be toilet user was gaping.

I grinned at him. ‘He slipped. You saw it, didn’t you?’

Peter Corris

CH16 — Burn amp; Other Stories

The man nodded.

‘He’ll probably claim police brutality.’ I gestured for Clark to get up. He did, testing the ankle gingerly. I prodded him with the gun. ‘Up you go and mind your footing. For a big man, you’re very clumsy.’

I put the gun away and we went through the bar without attracting attention. Clark limped convincingly, but I held myself ready to plant my foot in the back of his knee if he suddenly got mobile. There was no sign of Logan on the street. Everything looked normal-light traffic, pedestrians hurrying to keep warm. I was struck by the bizarre thing I was doing. Clark seemed to sense my confusion. He stopped in the middle of the pavement and jammed his fists in his pockets.

‘OK, hotshot,’ he said. “What’s this all about?’

‘Why were you heavying the Dingo?’

Clark grinned. The cleft in his chin flattened out and made him look even meaner. ‘He was giving me some bullshit about someone looking for me. He didn’t want to say who. I was persuading him.’

‘Me,’ I said.

‘Well, well. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. In fact, if I thought my ankle’d stand up to it, I’d punch your fuckin’ face in. What the fuck do you want?’

It wasn’t something to talk about there on the street. I grabbed his arm, jerked him off balance and propelled him a few steps towards my car. ‘C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.’

He swore and hobbled. I held him up, still pushing; he couldn’t get any leverage and had to go with the pressure. At the right moment, I shoved again. He lurched forward and had to grab at the car for support. I opened the door and pushed him in. He lifted his foot out of the way quickly as I slammed the door. I moved around and got into the driver’s seat, ready for him to try something nasty at close quarters. He didn’t. He was curious. He took out a packet of Camels and a lighter. He lit up and I wound down the window.

‘So?’ he said.

I told him who I was and the nature of my business. He smoked in short, jerky puffs. He nodded and grinned when I said the name Andrew McPherson. When I finished talking he took a last, deep drag and flicked the cigarette past me and out the window.

‘That Logan better crawl under a rock,’ he said.

‘Kill him, would you?’

He laughed. ‘I never killed anyone in my fuckin’ life. Never would. Mug’s game.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. So, it’s just a scam, is it?’

‘Yeah. Right. Look, Hardy, I don’t want you on my fuckin’ back, so I’ll tell you about it. I take ten per cent up front and I don’t do anything. What’s going to happen? Do you think Mrs Fucknuckle’s going to go running to the cops and say “This guy didn’t kill my shitface husband the way he promised”? Like hell she is.’

‘Wasn’t this a bit different? The hit actually hiring you himself?’

He waved one of his big hands dismissively. ‘Bullshit. All bullshit. Tell him from me he’s as safe as… what the fuck is safe these days? How about my lift?’

I leaned across him and opened the door. He laughed, eased himself out and hobbled off back towards the pub.

I phoned Gabrielle Walker and gave her a suitably edited version of what had happened. ‘I don’t think you have to worry,’ I said. ‘How’s Mr McPherson?’

‘Cheerful. But he still thinks he’s doing something clever and solved his problem. It’s terrible for me. I don’t know what to do. But thank you for what you’ve done, Mr Hardy.’

‘Is he getting any help at the moment? Psychiatric help?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘Maybe in time you’ll be able to talk about this. Tell him that he’s not going to be killed. It’s out of my line, but I’d talk to him if you think it would do any good.’

‘Perhaps. Not now. But thank you again, Mr Hardy.’

So, I left it there. What else was there to do? It was hard on the woman, but if McPherson had bought himself some kind of weird comfort for five hundred bucks, that was his business.

Two weeks later she phoned me at home, at five o’clock in the morning. ‘You bastard,’ she sobbed. ‘You bastard. You told me it was all right. You told me…’

It took me a few seconds to place the voice, distorted by grief and anger. ‘Ms Walker. What happened?’

‘He’s dead! Andrew’s dead. He killed him. God damn you, you bastard!’

She hung up. I gripped the receiver and tried to take in what she’d said. I was still half-asleep. Impossible. I started phoning and eventually got onto a Detective Sergeant Belfanti who was handling the investigation of the deaths of Andrew McPherson and Reginald Clark Cook.

‘Cook a big guy with a cleft chin?’ I asked.

Belfanti was terse. He told me to get down to the Edgecliff police station immediately. I was there in twenty-five minutes and shown into the detectives’ room. Belfanti was a young, well-groomed smoothie, learning to be tough.

‘Sit down, Hardy. How did you get onto this? It only happened a few hours ago.’

‘McPherson’s girlfriend.’

‘Tell me.’

He switched on a tape recorder and I told him. He listened impassively, scribbling notes with a gold pen. When I finished he looked up.

‘Really fucked up, didn’t you?’

I didn’t reply.

‘You’ve got contacts in the force. You didn’t think it’d be a good idea to talk to someone about this prick? This Cook?’

‘I thought I’d handled it.’

‘You handled it all right. Miss Walker and McPherson had a blue. She told him how you’d handled Cook’