Hard Yards Page 3

  Tattoo-throat turned, straightened his jacket, sniffed, spat, scraped a hand over his shaved dome, gathered what dignity he could – then departed without saying a word, leaving a piss trail in his wake. A safe distance off he paused and, half-turning, seemed to toy with the idea of coming back and going on with it. Then he thought better of it – the .22 was pointing at his face. Barrett watched him go, saw him melt into the darkness of the street, until he was invisible. People like him did exactly that: they melted away, merging with shadows.

  Then Barrett heard a car start. From a line of parked vehicles he fleetingly saw what he thought was a late-model Mercedes, dark blue or black. Distinctive diesel throb. There was a flash of brake lights, then a continuous shrieking of rubber as the vehicle pulled out and swung onto the road. Barrett watched as it swerved hard right, against traffic lights; there followed more shrieking and squealing as the car accelerated into the turn, after which the sound gradually faded into nothing, and Barrett was surrounded by quiet.

  3

  ‘I’ve seen that arsehole before,’ Barrett was saying. ‘I’m sure I have. He is definitely a creep from under a fucking rock somewhere.’

  ‘Name’s Anthony Rugulio Diaz,’ Geoff said, and sipped from his glass of sauvignon blanc. The half-full bottle was sitting in an ice bucket next to the table. His plate was empty, wiped clean, and Barrett’s had been taken to the kitchen to be re-heated. Richard’s wife, Rama, who had worked as a nurse in Thailand, was seeing to the young woman’s injuries in the bathroom, while Katya swept up the mess on the floor.

  ‘Anthony Rugulio Diaz,’ Barrett said, pouring himself some of the Brown Brothers wine. ‘That’s a tag you don’t forget in a hurry. He was in the papers about … what, five years ago?’

  ‘Closer to six now,’ Geoff said. ‘He was connected with a concert promotions group, what were they called? I forget. Sunrise something or other. Sunrise Sunset, that’s it. They brought out a big-name group – who was it?’

  ‘Yeah. REM? Rings a bell somewhere. U2? Something with initials, or numbers.’

  ‘Maybe. Or was it … Christ, I shouldn’t drink. Can’t remember any fucking thing these days. Anyhow, our friend Diaz was found to have been fiddling the books in a major way. Couple of mill went missing, a lot of people didn’t get paid, the company folded and he was done for defrauding.’

  ‘That’s right … but there was something else, wasn’t there? Unrelated, or subsequent to the case.’

  ‘Subsequent. Oh, there was a heap of shit. He appealed. Key witnesses suddenly changed their testimony. Memories failed. One woman, a secretary in Sunrise Sunset, couldn’t be located. The story is she was taken up in a plane and tossed out over the Simpson Desert, along with a bag of documents. Then he was busted for conspiring to maim his co-accused. They bugged his phone and had him cold, arranging to hire a hit man named Aubrey Finn – an ex-actor – to kneecap this guy Ian, Ian … something, to make him hold the line. He was going to go belly up. Ian Jepperson.’

  ‘But the evidence was ruled inadmissable, because the phone was bugged illegally.’

  ‘That’s right. They’d cut too many corners. Police were over-zealous in their determination to gut Diaz. Wired his phone without a warrant. There were other problems too, something about an undercover cop being an unreliable witness – his wife had fucked off with his mate, and he was half mad, on the grog, dope, happy pills, cocaine, everything. Poor stiff topped himself later. The cops really blew it big time. Heads rolled, butt was kicked sideways, upstairs and inside out. The inspector in charge of the operation is now handcuffed to a desk at Maitland. When he’s on night shift, his wife brings him hot soup in a Thermos. He’s even barred from the canteen.’

  Barrett laughed into his glass of wine. Geoff was a funny bastard, but he always kept a dead-pan face himself, and you had to pay attention to notice when he had crossed the line into bullshit territory.

  ‘Do you believe that – about the woman being thrown out in the desert?’ he said.

  Geoff chewed some food, and took a hefty slug from his wine glass. ‘Yeah, I do. I do, mate. But it’ll never be proved. Got any idea how big the Simpson fucking Desert is? Anyhow, the end result of this terrific cock-up was that the original charges were thrown out, and the conviction was deemed unsafe and quashed. Police were unable to use evidence, vital documentation was missing, statements had been altered to buggery, bits whited out … unbelievable shit. Anthony Rugulio Diaz walked. Did it in style, too – stretch limo, French champagne, TV interviews … He really rubbed their noses in it.’

  ‘It’s a good story.’

  ‘The cops don’t think so. They think it’s a cunt of a story, especially the ending. They’d like to get their hands on him again, officially or unofficially. I know one bloke who has seriously considered having him privately wiped. But some journo did turn it into a book. I believe it’s being made into a mini-series, too, starring one of those brat-pack actors. So he’s really cleaned up, has Anthony Rugulio Diaz.’

