Flank Street Read online

  FLANK STREET

  by

  A.J. Sendall

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Broke in Sydney

  A New Start

  Frankie’s Bar

  Hooking Fish

  Carol

  The Agreement

  The Makarov

  Hoodwinked

  Finding Carol

  Return to Sydney

  The Honey

  The Kidnap

  The Lawyer

  The Plot

  The Lie

  The House at Dover Heights

  Revenge

  The Job

  Mount Tamborine

  String of Pearls

  The Dilemma

  Pittwater

  Refuge Bay

  Too Good to Miss

  Moving On

  The Apartment

  Distraction

  Ronnie’s Place

  A Job for Ray

  Jimmy Nono

  Slipping

  The Street

  Reality & Revenge

  Mourning

  The Return

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Prologue

  Yellow streetlights lined Flank Street. I walked in the shadow of the plane trees: Black 501s and a grey hoodie. Outside number 67, I stopped, leaned against a tree, and waited. I craved the caress of nicotine, but the glow would expose me.

  No lights in the house, no car in the driveway, no sound; an hour passed, still nothing. An hour and twenty, and a Green Holden Monaro pulled into the drive. He climbed out; I stood still. His face, his name, his height and build I knew. I also knew he’d crossed somebody enough to get whacked, and that was where I came in. Third night of surveillance: same routine, always alone, briefcase in the left hand, keys in the right. Lock the car: check it. Get the mail from the box: straight to the house. The sound of the lock, then a chain.

  Cross the road, down the drive, vault the gate into the back yard. Kitchen window: make a noise to draw him close. A face in the window and a spit from the silenced nine—job’s right!

  My name’s Micky DeWitt. I arrived in Australia five years ago, broke and scratching for work. Now I have a nice apartment, a fast car, and own a boat repair yard. The yard pays the guys’ wages, but could never keep me the way I like to live. I hang out there because I like being beside the water. I have three workers on the dock and slipway that I pay above award, and a secretary in the office that I screw after hours. I live well, play hard, and call no-one boss.

  This is how I got there.

  Broke in Sydney

  It was November 1990 when I anchored in Sydney Harbour for the first time. I was broke, other than owning the old boat I was sailing. It was home, transport, and escape vehicle rolled into one tired steel shell. I needed money: didn’t want a job, yet hated being skint. I wanted to keep the boat even though they made it hard to live aboard in the harbour. I could hardly afford fuel or food. Something had to change.

  Two beers left in the fridge. I opened one and then wrote a for sale sign to pin on the noticeboard at the local shopping area. My cherished bronze sextant had to go: still an old plastic one stowed beneath a bunk that I could use if push came to shove.

  With the beer almost finished, I sat in the cockpit looking out across the harbour at the vast city, thinking there must be opportunities for a guy like me. My CV was non-existent, but I had skills that could be useful to the right people. It was just a question of finding them. I needed to pick the brains of a local to find out where casual work of my kind could be found. This was at a time when the internet was in its infancy and Google didn’t exist. Taxi drivers did, though, and they always know. If you want to find out about a place, its people, the no-go zones and the dark side, ask a cab driver.

  It was a Friday night. The traffic crossing the bridge was thick and dirty with exhaust gas. After locking up, I rowed ashore in my worn dinghy, tied it to a small dock that had missing planks and looked disused, then walked towards the lights.

  I’d always liked walking city streets, feeling the intimacy, the chance contact with strangers. Sydney was a big place, and with no real idea where to go, I headed to where I could see traffic streaming along a main road about two blocks ahead.

  No go. Populated by faceless black-suits, it was a business area with only a couple of trendy bars. I’d never done trendy; it wasn’t my style.

  Flag a cab: front seat.

  ‘Where to, mate?’

  The friendly and laid-back way of the Aussies I liked already.

  ‘Where a man can get drunk and laid and still have change from a fifty.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting The Cross then, mate. Where ya from?’

