Cheaters

by JR Carroll

  ‘Damn,’ she muttered.

  ‘You don’t know the number?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He never gave you a clue?’

  ‘No. Not that I recall. Bugger.’

  ‘Must be here then. He wouldn’t overlook that. Check the paperwork again.’

  She shot him a look of sharp annoyance: presumptuous bastard. How the fuck would he know what Danny would or wouldn’t do? But he was right: Danny must have concealed the number somewhere in the car. She searched again inside: in the glovebox, under the mats, the seats, the map compartment, behind the visors, every-fucking-where. Nothing.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat she put herself in Danny’s position: he’s just bought this whizz-bang suitcase that comes with a combination lock. Now he has to decide on a four-digit number, which of course he commits to memory. But does he write it down anywhere?

  Not in the car, apparently. Where else?

  The wallet.

  She got it from her Gearsack and examined all the bits of paper it contained. There were yellow credit card slips, ATM receipts, business cards, phone numbers on scraps of paper. Also, a receipt for one Samsonite suitcase, for which he had paid cash. She turned it over, and on the back there were four numbers written in red: 2779. The numbers meant something to her, but she couldn’t place them at first. Then it dawned – they were the last four digits of her phone number.

  When Michelle had unlocked the case and pressed the release catches, she hesitated. Robert was standing directly behind her. She wasn’t concerned about him at all, but being exposed to serious temptation can make people do crazy things. She looked over her shoulder at him and he was just standing there with his arms folded, a little back, kind of a respectful distance, as if he understood this was Michelle’s special moment. Satisfied, she even gave him the briefest flicker of a smile. Then she lifted the lid.

  The suitcase was packed tight with money. She looked at it for a second, then pushed the lid down, clutched her face and burst into tears. It was a completely spontaneous reaction, and as much a shock to herself as it was to Robert. She took a minute or two to compose herself, wiping her face with her hands, sniffing, catching her breath. When she was ready she lifted the lid again, and this time they both looked at it hard and long. So much fucking money. Robert’s throat turned dry, and his heart fluttered. The cash was all secured neatly with rubber bands in thick bundles, the bundles in single denominations of twenties, fifties and hundreds. And lodged in a tight space between the rows of cash was a sealed, business-size envelope, which Michelle withdrew: it had the name ‘Mischa’ written on it.

  She did not want to read it now, not with another person present. That was something she would do privately, at home, where she could respond to it as she pleased. She put the envelope in the inside pocket of her jacket, then locked the suitcase and said: ‘Next move. We leave the bike here, take the car back to your place –’

  ‘Wro-ong,’ the male voice behind her said. ‘I got alternative arrangements in mind.’

  That was strange. It didn’t even sound like Robert, and the style and tone of voice was not him at all. She twisted her neck around, her hands still on the suitcase, and saw there were two men standing there, not one. The second man, who had long, black straggly hair, like ringlets, and a pair of drooping sunglasses with large lenses so dark you could not see the eyes behind them, had a heavy calibre revolver pressed firmly into Robert’s kidneys.

  She turned to face him, and the man grinned at her behind his shades. He carried a backpack slung over a shoulder, and was wearing a black wool bomber jacket with beige sleeves and some kind of crest or insignia stitched on the front. Army camouflage pants.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Michelle said.

  ‘Ah, Mischa, Mischa,’ he said. ‘Don’t be deceived by appearances.’

  ‘Shit. Kenny,’ she breathed.

  ‘Actually, not,’ he said. ‘The name is now Raoul Koenigsberg. Keep still, mate,’ he said to Robert, who was squirming from the gun-barrel being pushed too hard into his flesh. ‘I said keep fuckin’ still, cunt, or I’ll punch a whacking big hole in you right now.’

  Robert stopped squirming.

  ‘Right,’ Kamp said. ‘Here’s the plan. First, Mischa, lock that boot lid and then get in the front passenger seat. Then you, soft-dick, get behind the wheel. You’re driving. Please observe the road laws – I’d hate you to get picked up by the fuckin’ cops.’

  They all got in the Mazda, Kamp positioning himself behind Michelle, allowing him to see between the front seats in case Robert tried something.