  ‘He uses his full name, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, refers to himself as Anthony Rugulio Diaz: “You haven’t seen the last of Anthony Rugulio Diaz”, that type of thing. You’d think he was Al Pacino at the very least. He’s extremely proud of his alleged Hispanic origins. But I’ve got an idea he actually hails from Fiji, or some such outpost in the Pacific. He might even be part Indian, or Sri Lankan.’

  ‘He looks … kind of Hispanic.’

  ‘He’s probably a one-off mongrel breed, spat out from some indeterminate jungle gene pool. Maybe that’s the root of his problem. Who the fuck knows – or cares. He’s a piece of prime shit, anyway. Apart from Sunrise Sunset he’s been involved in some pretty dodgy operations over the years. Had interests in a gemstone business in Cambodia at one time. You can imagine the ethical standards applying there.’

  ‘You seem to know a bit about him.’

  Geoff said, casually: ‘Yeah. I was involved in a part of that fraud case.’

  Barrett drank some wine, then lit a cigarette, thinking. Everyone had a secret side, but cops and ex-cops more than anyone. Barrett himself had secrets he had spilled to no-one, and never would. They would go to the grave with him. There are certain chapters in his life he simply could not reveal to another person. But Geoff O’Mara had it down to an art form. At the time of the Diaz business, he and Geoff were knocking around a fair bit – drinking sessions, eating out, hitting the racetrack – but he had never let slip anything about his involvement, whatever he meant by that, in what was quite a high-profile case. His background in the Queensland brotherhood had certainly taught him to cover his butt and keep quiet. It made Barrett see that he only knew one facet, a thin sliver of the man – as much as Geoff wanted him to.

  ‘Well … he’s a fucking creep, that’s for sure,’ Barrett said.

  ‘That linen jacket with the cuffs turned back really gives him away, doesn’t it. Did he threaten to kill you?’

  ‘Yep. At least three different ways.’

  ‘You don’t want to take him too lightly. Since his troubles began he has made it his business to get connected – you know, hang out in dives, carry guns and knives, that kind of serious shit. He now sees himself as a fully accredited member of the gangster fraternity. And he’s crazy enough to do any fucking thing. He beats people up for no reason, rams cars that fuck with him on the road, struts around with zoo creatures like Lee Mahoney.’

  ‘“Mad Irish” Mahoney.’

  ‘That’s the one. Complete fucking screw-loose maniac. Good mate of Lennie McPherson’s from the old days. Back in the eighties he stabbed a young bloke to death in a nightclub with a sharpened screwdriver, because he reckoned the bloke was coming on to his girlfriend. Turned out the poor devil was as gay as a town fair. Diaz has also cultivated the friendship of the likes of Mick “Early” Dawes, the well-known pimp, rapist, face slasher, biff artist and all-round mongrel dog. Got his nickname from always king-hitting his opponent before offici
al acceptances. He’s a graduate of the Neddy Smith school of self-defence: knock ’em down early and don’t let ’em up. Anthony Rugulio Diaz thinks his life is one continuous crime movie being directed by Martin Scorsese. He’s even got that LA gangster talk down pat, just so you can tell he’s the real McCoy and not a wanker.’ Geoff swallowed some wine, then stuck a finger the size of a pork sausage under Barrett’s nose. ‘He’s also been thick of late with your nemesis, “Hollywood Jack” Tucci. Now there’s a marriage made in hood heaven. Diaz is full of piss and wind, but watch him. He’s a mean son of a gun. He’d be capable of a drive-by, or he might petrol-bomb your car while you’re in it. Don’t underestimate him, and don’t drop your guard.’

  ‘I won’t. But I’m not going to wet myself over a piece of designer sleaze like him. So what are he and Tucci up to?’

  ‘No fucking good.’ He sipped some wine – half a glass’s worth. ‘Designer sleaze. That’s good. Anthony Rugulio Designer-Sleaze Diaz. Major fraud, witness elimination, woman battering and general below-the-belt shafting done to order. He should have that printed on his business card. Did you rip the gold chains off him?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t, bugger it.’

  ‘Pity. They’d be worth a bit. No doubt the product of his ill-gotten earnings.’

  Richard appeared then, carrying Barrett’s plate of tiger prawns, to which he had added more sauce in the re-heating process.

  ‘How is she?’ Barrett asked. He had earlier seen the woman being led from the bathroom to the kitchen by a most solicitous Rama.

  ‘Not too bad. A bit knocked around and shaken up, you know,’ Richard said with a philosophical shrug. ‘She’s just having a cup of tea now. He is a bad, bad man. What’s his bag? Let’s hope he doesn’t decide to come back.’ He looked a bit nervous at the thought.

  ‘Don’t worry, Richard. He won’t come back here,’ Barrett said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Well, put it this way. He’ll have to have a shower and put on some clean threads before he does. He had a bit of an accident outside.’

  ‘Beautiful thing,’ Geoff said.

  When he’d had the prawns, Barrett pushed his plate to one side and used his napkin before tossing it on the table. ‘I think I’ll have a quick word with her,’ he said, getting up. ‘Check she’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I thought I was the dirty old man around here,’ Geoff said.

