Heroin Annie (6 page)

‘Annie Parker', I said. ‘Paul, you and a little guy with lifts in his shoes and a white tie.'

Her eyes opened injudiciously; a network of tiny wrinkles sprang into life around them. ‘So', she said.

‘I want to talk to Annie, I wanted to talk to her last night.' I lifted my hand to touch the damaged eye.

‘Oh, it's you, Mr Nosey. Go away before you get hurt.'

I brought out Primo's sachet and held it up for her to see. I looked around the deserted landing before I spoke.

‘First quality shit', I said. ‘Guaranteed.'

‘You're selling?'

‘Bargain basement, while stocks last. But I only deal with little orphan Annie.'

‘I'll have to make a phone call.'

I waved my hand airily and the door closed. It was the sort of wait the weak-willed fill in with a cigarette. I filled it with doubt and fear. I waited longer than a phone call should have taken, unless she was discussing the pricing of oil. When the door opened she'd arranged her hair, put on her make-up and slipped into jeans and a sweater. She kept the chain on while she wriggled her feet into a pair of high-heeled sneakers.

‘Have you got a car?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll take you to Annie, but I should tell you something first.' She put her hand on the chain and jiggled it a little. ‘We'll be seeing a man who knows every narc in Australia, every one. Still want to go?'

I nodded; she slipped the chain and came out pulling the door shut behind her. She went down the steps wriggling her shoulders and swinging her bum as if she was trying to get herself in the mood for something exciting. I followed, watching the show with a mixture of feelings—arousal, amusement and pity.

In the car she wrinkled her nose at the smell of age and neglect. I scrabbled in the glove box and came up with a cigarette packet containing three stand-by joints. I lit one and passed it to her.

‘Thanks.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘Wait and see.' She sucked the smoke deep and held it before offering me the joint.

‘No. I mean what general direction; I've got to drive it haven't I?'

‘We going north, man.' The accent again, South African, Rhodesian?

‘North coast or north inland?'

‘Coast, what d'you think. Palm Beach … oops, well, there it is, boy.' She was enjoying the grass and she gave me a smile as she waved a hand signalling me to start the car. I started it and drove north.

‘You don't smoke?' she said as she stubbed the joint out. ‘Sometimes, not when I'm working. Where are you from, Samantha, South Africa?'

She giggled. ‘Close. Salisbury, Salisbury Sam that's me. Greatest country in the world till the blacks took over.'

‘Good times, eh?'

‘The best man, the best. The best of everything. Can I have some more of that grass?'

‘Help yourself.' She lit up and settled back to smoke. I drove and thought. We took the turn at Pymble and headed for Mona Vale. I pulled the car up at a small mixed-business shop set back a bit from the road. Samantha looked sleepily at me and I told her I wanted chewing gum. In the shop I bought a packet of corn flour, some bananas in a plastic bag, the evening paper and the gum. I put about a quarter pound of the flour in the plastic bag and wrapped it up in some sheets of newspaper. On the way to the car I stuffed the package down in the bottom of a little bin outside the shop. I got back in the car and handed Samantha a banana.

‘Drek', she said, so I gave her some chewing gum instead.

We rolled on up through the northern beaches playspots until we hit the biggest playspot of them all. It was nearly ten, and everything along the strip was going full blast—it was all chicken fat and pinballs and the popping of cold, cold cans. Samantha directed me off the main road and down a few side streets which were discreetly bordered by ti-tree and money. After the last turn, the ocean stretched away in front of us like a vast velvet cloud.

The house was one of those structures that have been pinned to a hill like a butterfly to a board. The steps down to it were steep and the house touched land only along its rear wall; the rest was supported by pillars which must have been fifty feet high at the front. Before I left the car I made a show of putting the big Colt into the clip under the dashboard. Sam watched, looking bored, but I had the short barrel .38 tucked in safe under my waistband at the back.

They were all there in the bright living room watching TV and drinking Bacardi rum—Annie beanpole Paul, the guy in the leather jacket and the near midget. Shorty was wearing a lime-green safari suit tonight, and highly polished boots with Cuban heels. Sam headed straight for the bottle and poured herself a big slug over ice. She offered it to me and I shook my head.

