The news broke in a gossip column in one of the tabloids on Tuesday: ‘A spokesperson for publishing giant Samson House confirmed that disgraced former New South Wales senior policeman Andrew “Black Andy” Piper is preparing his “tell-all” memoirs for publication. Piper is reported to be suffering from terminal cancer and to have found God. Sceptics remain sceptical; the guilty men and women aren’t sleeping well.’
Sunday rolled around and I got behind the wheel of Piper’s Mercedes ready to drive him to wherever the Reverend Dr Eli Jacobsen was selling his snake oil. The car, not new, not old, was a pleasure to drive.
‘Where to?’ I asked.
‘I fancy a drink.’
I almost lost control of the car. ‘A what?’
‘You heard me.’
He’d been swallowing various coloured pills several times a day, every day. ‘Are you allowed to drink with all that medication?’
He didn’t answer for a few minutes, as if he was chewing the matter over. He wasn’t. ‘Nobody tells Black Andy what to do,’ he said.
‘So, where?’
He heaved a sigh. He looked heavier and seemed more tired than in recent days. ‘Clovelly Cove Hotel,’ he said. ‘I’d like to look at the water. Won a surf race there once.’
‘I know you rowed, didn’t know you swam.’
‘You don’t know a lot of things, Hardy.’
We parked close to the pub and walked to it with Piper in the lead, moving purposefully. I was hot in drill trousers, light shirt and cotton jacket to cover the pistol, and he must have been sweltering in his buttoned-up double-breasted suit. If he was, he didn’t show it. He plonked himself down where he had a good view through the plate glass out to sea. Pretty safe. From that angle only someone on a boat could take a pot-shot at him.
‘Get us a schooner of old, Hardy.’
Maybe it was a test to see if I’d get pissed on the job. Maybe he’d just had all the piety and healthy living he could take. Or maybe he’d ring the Reverend Eli to come and save him from sin at the last second. I bought the drinks-a middy of soda and bitters for me-and took them to the table.
He didn’t hesitate, took a long swig and pointed at my glass. ‘What’s that piss?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I wont.’ He drank deeply and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. I hadn’t noticed him eating more lately but then, he was a messy eater and it wasn’t something to watch voluntarily. He looked fatter though. Schooners of old would help that along nicely.
It happened very quickly at first, then seemed to slow down to half speed. The man walked into the bar, headed towards the taps, then swivelled quickly and took two long steps in our direction. He was only a few metres away when his hand came up with a gun and he fired three times. The shots were shatteringly loud. Piper grunted and toppled back. My gun was in my hand and I shot twice as I saw his gun swing towards me. I hit him both times, and his arms flew out and he went down and back as if he’d caught a knockout punch.
The bar erupted into shouts and swearing and breaking glass as some of the patrons stayed rooted to the spot and others headed quickly for the door. I put my pistol on the table in front of me and drew in a deep breath. My eyes were closed and a cordite smell invaded me and made me cough convulsively. When I recovered, I found Black Andy Piper standing beside me, finishing the last of his drink. His suit coat was open, his shirt was unbuttoned and the Kevlar vest under it was an obscene grey-green colour.
‘Knew I could rely on you, Hardy,’ he said. ‘Give the cops a call on your mobile, eh? It’d look better from you.’
It was a total set-up, of course. Charles ‘Chalky’ Whitehead was a former friend and associate and later bitter enemy of Piper. He knew that a no-holds-barred account of Black Andy’s life would point the finger at him for a number of crimes, including murder. Piper, without his henchmen and gone soft on religion, was too tempting a target for Whitehead to resist. He wasn’t the brightest and when he’d tracked us to the hotel he didn’t ask any questions, just came in blasting. He’d have lined, up a rock solid alibi beforehand.
Black Andy needed to get rid of Whitehead, who was competing hard with him for control of some lucrative rackets. He had someone planted in Chalky’s camp and got the word to him where he’d be and when. I did the job for him, legitimately. Whitehead died before the ambulance arrived.
The police made noises about suspending my licence, but the facts were clear, with plenty of witnesses. The cops weren’t serious; no one was unhappy about Whitehead being out of circulation.
Piper had no intention of publishing a book. He paid the advance back to the publisher, including Melanie’s commission. He tried to pay me for my services but I told him where to put it. He reclaimed the partial manuscript from the publisher and from Melanie, threatening to sue them unless they complied. They did. What happened between him and the Community of Christ I never found out and didn’t want to know.
My affair with Melanie petered out and died when she asked me if I wanted to write my memoirs.
GLOBALISATION
Jacko Brown was an old mate. We’d boxed together in the Maroubra Police Boys Club, surfed together and got shot at in the Malayan Emergency. After dropping out of law school I’d drifted into insurance investigation and eventually into one-man private work. Jacko had spent a bit of time in the police force and then inherited a farm from his uncle and gone bush. We stayed in touch by phone and when he came to the smoke he looked me up and we had a drink. That happened about once every two or three years. It was a one way street until he phoned me and this time it wasn’t to agree on what pub to meet in.
‘I need some help, Cliff.’
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘I need you to come out here.’
‘Jesus, it’s what, five hundred kilometres?’
‘Nearer seven fifty. But it’s a reasonable road for five hundred or so, gets a bit rough west of Nyngan.’
‘Is there anything west of Nyngan?’
‘Yeah. Carter’s Creek, my town.’
‘People?’
‘Cut it out, mate. You’re not that much of a city slicker. I really need you to come out here and help me, help us.’
He’d never asked for anything from me before and he wasn’t the sort to ask lightly. I agreed to get there within the week, as soon as I’d cleared up the few things I had hanging. I contacted Glen Withers, an old girlfriend who’d recently succumbed to the lures of one of the big private investigation outfits after running her own show for a few years. On the strength of her new earning power she’d bought a newish Pajero, but I knew she’d always lusted after my vintage Falcon and I arranged a temporary swap.
‘Where’re you going?’ Glen said as she handed me the keys.
‘West.’
‘You’ve never been west of Mount Victoria.’
‘Not true. I went to Broken Hill once.’
‘Why?’
‘I forget. I must’ve been drunk.’
‘Well, don’t drink and drive my Pajero. Are we talking a fortnight?’
‘Could be less, could be more.’
‘Thanks a lot, but okay. Take care, Cliff.’
Two days and a couple of lungsful of dust later I was in Carter’s Creek. It wasn’t one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of places, but it certainly wasn’t big. The main gravel road was crossed by a couple of dusty streets with a few houses scattered around. There was the pub, a police station, a couple of shops, a fire brigade and a bank. A building hidden by trees looked like a school and another, similarly shrouded, was either a church or a community hall.