Hard Yards Page 4

  He was, however, a success story in a tough game. Lance picked his staff impeccably, got results, and had made a pile from snooping into everything going, particularly corporate fraud. Barrett had got on well with him, but then an offer of a partnership in a rival firm had come up and Barrett had changed camps, with disastrous results. No sooner was he in the door than the Taxation Office had begun an audit that revealed gross financial mismanagement, leading to court action and the winding-up of the company. Through no fault of his own, Barrett was on the street again.

  Not for long, however. Lance promptly offered him his old job back, and when Barrett jibbed as a matter of pride, he was offered a salary increase to match what he would have earned at the rival firm, if it hadn’t gone belly-up. As Lance explained over a bottle of Chateau Margaux, reliable, experienced operatives were hard to find, and Barrett’s record was exemplary. The clincher, however, was an offer of free accommodation for six months. Lance was going overseas, doing the grand tour of Europe and America with his new wife, and needed someone he could trust to look after the penthouse apartment he had recently purchased for over a million. Since his own rented place was being sold from under him, Barrett said yes. Lance left the business in the hands of his co-director, Bryan Spriggs, tossed Barrett the keys to his pad and took off for London.

  That was three months ago, and now Barrett had got used to the high life on the city fringe. It wasn’t hard to take, sitting on the balcony on warm evenings with a cool drink, watching the activity below and letting his mind wander. Sooner or later it settled on his late wife, Karen. She had been gone coming up for seven years now, but there weren’t too many days when he didn’t think about her. If the hour was late and he’d had enough to drink, a quiet tear or two would slide down his face. She lived on in his dreams, too. Not every night, but often. These were always seriously troubled nightmare sequences in which he was grappling with one dark demon or another. Karen would appear briefly and vividly, offering solace simply by being there, and always, even as he begged her to stay with him, he could see and feel her slipping away. Then he would wake up feeling gutted and bereft, lost beyond words.

  Funny he should finish up in the lap of luxury – even if it was someone else’s – after everything he had been through south of the river. He wondered what Karen would make of it. There was a time when he didn’t believe he was destined to see fifty – it had seemed an impossibly old age – and he knew in his heart he should have been dead at least five times over. Twice he had almost taken himself out. But, like Geoff O’Mara, he was a survivor. He had bitten the bullet. Now he intended living forever – as long as it was like this.

  He fixed up the third bedroom for Mai Ling, then poured them both a fine cognac from Lance’s well-stocked liquor cabinet. Lance had told him to make full use of everything in the place, including his French wine, which Barrett had consumed sparingly so far. They sat in the spacious lounge, on the walls of which hung pictures of different kinds, from traditional Australian landscapes depicting sheep stations and mountain ranges, to some imitation Whiteleys, known as ‘innuendoes’ in the trade, and what looked like a real Fred Williams. Mai Ling did not seem to notice her surroundings as she sat forward on the settee, tense and no doubt feeling pain. Rama had cleaned up and dressed the cut on her lip, but the bruising around her mouth and on her forehead was deepening by the minute. Diaz had hit her hard. Looking at her now, Barrett wished he had crippled the prick while he had the chance. He should have twisted his nuts off.

  ‘So why did he hit you?’ he asked, and sipped the golden Courvoisier VSOP.

  Mai Ling shook her head, then pushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Money,’ she said.

  ‘You know what he is, don’t you?’

  ‘I know what he is now. But I didn’t then. He gave me help when I needed it.’

  ‘He’s a criminal, Mai Ling. He should be in jail. If he gave you money, it was tainted. Stolen, or swindled. It’s what he does.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and cried.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. But scum like Diaz make me angry, because they get away with too much. He hurts people and doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anyone except himself.’

