“I’m really sorry, Tony. No worries I’ll grab it at lunch.” Martin put his best puppy face on. The stocky concreter bit into his ham sandwich and waved his free hand in Martin’s direction to signal his okay. You fucking beauty.
A cool southerly swept in just before lunch. Martin drove Tony’s one-tonner up the driveway of Johnno’s house. No other vehicles were parked out the front. No one here. Even better. He eased out of the car and surveyed the street and then turned his attention to the house. Better hurry. He darted off to the side gate which was open. He stepped up his pace and found the aluminium sliding door. His heart was thumping. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Please be unlocked. He exhaled and the door swooshed open. He raced up the timber stairs skipping treads. Then he slowed. There it is. He opened the cabinet door, gently turned the key in the lock and pulled the drawer towards him and then a push, click, and there it was. You’re mine. All mine. He gawked at his treasure.
The back pack was heavy. He closed the door behind him and made for the gate. Shit. The fucking screed. Where was that again?
CHAPTER 6
DEVIL IN DISGUISE
“As for today’s weather. Sunny with light winds. And to our listeners, have a ripper of a day! It’s going to be a beauty.” The FM station broadcaster summarised.
Yeah, yeah. How come it looks like it’s about to bucket down? His long, bony fingers twiddled the volume button on the car-radio. Darren turned the volume right down and sat slouched in the front seat of his taxi waiting for a fare. He observed the ferry passengers coming through the exit doors; he watched as some rushed and fanned out into the busy street. Not one person coming his way.
The ocean breeze carried the monotonous chorus of seagulls in waves. Their chants melted into the unmistakable scent of a sea-port; the smell of salt-weathered boat timbers and diesel oil was the ultimate perfume for sailors. It made Darren dream of faraway places. The vision of wooden fishing boats on a palm-lined beach somewhere on a tropical island in Indonesia was soon wiped with the appearance of a ghostly face in the window.
“Hey. You free? I need a ride.”
Darren’s day-dream was cut short. A short skinny passenger slammed the door and settled back into the rear bench seat. Darren looked at the rear-view mirror to see his passenger’s face. No way. I can’t believe it.
“Where are we going?” Darren enquired still looking at his passenger from the mirror.
“Brookvale.”
“You haven’t grown much,” Darren mumbled.
“What? What did you say!” The passenger scowled.
“Never mind,” Darren said reminding himself: he’s a passenger.
“Now I remember you. You’re that fucking arsehole from Mona Vale. Haven’t forgotten you, mate.” His passenger stiffened his back and shoulders like he was shaping up for an argument.
Darren glanced into the mirror. “Hey, settle down, no need to get worked up. Let’s leave your little tap dance on some poor bastard in the past.”
“I ain’t worked up. And you know something funny? It wasn’t even the bloke I was after. Hah, I kicked the shit out of the wrong person. How funny is that?” Martin gloated.
“Well, that’s not funny,” Darren set him straight.
“He called me a moron,” Martin huffed in defence.
“Is that reason to kick someone senseless?”
“What’s it to you anyway?” Martin snarled.
Darren eyeballed his passenger and decided to let it go. This is bloody pointless, this guy’s a fruitcake. Just get him to Brookvale. He eased his grip on the wheel and sunk back into his driver’s seat.
Martin peered out of the window and an idea struck him. I should see if I can offload a gun to him. Cab-drivers are in the know. They’re into all sorts of shit. Cab-drivers could be a good contact to have.
“Mate, you like guns?” Martin asked, “I know where there’s some for sale.”
Darren’s ears quickly tuned in. Guns? Jesus, this little fucker really turns it on. What’s he on about now? “Guns? What sort of guns?” Darren perked up a little.
“I got onto this Smith & Wesson .38 the other day. Mate, she’s a fucking beauty. But I don’t want it.” Martin explained as he sat up.
“How come you don’t want it? And where the fuck did you score that bit of hardware?”
“What’s it to you? I’ve got it and I want to sell it,” Martin snapped.
