Make Me Rich by Peter Corris Page A

Catchpole and “thecop” were evidently old hands at the discreet conversation. Liam would have picked up the elements in the slammer.
    When they got ready to go it seemed to be at “the cop’s” say-so. I had my back turned as they went past me and I let them get well clear before I followed. Catchpole had on the white shoes which were his trade mark, and they twinkled in the multi-coloured lights from the shop windows as he trotted along. He was shorter than Dottie Williams, who was a head shorter herself than the other two men, even in her high heels. She was wide in the beam and wore a tight skirt with a split in the back; she and Guthrie fell back behind Catchpole and “the cop”. She tottered on her four inch heels, Ray steadied her and once she let her hand drift out and touch him on the buttocks.
    The streets weren’t crowded and the road traffic was light; I was quiet enough in my Italian shoes with the rubber heels, but I kept well back and thought about crossing the road to tail less obviously. They were about fifty metres ahead when, abruptly, they turned a corner. I heard a car door slam and I increased my pace. I rounded the corner, hugging the building line: the two men waiting for me had arranged themselves across the footpath to block me. They were both big, one in shirtsleeves, the other wearing a jacket and tie.
    â€œStop right there, you!” The jacketless one held up his hand like a traffic cop.
    I didn’t stop. I side-stepped and tried to get around them on the road. A car turned the corner then and crowded me back toward them. The man in the shirtsleeves told me to stop again; he wore a pistol in a hip holster and he had the cop’s voice as well as gestures. I had a pistol too, but if you’re smart you don’t duel with the police in the Cross after dark.
    In fact, if you can, you run; which was what I did. They were both bulky and slow and the adrenaline rushingthrough me countered the alcohol, or perhaps blended with it and made me nimble. I feinted to one side, ducked under the swinging arm of the man in the jacket and got past.
If they shoot, I’ll stop
, I told myself as I ran down the steep road. They didn’t shoot and they didn’t shout a warning, which told me that their business wasn’t legitimate. The camera bounced in my pocket, the beer swilled in my belly and the gun stuck into my backbone. But I had my light shoes on and I felt I could run, because they were running after me.
    The two of them clattered behind me and I heard one wasting his breath with a stream of obscenities as he ran. It was downhill and around the corner and into Elizabeth Bay Road. I had a discouraging flash of memory of the one time I’d run in the City to Surf race; I’d fallen twice and pulled up lame, but I kept going then, and now. Now seemed about a thousand times more important. I had good wind, the product of my year off cigarettes, and was fairly fit from regular tennis with Hilde; I felt I was gaining on them. But an uphill stretch would even us out—I never was any good on the hills.
    The streets were empty of people and cars. A man sitting on a bus stop bench said something as I ran past but I didn’t catch it. It certainly wasn’t “I’ll take care of this.” I wanted there to be more people to cut down on the risk of shooting, but everyone was inside worshipping the VCR. All I could do was try not to run in a straight line.
    I risked a look back and saw that I had gained some more, almost enough to think about hiding. My heart was pumping and the breath was loose in my chest. I didn’t have much more left in me. I avoided the street that led down to the dead-end of the water, turned a corner and the street name jumped out at me—Billyard Avenue. The street where you live. I had the number in my head and I sprinted for it, trying to get there before they made the turn. The buildingwas a huge, white