Hard Yards Page 2

  Geoff came from Queensland, born and bred in the remote mining town of Mount Isa, and had done the bulk of his senior policing in the Fortitude Valley area of Brisbane during the late nineteen seventies and eighties. He was there for the shafting and grafting, the drugs and prostitution, the long lunches at the Breakfast Creek Hotel, the Fitzgerald inquiry into police corruption and the subsequent Wood Commission. In those days the motto of the Queensland force was Show Me The Money. Geoff had known the brothel king, Hector Hapeta, police bagman and chief whistleblower Jack Herbert and most of the players, major and minor, and had watched them go down in flames one by one. Seemingly Geoff had been that rare, endangered species – a straight Queensland cop. He had also been a prominent witness during the post-Fitzgerald proceedings, and because he’d came out smelling like jasmine while others went down the toilet, it was assumed by the brotherhood that Tex O’Mara had dumped on them in exchange for immunity, protection or some kind of special deal. In their view it was impossible for him not to be tainted, given the location and nature of his job at the time – everyone was in that rort. If so, he had been a lot more cunning about it than the majority of his bent colleagues. The nickname ‘Tex’ had been assigned to him early in his career, when he was a knockabout country copper who did it his way, but it came to have extra significance towards the end of his career. If brothel operators and standover men like Hector Hapeta flourished in Brisbane, it was largely because of police patronage – the black-hatted cowboys rather than the white-hatted ones. It was a wide-open, wild-west town, with so much ill-gotten cash changing hands in dark places, the brown paper bag factories were kept going around the clock.

  It was a bone of contention still gnawed at and tossed around in certain public bars where cops, crims – or both – gathered. Everyone had the right dope on Tex O’Mara one way or the other, depending. Did he wear a black hat or a white one? Was he pretending to wear a black one? Barrett didn’t know the truth, and didn’t really want to know, but the end result was that when the smoke settled, Geoff was advised to take the package and leave the Sunshine State while he still had legs. If he didn’t, there might be a different kind of package coming his way when certain ex-policemen got out of Boggo Road correctional facility. In Barrett’s opinion, Geoff was not a man who frightened easily, if at all, but he knew a good thing when he saw it. Anyhow, there was nothing to stay for. Over the years he had received many death threats – by phone, fax, e-mail and snail mail – but it was all water off a duck’s back to Tex O’Mara. In his experience, people who made threats rarely carried them out. Which was fine, but there were plenty of unknowns out there who hadn’t threatened him, too. But what could you do? Lock yourself up in your house every day? That wouldn’t play either: on one occasion a rifle shot had been fired through his front window in the middle of the night. How many iron bars, alarm systems and deadlocks did you need to keep out a killer?

  If he had anything to hide from, Geoff did not give that impression. In his position as the director of O’Mara Investigations, Inc., he had featured in one or two TV stories and had pieces written about him in the papers. His head was nearly as recognisable as George Freeman’s or Abe Saffron’s used to be. He was viewed as a larger-than-life identity, even in a glam town like Sydney. Perhaps there were fewer of them around nowadays. He was certainly large – built like a rugby front rower: bull-necked, hulking, with arms as thick as his legs, and legs like tree trunks. He had a booming voice which, when raised, could lift rafters and make birds take flight, and a nose that had been flattened more than once. He also had a full head of white hair, making him look older than fifty-one, the same age as Barrett, and he always wore a clean, immaculately laundered white shirt and plain tie. All Geoff’s shirts were dazzlingly white – it was like a uniform to him. He rarely wore a jacket, although he usually had one hanging up in his Statesman. When he stood in the sun you had to put on shades to look at him, he was so bright.

  Currently Geoff’s services were being retained by Klingborg Industries, a large US-based Pharmaceuticals wholesaler and distributor, to investigate a series of break-ins at its Botany Bay office and warehouse. Large quantities of raw chemicals and laboratory equipment had been removed; the company was keen for a result and didn’t have a lot of confidence in the police, so they went private. They were also having major problems with their insurers, because security at the premises was sub-standard. All they had was a cyclone-wire fence with a chain on the gate that was fastened with padlocks, and two German shepherds, which were drugged by the thieves. It was a big account, an ongoing matter, and Geoff had recently intimated – in his usual veiled manner – that he was slowly but surely making headway. It was all paper and leg work, and tedious, often profitless hours trying to trace people on the telephone. In the first instance, he and his team had to sift through every Klingborg employee, present and recent past, from CEO down to forklift driver, to ascertain if it was an inside job. Heists of this type mostly were but narrowing it down to the culprit in an industry where casual workers came and went all the time, was the hard part. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that, prior to the break-ins, there had been a fire at the warehouse that destroyed some of the company’s employment records. Geoff was in no hurry: he figured the Klingborg account would keep O’Mara Inc. going for two years at least.