Darren turned the taxi into Winbourne Road, “Settle down. Hadn’t really thought about buying a gun five minutes ago. Jesus, mate.”
“You gotta turn right over there into that street,” Martin pointed and pressed, ”Well, are you interested?”
“Sure, mate. But I’m too busy right now,” Darren replied.
“Busy tomorrow? What about tomorrow? It’ll only take fifteen.” Martin was eager. “You can stop here.” He tapped Darren on the shoulder.
Darren stopped the cab, “Eleven bucks, mate.”
Martin handed over a ten dollar note and fished out a dollar coin from his shirt pocket, “I want five hundred bucks for it. Come by in the arvo. Tomorrow.”
“Yeah, righto, I’ll see if I can swing it.” Darren reluctantly gave in.
He sped off after seeing his fare disappear into a narrow laneway. A fucking .38. Probably come in handy one day. He thought about his trips to the north coast. Running kilos of dope for Johnno from the north coast back to Sydney was not entirely risk-free. Sure, Johnno had many friends, but plenty of enemies as well. Might be a tidy investment. Darren was warming to the idea.
The two-way radio buzzed and a flat voice spoke, “Three for pick-up at Collaroy …”
CHAPTER 7
TAUNTING
The kelpie cross was whimpering in the far corner of the fence. She had just copped a couple of kicks from her scrawny owner. Fucking little shit, that’ll teach you to come inside. The cowering animal did not dare move from her spot.
Martin held a large kitchen knife in his hand. A kicking would do this time, but next time she might not be so lucky he calculated. He lovingly placed the knife back into the top drawer. The only item in it.
Martin Villier was waiting for his new mate the taxi-driver to come and look at the Smith & Wesson. Eagerly anticipating the start of his new life he would sell the guns and make a quid then buy some more, or better still, steal more. Or buy some dope to sell. Make some money and maybe make some new friends. Friends who could make him more money. The only friends that counted. But Martin had no friends, although he did have a cousin on the South Coast somewhere. His mother’s sister had a son about the same time he was born; his name was Matt Villier. They had only ever met once when they were about eight years old. Martin only remembered Matt as the fat bossy cousin.
He turned his back to the dog and walked to the back-door of the dilapidated abode he rented. Not far from the kitchen door he tripped over a half brick laying on the broken concrete pavement. In anger he bent over, picked it up and threw it in the direction of the dog where the brick hit the rusted metal roofing sheet which was used as fencing. A loud noise clattered and echoed into the void surrounded by the neighbouring buildings, in an area which had been neglected and pockmarked with industrial occupation. The brick projectile missed the dog. She cowered even deeper, anticipating another barrage of hurt. The sudden silence following the noise from the brick was replaced by a human voice, “Hey, mate, are you there?”
“Who is it?” Martin hissed.
“It’s Darren, you know, cab-driver, I dropped you here yesterday, remember.”
Martin hurried to the side of the building and withdrew the gate bolt. Excited, he opened the timber gate. “Come in, mate.”
Darren stepped through the opening and cautiously entered the yard. He waited for Martin to go ahead of him and lead the way.
“Been here long?”
“Nah, a few months.” Martin led the way towards the back-door.
Darren noticed some movement near the back fence and was s
urprised to see a small dog nervously trying its best to push as far into the corner as it could.
“Your dog?” Darren asked. Without taking his eyes off the dog he asked, “How come she’s over there? Cowering.”
“I just gave her a flogging. Shit of a thing tried to get into the kitchen.”
Is this idiot for real? Poor bloody thing looks like she’s had more than a flogging.
“So what’s wrong with the dog going into the kitchen?” Darren questioned.
“She fucking gets into the bin, knocks it over and makes a mess!” Martin complained.
This guy has issues. Maybe I ought to flog him. “What, don’t you feed her enough?” Darren continued prodding.
“Yeah, I fucking feed her. I feed her when I’m ready, she’s a fucking dog! What’s it to you!” Martin snapped.