  ‘What’s at The Cross?’

  He laughed and looked at me sceptically. ‘Never heard of our famous Kings Cross?’

  ‘No. I just rolled into town.’

  ‘Just have fun and keep your nose out of anyone else’s business and you’ll do all right.’

  ‘Any recommendations?’

  ‘I’ll drop you at the B & B, that’s the Bourbon & Beefsteak, or just the Bourbon to locals. Walk down one side of the road as far as the Coca-Cola sign and back up the other, and watch your wallet. If you don’t find anything you like, I’ll run you home again for free.’

  I took the card he pulled from the centre console and dropped it in my shirt pocket. ‘Thanks. Anything to look out for other than pickpockets?’

  ‘No, mate; it’s all good.’

  He turned at a set of lights and I got my first glimpse of Darlinghurst Road. I knew immediately it was where I needed to be. Strip clubs, dimly lit bars, massage places. The street thronged with walkers, stalkers, hookers, the curious and hopeful, the lost and lonely. I got out and joined them.

  It was still happy hour at the Bourbon. I took a table on the veranda and watched the throngs until a perky waitress took my order. Two Jameson on ice and change from a five; I was off to a good start.

  There was a half-decent band playing inside and doing the usual pub band covers. I drained one glass and took the other inside to check it out and be closer to the music. There was a big central bar with lots of beer taps and rows of optics. I sat on a stool, back to the bar, and looked around.

  There was a small dance floor in front of the cramped stage, but nobody was dancing; it was only seven-thirty. Booths lined the wall I was facing, mostly filled with younger people shouting to be heard above the music. On the back wall, there were a few round wooden tables with hardback chairs flanked by the doors to the toilets.

  It was a mixed crowd in there that night, but two people stood out among them. At one of the back tables, there were two guys: one was tall and well dressed, confident, controlled; the other, a Maori or Islander, smart casual and brute force. They had player written all over them and didn’t care who saw it.

  I stayed there another half hour, nursing the Jameson and watching. When the bar area became packed, I left to walk the streets.

  I’d been in similar areas in London, Hamburg and Rome, but this felt different. There was no heavy atmosphere, no feeling that I had to be ready to fend off. People seemed cool: there to have a good time. It only took fifteen minutes to walk to the end of the street, and less to know this was where I could make some money. The clubs and sex shops thinned out as I approached the intersection and Coca-Cola sign at the end of the road. There were a handful of hookers working the corner and plenty of cars slowing or stopping. I crossed and started walking back towards the Bourbon on the other side. Same layout: bars, clubs, food, and sex, interspersed with tattoo parlour
s, an all-night chemist and a dry cleaner.

  Bouncers stood outside some of the strip joints cajoling the passers-by with promises of naked beauty within. It was all above my budget and titty-bars didn’t hold much appeal.

  The blues were flowing out of a bar, so I stepped inside. It was dimly lit and smoky as hell. The music was from a CD, the sound system awesome. I looked in my wallet, fronted the bar, and ordered a beer.

  The crowd was mainly young. There were a couple of well-inked thugs at the far end, and two young girls dressed to work the street were perched on stools in the middle. Nobody paid me any attention as I looked around. After a few minutes, I turned and faced the bar, and then noticed the sign above a row of optics, ‘Bartender wanted’, followed by a phone number.

  When the barman came close, I asked him for a pen. He looked at me for a few seconds before fishing around in a drawer beneath the bar. He came up with a well-chewed Bic and tossed it on the bar. I wrote the number on a beer mat and pushed it into a pocket. The barman was hovering, so I tossed the pen back on the bar, nodded, and found a table. I liked the place already.

  Next morning I called the number. Twice it went to an answering machine, the third time I got a human.

  ‘Hi, I’m calling about the bartender job at Frankie’s.’

  There was a short pause, and then a gruff voice said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘DeWitt. Micky DeWitt’

  ‘Have you done it before?’

