Heroin Annie (20 page)

‘What d'you say now, smart arse?' Belfrage said.

I got up, swayed a bit and rounded on Gibbons. ‘You bastard', I snarled. ‘You've got the gun, use it for Christ's sake!'

Gibbons' jaw dropped and he looked down stupidly at the .38 in his hand. ‘What're you on about?'

It was too much for Stewie who didn't react at all, Ginger stopped excavating and looked at Gibbons. Belfrage was getting that over-heated-look again. ‘What's this?' he snapped. ‘What's this?'

I put my hand up to my bleeding cheek and tried to look abject; I was on thin ice and it wasn't hard. ‘All right Mr Belfrage, I'm a spy, I admit it. Dempsey hired me. But I'm not the only one. Dempsey's got inside your show properly. He knows everything, Gibbons is working for him too.'

Gibbons gave a forced, throaty laugh. ‘What crap, Harry that's bull.'

‘Hasn't he gone easy on Dempsey twice?' I said quickly. ‘Didn't you tell him to put Dempsey right out of it this time?'

Belfrage looked at Ginger. ‘Well? You were there, what d'you say?'

Ginger didn't know which horse to pick—Belfrage in fury or Gibbons with the gun. ‘I dunno, dunno', he stammered. ‘Tommy went sorta easy but …'

‘He's Dempsey's brother', I said. I'd measured the distance to Stewie's crotch and reckoned I could get to Ginger before he could do anything with the knife. ‘He's his older brother, and he's a commie as well. They're going to screw you, Belfrage.'

‘No', Gibbons said weakly, ‘no, it's not true.' But he looked at me, and Blind Freddie could see that he was lying. Belfrage was almost purple now and he bent down and picked up a length of pipe from the floor.

‘Harry!' Gibbons threatened him with the gun. ‘Harry, listen!'

‘I can prove it', I yelped. ‘I scrabbled in my pocket and pulled out the clipping. ‘Look!' I held it out to Belfrage. ‘That's him on the picket line.'

‘So what', Gibbons sneered. ‘I've done a lot of things, Harry …'

I checked my distances again before I said it. ‘That clipping came from Dempsey's mother, Belfrage. She kept it till the day she died.'

‘Died!' Gibbons voice was an anguished groan. ‘Died, no …'

Belfrage swung the pipe, I put my right foot into Stewie's groin and nearly tore Ginger's head off with a roundhouse left: the .38 cracked twice and a sharp, acrid smell filled the shack. Belfrage went back, buckled and went down. Gibbons let the hand holding the gun drop to his side. I bent and looked at Belfrage; one bullet had taken him in the throat and the other had gone through his jaw and up.

I took Gibbons arm at the elbow and shook it gently; he dropped the gun. ‘I couldn't kill my brother', he said.

‘I know', I said. ‘Why did you stay here?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know, Harry paid well. I've done time. I made a fuckup of everything. I thought I could discourage Bill, talk to him later maybe … I don't know.'

Ginger was unconscious and Stewie was holding his balls and not taking much interest. Gibbons had a glazed, resigned look and I remembered the proud austerity of the father, the warm hopefulness of the sister.

‘Get moving, Robert', I said. ‘I'll give you an hour. I'll have to tell them you shot Belfrage but I'll put it in the best light I can, maybe there won't be too much heat. Go north, go a long way.'

He nodded and went out of the shack. I sat there for half an hour chatting to Stewie and Ginger. When the flies started to settle on Belfrage we went off to look for a telephone.

I told it to the cops pretty straight, leaving out the connection between Gibbons and Dempsey. After our little yarn about assault and abduction Stewie and Ginger were content to let me tell it—Stewie hadn't understood what happened too well anyway. William and Rosemary Dempsey and I got together over some Black Label, and a couple of policemen interrupted us and it took a while to sort things out. The upshot was that Belfrage was officially unmourned for various reasons as much as I was unwelcomed. I got a much better welcome from Zelda; she forgave me for being work-obsessed that morning and we went out to eat and back to her house for a short session with the bottle and a long session between the sheets. Turned out she was work-obsessed too and we left it that I'd go down again to do some swimming when the weather was warmer.