  The restaurant they were in was the Pattaya Affair, a family-run establishment in Newtown, which these days was nearly as cool as Balmain. It was low budget, basic in its decor, hugely popular and very, very good. The Pattaya Affair had been visited by numerous hard-bitten food critics, and none could fault its cuisine, ambience or friendly and efficient service. Enlarged copies of these reviews were displayed on the window and inside the restaurant, alongside pictures of famous heads from politics, business or the arts, who were invariably flushed in the face and red-eyed. In pride of place there was a framed black-and-white shot of 007 himself, Pierce Brosnan, with his arms draped around a high-profile former Labor Party premier and a veteran local actor in a beret and cravat, with his eyes closed. The owner, whom Barrett knew only as Richard, was an affable, sometimes clownish fellow who would join Barrett’s table if he was not too busy, or even if the place was packed out, as was the case tonight. He was also an astute businessman, and the father of the exquisite Katya.

  Right now, however, Barrett’s attention was being taken by something that was happening on the other side of the room. A young Asian woman was sitting at a table with an older man: cleft-jawed, sharp-lipped, mid or late thirties. Razor-cut hairdo with a patch of hair under his lower lip and a wispy little fringe, bright pink, like a cock’s comb. Ridiculous. Several beaded rat-tails hanging down the back. Black linen sports jacket with a waxy sheen and the sleeves turned back, exposing his chunky gold bracelet and gleaming gold wrist-watch. Under the jacket was a black T-shirt with something red printed on it. There was also the mandatory cluster of gold chains glittering on his neck, and any number of earrings. Barrett thought: Islander, maybe Central American, even Rasta gone wrong. Hard to pin down. Familiar face, though. Something else about this exotic rooster: his throat was covered with a dense network of tattoos.

  What had triggered Barrett’s interest was the fact that there was something of a contretemps in progress: she was crying, gripping and squeezing a handkerchief, and he was hissing inaudibly to her, leaning over the table and really getting in her face. His mug was taut, lean and very threatening. Clearly she was uncomfortable, quite distressed, and Barrett was not surprised when she picked up a water glass and threw the contents in the man’s face. This he did not appreciate. Somewhat taken aback, water dripping off him, he ran his hands over his scalp and shook his head, seemingly undecided as to what to do next. Then, mind made up, he grabbed her cheeks in his sinewy paw. Barrett pushed his chair back and half rose. Tattoo-throat let go of her face, holding his hand open in front of her and hissing some more niceties that Barrett couldn’t hear. She was whimpering and trying to screw herself
up into an invisible dot.

  Geoff, clearly unaware of the background goings-on, continued eating. Barrett knew that only a bomb or a raging fire would tear him away from his food. He sat down again, keeping half an eye peeled. Shit like this got him going. It was not his business, but – once a cop, always a cop.

  ‘Barrett. Don’t go and spoil a pleasant Friday night,’ Geoff said. He drank deeply from his water glass. ‘Buy into it at your – our – peril. That man is a sorry piece of work. Believe me. He will come back to haunt you. And five will get you ten he’s packing something nasty right now.’

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,’ Barrett said. Tattoo-throat – out-thrust jaw clenched tight, mad eyes aflame, forehead and neck veins bulging, spittle spraying forth – gripped the edge of the table and banged it up and down a few times. It looked as if he intended upending it over the young woman. She turned away from him, towards Barrett, and covered her face. To his eye, she was frozen with fear. Now Tattoo-throat had her by the chin, jerking her around to look at him at point blank range. The words ‘bitch’ and ‘cunt’ were spat into her face, making her recoil. The back of his beringed hand was coated with thick, black hair, like a primate’s. It was too much: again raw instinct urged Barrett to intervene.

  ‘Leave it,’ Geoff said. He had not broken from forking food into his mouth. Barrett looked at him. He was an unusual man in many ways. His history as a survivor gave him a certain aura, and he was capable of springing a surprise without batting an eye. Barrett had not noticed when the warring couple entered, although their food hadn’t arrived yet, so it couldn’t have been too long ago. Geoff had been seated with his back to them the whole time, so how did he know what was going on? Barrett turned around – there was a sideboard behind him with a mirror in it. Chewing, Geoff grinned at him, at the same time as the sharp crack of a face being struck hard shattered the atmosphere like a gunshot. Barrett had missed the actual blow, but Tattoo-throat was holding his cheek. He took his hand away, examining it, and even from this distance, Barrett could see the crimson imprint glowing on his skin. There was also blood in the region of the ear, where a nail had evidently slashed him or ripped an earring. Dead silence fell over the little restaurant. Then he hit her, smack, right in the mouth, with a fist. A collective gasp seemed to suck the air from the room.