  ‘Sure—’

  ‘Are you a pisshead, Micky DeWitt?’

  My finger hovered over the cradle, ready to disconnect, but instead I said, ‘No. I like a drink, but nothing—’

  ‘Be there tonight at nine. Ask for Lenny.’

  The phone abruptly cut off. I thought, fuck it, I’m not working for a rude arsehole like that. Curiosity and poverty got the better of me.

  That night I walked into Frankie’s at quarter to nine. The same sour-faced barman was there. I guessed it was his job going for grabs. Despite the grouch behind the bar and the rude bastard on the phone, I still liked the place. It had a vibe, an atmosphere that resonated with me. It wasn’t sleazy, but had an edge: something rude and from the night.

  ‘Jameson on ice, and where do I find Lenny?’ He remembered me from the previous night: knew I was out for his job. He laid a short measure on me and nodded towards the corner.

  ‘Grey jacket.’

  I stayed at the bar for a couple of minutes, watching the man called Lenny. He was in his thirties, sitting at a table with a woman about the same age. Maybe his missus, but she looked like a tramp: a bleached blonde, pink lipstick on a well-creased face. I decided to wait until exactly nine o’clock and give her a chance to leave. She didn’t. I walked over.

  ‘DeWitt?’ he asked before I had a chance to say anything.

  ‘Yes. Micky DeWitt.’

  ‘Go on, piss off,’ he said, looking at the woman.

  She crushed her cigarette into the glass ashtray, stood and moved to his side, leaned over and kissed his temple, all the while looking at me. She straightened, adjusted her boobs, and then after looking for another few seconds, turned and left.

  When he told me to sit, I did.

  ‘What experience have you got?’

  ‘I’ve worked a few bars, mainly in London and Hamburg: managed one in New Zealand for a while. I haven’t been in Australia very long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘Illegal?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve got a Kiwi passport, so I’m good to work here.’

  ‘You didn’t say you were a fucking Kiwi.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m from England. I just lived in New Zealand a while and took citizenship.’

  He looked at me sideways, suspicious that I might be an undercover Kiwi. ‘I pay ten bucks an hour and you pay for any breakages. Okay?’

  ‘Sounds fair enough.’

  ‘It is. You start tomorrow night, eight o’clock.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Lenny.’

  ‘No being late, no getting pissed, and no selling drugs.’

  I watched him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

  ‘Sure. No problem,’ I said, then stood and held out a hand that he shook briefly. I winked at the barman as I walked to the door. He nodded and flicked me a middle finger.

  That was it. I had a job. More than that, I had the opportunity.

  A New Start

  The following day I spent some of my remaining cash making myself look less like a bum. Everything I had looked as if it had crossed an ocean, which it had. With black 501s, an Oxford blue button-down shirt, a pair of Timberlands and a twenty-dollar haircut, I looked sharp.

  That first night, I arrived a quarter to eight. No sign of the greaseball behind the bar. I didn’t wait to be told or invited. I went straight to the end of the bar where the gate was, collecting a handful of empties on the way, threw up the flap, and stepped into my bar.

  ‘Who the fuck’re you?’

  I looked behind and down, where the voice came from. ‘It’s me, Lenny. Micky. You told me to start tonight at eight.’ He was on his knees pushing something heavy under the sink. ‘Need a hand with that.’

  ‘No. And it’s not eight yet.’

  He stood and rubbed his hair back with his right hand.

  I was about to put my hand out, then remembered he wasn’t a handshake kind of guy. I looked around the behind-bar area, taking stock. ‘Anything I need to know? Any dos and don’ts?’

  He continued to look at me for a few seconds and then relaxed a little. He turned and took a ring of keys from a hook beside him and handed them to me.

  ‘You’ll need these to lock up tonight and to open in the morning. Ten o’clock start for eleven o’clock opening. Mandy, the cleaner, will be here at ten. She’ll tell you where everything is. There’s a list of phone numbers on that board.’ He nodded towards the door.

