Make Me Rich (21 page)

“We had lectures. Most of the dead-heads didn't get anything out of them. I did.”

I didn't have anything to say to that. We walked back along the jetty across the grass to the house.

Inside, Hayes undid his top collar-button and loosened his tie. He motioned at me to sit on the floor and he lowered himself into the easy chair.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I'm bloody tired, but I can't afford to drop off. I've learned a few tricks in my time—know the most important?”

I shook my head.

“Don't drink at the wrong time. I'd love a drink; and did you see all that good stuff he's got out there?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“I'll have one after he's dead. At the right time.”

“Like Jackie Gleason?” I said.

“What?”

“Jackie Gleason, in a movie called
The Hustler
. He plays this pool champ called Minnesota Fats, has a big game with Paul Newman. Newman gets pissed when he's ahead; Gleason doesn't drink, washes up in the break and creams him. Jackie Gleason's fatter than you, but you're getting there—six months of the good life should do it.”

“We'll see. I hope you don't think of yourself as Paul-fucking-Newman?”

“No.”

“That's good. Know another little trick? Keep talking when you're tired. Keep your company talking. You're doing fine, Hardy. Keep talking. You're a great talker, aren't you?”

“I'm a fair talker. Why did you bring Catchpole and his crowd into this?”

“Useful. Dottie was supposed to get a girl for Ray. Ended up doing the job herself. She tried to get him to talk about Collinson, his real father.”

“How did that go?”

“Not good. Very cagey. He said he'd come across with things, like that photo. We told him we'd help him to locate his old man. 'Course, it was the other way around. Liam's got contacts in the New South Wales force, more than people realise. He did a bit of this and a bit of that. My turn—why d'you do this shit-kicking kind of work?”

“It's not bad. Bit dull at times.”

“Not dull now, eh?”

“No.”

“You reckon you're going to survive this?”

I didn't like the way the talk was going; he was playing with me and I felt clumsy-witted. The chance of getting him off-balance seemed remote.

“Well, do you?”

“I don't know,” I said. “You tell me.”

He yawned. “Depends how it goes.”

“How else can it go? You said yourself you could shoot a man's ear off at that range and in those conditions. If he comes, he's dead, isn't he?”

He almost grinned. “He might have a gun—like you.”

“What?”

He made the pseudo-laughing noise again. This time it sounded like the gurgling mud outside. “I saw you get it from the car. Saw you switch it to your pocket. But you didn't have the guts to use it, did you?”

“Biding my time.”

“Well you waited too long, sonny Jim. Just ease it out slowly, put it on the floor, and give it a kick over here.”

I did what he said, and I had the odd sensation that my body temperature had dropped when I surrendered the gun. I shivered, although it wasn't cold; my throat was dry and it closed on me when I tried to speak. The fear was back.

“What was that again?” His voice was full of mock concern and politeness.

“Why'd you wait so long to get the gun, Hayes?”

“Just having fun.”

“That's not professional.”

“Well, in fact I figured you'd play along more if you thought you had an edge. It worked.”

We sat in silence for a while, then he shifted in his chair.

“Know the best way to stay awake when you're tired, Hardy?”

“No.”

“Concentrate on your bladder. Tell yourself you need a piss. Pretty soon you will. That gives you something to think about. You don't have the piss and you stay awake.”

“I could do with a piss right now.”

“Me too. But you can have one. Get up!”

I climbed off the floor and we went back to the toilet which was off the kitchen. I pissed, zipped up, and when I turned around he had a couple of lengths of light rope in his hand.

“Right, Hardy. Into the bedroom. We're going to wrap you up for a while.”

He instructed me to get on the bed; he tossed me one of the pieces of rope and supervised me while I tied up my legs. Then he tied my hands behind me, and tightened up the knots all round, like a man tightening the wheel nuts on a car.

“Why?” I said.

“Who knows? Hostage maybe. I keep my options open. Goodbye, Hardy.”

He clicked off the night-light, and closed the door.

