Heroin Annie (8 page)

The luck of Clem Carter

Clem Carter was the welterweight boxing champion of the Maroubra Police-Citizens Boy's Club in 1955. The title didn't mean much to most people, but it meant a hell of a lot to Clem; and it meant something to me too because I was the one he beat in the final of the tournament. He was a tough kid, Clem, working at fifteen as a brickie's mate; and he had a couple of stadium fights in the next few years while I was finishing school and not finishing university. Then I went into the army and Clem went to gaol. He got three years for GBH and he told me later that he had so many fights inside that he had to serve the whole time.

After fighting, cars were Clem's big thing—when he was young he stole them, later he built and raced them. I met him a few times in the early seventies when he was racing stockcars; the boxing scars on his face were overlain with the marks of racing injuries, and he was drinking heavily. But he was cheerful—he was newly married and heading up north to manage a new speedway. Then someone told me that he'd been sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery and then he was in the news—for escaping.

I didn't think much about it. I was working on a mildly interesting job, trying to locate a union official who'd gone missing with a certain amount of money. It was hard to tell whether or not he was more crooked than the people who wanted him. I got home late this night, tired from covering some far-flung addresses, and dry. I hadn't had a drink all day. I edged the old Falcon into the small yard at the back of my house, got out, locked it, and felt the hard metal bite into my ear.

‘Put your gun on top of the car, Cliff.'

I did, and turned around slowly. He was always a fast mover, Clem; he slid around, grabbed the gun and dropped the length of pipe he'd been holding. He could hit too, and got mean when he was hurt, so I smiled at him.

‘Hi, Clem, get sick of the food?'

He jerked his head at the house. ‘Inside.' He'd beaten me easily when he didn't have a gun, and there was only a crummy electro-plated cup riding on it, so I didn't fancy my chances now. I walked to the back door and opened it, went in, turned on lights and opened the fridge.

‘Drink, Clem?'

He raised the gun. ‘No, you either.'

‘Christ, have a heart, I'm bloody dry!'

‘I haven't had a drink in five years, Cliff.'

‘You used to like a drink.'

‘Yeah. Make some coffee; I see you've got the fixings. Have you got a thermos?'

I said I had, and got it out. I felt more than a little relieved, it sounded as if Clem was planning to travel. I put my car keys on the bench to help the idea along. The coffee pot is big and I gave it a full charge; and then I took a good look at Clem. He looked fit; he was quite brown and his body, under the prison denims and a knee-length plastic raincoat, looked hard. He looked a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him and that could only mean one thing—he'd kept fit for a reason. His face confirmed that; his jaw was set firm under his battered nose and he emanated purpose and plan. I fiddled around with the coffee things, wondering what to say to him; I didn't think Clem would shoot me, but gaol does strange things to people and guns do go off. ‘How'd you get out, Clem?' He gave a short, sour laugh. ‘You ever been in there?'

‘Yeah, just on remand, week or so.'

‘Remand! A playground. You should try the real thing. Well, I sucked up and got a job in the kitchen. I fixed one guard and a couple of the cons.'

I poured the coffee and pushed the sugar across to him. I haven't used sugar since I went on my fitness kick a year ago. Clem ignored the sugar, sipped the coffee black. ‘Must have cost you', I said.

‘Right.' He looked at me carefully and put the gun down by his cup. ‘It's funny that, I had to get a mate to sell one of my cars. Joannie … ah, never mind, I'll sort it out.'

I drank some coffee, still wanting a real drink. ‘What're you going to do now, Clem?'

He picked up the gun. ‘You're driving me north. When we get there I'm going to use this on a man.'

‘That's crazy. That's life!'

‘I didn't do that job, Cliff, he put me in.'

‘Still …'

‘Don't chat about it! Five years … what've you been doing in the last five years?'

I finished my coffee, didn't answer.

‘A few birds, Cliff? Bit of travel? I remember you used to read a lot; well, I've had plenty of time to read and to think. So I know what I'm going to do and I don't want to bloody debate it with you. Okay?'

I nodded, Clem had done a bit of self-improving in prison; he'd never have said ‘debate' before. He was all the more dangerous for it. I started to pour more coffee but he waved the gun. ‘Stick it in the thermos and make up some food, we've got a long drive.'