Darren looked at Martin with contempt. He clenched his fist behind his back. I’d like to deck this little turd. But Darren restrained himself and decided to focus on the reason why he was here. He followed Martin in through the back door. Immediately, Darren was struck by the odour of mould, staleness and uncleanliness. He wiped his hands on the jeans he was wearing, as if to cleanse muck from his fingers. His palms were sweaty and his neck strained from tension. Darren wanted to get this over and done with. The more time he spent with this lowlife the more agitated he became. Right, got to calm down. This is business.
“Well, you gonna show me the gun or what?” Darren was on edge.
“You stay right here. I’ll be back in a sec,” Martin directed with a gesture of his hand. Although agitated Darren decided to abide by Martin’s orders as the runt disappeared into another room. Darren could hear a squeaking door and discern a bit of muffled rummaging. He put his hands on the kitchen benchtop and leaned forward. The Formica benchtop was cluttered with cups and plates. A couple of pots were upside down in the dish-rack. At least they were clean, he thought, as he cast his eyes through the window. The little dog was still squashed against the back fence. Darren felt sorry for it and he could feel the muscles in his neck tighten.
Footsteps were coming towards the kitchen and Darren turned around to face the little dealer. He had the gun wrapped in some red-coloured cloth, a pillow case it turned out to be.
Martin carefully uncovered the weapon. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Looks clean, but I need to have a good gander, mate.” Darren insisted. “Pass it to me.” Darren reached out his hand and grabbed the Smith & Wesson making sure that the barrel was never pointed at him.
“You know about guns don’t you?” Martin asked his buyer.
“Yeah, mate. Been around guns most of me life back home, when I was a kid.” Darren checked the cylinder for smoothness, and to make sure there wasn’t a stray bullet left. He closed one eye and looked through the barrel to inspect for marks. “Feels nice in my hand.” Darren remarked. “Back home, my old man and I used to go hunting a bit.”
“Oh really. What did you kill?” Martin sounded like a kid in a lolly shop.
Darren took his eyes off the revolver and looked at Martin, “Roos mostly, if we could hit them. My old man wasn’t too good a shot. He was a lot better at making campfires and drinking piss.”
“Fuck, sounds good. How many did you kill?”
“A few,” Darren said, and handed the revolver back.
“A few. What’s a few? I’d be keeping track of how many I killed. What’s wrong with you?” Martin put on a face of disgust, but quickly changed his tack, “Do you like this gun?”
“Yeah, it’s alright.” Darren nodded his head a few times and he passed the weapon back to Martin.
“Well, you want it?” Martin demanded.
“I’ll think about it”.
“What is there to think about, mate!” Martin snapped.
“As I said, I’ll think about it, and I’ll let you know,” Darren firmly replied and started to walk away.
Martin’s mind raced. What! Why can’t you buy it now? Isn’t that what you’re here for? Fucking arsehole. Wasting my time. I’m not dropping my price. “You are kidding me aren’t you? What a waste of time.” Martin’s black eyes were open wide.
“Look, mate, it’s a good looking gun and I’ll probably buy it off you, but not right this minute, okay”. Darren moved towards the kitchen door to leave.
The Queenslander walked out and peered into the back-yard towards the metal fence where the kelpie-cross was still holed up. “You ought to be nicer to your dog, mate”. Darren turned around and fixed his eyes on Martin. The warning was met with predictable contempt from the scrawny dog owner.
“Fuck the dog”, Martin spat.
Darren took one more look at the pup and proceeded to the gate. Nothing fazed him much, but he had this niggling feeling that the poor dog didn’t stand a chance with the likes of that psychopath. He reluctantly opened the gate. This is a mistake.
He shook his head as he slid into the seat of the XC Falcon Sedan, inserted and turned the key in the ignition; the engine came to life. With a slight screech from the tyre rubber the car jumped into motion. He was angry.
A slight smell of LPG hung around the street as he pulled away and rounded the corner.
CHAPTER 8
NO SECRETS
Above the sounds from seventeen different conversations the jukebox bellowed a classic tune, ‘After the Rain’. Darren was tapping the sole of his running shoe under the table to the beat of the famous Angels song. His companion was fidgety, tapping his BIC lighter incessantly on the table. Not to the beat of ‘After the Rain’.
