Make Me Rich (14 page)

“Awright.” He heaved his swollen body off the stool and stood swaying for a moment, getting his balance. “Back in a minute, Phil.”

Phil nodded and Spotswood lumbered towards the door; I walked behind him wishing we'd dug a bear trap by the car,
and had a block and tackle to lift him out and a King Kong cage to keep him in.

“Where is he?” He stood on the footpath hitching at his sagging waistband. I hoped he wouldn't try to lean against one of the slender posts.

“Over there.” I pointed to the car. Parker appeared to be making entries in a notebook. He wasn't looking our way but I had the feeling he knew just what was going on. Spotswood walked slowly toward the car and I kept right behind him, chattering.

“You know, Mr Spotswood, I heard some blokes having an interesting bet about Dave Sands.”

“Bloody gentleman,” Spotswood rumbled.

“Yes, now the question was whether he was ever knocked out or not.”

We reached the car.

“Dave was never stopped,” he said; he leaned on the car for support.

“Mr Groves, this is Mr Spotswood.” Parker used his notebook like a conjurer's handkerchief; he dropped it and, as Spotswood's eyes followed it he passed my gun to me through the open window and brought his own up to within a few inches of the big man's nose.

“Hello, Tiny,” he said.

I rammed my .38 into Tiny's back, through the flab into the place where what was left of his kidneys would be. He moved away from it and closer to the car and to Parker's gun.

“What's this?”

“It's what it looks like, Tiny. You've seen it before. Now get in the back or I'll put one in your kidneys. Your choice.”

Parker reached over and opened the back door from inside. Spotswood hesitated, perhaps considering a yell to
the pub. I discouraged that by jabbing him again; he moved toward the door and I eased the gun away so he wouldn't know where it was. But he was too drunk for any swift moves and he probably knew it. He bent and stumbled into the back seat. I followed and dragged the door shut. Parker started the car.

“Easy?” he said.

“Pretty easy. Follow this, takes you to Victoria Road, I think.”

Spotswood leaned back against the seat; with his body relaxed he spread over nearly half of it, there'd be no athletic door-openings and divings-out for Tiny. A sweet, sickly smell—beer, sweat, and fear—rose from him. Parker drove cautiously, getting the feel of the car.

“Okay?” I said. I meant the car.

“Yeah. We've got a problem—I originally thought we'd do it at your dump.”

“I thought you might.”

“But with Hilda there I don't like the idea.”

“Hilde.”

“I call her Hilda, like it better. Have you got any ideas?” I thought about it, weighed it up, and decided. “Yes. I know where we can go.”

Tiny tensed up beside me. “Me bladder's full, I have trouble with it …

“That's tough,” I said. “And you were wrong, Tiny. Yolande Pompey stopped Dave in the seventh in London in 1951.”

13

We didn't talk any more. It's not the way to do it. Even with an ox like Tiny Spotswood, the real intimidation is a matter of what happens in the subject's imagination, not outside threats.

Parker had a grim, unrelenting driving style; he sat straight whatever the car was doing, which is the way they teach cops to drive. There was something frightening about his mobility, watching it from behind, so that I was beginning to get apprehensive about what was coming up myself. Not as much as Spotswood though. The smell came off him more and more strongly and his voice seemed to go up an octave. He wriggled.

“I've got to piss!”

I didn't say anything.

Guthrie's marina at Double Bay looked squat and forbidding. The high mounted lights and some barbed wire running along the top of one section of fence gave it a Stalag 17 look.

The water was dark and still; the boats ground and clanked at their moorings and only a few were showing lights. There were no wild parties going on, no strolling couples, no yachtsman comfortingly smoking a cigarette on his deck. Parker took the Falcon down a concrete ramp to the marina office, which was closed. There were lights showing in a box-like structure up on the roof of the office building. Parker tapped the horn and Paul Guthrie's face,
pale and agitated, appeared at the window. Parker turned around and held his gun on Tiny while I got out. I stood in the headlights of the car and let Guthrie see me.

“No names,” I said. “How do we get up there?”

