Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

“Don’t worry, Bill. No one out there, except my mate in the car. Let’s get this done, so we can all get on with our lives.”

  “Yes, of course. I wasn’t expecting this.” William stammered.

  “Oh. What were you expecting? A tooth-fairy?” Matt snapped.

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean. My nephew was due to call me. I wasn’t expecting someone to just turn up.” William spluttered his words and rubbed his forehead.

  Matt shut up. What the fuck. He had to recalibrate the direction of this stupid arrangement. Sending the old boy into a state of nervous collapse, however funny that would be, he mused, didn’t get the deal over and done with. Matt was hungry and tired. Tired of sitting in the car listening to a ‘fucking bin-lid whacking’, waiting to make a hundred bucks for his moronic cousin.

  “So let’s have this dough.” Matt put out his hand, palm up. “Ten green ones. Count them one by one as you lay them on my hand. Pretend it’s a till.” Matt locked his eyes onto Bill’s widening, fear-filled eye-balls.

  “What do you mean? Ten green ones?” William spluttered in horror.

  “Can’t you add? Let me make it easy. One thousand. A grand. Ten green ones. Get it?” Matt’s eyes narrowed, his patience waning.

  Anxiety and panic started to give way to misguided indignation. Matt saw it happening in Bill’s face. Money. It happens with money. Also happens with accusation. Denial. No way, I didn’t do that. With money it’s the same. I ain’t paying for that!

  “Sorry, but I don’t have that sort of money. And I certainly wouldn’t be paying that much for the stuff. Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  There it was. Denial.

  Matt gazed at the man with an empty expression. Throughout the discussion Matt kept following the back-sliding Bill, who thought he was going to make his way to the safety of his store-room without Matt’s attention. What a fucking idiot!

  “So, you don’t have a thousand bucks?” Last chance. Mr Video. I am getting the shits.

  “Absolutely not,” a brave William asserted.

  Wrong answer, Billy boy.

  Matt’s right fist connected hard with William’s chin, the man’s hairy goatee not thick enough to cushion the punch. The shock reverberated, William became unbalanced, and squinted hard. Matt swung his left arm low aiming for the lean man’s rounded paunch. Thump. Matt felt his fist disappear into the soft belly fat. Jesus. Matt watched Bill’s face as the man gasped in breathless horror.

  Bill deflated like a flat tyre and hit the floor. Matt felt some remorse as he looked at the pathetic man on the floor. William was struggling to breathe.

  Matt shook his head and bent down. He grabbed Bill’s shirt collar and pulled him closer with a jerk. “Fucking snap out of it, you dickhead.”

  “Why? why are you doing this to me? ... I’ve done nothing wrong.” William started to cry.

  Matt stood with his head bent down contemplating his next move. This was so pathetic. What the fuck now? No dough. Not leaving fucking emptyhanded. He surveyed the shop. An idea struck him.

  William was slumped on the ground leaning against the doorway to the storeroom. One arm clutching his stomach, the other hand on his jaw. His eyes were blood-shot from shock and tears.

  “How many in a box?” Matt demanded as he pointed to the boxes sitting on the floor in the storeroom.

  “Why do you want to know that?” William spluttered with a dribble.

  “Hey. Do you want another answer from me?” Matt tapped the toe of his boot against Bill’s thigh.

  “Please don’t.” William’s eyes begged for mercy.

  Matt stiffened the resolve on his face.

  Quickly, the shopkeeper answered, “About forty or fifty.”

  Matt appraised the answer. “They are not all the same movies in one box are they?”

  “No, not these ones.” William pointed to the larger packs.

  “Right, we are taking what’s owed to us. Here’s the fucking stash.” Matt grabbed the plastic bag from the counter and took out the first bag of weed. He waved it over Bill’s head. Then Matt ripped the plastic bag with both hands and the contents of the bag exploded all over Bill. Matt retrieved the next plastic bag and tore it spreading more dried leaves and buds over the slumped shopkeeper and the floor around him. As if he was baptising the shop, Matt threw handfuls of marijuana around the shopfloor and over the shelves, making sure he didn’t miss anything. Like seeding a fucking paddock.

