Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  After all three men had a drink, a moment of awkward silence ensued. Three pairs of eyes were darting across each other waiting for a signal, ‘who’s gonna say something?’

  Nick twigged. “I’ll go and entertain your dog for a while.” Nick picked up the stick. Patch had already run half away across the clearing so it wasn’t hard for him to work out where to throw the stick.

  “Good to see you relaxed, Peter.” Rafe emphasised ‘good’, because he really wanted to impress upon him that he was concerned. “Last night you were veryuptight. Sorry, if I’m being a bit forward here. It’s good to see you, you know, chilled out. You had me worried.”

  “Can’t really recall, to be honest. Maybe I was a little,” Peter replied, reluctant to confess. “Let’s not get stuck in the past.” Peter inched his way towards the front of the shed and stepped off the timber deck. “Rafe. I have to tell you that some things have changed in my business. It’s nothing to do with you personally. You’ve been a good man to have on board.” For a moment the marijuana farmer from the bush was stumped for words. His mind was clouding up with visions of Martin.

  The worst day of my life, meeting Martin at the Royal Hotel.

  “I don’t really understand,” Rafe replied.

  “Look, mate, not to alarm you, but I’m making a few changes to our arrangement. Don’t take it personal. You’ve been a great guy to deal with. Honestly… It’s for the best.” Peter was unconvincing.

  Rafe nodded in sympathy. “Sure, mate. Whatever you think is right. Don’t want you to be stressed out if our arrangement isn’t working for you. But to be honest, I really thought we were solid.” The cogs in Peter’s brain were loud. Rafe sensed that his friend didn’t know how to deal with whatever dilemma he was in. There was little point in pressing him for details; Peter obviously had encountered problems that were causing him grief.

  “I may have to stop supplying you ... altogether … until I get more yield from my crop.”

  It was like a sledgehammer slamming and sending the slug up the channel to ring the carnival bell. What? I’m not getting any more dope from him? Rafe was stunned.

  “I am supplying others of course and am running low on supply. It’s hard to keep everyone happy.” Peter tried to justify his course of action.

  Rafe felt his stomach churning. Nick’s comment turned out to be an omen. I can’t fucking believe it. Outwardly, the sun-tanned surfer remained calm. “Alright, mate. I get the picture. Any chance of some on this trip?”

  Peter answered promptly, “Of course. I have some put away for you, real kick-arse gear, as a token for being a good customer.”

  “Is this the last?” Rafe asked.

  “Afraid so,” Peter confirmed. The scruffy tall bushman lifted the lid to a timber box and produced a roughly folded plastic garbage bag. “A tad over one and half pounds. Mostly tips and heads. It’s dynamite. Promise.”

  “Go out with a bang, you reckon.” Rafe softly commented.

  “So to speak,” Peter responded.

  A question was burning on Rafe’s lips. Unhappy as he was with his business predicament, he was also worried about his friend. True to Rafe’s form, associations became friendships and friendships forged bonds of brotherhood. And brotherhood meant that you had to look after your brother, in good times and bad times.

  “Peter. Are you in trouble?”

  “No. No, not at all.”

  Rafe found Peter’s answer unconvincing. The bushman was nervously fidgeting with some keys.

  “Peter. Mate, are you in danger?” This time Rafe’s question elicited an angry response.

  “Why are you asking me all these questions?” Peter turned on his heels and stomped off. This left Rafe with an unanswered question, but a very clear reply.

  CHAPTER 55

  OMEN

  The Kombi struggled on the dusty track clambering up over the rocky ruts on the way back up to the gate. It lost traction a few times and Rafe’s feathers were clearly ruffled.

  “So what’s the story?” Nick casually asked.

  “Can we just leave that for a moment? Can’t you see I’m trying to get us the fuck out of here?” Rafe was exasperated and hissing like a snake.

  “Whoah, what the fuck?” Nick turned his whole body towards Rafe and leaned against the door. “You right there? It was just a simple question. Did your mate Pete shove a fucking carrot up your arse?”

  The Kombi slammed to a halt. A cloud of dust entered the windows and the jolt nearly sent Nick through the windscreen. Nick was stunned at Rafe’s reaction.

  “For once in your fucking life!” yelled Rafe. Then, after silently counting to three, he went on, slower and with less volume, “For once in your life, can you please be serious and just leave me be, so I can figure out what to do about all this shit. Okay?”

  Nick’s eyes were wide, his reply was a simple nod.

  Rafe took his foot off the brake and slipped the van into gear.

  Without further words they neared the gate. At the gate, Nick jumped out and walked over to the post to unlatch the chain. Rafe moved the Kombi through the opening.