20

Lying there on the bed in the darkness, head down and arse up, the Chesterton quotation, or something of it, came into my head—to do with fucking: “The position is ridiculous, the expense damnable.” I used to think it was funny, but it didn't seem so funny anymore.

By cranking my neck around and lifting my head, I could just get a look out a window where a holland blind ended a fraction above the sill. It was still very dark out and I wasn't anxious for it to get light. After a while the birds started up in the trees—incongruously happy chirpings. I cranked and lifted again, but it still wasn't dawn or even pre-dawn. My arms quickly got cramped and sore, and the split skin on my ear was throbbing. I wondered whether it really had been a lack of guts that had kept me from trying to use the gun on Hayes, or was it an instinct for survival. Or were they both the same thing?

The door opened; I felt the wind of it rather than heard any noise. I went tense and my jaw clamped tight. So did my eyes, and the back of my neck tingled. I couldn't see why he'd get impatient and do it now, but who could tell how a Queensland cop turned hit-man, who'd killed eight people, was likely to think? I expected to hear a noise; I hoped that'd be all.

“Hardy! Hardy!” The voice was Frank Parker's, but it sounded sweeter than Cleo Laine.

I grunted something unintelligible even to me.

“Lie still,” he whispered. “And for Christ's sake, don't fall off the bed when you're loose.”

He undid the knots and I rolled over and sat up. Parker was wearing one of my denim shirts and dark pants. He'd daubed something on his face to cut down on skin shine at night.
Christ, I can see him
, I thought. It must be getting light. I strained my ears but couldn't pick up any boat noise.

“How?” I said.

“I watched your place most of the day. Thought Catchpole'd show up. I got the word to him that you lifted Tiny.”

“Thanks! You're a ruthless bastard, Frank.”

“Worked, didn't it? I wasn't expecting Hayes to come into the bag. Is this place what I think it is?”

“It's Collinson's bolthole.”

“Uh huh. Where's ‘Bully'?”

“Christ, you don't know?”

“No. I lay low for a while trying to work out what was going on—saw out the front and decided to nip in to get you out. Where is he?”

“He's out in the scrub, waiting for Collinson who should be coming over the horizon in a boat pretty soon.” I scratched at my own cheek. “What's this, bit of drama?”

“Yeah. Do you want your gun?”

“Shit, yes!”

He gave it to me. “How'd he get it off you?”

The relief I was feeling almost made me giggle. “He asked me nicely. I'm telling you, Frank, this guy is good. He's got a perfect setup out there for blowing Collinson away.” I got off the bed and swore as my calf muscle cramped.

“You okay? We'd better get out there.”

“Right.” I rubbed the leg and hobbled. “Have you seen the kid?”

Parker shook his head. He had his gun ready, and mine in my hand felt huge.
Bloody guns
, I thought, but the time had
come now. We went into the front room: the pre-dawn light was lifting in the sky, visible through the uncurtained front door. The water level was up; the jetty looked solidly based now, ready to serve its purpose.

“Can't go through here,” I said. “He could be keeping an eye out.”

Parker nodded, and moved toward the side door we'd all used. We edged along the verandah to the front of the house, but it was hard to get far enough forward to look along the scrub without being seen.

We crouched behind a bush, maybe ten feet from where Hayes would be, maybe closer. The water lapped at the narow strip of greyish sand, slapped at the jetty pylons. Parker shook his head.

“We step out there, and we're dead. He'd see us long before we'd spot him. We'll have to wait for Collinson to come before we can move. Hope for some confusion, or start some.”

“He's not the easily confused type. Did you see the dog?”

“Yeah.”

I mimed the three chopping blows Hayes had used on the Doberman, and Parker sucked his teeth.

There was nothing in the clear, pale sky to impede the flood of light as the sun came up. The dull, leaden look of the water receded toward the shadows on the far side of the cove, and a deep green spread across the surface.

The sound started as a dull hum, scarcely audible above the noise of the water and the busy birds. The boat appeared from around a headland, perhaps a kilometre away and it came in rapidly, skipping slightly in the light waves, headed directly toward the jetty. Parker tensed beside me and we both edged forward, almost breaking cover, straining to see the man sitting in the stem of the boat.

