Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “Found it alright. Not too much trouble I hope?” Peter said, confident that his directions were usually sound. He drew the chain lock through the gate, lifted the metal barrier and walked it around to allow enough space for the hatchback to come through. Martin eased the car between the thick log post and the gate.

  “Follow me, mate, it’s not far. Just down the hill a kilometre or so.” Peter shut the gate and jumped back in his truck.

  After negotiating a steep and narrow down-hill rocky track they arrived at a clearing. Peter’s home was more of a tin shed than a cottage. The white-knuckle ride down the steep, slippery track was unnerving for Martin; he was already in a panic about getting back up the narrow and very steep track.

  Martin’s first question, “How am I going to get up that fucking hill?”

  It was met with a dismissive wave from Peter, not to worry.

  His second question, “Your mutt?” With a distinct look of disapproval on his face.

  “That’s my mate, Patch.”

  But Patch stayed a distance away. Although wagging his tail from time to time, the cattle-dog remained a couple of metres from Martin. The dog circled the short visitor, slowly, so he wouldn’t be noticed. Martin was nonplussed and happy that he didn’t have to pat the bloody thing. Casually, Martin took in the clearing and its bushy surroundings. Then he focussed on the living arrangements. What a dump. Why would you want to live like this?

  “He’s usually pretty friendly. Probably just sussing you,” Peter remarked, without evoking any reaction from his visitor. Okay, you don’t care about dogs. Peter shrugged.

  “All I got is coffee and some water. You thirsty?”

  “Ah, no mate, I’m right. Just had something in town.” Martin said. “Our place is a bit like this, maybe a tad bigger, although we don’t have to crawl down a hill like yours.”

  “I found it a while ago when I first came here. Hadn’t been lived in for ages.”

  “How did you get onto this?” Martin asked.

  “Asked around in town, at the pub. I was lucky, a bloke knew someone used to live here. The guy died. So that’s how he knew it was empty.” Peter recounted.

  “How’d he die?” Martin was curious.

  “Got crushed by a tree. He was a logger,” Peter responded, “Logging’s a dangerous business.”

  Martin muttered, “Hmm. Growing dope is not as dangerous, I suppose.”

  Peter briefly digested that comment before he wandered over to the wood pile next to the chopping block. He picked up some large cut blocks and tossed them closer to the splitting stump.

  “That stuff was awesome the other night.” Martin broke the silence. He waited for Peter’s reply. The axe came down swiftly and split some off the side.

  Peter turned around to face Martin. “Yeah, it’s a good smoke. I’ll have some more of it soon.”

  “Isn’t the stuff already harvested? Seems odd to leave it this late in the season.”

  Peter didn’t answer. He swung the axe from up high and slammed it down onto the hardwood block. It split in half. Both pieces fell off the stump in opposite directions.

  Martin chose to lighten the conversation. Too soon to be negotiating with this guy. “Look, I didn’t come here to buy dope. I just wanted to catch up, you’re alright. Probably catch up for a beer again. It’s getting late, my cousin might need me. So I’ll bail now.”

  Peter beckoned him over. He pointed in the other direction from which they came down the hill before. He indicated with his finger and pointed to another track. “See that track up to the left, might be a bit hard to see from here. It’s nowhere as steep as that one we came down. But, it’s a little longer. Comes out at the same spot up the top. Take that one.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Martin went to his car, but halfway to the vehicle he changed his mind and stopped, turned around to face Peter.

  “I have a lot of connections. I can make life very good for you. Sell a lot of dope for you. Make you a lot of money.” Martin’s face had hardened, his dark, beady eyes piercing into Peter’s gentle gaze.

  “I’m pretty set at the moment. Don’t really need a lot more,” Peter responded politely, but without backbone.

  Martin looked at his prospect and started to continue to his car, but changed his mind again. His facial expression changed from hard to resolute.

  “I can also make your life hard. I don’t like people saying ‘no’ to me.” Martin threatened.

  Peter’s eyes blinked. This was totally unexpected. What’s this guy laying on me? Shit. I thought we were all cool here. Now he’s talking like some standover dude. Nervously Peter replied, “I have to think about it. I have arrangements with other guys. I would have to cut back my supply to them.”

