Peter Corris: The Big Drop

‘Okay,’ Willie said. ‘Last chance. Anything to say?’

My shirt was wet by now and I could feel my scrotum tightening and a nerve dancing in my face. I shook my head.

‘Barnes.’ The small man loosened his tie and pulled his collar open. He bent and reached into the back of the desk. What he came up with was a small blowtorch. I watched, fascinated, while he primed and pumped it. The flame shot out, red and yellow, and the torch gave out a low roar. Barnes moved around the desk; he was sweating as much as me, but what really sliced into my consciousness now was that he liked it. He fought against it-probably every time-but come right down to it, this was his jollies. It was a nasty sight-the roaring torch, Barnes’s rictus of a smile and his running nose. I could feel the heat of the flame and I thought desperately for something to throw them, anything. Nothing came.

I heard Louise scream as Barnes brought the jet close to my ankles, but he was past hearing anything. The flame seared into my stretched skin and seemed to cut to the bone. I felt, rather than heard, my bellow and strength flooded into me, brimming me full. I lashed out with my feet and the torch and Barnes went flying back; I reared up and whipped around, carrying the chair with me. The back fell apart and I rushed at Willie before he could get his gun up. I hit him with everything at once-head, foot, shoulder; I threw my body at him like a missile and hurtled him back into the wall. He hit it awkwardly and hard and the breath went out of him in a rush. I stumbled and fell to my knees-both knees hammered down into Willie’s chest with my full weight.

It seemed like minutes before I could force myself back up. I heard the torch roaring softly and when the mist had cleared from my eyes, I saw Barnes lying on the ground, still and twisted. The jet of flame was playing on his outstretched hand, but he didn’t move. I went over, hobbling, and eased the torch away with my foot. My hands had been tied to the struts of the chair and there was some slack in the cord; I used the flame to cut through it. One side of Barnes’s face was a red-black mess; one eye was obliterated, the other was open and still.

Louise Seneka stood with her back to the wall. She looked like a bronze statue-a statue with a gun in its hand. The gun was pointed at Willie.

‘It’s all right,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t shoot him.’ I moved towards her and she swung the gun on me.

‘Stop there! I know about guns. Do what I say or I will wound you and kill him. Is the small one dead?’

‘I’d say so, yes.’

‘Good! Animal, both animals!’

‘Sure. Let’s get the police.’

‘No, not police. I must know why Norman was killed.’

‘We’ll find that out from Willie.’

Willie had recovered his breath-almost-and had propped himself up against the wall. He was cradling his shoulder and his pale, fleshy face was chalky white. There was red spittle around his mouth, but he didn’t look close to tears. His eyes were on the gun. The woman saw it and smiled.

‘He thinks I won’t shoot him. He doesn’t know about the Philippines. I have seen many people shot; I have seen my brothers shot and I have shot two men myself.’

‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘But we don’t want any shooting here. This one’s not a big fish, he’ll talk to save his own skin. We’ll find out what happened.’

‘No! He will have reasons not to talk. There will be lawyers and much time wasted. I want to know now! Get up!’

Willie could see she meant it; he hoisted himself up, still supporting one arm.

‘Shoulder’s broken,’ he said.

The blowtorch sputtered, coughed and the flame died. We all looked at it. The woman gestured with the gun.

‘Go out to the lift.’

We went out into the lobby and I pressed the button to call the lift. My ankles were screaming where the flame had touched them, but I could walk; standing still was harder. I leaned against the wall while we waited for the lift in the silent building. It came. She herded us in and pressed the button for the top floor, the eighth. The lift was old and creaky and slow. As we passed the floors it looked more and more as if the building was unoccupied.

The top floor was stripped clean; it was bare boards and peeling walls. There were large windows along one wall with some of the city night light coming through them, not much. Louise glanced around and saw a heavy swivel chair near the lift.

Willie stood stiffly, watching her, watching me.

‘Get over to the window, animal! Hardy, bring the chair.’

The window was an old-fashioned job which had a low, knee-high sill and extended up above head height. She pointed at it.

‘Break the bottom part of the window with the chair.’

Willie got the idea a fraction ahead of me. ‘No!’ he said.

‘Break it!’

I slammed the chair into the window frame; the old wood gave and the bottom panes fell through, leaving an empty space for about a metre above the sill.

‘Sit there!’

Willie sat on the sill, keeping his feet firmly anchored on the floor and as much of his body inside as he could.

‘Move the chair this way, Hardy, and stand by the window-there.’

I did as she said and she sat on the chair, facing Willie and the open gap and about a metre and a half back. She raised the gun.

‘Tell me.’

Willie got it out in gulps and gasps: the people he worked for had a double scheme running-counterfeiting, and removing the dye from hot money. The plan was to get both kinds of money into circulation by confusing the authorities. It was all to do with serial numbers and switching denominations-elaborate stuff. Norman had been in on the counterfeiting side of it and had flipped when he’d heard about the other aspect of the deal. He’d wanted out, and tried to get some leverage by nicking one of the counterfeiting plates. The masters said the mess was Barnes and Willie’s responsibility and Willie said they were handling it alone.

‘Anyone know you picked us up?’ I said.

‘No. The driver doesn’t know who you are.’

‘What did Norman tell you about the plate?’

Willie spoke carefully, watching his balance, ‘He said something about a coat, that was all. Then he shut up. Wouldn’t say a word.’

She looked at me. ‘The coat, at my place. He protected me from the animals.’ She looked back at Willie. ‘So you killed him. You threw him from twenty storeys.’

‘It was an accident. I was just trying to scare him.’

She sighed and seemed to relax. ‘You tell me, Hardy, that in this country a murderer goes to gaol for a long time.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, but I was thinking-some times.

She moved up from the chair; Willie leaned in from the sill. She beckoned me close and handed me the gun. I took it. An automatic, S amp; W model. 38, I thought. Willie eased forward and up.

Louise Seneka moved faster than Carl Lewis; she spun the chair and rammed it hard into Willie’s midsection; he doubled-up, reeled back and she whipped the chair into him again. He went through the window in a helpless collapse and his scream seemed to flow back in through the gap and fill the room. I rubbed my sleeve over the chair and the lift buttons; she didn’t even look into the room at the bottom and I didn’t go in. We hadn’t touched anything in there. We were out of the building and had covered a couple of couple of blocks before the sirens started. She didn’t speak in the taxi and neither did I. We collected my car in Balmain and drove to her flat in Bellevue Hill, still with the minimum of speech.

The flat was big and light and had just enough east Asian decoration to be interesting. She opened a closet and took out a heavy tweed overcoat on a hanger. From an inside pocket she pulled out a flat, brown paper-wrapped package about the size of a video cassette. She handed it to me. A post office box number and address was printed boldly on the brown paper.