He pointed into the shadows and, by straining my eyes, I could see a metal ladder running up the side of the building to the roof. Ten metres or a bit more, a couple of dozen rungs. Eighteen-stone Tiny Spotswood was going to love this.

We hauled him out of the car and prodded him across to the ladder; he baulked at it, but a look at Parker's hawkish face and the way he handled his .45 automatic changed his mind. I went up first and it was a stiff climb for the leg muscles; I waited at the top on the flat roof with my heart rate raised and a feeling of distaste for what we were doing.

Spotswood's foot slipped a couple of rungs up and he swore; he kept swearing as he came up, rung by rung, slowly, and breathing as if it was a one-in-two sand dune. Parker came up quickly behind him, and we moved quietly over the roof to where Guthrie held the door of his flat open.

From the elevation, I could see down on the moorings; the lighting on the walkways was widely spaced and there were long areas of deep shadow. There were gaps in the ranks of moored boats, and one section of jetty at which there were none at all. I looked across the water to where Roberta Landy-Drake would be doing her evening's drinking, but that only made me think of Helen and it was no time for that.

The three of us filed past Guthrie in silence; he was wearing a tracksuit and had one of his boating books in his hand. His hair was spiky and rumpled again. I brought up the rear and closed the door.

“Spotswood,” I said. “I have to talk to him, and you know why.”

Guthrie nodded.

I made sure that Tiny couldn't see my wink. “I want you to go and get a small motor boat or a dinghy or something and bring it to the closest point to here. Put plenty of rope in it and something heavy—metal, you know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Will I be able to see you from in here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Take your time.”

I took the book from him and he went out. Tiny heard all this and his huge belly sagged. Then he swore and the urine soaked his trouser leg. Parker jerked his head and Tiny shuffled into the flat. We went through to a small room with a big window looking out over the water. There was a couch and a couple of armchairs by the window, a kitchenette at the end of the room and a door through to a bedroom. I gathered up a newspaper and spread the sheets thickly in one of the chairs. Spotswood got the idea. When he was settled in the chair, Parker sat opposite him on the couch and didn't say anything.

I went to the kitchenette, looking for a drink. Guthrie had a few cans of light beer in the fridge; I held one up to Parker who shook his head. I opened one for myself and poured some into a plastic mug I found on the sink. I came over and handed the mug to Tiny.

“You can have yours in a plastic cup because you wet your pants.” He took the mug and drank it down in one go—he'd have done the same whether it was overproof rum or elderberry wine. I took the cup away and sipped my can.

“What do youse want?” His voice was a high register croak.

“It's pretty simple, Tiny,” Parker said. “You tell us what Liam Catchpole and ‘Bully' Hayes are up to, or we'll kill you.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“No help there,” I said. “If you tell us we won't kill you. Of course, if Liam and Hayes knew you talked to us
they'd
kill you. You're stuffed either way, but we'll give you some protection against ‘Bully,' or at least time to shoot through.”

“What's all that shit with the little guy—about the boat?”

“That little guy is Mr Boats. He knows the currents, the deep water—the lot. Out there even a big, fat slob like you will just vanish if you do it right.”

“Let me go to the toilet.”

“No,” Parker said. “Don't waste our time, Tiny. If you don't tell us we'll just tidy you up and go about it another way.”

The way he said it made me wonder whether Parker had ever done this sort of thing before and if he really meant it. Tiny caught the same note in the words but there was some hardness and defiance left in him, as well as the fear.

“Bullshit.”

“Have it your own way.” Parker gestured to me. “Is he there yet?”

I looked out the window. Guthrie was sitting in a dinghy with a big Thompson outboard attached. He was only about fifteen metres from where I stood and I could see two big coils of rope and a heavy metal grill—like the cover of a street drain—in the boat with him.

“He's there,” I said.