  “I don’t care what you arrange with your other mates. Just remember who your new mate is.” Martin pointed a finger up in admonishment.

  Stunned, Peter swallowed and muttered, “Give us a ring. Next week.” Peter got back to his chore turning his back to Martin, hoping he would leave.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be seeing you real soon,” Martin promised and he opened his car door. He slid into his seat and looked back to Peter as he turned the key in the ignition. “You won’t need to watch your clock, I’ll be back in no time.”

  While gazing at the splitting stump, Peter heard the car inching up the track. He sighed. Taking his eyes off the firewood, he peered ahead into the bush, not seeing anything, other than his mind ticking over. What have I done? How could I have fucked up this bad? To his right on the ground he noticed a crumpled white serviette from the Royal Hotel. He recognised the mobile number. It was his.

  CHAPTER 52

  LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

  By the time Martin followed the headlights of his car down the bush track of their concealed property, it was pitch black around him. Not late in the evening. Winter – everything slowed and there was more time overnight to think, to scheme.

  Martin had adored his cousin until recently. Matt’s bossiness had chipped away at the eggshell – Martin likened it to peeling an egg. Matt had cracked the egg, the egg that symbolised their common bond, a flesh and blood relationship. But Matt had cracked the fucker. And every day he crapped on about loyalty, about him being the boss, a bit more eggshell was peeled off.

  Martin loved Matt. Some days less than others. Some days it was love and hate. How does that work?

  From a distance he could see an orange glow dancing in the trees. A roaring winter fire that lifted Martin’s spirits instantly. Matt was standing a couple of paces away from the open air log fireplace, a dug-out twenty metres or so in front of the cabin about two and a half metres in diameter and a half-metre deep. The crater provided a safe pit to throw cut logs, branches and other burnables into. A bush-property had plenty of stuff to burn.

  “Suppose a pet bird would fly away too, after you stopped clipping its wings,” Matt said. He watched the flames shoot up randomly; the fire’s heat was intense. In one hand he was holding a can of Bundy and the other a long stick to poke and stir the fire. He ignored Martin’s arrival otherwise.

  Martin didn’t catch all of Matt’s welcome line. “What was that?” Upbeat, but disinterested. Martin was soon in a good place, with a cold beer in his hand and his back to the fire. “Great idea, mate. Pretty cold and dark out there.” Martin had a good swig from the can.

  “Yeah. It is dark.” Matt answered, his eyes hypnotised by the flames. No words were uttered for a few minutes. There was another darkness; it was hiding behind a face glowing from intense heat of the fire.

  “Anything to eat? If you haven’t cooked anything, I’ll get something happening,” Martin offered.

  Matt released from his spell. “No. Haven’t thought about it. Now that you mention it, a juicy steak on the hot plate would be fucking good.”

  Without a word, Martin hopped to it. Once in the kitchen he bee-lined straight to the fridge. The generous fridge was well stocked at most times. Both of the cousins were g
ood eaters and spared little on expense when it came to culinary preferences. Although the range of culinary niceties was limited to steak, chops and bacon. The T-bone steaks were thick and of equal size with a well-proportioned marble white edge of fat lining the edge of one side; a staple item on the weekly menu. Martin dug around in the bottom of the pantry and picked out two of the largest potatoes from the bag. As he straightened up he grabbed a can of baked beans.

  The hot-plate sat resting on a brick surround with cement mortar holding the roughly laid bricks together fashioning a bush-barbeque. Martin picked up a long-handled and wide nose shovel and scooped up some coals and burning bits of fire-wood from the open bonfire. With a couple of trips back and forth, he loaded the space under the plate with burning embers and log-splits. Soon a cooking fire under the thick hot-plate started to sizzle the left-over grease from the last cook-up. He tossed the foil-wrapped spuds into the coals and pushed them to the side so they wouldn’t burn to a black crisp.

  Matt nodded in approval, watching him from a distance. ‘Doing a good job there Marty. I must have taught you well.”

