Flank Street Read online

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘That’s not part of the deal.’

  ‘It’s part of mine.’

  Her eyes narrowed and her face hardened briefly as her brain hummed. She softened again. ‘So if I tell you why, you’re in?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Tell me why and I’ll carry on listening. Is he your lawyer?’

  ‘He was, but that’s not the reason.’ She leaned on the teak rail and looked down at the water, staying there for half a minute. Then she straightened, looked me in the eye, and said, ‘He has a hold over me and it’s in that box.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She turned back to the water and said quietly, ‘A gun.’

  ‘You kill someone?’ I waited.

  After a ten-beat she said, ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘You killed ten thousand people?’

  She looked back at me with anger that dissolved into a laugh when she saw that I was joking with her. We both relaxed. The ice was broken between two would-be criminals: well, truth-be-told, two criminals on sabbatical. It was at that point, for whatever reason, that I decided I would trust her, and in turn, she seemed to open up more. I didn’t ask her who she’d killed—it wasn’t important—or why and how the lawyer ended up with the weapon; that was her business. We got down to the job itself, and the more she talked, the deeper the hook went in. It sounded well thought out on the surface, but I knew from experience there could be all sorts of problems below that.

  When the ferry docked at Manly, we walked through the tourist precinct towards the beach, just like any couple on vacation: nothing about robbery, safecracking, or murder since leaving the ferry. We found a bar with a shaded veranda, ordered beer and lit cigarettes.

  ‘Is he blackmailing you?’

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but drew hard on her cigarette, exhaled two steady streams from her nose, and nodded.

  ‘What if you offered him the ten large to buy—?’

  ‘He doesn’t want money. He has plenty of money.’

  ‘Then what—?’ Then it dawned on me; he wanted her. The sadness was back in her face, her arms folded across her chest. The sleazy sack of shit was blackmailing her for sex. Now her plan made perfect sense—and I was in.

  The Agreement

  Tuesday had become my unofficial day off. I’d check the cellar, wait until Stella arrived, and take off for the day. I’d usually spend part of the day on the boat, chilling out and making sure she was okay. That Tuesday I met Carol instead.

  It sounded simple the way she’d told it. The house would be empty. Entry was through the patio door: a single lock and no deadbolt. There were no motion sensors and the back-to-base alarm would be simple to disable.

  This time I picked the meeting venue: the State Library. It was a half-hour walk from home and I figured there was little chance of meeting anyone either of us knew. Most of the goons who hung around The Cross were not voracious readers. Also, I wanted access to maps and other reference material if needed. Speaking in a low voice while poring over maps and plans looks natural in a library: dead suspicious in a café.

  It was no surprise to find her there early and reading yesterday’s paper. I walked past her, found a street index for Sydney, and sat opposite her at the small reading table.

  I laid the book in front of her. ‘Show me where it is?’

  ‘Good morning, Micky.’ Her voice was laced with patronising calm. I pushed the book closer, so it was touching her fingers. She opened it at the index, ran her finger down the list, and flicked through the pages.

  ‘It’s here.’ She pointed with one of those blood-red nails.

  ‘Balmain? I was expecting something a bit more upmarket, like Vaucluse or Double Bay.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. This guy likes Balmain.’

  I looked at the street she’d pointed to. Beattie Street. It ran for more than a kilometre, end to end, had good exits in case of problems, and was not a main thoroughfare.

  ‘Show me exactly where it is.’ I caught a whiff of her perfume as she leaned over the desk and pointed again. It was subtle and fresh, not cloying and sweet like so many. I looked at the area she’d indicated. It was close to a junction with a park opposite.

  ‘Did you draw the floor plan?’

  She reached into a bag and pulled out an A4 notepad, opened it, and slid it across the table. She’d done a good job, lots of detail, and even how many paces from place to place.

  I studied it for a while, letting the picture burn into my memory. ‘Where’s the safe?’

  ‘Right here,’ she said, leaning forward again, ‘in the bedroom.’

  The slender finger: that perfume. I waited until a librarian had passed with her trolley of books.