I drove back to Sydney, and Rosemary and Bill came up to have a pow-wow with Susan. They paid me my fee but I never got to make my report to old Hiram: he went into hospital while I was away and the news was that he was in a coma and sinking fast.

Susan came to deliver the cheque in person; she was elegant but subdued, which made her look even more elegant.

‘What will you do with the land?' I asked.

‘Keep it, Robert might come back.'

‘Yeah', I said. ‘He might.'

Mother's boy

It was one of those fifty-fifty days in Sydney; half the sky was grey, half was blue and it might rain or the temperature might hit thirty. Just then, in my office, which has spare lines as to furniture and a draught under the door it wasn't hot, but my client was sweating. Mr Matthews was the sweaty type—his suit was a bit tight for his early middle-age spread; he carried too much flesh to be comfortable except perhaps in the bath or in bed. Still, there were no holes in his shoes and he was my first client in eight days.

‘He's like a leech, Mr Hardy', he said. ‘Like a vampire.'

The two descriptions didn't line up for me, did he mean something slug-like and fat or a sleeker, classier bloodsucker? But I got the idea and he was the client, he could use whatever similes he liked. It was his old mum he was worried about.

‘I've been told that you're good', he said nervously. ‘I mean …'

‘You mean I won't blackmail you?' I said. ‘That's right, I'm no good at blackmail, I can never find the right words in the newspapers to make up the threatening letter.'

His hands were pale and puffy, and he clasped and unclasped them as if he was practising handshakes. He looked even more nervous than before—nervousness is standard in a client, a sense of humour is a bonus.

I sighed. ‘I'm pretty honest, Mr Matthews, and I might be able to help you. Tell me more about this leech who has his hooks into your mother.'

He looked at his watch and I guessed he was in his lunch hour; leisured clients are a vanishing breed. ‘My father died six months ago', he said. ‘He was old, it was expected. He left my mother quite well provided for. She has a house free of debt, his superannuation and some income from shares and such.'

‘Do you live with her?' I asked.

‘Oh no, I have a flat quite close. I'm single, but I left home many years ago.' He let the words hang there for a bit, awkwardly. ‘I didn't get along with my father,' he added.

‘I see. What was this vampire's name again?'

He looked puzzled for a second, the colourful language he'd used wasn't his usual style. ‘Oh, that was a bit excessive perhaps—Jacobs, Henry Jacobs. He handled the arrangements for my father's funeral, that's how he and my mother became acquainted. He's been dancing attendance on her ever since.'

‘What sort of attendance?'

‘Flowers; I suppose he gets them cheap. He takes her to dinner, it's appalling.'

‘How old is your mother, Mr Matthews?'

‘Oh, not old, fifty-five I suppose. She was younger than father.' Again, he hadn't finished, he seemed to have a need to explain. ‘I'm an only child.'

He was a man of thirty-plus, still referring to himself as a child. It sounded odd and had a scent of parlours and lavendar.

‘Tell me about this Jacobs.'

He described Jacobs as middle-aged and portly. He thought he might be a foreigner from the way he dressed, mentioning particularly his highly polished shoes. His funeral parlour was in Manly where Matthews and his mother also lived. I wrote down the addresses and leaned back in my chair; it creaked dangerously and I came forward quickly; the desk was a bit rickety and the carpet square was arranged off centre to hide the holes. I needed the work but I had to give him a few hard truths first.

‘I charge one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day and expenses, Mr Matthews. I also need a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars.'

He didn't blink. ‘I'll be happy to pay it', he said. ‘I have to do
something
.' He got out a useful-looking cheque book and I waited until he was writing before asking the next question.

‘What does you mother say about Jacobs?'

He looked up. ‘I wouldn't dream of asking her about her personal life', he said firmly.

Keep writing
I thought, and he did. That would be right of course, he wouldn't ask her, she wouldn't ask him and nobody would ask dad. Clean rooms, neat garden, polished car and a shandy at Christmas it you were lucky. It wasn't exciting—it was drawn blinds stuff, a high hedge and a smile for the neightbours, but it has compensations, it can make for very healthy building society accounts; I gave him a businesslike thrust. ‘Do you know anything about Jacobs' business associates?'

‘Not really. He has a solicitor crony who has an office nearby. He's introduced my mother to him. I'm very worried about it.'

‘Why?'