  Martin detected a slur in Matt’s voice. Or was it a slowness rather than a slur, maybe, he thought as he pushed the coals further to the back of the cooking fire.

  “Had a few Bundies, aye?” Martin remarked.

  “A couple. Not travellin’ tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter,” Matt said.

  Tonight his frizzy hair was covered up with a beanie, pulled right down past his ears. Martin thought he looked like a fat school boy with swollen and rosy cheeks.

  “So where were you today?” Matt asked.

  “Ah, just hung around the Bay. Had a look around the beaches. You know, now that I have my own wheels I can have a bit of look around.” A little lie. ”Then I bought some fish and chips for lunch.” A little truth.

  “Right.” Matt nodded.

  Carefully, Martin turned the spuds in the coals. “Baked beans alright with you?”

  “Sure, mate. Anything’s alright by me.” Matt was weaving around a bit while taking more than a gulp from his Bundy. He turned and slowly stepped towards Martin who was tending to the hot-plate. With the poking stick in his hand, Matt tapped it in front of him on the ground. Then he swept the stick in the dirt from left to right; playful and menacing at the same time.

  Martin took note, not making any eye contact, remaining collected. Matt’s behaviour was out of character. Then it came.

  “You’re not fucking me over, are you? Cousin.”

  Martin felt the poking stick gently touching his shoulder. A soft tap and then Matt rested the stick on Martin’s shoulder.

  “What do you mean? Why would I be fucking you over? You’re my cousin. My best friend.” Martin feigned as he turned around to face his cousin.

  The boys stared at each other: a recognition that a small crack had been made. Like a chip in a windscreen from a flying bit of stone. Tick. Chip. Little crack. Will it crack further? How far will it travel? Will it crack to the edge?

  Another minute passed. The sound of a crackling and burning wood-fire filling the night. Martin forked the first T-bone onto the plate and repeated with the other one. The sound of sizzling meat, the waft from a cooking steak, it softened the mood.

  “What about the beans. Are they cooking yet?” Matt asked.

  “You keep an eye on the steak and I’ll turn the stove on for the beans.” Martin said.

  “Yeah, I am good at keeping an eye on things.” Matt held his gaze locked on Martin for a moment.

  Then Martin turned and went to the cottage. He disappeared into the kitchen. Irritated, not worried. Definitely wary. Got to be on your toes from now on. He emptied the baked beans into the pan sitting on the gas fire. Don’t get burnt. He stirred the beans round and round.

  Matt had followed his cousin with his eyes, thinking, I wish I could believe you.

  CHAPTER 53

  YOUR LUCKY DAY

  Patch barked incessantly. It woke Peter with a start. Intermingled with Patch’s high-pitched yapping, he could discern another noise, a shouting voice. “Shut the fuck up! You shit-bag mutt!”

  “No way. Please don’t be here again,” Peter pleaded. He sprang out of his cot and searched for his jeans. After getting dressed in a hurry he rushed to the back door. As he opened the door he saw what the commotion was all about. “Patch, come here!” Peter shouted.

  “Get that fucking dog away from me!” Martin screamed back, as he pressed himself against the log-timber water tank stand. Patch eased back from his rounded up quarry. Growling and showing his teeth, he backed away from Martin.

  “Next time, I will put a bullet between his eyes. I swear, I will fucking shoot him,” Martin threatened while pointing his finger at the irate cattle dog.

  “Patch. Come. Now!” Peter commanded.

  Martin’s heart pounded. His arrival had provoked the cattle dog. He had not expected this aggression from the otherwise placid dog. He breathed in deep a few times, trying to placate his fear of the animal. It was a foreign experience, he had never feared an animal, let alone a dog. I’ll fucking get you, he swore an oath to himself. You’re as good as dead. His eyes were still fixed on the dog.

  Patch bared his teeth, growling once more. “Get here!” Peter snarled with gritted teeth. Patch gave in and fell in behind his owner, defiantly eyeballing the intruder from between Peter’s legs.

  “I’ve decided to make things crystal clear for you.” Martin said the words with authority. His presence here had surpassed the need for any niceties, as far as he was concerned. “I want you to fuck your other customers off. From now on, I’m your only customer.”