‘Hello, all,' I said. ‘Hello, Annie.'

She glanced up from her drink and shrugged. Leather jacket stood up and walked over to me; he had acne scars and a gold front tooth and he looked tough. I tried to look tough back.

‘Name?' he said.

‘No.'

He flashed the tooth and spoke to Shorty. ‘You know him, Doc?'

Doc pushed back a strand of the stringy hair and looked at me with his pale eyes. The flesh around his face and neck was like soft, white dough.

‘No', he said. ‘He's not a narc. Don't like the look of him, but.'

I shrugged and took out the heroin. ‘I know Sammy and Annie and Paul and I'm pleased to meet Doc; who're you?'

‘Sylvester Stallone', he said. ‘Let's have a look at the shit.' He reached for it, but I moved it out of reach.

‘You look, I talk to Annie.'

‘How much have you got?' Doc asked. His voice was deep and resonant, belying his appearance.

‘One kilo, pure.'

‘Dean, you'd better have a look at that shit', Doc said. Annie, talk to the man.'

I tossed the sachet to Dean and motioned to Annie to come out on to the front balcony with me. She got up and moved sluggishly through the French windows. The others gathered around Dean ignoring the television and their drinks—they were communing with their God. The balcony ran the width of the house; it was about eight feet deep and glassed in for half of its length. Where we stood was open—out in front of us there was just the dark night and the sea. Annie stood with her back to the rail, the cigarette in her hand glowed like an angry red eye. I moved up close to her, took her hand and moved it around to the small of my back so she could feel the gun.

‘Feel that? It's a .38, does nasty things. I'm going to use it on some of your friends if I have to.'

‘Who the hell are you?'

‘My name's Hardy. You wouldn't remember me, but I live near your Mum in Glebe. She's hired me to find you and help you if I can.'

‘What are you doing peddling shit, then?' Her breath was heavy with tobacco and alcohol; there was a rank smell from her clothes as if they'd been slept in. She was also trembling violently.

‘That was a blind to get me here. You're in a bad way, Annie, you must know that.'

‘Sure. What do you reckon you can do about it?'

‘I can take you out of here. I know some people who've worked the cure. Your mother wants to talk to you, your parole officer's not too happy. The way you're going your life's rotting away in front of you.'

She sagged against me into what I thought at first was a fit, then I realised she was laughing. The spasms shook and twisted her; she was leaf thin and impossibly light; I put my arm around her and could feel the sharp bones poking through the tight skin. I got hold of a morsel of flesh on her upper arm and pinched hard.

‘What's funny?'

‘Everything.' She cut the laugh off with a deep breath which she expelled slowly. She looked over my shoulder into the room. ‘We've only got a minute. Look, Hardy, I'm working for the narcs. I don't want to, but they've got me by the tits. Understand?'

I nodded.

‘There's a guy coming here tonight with some smack, a lot of it. It's a set-up. When Doc pays him, he's going to bust them all. It's arranged.'

‘What do you get out of it?'

Her tired features worked their way up into a sort of smile. ‘Freedom', she said. ‘That's what they've promised me. They say they'll wipe my slate.'

‘Any money?'

‘Some, enough to get out of this bloody place. It's my one chance, Hardy. If you butt in now you'll screw it for me, and they'll come down hard on me. You know what they're like.'

I did. I knew what they could do to people who got caught in their dirty world, a world in which the narcotics agents themselves were not the least dirty part. I squinted at her in the soft light, trying to gauge her levels of truth and reality, but you can't assess junkies on the normal scale—their habit over-rides everything else, straightens out their curves and throws in new ones. Anything was possible, but there was a note in her voice that cold be taken for sincerity and she was Ma Parker's daughter.

‘I'll buy it', I said. ‘When's he due?'

‘Soon, any minute. I'm trying to come off it, I'm badly strung out. It has to be soon, has to be. Shit, I really didn't need you in the scene.'

‘We'll see. Look on me as your insurance. Why did they agree to let me come along if they've got this big score lined up?'

‘Greed. Look, we can't stay out here, and I need a drink bad. I'm going back.'