  ‘There’s a barmaid named Stella. She’ll be here at eleven. Never late and works well, but not too bright. Seven o’clock, she’s relieved by Meagan. She’s often late as she is tonight, and which is why I’m behind the bloody bar again. I should bloody sack her.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  He threw an angry look at me and then shook it off. ‘Wait till you see her. She draws in plenty of custom just by leaning over the bar. And talk of the bloody devil,’ he said, raising his voice a notch and looking past me towards the sound of hurried footsteps.

  ‘Sorry, Lenny. I got stuck in—’

  ‘No worries, darling, but get your arse behind that bar before I bloody well sack it.’

  I didn’t know how serious he was, and neither did Meagan from the look on her face. As soon as I saw her, I understood what Lenny had meant about drawing customers: tight-fit jeans on long, shapely legs, and a low-cut top barely containing her tits. She looked briefly at me, pushing a half-smile into shiny red lips, and then pushed past us both on her way to the bar door. I turned back to Lenny, who was watching me watching her.

  ‘Cellar’s this way.’ He turned and walked. I followed.

  We looked in the cellar. All standard equipment I’d used before: well stocked, well laid out, and clean. My opinion of Lenny was rising. For all his gruffness and the tough-guy act, he seemed well organised and business-like.

  ‘The safe is in here.’ He passed through a small door into a side room off the main cellar. ‘Two a.m. close. Empty the tills, count it twice, write it on this sheet, and then lock it in here.’ He handed me a sheet as an example: standard reconciliation. ‘Can you remember numbers?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, handing him back the sheet. He told me the codes, and then had me repeat them twice. He seemed satisfied that I had a grip on things, and we headed back up to the bar.

  Meagan was working the far end. She was fast, confident, and great with customers. When she’d finished serving, Lenny called her over.

  ‘This is Micky; he’s the new bar manager.’

  The w
ord manager caught me by surprise, but I tried not to show it. Lenny didn’t know me from the next vagrant, yet there he was putting me in charge of his bar – at ten bucks an hour.

  Meagan leaned an elbow on the polished mahogany bar, crossed her ankles and looked me up and down. ‘What happened to Wayne?’ she asked Lenny, still looking at me.

  ‘Wayne’s gone. Wayne was a lazy... Wayne was an unreliable, dishonest prick.’

  She shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Okay, Micky, any problems?’

  ‘No: good as gold, Lenny. I’ll just have a look around and get familiar.’

  ‘Just don’t get too familiar with her,’ he said, nodding towards Meagan, who was chatting with a young woman sitting at the bar.

  Lenny walked through the bar gate and sat at the same table where I’d met him the previous night. The same slapper was there waiting for him. Same pale pink lipstick, same tight top showing her wrinkled midriff finished in solarium orange.

  I looked through the bar, making a mental note of where things were, and then had another look in the cellar. When I returned to the bar, Lenny and the woman had gone. I served a couple, then collected empties from the tables and put them in the washer. Meagan seemed to be ignoring me. I decided to brace her right away. This was my bar; she was my barmaid.

  ‘Was Wayne a friend of yours?’

  She gave me the same appraising look as before. ‘What’s it to you?’

  I was struck by the contrast of the killer body and the ordinary face. ‘Nothing. What’s the attitude about?’

  She held my gaze for a five-beat, then moved her eyes away and said, ‘He should have made me manager. I’ve been here the longest: much longer than Stella and Joy.’

  ‘Who’s Joy?’

  ‘A sort of temp,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘There are two reasons he didn’t make you manager, Meagan. First, you’re always late getting here. Second, you’re a good barmaid, and great with the customers. I’ve only been here an hour and I can see that. He wants you here, in the bar, not pissing around with orders, deliveries, and doing cellar work. Manager is just a name for gofer. And I bet he pays you more than he does me.’