Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “What are you on about?” Martin got up from the couch, irritated by her droning complaints. He snarled, “What the fuck have you ever done for me? Fuck off, bitch!”

  Deanne stomped back to her bedroom and slammed the door shut.

  The image of the baby elephant being brought down by the two lions came back to Martin. Lions were a very awesome predator, he decided. Stupid fucking elephant, he thought.

  By six that afternoon, Deanne had flagged down a taxi on Pittwater Road, and was on her way to the Ferry Terminal. She finished doing her make-up in the back of the cab. Her driver was a past middle-aged over-weight man, balding with long grey hairs pasted down with some sticky cream. She smelled his sour body odour windblown from the open car windows. He kept sneaking a peek from the mirror. Deanne’s skirt was very short, and she happily obliged the peeping tom driver, with a bit of random widening of her legs. Maybe she could con him out of a few dollars.

  “Sorry, doll, a tenner is all I got, thought I had a twenty.” She apologised and produced a blue note. The obese driver grunted, and reluctantly snatched the ten dollar note from her.

  “Maybe I’ll see you later, eh. When I come back from the city,” The dark-haired hooker seductively suggested. She spied the cabbie’s hope from the rear mirror as she slid out of the seat.

  A loud knocking on the door startled Martin. After a few seconds of silence the knocking continued. “Yeah. I’m coming.” Martin jumped from under the covers. “Didn’t you take your fucking keys?” he sneered. No answer. The door knocking stopped.

  Martin reefed the door open expecting his mother to be standing in front of him, drunk and stoned with a fag in her mouth. He was surprised to be confronted by two uniformed coppers.

  “Does Deanne Villier live here?” the female police officer asked.

  “Why?”

  “Please answer the question,” the older male police officer instructed.

  “Yeah, she does. What do you want with her?”

  “Are you a relative of Deanne Villier?” The next question was from the male police officer.

  “She’s me mum.”

  “I am very sorry to inform you that your mother was found this morning. Deceased, I’m afraid,” the officer said, robotically.

  “Oh.” Martin’s only words as he retreated back into the unit still holding the door knob. Then, “How did she die?”

  “We’re not really at liberty to disclose details at this stage.” The tone of the answer reminded Martin of a telephone answering service. To hear this option again please press two.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, aren’t you? Come on, was she done in? Did she get run over by a bus? Fucking tell me something!”

  The female constable came out with it, “We believe she overdosed on drugs. She still had a needle stuck in her arm.” She fidgeted on her feet and looked at her superior.

  “Look, mate, she was found in a hotel room in Glebe, I am really sorry to say. Coroner will be out later to investigate the exact cause of death.” What was the point of glossing over, or beating around the bush? Poor bastard’s mother was a drug addict and a whore. The copper thought to himself.

  “We will inform Department of Community Services. DOCS will send someone around to help you,” the female constable informed Martin. Then the police officers nodded courteously and left.

  Martin shut the door as the duo left. He stood for a moment absorbing the information. Fuck off, not staying here waiting for those DOC cunts to show up.

  It hadn’t been the first time he had left his mother’s side. Martin remembered fleeing the daily rants and violent outbursts of his mother’s ex-boyfriend. That fucking arsehole prick shacking up with his mother, I hate his guts. That was when he was twelve. Being an adult now, he could go and do as he pleased. “Well, Dee, you finally done it. Just couldn’t stay away from those drugs, could you?” Martin said out loud as if he was speaking to her ghost.

  Martin went through every bit of his mother’s clothing and rummaged through all the drawers. He scoured her wardrobe, the bedroom for coins and bills, with no result. The last thing he packed was his prized possession, a stiletto switch blade. It went into his back-pocket.

  Martin shut the door behind him, shouldered his duffel-bag and took the stairs.

  CHAPTER 4

  MATES

  Pretending not to be bored, Nick casually looked around while trailing Ellie on her shopping march through the Thursday Night shopping crowd.

  “Hey, look who’s there.” Nick abandoned Ellie in front of the ladies shoe-shop, and strutted over to Darren. “Darren, mate. Bloody good to see you.” The slim and bony Darren extended his hand in haste to express his delight at the unexpected meeting.

