Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “So, this bloke you’re meeting up with, you’ve actually not ever met him? Is that right?”

  “No, but Trevor has told me Peter is cool, a nice dude.” Rafe adjusted his Ray-Ban’s slightly readying himself for the questioning. Nick was so annoyingly nosy at times. That was the trade-off with taking Nick along for the ride; to cop a bit of flack. I’ll put up with it. To a point.

  “So who’s Trevor? And who is Peter? Fuck me, all these new friends.”

  “You’re a tool!” Rafe exclaimed.

  “Okay, then, let’s start with Trevor.”

  “Bloke I know from work,” Rafe replied.

  “Guess you’d know this bloke really well then?”

  Rafe rolled his eyes, “Nicholas, you are starting to bore me.”

  “Mate, why do you want to buy this dope? Are you short of cash or something? And how much of this shit are you actually buying?”

  “Jesus, Nick, which question do you want me to answer first?” Rafe snapped. “Remember, you said that as long as I left you out of my business venture you were happy to tag along.”

  Nick shut up.

  Peter had moved from the northern beaches down to the South Coast, to start a business growing marijuana plants in the bush. That was his sole purpose for moving. Grow weed and make some money. Live the lifestyle. Luckily for Peter his first crop was harvested without interference from the rangers, helicopters, or bad weather. He only lost a dozen or so plants to wallabies and other crop munching critters. He had allowed for some crop loss, he was pleased. Peter was even more pleased, because Trevor found someone with contacts to sell some of his weed. Not that Peter didn’t have contacts, but he thought it wise to by-pass his usual crowd of friends and acquaintances. Less chance for blurters to blow his operation down south.

  When he came to the area his planning was disciplined and his finances were carefully allocated to fund his new investment. His plan included, finding a place to rent, away from the towns, somewhere with some acreage, but not too much, with few neighbours. His other aim was to get to know the local bush tracks and explore the bush; to locate the best spots for planting his crop, without risk of discovery. Well, at least minimise the risk of getting caught. Peter was a realist.

  Quite successfully, he managed to plant and harvest a modest crop of mature plants. These plants came from four separate plots, although two of the plots he decided not to return to. Their yield was too small.

  Peter carefully stage-managed his appearance and existence for the outside world down on the coast as well. He presented as an average looking bloke from the land, no stand-out features like pony-tails and tattoos. Blue jeans, a plain T-shirt with a lumberjack-type flannel shirt when the weather was cooler. His blond hair was thinning and at collar-length. He usually sported a week’s worth of stubble on his face and carefully maintained this look by only trimming and not shaving. Just a regular local lad who does casual jobs, like fencing or labouring. When he rocked up in town few people would bat an eye-lid; he was just another bloke with a Land Cruiser ute and a cattle dog yapping in the back.

  Although Peter was a man of few words, he was always courteous. Part of his plan was to keep a low profile. No circle of friends, but he did enjoy a beer and the company of anonymous pub patrons. Like-minded blokes shooting the breeze over a few schooners discussing a bit of footy, a mate’s new four wheel drive, some nice tits at IGA, or how much rain they got in Gundagai. Blokes who were loggers, farm-hands, brick-layers, truckies, piss-heads, with one marijuana-farmer. Other than that, he kept to himself.

  Peter’s pick for a pub was the Royal Hotel, on a Wednesday night.

  Every Wednesday night. But once in a blue moon, he would venture into the pub on a Friday night.

  And one Friday night at the Royal Hotel, Peter met a bloke named Martin.

  CHAPTER 34

  PAST

  “So what’s the story when we get to Ulladulla, mate?” Nick enquired.

  “We are staying in a cabin, like a caravan cabin. It’s cheap and near Mollymook beach. Supposed to be a bit of swell, from that southerly storm earlier in the week. Tide will be going out after lunch. And the wind should be offshore.”

  Rafe depressed the accelerator pedal a bit harder to climb up Stony Hill, the last bit of the Princes Highway before entering the Milton town-ship. He obeyed the speed limit sign of 60 and slowed the vehicle as they made their way through the centre of town.