  Barrett was on his way when Geoff’s powerful hand grabbed his arm.

  ‘Mate,’ he said. ‘It’s domestic. Strange as it may seem, they love each other. Not your friggin’ business. Let the restaurant handle it.’

  ‘I know, I know, but … Jesus Christ, Geoff. He’s just fucking biffed her, did you happen to notice that? I thought you had a soft spot for Asian women.’

  ‘From a distance, mate, from a safe, middle-aged distance.’

  ‘Look at him. He’s grinning. The prick.’

  ‘Never mind. You’re not a cop anymore. You are no longer in the public employ. You’re just another punter having his dinner. Let it go.’

  ‘I can’t fucking let it go. How can you?’ He might have added: I can never let go. Never could. That’s my main thing, my problem.

  ‘Easy. It’s not happening as far as I’m concerned. Listen, Barrett. Use your nut. Think. Try to remember once when you intervened in a domestic dispute when they both didn’t turn on you in the end. They get off on it. It’s tribal, mate, devoid of sense or logic. There’s no fucking mileage.’

  Smack. Tattoo-throat punched her again, on the eye, and she let rip with an almighty yowl. Barrett pulled himself free. Shaking his head, Geoff raised his hand in a gesture of resigned helplessness: Good luck, brother. Tattoo-throat just had time to register the looming presence of a third party when he was hauled wholesale from his chair and dragged away amid the tumult of upended furniture and the shattering of crockery and glassware. Trapped in a half-Nelson arm lock, he could do little except buck and twist and fling his legs about, trying to swing a kick. The cries issuing from his throat were those of a half-throttled parrot. Patrons drew back, scraping chairs to create space as he rapidly exited via the folding French doors that opened onto a patio and an ill-lit side street.

  Barrett threw him up against the high brick wall of a neighbouring building, gripped his throat in his left hand and kept a quivering finger two centimetres from the bridge of his nose. ‘Don’t,’ he said. But the man was a coiled steel spring, needing to lash out. Barrett applied the pressure-point hold, deeply gouging his throat. ‘Back off. Don’t force it,’ he said. The man coughed, gagged, spasmed, looked red-eyed at Barrett in the gloom. It was a look that said no cunt ever did this to him, but no cunt. But he made no move to attack when the hold on his throat was fractionally relaxed. Nor did he resist while Barrett frisked him, turning up a nifty little ankle holster that accommodated a silver, snub-nosed revolver – a .22, he guessed.

  ‘You don’t know what you’ve just done, mate,’ the man gasped, breathing hard, massaging his throat, giving Barrett the full benefit of his hard, hateful night-stare. ‘You don’t know whose face you just got into.’

  ‘I think I know all I need to know,’ Barrett said, checking the piece. It was loaded, ready to go. ‘You’re a big-noting, big-mouthed shit-head that punches women in restaurants. Didn’t your parents teach you any table manners? You want the salt and pepper, you ask for it.’

  ‘Fucking smart cunt. I got your number, Jack, you and your fat fucking mate in there. You are going down. I know you and I know where to find you. You’re on the top of the fucking list, you fucking dead cunt. Enjoy the rest of your dinner, ’cause you ain’t gonna have time for another one. You’re gonna be my fucking dinner. You’ll be dead before the sun goes down tomorrow. You’re gonna check right out, man. I’m gonna revoke your fucking visa.’

  ‘You are what?’ Barrett put the gun in his belt, looked away for a second then swung back and punched him in the stomach, twice, as hard as he could. It was an old, old trick, but it worked every time. The man crumpled, but Barrett dragged him up by the lapel so that they were face to face. With his right hand he gripped the man’s genitals, the full set, twisting and squeezing tight. Tighter yet. The guy very much wanted to double over, but couldn’t, because Barrett was still holding him upright by the lapel.

  ‘Did you fucking threaten me then? Did you threaten me?’

  The man made appalling snoring and wheezing noises, like a windpipe clogged with mucus. But he kept his watery bug-eyes open and fixed on Barrett. The twisted, contorted face was a picture of torment. ‘You are one rooted maggot, my friend. Anyone you got to wave ta-ta to, do it. Believe me. Your wife, your kids, your cat, everything. Bang. Dead.’

