Peter Corris - The Empty Beach

‘Make me a drink, Rex.’

Rex moved over to the bar and got busy with the bottles. I turned a little and saw that Tal had a small gun out. I had two guns, one in Glebe and one in Bronte. Rex brought a nice tall scotch and soda across and handed it to his boss, who didn’t thank him. He sipped the drink with a bit more than appreciation. At first glance he looked pretty good for an oldster, but on closer inspection there were signs of decay. He wasn’t really that old, not more than sixty, but the grey hair was thin in spots and his colour wasn’t good. The blue shirt lent it some life but there was something strange about his skin, as if it was trying to turn grey.

‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll guess and you can nod, you don’t have to say a word. No-one can say that you said anything, perfectly true.’ He was trying for a pally tone but I didn’t respond. ‘It’s got to be that Singer bitch, or Mac. Which one? Just give me a nod and I’ll do the rest. You don’t even have to tell us what you’re doing.’

I watched him drink some more scotch and didn’t say a thing.

‘I’ll pay you for your time. What d’you say?’

I didn’t believe a word of it. It was as weak as a vicar’s shandy. I believed him more when he was boasting and threatening.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘You think you’re tough?’ He took a big drink and spilled a few drops on his vest. ‘I could let Rex have you to himself in that squash room for a while.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said.

‘Rex and Tal together. How’d you like that?’

‘Not as much.’

‘You’ve been worked over once-what do you want, for Christ’s sake?’

I didn’t answer him. It seemed that my only chance lay in his uncertainty as to who I was working for. It was abduction already, guns were in view and he boasted of having killed men before. I believed him. But apparently he wouldn’t kill me until he had sorted out who he was hitting at if he hit me. Maybe I was finished anyway, but they wouldn’t kill me here, and I might get a chance on the way to wherever they would do it.

‘You’re fuckin’ stupid!’ The old rough side of him was showing now, the street side, maybe the gaol side. He finished the drink and for a minute I thought he was going to ask for another. That would have been hard on me, because I was feeling bad about the drink. I wanted one very badly, more for the wetness than the alcohol. I’d have settled for water. But I had a half-formed plan on that and I just clamped my jaw shut and tried to look resolute. He didn’t ask for another scotch but I could tell he wanted it.

He got up. ‘All right, Rex, sling him back in the box and let him think about it. Don’t break his neck. Tal, I’ve got to go to town.’

Rex turned me around with a prod of the gun. I gave the broken end of the billiard cue a quick kick and it skittered across the planks. Rex jumped and prodded me again, Tal swore and the lord of the manor spun around as if he’d heard a shot. They were a very nervy bunch.

‘Tonight, Hardy,’ the boss man said. ‘Or we’ll put you in a hole.’

Back in the box, I reflected on the little I’d learned from the encounter with the bad billiard player. Garth Green had mentioned someone else, apart from Singer and McLeary, who had a piece of the action on the beaches, and this looked like him. Those eastern suburbs enterprises must have been coining money, because this was a million-dollar setup. Apparently, though, all was not tranquil in that little world.

I worried about Ann Winter and about the fact that I couldn’t see how all this action that had broken loose around me connected with John Singer, presumed dead. Rex didn’t look like the Bronte ripper, either, but you never can tell. I wondered where I was, then I wondered if I’d ever know.

I heard a car start up and drive off-the Volvo. That took Tal and Mr Big away, and left Rex and who knew how many more. I started kicking the door. There was a bit of give in it and kicking made a satisfactory noise, although there was no hope at all of breaking it down. After five minutes’ kicking, Rex’s voice broke through the racket.

‘Stop that fuckin’ noise. What’re you playing at?’

‘Tongue swollen,’ I croaked. ‘Going to choke. Water.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Something wrong.’ I strangled and mangled my voice. ‘Choking on it. Water, please.’

I heard his footsteps go back towards the house and I unwound the cord. I tied knots in one end, doubling them, until I had about five feet to swing and two feet in a hard, knobbly ball. I swung and cracked it a few times experimentally. I took a bead on the line on the wall and didn’t miss by much.

The footsteps came back and a key turned in the door. I stood back a bit and let him come in; he had a plastic jug in one hand and the gun in the other. He took his eye off me for a split second while he put the jug down. I stepped forward and lashed the rope at him. The ball got him squarely in the eye, which was my first piece of luck for quite some time. He yelped and raised the gun, but I was in close by then, chopping at his hand. The gun skidded across the smooth boards. He only had one eye to work with, but he was game; he rushed, trying to butt me back to the wall, but I sidestepped and kicked at his legs. He went down, jumped up fast and came in swinging. One punch landed on the shoulder the billiard cue had hit, and I bellowed with the pain. I walked through two punches and smashed a hard right to the side of his head. The knuckle popped in and out again. I put a left onto his nose and got him again with the right on the ear. He lurched crazily and I dropped my shoulder and slammed him back against the wall. He propped there with his arms hanging wide, gasping for breath. I hit him hard, very low, with both hands, and he went down. He vomited and his eyes closed.

I’d been right about the gun; it was a nine-millimetre Browning Hi-Power, very popular in Europe. It carries thirteen shots in the magazine, and this one was fully loaded with one bullet in the chamber. It was the most powerful handgun I’d ever seen. It looked dangerous even lying on the floor against the wall, and I handled it with a kind of revulsion. I recovered the cord, unknotted and tied Rex Houdini-style, hands and feet. His eyes opened and he swore at me.

‘Don’t do that, Rex,’ I said. ‘I’ve only kicked you once; I owe you a few.’

I took a big mouthful of the water, swilled it around and spat it on the floor. It was frothy and red; he was a good puncher, Rex. I drank some water.

That left me with a gun I didn’t like and not much else. It was a straight road away from the house and there was no cover for hundreds of yards on either side of it. The Land Cruiser was still parked in front of the house, but my chances of commandeering it were slim; I could hardly hot-wire a Holden, let alone a Land Cruiser, and there might be more ugly people in the house or around the estate. I stood in the shadowed part of the doorway and thought that what I really needed was a Honda 750 or a telephone, or both.

As I watched, an old Japanese car drove up the road. Its rust spots jarred with the pristine white railing and superphosphated fields. The car made the turn at the top of the drive and came to a stop, pointing back towards the road and about fifty yards from the squash court. A man in a checked jacket and dark trousers got out, reached back into the car for what looked like a bundle of papers, and walked up towards the house. He was gangling and young with longish, untidy fair hair. He didn’t look like one of Mr Big’s minions or like the next-door neighbour calling in for coffee. His trouser bottoms flapped as he walked and the hem of his jacket was down at the back.