  “G’day Nick. Good to see you, mate,” They shook hands like long lost friends.

  “Must be nearly year since I seen you mate,” Darren guessed.

  “I’d say so.” Nick finally let go of the stronger man’s grip.

  He spotted Ellie standing on her own and noticed his girlfriend’s not so happy expression.

  “Hey, honey, come over,” Nick waved his arm up high. Ellie shook her head and reluctantly made her way over.

  “Oh, hello Darren. What are you doing in Warringah Mall?” Ellie was unamused about being interrupted on her shopping night.

  “Looking for new jeans, maybe some t-shirts,” Darren replied unstirred by her sharp tone.

  Ellie eased off, god they’re only saying hi, “Sorry, Darren, not your fault that I was abandoned.” She returned a sharp look at Nick.

  “Let’s have a beer,” Darren suggested.

  “Sounds great,” Nick replied.

  “When? Now?” Ellie gasped.

  “No. Not right now.” Darren shot Ellie a quizzical look, then he turned to Nick, “Sunday arvo, at the Newport Arms, they got live music in the beer garden. Three o’clock sound alright?”

  “Alright. You’re on.” Nick smiled with excitement.

  “Anyway, mate. Gotta go,” Darren nodded and turned to Ellie, “Ellie.” He cleared his throat but said no more and left.

  “Why not invite him over for a lamb roast? After you’ve been for a few beers, bring him with you. I’ll stay home and cook,” Ellie offered.

  “Don’t you want to come to the Arms?” Nick was polite; relieved that Ellie was planning to stay home in the kitchen.

  “Don’t sound so shattered. I’m sure you’ll find things to talk about without me around.”

  “No. No, you can come, you can join in,” Nick quickly replied.

  “Oh, alright then. The leg of lamb can throw itself into the oven, and the veggies will follow suit, when the roast starts bleating. And when it’s all done they can page me, while I’m sitting here listening to a couple of guys talk about footy and chicks. Thrilling.”

  “You’re a real comedian,” Nick remarked.

  A few days later on Sunday afternoon Nick waved Ellie goodbye, as she sped off from the pub’s front entrance. Nick walked through the poorly lit interior of the pub and made his way to the beer garden at the rear of the hotel. Once there he marvelled at the water views of Pittwater. Looking through the tall trees he could see a dozen or more sailing vessels on their moorings. The paved paths meandered around raised garden beds, forcing him to wander the beer garden to find a table. Nick could taste the smell of smoke-flavoured steaks sizzling on a BBQ plate, as he inspected the small crowd of people holding their first drinks of the afternoon. Nick spotted Darren sitting in the far corner half-way up the terraced gardens near a few large plants; their table was tucked away from the main open area.

  Darren signalled, “Hey, mate, I got here a bit early to get a table.”

  Nick extended his hand, and Darren stood to meet it. “Yeah, looks like a few people turning up this arvo,” Nick replied.

  “Beer, burgers, and music. Does it get any better?” Darren answered as he brought the schooner to his lips.

  “I’m getting a beer, mate. My shout.”

>   “Don’t trip over all those pretty girls.”

  “The girls are nice, but I’m not sure if can make it past those smoking steaks and snags without stopping,” Nick laughed.

  Nick returned after ten minutes with two ice-cold schooners in each hand. Darren graciously accepted a fresh beer; the cab-driver held up the schooner and commented, “That was a weird night. Not often my fare is lying on the ground. Lucky for you I come along.” “Yeah, mate. I’m really grateful that you helped out,” Nick raised his glass.

  “It’s fine. Would have done it for anyone really. Cheers”.

  “What I’m not special?” Nick joked.

  “Did you go to the coppers?” Darren asked.

  Nick shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, “Nah, what for? Don’t think the police care about blokes getting their heads punched in at the pub.”

  “Suppose not,” Darren had another sip. “You know he could have killed you,” He tapped a drink coaster on the table, “There’s something very bad about him. You can see it in his eyes…they’re lifeless with evil intent. Like he’s possessed.”

