‘I didn’t tell you about the drinking. I think it started to help him put on weight and disguise himself. The same for the smoking. I don’t know about now.’
Wes shook his head sadly, sniffing the strong smell of smoke in die room. ‘He moved like Clinton, but he sure didn’t look like him. Shit, what a fucking fuck-up.’
There were a few coins on the dressing table and a set of keys, presumably to the Tarago. No notes, no wallet. An op-shop bomber jacket hung on a hook on the back of the door. I felt through its pocket without much optimism. Wes opened some drawers and slammed them shut. There was no sign of the gun. We completed our search and looked at each other. I tried to remember what Clinton was wearing but it wasn’t necessary.
‘I felt something hard in his jacket when I grabbed him,’ Wes said. ‘He had on a tracksuit top with zippered pockets. I felt something hard.’
I nodded. The effort of throwing the wrench, the recoil of the Colt, the whole fucked-up business had taken its toll. I reached for the bourbon, uncapped it and took a swig. I handed it to Wes who did the same.
Morris appeared in the doorway. ‘What the fuck are you two doing? You’re trespassing, you’ve got no right…’
‘Where’s he gone?’ Wes said. ‘My son. Where’s he gone?’
‘How the fuck would I know? Get out of my house.’
Wes advanced on Morris and pulled him into the room. He backed him up against the wall, towering over him. If Morris was an Aborigine he was a pale one and even paler now. Wes looked like a black thunder god, about to send down a lightning bolt.
‘You deal in drugs and steroids,’ he said quietly. ‘You have a confederate who does the same in the western suburbs. He supplied steroids to my boy’s girlfriend and she died. He was a good boy, a student at Southwestern University like his girlfriend. Now he’s got a gun and the only reason he hung around with you was to meet up with this other scumbag and kill him. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Jesus, I thought…’
‘Never mind what you thought. I want the name of this man and where I can find him.’
Morris shook his head determinedly. ‘I can’t do that. He’s a big player. I’m a dead man if I tell you about him. No way!’
Morris’ dressing-gown was torn but it was a good quality garment, fastened with a sash. Wes untied the sash and looped it around Morris’ neck. ‘If you don’t tell me I’m going to hang you off the stair rail there. I might drop you and let your neck break or I might just let you strangle to death. That just depends on how quick you are, starting now.’
Morris’ eyes bugged from his head with terror. He could see that Wes was serious, but his nerve held just long enough for one more throw. ‘What good would that do? Bindi doesn’t know who he is or where to find him. And anyway, he’s barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Wes…’I said.
‘Shut up, Cliff. What d’you mean by that?’
‘Bindi… your kid… whatever the fuck his name is, his girlfriend’d be black, right?’
‘Aboriginal,’ Wes said.
‘Well, this guy, he hates all blacks like poison. He wouldn’t have supplied a black chick with anything. No chance. Not in a million years. Slants, yes, blacks, no.’
It was too much for Wes. He slackened the loop and let the sash drop away. Morris gathered himself and pushed past us towards his bedroom.
‘Hold on,’ I said, following him with Wes drifting off back to Clinton’s room. ‘You’re part-Aboriginal yourself, aren’t you?’
Morris smirked as he pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. He rubbed his neck and worked his shoulders. ‘Yeah, but see, this guy doesn’t know that. But, hey, if Bindi wanted to know who supplies the stuff at that university, I could’ve told him. Be happy to.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Yes, who?’
I turned. It was Clinton, standing just behind me in the passageway and holding my gun pointed straight at Morris.
‘Clinton!’ Wes’ voice was filled with alarm. He didn’t forget his military training though, and turned out the light in the room behind him.
‘Stay back, Dad!’
‘You wouldn’t shoot me, son.’
‘No. But I’ll fucking well shoot Stan if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know and I just might shoot Hardy as well for fucking interfering.’
Morris laughed. Despite everything that was wrong with him he had some guts. He came out of the bedroom, turned off the light, and stood in the doorway.
‘You’re a crazy bastard, Bindi. Sure I’ll tell you. Kinnear, Teddy Kinnear. He’s the man you want.’
Clinton reached up and smashed the overhead light with the pistol. The area was suddenly completely dark and Clinton was just a rush of fast-moving air as he bolted down the stairs. Wes and I collided as we both went after him and I yelled as my ribs took some of the impact. Wes lost balance and fell on the first stair, tumbling heavily to the landing. Above us in the dark, Stan Morris laughed again.
24
By the time we’d collected ourselves and made it to the front door we knew we were too late. The roar of an engine and the protest of tortured tyres told us that Clinton was away again.
‘I can’t believe this,’ Wes said. ‘I had two chances at him and screwed up both times.’
I was rubbing my ribs and feeling for the bottle of pills. I needed them, and the whisky if possible. I yelled to Morris to bring it down. He came down with the bottle and the phone in the passage rang. He answered it as I took a swig.
‘Yeah, well you nosy old cunt, I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get fucked!’
He slammed the phone down and snatched the bottle from my hand. ‘Neighbour-old cunt.’
‘So you said. You realise you left the gate open after your playmate arrived.’
Morris wiped the neck of the bottle on his sleeve and drank. ‘Shit.’
‘He came back to beat information out of you, you know. You’re lucky we were here.’
‘That’s a laugh. I wish I’d never seen you or him and you can get out right now.’
‘Just a minute,’ Wes said. ‘Do you know where this Kinnear lives?’
‘Not a fucking clue. Out west somewhere, that’s all I know. Look, I’d tell you if I knew. It’s nothing to me.’
‘I believe him, Wes. Hang on, let me think. I know the name.’
Wes rubbed the slight bruise on his cheek where Clinton’s punch had caught him as if it was a way of maintaining contact with his son. I repossessed the bottle and hoped the pain-killers and whisky would stimulate my memory. They didn’t. I knew I’d written the name down and I mentally flipped through my notebook.
‘Got it! He used to be the university basketball coach. His assistant’s taken over. Clinton must know him and he probably knows where he lives.’
‘He’s irrational.’ Wes said. ‘He could kill him. We have to stop him.’
Morris was listening, interestedly but unsympathetic. ‘You’d better call the cops. But not from here.’
Wes shook his head, ‘We can’t. Put the police up against an armed black man looking the way he does? That’d be signing his death certificate.’
I caught the last few words as I went through the door. I took the steps as fast as I could and hobbled back towards our hole in the fence. Wes caught me at the carport.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
I handed him my keys. ‘Just get to the car and get it started.’
He didn’t argue. He had the motor running when I reached the car. I climbed in, said, ‘West,’ and reached into the glove box for my notebook. I located Kathy Simpson’s number and punched it in, hoping she was home.
‘This is Kathy.’
‘Kathy, this is Cliff Hardy, remember me?’
‘Yes, Mr Hardy. How are you?’
‘Okay. Now this is terribly important. Have you got an address and telephone number for Ted Kinnear, the old basketball coach?’
‘Not here. It’d be at the desk at the gym.’
‘Is it still open?’
‘Yes, there’s a game on tonight.’
‘Kathy, this is literally life and death. It’s to do with Mark and Clinton and Angela and all that. I have to have that number and address. Can you ring the desk and get it and phone me as soon as you have it. Here’s the number.’