Heroin Annie by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online Page A

was occupied by Samantha Coleman and her name plate was a fetching shade of pink.
    I went up two flights of stairs and knocked on her door. I could hear disco music playing inside, it was loud and I had to knock again, hard. The door opened to the length of its chain, about eight inches. She was barefoot and wearing a Chinese dressing-gown; her eyes were hollow and the dark roots of her hair were showing. She looked at me, taking in the well-worn clothes and face, including the black eye.
    â€˜Yes?’ Her voice was husky, accented. I caught a glimpse of suitcases on the floor behind her.
    â€˜Annie Parker’, I said. ‘Paul, you and a little guy with lifts in his shoes and a white tie.’
    Her eyes opened injudiciously; a network of tiny wrinkles sprang into life around them. ‘So’, she said.
    â€˜I want to talk to Annie, I wanted to talk to her last night.’ I lifted my hand to touch the damaged eye.
    â€˜Oh, it's you, Mr Nosey. Go away before you get hurt.’
    I brought out Primo's sachet and held it up for her to see. I looked around the deserted landing before I spoke.
    â€˜First quality shit’, I said. ‘Guaranteed.’
    â€˜You're selling?’
    â€˜Bargain basement, while stocks last. But I only deal with little orphan Annie.’
    â€˜I'll have to make a phone call.’
    I waved my hand airily and the door closed. It was the sort of wait the weak-willed fill in with a cigarette. I filled it with doubt and fear. I waited longer than a phone call should have taken, unless she was discussing the pricing of oil. When the door opened she'd arranged her hair, put on her make-up and slipped into jeans and a sweater. She kept the chain on while she wriggled her feet into a pair of high-heeled sneakers.
    â€˜Have you got a car?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I'll take you to Annie, but I should tell you something first.’ She put her hand on the chain and jiggled it a little. ‘We'll be seeing a man who knows every narc in Australia, every one. Still want to go?’
    I nodded; she slipped the chain and came out pulling the door shut behind her. She went down the steps wriggling her shoulders and swinging her bum as if she was trying to get herself in the mood for something exciting. I followed, watching the show with a mixture of feelings—arousal, amusement and pity.
    In the car she wrinkled her nose at the smell of age and neglect. I scrabbled in the glove box and came up with a cigarette packet containing three stand-by joints. I lit one and passed it to her.
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜Where are we going?’
    â€˜Wait and see.’ She sucked the smoke deep and held it before offering me the joint.
    â€˜No. I mean what general direction; I've got to drive it haven't I?’
    â€˜We going north, man.’ The accent again, South African, Rhodesian?
    â€˜North coast or north inland?’
    â€˜Coast, what d'you think. Palm Beach … oops, well, there it is, boy.’ She was enjoying the grass and she gave me a smile as she waved a hand signalling me to start the car. I started it and drove north.
    â€˜You don't smoke?’ she said as she stubbed the joint out. ‘Sometimes, not when I'm working. Where are you from, Samantha, South Africa?’
    She giggled. ‘Close. Salisbury, Salisbury Sam that's me. Greatest country in the world till the blacks took over.’
    â€˜Good times, eh?’
    â€˜The best man, the best. The best of everything. Can I have some more of that grass?’
    â€˜Help yourself.’ She lit up and settled back to smoke. I drove and thought. We took the turn at Pymble and headed for Mona Vale. I pulled the car up at a small mixed-business shop set back a bit from the road. Samantha looked sleepily at me and I told her I wanted chewing gum. In the shop I bought a packet of corn flour, some bananas in a plastic bag, the evening paper and the gum. I put about a quarter pound of the flour in