  “Lifeless and evil? I thought lifeless meant being dead. Hard to be evil when you’re dead.” Nick chuckled.

  Darren gazed at Nick. “Mark my words, mate. I bet we haven’t heard the last from him.”

  “What? Why would we run into him again?”

  “Just a feeling, that’s all.” Darren gazed into oblivion. Nick fidgeted on the chair, uncomfortable with Darren’s take on the skinhead.

  “Anyway, it’s in the past. I’d rather forget about it.” Nick broke the impasse.

  Darren nodded and perused the beer garden. “You’re a builder. Got a mate who owns a place in Balgowlah he’s looking for one. His name’s Johnno. You probably don’t remember him, he’s a security guard at the Mona Vale pub. He’s renovating his house. Pay you in cash. How good’s that?”

  “I’m a chippie not a builder. But I can pass it on to my boss,” Nick answered.

  “Yeah, whatever, mate. Johnno is very keen to get this work sorted. I’ll write his number on the back of this coaster. Just ring him.”

  “So, you do any other stuff, when you’re not driving a taxi?” Nick enquired changing the subject on purpose.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I surf. And when I get a chance I fish. Beach fishing mostly, off Bungan.”

  “I used to go fishing with my brother, Dougie, up in Queensland when we were kids. And a bit of camping and shooting with me old man.” Darren held out his empty glass and added, “I like to box. I go to a boxing gym in Manly.”

  “Boxing? Hmm, never met anyone who does ‘boxing’.”

  “Bloody great sport, mate. Love the workout.”

  “Do you surf?” Nick eagerly asked.

  “I have. But I’m not real good at it. No surf up where I come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Ingham. Sort of halfway between Cairns and Townsville.” Darren explained.

  Darren looked past Nick’s shoulder and recognised Ellie as she came down the stone layered steps.

  “Hey, mate, your missus is here.”

  Nick turned in his seat to see his girlfriend approach their table. He smiled as Ellie closed in.

  “That’s good timing. Just about to go to the bar. White wine?” Nick asked already knowing the answer. “Yes, thank you. I’m thirsty after slaving in the kitchen making you guys a baked dinner.”

  Neither of the men reacted, but they smiled politely.

  “Just as well, I’ll be able to drive.” Ellie looked at her partner with stern eyes.

  “That was the deal, wasn’t it?” Nick responded. Ellie just looked the other way.

  After an hour of stifled banter, Ellie declared the afternoon session over, “Right. Time to go, boys. Drink up.” The afternoon sun was setting over Pittwater and the threesome left the beer-garden and the beautiful views over the water behind.

  As she came back from the kitchen to join the boys at the table, Ellie was overwhelmed by an uncomfortable fascination with Darren. His gait was to die for; his beautiful dark brown eyes could melt any girl’s heart. She wanted to rub her fingers through that dark curly hairdo. And then there was that moustache. God, I hate moustaches. He’s so … I can’t put my finger on it.

  “Anyone ever call you Magnum?” Ellie suddenly enquired.

  “What? No. Never been called Magnum.” Darren loaded up his fork and ate more, adding after chewing his last mouthful, “Mango. I’m sometimes called Mango.” He continued eating.

  “Mango? Why would anyone call you Mango?” Ellie was confused.

  Darren shrugged his shoulder, “Because my last name is Mangan.”

  “Oh. I see,” Ellie acknowledged. How bloody bogan. Mango.

  CHAPTER 5

  TREASURE CHEST

  From the street the house looked dated. Balgowlah was not exactly a new suburb. The brickwork on the exterior of the two-storey house was a dull red. The white timber double-hung windows looked equally drab. It was hard to figure out whether the roof tiles were brown or a dark grey with a black mottle. The owner of the house, John Watkins, or Johnno, as most people called him had been laundering his cash money into the renovation work. The concreters had just finished laying the new slab for the lower level additions. None of the renovation work was visible from the street, as all of the work was happening in the back yard. When all the concrete was poured, two of the boys on the barrow were directed to help with screeding. The newest addition to Tony’s concreting team was instructed to clean the barrows.

