Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “Yeah, I bet. Anyway, got some shit to do in the shop.”

  Bushy left the pool-room. He was busy. Eddie had put him in charge of the workshop. It was a job bestowed on him, after he was told to quit his job as a motor-mechanic in Blacktown. He recalled the day with pride. The ‘big’ meeting was held in Eddie’s backyard, lamb on a spit smoking over a charcoal fire, with four bathtubs full of ice and cold cans of VB. The whole club was there. All thirty-six members. “We’re moving up in the world. I thought I’d let you know tonight that we bought a workshop in Narrabeen.” Eddie held his beer high in one hand, while his other hand was on his Devil’s Sinners’ patch sown on the front of his leather vest.

  Someone in the crowd shouted out, “Where the fuck is that? In Victoria?”

  Everyone laughed, except Eddie. “No, it’s on the northern beaches, you moron.” And everyone broke out into laughter even harder.

  “This workshop is legit. We got it cheap. The previous owner couldn’t pay his debts. So we helped him out. It gives our club a chance to make legitimate money, to strengthen our club, give us better cover,” Eddie raised his can of VB, still with one open hand firmly placed on the club patch. “To the Sinners.”

  The rowdy crowd cheered him on. “I’m putting Bushy in charge of the new workshop. You’ll have to quit your old job Bushy.” There’s nothing like a command from the top at a public meeting. It was news to Bushy. Yep. You lead and I’ll follow. Guess I’ll be quitting my job tomorrow. Bushy raised his VB to toast Eddie.

  CHAPTER 26

  ROOKIE

  In her small office surrounded by stark, white walls and a single photograph Cate Hawkins shuffled a stack of files on her desk. Like sorting a deck of cards. Group them according to suit and colour. Except of course this lot had to be arranged in order of dates, type of crime and progress towards solving? She flicked through the manila folders. No, that wasn’t easy. Thanks, boss. Thanks for the ‘may-as-well-get-thrown-in-the-deep-end’ angle. She started separating the files marked as, assault, or assault with a deadly weapon, or aggravated assault. Oh fuck it! These assaults are all bad. What these cases did have in common, however, was a direct link with drug distribution or activity.

  Three months ago, Cate Hawkins had been promoted to Senior Detective Inspector, cannonballed from out of the ranks of uniformed general duties. An exceptional promotion for an exceptional police officer. Outstanding results from her studies in Criminal Investigation and outstanding results from her commitment to solving serious crimes while on the job as a Senior Constable in General Duties.

  The file in her hand read ‘John Watkins, known drug-dealer and debt-collector, stabbed to death. Possible links to drug distribution by Motorcycle clubs.’ Probably of his own doing. She immediately corrected herself. Can’t think like that. A crime has been committed. Watkins was a victim. The perpetrators need to be found and brought to justice.

  Cate Hawkins was a tall, and very attractive female police officer. Her lightly streaked long brown hair was neatly rolled in a bun as per department regulations. She leant back on her desk-chair and looked at the framed and enlarged photograph on the wall. The image was a panorama shot of the “bommie” in Ulladulla, breaking on a huge swell from an epic southerly storm. It was taken by her brother a few years ago. Her mind wandered to better surroundings. But not for long.

  The respite was broken by a light tap on the door and the office door swiftly opened without her reply. A smartly dressed young man in his mid-twenties hung on to the door knob. The junior detective apologised for disturbing her, but reminded her to attend an important meeting. She had ten minutes and acknowledged his reminder with a nod.

  Cate resumed her perusal of the John Watkins file. Perpetrators possibly linked to motorcycle club. Although there were witnesses present at the time of his stabbing, nothing credible could be forwarded. No one was talking. The only common observation was the sound of motorbikes leaving from somewhere nearby. It was a safe thing to say to the coppers. No description of faces, no reprisals. Witnesses are too scared to get involved with bikies. The more she thought about this case the greater the likelihood of a connection with the new bikie gang in Narrabeen. The Devil’s Sinners Motorcycle Club.

  The cabdriver, the victim’s mate, he knew more. Cate was sure of that.