“Guess who I ran into the other afternoon?” Darren remarked while he picked up his schooner of Resch’s.
“Enlighten me,” Johnno said with casual disinterest as he sniffed his broad nose.
“Remember the little prick that kicked the shit out of our mate Nick?” Darren continued after emptying his beer. A moment went past. Johnno peered through the window into the beer garden.
The deep-set, dark eyes reflected and with a slight squint he replied, “Wiry little bloke, a bit of a skin-head, I remember him, can’t say I could really place his face apart from those fucking prawn eyes.”
“Yeah picked him up in Manly, from the ferry, the other day.”
“And?” Johnno turned his head to face Darren. “What of it?”
“Tell you a story, after I buy us a round and when I come back from taking a piss”. Darren got up from the table and walked over towards the Men’s toilet.
Ten minutes later Darren returned from the bar with two ice-cold schooners. He put the first one down in front of Johnno and pulled his chair back to sit down. Facing the gorilla-sized Johnno on the opposite side of the table, he raised his schooner of Resch’s, “Cheers, mate“, and took a large swig. A thin line of froth stuck to his moustache. He put his glass down on the round table and then wiped the excess froth from his upper lip. Darren was about tell his story when Johnno raised his hand.
“Before you start, let me tell you something.” Johnno frowned, his thick brown eye-brows nearly joining over his nose. “Some cunt’s knocked off some valuable shit from my house.”
Darren saw the rage in his mate’s eyes. That’s why the stressed face.
“What sort of shit?”
Johnno extinguished his cigarette in the round, chrome ashtray, brimming with stale butts. He locked his eyes onto Darren’s relaxed face.
“Some fucker has made off with some of my prized possessions,” Johnno replied with a hushed hiss, with both fists clenched and pressed on the table. His raging red face was now only centimetres away from Darren’s. Darren looked past Johnno’s shoulder and saw the worried look on the barmaid’s face.
Johnno continued in a low voice, “I’ve had these items for quite some time. Got them years ago. And I made a deal with some bloke recently, to offload them.” His whisper had an inconsistent volume. “When my buyer finds out that I don’t have the goods he has already paid for, shit will hit the fan.”
Darr
en cleared his throat, “Mate, you still haven’t told me what you lost.”
Johnno stared at Darren and answered him in a flat, low voice, “Seven fucking handguns.”
Darren nearly choked while gulping from his glass. “Get fucked. You’re joking.” Wouldn’t that be uncanny?
“Right, mate. My turn. When I picked up the little skinhead the other day, he told me he’d lifted a Smith & Wesson .38 from somewhere. He tried to sell it to me yesterday. One of your missing items?” Darren cocked his head.
Johnno narrowed his eyes and ground his teeth to temper his darkening mood. His fingers were tapping on the coaster in front of him on the round table. He sighed heavily while looking at his empty glass. Darren could feel the building of a storm in front of him and slowly moved back from leaning over the table. Just in case Johnno lost his cool.
“Remember where you dropped him?” Johnno picked up his packet of Winfield Red’s and carefully flipped the top open. He removed a cigarette and brought it to his lips and lit it straight away.
“Of course, I’m a cab-driver,” Darren replied, “I even went to his house to check it out.”
Darren waited for Johnno’s reply, but the big bouncer got up from his chair instead.
“My shout, buddy”.
Darren’s gaze followed his mate and he wondered how this turn of events was going to play out. Hanging around Johnno was always a case of a double-edged sword. Although Darren wasn’t afraid of Johnno he had a healthy respect for the man’s volatile reactions. Johnno wasn’t prone to temper tantrums, but he did have a very short fuse and any dynamite going off was in the form of a sudden explosion of jaw-breaking punches. Darren’s momentary reflection was interrupted when two fresh schooners were placed on the table. He took one of them as he nodded the big man.
“It wouldn’t be too difficult to go back, and sneak in when he’s out. I wouldn’t think that kid would be much of a homebody.” Darren proposed.
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