  ‘How sure are you there are no motion sensors in that room? If it was me, I’d have them covering the safe, if nowhere else.’

  ‘He can’t; his bloody cat would set them off all the time. It’ll probably be there when you are.’

  ‘Okay, anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Nope, that’s it: should be a doddle.’ When I looked up at her, she was smiling. I folded the floor plan, put it in my pocket, and returned the book to the shelf. When I returned, she was gone. I cursed and walked outside with the feeling she was toying with me. I leaned against a concrete pillar and lit a cigarette. Before I’d exhaled, she was standing there beside me looking confident, poised.

  ‘When?’ I asked, wanting to break the silence.

  ‘Next Wednesday: ten p.m.’

  A school bus pulled up, the doors hissed open: a horde of children spilled out. I walked to the side of the building to avoid the rush of small feet. Carol followed.

  ‘Does it have to be that night?’

  ‘It’s the best opportunity we’ll get for a while. I know where he’s going to be, and I can keep an eye on him, in case anything changes.’

  ‘How will that help me?’

  ‘I’ll call you on this,’ she said, fishing in her handbag. She pulled out a small box and handed it to me. ‘It’s a cell phone. Keep it. Think of it as a bonus. I’ll call you when he gets to his destination. You’ll have plenty of time.’

  ‘And he’s going to be your alibi. Nice. You don’t think he’ll see through your subterfuge?’

  ‘He won’t suspect me of being involved. It’s going to look like a regular break-in by the time you’ve finished.’

  ‘One where the perp can also crack a safe? That’s stretching it. And you’re sure he doesn’t know that you know the combination?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, then looked away.

  Something wasn’t right; the pieces didn’t fit together as they should. I dropped the cigarette and crushed it under my shoe. ‘How do you know it?’

  ‘That’s not important.’ She removed a yellow envelope from her bag and handed it to me. ‘Fifty percent up front. Next Wednesday. Okay?’

  When I didn’t answer, she started to walk away, then stopped and turned to look at me.

  ‘Okay, Micky?’

  She was pouting again and had that hurt look around her eyes.

  ‘Sure, ten o’clock. Call me.’

  I walked in the opposite direction until I could hail a cab, and went straight to Beattie Street.

  The cab dropped me by a roundabout at one end of the meandering street. There was a hardware store on one corner and a café on the other. A steady stream of cars passed as I started down Beattie. It was lined with a mix of houses, mostly aging terraces, an occasional newly-built monstrosity owned, no doubt, by snot-nosed yuppies.

  By the time I arrived at the target, the terrace houses were mostly gone and replaced by modern architectural nightmares. I took one quick glance as I walked past, continuing to a small café about fifty metres further along.

  From one of the outside tables, I spent the next half-hour watching the neighbourhood and drinking expensive coffee: light foot traffic, a couple of joggers, and mothers pushing prams. Across the front of the lawyer’s there was a wh
ite stucco wall about two metres high with an arched, wrought-iron gate. The garage was at the end of the wall: a timber-faced tilt-door. The left side of the house couldn’t be seen from the street and wasn’t overlooked by neighbours.

  I left the café and walked back towards the target, fishing a pack of cigarettes from my pocket as I approached, and stopped by the gate to light up. No lock, just a sliding bolt and spring return. I’d be in and behind the wall in two seconds.

  The bar was crowded when I got back in the early evening. Stella was looking stressed and wrung out. I called in a temp and got behind the bar myself. By seven o’clock, when Meagan arrived, we had things sorted. Stella looked unhappy as she cleaned up and got ready to leave. I didn’t want to lose her, so told her to take the following day off with pay.

  ‘Did you take the day off?’ Meagan asked when we were alone.

  ‘Just taking a few hours out on the boat.’

  ‘How come you didn’t get someone in?’

  ‘I hadn’t planned on being that long. Time just got away.’ She seemed unsatisfied by the answer and was about to say something else, but I turned and served a customer, effectively cutting her off. Maybe something in my demeanour was triggering her.