  Cate pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the desk. It was time to go. She closed the folder and left it on the desk, she rose from her chair, brushed off her shirt and pulled it taut around her flat stomach to straighten it and lightly stretched the sleeves. She was ready.

  Her elegant stride accentuated the long slender legs and her long pants showed off her perfectly formed hips and firm, rounded buttocks. The white-collared shirt hugged her upper body, but was tastefully shaped around her ample bosom. The olive complexion betrayed a Mediterranean bloodline from her ancestry. Sparkling blue eyes contradicted that olive skin, but gave even more prominence to her already stunning face. The dead give-away that she was not a fashion model was, her duty belt which housed her holster and service weapon, the personal radio and the handcuffs. All eyes were on her as she entered the conference room. For three reasons: she was beautiful, she was the last ‘man’ in, and she was chairing the meeting.

  Cate cleared her throat. The room was filled with police personnel, mostly general duties and a couple of plain clothes.

  “Morning. A new bikie gang has set up shop in Narrabeen on Warraba Road. Their recent move from the western suburbs leads me to suspect that drug activity will be their main focus. It’s early days, so I want to initiate and establish a framework for surveillance and monitoring. Nothing heavy-handed, keep it low key.”

  CHAPTER 27

  TURNING POINT

  The two-way sparked up …”pick-up one. Dee Why, on Oaks, in front of St. Kevin’s Church, going to …Brookvale.”

  “Copy”. Darren placed the handheld microphone back into the cradle.

  Nowhere near Narrabeen. Nowhere near Warraba Road. Not even close to the Sinners.

  It was Murphy’s Law. The afternoon was flat out busy. But not a single fare north of Dee Why. Two passengers with insufficient funds and one no-show. And on top of that, he copped an ear-bashing from an older gentleman about the origins of the name accorded to the wonderful suburb of Dee Why. Spare me.

  Accordingly, Darren didn’t make it to Warraba Road until after knock-off. He didn’t want to cruise past the new club-house in his own car. A taxi was a much better cover. Taxis were a dime a dozen and no one took notice of a slow-moving taxi, lost for an address just cruising past looking for a street number. Even if he ambled past three or four times no one would think twice.

  Warraba Road.

  Drive at normal speed, maybe a bit less. See if I can spot the lion’s den.

  Darren eased the Falcon around the curve and kept the vehicle’s speed at fifty clicks. There were a lot of workshops and small factory units, and the street here was not well-lit. The soft rumble of the straight-six was suddenly drowned out by an aggressive, deep bark, from an agitated Rottweiler trying to rip into the metal chain-wire fencing that kept the dog separated from potential trespassers. Shit. What now! Fucking dog. The deep and loud bark of the dog resonated in the quiet of the street. It startled the crap out of Darren because he was concentrating on being invisible.

  He stopped at the intersection of Warraba, and The Crescent, deciding whether to continue further up Warraba Road. He had a pretty good idea that most of this stretch was residential, not factory units. He drove further up and confirmed that he had gone too far. Halfway up towards the next intersection he pulled into a driveway, reversed out and turned back down the road. Driving back the same way after crossing The Crescent he noticed that the building on the left, not far from the corner, had no signs and looked bare and clean, maybe even freshly painted. It was hard to tell. Once past the dark front of the unit he noticed light emitted further back at the rear of the driveway. Yes, there’s a shed at the back. He slowed the sed
an to a crawl. I can see a bike. Looks like it could be a Harley. After spotting the bike he pressed the accelerator gently and eased the Falcon forward gradually increasing speed so as not to evoke unnecessary attention.

  Bingo. Darren resolved to come back the next day for a better look. Sitting behind the wheel of his car he could feel a warm glow creeping up his neck. The palms of his hands felt sweaty on the leather steering wheel cover. Finding Eddie here was going to be a life-changer. Eddie, the marked man. Eddie, the last thing you’ll ever see is my face. Darren held his jaw clenched to the point of ache while he drove towards Manly. He needed to quell the rage inside him and decided the only place he could do this was to head to the club. The boxing club where the green door at the entrance was a symbol for members to come ‘home’.