‘I think he might be trying to get her to change her will.'

‘Aha', I said.

Manly is like a foreign country to people like me who live on the other side of the water. The roads are wide and the hills are gradual; some of the streets and cul-de-sacs have a European feel. Henry Jacob's funeral parlour was genuinely Australian, that is to say, a genuine copy of the Californian model. The building was long and low with smoked glass windows and courtyards covered with little white stones. The funeral column in
The News
had told me that a show was scheduled for that afternoon. I parked across the street and watched the people dressed in dark, hot clothes mope about while a couple of gleaming limousines disgorged the living and transported the dead. Jacobs wasn't hard to spot; he had the act off perfect, the slow movement, the solicitude, the Nazi-like direction of the underlings. He was carrying thirty pounds he didn't need, looked swarthy and seemed to shine somewhat from a distance. His teeth were very white and he showed them a lot. After the cortege had left I walked across the street and strolled past the sanctum; a grey-uniformed zombie standing outside the entrance gave me a hard stare. Next to Jacobs' place was a luxury car showroom, then a Vietnamese restaurant and then a nasty cream brick building which carried a brass plate in front—W J Hornfield, LLB(Syd), Solicitor. A fine profession, I thought; my mother had wanted me to go in for the law and my father had thought I'd make a plumber—I'd been a terrible disappointment to them both.

I turned to go back to my car and saw Jacobs, who'd sent his 2IC to the burning, coming out of his establishment. The zombie stepped out of a silver grey Jag which he'd driven up, so the master only had to walk twenty feet to get behind the wheel. He drove off sedately and I re-crossed the road; a woman who'd been gardening out in front of her house was watching Jacobs' car as it cruised off. I bustled up to her fence.

‘That was Mr Jacobs was it, madam?'

‘That was him.' She was small and old, but not frail.

‘Damn', I said. ‘Missed him again.'

‘Are you burying someone? Give Henry a miss.'

‘No, I'm a journalist, I'm writing an article on the funeral business and I wanted to talk to Mr Jacobs. But that's an interesting comment, madam. Would you care to add to it?'

She smiled, and all the lines on her face responded; they seemed to have been etched by good humour. ‘I might; is it worth anything?'

‘Well … expenses … I could pay you for your time, say ten dollars for a half hour chat?'

‘Come inside.'

The house was brick and tile, solid and unpretentious. It was darkish, cool and well-kept without being fussy. She sat me down in the living-room and went off to make coffee. When she came back I had the ten out and gave it to her.

‘Thanks.' She put the money on the mantelpiece between some china dogs. ‘Black?'

‘Please.' I got out a notebook. ‘How long has Mr Jacobs been in business here Mrs …?'

‘Wetherell, Norma Wetherell. Not too long, four or five years, I've been here for forty. It was all different then.'

‘I'm sure. Why did you say he should be avoided?'

‘He's a crook.' She put three spoons of sugar in her coffee and stirred vigorously. ‘A friend of mine buried her husband with him; lovely man he was, it was a shame. I tell you if he'd been alive and heard what that man charged, he'd have punched his nose.'

I smiled. ‘Bit steep is he?'

‘Steep? He's a thief. Extra for this, extra for that.'

I made some notes. ‘Umm, he's got a nice car. But I suppose they all make money in that game. No law against it.'

She leaned forward. ‘He's buried two wives since he's been here', she whispered. ‘Rich ones too I'll be bound.'

I almost choked on the instant coffee. ‘How d'you know that?'

She grinned, pleased at the reaction. ‘Seen 'em, both of 'em. He's got a flat at the back of the place. There they were, shopping, doing the laundry and then … phftt!' She drew a finger across her throat.

‘When did this happen?'

‘One just after he got here; the other, let's see, about two years back. Had your ten dollars worth?'

‘Nearly; how do you know they were his wives, actually wives?'

‘Notices in the paper. Course, he didn't lay them down himself. It's a wonder, though, still I suppose he got a cut rate.'

I got up. ‘Well thank you Mrs Wetherell, that's all very helpful, I won't quote you of course.'

‘Quote away', she said cheerfully, ‘All true.'

‘We'll see. Just one more thing, do you know anything about Mr Hornfield, the solicitor?'

She was sharp, suspicious at this development.