“Right.” Parker grabbed the front of Tiny's shirt and ripped a section out of it. He wadded it up and motioned Spotswood to stand. When he was up Parker chopped him savagely on the side of the neck; Tiny's mouth opened to yell and Parker rammed the material into it. He twisted his fat arm up behind him and rammed him in the spine with his gun. Spotswood moved stiffly the way Parker turned him.
We all stood at the window and looked down on Guthrie. He was wearing a knitted cap on his head, pulled down low and in his dark tracksuit and with the oars resting easily across his legs he looked like the man for the job. His tired, worry-filled eyes looked up at us emptily. Spotswood shook his head violently and tore the gag out with his free hand.

“All right, all right, I'll tell you what I know.” He tried to turn around, but Parker kept him the way he was, looking down at the boat in the water. “Well, ‘Bully,' he's from Queensland, and …”

“We don't want the bloody encyclopaedia,” Parker snarled, “and I know enough about it to tell if you're lying. I'll make it easier for you. Who is Hayes supposed to hit?”

“Collinson.”

I opened my mouth but Parker motioned me to shut it. “In Australia, is he?”

“Yeah.”

I waved down to Guthrie to indicate that he could finish the charade with the boat—if that was what it had been. I gave him a thumbs up, too. Parker eased back on Tiny and let him come around and sit down again. I gave him the half-full can of beer and he drained it.

“What're Liam and Dottie doing?”

“They're helping ‘Bully' flush this Collinson.”

Parker and I both spoke at once; I backed off and let him in first.

“What d'you know about a cop named Parker?”

“Bugger all. I heard he was getting close to Collinson and people wanted him stopped. That's all.”

It was my turn. “The Guthrie kid, where's he fit in?”

“He's Collinson's kid. Hayes found that out somehow. Liam's been trying to use him to get to Collinson. The kid's fuckin' Dottie; he's been on some jobs. Liam's working on him.”

“How do you mean?''

“Look, I don't fuckin' know, do I? They reckon on using the kid to get to Collinson. I dunno how.”

“What about the other Guthrie kid—the one in Brisbane?”

“Don't know nothin' about that. Could I have another drink? Shit, that's all I know.”

I got out the photograph of the man I knew as Peter Keegan and showed it to Spotswood.

“Is this Collinson?”

The question itself seemed to alarm him and he looked at the picture as if he was staring into the face of the gorgon. “Jesus,” he breathed. “I dunno. But if it is what you've got there's worth a fuckin' mint. There's no pictures of Collinson—none at all.”

“That's right,” Parker said. “Let's have a look at that. You watch Tiny in case he decides he's bullet-proof.”

I watched him but there didn't seem to be much point in it. His mind was on other things and other places. I went back to the fridge and opened another can.

“You got a name to go with this?” Parker said.

“Yeah …”

“Keep it to yourself for now. We've got the connection between your business and mine, though.”

“Looks that way—but it's getting complicated. I'll need to think it out.”

“We'll have to park Tiny somewhere,” Parker said. “Any ideas?”

“Whaddya mean?” Spotswood yelped. “I told youse what I know. I won't talk to nobody!”

“I know you mean well, Tiny,” I said. “But you're dumb and Liam isn't. He'd have it out of you in no time. You wouldn't have time to get your first schooner down.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Parker handed me back the photo and looked at Tiny as if he was wrapping around a parcel—something to discard. “Let's go and have a talk to your Mr Boats, he might have some ideas.”

I doubted that and reluctant wasn't the word for Tiny, but Parker had a hardness to him that carried all before it. We went out of the flat. Nails had lifted on the surface of the roof, and we had to pick up our feet. We went across to the top of the ladder, and Parker motioned me to go first. I turned, went down backwards and was half-way when I heard the shout and the high-pitched scream. I flattened myself to the ladder, braced and gripped hard, as Spotswood's body flopped heavily past me. My face was digging into the wall when he hit the cement with a noise like wood splitting. I went down fast and heard Parker coming after me.

Tiny was lying face up; there was brain pulp on the cement; blood and other matter. His eyes were open and his jaw hung slackly like Jess Willard's after Dempsey finished with him at Toledo. I noticed that he had only a dozen or so teeth in his head. The big body was spread out and relaxed; the urine stain was a wide, dark stripe down the inside of his trouser legs.