Peter Corris - Burn and Other Stories

I found him in the Skin Cellar, a sleazoid hole in the wall around the corner from one of his classier joints in the Cross. The place was crowded, and the clientele was drunk and rowdy and giving the pre-owned blonde on the pocket-handkerchief stage a bad time.

‘Get ‘em off!’

‘If I can’t touch ‘em, I don’t believe ‘em.’

‘Shake it, gran’ma!’

The music howled deafingly, a clatter of drums and electric machines. Through the smoke I spotted Sammy sitting at a table with two other men. This was normal. Sammy has a wife named Karen, pronounced Kah-ren, who keeps him on a tight, monogamous leash. What wasn’t normal was the reaction of one of Sammy’s companions as I pushed my way through the smoke and the drunken lurching that passed for dancing. He pushed back his chair and stood-thin and dark like me, but 188 centimetres, giving him that uncomfortable two and a half centimetre advantage and with an acne-eaten face to back it up.

‘This guy’s carrying, Sammy,’ he grated.

Observant. I had my licensed Smith amp; Wesson. 38 under my arm, the way the nervous winning gambler liked it. I nodded at Sammy, hoping to bypass the heavy, but he wasn’t buying it. I saw the fist just before it hit me and ducked. I hadn’t had a drink since midafternoon at Ruby’s, or I might have been too slow. As it was, I had the adrenalin edge: I let the punch go past and hacked at the guy’s shins with my right shoe. I connected and he yelped. He was reaching inside his jacket for something serious when I clipped him on the chin with a half-serious left hook. He was moving the wrong way, into the punch, and it snapped his neck back. That kind of pain makes you think about giving up, and he did. He slumped to the floor and I reached inside his coat, expecting to find a gun. Instead, my fingers closed over the handle of a chunky flick-knife held in a spring-loaded holster. I pulled it out, sprung the blade and dropped the knife on the floor. I brought my heel down hard on it.

‘Sammy,’ I said, ‘what the hell d’you think you’re playing at?’

‘Don’t move a muscle, shithead,’ a heavily accented voice said close to my ear. I smelled sweat and aftershave. The other man at the table had slid away and come up behind me while acne-scars had been doing his thing. I stood very still because I could feel something digging into my right kidney and I knew it wasn’t a broom handle. He dug the gun in some more and then moved it away. Professional. You know it’s there, but you don’t know precisely where. And it was no good thinking, He won’t kill me, not in a public place. Above that racket a shot from a small calibre pistol wouldn’t be heard, and a bullet in the leg is not a laughing matter.

‘Sammy,’ I said, ‘this isn’t your style.’

But Sammy Weiss seemed to be enjoying himself. His smooth, pasty face, normally fairly good-natured as long as things were going his way, was set in a scowl that he seemed to have grown used to. Sammy had put on weight since I’d last seen him, and lost some hair. But he was more snappily dressed and more carefully groomed — silk tie, shirt with a discreet stripe, lightweight double-breasted suit.

He snapped his fingers and his buffed nails gleamed briefly. ‘Toss him out, Turk. Don’t do no damage but, he’s got a nasty nature.’

‘Sammy…’

The pistol dug back in again, and the man I’d dropped was starting to get to his feet. Turk had all the moves; he jerked my elbow around, and you have to give when that happens. He prodded again and I found myself pushing through the crowd towards the door. I was confused by Sammy’s behaviour, but not completely thrown. Before we got to the door I sidestepped and watched Turk move automatically in the same direction. I dug my knee into his balls and reached for the gun, but he’d put it away and my move threw me a little off-balance. He recovered fast and stepped back-a medium-sized, dark guy, strongly built with a bald head and a thick, compensatory moustache. Stand-off. People were starting to notice us now.

‘See you again, Turk,’ I said.

He spat at my feet and backed away into the crowd.

I was still mulling it over the next morning- the change in Sammy Weiss from lair businessman who liked to flirt with the rough element to crime boss with minders-when Sammy’s brother, Benjamin, knocked and walked into my office.

‘I heard what happened last night, Cliff.’

‘I hope you heard it right, Benjamin,’ I said. No-one ever called him Benny. He was an accountant, very straight.

‘I heard there was a gun and a knife. Sammy’s lost his mind.’ He put his hat on my desk, lowered his small, neat body into a chair and ran a tired hand across his worried face. Benjamin is older, smaller and quieter; the brothers look alike only around the eyes, where intelligence is suggested.

‘That’s how it looked to me. What’s going on?’

‘First, would you mind telling me what you wanted to see him about?’

That’s Benjamin, always getting the figures in the columns first. I told him about Ruby and Sammy.

‘That’s a good, steady business. The property’s being well cared for, and it’s appreciating. Things being the way they are, Ruby could probably handle a modest rent hike, but nothing like this.’

‘I agree. What’s got into your brother?’

‘He’s a changed man. Dresses differently, struts around with those two hoods. He’s drinking and gambling more, acting the big shot. But all this is so heavy-handed, dealing with you and Ruby like that. If he tries it on the wrong people…’ Benjamin shook his head and looked even more worried.

I knew what he meant. There were people in Sydney who’d take Sammy and Turk and the other guy apart just for fun. ‘There must be a reason,’ I said. ‘A woman?’

‘Come on. You know what sort of chain Karen keeps him on. No, I guess he’s just bored. That plus the piece that appeared in Sydney Scene about him.’

‘You’ve got me.’

‘It’s an insignificant little shoestring mag, run by a couple of queers. They did an article on Sydney’s crime czars and somehow Sammy got a mention and a quote. Now he thinks he’s Mr Big.’

‘Jesus. That’s dangerous.’

Benjamin leaned forward in his chair. ‘I love Sammy, Cliff. He’s a good man basically, always been very generous with me. He’s a good husband and father. I don’t want to see him get into trouble. Could you…’

‘Hold on. We’re talking conflict of interest here.’

‘I don’t see why.’ His small hands came up and he started ticking points off on his fingers. ‘One, Ruby wants Sammy off her back; two, I want Sammy to wake up to himself; three, you’d like to get your own back on Turk.’

‘Who says so?’

Benjamin smiled. ‘I know you, Cliff.’

I thought about it, but not for long. I had to admit it was an interesting problem. Tough, but not too tough. And I had an affection for Sammy which dated back to the days of the Victoria Street green bans, when he was on the side of the angels. Good business, as it turned out: he made money on his houses in the street. Still. ‘What’re Sammy’s weaknesses?’ I asked.

Benjamin didn’t need his fingers. ‘First, he’s afraid of Karen; second, he’s a hypochondriac’

‘That’s interesting. Who’s his doctor?’

‘He never goes near them. He doses himself for his imagined illnesses. He tells me about them all the time, but I’m sure he’s as healthy as a horse. So far.’

‘Leave it with me, Benjamin, along with a couple of hundred bucks. I’ll see if I can work something out.’

Benjamin wrote me a cheque. I gave him a receipt. He put on his hat and went, leaving me to do some thinking, of which two hundred dollars buys a fair bit.