  Carlos would say, “As a member, you are family, and family is never denied a place to come home to a place to relax and somewhere to sit and contemplate life like when you were a kid hiding in your room to feel safe.”

  Parking in the lane-way was limited, but it was only a short stroll from the informal parking area a few streets back. An old building had been demolished a few years ago and nothing had been done with the vacant lot. Parked cars kept the weeds and grass down. Darren made his way to the green door, he turned the key and went in. There was a light on; Carlos was still at the club. He had hoped to be alone. But Carlos was fine; Carlos was invisible.

  “Hey, buddy, up late?” Carlos leant back in his director’s office chair.

  “Felt like a round on the bag.” Darren justified.

  “That’s why, you have that key, my friend, don’t let me stand in your way.”

  Darren changed into his shorts and singlet. He sparred the bag for an hour, alternating jabs and punches with front snap kicks and turning kicks. Some of his punches connecting so hard it sent the bag on a rag-doll dance.

  “Anything troubling you? Too much on your mind?” Darren was surprised by Carlos’ sudden apparition and his question.

  “Sneaking up on me, mate, as quiet as a ghost. You been training to be a ninja,” Darren panted.

  Carlos smiled and steadied the punching bag.

  “You’re not married, are you Carlos?”

  “Well, I think you know the answer to that. Unless you count my relationship with this club as marriage.” Carlos answered, surprised by the direct question.

  “Do you ever think about how your life would be with a missus?” Darren breathed out and stopped sparring the bag.

  “No, do you?”

  “You know, I’m just a cab-driver. I live in a unit in Harbord. Actually, I don’t even live there, I sleep in my bed which happens to be in that unit. My fridge has milk, and beer in it. That’s all. Otherwise it’s empty, although sometimes there is some sauce for my sausage rolls. What does that tell you? I live in a taxi and I live here. I’m beginning to wonder whether that’s all there is to life.”

  Carlos watched Darren as he jabbed the bag a few times.

  “Questions of life. Fuck, mate. I must admit those thoughts cross my mind from time to time. Unlike you, my fridge at home is full. My pantry is full of food and spices.”

  “Remember the story I told you about me and Johnno, the gun deal gone belly-up, the brawl with the bikies?” Darren jabbed the bag again and finished with a left hook; it shook the bar to which the heavy punching bag was tied.

  Carlos was relieved that by then he had let the bag go. “I recall that story.”

  “The bloke who killed Johnno, well, he’s turned up in Narrabeen. Leader of a bikie club.” Darren kicked the bottom of the bag.

  “So what does that mean to you?” Carlos asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Stirs up feelings of hate. Bitterness.” Darren stopped and retreated from the bag; he turned to face Carlos. “That emotion is not good to bring to a fight, is it?”

  “Bitterness is a sour pill to keep swallowing. Better to think about punishment rather than revenge. They say that revenge can be sweet, but to my mind, punishment is sweeter.” Carlos argued. “I think punishment has less emotion. More of a resolution, closure might be a better word.”

  Carlos had a knack of cutting through the mist. The mist didn’t impair his vision, maybe that’s what made him such a respected bloke. Darren pondered his friend’s clarity.

  “When you fight someone on the mat, you are taught to be instinctive. Not too think about your movements. Your reflexes should be automatic. It takes a long time to learn that technique. Blind rage does not win a fight often, but having ‘no mind’ will see you win the fight.”

  “Good point,” Darren agreed.

  “If your psyche feeds on bitterness, your judgment will always be clouded by emotion. Revenge is a consuming emotion. It’s like a constant driver of bitterness, and will wind you up like a spring. Revenge always needs a justification, which is not clear. Punishment has gone past that justification. It’s an end in itself. If you start to plan your punishment, it will move you forward.”

  Darren held Carlos’ gaze and nodded slightly. “It’s late. I think I might head home to my fridge with sauce, milk and beer.” Darren rolled his eyes and smiled, “Hey, thanks. You’re a smart man.”

  “You’re welcome. And be careful. You want to wind up on top, not on the bottom of the harbour with a couple of Besser blocks tied to your ankles.” Carlos narrowed his eyes somewhat, and winced at that vision.