  “The Royal Hotel. Must be one in every town,” Nick commented, as he noticed the sign hanging from the front awning. “We ought to stop in there for a beer later.”

  “Do a pub crawl, you reckon?” They both laughed because they both knew how a pub crawl was going to play out.

  “Yeah, dude, we could definitely stop in for a couple,” Rafe agreed and shook his head with a smirk on his face.

  “Okay, this is our stop,” Rafe advised and signalled, turning the Kombi left off the highway. The caravan park entrance was only a hundred meters or so from the highway. Guests were greeted with the obligatory caravan-park palm-tree garden at the front.

  After checking in and consulting the park map, they searched for their accommodation along the very narrow and winding, patched road that wove through the park. Most of the caravans were dated and the park didn’t look well-cared for. But it exuded a certain charm and fell into step with a surfer’s expectation. Casual, plenty of shade, not too much concrete and a bit of room to sit outside the van to hang out with a beer. Not too much lighting making it easy to light up a number and talk about the day’s waves, and the ones yet to be ridden.

  Nick brushed a bit of corrosion from the cabin door lock and inserted the key. “Hasn’t been used for a while, I reckon.” After throwing their bags in the caravan they agreed to venture into Ulladulla for a feed of burgers.

  They scoffed a hamburger with bacon and cheese each and shared a bag of hot chips. After their feed, they were reinvigorated and keen to check out the waves. The boys headed off to Mollymook for a look at the surf. On the way, they were treated to a glimpse of a decent wave breaking to the east of the golf course. They drove further down towards the southern end of Mollymook beach. In the carpark at the Surf Club was a gathering of cars with surf-boards tied to roof-racks and an excited crowd of board-riders pointing to the breaks. Rafe and Nick got out of the Kombi and observed the waves. A trickle of surfers jogging to the water’s edge with surfboards under their arms soon turned into a virtual exodus from land.

  “I reckon we go back to that other place.”

  A road to the left near the Golf Club cut through the golf course and led them to a popular spot. The carpark was packed. The surf was going off. A mixture of spectators and pumped up surfers were scattered on the grassy knoll overlooking the shallow rock platform. The surf break was pockmarked with riders. Surfers, knee-boarders and a half dozen body-boarders. Welcome to Mollymook.

  Nick and Rafe jumped out of the Kombi; like a well-rehearsed team they got ready, stripping off to bare skin, snatching the wetsuits off the back seat without taking their eyes off the seven foot swell. Three minutes later, both were paddling their boards out to the action. They were set for the rest of the day.

  Seven o’clock in the morning came too soon. Nick popped his eyes open. It was still dark in the van. Rafe looked fast asleep, with some muffled snoring from under a couple of blankets, and a bit of brown hair betraying his whereabouts.

  “Time to get up.” Nick shook the bunk.

  “Go away. It’s too early.”

  “I’m hungry, and I need some coffee.” Nick said as he put his jeans on.

  Although the sun had not broken the horizon, the morning had started to take on a faint glow. Dawn temperature was well below ten degrees, and a slight breeze from the west occasionally sent an extra cold sting onto their ears, as they walked briskly down towards the beach. Hands buried in the jumper pockets stretched down as far as their arms could push. A trail of steamy breath followed behind, dissipating as they p
rogressed down the hill. The conversation was limited. Too cold to talk.

  Rafe broke the silence, “You know what, I just remembered something about last night.”

  “What? When you fell over on your arse on the golf course?” Nick chuckled.

  “No, nothing like that.” Rafe’s head turned to face Nick. “Serious, mate, you need to hear this.” Rafe had grabbed Nick’s jumper sleeve. “Last night at the Marlin, I saw someone I’ve met before. Couldn’t remember straightaway, but I do remember now. It was that same little runt from the Mona Vale Hotel …you know: the guy who attacked you. Never forget those beady black eyes. Don’t think he recognised me, but he walked past me and shot me an evil eye for a second.”

  “Small world, nothing unusual, Sydney is not that far from here. It’s probably just a bloke who looks like that turkey.” Nick shrugged it off. “No need to dig up bad memories.”

