Heroin Annie by Peter Corris Page A

celebrate.’
    â€˜Shut up’, Dean hissed. ‘Paul, open the door; Doc, stand back so you can get a good look at him.’ Dean reached inside his jacket and took out a .45 Colt automatic; he slid the hammer back to full cock and stood where he could get a clear shot at the door. He obviously knew what he was doing, and I felt even more under-equipped and unready with the .38 tucked down behind.
    Paul opened the door, and the man who came through it conjured up pictures of the veldt and sjamboks : he was about six feet tall with wide, beefy shoulders; his face was reddish and broad, topped with thin, sandy hair. He had that blue-eyed, mass-produced in Holland look, which repels most people not of the same stamp.
    Doc wasn't repelled; a smile spread over his pasty face; stretched tight, his lips were like a pair of peeled almonds.
    â€˜Hendrick, dear friend,’ he cooed. ‘Hendrick, is it really you?’
    The newcomer didn't smile back; his pale eyes flicked around the room, rested on me for an uncomfortable time, and then settled into a neutral, business-like glare.
    â€˜I thought it'd be you, Doc’, he said. ‘It had the smell, you know.’ His accent was three shades thicker than Sam's but it was formed under the same African skies. He moved forward like a man about to take control. His grey suit would have been conservative except for the over-bold red check in it. There was a gun bulge under the left lapel and a bulge of another kind in a side pocket.
    â€˜Don't be like that, Henk’, Doc said soothingly. ‘We're all friends here. Let's get down to business.’
    I took a side long look at Annie; her cigarette was burning away unheeded and extra strain seemed to have stripped the flesh from the bones of her face. I didn't know what sort of act she'd expected from her contact, but it clearly didn't include pleasant greetings from Doc. A double-cross was in the air and she could sense it. Dean acted as if comprehension was no concern of his; he held the .45 at the ready and waited.
    Hendrick ignored Doc's patter and looked again at me. ‘Who's he?’
    â€˜Dealer’, Doc said, ‘small time, nothing to interest you Henk.’
    I took a chance. ‘Not so small’, I said. ‘Fair sized consignment, first grade stuff.’ The heroin was lying on a chair arm and I pointed to it. ‘Sample.’
    The pale eyes seared me like acid. ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Interesting.’ He walked over to Annie, took the cigarette from between her fingers and dropped it into her glass.
    â€˜Dirty habit, Annie’, he said. His big white hand came up and he took a grip on her left breast. Annie looked down.
    â€˜I'm glad it's you we're dealing with Henk’, Doc said rubbing his hands briskly. ‘Annie had some story about a Vietnamese. You don't look like a Viet.’
    Hendrick laughed. ‘Well, Annie wasn't completely in the picture.’ He squeezed her breast harder. ‘It's my job to get in touch with all these desperados. But Doc here is a gentleman compared to some. I do the community a service by keeping him in business.’
    Sam was looking at him with her mouth slightly open—another one not repelled. Paul was well away with the grass; he'd smoked most of the joint and he was lying out on a sofa as if he was ready to levitate. Dean was still at his post.
    Doc spread and waved his hands like the Pope bestowing a benediction. ‘There's no better smack than copper smack, let's see it, Hendrick.’
    He moved away from Annie and unbuttoned his jacket; the black butt of the gun curved out near his shirt pocket. He nodded at Dean, ‘You, put the popgun over there near the telly and then go back near the door.’ Dean did as he was told after a nod from Doc. Hendrick pulled out a package from his pocket and tossed it to Doc. It was wrapped in plastic, and when Doc had unwound it a couple of dozen small, linked