  “Don’t worry, mate. I’ll have it covered.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CUPID

  His mobile vibrated on the tiled floor. Darren woke up from his sleep on the lounge, apparently having not made it to his bed. The mobile kept vibrating. With his eyes half opened, he reached for the phone by touching around the area where he thought the noise was coming from. Finally. “Yeah. What?”

  “That’s a nice greeting.” The voice on the other end shot straight out.

  Moment of silence.

  “Sorry. Senior Detective Cate Hawkins,” as she cleared her throat.

  “Who?” Darren was still in la-la land.

  “Senior Detective Cate Hawkins,” she repeated with a hint of annoyance.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Yes. We met at the scene of your friend’s stabbing death.” A trick answer. He might fall for this, because you do know the man, mister cab-driver. Come on help me out here.

  Silence again.

  “He wasn’t my friend,” Darren responded while gathering his thoughts. Sharp bitch. Fucking tricky.

  “We spoke some months ago. On the phone. Do you recall?” Cate asked him.

  “U-huh. I remember. But as I recall, you weren’t a senior detective,” Darren sat up with full attention.

  “Very observant. I received a promotion since then.” She sounded a little irritated at having to justify herself. “I’d like to meet with you in person to discuss some aspects surrounding your friend’s death.” Needling him again.

  Silence.

  “Fuck, you’re persistent.”

  “No need to swear, Mr. Mangan.”

  “Oh. Now we’re getting formal as well,” Darren teased.

  “I’d like to meet later today. Eleven thirty, perhaps.” Cate suggested, to get to the point.

  “Where?”

  “Coffee shop around the corner from the precinct. Luigi’s. No doubt you know where that is, you being a taxi-driver.” A little shake of sarcasm.

  Another pause over the phone.

  “Okay. I’ll see you there. Eleven thirty,” Darren agreed; looking out of the sliding glass door all he could see was another block of units. It was a far cry from looking out of his bedroom window back in Ingham. Green cane-fields and big skies. Huge, blue skies. The line had already gone dead. Bitch hung up on me.

  Darren sat at a small round table, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted around him. The seat in front of him was still empty. He tapped his right foot impatiently. Then he spotted her. Not a chance in hell you would miss seeing her. His eyes were glu
ed to her approach. The sway of her hips and the vibration of her breasts were hard to conceal even with her jacket on. Darren rose from his chair.

  “Nice touch. I like a bloke who stands up to greet a woman,” She remarked as she stepped closer. Cate extended her hand. Darren was slow on the uptake, mesmerised by her blue eyes. Slowly, he brought his arm and hand closer to meet hers. Get a hold of yourself, boy. Bloody hell. They shook hands briefly. Her grip was firm but her skin was like silk.

  “I was taught to be polite. It’s polite to stand up to meet someone you haven’t met.” That was Darren’s way out.

  “I see you’ve already got the best the house can offer,” Cate remarked while taking a seat.

  Darren noticed the nervy proprietor jumping to attention when seeing Cate at one of his tables. He sailed through the smattering of patrons at their tables rushing to take Cate’s order.

  “Buon giorno, Miss Cate. Expresso?” The thin Italian asked as he bowed.

  “Thank you, Luigi, you are very kind.” Cate dipped her head in reverence, and the nervy café owner rushed back to the kitchen.

  “Crikey. He’s keen on you.” Darren blurted with a dose of sarcasm.

  “No. I like good coffee. Not the stuff you are drinking.” Cate pointed her head to Darren’s milky coffee in a large cup.

  The feeling that enveloped Darren was foreign to him. On the one hand, he was irritated about having to meet with a copper, a detective no less. But on the other hand, he was captivated by the beautiful woman sat in front of him and who was about to interrogate him. Oh yeah. You’re not just going to sit here and be nice are you? On the verge of being questioned by her not only sharpened his senses to not get caught out, but it also excited him. You’re one of a kind. A chick to be reckoned with. I like you, the only reason I’m here. Although no words were exchanged between them while waiting for her expresso to appear, she didn’t look at all uncomfortable. And neither was Darren. It felt like they could sit like this for hours. Easy in each other’s company.