Read Online Torn Apart by Peter Corris - Free Book Online Page B

cast and crew, including Ben. Just a memory for him now.
    I drove to Erskineville where Corbett lived in a flat below street level. It was reached by a steep ramp with a bend in it that Corbett could take at full tilt in his powered wheelchair. Once a speed freak . . .
    He opened the door to me and the reek of marijuana and tobacco smoke blended with the smell of gun oil and worked metal.
    â€˜Fuckin’ Cliff Hardy,’ he said. ‘What’s in the fuckin’ bag?’
    â€˜A bottle of Bundy and a packet of Drum.’
    â€˜Come in, mate, come in.’
    We were a long way from being mates, but I admired his resilience and courage. I’d have probably been an alcoholic mess if what happened to him had happened to me. He was killing himself with drugs and tobacco, so perhaps his apparent good humour and aggression were covers for something despairing. Impossible to say. I went down the narrow, dark passage and into the room that served as his living quarters and workshop. The flat was tiny, consisting of this room, a kitchenette and a bathroom, all fitted out for his convenience. He wheeled himself behind a workbench, where he had a rifle barrel fixed in a vice.
    He produced two non-breakable glasses from under the bench and set them up. A rollie had gone out in the ashtray and he relit it with a Zippo lighter. I put the packet of tobacco next to the ashtray, ripped the foil from the bottle, pulled the cork and poured. Knowing Corbett’s habits, I also had a bottle of ginger ale in the bag. I topped the glasses up, more mixer for me than him. He tossed off half of the drink and I gave him a refill.
    â€˜What can I do for youse?’
    â€˜First off, information.’
    He puffed smoke, took a sip and shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ unlikely, but go ahead.’
    â€˜Done any work on an automatic shotgun lately? Say, sawing off, making a pistol grip?’
    Corbett wore a biker beard and a bandana, concealing his receding grey hairline. The greasy remnant was caught in a ponytail tied with copper wire. The ponytail sat forward on his shoulder and it jumped back as he shook with laughter.
    â€˜Fuck you. As if I’d tell you if I had, but no. Wouldn’t mind. Be a challenge. Too short and it could blow up in your face, not enough grip and you’d drop the fucker when you let loose.’
    I had a drink and waited until his laughter subsided. I took the wad of notes from my pocket and fanned them. ‘I need a gun.’
    He pinched off the end of his rollie, picked up the packet I’d bought, took papers from the breast pocket of his flannie, expertly rolled another thin, neat cigarette and lit it.
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.’
    â€˜You’re a fuckin’ dinosaur, Hardy.’
    â€˜But . . .’
    â€˜You’re in luck. The Victorian cops are trading up. I can get you what you want.’
    â€˜Untraceable?’
    â€˜Yeah. What’ve you got there?’
    â€˜Nine hundred.’
    â€˜That’ll do. How many rounds?’
    â€˜A full load.’
    â€˜Okay. Three days.’
    â€˜Two.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    I took two of the notes from the wad and put them in my pocket. He took a drink and puffed on his cigarette. ‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’
    â€˜I know,’ I said.
    Hank rang on my mobile as I left Corbett’s flat. I was keeping an eye out for anything unusual—a face, a movement, a noise. I felt pretty sure that $900 would buy Corbett’s cooperation, but with people caught in the criminal networks you can never be sure of their price or their other obligations.
    Hank said, ‘Done, front and back. Sensor lights, a siren to strip paint and a connection to the security people. Are you going to tell me why?’
    â€˜I told you.’
    â€˜You encouraged me to be persistent. I think you’re lying.’
    â€˜Just send me the bill, mate, and thanks.’
    I drove warily,