Authors: Peter Corris
I took the envelope and package back to the kitchen and sat down by the telephone. Then I remembered my drink which I’d left outside the black room. I fetched it, came back, and dialled the contact number. I got the recorded message and I told the machine that I had Mountain, and read off Deirdre Kelly’s telephone number. Grey—and I was sure that it was Grey this time—called back immediately.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘First things first. Let me talk to the girl.’
After a long pause Erica’s voice came over the wire. ‘I
was asleep,’ she said.
‘Lucky you. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. What’s going on? Have you found him?’
‘Just do as you’re told for a little while, and everything’ll be all right. Put Grey back on, I’ll see you soon.’
Grey came back on, and asked me where I was again. I finished my drink and laughed into the mouthpiece. ‘Shut up and listen. You take the girl to this address.’ I gave him Frank and Hilde’s address in Harbord. ‘You drop her there and go—drive away. You call me from the nearest phone you can find. If I’ve had a call from where you leave her and they tell me she’s okay, I’ll tell you where Mountain is.’
‘Not good enough, Hardy. You’re asking me to throw in my hand, and you might have nothing to show.’
‘This has gone beyond tricks and games, Grey. Did you know Mountain had taken the Audi back? No? Well, he did. I’ve got plenty to show, don’t worry. For example I’ve got a couple of tapes and a video cassette. You think I’d play funny buggers at this stage? I’m sick of this whole fucking business.’
‘Mountain’s there?’
‘In person.’
‘Subdued, I take it?’
‘I’m almost past caring, Grey, take it or leave it.’
Something in my voice must have carried conviction. Grey agreed to my terms, and I cut him off and rang Frank Parker. Frank sounded sleepy and happy, the way a man might who was in the right bed with the right woman.
‘Listen, Frank, I haven’t got much time. Pretty soon a car’ll pull up outside your joint, and a young woman’ll knock at your door. She’s Chinese, her name’s Erica Fong. As soon as she’s through the door ring this number. Got it?’
‘Who’s Chinese? What’s going on?’
‘No time. Have you got the bloody number?’ I repeated it, and he sounded awake and unhappy, but he said he’d
do it. I put the phone down and resisted the impulse to pour another drink. The adrenalin had started to run, and I was feeling pumped up and full of energy, which made the waiting I had to do hard. I checked the gun again and looked at the scotch bottle, again. I looked at it for quite a while, then the phone rang and I grabbed it.
‘She’s here, Cliff. She’s okay. She wants to know about someone called Mountain. What … ?’
‘Thanks, Frank. Get off the line!’ I slammed the phone down and hovered my hand over it like someone playing Snap. But I let it ring a couple of times before I picked it up; when I answered my mouth was suddenly dry, and I could hardly form the words.
‘She’s delivered,’ Grey said.
‘Right. Here’s the address.’ I gave him the street and number. ‘It’s a block of flash flats. Park in the street and don’t make a fuss.’ He repeated the address and rang off quickly. I opened the front door and turned off the lights in the apartment except those in the hallway and the black room. The switches had dimmers and I dropped the hall down to a deep gloom and waited just inside the room opposite the black room. I had the tapes in my pocket and my S&W .38 in my hand.
When they came, it was the old reliable threesome of Grey, Peroni and Flabby. I heard a whispering out by the door and then soft footfalls on the hall carpet. They stood outside the black room; Peroni unshipped his gun and led the way in. Grey and Flabby followed and I heard them swear and bump into each other as they took in the sights. I went through the door with the gun ready and my heart rate up over the one hundred again.
‘Surprise,’ I said.
Peroni was the fastest, but not very fast; he turned around with his gun up at roughly the right elevation, but he saw that I had my gun pointing at his teeth before he could complete his move.
‘Put the gun down, Peroni or you’ll be just like them.’
He dropped the gun and it fell with a soggy plop to the blood-soaked floor. Flabby hardly noticed, he was too busy vomiting over by the whipping post.
‘That helps,’ I said. ‘How d’you like it, Mr Grey?’