  When they were moving, Kamp said, ‘Give the man the ticket and the money at the tollbooth. And if either of you tries to give a signal, even if I think you are, I’ll kill you both and then I’ll kill him. Remember: after all I’ve done, Mischa, I don’t give a shit any more.’

  When they were out of the car park, Robert said, ‘Where am I supposed to be going?’

  ‘Cottles Bridge,’ Kamp said. ‘I know a nice, cosy mine shaft there.’

  ‘I have no idea how to get to Cottles Bridge,’ Robert said. He could feel his stomach turning to water. Michelle was very still. He looked at her. She was staring directly ahead and swallowing hard.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing to it,’ Kamp said. ‘Take the Western Ring Road all the way to Diamond Creek, keep going through Hurstbridge, take a left at Gravatt’s general store just before Cottles Bridge and then it’s about two k up the bush. There’s a big gum tree overhangs the track – stop there.’

  Robert got onto the Tullamarine Freeway and joined the traffic. The Mazda had no go and everything flashed past them. As they passed the Mickleham Road turn-off he said, ‘Why are we going to Cottles Bridge?’

  ‘I already told you, soft-dick.’

  ‘Why not just take the money and go? We can’t do anything to you.’

  ‘Is that it? You said your say now? So shut the fuck up and drive this pile of shit.’

  The Western Ring Road was a new freeway that spanned the city’s northern outskirts from west to east. It was also very efficient: within fifteen minutes they were approaching Diamond Creek. Robert was driving as slowly as he could without arousing suspicion, trying to buy time in the hope that some form of escape would present itself. He thought about deliberately going off the road and crashing the car, but this Kenny guy, whoever he was, would probably shoot them anyway. He was conscious of the flick knife in his pocket, and had made up his mind that he would try to use it on Kenny at some stage. It was their only chance. But when? Not while they were moving, so it was going to have to be when they got to Cottles Bridge. If a chance did not materialise he was just going to have to attack Kenny and hope he got in first. Michelle might get away even if he didn’t. He sneaked a look at Kenny in the rear-vision mirror: one hand played with the ringlets, the other, holding the gun, he couldn’t see. The face gave nothing away and Robert couldn’t even tell if he was looking at him or not from behind the shades.

  ‘Face the front, soft-dick,’ Kamp said. ‘Mind on the fuckin’ job.’

  Michelle said, ‘So you killed Danny, yeah?’

  ‘I killed Danny, yeah. In fact, Danny killed himself. He got in the faces of the wrong people. Mr Barry doesn’t like being fucked over and your Danny was fucking him big-time, wasn’t he? We have the proof of that, don’t we – or I have now. Danny was a shifty little prick who had it coming. A shifty, interfering little gook who went mouthing off to the fuckin’ cops over something that wasn’t even his fucking business.’

  ‘But Danny didn’t go to the cops.’

  ‘But Danny didn’t go to the cops,’ Kamp mimicked. ‘Who gives a blind fuck anyway. End of chat session, so shut your wordhole like a good girl. Like soft-dick here. He knows how to behave himself, don’t you, soft-dick?’

  Robert didn’t say anything. Getting any kind of leverage against this man was going to be a hard ask indeed. Then it hit him: it was the guy on the Ducati on the freeway,
the one with SEA EAGLES on his back. Christ, he must have been following them. He must have known …

  The immediate future was looking bleak.

  They had gone through Diamond Creek and were approaching Wattle Glen, the next town. Robert was shit-scared: his legs and arms were starting to tremble as if he were cold, or going cold turkey. He clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering. Michelle still seemed cool, composed: she had barely moved, and not uttered a word since that one and only exchange with Kenny, or whatever he called himself. Her hands were clasped on her lap. Jesus, she’s got more guts than I have. Through Wattle Glen, a tiny hamlet, Robert desperately hoping for the car to break down in the main street. No sign of a cop car. Next stop Hurstbridge, three kilometres away. Then Cottles Bridge – what was it? Gravatt’s general store, turn-off to a dirt road and a killing ground. Fuck.

