‘Drink, Clem?’
He raised the gun. ‘No, you either.’
‘Christ, have a heart, I’m bloody dry!’
‘I haven’t had a drink in five years, Cliff.’
‘You used to like a drink.’
‘Yeah. Have you got a thermos?’
I said I had, and got it out.
‘Make some coffee; I see you’ve got the makings.’
‘How’d you get out’, I asked him.
‘I fixed up some of the guards.’ He said.
I poured the coffee and pushed the sugar across to him. I haven’t used sugar since I went on my fitness kick a year ago. Clem ignored the sugar, sipped the coffee black. ‘Must have cost you’, I said.
‘Right.’ He looked at me carefully and put the gun down by his cup. ‘It’s funny that, I had to get a mate to sell one of my cars. Joannie… ah, never mind, I’ll sort it out.’
I drank some coffee, still wanting a real drink. ‘What’re you going to do now, Clem?’
He picked up the gun. ‘You’re driving me north. When we get there I’m going to use this on a man.’
‘That’s crazy. That’s life!’
‘I didn’t do that job, Cliff, he put me in.’
‘Still…’
‘Don’t chat about it! Five years… what’ve you been doing in the last five years?’
I finished my coffee, didn’t answer.
‘A few birds, Cliff? Bit of travel? I remember you used to read a lot; well, I’ve had plenty of time to read and to think. So I know what I’m going to do and I don’t want to bloody debate it with you. Okay?’
I nodded, Clem had done a bit of self-improving in prison; he’d never have said ‘debate’ before. He was all the more dangerous for it. I started to pour more coffee but he waved the gun. ‘Stick it in the thermos and make up some food, we’ve got a long drive.’
I put together some bread, salami and cheese while Clem watched me. I took out the flagon of white wine but he shook his head.
‘Let’s go and get some clothes, we’re still about the same size.’
‘A bit of luck that’, I said.
He grinned at me. ‘Not really; I told you I’ve thought this out.’
We weren’t welterweights anymore, more like heavy middles; but a pair of my jeans and a shirt and windcheater fitted Clem well enough. I could have taken a chance while he was dressing, but he was still very quick and I knew I wouldn’t have been able to use the gun on him anyway. It was a weird feeling; I was alarmed by his manner and his possession of the gun but I couldn’t really believe that old Clem would harm me, and in a way I was glad of his company.
We went back downstairs and listened to the news. He listened intently but not with that inflated self-importance that leads criminals to keep scrapbooks and to want to be on TV: Clem wanted to find out what the cops were doing. The report was vague; Clem was described as dangerous and the police were appealing for help. It sounded as if they didn’t have any ideas.
‘They’ll be looking for you up north, Clem’. I said.
He rubbed his hand across his face. Some bristle was showing through but his last shave must have been a very close one. ‘I know’, he said. ‘But they’re pretty dim up there. I could get in and out with my eyes closed.’
Suddenly I felt tired; I didn’t want to go cowboying off north with Clem Carter while half the New South Wales police force chased us. I wanted a drink, several drinks, and I felt more like reading about chases in Desmond Bagley than being in one. So I tried it; while Clem was checking the food parcel I made a grab at the gun. It wasn’t much of a try, but even so Clem’s speed surprised me: he side-stepped, kept the gun out of harm’s way and hit me in the pit of the stomach with his left. It was something like the left he’d dropped me with at Maroubra more than twenty years back and it had the same effect. I went down hard, and stayed down.
‘You shouldn’t have tried that, Cliff, he said nastily. ‘I can beat you anytime.’
I sat on the floor, feeling my guts re-arrange themselves. ‘I know, Clem, I just don’t like guns pointing at me. What about a truce?’
He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What sort of truce?’
‘Put the gun away and I’ll do what you say short of getting myself in too much trouble. I’ll stick with you. If you shoot at anyone I’ll run away. If you shoot at me I’ll try to do you in any way I can.’
He gave the sour laugh again. ‘Okay. I’ll let you drop off as soon as I can.’
We picked up the food, turned off the lights and went out to the car. Clem set the safety and put the. 38 in the waistband of his jeans. ‘You drive’, he said. ‘Take it easy, there’s no hurry.’
I worked the car out and we drove in silence through Glebe and Ultimo and on to the Harbour Bridge. There was rain in the air, threatening in the dark, purple-streaked sky, but the roads were still dry and the traffic was light. I told Clem I had to stop for petrol. He didn’t like it much and made me keep going up the Pacific Highway until we hit a self-service place. Clem huddled down as I got out of the car.
‘Don’t do anything silly, Cliff.’
‘Hell no, this is fun. Do you want anything, I smokes?’
‘No, I’ve got no vices now. Just get on with it.’
I fuelled up, checked the water and oil and tried to think of something clever but nothing came. When I got back in the car I handed Clem ten dollars.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Give it back to me.’
He did. ‘Now I’ll consider you a client, Clem. It’s as illegal as hell but it makes me feel better.’
‘You’re full of shit, Cliff, he said but he seemed to relax a bit. The gesture was pointless, a farce, but it led him to talk about his mission.
Clem had been managing the Gismore speedway and making a fair fist of it for six months. They were taking a few thousand dollars a meeting and the prospects looked good. He bought a house which was attached to an older timber mill and this gave him a big covered space for a workshop. In his spare time he worked on improvements to his cars. According to Clem it was the owner of the speedway, a guy named Riley, who came up with the idea of holding meetings for six days running, a sort of tournament for the different models of cars. For the last meeting, Riley gave Clem the night off. He went home, collected his wife and set off for the movies, but the car broke down up in the hills. Clem was still working on it when the cops came. The speedway had been knocked over with close to $30,000 in the till. Riley, who’d taken a shotgun blast in the shoulder, identified Clem as one of the heavies. He also said that the six day meeting had been Clem’s idea. The cops found a dust coat, mask and a sawn-off shotgun with one barrel recently discharged in Clem’s car. Clem’s only witness was his wife, Joannie, and she didn’t impress anyone. They searched the house and found letters from Riley giving Clem hefty advances on his salary. Clem said he’d never seen the gun or the mask or the coat before, nor the letters. Riley spent some time in hospital and he closed the speedway. The town lost jobs and entertainment. No one wanted to start a Clem Carter fan club-and he got fifteen years for armed robbery and wounding.
The way he told it impressed me. Clem was never known for his imagination and the story hung together pretty well. A few things bothered me though.
‘This Riley’d be stealing his own money, wouldn’t he?’
‘No. He had big overheads, loans, salaries, taxes; this was a gift.’
‘Wouldn’t he have moved on by now?’
Clem was staring ahead up the road. ‘You’d reckon he would, wouldn’t you? But he hasn’t. I expect I’ll find out why when I get there.’
‘He’ll move when he hears you’re out.’
‘I’ve got a mate up there, he’ll keep me informed.’
‘I still don’t see what you reckon to get out of it.’
‘Revenge.’
‘Bullshit. You’re going to kill a man for revenge, bullshit!’
‘All right, Cliff, I’ll tell you. I’m not going to kill him, I just said that to sound hard. You’re a smart man, you must be able to guess why I’m going after him.’