  “Observe, Bill. Hear me loud and clear, Bill. When you even think about calling in the coppers, you’ll be explaining all the dope first. Because by the time you’ve convinced them it’s not yours, you’ll have been fucked in the arse at least seven times by the other churchgoers. You know, the arse fuckers in the cell with you.” Matt calmly explained.

  “By the way, after all that fun, I still know where you are. But you don’t know where I am. You get that equation?” Matt walked to the shop door. He could see Martin checking things out from the car. Matt unlocked the door and opened it enough to poke his head out. He beckoned Martin.

  Within seconds it seemed, Martin was standing in front of the shopkeeper, who was still on the floor. Martin’s gaze was intent with both hands at his side. His fingers were twitching. The beady eyes locked onto his target were sending messages back to his warped mind. His right hand reached into his back pocket where he kept his switch-blade. Slowly, he eased the concealed knife from his pocket. But that sly move didn’t evade Matt’s attention. Matt had eyes like a hawk. Lucky for Bill.

  “Put that fucking thing away, mate, before you cause me more grief. More grief than you already have.” Matt hissed.

  Martin shot his cousin a look as if he’d been busted.

  “Go and get those boxes over there and grab whatever you can from the ‘new release’ shelf just behind you. You’ve fucking done enough damage for one day.” Matt waited for Martin to put away his switchblade and watched his cousin slip the blade back into his trouser pocket. Satisfied, he went to the cash register and removed the cash bills, adding the till count as he went. He shot a look at Bill.

  “Hey, Bill. Guess what? You made nine hundred and thirty bucks. That’s without the coins, you can keep those tiddlers.” Before Matt shut the shop door behind him, he snatched a video from the shelf. Die hard 2 with Bruce Willis.

  Two weeks later, back in Ulladulla, a concreter named Larry, was still recovering at home from a ‘fall’ from his back steps. Nursing bruised ribs as well as one fractured rib. Unfortunately, his nose and cheekbone had copped it as well. The on-duty intern with the freckled face and a few adolescent zits on his forehead lectured Larry on the merits of cleaner living. ”You should try drinking in moderation, to avoid accidents such as this.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BREAKAWAY

  Out on the property the nights were quiet. It was only ever eerie if you were scared of owls. Martin wasn’t scared of anything, but the echo from a hooting owl gave him goose bumps.

  He wasn’t sure if he captured an owl and cut its head off, whether that would bring bad luck. A still night. And that fucking bird making noise. He tossed and turned in bed. Matt was away. He had gone to Canberra for some business deal. Three o’clock. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t warm either. He re-arranged his pillow.

  Last night’s video inspired him to break the routine. Just like Kevin Costner did in that movie. Martin had had enough of the courier life, the bush life, and watching endless fucking videos from that stupid shop in Canberra. He really hated having to watch crap movies, waiting for action, that didn’t happen. But he didn’t have to wait long watching ‘3000 Miles to Graceland’, with Kevin Costner. It was one of the best movies he’d ever seen. Matt never wanted to put it on because he thought it would be about Elvis. Fucking Matt. Smartarse, know-it-all Matt. Tomorrow I’m going to get my driver’s licence. After tossing and turning for another twenty minutes he drifted off to sleep.

  The currawongs and magpies were doing their morning sing-song.
Martin opened his eyes. Daylight shone through the holes in the worn curtains. He swung his left leg out first from under the thin blanket. He rolled over and swung his right out. Next thing he was up standing. Today I’m changing my life.

  After a quick coffee and a banana Martin collected his wallet and started on his trek into Moruya. The morning air was fresh and cool with an occasional fluff of wind blowing through the tops of the spotted gums. He detected only a subdued rustle of leaves.

  He felt the weight of his switchblade in his back pocket. He always carried it in his back pocket. Today he took note of it. Why, he didn’t quite understand. Matt wouldn’t allow guns on the property. The temptation to shoot would be too great. The noise of a gun going off attracted too much attention. Fucking shit.