  She sighed, got herself together again, and made an attempt to sip the spirit from the undamaged corner of her mouth. It wasn’t easy, but she managed. Barrett squeezed the glass and calmed himself down. A bastard along the lines of Diaz, but even further down the food chain, had deliberately run his wife off the highway and killed her, smashed her to pieces. It had been a way of getting at him. Barrett was there for the aftermath, saw what was left of her being put in the ambulance, and they had to knock him out to stop him going off his head. Next day he put a gun in his mouth, fully intending to pull the trigger. It wasn’t to be: there came a knock on the door at the critical moment, when he was about to shut his eyes and take a last, deep breath, the pounding of his heart ringing in his ears and the taste of gunmetal strong and bitter on his tongue. Geoff had been right about not getting involved in violent domestic disputes, but Geoff didn’t know the full story about Karen. He didn’t know that for Barrett, it was intensely personal. In the end he had fixed up Karen’s killer, but it hadn’t been enough. It could never be enough. A creature such as Diaz he would happily fix up too, if necessary, but it went on and on. In the end you couldn’t fix up everyone – the list became never-ending. But having come through the toughest times anyone could be subjected to, Barrett had no fears anymore, none. Absence of fear was a dangerous drug, it could easily get you dead, but the thing was this: the human race had a one hundred per cent mortality rate, so what the fuck difference did it make when you died? When you looked at things that way, it gave you an advantage.

  Lying in his bed with the light on he thought about this, about the rage and hatred that lived, curled up inside him, like a shivering rabid dog. Sometimes it had to be given a run, and he always hoped it would never return, but return it did, like a faithful companion. It would not die, and it had nowhere else to go, so Barrett was stuck with it. Diaz was lucky Barrett hadn’t snapped his tattooed neck for him.

  The phone rang next to his bed.

  He sat up, snatched the receiver.

  ‘Barrett.’

  ‘Yeah, mate.’

  ‘Some bastard’s got in and tossed my place,’ Geoff said. ‘I wonder who the fuck it could have been.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Smashed front door. Looks like a sledgehammer job. Walls spray-painted. Clothes slashed, burnt, general trashing. Computer fucked, entrails hanging out. Blankets pulled back, nest of fresh turds laid on the bed.’

  Barrett shut his eyes, sucked breath. ‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit. Did he let on to you that he knew me?’

  I’ve got your number, buddy, you and your fat mate in there. ‘There were words to that effect.’

  ‘Fuck him. I’m going to terminate the little cunt.’

  ‘It might not have been him.’

  A snort came down the phone line. ‘He really wanted you, but he doesn’t know Barrett Pike. But he remembers me from the court case, so I copped it instead. Fits too snug.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Fucking right.’

  ‘Sorry, Geoff.’

  ‘Not your fault. You called it the way you saw it. If I’d had any sense I would’ve come out with you, finished the maggot. Should’ve shoved his fucking head down his neck and dragged it out his rear end. Turned the prick inside out.’

  ‘Leave a message?’

  ‘You mean apart from the Easter eggs? Don’t think so. He’s probably not that stupid. Something else, though, slightly important. My gun’s gone – the fucking Smith & Wesson .44.’

  ‘Oh, fuck.’

  ‘Yeah. Oh, fuck, in big print.’

  ‘Well … I’ve still got his. You want to swap?’

 
‘The .22? Probably got a dirty history. I’d dump it if I were you.’

  ‘You’d better report the Smith & Wesson before it has a history, Geoff.’

  ‘Bit of a problem there. It’s … unlicensed.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Plenty of people know I’ve got it, however. It was given to me by an old copper mate in Queensland, years ago, as a … going-away present. I just keep it as a souvenir, never used the fucker.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Right now? Find some accommodation that doesn’t stink like an open-air shithouse. I’m out the front as we speak, and I can still smell it. I guess you’re booked out tonight?’

  ‘Always room for one more.’

  ‘Nah. Don’t want to cramp you. I’ll check into a hotel. Get rid of the bedding, then I’m fucking off. Call you when.’

  Barrett re-holstered the handset.

