‘There’s a spa and sauna close by that Grant uses for his hangovers. Why don’t you give it a try?’
Every passing moment made it seem like a better idea; I got the address, gave Jo my thanks and went out to the car. The morning was clear and cold; I wiped moisture from the windows and finished up with a handful of grey, oily tissues that made me feel decidedly worse. The Executive Spa was a concrete building with tinted glass windows and deep carpet, even in the changing room. Another item on Terry Reeves’ bill.
I hired swimming togs and ploughed up and down the little heated pool until arm weariness and boredom forced me to stop. I soaked in the spa, massaging all the working parts with the bubbles, and sat in the sauna until I’d sweated out all the toxins.
I towelled off and sauntered into the well-equipped gym. I set the Nautilus machine shamefully low and did some light work on that. Then I skipped a bit and tapped away at the heavy bag, putting more into moving my feet than my punches. The gym instructor bounced across the way they do.
‘You’ve done it before,’ he said.
‘Just amateur, fair while ago.’
‘You’ve got into some bad habits-you’re opening your fist, slapping.’
I closed my fist and punched again.
He nodded approvingly. ‘Where’re you from?’
‘Sydney. Going back today.’
He sighed. ‘Jeez, I wish I could go to Sydney. Did you know that sixty-eight per cent of people in Melbourne wish they were somewhere else?’
Great place, Melbourne, you can get sociology from gym instructors.
The treatment worked. I felt so good when I got on the plane at Tullamarine that I slept all the way to Sydney.
I’d left the Falcon on an upper level of the airport car park, slotted in next to a wall. The car looked lonely now with empty spaces all around. My sprightly feet rang on the concrete and I reached, without fumbling, into the right pocket for my keys, feeling alert and competent. That’s when they jumped me. Perhaps it was the restorative effects of the spa, or the gym workout or the nap on the plane, but my reactions were sharp. The first one, a big, flabby-looking guy, tried to grab me to give his mate something to work on: he got my bag swung hard into his face and then my fist driving in under the nose and up, which hurts. He bellowed with pain and backed away. That left the smaller man grabbing empty air: I brushed his wild swing away, moved in close and jolted him under the heart. He grunted and folded in two; I kept my fist classically closed and hooked him below the ear. He sighed and went down on one knee. The big man came back but I was in a crouch by then, still moving, and I came up from the crouch and butted him in the stomach. My head was hard, his belly was soft; he took the butt with all my moving weight behind it in the worst place. He collapsed, twisted onto his side and was violently sick.
We were only a few feet from my car; the blood was pounding in my head and I felt as if I could lift them both up and throw them over the parapet for a five-storey drop.
I half wanted to. Instead, I half-nelsoned the smaller man to his feet, rushed him forward and banged his face into the side of the Falcon. While he was thinking about that I opened the door and got the Colt. 45 out from its clip under the dashboard.
I took a punt that the smaller man was the smarter of the two. I rolled the sick one over with my foot and showed him the gun. He was pale already and at the sight of the gun he went a bit paler. He was fat and didn’t seem to have the temperament for the line of work he was in.
‘Pick up the bag and put it in the car.’ I jerked the Colt to underline the order and he got up slowly, bent painfully for my bag and went across to the car. He stepped around his groaning colleague and put the bag on the passenger seat.
‘Now say goodbye to your mate for a while and piss off.’ Another gesture with the gun and he was on his way. I’d been lucky; no-one had come up to the level while the fracas was on and he looked very lonely as he limped off down the ramp. I couldn’t expect the luck to last, so I swung the gun around and dropped onto my knee beside the other man. We were sheltered behind the car and he looked very scared.
‘Get in the car,’ I said. ‘Do everything right and you still have a chance.’
He swore, to give himself courage, but he got into the car. As I got in, a car roared up the ramp and into a space a few metres away. I looked at my companion; he had an acne-scarred face, sparse lank hair and an expression that suggested he was out for revenge against the whole world. If I’d been drawing up the battle orders I’d have sent him in ahead of Flabby. All things considered, he’d recovered pretty well from the battering he’d had; his wind was coming back and he was working on it, taking medium deep breaths slowly.
‘It’s pretty quiet here,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the windows up as you see, and I can wrap something around this. I can put a bullet in you anywhere I like.’
The new arrival slammed his door and went over in the direction of the lift. The noise was muffled, almost squishy in the closed car.
‘Hear that? The bullet that cripples you can make less noise than that. Understand?’
He nodded and took a slow breath.
‘You can stop working on your wind; you’ve been out-classed; accept it. Now if you want to walk away from here you’re going to have to do some good talking. I’m going to have to be pleased with what you say.’
He nodded again and didn’t move his diaphragm.
‘You’re in with the people who’re nicking the cars?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I know who you’re talkin’ about. I’ve heard of them. But there’s a couple of… there’s people between me and them, like.’
‘What were you supposed to do here?’
‘Get you to tell me where the tapes and the film was.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘That’s all I bloody know-tape of a voice on the phone and a fuckin’ film.’
‘What sort of film?’
‘I know what’s on it, that’s all. There’s a bloke gettin’ into a car and drivin’ away. That’s all.’
‘And I’m supposed to have these things?’
His bitter look got more bitter, and I moved the gun a fraction to remind him who held the cards.
‘’s right. Yeah.’
‘Next question-who’s the man you go through? Don’t worry about him going through someone else.’
He shook his head. Although he was over thirty, some of the acne scars had an angry recent look as if the condition was occasionally still active. ‘No way. I’m a dead man if I open me mouth on that.’
‘You could be dead if you don’t, or worse.’
He looked at me. Now that he’d recovered from his belting and fright he looked intelligent under the anger, intelligent and maybe capable of judgement.
‘Bullshit. You won’t do a thing. I’m going.’
He lifted the locking button, opened the door and slipped out. Moving slowly away he stuffed his shirt back into his pants, hunched his shoulders and walked. He’d judged me accurately; I watched him go-moving loosely, indifferently, almost strolling and without a suggestion of a backward look.
He looked better than I felt. The adrenalin rush had stopped, leaving me feeling drained and feeble. It was something they warned us about in Malaya and something well-known to the snipers. More men died in the post-battle, let-down period than in the heat of the fight. I started the car and warmed the motor properly; I put the gun on the seat and wound down both front windows for better visibility. Sensible precautions against my attackers having another go, but what I really wanted was a quiet drive home and a steadying drink.
The quiet drive I got, but not the drink because every bottle in the place had been smashed and the wine cask had had a carving knife put through it. The mess upstairs included a cover ripped from my foam mattress, lifted carpets and the overturning of everything that had stood on legs. Books and papers were torn and scattered around and the contents of drawers and cupboards had been emptied out and sorted through with a claw hammer. The technique had been much the same as at Mountain’s- more of a rummage than a search, more of a destructive rampage than a teasing out of hiding places. The work on the bottles and cask was pure malice, reaction to the inevitable failure of the visitation.