  Martin kicked a small rock with his steel-capped boot. It shot up into the scrub and a wallaby jumped out in front of him about twenty feet away. It startled Martin. It hopped off into the scrub. Shame, a shotgun would have been awesome. Woulda made a mess of him. Disappointed at the missed opportunity he thought back to the last time he had an encounter with an animal. Too long. He missed the euphoric feeling that overwhelmed him when he killed something. Or someone. He recalled his adventure with Rosie and a funny thought crossed his mind. Was the feeling of pushing his stiletto into her neck better than coming inside her pussy? Hmm, he never thought about that before.

  It was warming up. His legs were tiring from the up-and-down track. None of the property was particularly steep, but there were lots of ups and downs on the dirt track out to the road. At least the surrounding tall trees, spotted gums mostly, provided some welcome shade as he walked past them. The last two hundred meters were straight up, not steep but certainly challenging to Martin. “At last, the fucking gate posts,” he said aloud, puffed from the strain of his aching legs and ankles.

  He was lucky this morning. Not far from leaving the property gate he managed to hitch a ride into Moruya. Some bloke from Sydney, just bought a property a few kilometres down the road. Why would you want to live out here? Martin didn’t care, at least he didn’t have to walk another eleven kilometres.

  CHAPTER 32

  CHOICES

  Nick Powell came through the garage door entrance into the house. A convenient advantage of modern-day home design, having a double-garage under the same roof of the living space. He liked it, because it kept his tools in the ute safe from thieves. Ellie on the other hand, hated that modern design feature. “How aesthetically unappealing to have the front half of your home decorated with a garage door.”

  The red light on the answer-machine was blinking, and Nick pressed the play button. “Hi, I’m going to be late for dinner, eat without me”. Click, click, beep, click… Nick pushed the stop button.

  No other message. Just not home for dinner. Great. What am I going to eat?

  The phone rang.

  “Hey dude, it’s me, Rafe.”

  “Hey, mate, what are you up to?”

  “Feel like a few schoo-ees at the ahr-ree?” Rafe asked.

  “Sure. Got to shower first. See you in half a.” Click. Nick hung up.

  For whatever it was worth, Nick cracked the top drawer of his desk and pulled out some note paper, on it he scribbled: Gone to the RSL. He disappeared to the bathroom leaving a trail of discarded clothing as he went.

  The noise from a hundred voices eager to impart their week’s whinges and woes to their friends hit him as soon as he opened the front door of the Avalon RSL Club.

  Friday night; it meant that he would have to push his way through the thirsty crowd. Nick squeezed himself through the mob of barflies to get to the bar.

  “Schooner, please.”

  “Usual, mate?” the squat barman poured from the Resch’s tap.

  “Thanks, mate”.

  As Nick turned away from the bar, Rafe signalled him to come over.

  “Cheers, dude.” Rafe downed the last half of his beer. “When was the last time you went to the South Coast?”

  Surprised, Nick muttered, “Well, can’t really remember, but it’s been a while…”

  “Why? What, are you thinking, head down for a surf?” Nick second guessed Rafe’s motives.

  “Yeah, that too.” Rafe cast his eyes around the bar area, “Ready for another beer, dude?”

  “Sure, not a fucking Tooheys, right?”

  “Resch’s coming up, no worries my friend”. Rafe disappeared through the mob at the bar. South Coast. That would be nice, just to get away from here for a few days. Nick started to reorganise his work schedule in his head.

  “You right there Nick?” Rafe nudged the Resch’s against Nick’s arm, gently to not spill it, but to wake him up from wherever he was.

  “Come on, let’s go over to the pool room and play a game.” It was uncommonly quiet for a Friday night in the pool room.

  The six o’clock bell. Obediently, the crowd went silent. “At the going down of the sun, we will remember them, --- lest we forget,” the patrons mumbled in unison, “Lest we forget.” And as if a switch had been flicked and time unfrozen, all the conversations picked up exactly where they left off.

  “Okay, Nick, keep this to yourself.”

  “Secrets?” Nick said while mocking with an ‘ooh-ah’ face.

  “Dude, please be serious.”

  “Righto Ren, get on with it then. What’s the story?”

  “Talking to another painter on a job in the city the other day, he was telling me about his mate in Ulladulla, who’s just harvested his crop. This dude is looking for someone to offload this gear in Sydney. There’s good coin in it.”

