Crooked (14 page)

Chooks stooped down, drawing himself into the darkness of the gate. It was too dark to see much. Leaves glinted, scabs of vegetal matter peeked at him through masses of foliage. Chooks' scalp began to itch from his mask of black nylon. His hands began to tremble along the stock of his gun. He counted off the moments until he could stand it no longer. His stomach lurched. His knees buckled under. He fell face down on a bed of dry leaves.

Glory eased the Valiant into the side of the road and sat alone in the smothering darkness, waiting.

‘Johnny,' she spoke into the walkie-talkie. But there wasn't any answer. ‘Johnny?'

‘I'm here. Where's Chooks?'

‘I dunno, but I've got a bad feeling. Maybe we ought to call it off for tonight.'

‘I reckon we call this thing off and we'll never get another chance,' said Johnny. Glory didn't say anything, so Johnny spoke on. ‘Go and find Chooks. Maybe his radio has conked out or something.'

Glory got out of the Falcon, inching her way along the footpath. She was barely in sight of the gate where Chooks was
hiding, when the darkness outside the door of the flat building drew suddenly back. Reilly appeared, silhouetted in the door-light against the green of the planters. He was dressed in a dark pinstripe with a wide black fedora. One hand was jammed tight into his coat pocket, the other hanging loose as he came down the stairs.

‘He's here,' said Glory.

‘I seen him already,' said Johnny.

Glory saw swirling skies and violet haze. ‘Good luck, love. Be careful. Don't shoot unless you're positively sure of being successful.'

Up in the tree, Johnny was frightened that he was losing his grip. His thoughts coiled round him in tight little circles. He watched as Reilly approached the edge of footpath, the white sheen of cement lost in the sprawl of his shadow.

‘Who's there?' said Reilly, arms swinging wide towards the trees, as if he could hear Johnny rustling in the foliage. ‘Who's there?'

Johnny didn't answer. He didn't dare breathe. Reilly pulled out his keys and stepped towards the car. He pressed the magic button on his key ring and the car lights came on, white and brilliant. Johnny didn't hesitate. He fired through the leaf cover.

Chooks heard the report clear across the asphalt. He stood up and rushed around the gate, but couldn't see much, the glare of headlights was so intense. Then a dark apparition came stumbling out of the dazzle, wild and reeling, and heading his way.

Reilly let out a long, wordless roar and reached for his gun.

Chooks had a clear shot from this angle, and walked across
the asphalt to take it. Then stood there, stricken with fear, unable to move.

Johnny racked the pump action of the shotgun, and let the empty cartridge fall away. He sighted Reilly through the scope once again, but the telephone pole was blocking his line of fire. Desperate, he dropped down through the branches, landing on all fours under the light on the footpath. Reilly lunged towards him. For a full second, it seemed they were facing each other. Johnny could see the actual blood spray on Reilly's face, gleaming on the skin of his cheeks, buzzing at the edges.

Next thing Johnny knew, Reilly was at the wheel of his Maserati, revving the engine. He swung out wide, almost knocking him down. Johnny steadied himself, raising his gun as the car put on speed. He fired at the car twice, watched it fishtailing up the mouth of the road.

Six separate pages of a newspaper floated by.

Johnny heard a deep sonic roar like a building collapsing, followed by several subsidiary bangs, like windows shattering, metal tearing, a fuel tank exploding, and a blaze like pink shell-fire filling the sky.

Johnny sprang out of the blackness and climbed into the front seat of the Falcon. Chooks clambered into the back, seconds behind. Glory turned the ignition and the car leaped forward.

‘Listen to what the bugger's got to say,' said Chooks. ‘He's fired at him twice and missed.'

‘Yeah, and where were you?' said Johnny. ‘You didn't even let off a shot.'

The road curved and turned as it led up the rise. Glory threw in the clutch and swung the wheel over. She changed gears once again as the car skidded over the crest of the hill, and the motor began singing with a whet-edge sound, powering along the flat of the road.

‘Don't tell me you missed with the double-barrelled shotgun?' said Glory.

Johnny was staring very bleakly at nothing at all. ‘I dunno,' he said. ‘I was there on the footpath, and Reilly kept coming at me like a bloody tank. I fired the gun and I know I hit him. I aimed right at the centre of his guts. I mean, the bloke is so huge I couldn't miss a target like that. But he looked right at the spot where I was standing, and kept coming.'

Chooks said, ‘Yeah, maybe you winged him, but you couldn't have got him because he climbed into his fancy sports car, reversed into an L-turn – an L-turn! – and drove off like he's going on a Sunday School Picnic. Faster,' he added. ‘Go faster,
Glory. The coppers will be swarming all over this place any minute.'

Johnny burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. ‘Believe me, Chooks. The jacks are the last thing you've got to worry about. If Reilly's still alive, he'll go on a mad shooting orgy after tonight. Sydney will be strewn with bodies.'

‘Stop laughing,' said Chooks, on edge.

But Johnny couldn't stop.

Chooks launched himself between the seats. He pounded Johnny's arm. ‘Why did you shoot, you silly bastard? Why did you shoot when you couldn't be sure of getting him?'

Johnny wrenched his arm away. ‘You'll be right, mate. Nobody's connecting you with something like this. It's me who's got to wear it.'

Chooks took this in, sober and frightened. He shook his head with a slight shuddering motion.

‘Is it that bad?' said Glory.

‘I dunno,' said Johnny, ‘but I reckon that I couldn't have had a better opportunity. Reilly wasn't more than fifteen feet from where I was standing, and then there was the explosion. Nobody could've survived that.' Johnny glanced sideways at Glory, seeking reassurance. But Glory couldn't find an answer, and so they drove on in silence.

Streetlights flashed across the windscreen. On either side of them boarded-up warehouses stood in weed-choked lots.

‘Stop,' yelled Johnny. ‘Stop the car.'

Glory crammed on the brakes, throwing everybody forward.

‘Crikey,' said Chooks, rousing himself.

Johnny pressed his index finger to the windscreen, pointing at the run-down garage that abutted the grey paling fence of a wrecker's yard. ‘Pull in over there.'

Glory nosed the Valiant into an empty space at the mouth of the mechanic's shop, alongside a truck labelled ‘Blagg Bros Towers & Wreckers'. Just beyond the headlights, a red telephone booth sat on a strip of cracked asphalt with grass sprouting through.

‘Chooks,' said Johnny. ‘I want you to ring up the radio and say, “This is on account of O'Connor.”'

‘Well, I reckon I shouldn't,' said Chooks. ‘I reckon that's asking for more trouble than I've already got.'

‘Well, do me a favour and quit thinking,' said Johnny.

‘Sure, I only helped you shoot the bloke. What right have I got to think?'

‘Look, I've already explained that you're in the clear,' said Johnny. ‘It's me that's going to answer for this. In fact, I reckon if you were a real mate and not just pretending, you'd want to help me out.' Chooks went silent and Johnny pressed his advantage. He scrawled down a number on a spare bit of paper. ‘Just ring this and say, “This is for O'Connor and more is to follow.” I reckon it'll put the coppers off for a bit, and providing our alibis are okay …'

Chooks opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He climbed out of the car and trundled across the lot. He swept a Pineapple Crunch Bar off the green speckled ledge of the telephone booth, slipped a five-cent piece into the coin slot, and dialled the number.