  “Hey, dude, this guy nearly killed you, I would want to get even. But then you are not me.”

  “No I’m not a viking like you.” Knowing that Rafe would take some offense and the subject would be changed.

  “Abusing my heritage serves no purpose. Arsehole.”

  Without another word, they continued their quest for coffee. The clock had only just gone 8am. The kiosk had not opened as yet. Some lighting was on and there appeared to be some human presence.

  “Not open until eight-thirty.” Nick was pacing in circles trying to keep warm.

  Rafe suggested a walk down the beach, so at least they could stay warm instead of sitting on a brick garden wall getting a cold arse waiting.

  Nick thought more about Rafe’s revelation about last night. His curiosity had been teased and a little anxiety started to creep into his day. Nick fixed his gaze on the ocean, but he didn’t see the water; he only saw that angry face with the black eyes, and he could feel his abdomen throbbing. He felt a cold shiver.

  “Let’s walk on the beach, cold sand between your toes wakes you up and gets you psyched for a surf.” Rafe was not oblivious to Nick’s sudden angst.

  Both took their sneakers off and left them near some bushes at the edge of the sand.

  “So, how are you and Ellie, mate?”

  “What makes you ask me about her?”

  “I didn’t ask you about her. I actually asked about you and her.” Rafe clarified.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Well, I am your friend, and speaking as your friend who has known you for too fucking long it seems you’re not all that happy. Although I put up with your boring sense of humour and lack of joie de vivre, as they say in French, you are my brother.”

  “I’m not your brother.” Nick quickly corrected.

  “You know what I mean.”

  This conversation went nowhere. Nick listened to the squishing sound of their feet sinking into the sand. Nearly synchronised. Blokes’ ballet on the beach. Hung-over blokes’ ballet.

  “Glad I didn’t run into him then.” Nick mumbled.

  Rafe didn’t respond. The south-westerly airflow had slowed to a gentle wisp every couple of minutes. Nick could hear the small waves breaking and washing up the beach and in between the rhythm of the washes, the crunching of their feet in the sand.

  “Swell has dropped.” Nick said, hoping it would break the silence.

  “We could have straightened him out. Between the two of us we could have taught him a lesson.” Rafe looked out to the sea. Nick didn’t respond.

  By the time they walked back from North Mollymook beach, dusted the sand from their feet, the kiosk was open for business. The aroma of bacon frying on the hotplate wafted out the open doors like a giant welcome mat.

  After putting their order in for two mugs of hot coffee they ordered a Bacon & Eggs Big Breakfast which was topped with a breakfast sausage, a hash brown, toast, tomatoes and mushrooms. They finished the gargantuan morning meal and started their way back to the park, sluggish up the hill. The early morning start and the huge amount of food slowed them down. Once back at the caravan neither was motivated to do anything.

  “I have to meet this guy in about forty-five minutes.” Rafe sighed heavily. Nervous. Hung over.

  “You can always bail out.”

  Rafe ignored Nick’s suggestion.

  They agreed to meet up where they had surfed the day before. Rafe had a hot shower which he finished off with a cold rinse to wake him up and freshen his head. He swore he would never drink again. Until next week, anyway.

  CHAPTER 35

  FIRST DEAL

  The dark-blue Kombi pulled up next to the Toyota four-wheel drive. A white-blue speckled working dog ran around in circles in the back tray, wagging his tail and barking incessantly until his master signalled him to shut up. From the separation and safety of their front seats both drivers acknowledged each other with a friendly nod and a courteous smile. Chilled, as it should be. Rafe was relieved the first step was easy, but his heart was still beating faster than normal.

  Peter leant over and opened the passenger front door of the truck cab and beckoned the driver of the Kombi to come over. Rafe nodded and exited his vehicle.

  Rafe slid into the front seat of the Toyota and extended his hand.

  “Rafe, is my name, pleased to meet you, Peter? Right?”

  “Yeah, mate. Good to meet you. Trevor has said good things about you. Says you’re a good bloke.”

  They shook hands briefly and sized each other up for a few seconds before Peter took the initiative. “Okay, let’s get down to business. Let’s start with the agreed amount of stash. Did you bring the cash?” Peter was calm and collected.