Grey’s face was rigid with shock; he’d thrown his hands up to his face when he’d seen them, and the hands came down slowly now to hang uselessly at his sides.
‘Did you … ? Did … ?’
‘Uh huh. They did it all by themselves, just having a little harmless fun.’
‘Jesus,’ Peroni said. Flabby hung on the post and spat on the floor. Grey was struggling to recover his executive manner and finding it hard going. His adam’s apple wobbled in his neck and he’d lost his old-young look. Now he just looked old. He controlled the movement in his neck by raising his hand and holding his throat.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
I reached into my pocket and took out the tapes. ‘It’s a question of what
you
want. Everything you asked for is here. There’s Mountain and here’s the tapes.’ I tossed the tapes onto the bed; they hit with a splashy sound. ‘Mountain’s not going to be doing any talking and as far as I know he hasn’t told anyone your secrets.’
‘Secrets,’ Grey said.
‘Yeah. Now I’ve worked out a little bit about it—you’ve got bent cops and others to protect. I know that, and I couldn’t care less.’
Grey gestured to Flabby to pick up the tapes, but Flabby shook his head. Grey walked over to the bed and picked them up. He was getting his nerve back fast. He looked down at Mountain whose face was in profile against the black carpet. He nodded slowly. Peroni shuffled his feet; his persecuted eyes were fixed on the body of Deirdre Kelly. He was excited by it.
‘I think you should take Carl home,’ I said. ‘It ends here, Grey.’
Grey looked at me steadily. I could feel my control
going; my face was cold although the air in the room was warm and I was ready to start shaking inside. I didn’t have much talk or authority left in me.
‘The video,’ Grey said.
‘I’ve got it. You keep your bloody operation out of Sydney for six months and I’ll mail it to you.’
‘Mail?’
I had to hurry; I could feel myself unravelling. ‘Right. Australia Post. I’ll send it to Mr John Grey, General Delivery, Perth GPO. Okay?’
‘Why Perth?’
‘Perth’ll do. You’ll manage.’
‘Yes,’ Grey said. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the tapes. Then he put them in a pocket; he kept the bloodied handkerchief in his hand.
I gestured with the gun. ‘On your way. This is the big city. I don’t think you fit in.’
Flabby shuffled towards the door. Peroni tore his eyes away from Kelly, and looked at Grey who nodded. They moved after Flabby.
‘I want my gun,’ Peroni said.
‘Tell you what I’ll do, Carl. If you piss off now, I won’t leave it here for the cops to find.’
They went down the hall and out of the apartment. I closed the door and listened for their steps on the gravel, and finally the sound of a car engine. A little fresh air had come in while the door was open, and I leaned against the wall and breathed it for a while with my eyes closed. Then I collected Peroni’s gun, the video and Mountain’s manuscript. I wiped the glass I’d used, doused the lights in the apartment and went out through the french windows at the side.
There was a promise of dawn in the sky, and the light night breeze already had a touch of warmth in it. There were a few lights burning in the apartments, but no sound
or movement. Ginny Ireland’s silver VW was standing crookedly in its parking space and one mudguard was a crumpled ruin. There was a pair of shoes in the middle of the path to her door. I walked out to the street, and it took me a long time to get the key in the lock and open the door. My hand was shaking, so the ignition key jiggled automatically and the engine started sweetly.
I drove home watching for a tail and not seeing one, and so tired and shaken that I could hardly keep the car in top gear. I approached the house carefully, went in quickly with my two guns, and found the usual still emptiness. With the doors locked, I treated myself for shock and fatigue with aspirin and whisky, and slept for a couple of hours in my clothes on the couch. I woke up with the video cassette in my pocket digging into me and a shaft of light shining into my eyes.
The phone blipped briefly, but the machine picked up the call. I cleaned myself up, made coffee and sat down to look at Bill Mountain’s book. It was typed on yellow A4 paper, double spaced and with wide margins. There was no title page and the pages were unnumbered. I leafed through it, page by page at first and then turning them over in ten page batches. The typescript had no chapter divisions and no headings. There was no punctuation. The lines of type switched from upper to lower case at random. It was written in English, French and German and at least half of it was in no language at all, gibberish.
