recession was biting down there too, otherwise I doubt whether I’d have got the nibble I did in the public bar of the Finger Wharf Hotel, Woolloomooloo.
‘Clark,’ Mick ‘the Dingo’ Logan said. ‘Seems to me I did hear of a guy who called himself Clark sometimes. What’s it about, Hardy?’
‘As far as you’re concerned, Dingo, it’s about thirty bucks-if your information’s any good.’
‘Heavy stuff?’
‘It could be.’
‘Clark, Clark.’ Logan lit a cigarette, puffed on it a few times and then limped off in the direction of the telephone. The Dingo had had some bad luck a while back and got both his legs broken. Then he served a stretch inside and the legs didn’t mend too well. His armed robbery days were over but he still knew what went on and was prepared to sell a titbit or too as long as it didn’t put him in any danger to do so. That was what the phone call was about. I sipped my middy of old and waited.
Logan came back, grinning and snapping his fingers. He stubbed out his cigarette and took a long pull on the beer I’d bought him. ‘It all comes back to me,’ he said.
I put a twenty and a ten under my glass and looked at him.
‘Hey,’ Logan protested, ‘you’re getting it wet.’
‘Dingo, you’ll just turn it into beer anyway. ‘What’s the difference? Let’s hear it.’
It was early afternoon on a chilly, windy day. The kind of day that turns the streets of the ‘Loo into cold wind tunnels. There were very few people in the bar and they were all minding their own business. Logan leaned closer to me, whispering out of long habit. ‘Word is, this guy Clark’s either a bit of a joke or an undercover cop.’
I lifted his glass, put the twenty under it. ‘Go on.’
‘Yeah, like he claims to have form in the west or South Africa or some fucking place. But no-one knows him over here. There’s a whisper he did a bank in Rockdale. Cowboy job. Could’ve been a come-on.’
There’s no body of men more paranoid than crims when they’re sober or more trusting when they’re drunk. Without the lubrication of alcohol, the clear-up rate of the NSW police force would only be half what it is. I put the ten on the bar between us.
‘And?’ I said.
‘It’s a joke for sure.’
‘If it’s funny, I’ll laugh.’
He took the money. ‘He’ll do a hit for five grand.’
I produced another twenty. ‘Tell me where to find him.’
Logan, being the man he is, gave me three addresses and two names. Never in his life had he been known to deliver up information straight. In the old days, I’d have had to make a decision- would it be better to give him more money or lean hard and persuade him to be more precise? But everyone’s become more devious since those times, and more hungry lately. Besides, Logan was almost a cripple. I bought him another beer, thanked him and left the pub. I’m more devious nowadays as well-I positioned myself where I could spot the Dingo and follow him, whether he limped, drove himself or rode.
He came out of the pub and hopped into a taxi which he’d apparently called from inside. I was right behind him, up Bourke to Oxford Street and through to Paddington. Like I said, alcohol is the fuel of criminality. Logan paid off his cab outside the Five Ways Hotel and took himself, and my fifty bucks, inside. Trendy place, for the Dingo- restored to its former glory, painted in colonial colours and with as many vines growing out of pots as could be crammed into the available space. It wasn’t one of the addresses he had given me. I parked a few doors from the pub and walked back, fishing sunglasses out of my pocket and getting ready to do my imitation of a private detective on the job. In fact I knew that if Logan had another couple of beers it would be possible to belly up to the same bar and not be recognised.
The poet who said something about standing and waiting should be the official laureate of this trade. I watched men and women enter and leave the Five Ways for the next fifteen minutes. About half of the males could have been hit men or cops and a certain percentage of the females could have been males. When I judged that Logan would have absorbed two schooners, I went into the public bar. Logan was drinking at the far end, near the dartboard. He looked anxiously at his watch and lifted his glass with an unsteady hand. I got behind a pot-plant that seemed to have wandered in from outside and did some more watching. A big, beefy guy in a blue suit came in and spotted the Dingo. He had sparse blonde hair cut short, and a red face with a deep cleft in the chin. I didn’t know him and from the way he moved, as if he expected everyone to get out of his way, I didn’t want to.
He ordered a scotch and ice and appeared to be ready to give Logan about one minute of his time. The Dingo said something quickly in his ear and cleft-chin scowled. He grabbed a handful of Logan’s jacket and polo-neck sweater and hustled him straight towards the toilet door. The action was so quick and neat that I was the only person in the bar who noticed. I went after them. Steep steps dropped away immediately inside the door. I heard scuffling sounds and went down the steps fast and quiet. Cleft-chin had Logan bent forward over a hand basin. He was so big it was hard to see the Dingo’s body at all, but I could tell that his feet were scrabbling for a purchase on the slippery tiles and his head was getting wet. The big man was running water with his right hand and holding Logan’s head down with his left.
I came up behind him and jabbed my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson hard into the base of his spine. His head lifted and he saw me in the wall mirror behind the basins. I ran the muzzle of the gun up a few vertebrae and then moved it away.
‘Let him go,’ I said, ‘or I’ll make you a worse cripple than he is.’
Logan spluttered, pulled free and headed for the door. The big man let him go and I could feel him ready to turn his aggression on me. I backed away and kept the gun steadied on his wide mid-section.
He shook water from his hands, some of it in my direction. ‘You’re not going to use that,’ he growled.
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ He moved forward, getting balanced.
The door opened and a man came in with his hand already dropping towards his fly. His jaw dropped when he saw the gun. ‘Hey,’ he said weakly, ‘what is this?’
‘Stand aside,’ I said. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m arresting this man. You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Clark?’
He swore, bullocked past the man at the door and went up the stairs. Three steps up, he kicked back savagely at me. I was ready for it. I grabbed his leg and jerked him down. He bounced against the wall, flailed his arms for a split second and then fell clumsily to the bottom. He landed heavily with his ankle turned under him. The would-be toilet user was gaping.
I grinned at him. ‘He slipped. You saw it, didn’t you?’
Peter Corris
CH16 — Burn amp; Other Stories
The man nodded.
‘He’ll probably claim police brutality.’ I gestured for Clark to get up. He did, testing the ankle gingerly. I prodded him with the gun. ‘Up you go and mind your footing. For a big man, you’re very clumsy.’
I put the gun away and we went through the bar without attracting attention. Clark limped convincingly, but I held myself ready to plant my foot in the back of his knee if he suddenly got mobile. There was no sign of Logan on the street. Everything looked normal-light traffic, pedestrians hurrying to keep warm. I was struck by the bizarre thing I was doing. Clark seemed to sense my confusion. He stopped in the middle of the pavement and jammed his fists in his pockets.
‘OK, hotshot,’ he said. “What’s this all about?’
‘Why were you heavying the Dingo?’
Clark grinned. The cleft in his chin flattened out and made him look even meaner. ‘He was giving me some bullshit about someone looking for me. He didn’t want to say who. I was persuading him.’
‘Me,’ I said.
‘Well, well. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. In fact, if I thought my ankle’d stand up to it, I’d punch your fuckin’ face in. What the fuck do you want?’
It wasn’t something to talk about there on the street. I grabbed his arm, jerked him off balance and propelled him a few steps towards my car. ‘C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.’