I put together some bread, salami and cheese while Clem watched me. I took out the flagon of white wine but he shook his head.

‘Let's go and get some clothes, we're still about the same size.'

‘A bit of luck that', I said.

He grinned at me. ‘Not really; I told you I've thought this out.'

We weren't welterweights anymore, more like heavy middles; but a pair of my jeans and a shirt and windcheater fitted Clem well enough. I could have taken a chance while he was dressing, but he was still very quick and I knew I wouldn't have been able to use the gun on him anyway. It was a weird feeling; I was alarmed by his manner and his possession of the gun but I couldn't really believe that old Clem would harm me, and in a way I was glad of his company.

We went back downstairs and listened to the news. He listened intently but not with that inflated self-importance that leads criminals to keep scrapbooks and to want to be on TV: Clem wanted to find out what the cops were doing. The report was vague; Clem was described as dangerous and the police were appealing for help. It sounded as if they didn't have any ideas:

‘They'll be looking for you up north, Clem'. I said.

He rubbed his hand across his face. Some bristle was showing through but his last shave must have been a very close one. ‘I know', he said. ‘But they're pretty dim up there. I could get in and out with my eyes closed.'

Suddenly I felt tired; I didn't want to go cowboying off north with Clem Carter while half the New South Wales police force chased us. I wanted a drink, several drinks, and I felt more like reading about chases in Desmond Bagley than being in one. So I tried it; while Clem was checking the food parcel I made a grab at the gun. It wasn't much of a try, but even so Clem's speed surprised me: he side-stepped, kept the gun up out of harm's vay and hit me in the pit of the stomach with his left. It was something like the left he'd dropped me with at Maroubra more than twenty years back and it had the same effect. I went down hard, and stayed down.

‘You shouldn't have tried that, Cliff, he said nastily. ‘I can beat you anytime.'

I sat on the floor, feeling my guts re-arrange themselves. ‘I know, Clem, I just don't like guns pointing at me. What about a truce?'

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What sort of truce?'

‘Put the gun away and I'll do what you say short of getting myself in too much trouble. I'll stick with you. If you shoot at anyone I'll run away. If you shoot at me I'll try to do you in any way I can.'

He gave the sour laugh again. ‘Okay. I'll let you drop off as soon as I can.'

We picked up the food, turned off the lights and went out to the car. Clem set the safety and put the .38 in the waistband of the jeans. ‘You drive', he said. ‘Take it easy, there's no hurry.'

I worked the car out and we drove in silence through Glebe and Ultimo and on to the Harbour Bridge. There was rain in the air, threatening in the dark, purple-streaked sky, but the roads were still dry and the traffic was light. I told Clem I had to stop for petrol. He didn't like it much and made me keep going up the Pacific Highway until we hit a self-service place. Clem huddled down as I got out of the car.

‘Don't do anything silly, Cliff.'

‘Hell no, this is fun. Do you want anything, smokes?'

‘No, I've got no vices now. Just get on with it.'

I fuelled up, checked the water and oil and tried to think of something clever but nothing came. When I got back in the car I handed Clem ten dollars.

‘What's this for?'

‘Give it back to me.'

He did. ‘Now I'll consider you a client, Clem. It's as illegal as hell but it makes me feel better.'

‘You're full of shit, Cliff', he said but he seemed to relax a bit. The gesture was pointless, a farce, but it lead him to talk about his mission.

Clem had been managing the Gismore speedway and making a fair fist of it for six months. They were taking a few thousand dollars a meeting and the prospects looked good. He bought a house which was attached to an older timber mill and this gave him a big covered space for a workshop. In his spare time he worked on improvements to his cars. According to Clem it was the owner of the speedway, a guy named Riley, who came up with the idea of holding meetings for six days running, a sort of tournament for the different models of cars. For the last meeting, Riley gave Clem the night off. He went home, collected his wife and set off for the movies, but the car broke down up in the hills. Clem was still working on it when the cops came. The speedway had been knocked over with close to $30,000 in the till. Riley, who'd taken a shotgun blast in the shoulder, identified Clem as one of the heavies. He also said that the six day meeting had been Clem's idea. The cops found a dust coat, mask and a sawn-off shotgun with one barrel recently discharged in Clem's car. Clem's only witness was his wife, Joannie, and she didn't impress anyone. They searched the house and found letters from Riley giving Clem hefty advances on his salary. Clem said he'd never seen the gun or the mask or the coat before, nor the letters. Riley spent some time in hospital and he closed the speedway. The town lost jobs and entertainment. No one wanted to start a Clem Carter fan club—and he got fifteen years for armed robbery and wounding.