She moved away and I let her go. Inside new drinks were being poured and cigarettes lit. The television was still on; tennis players in coloured uniforms moved around on a red court under a blue Texas sky. Dean had slit open the sachet with a razor blade and his face was showing a little awe as he looked at me.

‘You say you've got a lot of this stuff?'

‘I may have exaggerated a little.' I looked him up and down and let my eyes drift off over Doc and Paul. ‘I've got as much as you can handle anyway.'

Doc spoke quickly. ‘We'd need to see more of it, Dean. Anyone can get hold of this amount of good shit. There's something about this that worries me … this packet.'

Paul and Sam were working on a big joint, rolling it with a number of papers and giggling. Paul was singing a song about Rio. Dean sneered at them and went over to where Annie was standing; she had a cigarette burning and her face was drawn tight and stiff.

‘What do you know about this guy, Annie?' Dean said.

‘I had a girlfriend in Silverwater', I improvised. ‘She…'

‘I was asking her!' The scars on Dean's skin showed out white and malignant-looking as anger pumped colour into his face. Doc was staring at the square of plastic in his hand and it was an altogether nasty situation when a soft knock sounded on the back door.

‘That'll be him', Annie whispered. ‘This is it.'

‘Two big scores in one night,' Sam said putting a match to the cigar-sized joint. ‘Let's celebrate.'

‘Shut up', Dean hissed. ‘Paul, open the door; Doc, stand back so you can get a good look at him.' Dean reached inside his jacket and took out a .45 Colt automatic; he slid the hammer back to full cock and stood where he could get a clear shot at the door. He obviously knew what he was doing, and I felt even more under-equipped and unready with the .38 tucked down behind.

Paul opened the door, and the man who came through it conjured up pictures of the
veldt
and
sjamboks
: he was about six feet tall with wide, beefy shoulders; his face was reddish and broad, topped with thin, sandy hair. He had that blue-eyed, mass-produced in Holland look, which repels most people not of the same stamp.

Doc wasn't repelled; a smile spread over his pasty face; stretched tight, his lips were like a pair of peeled almonds.

‘Hendrick, dear friend,' he cooed. ‘Hendrick, is it really you?'

The newcomer didn't smile back; his pale eyes flicked around the room, rested on me for an uncomfortable time, and then settled into a neutral, business-like glare.

‘I thought it'd be you, Doc', he said. ‘It had the smell, you know.' His accent was three shades thicker than Sam's but it was formed under the same African skies. He moved forward like a man about to take control. His grey suit would have been conservative except for the over-bold red check in it. There was a gun bulge under the left lapel and a bulge of another kind in a side pocket.

‘Don't be like that, Henk', Doc said soothingly. ‘We're all friends here. Let's get down to business.'

I took a side long look at Annie; her cigarette was burning away unheeded and extra strain seemed to have stripped the flesh from the bones of her face. I didn't know what sort of act she'd expected from her contact, but it clearly didn't include pleasant greetings from Doc. A double-cross was in the air and she could sense it. Dean acted as if comprehension was no concern of his; he held the .45 at the ready and waited.

Hendrick ignored Doc's patter and looked again at me. ‘Who's he?'

‘Dealer', Doc said, ‘small time, nothing to interest you Henk.'

I took a chance. ‘Not so small', I said. ‘Fair sized consignment, first grade stuff.' The heroin was lying on a chair arm and I pointed to it. ‘Sample.'

The pale eyes seared me like acid. ‘Is that so?' he said. ‘Interesting.' He walked over to Annie, took the cigarette from between her fingers and dropped it into her glass.

‘Dirty habit, Annie', he said. His big white hand came up and he took a grip on her left breast. Annie looked down.

‘I'm glad it's you we're dealing with Henk', Doc said rubbing his hands briskly. ‘Annie had some story about a Vietnamese. You don't look like a Viet.'

Hendrick laughed. ‘Well, Annie wasn't completely in the picture.' He squeezed her breast harder. ‘It's my job to get in touch with all these desperados. But Doc here is a gentleman compared to some. I do the community a service by keeping him in business.'

Sam was looking at him with her mouth slightly open—another one not repelled. Paul was well away with the grass; he'd smoked most of the joint and he was lying out on a sofa as if he was ready to levitate. Dean was still at his post.