private detective and a good one, but a gambling problem had forced him to cross the line and become a standover man, working for gamblers. One night he went too far and the man he was putting extreme physical pressure on died. Sammy hadn't completely lost his moral bearings and he turned himself in. It was more than his life was worth to name the people he'd been working for, though that would have earned him a lesser sentence, so he served nearly the whole term. I'd put some work his way before he went off the rails, and given a character reference when he was up on the charge.
'I heard you were out,' I said, 'but I thought you were an eastern suburbs type.'
'I am. Give me Bondi any day; but I've been hanging around here hoping to see you.'
'I'm out of the business, Sammy.'
'I know that. But you always played square with me and stood up when I was in the shit, so I want to return the favour.'
I finished the whiskey and held out my glass. 'Buy me a drink and we'll call it quits.'
He dropped his voice and looked around to be sure he couldn't be overheard. 'This is serious. Do you remember Soldier Szabo?'
I nodded. Szabo was a hardcore crim who'd come after me and I'd shot and killed him in the living room of my house. Even after scrubbing at it and years of wear and tear, there was still a faint stain on the carpet where he'd bled. He was a vicious murderer and I felt no remorse, just the natural empty, stomach-churning reaction at the time.
Sammy leaned closer. 'He had a son named Frank. He was in Bathurst with me, doing time for armed robbery. He got high on ice one day and said he was going to kill the man who killed his father.'
'When was this?'
'About a year ago, bit less. I didn't think too much about it because they all go around making threats, especially when they're high, but when I heard about that bloke being killed at your place I thought I should tell you.'
I got up and bought two drinks. Sammy never drank anything but scotch and ice so I didn't have to ask. I sat down and looked at him. He was ten years younger than me and medium-sized. A welterweight, say. For someone who'd been inside for so long he looked more lined, greyer, but pretty good-he must have worked out and kept a limit on the starches.
'He's out, is he?'
'A month ago, maybe two months.'
'What's he like?'
'An animal, and a crack-head. And, Cliff, his weapon of choice was a sawn-off automatic shotgun.'
9
I'd spent a part of the previous year overseas, leaving the house in the care of a friend who'd carried out some renovations. The security system Hank Bachelor had finally persuaded me to install had malfunctioned and I hadn't got around to having it repaired. Out of the private eye business, I hadn't seen it as a priority and I had to accept that my neglect had contributed to Patrick's death. His agile killer had come in from the poorly protected back over a high fence.
Sammy Starling's information changed my thinking. In the morning I phoned Hank and asked him to come and get the system up and running again-coded alarm, sensor lights and all.
'I wondered,' Hank said. 'Didn't like to ask.'
'Yeah.'
'When do you want it?'
'Soon as you can.'
'How so, something happening?'
'No, just getting around to doing what I should've done as soon as I got back from the US trip. I've been slack.'
Maybe he believed me, maybe he didn't, but he agreed to come in the afternoon with his box of tricks. I thanked him and went to the gym where I worked out harder and longer than usual. It was a sort of useless penance. After the gym session I went to an ATM and drew out a thousand dollars and went visiting.
Ben Corbett was an ex-biker and ex-stuntman, ex because he'd crashed his bike at something like two hundred kilometres per hour and lost the use of his legs. His mates from the Badlanders motorcycle gang had looked after him by making him a sort of armourer. Corbett traded in guns for bikers and others and made some non-declarable money to top up his disability pension. He was an expert at removing serial numbers and retooling barrels, magazines and cylinders to make the weapons hard to identify. I'd encountered him when working on a blackmail case in which a movie director's wife had put her favours about with the cast and crew, including Ben. Just a memory for him now.
I drove to Erskineville where Corbett lived in a flat below street level. It was reached by a steep ramp with a bend in it that Corbett could take at full tilt in his powered wheelchair. Once a speed freak
…
He opened the door to me and the reek of marijuana and tobacco smoke blended with the smell of gun oil and worked metal.
'Fuckin' Cliff Hardy,' he said. 'What's in the fuckin' bag?'
'A bottle of Bundy and a packet of Drum.'
'Come in, mate, come in.'
We were a long way from being mates, but I admired his resilience and courage. I'd have probably been an alcoholic mess if what happened to him had happened to me. He was killing himself with drugs and tobacco, so perhaps his apparent good humour and aggression were covers for something despairing. Impossible to say. I went down the narrow, dark passage and into the room that served as his living quarters and workshop. The flat was tiny, consisting of this room, a kitchenette and a bathroom, all fitted out for his convenience. He wheeled himself behind a workbench, where he had a rifle barrel fixed in a vice.
He produced two non-breakable glasses from under the bench and set them up. A rollie had gone out in the ashtray and he relit it with a Zippo lighter. I put the packet of tobacco next to the ashtray, ripped the foil from the bottle, pulled the cork and poured. Knowing Corbett's habits, I also had a bottle of ginger ale in the bag. I topped the glasses up, more mixer for me than him. He tossed off half of the drink and I gave him a refill.
'What can I do for youse?'
'First off, information.'
He puffed smoke, took a sip and shook his head. 'Fuckin' unlikely, but go ahead.'
'Done any work on an automatic shotgun lately? Say, sawing off, making a pistol grip?'
Corbett wore a biker beard and a bandana, concealing his receding grey hairline. The greasy remnant was caught in a ponytail tied with copper wire. The ponytail sat forward on his shoulder and it jumped back as he shook with laughter.
'Fuck you. As if I'd tell you if I had, but no. Wouldn't mind. Be a challenge. Too short and it could blow up in your face, not enough grip and you'd drop the fucker when you let loose.'
I had a drink and waited until his laughter subsided. I took the wad of notes from my pocket and fanned them. 'I need a gun.'
He pinched off the end of his rollie, picked up the packet I'd bought, took papers from the breast pocket of his flannie, expertly rolled another thin, neat cigarette and lit it.
'Like what?'
'Smith amp; Wesson. 38 revolver.'
'You're a fuckin' dinosaur, Hardy.'
'But…'
'You're in luck. The Victorian cops are trading up. I can get you what you want.'
'Untraceable?'
'Yeah. What've you got there?'