  A couple of crows were hovering over a week old wallaby carcass ten steps or so away from Peter’s entrance. Flapping and landing on top of it, in turns, and picking at the remains. Nick stood there watching them for a minute. Black crows. He wasn’t superstitious, but the morbid scene had caught his attention. In the depths of his mind, it drew a parallel, but he couldn’t visualise the parallel, though he knew it was there. An omen.

  “Yo, what are you waiting for?” Rafe called out through the passenger side window.

  “Nothing.” Nick left the grisly display behind him.

  They drove off leaving another cloud of dust. This time Rafe had his foot down firmly on the go-pedal and soon the speedometer read seventy kilometres an hour.

  “Are we going to a fire?” Nick couldn’t help himself. Rafe sighed with great demonstration and answered dejectedly, ”No. I just want to get home.”

  “Okay, let’s start this again. I am sorry about being so flippant sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” Rafe rolled his eyes.

  “Mate, we’ve been friends for a long time. Actually, not just friends. You’re my best mate, you’re like a brother to me and I am grateful for our friendship. You’ve been there for me always.” Nick was trying to mend a bridge. Rafe just kept his eyes on the track and said nothing.

  Nick, however, was curious and concerned about his friend’s uncharacteristic display of outright stress.

  “Please, Rafe, share with me. Tell me what went down with Peter.”

  Rafe briefly turned his head to Nick. “Okay. A few days ago, when I was on the phone with Peter he was a vague about this last deal. He came across nervous, stressed, totally different from the guy I’m used to dealing with.” Rafe cleared his throat.

  “Today he tells me that he can’t supply me anymore. Something about not having enough and that it was hard to keep everyone happy.”

  “He supplies others as well?” Nick queried.

  “Of course, he does, I’m not the only buyer. Don’t be naïve.”

  “Yeah, yeah, fair enough. Don’t blow a gasket.”

  Rafe shot him another look of anger.

  “Sorry, I promised not to be a dick.”

  “Precisely why sometimes I’d like to drown you in a septic tank.” Rafe commented with a dry expression on his face.

  “What, in a shit-tank? Can’t you just drown me in the surf?” Nick joked.

  They both had a short laugh. It was good. It broke the tension. Now they were brothers again.

  “So where does that leave you then?”

  “Well, it’s not going to send me broke, if that’s your concern. But it will mean less trips to Indo. I guess.”

  “You’ll live.” Nick said.

  The crackle from the tyres crunching the gravel road gave way to the whirr from the tyres on the bitumen while speeding down Woodstock Road. Rafe put his foot
down further on the gas and soon they were zooming along doing a hundred.

  “I’m worried about Peter. I liked him from the start. A great dude, you know. I think he’s mixed up in something he doesn’t like. To me he looked scared.” Rafe said.

  “One of your very admirable personality traits is that you’re a good bloke. But my good friend, it is not possible you can save every puppy.”

  “What shit are you spouting now? What does saving a puppy got to do with Peter?”

  “I mean that although Peter might be a nice guy and great to buy dope from, he is a dope-grower and dope-dealer. In fact, you’re a dope-dealer. You’re both criminals in the eyes of the law.” Nick stated. “Okay, bad comparison. The puppy thing.” He added.

  “Your mate has probably gone into business with some bikies or other crims and now they want all his stash. They don’t want to share with you. As much as you like your mate Pete, I don’t think you should get involved with whatever shit he’s gotten himself into. That’s my take on all of this.”

  Rafe had no answer. Only feelings of loyalty.

  The Kombi approached the traffic-lights at the junction of the Princes Highway, Rafe indicated to the left. The tick, tick, tick sound was suddenly interrupted by his decision.

  “He’s my friend. And friends help each other in times of need.”

  Nick shook his head, misguided loyalty, it’ll cost you Rafe.

  CHAPTER 56

  A TIGHTENING NOOSE

  Day three. This time Patch didn’t hang around when the white Corolla inched its way down the gravel track. Once again Martin commented on the state of the road to his new business associate. Peter ignored his complaints.

  Peter didn’t blame the dog for keeping a safe distance. If only he had the foresight his dog Patch seemed to possess, he would be a lot happier now. Happier was also a poor description of his predicament. Peter wasn’t unhappy, he was downright at the end of his tether. Although Martin was knee-high to a grasshopper and physically no match for Peter, the scrawny devil creature absolutely put the fear of God into him. Peter was no push-over, but having to assert himself over another was never a necessity. He’d never even been in a school-yard scrap, let alone a blue in a pub. His had always been a world of harmony, peaceful co-existence, compromise and getting-along with all around him. Everything was always ‘sweet’.

