Heroin Annie by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online

disposable kind. I held it up.
    â€˜Diabetic, is he?’
    â€˜No, no’, he stammered. There were three roaches in an ashtray by the bed.
    I looked at the man who was fiddling with the cord of the dressing gown. ‘What's his name?’
    â€˜Paul.’
    â€˜Paul what?’
    â€˜I don't know.’
    â€˜Where did he go?’
    â€˜Don't know.’
    â€˜Don't know much, do you?’
    â€˜I don't know nothing. He stayed here a few weeks, paid his rent sometimes, not lately. I'm glad to be rid of him.’
    There was no point in pressing it. I put the gun away and left. Things were stirring in Annie's little circle and it wasn't too hard to guess what was causing the movement.
    The next stop was Primo Tomasetti's tattooing parlour which is just down the way from my office. For a consideration Primo lets me park my car in the yard behind his establishment. I pushed the door open and entered Primo's surrealistic cavern: the parlour consists of a one big room which is decorated over every inch with designs, large and small, which Primo promises to transfer to the skin. His creations range from the hetero-sexual—nautical to the most vivid, eastern-philosophy-inspired fantasies. I usually gape a bit on entering Primo's because he is capable of changing the motif of a wall overnight: I once saw disgusting imaginings involving mermaids changed into inter-galactic, time-capsule obscenities over ten hours. Primo paints on the walls and sticks needles into skin. There was a cowbell hanging from the ceiling and I rang it. Primo leapt into the room from somewhere dark and gloomy behind: that's how he moves, in jumps, except when he's wielding his tool of trade.
    â€˜Primo, caro, bonno sierra!’
    He winced and adjusted the bow tie, spotted, red on white, he wears with the business shirt, the white coat and the dark slacks.
    â€˜Cliff, you are the least talented linguist I have ever had inflicted on me.’ He reeled off some liquid sounds with gestures, and I watched admiringly.
    â€˜Mondo cane’, I said, ‘L'adventura, Hiroshima mon amoure. Primo, old friend, I need your help.’
    â€˜At last!’ He clasped his hands together and looked skywards like a bishop. ‘I see a Walther PPK, gun metal, under the left nipple.’
    â€˜I see a little plastic bag, a sealed sachet maybe, colourless, with some white powder within.’
    â€˜Stick to the wine and the Scotch, Cliff; it takes longer and you can still be interested in girls and food.’
    â€˜Primo, I wouldn't touch it unless I had something terminal, you know that. Just now, for a reason, I need a little leverage. Come on, amigo, I'll pay you now and you keep ten per cent if I return it.’
    He looked at me like a parachutist inspecting his pack, looking for wrinkles, folds, imperfections that shouldn't be there. Then he shrugged and ducked back into the darkness. I examined the murals some more while I waited; Primo does not celebrate the drug culture, his preoccupations are carnal and his mission is the cure. He gives junk away, sells it, cuts it, feeds people, pays their hospital bills. The junkies respect him and very seldom stand over him, the cops leave him alone—he has a plan, a design, which no one else has ever understood but which most people take on trust. He came back with a flat, plastic square the size of a single serve of instant coffee. There was a teaspoon of white powder inside.
    â€˜First quality shit’, he said, sounding like a dealer except that he waved my money aside.
    I patted his arm, put the stuff in my pocket and went back to the car. My head was aching again as I pulled up in front of the flats in Double Bay. They must have been expensive to buy or rent, because the residents were proud enough of their occupancy to put their names over the letterboxes. There was a Major Cahill, a Robert Something, a Henry Something-else and a Mr and Mrs and a Solomon Isaacs. The sixth flat