  When they were halfway between Wattle Glen and Hurstbridge, Michelle put her hands in her jacket pockets, cleared her throat and said, ‘Can I ask a question?’

  Kenny gave her a grin, curled a lip and said, ‘Why not? Everyone’s entitled to one last question before they take off for the blue yonder. What’s yours, sweetheart?’

  In reply Michelle turned around and shot him five times, rapid fire, through her seat: bang bang bang bang bang. It was done instantly, even before Robert could open his mouth to scream. Kenny jerked and buckled as each slug smashed into his stomach. Michelle fired again, but the gun clicked, as if it were empty or the mechanism had jammed.

  ‘Fuck!’ she said.

  Trying to control the car, Robert watched her while she worked the slide of the little automatic, ejecting a round onto the floor. She removed the magazine, picked up the round, reloaded it, rammed the magazine back home, cocked the weapon, got on her knees, leaned over into the back, lifted Kenny’s face by the ringlets with her left hand, placed the barrel under his chin, in the soft flesh there, and pulled the trigger. Kenny shuddered all over and blood shot out of his mouth and nose. The bullet did not blow out the top of his head, but lodged itself deep inside it somewhere.

  Robert found his tongue: ‘Christ. Fuck.’ The wheel slipped from his sweaty hands. The Mazda swerved towards an embankment before he grabbed it back.

  ‘Watch the road,’ Michelle said. ‘Concentrate.’ She was still on her knees, pulling the body down so it was lying across the seat. Robert looked around. It was like a butcher’s shop. Oh, shit. His mind blanked out: What am I doing here? Who are these people?

  She had resumed her seat, and was putting the gun back in the pocket of her jacket. Robert thought: she brought it into my flat. She had her hand on it when she was at the bedroom door …

  ‘Keep driving,’ she said. ‘Behave as if everything is normal. Take some deep breaths and stay calm.’

  Stay calm. They were passing through Hurstbridge. Too many people around. Fuck, there’s a police car.

  ‘Steady,’ she said. ‘Slow down. That’s it. Watch the road. Don’t run anyone over.’

  When they were safely outside town he said, ‘What are we going to do now?’

  Michelle said, ‘He said something about a mine shaft, didn’t he? Can you remember how to get there?’

  ‘Think so. Gravatt’s general store. Two k up the track. Big gum tree.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Head for it.’

  27

  The big gum tree had dropped a branch across the road, blocking their path – as if to mark the place. Robert pulled over. They were on the crest of a hill, and could see either way for quite a distance. It did not look the kind of track that was often used: the fallen branch appeared to have been there for a while.

  They got out of the car and scanned the area. On which side of the road was the mine shaft? Robert thought, Christ, it could be anywhere. It could be a cross-country trek, a day’s fucking march. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find it. What do you do with a dead body if you haven’t got a mine shaft to drop it in? Michelle was scouting around on the left side of the road, which was the high side. The old wire fence had been stood on and squashed to the ground, and there was crusted mud on the wire strands: someone had used it recently. Kenny? Perhaps. He had said he knew a mine shaft, so maybe he had already used it. Maybe there was someone else in there now. That idea sent a chill through him.

  Michelle got the picnic rug out from under the suitcase, and then together they dragged and pushed Kenny’s already stiffening corpse out of the car and onto the rug. The back seat was awash with blood. Following the laws of gravity it had formed a thick, gluey pool where the seat and the backrest joined and was seeping through the narrow gap there and dripping onto the floor. Silently they wrapped him in the rug, lifted the dead weight and stepped over the fence. ‘We have to be quick about this,’ she said, and he nodded grimly. Apart from anything else the suitcase could not be left unattended for long, even if it was locked in the boot, along with Kenny’s backpack and revolver. Robert felt calm and rational now, mainly because Michelle was. She was having a calming influence on him. Bizarre, he thought, how he was so in tune with this gunslinging woman. She had the legs, one in each hand, while Robert wrestled with the heavy end, his hands hooked in Kenny’s armpits. Looking at her leather-clad back as she bashed her way through the scrub he felt only that he was in capable hands, that they would get away with this because she was so good.

