Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

“Bryn’s certainly afraid of something, or somebody. I think it connects back to his father’s death but I don’t know how.”

“He’s afraid of Brave I tell you. And if Bryn’s afraid of him I’m bloody terrified.” She slapped down the coffee spoon she’d been playing with and jerked off her sunglasses. There seemed to me to be as much resolution as fear in her face. Her voice was unemotional, businesslike. “You drink too much, but you’re intelligent and capable in your own field. I want you to do two things — investigate Brave’s affairs and put him out of business, for good. And protect me!”

“It’s tough doing two things at once.”

“They’re two sides of the same thing. I’m sure of it.” She smiled for the first or second time since I’d met her. It was a nice smile but under careful control. “I don’t know why you wanted to come out here. The food isn’t that good and the view is rather corny. I’ve been here before.”

“Why did you agree to come then?”

“To show anyone who might be interested that I’ve got protection.”

“I guess you hired me a couple of hours ago then.”

“Well, yes, I did in a sense. But are you interested in the complete job now you know what’s involved?”

I gave it about half a second’s thought. Handled right it would keep me clean of guard duty and the cheap rooms and caravan parks for weeks. I had too much good wine inside me to think of much else. I believed at least half of Ailsa’s story and that was enough. I told her my rates and conditions of work. She pulled a chequebook from her bag and wrote words and digits on it with a gold pen. I put it in my wallet, not too far from Bryn’s cheque so that the two of them could debate the ethics of it.

I had just enough cash to cover the bill and I was feeling clever and successful when we walked out into the parking lot. The sun was beating down hard and the shade had retreated from the Porsche leaving its rear bumper shimmering and reflecting like a white hot steel mirror. Ailsa stepped up to the driver’s door, pressed the button in and pulled the door free. She had it three inches open before my half-stewed brain got the message. I took two rabbity leaps across the melting asphalt and swept her off in a diving football tackle. Her bag came adrift from her shoulder and flicked the car door full open as we hit the ground. The Porsche burst into flame like a Molotov cocktail on impact, the bonnet lifted and the windows cracked in quick succession like rifle shots. Hellish heat surged towards us as I rolled Ailsa over three more times in the gravel and tar.

“You should always lock your car,” I ground into her ear as we came to rest twenty feet away from the inferno.

We were both shaking as we brushed the grit of the parking bay off our clothes. Ailsa’s white pants were a ruin and her smock was smeared and torn. My trousers had a great three-cornered tear in the knee and blood from a bad graze was seeping into the ragged edges of the tear. The car was burning fiercely, the tyres were bubbling like lava and the vehicle was sinking slowly, lopsidedly onto the rims. There was a stench of burning rubber and vinyl and a cloud of dark smoke had settled in the still hot air over the parking area. I put my arm around Ailsa’s shoulders and helped her across to the steps in front of the hotel. Staff from the place were thronging about and Ailsa accepted a woman’s offer of help to a toilet where she could clean up.

The manager came out and mumbled about calling the police. I told him I’d do it myself if he could show me to the phone and produce some brandy. He seemed relieved to escape the job and took me into an office which contained a desk, chair, a telephone, a pot plant and a bar. I’d always wondered what hotel managers did in their offices. This one must have twiddled his thumbs and drank. He left me in the room telling me to help myself. I mixed a strong Hennessy and soda, sat down with it behind the desk and dialled a number. The voice at the other end was tired and unsympathetic. It had answered ten thousand telephone rings and never once heard good news.

“Police, Evans speaking.”

“Grant, this is Cliff Hardy.”

“Oh good, you’re going to pay me the money you owe me and take me on a holiday to Coolangatta.”

“This is serious, I need your help. And I might be able to help you with something you’ve got on your plate.”

“Yeah? What would that be?”

“I can’t tell you just now.”

“That’s terrific. Well I’ll just drop everything here. It’s nothing much, a couple of murders and a multi-million dollar extradition job and hurry on over to your place. What shall I wear?”

“Stop joking, I’ve been bombed.”

“You’re always bombed, tell me something new.”

“I mean really bombed, detonator, gelignite, explosion, flames. I’m OK and my client’s OK but a Porsche is dead.”

“You’ve got a client and he’s got a Porsche? Maybe you will pay me what you owe me.”

“She has one. It’s dead now, but she’ll have another tomorrow.”

“You sound more or less sober. Are you dinkum, Cliff?”

“Yes, blood oath I am. Here’s what I’m asking. If you’ve got some cars that aren’t busy picking up the take, send them over to the pub at Watson’s Bay. The sightseers will need dispersing, the car will need towing to your forensic parlour, Miss Sleeman will be requiring a lift to Mosman and I’d like to come down and see you.”

“Charmed. Consider it done, anything else?”

“No. See you soon Grant.”

“Yeah. I don’t like that crack about the take, Cliff.”

“That’s because none of it ever reaches you, mate. You’ve got to put yourself forward, make friends.”

I hung up on his stream of obscenities. Grant Evans was ex-army, ex-Malaya, like me. His sense of humour wasn’t his strongest point, but he was fairly honest like me. That made us mavericks in our respective professions and useful to each other. We were also old friends who’d been under fire and under the weather together too many times to count.

The manager was hovering outside the door. I told him the police were on their way and that I’d probably be able to see that the matter was kept pretty quiet. He looked pleased and showed me through to where Ailsa was sitting in a private room. She doused her cigarette and came up out of her chair to meet me. We put our arms around each other and stood together, not moving. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to do — coming that near to death seemed to draw us close.

“The police are coming,” I said after a minute or so, “they’ll take you home.”

“You saved my life,” she said.

“And mine don’t forget.”

She didn’t move away. “The tough guy’s tough guy.”

“Not really. I nearly spilt the brandy they forced me to drink.”

“You’re a drunk, but you seem to be lucky for me. Will you stay with it? This doesn’t change anything?”

I told her I would and it didn’t and we were still patting each other like timid middleweights in a clinch when the manager came in to let us know that the Rose Bay cops had arrived. Ailsa continued not to do silly things. We walked out to the parking lot and she barely gave the burnt out wreck a glance. She answered a few basic questions from the senior uniformed man and then turned things over to me. Grant had clued the men up and they were willing for her to go home and for me to go down town and give a detailed account of the bombing. A cop picked up Ailsa’s bag from where it had landed after being blown clear by the explosion of the petrol tank. He handed it to her and ushered her into the back of one of the patrol cars. She mouthed “Tonight” at me and I nodded. The cop slammed the door and the car took off. I was surprised to find that I wished I was going with her, but it was time to start earning her money by playing the “bumping pitch and blinding light” stuff with the law.