Peter Corris: Man In The Shadows

I had a sandwich and coffee in the mall and then I phoned my home number. No reply. Greenway picked up his phone on the third ring.

‘Greenlock Enquiries.’

There was plenty of background noise in the mall to help and I deepened my voice a bit and spoke slowly. ‘Mr Greenlock, I… ‘

‘No, no. My name is Greenway. Greenlock is just the name of the agency. How can I help you?’

‘Mr Greenway. I have a matter. I need some help.’

‘Yes. Mr…?’

‘Barton, Neil Barton. I’d like to see you. Are you free now?’

‘I am. The address is Flat 3, 12 Curlewis Street, Bondi. Can you find that all right?’

‘Is it near the beach?’

‘Very near. A few doors away. My office is above a supermarket.’

‘I’ll find it. Thank you. Thirty minutes?’

‘That’ll be fine.’

I hung up feeling slightly foolish about the charade. Neil Barton was an uncle of mine, an old Digger. I hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years and his name just jumped into my mind. Weird. I found myself thinking about tricks of the mind and psychiatry as I headed for Curlewis Street. I was looking forward to talking such things over with Gareth Greenway. At the back of my mind was some concern about Annie. I told myself that was foolish-she’d been handling herself in a rough world for a long time and she was a survivor, like Uncle Neil, who’d come through Tobruk and other tight spots.

Number 12 was a large groceries and fruit barn with a two-storey cream brick structure behind it. There was a side entrance flanked by four letter boxes with Greenway’s number above one of them. A card was Scotch-taped to the inside of the fruit shop window at eye level: Greenlock Enquiries, G. Greenway Enquiry Agent, Unit 3. I went along beside the building to a double doorway; the doors had glass panels but they were dirty and smeared. Only one of the doors opened and that let very little light into a lino-covered lobby. Flats 1 and 2 were on this level. A flight of stairs led up into more darkness.

The stairs creaked loudly and the banister was shaky. I found a switch for one of those lights that stays on for not quite long enough to let you see what you want to see. I pressed it and got enough low-wattage light to see the door to Flat 3. The door was half open. I knocked and pushed it fully open.

‘Mr Greenway?’

There was no answer. I stepped into a short, narrow passage. I could smell marijuana smoke and take-away food. Rock music was playing softly further inside. A door to a kitchenette on the left was ajar. I went through to a small living room which was crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture, a filing cabinet, a TV set and a medium-sized office desk with two chairs. ‘Congratulations, Mr Hardy. You found me.’ I turned quickly. Greenway had come quietly from the kitchenette; he stood in the dim hall two metres away from me and he had a gun in his hand.

I’d had too much walking and talking and driving to be in the mood for it. I side-stepped to make him move the gun and I jumped forward fast while he was doing it. I kicked at his right knee and swung a short, hard punch at the inside of his right forearm. I connected with both; he crumpled and yelled; the gun flew from his hand and skidded across the tattered carpet. I felt twinges of pain in my bruised and battered neck but they didn’t stop me landing a solid, thumping right to Greenway’s ear as he went down.

I bent and picked up the gun, a Browning Nomad. 22, very light with its alloy frame but enough pistol to do the job if you could use it.

Greenway pulled himself up into a sitting position against the wall. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said. ‘It isn’t loaded.’

I looked at the gun. ‘Why d’you say that?’

‘The magazine-I checked it.’

I released the spring-loaded magazine. ‘Yeah, but there’s one in the chamber. One’s enough.’

His eyes widened. ‘God. I didn’t know.’

I squatted down in front of him and tapped the barrel of the gun on his knee. ‘You don’t seem so brain damaged now, Mr Greenway.’

‘Be… be careful with that.’

‘The safety’s on now. I think it’s time we had a little talk.’

I helped him up and he hobbled to a chair. I pulled out the comfortable-looking chair from behind the desk and sat opposite him about a metre away. He rubbed his knee with his right hand; that hurt his forearm so he stopped rubbing.

‘You really worked me over,’ he said.

I bent my head and moved it stiffly. ‘Know what? I took a first class rabbit killer from one of the hospital guards. We’re not quite even yet.’

‘How did you find me? I mean, I’m glad you did but… ‘

I put the Nomad on the desk and swung it around so that the muzzle pointed at his chest. ‘Me first, mate. What’s this all about? Why did you come to me with that phony story and the phony job?’

He grinned. ‘Took you in, didn’t I? With the lobotomy act?’

‘I’m getting impatient. This gun’s probably illegal and Dr Smith at the hospital wants to throw the book at you. You could be in serious trouble.’

‘It wasn’t a phony job. It isn’t. I’ve got a client. Look, I got into this game a few months ago. I’ve handled a few small things-down around the lost dog level, you know? It must have been the same for you when you were starting.’

I looked at him; he had a good tan; he was wearing loose white cotton pants and a striped shirt; it wasn’t warm in the dark flat but he was sweating. I didn’t say anything.

‘Well, this was the first real job. I didn’t think I could handle it on my own and I’d heard about you so I thought I’d enlist your help.’

‘Thanks a lot. So far I’ve been coshed and had my licence threatened. I’m really enjoying your case.’

‘You’ve had five hundred dollars too.’

‘How much have you had?’

‘Two thousand.’

The mention of the money seemed to give him confidence. He eased out of his chair. ‘I want a drink.

I’ve got some beer in the kitchen. How about you?’

‘Okay. But don’t get any ideas about pissing off. You’re an easy man to find.’

He walked unsteadily down the passage to the kitchen and came back with two cans of Reschs Pilsener. He popped the cans and handed me one. ‘How did you find me?’

I took a sip and told him in as few words as I could manage. I felt I needed to watch and listen to him a bit more before deciding what to do. He nodded, apparently respectfully.

‘Pretty good. I thought you might be that good. I was giving you a test.’

‘Shit, you’ve got a nerve. Okay, cut the charm. Let’s hear about your client.’

‘I haven’t met him, it’s all been done by telephone. He wanted photographs of that set of inmates at the hospital. The ones who exercise at that time. It seemed like a two man job to me, so I…’

I waved the beer can. ‘Don’t go into that. I might shove this down your throat. Did he say why he wanted the pictures?’

‘No. He sent me the money though. Cash. I needed it.’

‘If you’ve got any brains at all you must have known it was fishy.’

‘Haven’t you ever done anything fishy? Especially at the beginning? How did you get started?’

I could remember enough fishy things not to want to go on with that subject. ‘I had contacts,’ I grunted. ‘From when I worked in insurance.’

Greenway tipped back his head and poured down most of the can. ‘So did I. Actors. I was hired to beat up a guy and get a girl stoned and willing. I was hired to steal a script.’

‘Did you take the jobs?’

‘I tried for the script. I got the wrong one.’

We both laughed. ‘One time I…’ I stopped. I didn’t want to get into comic reminiscences. I put the beer can on the desk next to the gun. ‘Go on.’