  Anthony Diaz, running loose with Geoff’s Smith & Wesson pistol. Not what you’d call an ideal scenario. Even at this hour, Barrett could find out where he lived, go out there … Lance Hoy’s database would do the trick. It had cost him a heap of favours, not a little palm-greasing in certain police circles, but it had paid for itself many times over. Barrett thought about it. Geoff was behind the eight ball because of what Barrett had done, rightly or wrongly, so he had an obligation to do something. Sort of. Problem was … well, he didn’t really want to leave Mai Ling alone, even in a secure building. Also, he might foul Geoff’s play, whatever he had in mind. If Barrett could locate Diaz, Geoff could too, and whatever Barrett could do to him, Geoff could do just as well, or better. He sat on the bed, picked up the .22 from the bedside table and hefted it. It was a pretty piece. There were still traces of Diaz’s blood in the tip of the barrel.

  Best to do nothing now – see what daylight brings.

  5

  Daylight brought unexpected visitors. The morning was bright, the city’s perpetual rug of mugginess having been blown away by a rising easterly. Barrett was sitting in a wrought-iron chair on the balcony, sipping fresh-brewed coffee when the buzzer sounded. It was eight forty-five, and Mai Ling had not yet stirred. He looked down, spotting two men at the door: open-necked sports shirts, casual pants, shades. No suspicious bulges that he could see. Not, in his usually accurate judgment in these matters, muscle-for-hire: in any case, that breed rarely reveals itself openly in the daytime, and certainly never this early in the morning.

  ‘Yes,’ he said into the phone.

  ‘Good morning. We’re looking for Barrett Pike,’ one of them said.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Names are Dave Langley and Leon Formosa. We represent Dolphin Protective Services.’

  ‘Do you. Sorry, I’m not looking for protection. Who sent you boys around here?’

  ‘You misunderstand, sir. We’re not selling – we’re buying. May we come up?’

  Dave Langley was in his mid-thirties, with blond curly hair cut short, hazel-green eyes deep in his head, firm-but-not-too-firm professional handshake. He had on a Roosters rugby top worn outside his pants, which were of a fine cotton check. Formosa might have been part-Sri Lankan: he had a glowing complexion, a uniformly deep facial tan. Angular features, seven-day beard, fastidiously shaped and trimmed. Seriously receding hair. Powder-blue polo shirt, tight moleskins, tan Rivers hiking boots. He was deferential, smiling; the proud possessor of a gold nugget set among teeth that looked as if they had been filed level. He was carrying a black plastic folder.

  ‘So how can I help Dolphin Protective Services early on a Saturday?’ Barrett said when they were all seated. Neither visitor accepted his offer of coffee – they were both leaning forward in their seats, hands clasped, eyes fixed on Barrett.

  ‘Sorry to have come at this hour,’ Langley said. ‘Matter of have to. Time’s at a premium for us now. You may know that Dolphin has a Games contract.’

  ‘Lucky Dolphin. No, I didn’t know that. Lance Hoy would have liked a piece of that action.’

  ‘He might yet – plenty of work to go around. We’re subcontracting parts of it. You have no idea of the enormity of the operation. Tell you the truth, we have our work cut out. Which brings me to the point, Barrett.’

  Barrett sipped coffee. Waited.

  ‘We were at the Pattaya Affair last night. We saw the way you handled that ugly … situation, involving the young woman. Very impressive, I have to say – especially in view of the fact that Anthony Diaz is a very tasty bill of goods.’

  Barrett put down his coffee cup and ignited a Stuyvesant. Sat back. So these guys had done some homework – which meant they were serious.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Langley said, regarding the cigarette with obvious disapproval. ‘You’d know if I tried bullshitting, anyway. But we’ve done some checking up, dug up your career history …’

  ‘Wait on. How did you know who I was in the first place?’

  ‘Mate. It’s our job. It’s business. That was Geoff O’Mara you were with, right? You know the techniques used to acquire information. What rat cunning can’t achieve, a twenty-buck note will. That much hasn’t changed over the years. And we have a very comprehensive database – probably the same as Lance’s. Hell, we paid enough for it. And we pay people full-time to keep it up to date. You moved last week, I know where you are. New knowledge is the key in this caper.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So … you were a cop, homicide detective. High achiever, a little overheated at times. Bucked the system. Took the package, ran a country pub. Moved here ’95, worked security ever since. Twice with Lance Hoy, a short-lived stint in between with …’

  Barrett put his palms up. ‘I’m getting the picture, Dave. Don’t remind me of too many places I don’t want to revisit. Being there the first time was tough enough.’