  ‘You are. She’s much too old for you, mate. I reckon she could be twenty-five.’ He aimed two fingers at the ice bucket. ‘I’ll be back soon, hombre. Don’t drink all the wine. Or if you do, order another bottle.’

  ‘You are so transparent, Barrett old son. You fool no-one.’

  Ignoring him, Barrett went through the batwing doors, into the kitchen and the world of Mai Ling King.

  4

  Even though she had a split lower lip and a lump the size of a golf ball over her right eye, Barrett could see that this was a woman of exceptional attractiveness. Driving back to his Woolloomooloo apartment he glanced at her once or twice, sitting compactly in the passenger seat with her head against the window, misting it with her breath. In her hand she still held onto that scrunched-up little handkerchief, occasionally using it to dab her face. Mai Ling, she had said her name was. Barrett didn’t know her surname yet. He had introduced himself, warned her that Diaz was not the kind of person you wanted calling on you later in the night, and asked if there was somewhere she could go other than to her place, which she had told him was in Bondi Junction. When she said it, Barrett had his suspicions: it came out sounding wrong, as if she had pulled the name from a prepared list. Well, where she lived or didn’t live was her business. They chatted on. It was clear she was petrified of Diaz, who she feared would be waiting for her when she got home.

  There was nowhere else she could go, she said. She had some close friends, but Diaz knew where they lived, and she didn’t want to put them in the firing line. One thing led to another, and in the end, at Barrett’s insistence, she accepted his offer of shelter for the night. Mai Ling did not seem inclined to leave Richard’s kitchen. She was trembling and her head twitched violently, as if she suffered from Parkinson’s. When Barrett had left with her, Geoff had cocked an eye, then leaned back in his chair, arms folded, saying everything and nothing at all.

  ‘You need to get that lip stitched,’ he told her. ‘There’s a clinic not far from my place. You can make an appointment in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mai Ling said, glancing at him.

  ‘Do you have any broken teeth?’

  ‘I don’t think so. One feels a little loose.’

  Chinese, he had decided. Shut your eyes, though, and it was a native-born Australian speaking. He still had trouble believing that so much history had rolled on by, since the business there. It was a long time ago now, over a quarter of a century, but the never-ending movie in his head was pristine and vivid, an eye-blink ago. Barrett drove on, watching for headlights in the rear-vision mirror: old habits. Part sense, part paranoia. There was no telling with a triple-A crazoid like Diaz. His natural inclination was to ask Mai Ling some cop-type questions – what was her connection with Diaz, for instance. She gave the impression of being far too elegant and refined a person to be mixed up with a shitman like him. There was also a disarming innocence about her, a willingness to place her trust in a total stranger – a good Samaritan – that touched him. People did strange things. Sometimes good Samaritans turned out to be lowlifes, like the respectable-looking man who recently had stopped on a freeway in the rain to help a woman with a flat. He’d changed it, then forced her into her own car and raped her, twice. Before leaving, he’d bashed her half to death with the wheel-brace and taken her money and credit cards.

  What Barrett wanted to know was, how much did Mai Ling know about Diaz, and why was she having dinner with him in the first place? And what had caused him to go off? Her polite manner made it hard for him to believe she was capable of giving offence, even to Diaz. From where Barrett had sat, Diaz appeared to be exercising some sort of control or authority over her, but she wasn’t copping it. In his experience, Asian women were deceptive that way. They might look meek and fragile, mere objects of beauty, but they had guts and ferocity and were capable of fighting tooth and claw if they had to. Mai Ling had certainly shown guts in standing up to Diaz. If she knew him at all, she would’ve been aware he carried a gun. Christ almighty, it was none of his concern – as Geoff had told him more than once. Barrett had never been much good at taking advice. In the morning he would arrange for her to go to the doctor, then she’d be gone, and that would be it, end of story.

  The apartment was a smart nineteen-thirties edition, ten floors up, with a panoramic outlook onto the Woolloomooloo naval base and a chunk of the city skyline. Called Arlington House, the red brick building had an old-fashioned lift with an accordion-style door and a stool on which a uniformed operator sat during the daytime. It was a clever refurbishing job which managed to combine the best features of the building’s era – large spaces, curved windows, fan-shaped ceiling roses and cornices – while at the same time giving it a modern, freshened-up look and the stamp of class. Unfortunately the place did not belong to Barrett, but to his employer, Lance Hoy. Hoy was a most unlikely private investigator: he was short, plump, ginger-haired, and had terrible dress sense. All his suits looked as if they had come from the prop basket at a vaudeville show. He was also partial to bow ties and two-toned wing-tipped shoes. His taste in art said a bit about him too. Lance had an extensive collection of wooden artifacts from New Guinea, Tahiti, Samoa and such places. These were mostly of gods or warriors squatting on their haunches, holding spears and so on. In the living room, however, there was the pièce de résistance: a full-sized carving in ebony of a man holding a monstrously large erection in his two hands, with the head of the penis inside his mouth. According to Lance, it represented every man’s secret fantasy, and he was fond of relating how the customs offic
er in Sydney had given the piece a long, hard look before letting it through.