Peter Corris
A client happens to fall from the twentieth storey of a building; a rock star goes missing; an erotic Mongol scroll vanishes; a film star has a problem that has nothing to do with creativity – it’s all in a day’s work for Cliff Hardy.
Yachts dance on the sparkling waters of the harbour, and the back alleys are busy; the city’s high and low classes go about their daily business. But nothing really surprises Hardy; and, for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a day (plus expenses), he’ll provide a few surprises of his own …
‘Peter Corris is turning out some of the most entertaining fiction in Australia today …’
The Age
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Peter Corris
It began as a routine investigation into supposed drowning.
But Cliff Hardy, private detective, soon found himself literally fighting for his life in the murky, violent underworld of Bondi.
The truth about John Singer, black marketeer and poker machine king, is out there somewhere – amidst the drug addicts and prostitutes and alcoholics. Hardy’s job is to stay alive long enough in the world of easy death to get to the truth.
The truth hurts …
‘… a fine, tightly-controlled story.’
West Australian
Peter Corris
Cliff Hardy is at the party to look after the paintings and throw out the drunks – gently.
But there he meets Helen Broadway, who interests him; and Paul Guthrie, who wants Hardy to look for his step-son, Ray. Hardy delves into the sleazy world of Kings Cross backstreets and lowdown pubs, following a twisting path laid by a hitman, a criminal with heavy political protection, and a seedy alcoholic member of his own profession. There’s scarcely enough time for Helen Broadway, interesting though she still is.
Hardy pushes on to the final confrontation. It’s rough: the guns are out, and the odds are no help…
‘… there is nothing random or haphazard about the way Corris tells his story; it is a piece of masterly, disciplined and highly effective narrative.’
The Australian
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Peter Corris
Cliff Hardy in action again: trying to keep one step ahead of his client’s troubles – and his own.
He has to cope with the brute force exercised in sleazy back streets to the more refined form of violence to be found in the boardroom of city skyscrapers. Along the way he has to deal with everyone from fashion models and teenaged junkies to urban developers and crooked funeral directors. Some are friendly and helpful, some try to kill him …
Hardy copes, with his guts and his savvy, and all for a hundred and twenty five dollars a day (plus expenses)…
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Peter Corris
The Winning Side is a moving and compassionate account of a man caught between two worlds.
Charlie Thomas, born in a humpy camp to Aboriginal parents in the 1920’s, learns to fight early. He fights in the backblocks of Queensland during the Depression, and in the Middle East and Pacific in World War Two.
As a decorated veteran, he fights on in the cities and the country against racial prejudice, authority and his own weaknesses. He has to fight; white Australia tries to keep him on the losing side- in the boxing tents, pubs and gaols.
Charlie Thomas fights for education, justice, hope and love – to make his side the winning side.
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Women’s Short Stories
These thirty-two short stories have been selected by Suzanne Falkiner to present a balanced collection of modern writing by
Australian
women. They include a selection of some of Australia’s best known names (Jolley, Astley, Zwicky) through to the most promising emerging writers (Garner, Sperling, Viidikas, Grenville) and some of the more avant garde and experimental of the new voices (Inez Baranay, Jeri Kroll, Finola Moorhead). A proportion, including those of Garner and Zwicky, have never been published before. Most have had previous publication in small magazines, and have been selected by their authors as among those they most wish to perpetuate.
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Flesh in Armour is the graphic and compelling story of what it was like to be a soldier in the bloodbath of World War One.
The vast and chaotic landscape of the Western Front is seen through the eyes of three Australian soldiers: Frank Jeffreys, sensitive and unable to bear the strains of war; Charl Bently, untroubled by the complexities that surround them all; and Jim Blount, who finds his true self – and dies in action.
It is a novel of heroic deeds – and the sheer struggle for survival in the senseless carnage of Europe at War.
Leanard Mann fought in the mud and destruction of Flanders, and this unerringly accurate novel bears the unmistakable ring of truth.
Published by Unwin Paperbacks.
Tim Winton
On the south coast of Western Australia a battle has begun.