  “Make sure you get that brush under. And don’t forget around the wheel. I don’t want any crete drying up under there,” Tony ordered, standing over his new labourer.

  Martin held the nozzle of the hose close to the wheelbarrow. The powerful spray of water dislodged the clumps, dropping them into the grey stream of water flowing down the stormwater gutter. Martin glanced up from the nozzle and made a face as his boss walked away. Fucking wog arsehole.

  “I want those screeds to sparkle in the sun!” Tony shouted out with is back to Martin.

  “Yeah, sure Tony,” Martin mumbled.

  As soon as Tony was out of sight Martin threw the hose on the ground and sauntered to the tap. “Hey Jimmy, where’s the fucking dunny? I’m busting to go.”

  “I dunno. Maybe in the house. Just look. Tony wants me to have the gear loaded in the next fifteen.” The lanky surfer went about picking up tools.

  Martin found an aluminium sliding door leading into the house. The door swooshed open, the air from inside felt softer and cooler compared to the outside clamminess. Entering the lower area he noticed a set of polished timber stairs going up. Once upstairs he walked past a wall-to-wall book-shelf which stretched from floor to ceiling. A little further he found a bathroom door ajar, opened it and saw another door leading to a toilet. Good one. He went in and shut the door.

  Five minutes later he flushed the toilet and walked out into the study. An open cabinet door revealed a drawer on the bottom. No one here. What’s wrong with a look? There was a key in the single mortise lock. He turned the key and after hearing a click, gently pulled the drawer towards him. His eyes widened and his heart thumped. A pistol. Smith & Wesson it read. Wow. He picked up the weapon and admired its black shiny shape. I want it. I want it more than anything else. The intense desire in his mind was empowering. No one would even know that it was me. And the owner of the house, well, I don’t think he would be running around asking who took his gun?

  Deciding it was his to keep Martin pulled the drawer further out to see if there were any more. No, there wasn’t. So he pushed it gently back in to make sure that it all looked undisturbed. But the drawer got stuck over halfway. After jiggling the drawer a little without success he resorted to a forceful push. He heard a click and the drawer released springing forward instead of retracting which caught him by surprise.

  What’s this? What happened here? With his hands on the fron
t of the drawer he noticed the extended metal track supporting it. Looking past it he saw a hidden compartment underneath and further behind. His breathing was shallow and thoughts raced through his mind. “Fuck me,” Martin whispered under his breath.

  With his fingers he removed a cloth exposing more handguns. He counted six handguns neatly laid out at the bottom of the space underneath the drawer. Toward the back he discovered several boxes. Must be ammo. Fuck. He gazed at the Smith & Wesson on the floor next to him. Then he turned his attention to the guns in the space below. I may as well take these too. He felt his heart beating in his throat. I can’t take all of them now. Too hard to hide them from the other guys. I would have to make up some excuse to go back again. No, someone would ask stupid questions. No, I have to do this on the sly. Wait until this arvo, or lunchtime. Yes, tomorrow lunchtime would be good, because there would only be one or two blokes here, and they’d be sitting in the sun around the side. Too easy to sneak past, in and out. All I need to do is bring a bag, like a back pack.

  Satisfied with his ruse he pushed the drawer back over the concealed treasure. He slid the bulky Smith & Wesson revolver down the front of his work pants. The borrowed blue work shirt was a godsend; it was way too big for him but now it served a purpose.

  “Hey, what’s your name again?” Jimmy shouted.

  “Martin,” he answered as he came out of the back room door.

  “Come on. We gotta go. Tony wants us on the next job.”

  “Okay. Just give me a minute. I have to find my bag,“ Martin replied as he went into the other direction. Bad luck. I better hide this in my bag.

  “And pick up that red screed. It’s around the side,” Jimmy barked and disappeared to the front of the house.

  “Sure,” Martin replied and disappeared to ‘find his bag’ without any intention to retrieve the red screed. That’s my ticket back here.

  The next day at smoko Tony reprimanded Martin for not picking up the screed. “You left the red screed on Johnno’s job? Well, you’re going back to pick it up. Take the ute. You can go in your lunch-break.” Tony was irritated.