  “Yes. I have it.”

  “Rafe, I need to ask you some things first. Hope you don’t mind me asking.” Peter politely put forward.

  “No. Ask. Happy to answer whatever is on your mind.”

  “How long have you been dealing mull?” Peter came straight to the point.

  “More than a few years. Just small quantities. Got steady customers. A lot of surfers and tradies.” Rafe obliged the question.

  “You think you’ll be able to move a couple of pounds a month?”

  “I think so. Is that the amount you want me to sell every month?” Rafe asked.

  “Well, it has to be worth my while, but I’m happy to start with a small batch first.” Peter was satisfied and smiled.

  Rafe took the envelope from his coat pocket and before opening it he quickly scanned the carpark. “Here’s two thousand, I’ll just count it to make sure, a few hundreds and mostly fifties, should all be there, no worries. The amount Trevor told me to bring.”

  “Don’t worry, mate, no one here to watch us.”

  Rafe pulled the wad of bills from the envelope and proceeded to count and separate. Twice he paused to survey the carpark.

  “Chill out mate, nothing to stress about, you can slow down.”

  Rafe relaxed a little and completed the counting of bills; he handed them over to Peter.

  “All good. So now I need you to follow me out to there.” And Peter pointed towards the escarpment west of the township.

  Rafe’s eyes opened wider. A worried frown on his forehead betrayed his anxiety. “Alright. But I sort of thought you had the stuff here, I mean, on you in the truck.” Rafe hesitated because he did not want to upset his new business partner.

  “Nah, mate, nothing personal, but I wanted to meet you first. Never know.”

  “Fair enough. Where are we going?” Rafe asked, apprehensive.

  “See that escarpment there, over that way, just follow me in the Kombi. I promise not to fang it.”

  Rafe got out of the ‘Cruiser cab and as he got out he copped a whopping lick on his face from a very friendly dog. It shocked him at first, but he soon relaxed as he wiped the slobber from his face with his shirt.

  “Your dog’s friendly. Can I pat him?”

  “Normally, I’d say no, but Patch seems to like you. Sure. But don’t complain if he nips at your hand. He’s a cattle-dog,” Peter warned
as he started up the diesel.

  Both vehicles left the park driveway in succession. Turning right off the highway, a short distance away Rafe tried to compose himself. A big night on the piss probably did not help alleviate the anxiety he felt right now. Be cool dude, it’s all good. Before long they were off the bitumen and Rafe shut his driver’s side window and switched the fresh air vent to recirculate. The Land Cruiser stirred up a lot of dust ahead of him.

  Driving on this dirt road calmed Rafe’s nerves, he was enjoying the bush scenery around him. The drive continued for some time and wound its way around some tight curves and over a lot of undulations until the track climbed its way up steeper into the hills. Peter stuck his arm out of the window signalling and pointing to the right while slowing down considerably until stopping in front of a narrower track.

  He instructed Rafe to park his van on the clearing to the left, off the dirt road.

  “Just lock it and leave it there, jump into mine. We’ll be back in half an hour mate.”

  Rafe complied. The day was warming up, he felt some of the heat from the sun filtering through the gumtrees that surrounded the clearing.

  “Hop in, not far to go, better off in mine. Wouldn’t want to scratch yours up too much. Looks in smick condition.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  After negotiating a few deep ruts and some wide mud-puddles, they arrived at a dense and heavily overgrown spot. Peter stopped the ute and turned the diesel off.

  “Wait here please,” Peter instructed. He hopped out of his seat. Within seconds, the scruffy dope farmer had disappeared into the scrub. Patch whimpered a few times. Rafe got out of the cab and was greeted again by the excitable dog, wagging his bushy speckled tail as Rafe rubbed his hand over the dog’s neck and head.

  “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” The dog rolled over on his back, “And you want a belly rub, don’t you?” Rafe ran his hands over Patch’s belly.

  “Jeez, he likes you, not always this friendly to strangers,” Peter said as he suddenly reappeared from the dense scrub with a dusty duffel bag in his left hand.