Read Online Heroin Annie by Peter Corris - Free Book Online Page B

hundred thousand …’
    I smiled at him. ‘As Henk said to me a little while ago, there's enough evidence here to arrange things anyway I like. If you're found dead, Doc, clutching a hundred grand worth of heroin, no one's going to ask too many questions. Start pouring!’
    He did, and the action seemed to cause him physical pain. When the water in the bowl was clouded up with the white powder I took the belt from him and held it under a running tap.
    â€˜Now, flush the toilet like a nice clean boy.’ He did, and a hundred thousand dollars headed for the sewer.
    Back in the living room I put my .38 handy and unloaded the .45. I tossed the gun at Dean and told him to put it all down to experience. I took out the manila envelope and tapped it on the coffee table. Doc and Hasselt looked at it like cats eyeing a bird.
    â€˜I was hired to look out for Annie’, I said, ‘and it turned out she needed it. Now you and you have got problems.’ I tapped the envelope again. ‘Do you know what this can buy me in Sydney in the way of people to take care of you two?’
    They didn't say anything, but they knew what I meant.
    â€˜Right, now Annie's going away. She might be back soon or she might not, either way it's no concern of yours. Do you get me?’
    Doc nodded, Hasselt didn't move, it would have hurt him to nod.
    â€˜The same goes for me. I'll put a little of this around, and you won't even piss without me knowing about it. If I hear that you have used my name or Annie's in vain, someone will get a chunk of this and you'll be missing.’
    I took Annie home, and twelve days later she was off; after we worked things out with her parole officer and did an express job on her passport. I made her a small loan and paid Primo for the heroin and gave him a bit extra too. That left twenty odd thousand which I split into four lots and posted to deserving organisations. A month later I got a postcard from Annie; it had a picture of a naval gentleman on top of a high pillar; so I gathered she was in London—I couldn't read the writing.

The luck of Clem Carter
    Clem Carter was the welterweight boxing champion of the Maroubra Police-Citizens Boy's Club in 1955. The title didn't mean much to most people, but it meant a hell of a lot to Clem; and it meant something to me too because I was the one he beat in the final of the tournament. He was a tough kid, Clem, working at fifteen as a brickie's mate; and he had a couple of stadium fights in the next few years while I was finishing school and not finishing university. Then I went into the army and Clem went to gaol. He got three years for GBH and he told me later that he had so many fights inside that he had to serve the whole time.
    After fighting, cars were Clem's big thing—when he was young he stole them, later he built and raced them. I met him a few times in the early seventies when he was racing stockcars; the boxing scars on his face were overlain with the marks of racing injuries, and he was drinking heavily. But he was cheerful—he was newly married and heading up north to manage a new speedway. Then someone told me that he'd been sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and then he was in the news—for escaping.
    I didn't think much about it. I was working on a mildly interesting job, trying to locate a union official who'd gone missing with a certain amount of money. It was hard to tell whether or not he was more crooked than the people who wanted him. I got home late this night, tired from covering some far-flung addresses, and dry. I hadn't had a drink all day. I edged the old Falcon into the small yard at the back of my house, got out, locked it, and felt the hard metal bite into my ear.
    â€˜Put your gun on top of the car, Cliff.’
    I did, and turned around slowly. He was always a fast mover, Clem; he slid around, grabbed the gun and dropped the length of pipe he'd been holding. He could hit too, and got mean