  The words hit home. Peter suddenly felt weighted down, as if someone had slapped steel shackles around his ankles. Cold heavy steel. Clasp. Clasp. Two ankles. Clink. The chain. I can’t go anywhere. The weight of the shackles weakened his knees. “You’re not giving me any choice in this?” Peter’s objection was unconvincing and wavering. His legs ached.

  “No.” Martin replied firmly.

  After some silence, Martin said, “Think of this as your lucky day.”

  “How is that?” Peter muttered.

  “You’re alive, and so is your dog.” Martin left the safety of the water tank stand and went to his car. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  CHAPTER 54

  GO OUT WITH A BANG

  The Kombi’s tyres mashed the new crushed shale road-base topping. Rafe negotiated the freshly spread surface layer with care, unsure whether he should even be driving on it. The blue-grey coloured gravel was only spread over the first hundred or so metres from the gate entrance. None of it was compacted but well-spread and a good four inches thick. In the rear view mirror he could see the wheel ruts the Kombi had made. Not real deep, but certainly left their mark.

  “You’re in trouble now, Rafe. You’ve made dents in his new road. He’s not going to be happy.” Nick said as he moved his head from side to side with pursed lips.

  “Oh, fuck off. Doesn’t it have to be compacted anyway?” Rafe dismissed him, visibly irritated with that slight upturn of the nose and an aggressive flick of his locks. A rare glimpse of an upset Rafe.

  “Aren’t we a wee bit touchy this arvo. What’s up, dude? Time of the month, aye?” More shit getting flung. Nick loved revving up his mate.

  In this round Rafe just ignored his mate. Nick was a champion annoyer. This afternoon Rafe was indeed annoyed. Not because Nick was being a teasing, niggling dickhead. That was most days. But it was something that Nick said and Rafe had taken his comment on board, the possibility of his gravy train being run off the tracks by another party was not implausible. Recalling last night’s phone call to Peter, he was shocked to find out that Nick’s omen might be realised. Peter informed him of a drastic cutback in supply but he wouldn’t elaborate. “Things have changed. I might not be able to supply you anymore after this.” Those words droned in Rafe’s head.

  The extra income from the ‘herbal sales’, as
Rafe called it, was a tidy sum of money and allowed him to live a more lavish lifestyle, like the surfing holidays in Indonesia. The northern beaches painting contractor was doing alright. The money was certainly important, but it was the aura surrounding the life-style. For him there was a nobility and an excitement that dealing bush-weed to his mates in Sydney gave him. So the threat of a sudden drop in supply was devastating news.

  The other thing that niggled him was Peter. Casual, chilled out Peter, the one from the last six deals, was no longer – he was more like Peter Panic.

  As Rafe idled the Kombi down the steep track, approaching the clearing where the tin shed was situated a cattle dog ran up the hill barking in a high-pitched shriek and moving his tail like a rotor blade.

  Both visitors stepped out of the van and the exuberant cattle dog jumped up on Rafe, overjoyed to see his friend. It was Nick’s first visit to the isolated property.

  ”You do have a friend after all.” Nick joked.

  “What’s all the commotion, here?” Peter came around from the back the shed. He smiled, appearing relaxed. With an outstretched arm he extended his hand in friendship to Nick. “Rafe told me he was bringing his brother.”

  Peter sized up the clean-shaven ‘brother’. “Funny you don’t much look like him. Only joking, mate. Welcome to my home.” They shook hands and turned their attention to the bloke and a dog rolling around on the grass, egging each other on playing a game of mock wrestle and roll.

  “Once those two have stopped kissing each other, we can get our business sorted.” Peter shook his head and motioned Nick to follow him. “Here, mate, have a Coke.” He passed Nick a can of Coke from an outdoor fridge sitting on the veranda.

  Rafe soon appeared with the cattle dog following him with a stick in its mouth. Patch dropped the stick duty-fully at Peter’s feet. “Go away, Patch. Go on. No stick.” Peter ignored the dog. “Rafe, a Coke, mate?” He reached into the fridge again.