  By midnight, the crowd had thinned down to a handful of regulars and a couple of tourists from Copenhagen. I told Meagan to finish and go home, but she hung around cleaning and putting away until the place emptied out at one-thirty.

  I was edgy. I had all this stuff running around in my head and needed time alone to think through the events of the day. She took shot glasses from the shelf and poured vodka as I locked the door. We slammed them, and then lit cigarettes in silence.

  Finally I asked, ‘Have you called a cab?’ It was blunt. I saw her eyes darken, and regretted the attitude. ‘Or are you staying over?’ I tried as a recovery, and got a tired smile in return.

  ‘I’ll head off. I need twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and you look like you need an early one, if you can call two o’clock early.’

  She knocked her shot glass on the bar, indicating a refill. As I poured, she said, ‘You haven’t had any trouble with Fish, have you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. You just seem on edge or something.’

  When I handed her the shot, she raised it in salute. ‘Another night.’

  ‘Another one done.’

  She slammed it, picked her purse up off the bar, and stood. ‘See ya’ later, Micky.’

  ‘Sure. Have a good one.’

  She walked through the open bar gate and left via the staff door by the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally locked the door behind her.

  Still half asleep, I flailed for the alarm. Seven-thirty; it was tempting to close my eyes again, but I knew the consequences. There was little noise from the street at that time of day, so I sat and drank coffee by the open window. There were things I needed from a hardware store and I didn’t want to shop anywhere local, which meant taking a cab.

  I bought a boiler suit, some hacksaw blades, a mini-grinder and a set of small files. Ten metres of bell wire, a multimeter, some gaffer tape, a glasscutter, and other assorted tools. I paid in cash and took a cab home.

  It was nine o’clock when I got back to the bar. I spent the hour before Mandy arrived making and testing lock picks. According to Carol, the patio door had just a simple deadbolt lock similar to the staff door. I tried the newly made rakes and torque bar, and after a few tries, I had it. I was glad to find I hadn’t lost my touch.

  The Makarov

  The following Wednesday night, I left the bar at nine-thirty. When Meagan asked where I was going, I told her I was meeting an old sailing friend for an hour or so. I’d arranged for Stella to come back in and cover for me. The two girls would be fine running things between them. Meagan thought she was in charge because it was her shift, and Stella thought she was, because she was standing in for me. I didn’t care enough, so left them to it.

  The cab ride to Darling Street was twenty minutes, then a five-minute walk to the house on Beattie Street. I didn’t want to arrive early and circle. I walked a block towards the ferry dock, then turned right, and right again onto a street parallel to Beattie. I had the cell phone in my jacket pocket, my tools and overalls in a small black rucksack.

  At five past ten, the phone chirped. I snatched it out of my pocket.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re clear.’

  The line went dead and I headed to Beattie.

  As I approached the arched gate set into the white stucco wall, I slowed, took one look behind, slid the bolt, and walked straight in. In the shadow of the wall, I stopped and looked back at the street. Nobody in sight.

  There was no rush. I pulled on the boiler suit—it was as much habit from the past as necessity now—and checked the side wall for the phone line entry. Nothing. I continued around the base of the house, finally finding it on the garage wall. It was a typically slack installation, a foot of plastic conduit coming out of the ground and into a flimsy plastic junction box. A hefty yank on the conduit snapped it enough to expose the wires. Snip, snip: dead.

  When I got back to the patio, I took the pick tools from the front pocket of the pack, let myself in, and closed the door behind me.

  There was enough streetlight for me to see fairly well. I was in no hurry; Carol would give me at least twenty minutes warning if he turned to come home. I checked the cell phone was still working and looked around the room.

  I’ve never liked lawyers, and this place didn’t change that. There was an air of pretentiousness and too many mirrors. Everything was neat, tidy, clean, and straight. I’d soon change all that.

  Upstairs was the same, but with king-size beds and many pillows. It looked almost feminine; I disliked him even more. The safe was in a wardrobe. I hit that first. When I pulled the door open, I was faced with a row of expensive-looking suits, mostly grey. I tossed those on the floor behind me, pulled the small torch from the pack and looked inside for the safe. Nothing. Next door. Shirts this time. Silk, fine cotton, French cuffs. On the floor.