He cut the motor a few metres from the jetty and let her drift in. He looked huge sitting there, and I realised he was
wearing a life vest and a quilted jacket over that. As a target for Hayes, it couldn't have been better. The boatman had just begun to gather himself to stand and throw a rope to the jetty when a shout came from the scrub away to the right.

“Hey! In the boat!”

Parker judged it exactly right: the voice was light, he must have realised it wasn't Hayes, and he moved out fast with his gun up. I was a beat behind him and my eyes flicked along the scrub line, trying to see Hayes. Further along, Ray Guthrie had taken several steps out on to the sand. He lifted his hand to wave and he yelled again. The man in the boat ducked down and scrabbled for something at his feet. Then I saw Hayes; he was on his feet with his pistol up and levelled.

Parker shot him: Hayes spun around at the impact of the first shot, but Parker adjusted instantly, and got him twice more as he was going back and down. Ray Guthrie stood stock still on the beach as the sound of the shots crashed across the water.

It was a trick of the light or a moment in history or whatever you want to call it, but with his hand up in alarm near his face and with his head half-ducked away from the shots, Ray looked uncannily like the Digger in the faded photograph of thirty years before.

I sprinted down the jetty to the landing; Collinson had pulled up a carbine from the bottom of the boat, but the drama on the beach had distracted him. I pointed the .38 down at his padded chest.

“That's your son Ray on the beach,” I said. “He just saved your life. Put the gun down, it's over.”

He was bigger than he looked in the photograph with a craggy, sun-tanned face and strong white teeth Hilde would have admired. He was looking at Ray and scarcely seemed to notice me. But he put the carbine down.

“Out!”

His boat was still drifting. He looped a rope over a short
post on the staging and pulled her in. He was wearing khaki pants and thong sandals which slapped the steps as he came up. We went along the jetty to the grass. Ray Guthrie had scrambled up there from the sand. His father walked toward him. They looked at each other and I stood back to let them have their meeting.

“Ray,” Collinson said.

Ray nodded.

Collinson clapped him on the upper arm. “You look good. We'll talk.”

Ray nodded again. Collinson dropped down on to the sand and walked over to where Parker was standing, looking down at “Bully” Hayes. I followed Collinson.

Hayes was on his back. Parker's head shot had wrecked one side of his face. He'd done up his collar again, and pulled up the tie—the formality looked odd on a corpse. The expensive shirt had a big, ochre-coloured stain from armpit to waist on one side, and the convulsive twist he'd given when he went down had pulled half of the tail out of his pants. His belly swelled under a cotton singlet. There was nothing menacing about him now, nothing special. He looked ordinary.

Ray Guthrie had followed us over and I turned around to look at him. He'd shaved off the drooping moustache, and that had restored his youth to him; he was dirty, his face was scratched. He looked at me puzzled, trying to place me.

“Saw you in Brisbane,” I said. “I didn't do anything to your brother.”

He drew in a deep breath; some of the weight had gone off him quickly, and his cheeks were hollowed by strain and fatigue. “All right,” he said.

Collinson heard this and jerked his head at me. “The other boy, Chris, he's not part of this bloody shambles, is he?”

“He is,” I said.

“What's happened to him?”

“He's all right. His mother's with him now, so's his stepfather. You'll hear all about it.” I looked down at Hayes again. “It was worth half a million dollars to him to kill you.”

Collinson sniffed loudly and rubbed his hand across his grey-stubbled face. “Getting a cold. That much, eh? Who was he?”

“Name's Hayes,” Parker said. “Henry Hayes, from Queensland.”

Collinson sniffed again. “And who're you?”

“I'm Detective Sergeant Frank Parker, Homicide Division, and I'm arresting you for the murder of Charles Barratt.”

Collinson didn't waste breath or movement; he twisted suddenly, like a cat. He jerked my gun away and tipped me off balance. He levelled the gun at Parker.

“Come on, Ray,” he barked. “Let's go!”