  “And?” Nick deflated a little. “Why can’t he just sell it down there?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t ask. He’s looking for someone to buy off him.”

  “What, someone like you I suppose.”

  “Seriously thinking about it.” Rafe responded.

  “You’re off your fucking tree, mate.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s solid as.”

  “And how well do you know this painter mate of yours?”

  “Well enough, he’s cool,” Rafe nodded with assurance.

  “Mate, you know me. I’m not into smoking pot like you and your mates.” Nick walked to the back of the table and placed the triangle on the green felt. He started making his way around the table, fishing pool balls from the pockets. Rafe grabbed a pool que and chalked up the blue tip.

  “You got much work? Might have a small patch up job coming up for you, mate. Maybe a Saturday thing. Just here in Riverview.” Nick put forward to thwart the whole silly proposal with a lame work alternative.

  Rafe waited for Nick to finish racking the balls. He would have to be more forceful convincing Nick to come with him.

  “Dude, I’m not asking you to sell dope,” Rafe groped for a durry in his top shirt pocket, “But I wouldn’t mind some company driving down there. Just think of the surf, man. Mollymook is awesome.”

  “Haven’t been to the Marlin since I was sixteen,” Nick remarked.

  “Yeah, the good ole days before ID checks.”

  “Righto mate, sounds like a good weekend as long as you leave me out of your little business venture. When are we going?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early”. Rafe smiled.

  “Kidding, aren’t you? Don’t believe in giving some notice?”

  “Nope, are you cool?”

  “I’ll have to let Ellie know, not sure if she’s got anything organised for us”, Nick backpedalled and wondered if that was a lame enough excuse. Yep, pretty lame.

  “That’s the problem with you hooked up dudes. You haven’t got your own life. You always have to obey the queen,” Rafe shot back. “It’s cool, Nick, if you can’t go, then you can’t go. Meow. Meow?” Faking a cat’s cry.

  Rafe knew that would clinch the deal.

  “Fuck off. I’m coming, what time we leaving?”

  “When!” Ellie threw her handbag on the kitchen bench-top listening to Nick as she came home from he
r evening out.

  “In the morning. We’re leaving early.” Nick was unsteady on his feet. “Is that alright?”

  “Alright! Looks like you’ve already made up your mind. It’s fucking eleven o’clock, Nick. What do you expect me to say?” Ellie replied with her voice raised. Then, she mimicked a crying woman. ”Oh no, sweetheart, please don’t go on a surfing safari with your useless mate, Rafe.”

  Nick swayed on his feet.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake. You’re bloody unbelievable. When’s the last time you and I went away on a weekend. Doing anything?” She opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of white wine. She snatched a wine glass and poured half a glass. “Oh, don’t answer me. It might actually require you to think about us.” Ellie took a gulp from her wine, draining it. Then she topped her glass up straightaway.

  “This is bullshit, you go out with your nurse-friends.” Nick tried to defend his holiday.

  She drank more from her wine without taking her cold stare from him.

  “Anyway, I’m tired, got to leave early.”

  Ellie watched him disappear into the bedroom. We could have gone away. She was steaming. Before long, she gawked at the empty bottle of white wine. We could have gone together somewhere to a cottage with an old fashioned veranda. Instead he chooses a bloody surfing safari with a useless dope-smoking mate!

  By the time she opened the door, Nick was lying on his back on top of the covers, fully clothed and snoring like a B-52.

  It was 6.15 in the morning and still dark. Standing in her pyjamas and bare feet at the front door she felt the goose bumps running up her arms and neck. She shivered and felt cold breeze, as it blew a few strands of her tussled blonde hair in her face and eyes.

  The late-model Kombi started swiftly and quietly. The head-lights lit up a tunnel in the street. As the van moved off slowly she volunteered a quick wave. But there was no reciprocating wave. Not so much as a wink. Fucking arsehole. She slammed the front door shut.

  CHAPTER 33

  NEW VENTURES

  The drive down the coast started out with surf talk. Waves. Short sticks. Mals are like boats. Hey, the Hawaiians first surfed on barge-like planks. Yeah, but this is the twenty-first century. Can’t fucking carve with a plank.