  The safe was in the back, the same type you might find in a cheap hotel. I punched in the number-code Carol had given me, pulled the door open, tucked the torch between my shoulder and ear, and looked through the contents. Two nice, fat rolls of notes went into the pack first: bonus. There was a small, locked wooden box. Three sharp hits against the corner of the safe before it popped open. The gun was there, a Makarov .38 sealed in a zip-lock bag. That went in next. The rest was just a pile of legal papers, stock certificates and stuff. I tossed the rest of the room with no real interest. More expensive clothes and shoes hit the floor. More cash in the dressing table drawer beside about twenty pairs of cufflinks that no self-respecting thief would leave behind, so I dropped them in the bag. The bedside cabinet held a surprise slipped behind the sex toys: a Beretta FS and a box of cartridges. In the bag, thank you very much.

  Tossing the other two bedrooms produced a gold watch from one, nothing from the other. Downstairs in the study, the desk was empty, other than a yellow legal pad and some unopened mail addressed to Barry Hedges. There were no initials following his name, as I would have expected for a lawyer. The cell phone chirped at me. I pressed the green button and listened.

  ‘I’ve lost him.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  My twenty-minute lead-time cut in half: time to get out. I went rapidly through the lounge, tossing drawers and turning over furniture. The kitchen held nothing, but I pulled open cupboards and hauled their contents out. Same with the fridge and freezer, leaving the food all over the floor and the doors open.

  Back outside, I closed and locked the patio door, checked the street, slipped through the gate and walked away without looking back or around. A glance at my watch—three minutes to spare.

  Two hundred metres further on, there was a narrow passage between two commercial buildings. Inside the passage, I str
ipped off the overalls and continued walking along Beattie Street.

  Three minutes and I was back on Darling Street, flagged a cab and told the driver North Sydney. From there I took another cab to William Street and walked back to the bar.

  It was eleven o’clock when I walked through the staff door, fifty-five minutes from the time I got the green light. After hiding the pack upstairs, I joined Meagan behind the bar.

  ‘You were quick.’

  ‘Where’s Stella?’

  ‘Right here.’ Her voice came from behind me. ‘I was just putting some stuff away.’

  ‘How’s it been,’ I asked, not directing the question at either one. They both answered.

  Stella left shortly after, and I started clearing glasses from tables. As I cleared a table close to the door, Carol walked in and sat on a barstool. I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me, so I returned to the bar. Meagan was serving at the far end.

  ‘What will it be?’

  ‘Jameson on ice please, Micky.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ice hit the tumbler; I poured the Jameson and stood it on a clean coaster in front of her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling slowly. ‘How’s your evening been?’

  Keeping my voice low, and a barkeeper’s smile, I said, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s not very nice, Micky dear. But to answer your question, I’m just doing what I normally do,’ she said calmly, ‘having a drink in one of my regular haunts.’

  ‘Call me tomorrow,’ I said, and collected more glasses.

  I told Meagan I was going up, and to call me if it got busy or if there were problems. She looked questioningly at me but didn’t ask.

  I ignored Carol as I left to go upstairs.

  I locked the door, switched on the coffeemaker, and pulled the black rucksack out from under the sink. It felt heavy.

  First I examined the Makarov, the pistol Carol had used to kill someone. I hadn’t asked her who, where, or why. That wasn’t part of the job, but it was starting to make me curious, especially after finding the second gun. The little Makarov .38 was a girl’s gun, but the Beretta 92F was a serious weapon. It made me wonder about this lawyer. The rolls of cash were highly sus as well. It was a real Hollywood wise-guy trait keeping money rolled that way. Combined with having a 9mm stashed beside the bed, it was enough to tell me he had either criminal clients, or criminal tendencies, bad news either way. Carol had some talking to do. I guessed the .38 was in the bag to preserve prints, so I left it that way. I wiped my prints off the zip-lock and dropped it into a paper bag.