Heroin Annie by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online Page B

the plastic bag and wrapped it up in some sheets of newspaper. On the way to the car I stuffed the package down in the bottom of a little bin outside the shop. I got back in the car and handed Samantha a banana.
    â€˜Drek’, she said, so I gave her some chewing gum instead.
    We rolled on up through the northern beaches playspots until we hit the biggest playspot of them all. It was nearly ten, and everything along the strip was going full blast—it was all chicken fat and pinballs and the popping of cold, cold cans. Samantha directed me off the main road and down a few side streets which were discreetly bordered by ti-tree and money. After the last turn, the ocean stretched away in front of us like a vast velvet cloud.
    The house was one of those structures that have been pinned to a hill like a butterfly to a board. The steps down to it were steep and the house touched land only along its rear wall; the rest was supported by pillars which must have been fifty feet high at the front. Before I left the car I made a show of putting the big Colt into the clip under the dashboard. Sam watched, looking bored, but I had the short barrel .38 tucked in safe under my waistband at the back.
    They were all there in the bright living room watching TV and drinking Bacardi rum—Annie beanpole Paul, the guy in the leather jacket and the near midget. Shorty was wearing a lime-green safari suit tonight, and highly polished boots with Cuban heels. Sam headed straight for the bottle and poured herself a big slug over ice. She offered it to me and I shook my head.
    â€˜Hello, all,’ I said. ‘Hello, Annie.’
    She glanced up from her drink and shrugged. Leather jacket stood up and walked over to me; he had acne scars and a gold front tooth and he looked tough. I tried to look tough back.
    â€˜Name?’ he said.
    â€˜No.’
    He flashed the tooth and spoke to Shorty. ‘You know him, Doc?’
    Doc pushed back a strand of the stringy hair and looked at me with his pale eyes. The flesh around his face and neck was like soft, white dough.
    â€˜No’, he said. ‘He's not a narc. Don't like the look of him, but.’
    I shrugged and took out the heroin. ‘I know Sammy and Annie and Paul and I'm pleased to meet Doc; who're you?’
    â€˜Sylvester Stallone’, he said. ‘Let's have a look at the shit.’ He reached for it, but I moved it out of reach.
    â€˜You look, I talk to Annie.’
    â€˜How much have you got?’ Doc asked. His voice was deep and resonant, belying his appearance.
    â€˜One kilo, pure.’
    â€˜Dean, you'd better have a look at that shit’, Doc said. Annie, talk to the man.’
    I tossed the sachet to Dean and motioned to Annie to come out on to the front balcony with me. She got up and moved sluggishly through the French windows. The others gathered around Dean ignoring the television and their drinks—they were communing with their God. The balcony ran the width of the house; it was about eight feet deep and glassed in for half of its length. Where we stood was open—out in front of us there was just the dark night and the sea. Annie stood with her back to the rail, the cigarette in her hand glowed like an angry red eye. I moved up close to her, took her hand and moved it around to the small of my back so she could feel the gun.
    â€˜Feel that? It's a .38, does nasty things. I'm going to use it on some of your friends if I have to.’
    â€˜Who the hell are you?’
    â€˜My name's Hardy. You wouldn't remember me, but I live near your Mum in Glebe. She's hired me to find you and help you if I can.’
    â€˜What are you doing peddling shit, then?’ Her breath was heavy with tobacco and alcohol; there was a rank smell from her clothes as if they'd been slept in. She was also trembling violently.
    â€˜That was a blind to get me here. You're in a bad way, Annie, you must know that.’
    â€˜Sure. What do you reckon you