  ‘I see.’ Barrett released his testicles, whipped out the .22 and rammed it straight up the man’s right nostril. He was fast reaching the point where he didn’t care; the need to finish off this … this thing was paramount. He drove the piece further up, ripping the nostril with the foresight, and pulled back the hammer. The man stiffened, gaped, saw the soft-nosed bullet blow off the top of his head; then Barrett, finger tightening on the trigger, legs braced, smelled urine. Looking down, he saw it dripping from Tattoo-throat’s pants onto his pointy-toed suede shoes, and forming a pool around them. He breathed out, counted to five. The crisis passed. His heart was a pounding bass drum. He eased the hammer down, withdrew the barrel and wiped it on the man’s jacket. Breathing raggedly, the man dragged a sleeve across his face.

  Barrett said: ‘You, my friend, have just committed an aggravated assault in a public place. There must be thirty witnesses in there. You’re also carrying a concealed weapon, which I assume is unlicensed. You are looking at six months in the fucking cooler. Minimum.’

  ‘Don’t shit me. You’re not a fucking cop. You’re as much a fucking cop as I am.’ He flicked blood from the tip of his nose. So, he still had some stuffing left.

  ‘How do you know? Anyway, doesn’t matter a blind fuck who or what I am. I’m holding all the aces right now. All you’ve got is a dry-cleaning proble
m. Christ, you are on the nose. Want me to take you back inside now, show everyone in there how cool you are?’

  The man looked at Barrett. Staring back at him, Barrett perceived a coward’s confidence and swagger in that violent countenance. It was the kind of confidence that wasn’t shaken by a beating or a humiliation, but made more resolute and vengeful. Barrett had seen it before in the features of small-time hoodlums, street thugs and pimps. They were all found to be wanting when the moment of truth arrived. This guy was no different – he would skulk away, lick his wounds, regroup – and come again. Somehow, somewhere, without warning. He would blindside you if he could, get some hired muscle to mug you, iron bar you or torch your car. Then he would brag for months. Geoff’s assessment was spot-on – right now Barrett had the tiger by the tail. Well, it wasn’t the first time.

  ‘You can pick up your piece at the Kings Cross cop shop in the morning,’ he said. ‘That’s if you’re game to show your face. Now turn around and disappear before I kick you inside out. Go on – fuck off.’

  The man opened his mouth. There was anger in his eyes, in his trembling jawline, and he needed very much to fire a parting shot. His stomach and genitals still hurt a lot, but that didn’t matter. He was not going to be put down by some fucking vigilante do-gooder in a chow house. Who did this interfering fuck-head think he was? Was he a fucking jack or not? He had the look and the moves of one, but there was something else, something … not quite normal about him. He levelled his stare at Barrett, putting everything he had into it. Barrett grasped his coat by both lapels, crunching them together as he lifted the man onto his pointy toes and met the stare. Tattoo-throat was angry, he had things to say and do about this, but when he looked through the red cloud of his own pain and rage he saw something in his opponent that made him blink twice and bite down his next words. He saw not mere anger, but a human wrecking ball. Tattoo-throat had shit on his liver, a serious anger management problem, but this, this, was something else. The person ruining his day was not especially big – above-average height and build, not gym fit, middle-aged – but he gave off heat and power and the potential for untold, uncontrolled damage. It was a violence that, once unleashed, would indeed beat the living suitcase out of him, and which would not abate until the madness had run its destructive course. Not a good idea, perhaps, to get him too fired up. He had seen such a thing only once before: from a couple of Maoris who had taken to his new MX-5 with a steel post and smashed every window, light and panel of the sports car before proceeding to pull it apart with their bare hands. Thing was, there had been a .357 pistol in the glove compartment, and if he could’ve got hold of it he would’ve iced them right there, spread their brain matter all over the deck. These men had showed no anger – they’d gone about the task systematically, quite calmly, not raising a sweat, as a curious crowd of onlookers gathered. When they’d finished, one of the rock-apes had glared at him nose-to-nose and said: ‘If I see you again, I crack your spine in three places.’ Then they’d got into their car, a clapped-out shit-heap, and driven away, backfiring and belching blue smoke. It was the fucking smoke that had caused the confrontation in the first place. For months afterwards, he’d had nightmares in which he could feel the twisting, snapping and splintering of his vertebrae at the hands of this primeval creature with huge mitts, the strength of a lion and eyes that burnt like a cold green fire in the night.