The way he told it impressed me. Clem was never known for his imagination and the story hung together pretty well. A few things bothered me though.

‘This Riley'd be stealing his own money, wouldn't he?'

‘No. He had big overheads, loans, salaries, taxes; this was a gift.'

‘Wouldn't he have moved on by now?'

Clem was staring ahead up the road. ‘You'd reckon he would, wouldn't you? But he hasn't. I expect I'll find out why when I get there.'

‘He'll move when he hears you're out.'

‘I've got a mate up there, he'll keep me informed.'

‘I still don't see what you reckon to get out of it.'

‘Revenge.'

‘Bullshit. You're going to kill a man for revenge, bullshit!'

‘All right, Cliff, I'll tell you. I'm not going to kill him, I just said that to sound hard. You're a smart man, you must be able to guess why I'm going after him.'

‘The money', I said.

‘Right. He hasn't touched it, it's still around somewhere and I'm going to ask him nicely where it is.'

‘And then …'

‘You meet some interesting people in gaol. If I can get my hands on the money I can get out of the country, no worries.'

‘If you can get the money it'll prove you didn't do the job.'

He sneered at me. ‘How?'

I could see his point—after some thought-chances were if he walked into a police station with a bag full of money they'd say thanks very much, and send him back to the slammer. Still, I was liking it less and less; it sounded like unpleasantness followed by deserted beaches or airfields. I like to do my travelling in the daylight with a lot of people taking the same risks. As I was thinking, I raised the speed a bit.

‘Take it easy, Cliff, I don't want to draw any attention. I want Riley to sweat, but I don't want him to know whether I went north, south, east or west.'

We got to Newcastle around midnight, and I watched the motel signs flashing by and thought about sleep. I put the question to Clem and he uncorked the thermos for an answer. That worked for a while, but after an hour on the open road I was sagging and letting the car drift a little.

‘Okay, let's not be statistics', Clem said. ‘Pull over when I tell you and we'll rig something up.'

We turned off the highway down a dirt road which had trees, widely spaced, growing alongside. We went in through the trees and pulled up about thirty feet back from the road, pretty well sheltered. Clem rummaged around in the back of the car and came up with a long piece of flex. He wound the middle part of it around my ankle and took the two ends to tie around his foot. I stretched out in the front seat and he took the back. There was a coat and a blanket in the car and he slung the blanket over to me. It was cold and uncomfortable, and I soon needed a piss. Clem's breathing was steady but whether he was asleep or not I couldn't tell. Eventually I slept in snatches; but I was cramped, stiff and bursting at first light when Clem stirred in the back.

‘Have a good night, Cliff?'

I grunted something uncomplimentary and he laughed. ‘You should try a stay at the Bay, Cliff, this is a picnic' He untied us and pushed his door open. ‘Splash the boots, Cliff, and let's get moving.'

He looked pretty fresh, considering, although his stubble was darker and there was some tension in his movements. He kept patting the gun in his waistband. We pissed, and ate some of the food while the day got started; the sky was clear and even this distance north of Sydney there was a different taste to the air, fruity. I moved towards the door but he put his hand on my arm.

‘I'll drive.'

I shrugged and got in. He tapped the wheel and gear shift as if getting the weight and balance of them, and then we were off out of the trees, bumping down the track and out onto the highway. Clem drove the way he fought; very smooth, and with a feeling of power kept in reserve. He kept the speed down; I'd spent some money on the Falcon recently and it was going along nicely at sixty. I was thinking that Clem's luck was holding when the trouble started. A motorcycle cop passed us and then dropped back. Clem passed him and the cop drew up alongside and took a good look at us. He waved us in and Clem put his foot down. I looked back and saw the cop's face which was white and set under the goggles. He hunched over the handlebars and came after us with a siren screaming.