Free Faces in the Rain by Roland Perry

bumping its way out of the carpark towards the city. As I descended the stairs it occurred to me that they might be cunning enough to pretend to leave and have one of them stay behind.
    I reached ground level and the walkway round to the Members Reserve. Something moved behind me. A door was opening. I propped and aimed the Heckler. An elderly cleaner dropped a bucket and raised his hands. Water spilled to the concrete and streamed towards me.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said lamely, ‘thought you were somebody else.’
    I lowered the weapon and trotted down the corridor towards lights and the Members Reserve where couples were ascending stairs to the dining room. I was still mindful of the possibility of a trap as I tried to hide the gun in a coat pocket again without taking my hand off the handle. A surgeon would have to remove it later.
    Two men were pushing out of a revolving turnstile. One said to his companion, ‘We’ve both had too much to drink. Better get a taxi.’
    â€˜You’re right, but where?’
    â€˜Just up ’ere.’
    I watched them stagger towards cabs waiting outsidethe ground. I followed, ran past them and jumped in one before them.
    â€˜Where to, mite?’ the driver said, putting down
Truth
and blinking his eyes at me. He was Greek, about thirty and muscular. The name on the dash was Taki Tirodakis.
    â€˜Homicide HQ, St Kilda Road,’ I said.
    â€˜Sure, mitey,’ he said, and glanced at me twice, ‘what’s the trouble?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    He drove off.
    â€˜You a cop?’ he asked with a worried frown.
    â€˜No.’
    It was eight p.m., the time I was supposed to meet Cassie Morris and two hours before my rendezvous with Benns.
    We reached Homicide inside seven minutes and just as the taxi was cruising to the entrance I spotted the Fiat, sitting about fifty metres away on the other side from the police building. I slid down in the seat.
    â€˜Keep going,’ I hissed, ‘keep moving!’
    â€˜OK, mite,’ he said, ‘keep your shirt on.’
    He kept giving me funny looks. When we were two blocks beyond Police HQ, he pulled the taxi up.
    â€˜I want you out, mite,’ he said, pushing open my passenger door.
    â€˜Not yet,’ I said, ‘get me right out of here.’
    â€˜Out!’ he shouted and pushed me in the shoulder.
    I pulled out the gun. He recoiled.
    â€˜Take me to Caroline Street South Yarra, now!’ I yelled.
    â€˜Sure, mite, sure, sure, don’ worry . . . please, I got a wife and kids . . .’ He tore a photo from a shirt pocket and dropped it in my lap.
    I wasn’t about to create orphans. On the other handI didn’t fancy being dropped too close to my tormentors in the Fiat. What if the occupants – Cochard and Maniguet – had a connection with Benns? I dismissed it, but the thought crept back. Farrar had said the police would be keeping a surveillance on me. Was it just possible that the French had been informed of my whereabouts? I tried to consider why I would be targeted for murder, but the possibilities seemed farfetched. Yet nothing explained how the Fiat happened to be waiting for me. Or was it waiting for me? I was sure it was the same car, after getting a glimpse of the registration, MUT 346, several times. Would it sit there for two hours? Would they he so smart as to anticipate me arriving early? They had, after all, out-thought me on the train journey.
    As we slipped into Alexandra Avenue I couldn’t rule out the chance that there just could be a link between Benns and the French hitmen, which left me precisely nowhere. I had less than two hours to decide what to do and who to trust.
    Right then I trusted no one, not even my new best friend Taki Tirodakis, who let me out in Caroline Street some two hundred metres from my destination in Lawson Grove. Taki didn’t want to take my fare. I insisted and gave him a twenty-dollar tip.
    â€˜That’s so