Peter Corris - Heroin Annie

‘I was planning to get her away somewhere safe when I got through here. I thought she’d be okay at work today.’

‘You must have sent Carlton a sample. You might just as well have cut her throat.’

‘Oh God, what can I do?’

I was thinking fast. How to get to Carlton? He’d committed himself by taking the girl and his natural inclination would be to clean up. He wouldn’t take his money back and go home. What did we have? I looked at my gun and then at his gun and then at the cameras.

‘How good will those pictures be?’

‘The best.’

‘Get up.’ I moved back, took up the carbine and pulled out the magazine while he stood irresolutely brushing dirt off his coveralls. I tucked the. 38 away.

‘Do you think you can take me?’ I said.

‘Maybe. Someone did recently. It depends on the circumstances.’

‘It always does. I don’t think you can, but we haven’t got the time to find out. Frankly, you make me sick, but do as I say, don’t argue, don’t think and we might get her back. What do you say?’

He got up smoothly; he moved well. ‘Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.’

‘Get the cameras. Let’s move.’ We drove back to the road and switched to my car. On the drive back to Sydney, Short told me that he’d set up the blackmail because he needed capital for his business, and money to cover gambling debts. He said he loved Selina. I didn’t respond; he could’ve told me my name and I’d still want to check.

I hung around in Short’s studio, which had a water bed and a lot of tedious albums of photographs, while he worked in his darkroom. He produced blow-ups of the faces of the two couriers and a couple of full length shots. He was right, they were good photographs.

Bill Abrahams is an ex-cop who drinks. He got shot and was invalided out of the force on a pension which keeps him alive and drunk in a room in Glebe. When he’s not too drunk he can remember the face of every crim he’s ever seen and after twenty-five years as a cop, that’s a lot of crims. I bought a dozen cans and carted them and Short up the stairs to Bill’s room. I banged on the door.

‘Who is it?’ Bill growled; he was capable of not opening the door if he was not in the mood.

‘Tooheys’, I said.

He opened up and I handed in the beer. ‘They’re cold’, I said.

Bill took the beer and had a finger in the ring-pull of a can faster than Griffo catching flies.

‘C’mon in, Cliff. Good to see you. Have one?’ Like all serious drinkers, Bill took a very proprietorial attitude to alcohol. We went in and I introduced Short. We sat around the laminex table by the window and opened cans. Short gulped his down and Bill looked keenly at him as he set him up with another.

‘You’re scared of somethin’’, he said.

‘He’s scared of Xavier Carlton’, I said. ‘He’s gone and got himself in a bit deep and we’re looking for a way out. How’s the memory, Bill?’

He opened his second can. ‘Good as ever. It’s all I’ve got left, sometimes I wish it wasn’t so bloody good.’

‘I want you to take a look at these.’ I spoke quickly and motioned to Short to pull out the pictures; the danger with Bill is that as the alcohol level rises so does the water mark of his memories, and if they overflow the bank you never get to the point. ‘Anything you know about these blokes, anything.’

Short spread the prints on the table; Bill hauled out his specs and examined the photo of the taller man who was holding the envelope. He stared hard at the image and then shook his head. ‘Don’t know him.’

I opened another can; Bill looked at the picture of the man who’d jumped back after dropping the envelope.

‘Mustard Cleary’, he said.

I let out a sour, beery breath. ‘And what do you know?’

‘All bad. Stand-over man. Did some banks.’

‘Killer?’

‘Could be. Did your mate here back him down?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He won’t like that at all. I wouldn’t go near him without a gun. Cliff, even then… ‘ He waved the beer can pessimistically.

‘Where can I find him, Bill?’ I got out a ten dollar note and put it under one of the empty cans. Short was looking at the pictures with an expression which was hard to interpret; he didn’t look afraid, maybe it was shame.

‘Mustard’s a Pom originally’, Bill said. ‘There was a pub he used to call his local. Where was it?’ He drained his can and pulled another automatically. ‘Ultimo. The Wattletree, know it?’

‘I know it. A bloodhouse.’

‘Certainly, that’s Mustard’s style. ‘Course this is a few years back, could be a poofter palace now for all I know.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I thanked Bill and we left him to the rest of the cans and his memories. On the drive to Ultimo Short said that it was a pity we’d left the M1 in his van, and I was inclined to agree.

It was near enough to 7pm, Thursday night, when we got to the pub-pension and pay night and the place was swimming along merrily on a tide of beer. The sight of a couple of women at the bar reminded me that I was going to miss my appointment with Cyn. I told Short to buy us drinks and look out for Cleary while I made a phone call.

‘Cyn? I’m sorry, it’s unavoidable. I… ‘

‘It doesn’t matter, Cliff.’ She sounded weary rather than angry and I took heart.

‘I should be able to wind it up tonight, or maybe tomorrow. There’ll be a good fee.’ The door to the public bar swung open and a wave of noise flowed out. I kicked it closed. ‘Cyn…’

‘It doesn’t matter’, she said again and hung up.

I dialled again and the phone rang and rang. Back in the bar, Short had set up two Scotches, doubles, which was all wrong for comradely drinking in this sort of pub. I put the Scotch down quickly and ordered a middy. I hadn’t eaten all day and the whisky on top of the beer hit me and made me incautious. I asked the barman if Mustard Cleary had been in lately.

‘In earlier’, he said. ‘In a bloody bad mood, too.’

I forced a laugh. ‘Well, you know Mustard. Wouldn’t know where he is now, would you?’ The barman looked me over: I’m too thin and my clothes are too cheap to be a policeman, and Short was still wearing his coveralls. He didn’t quite know how to place us so he hedged his bet.

‘Marty might know.’ He jerked his head at a stocky man who was built like a bull; he had a bristling ginger air-force moustache and was wearing clean, starched and ironed khaki shirt and pants. He looked up when he heard his name, and I negotiated the distance between us carrying my beer and fumbling for my makings. I reached him, pulled the tobacco out and rolled one.

‘Looking for Mustard Cleary’, I said. ‘Smoke?’ I pushed the makings across and he took them.

‘What for?’

Short had come up behind me. ‘My mate and I have a delivery to make. He said to meet him here, we’re a bit late.’

He rolled a thin cigarette. ‘Didn’t mention it to me.’

‘Well, it hasn’t gone too smoothly. I understand he’s a bit mad about it. Anyway, he’ll be happy to see us, but I want to get on with it.’

‘What is it?’

I shook my head and ordered three beers. I lit both cigarettes and put the match away in the box, the way a con does. I was wondering how to get him out in the lane when he made up his mind suddenly.

‘I can’t tell you where Mustard lives because I don’t know you. I can tell you where you might find him though.’

I drank some beer and tried to keep it casual. ‘That’ll do, where?’

‘Said he was going fishing, didn’t make much sense to me the mood he was in, but that’s what he said. Mustard keeps this boat down off the lighters in Blackwattle Bay. Know the place?’