  ‘Okay. The Olympics are almost upon us. Two weeks to go, and counting down.’

  ‘Even the dogs in the street are barking it.’ Sydney had indeed undergone a total transformation. It was not Sydney anymore, but Olympic City, and an international hell-hole. A bed space could not be had anywhere, even as far away as Gosford or Wyong. Private houses were being rented out for princely sums. Anything with a view of the water was off the scale. No precinct or street escaped Olympic fever. Every product in every gimcrack tourist shop carried the official ‘Sydney 2000’ logo. Fever-pitch was the catchword: the air, dense and humid, was crackling with it, waiting for the cataclysm. All roads were clogged, all the time. The airports, ferries, the supposedly upgraded public transportation system were all approaching meltdown, despite the confident predictions of administrators. And the Games were not even underway yet.

  Formosa said, ‘Have you heard about an athlete from the States named Titus Delfranco? His nickname’s Bunny. He was on TV recently. Built like a steam train.’

  ‘Read something about him in the paper a while ago. A sprinter. The new hundred-metres champ, isn’t he?’

  Formosa said, ‘He’s faster than Maurice Greene, Donovan Bailey, Carl Lewis, Leroy Burrell, Frankie Fredericks, any of them. Delfranco is a sensation. Next to him Maurice Greene looks as if he’s running through water. Delfranco’s set to win the hundred here by a big space, according to informed sources. I’ve seen the videos, and the pundits are not wrong. He is a teenage phenomenon, a one-off. He is a rocket to Mars. This guy is fast, as in greased lightning fast. Last year at a college championship meeting in Kansas City, he ran the hundred in 9.73 seconds, surpassing Maurice Greene’s record, but officially it doesn’t count. Apparently there was electronic equipment failure, so the event was hand-timed, and wind assistance was a little over two metres – the maximum allowable. According to the record books, Greene is still number one, but the consensus is Delfranco is faster. However … there’s a real security problem there. Let me explain, if you will.’

  A sound came from Mai Ling’s room. It did not pass unnoticed by the two Dolphin men. ‘I hope we’re not imposing on you too much,’ Langley said.

&nbs
p; ‘No, no, that’s all right. Go on.’ He was hoping Mai Ling would have the presence of mind not to wander out in Lance’s silk PJs. There was no real reason for her to just yet: the room had an en-suite bathroom.

  Langley drew breath. ‘Delfranco comes from Colorado. Some hole-in-the-corner tumbleweed town no-one’s ever heard of. You won’t find it in any atlas. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the survivalist movement over there – guys that are against the government, the ATF, the FBI, Internal Revenue, cops, any government agency. Arch-conspiracy theorists, refuse to pay taxes, purify their own water. Gun-crazy rednecks. White supremacists, but more dangerous than neo-Nazis. These are the kind of guys who chain up blacks and drag ’em behind their pick-ups for sport on a slow afternoon. About a year ago two of them shot and killed a couple of state troopers, out in the middle of nowhere, then took off for the hills. Few weeks later they were cornered in Arizona, there was a standoff, and one of them was gunned down in a shoot-out with the troopers and FBI agents. The second man was taken alive. Thing is, they also happened to have a close link to a far-out religious sect known as Seed of God. It’s run by a charismatic head case named Khormitch, Carter Khormitch III. Khormitch is the Almighty’s main man, the Way and the Truth, to his followers: a complete, raving, fire breathing and extremely persuasive evangelistic type in that great American tradition. He was an air force colonel, and used to rub shoulders with powerful men. So he knows the system from the inside, and despises it. Khormitch says jump, his followers only ask how far and how often. He’s also filthy rich: every member of the sect is only too happy to hand over all their bank savings, assets, property, whatever – even their homes – for the greater glory of God.’