Free Heroin Annie by Peter Corris Page A

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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Don't do anything silly, Cliff.’
    â€˜Hell no, this is fun. Do you want anything, smokes?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What's this for?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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