  Soon they arrived at a kind of clearing where there were a few stunted stringybarks, some old bits of wood and a pile of excavated clay. Michelle walked through a thick tuft of grass, then had to stop to avoid falling in the hole, the approach to which was concealed by the grass.

  ‘Put him down,’ she said.

  They laid him on the hard ground, got their breath as they checked out the shaft. Michelle dropped a stone into it. They listened for a good while before there was a wet plink.

  They were about to throw him in when Michelle said, ‘Hang on. We don’t want the rug to catch something on the way down. Put him down again.’

  She opened the rug, revealing the gross, gout-spattered stiff, complete with wide-open, glazed eyes and a sort of pinched, grimacing expression on one side of the face. He was a total mess. While Robert was controlling his desire to be sick Michelle removed the belt from Kenny’s pants, re-covered him with the rug, then cinched the parcel with the belt, pulling it around his middle as tightly as she could. Then they dropped him in.

  Back in the car she said: ‘Let’s get out of this fucking hole.’

  ‘We should get rid of his bag. And the gun.’

  ‘I’ll look after those,’ she said. ‘Drive. Come on.’

  Robert performed a three-point turn and they headed back towards Hurstbridge. ‘All that fucking blood in the back,’ he said. ‘It makes me nervous. What if we get pulled over for a fucking roadworthy or something?’

  ‘Pray we don’t,’ she said.

  There was nothing else for it: Robert prayed, and prayed hard. But how could you expect God, presuming he exists, to cover you for a homicide? It was much better to pray to the evil one.

  ‘Do you want to go back to the airport for the bike?’ he said.

  ‘No. I’ll worry about that later. Take me back to my place. It’s in Prahran. Then you’ll have to get rid of the car somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll wash it out when I get home,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll take it to a wrecker’s. Should get about a hundred bucks for it.’

  She smiled at him for the second time. He couldn’t get over her eyes, her arrestingly sensual lips, the sheer, perfect, oval beauty of her face. To look at Michelle you would never think this is the kind of woman who shoots men and then drops them down mine shafts, all in a day’s work. No. You would think this was the kind of woman who has her picture taken a lot, who is seen at places, who is on the arm of some up-and-coming tycoon, who fucks whomever she pleases, and fucks them well.

  Nothing happened on the way back, not even conversation. It was fitting: after what they had done, no words were worth the speaking.
Michelle, in particular, had nothing to say. The deed was done and it had all worked out perfectly. That was all that mattered. She was certainly not going to tell Robert that she knew Kenny was watching her, that he had ransacked the house looking for Danny’s stash, that she had seen him hovering around. Kenny knew Michelle didn’t have it, but it was somewhere. So: set a mantrap. Go to this Robert Curlewis, persuade him to help her find the stash, offer a reward if he will come with her. Attract Kenny: she was sure he would be on their tail, that he would show himself once they’d turned up the stash. Which was exactly how it happened.

  She was sure, too, that Kenny would not expect her to be packing a shooter. He treated women like shit, he murdered Donna Pritchard, he was the scum of the earth. He would never imagine he could be killed by a mere bitch, a cunt. The presence of Robert would make Kenny think of him as his main rival. Robert would be the target of his big-noting and his threats and Michelle would be the quiet, terrified mouse in the corner. Then, when the time was right, she would spring the trap and Kenny would die without knowing what hit him. Robert was necessary. He was necessary before and after the killing, because Michelle knew she would never be able to lift and dispose of a dead man on her own. She needed an accomplice.

  Outside Michelle’s house, Robert sat quietly with the motor idling. He was feeling stunned, but otherwise fine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Michelle said.

  ‘I am. I can’t believe it, but there you are.’

  ‘Needless to say, not a word. Anywhere, to anyone.’

  ‘Not a syllable.’

  ‘Shake on it.’

  He took her hand. It was warm, yielding, receptive: a perfect woman’s hand. He had a brief vision of himself getting into bed with her and doing pleasant things. If you can murder with someone, why can’t you do the other with them? Isn’t it supposed to be a turn-on? It is in the movies.