  He despaired how he was sucked into this vortex called ‘Martin’.

  Third time this week. Peter wished he could disappear. Move away to somewhere far away, to a place where Martin could not find him. The little Nazi was on his way to inspect the crop. “Show me all of your plants,” he had barked over the phone.

  Peter watched the little white car coming down the hill. I could shoot him from here and no one would be any wiser. But he didn’t own a rifle. Never even held one in his hands, let alone knew how to shoot one. He wouldn’t even know how to load it. All he had was a pocket knife. He had an axe! Maybe I could surprise him with an axe. No way. I wouldn’t even know where to hit him. I’m not a killer.

  But Martin Villier probably was, a killer.

  The car stopped on the grass. The little man stepped out. His sunglasses made him look friendlier, which was unusual, because wearing sunglasses made most people look tougher. But no one he ever knew had eyes like Martin Villier.

  “Hello, partner.” Martin removed his sunnies and goose-stepped towards him, parading around like a colonel.

  “Yeah, hey Martin, how are you? Back again.” Sarcastic and biting.

  “I’m leaving for Sydney tomorrow. With my cousin. After that we’re off to Canberra. Wanted to find out when I can get a few deliveries.” He put his sunglasses back on and pushed them up his nose.

  “Remember I explained to you, this time of year growth slows down a bit.”

  Martin held up his hand and then he put a finger to his mouth. Peter was astounded – the last time someone told him to hush, he was in primary school. The loathing on his face showed.

  “That was not the answer I was looking for!” Martin snapped and snatched his sunglasses from his face.

  The hard, beady dark eyes stood out against his ghostlike complexion. His hair was rattish, making him look unwashed and revolting. With a caterpillar moustache he would have passed for a mini version of an unkempt Adolf Hitler.

  Leaning back against the car pushed his funny little belly out further. The revulsion of that image was painted on Peter’s face.

  “I’ve got some ideas about our future, Peter. Your place would be perfect, it’s hard to find.” Martin was undeterred by the obvious loathing. Martin had learned well from his cousin: Ignore the concerns of the servants. Do not acknowledge their silent objections. He understood those lessons very well, firsthand.

  “Ah, ideas. What ideas have you got? For us.” Peter’s reply was laced with sarcasm. This brief show of courage collapsed into regret and quickly his heart started to beat a bit faster. His breathing became strained. A warm glow flushed over his face.

  “In the city they grow plants under lights. Indoors. No cold nights, no dry spells. No fucking wallabies,” Martin elucidated. “No down time.”

  Peter couldn’t believe the little Nazi’s ignorance about electricity. “And how do we power these lights? Out here there’s no power. Just a few solar panels and batteries, enough to run a fridge. No more than that.” Peter shook his head and sat down on the timber steps looking frustrated.

  Martin stared at him with an empty face.

  “There must be a better way to grow dope out here. Growing that shit in the scrub takes too long. I have to go. I didn’t become your partner to wait around forever. You need to plant more.” With that he slammed the car door and left Peter sitting on the steps.

  I never asked you to be my partner. Peter mouthed a silent hiss, his stomach squirming. While the white Corolla bunny-hopped up the hill Peter picked up a couple of pebbles, from the lower step and threw the pebbles out in front of him in a lacklustre throw. He felt drained. Like someone had put fangs in his body and sucked out all the enzymes. Some spiders do that.

  Patch was crouched near the woodpile. His dog eyes followed the car up the track. His tail was still. His staring was intent and wary.

  Peter sat on his veranda deck. He felt like sleeping, he was tired, exhausted. But sleeping would only take him to a world of steel cages. A recurring nightmare where he was behind bars looking at prison guards on the other side wanting to get through. But even that nightmare had changed. There were no prison guards, only a giant rat named Martin stalking him inside the cell, waiting to eat his heart.

  No. I’m not going to sleep. I need to wake up.

  Once in a while, Peter’s mobile phone had reception in the valley. Mostly, he had to go up high on the hill to make or receive calls. But today, it rang down in the valley. He recognised the number: Rafe. “What’s that, mate? Bad reception here. I’ll ring you back in an hour.” Peter pressed the end button on his Nokia.

  Martin was snorting like an angry bullock. After he’d looped the chain around the post, he slid back into his seat. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator pedal and the tyres sprayed gravel and dust around the car, as it struggled to get traction. Martin was angry. It caused him to drive in exactly the opposite fashion that Matt had tried to drum into him. ‘Don’t attract attention by driving like a dickhead’.

  Racing past the Rural Fire Station, he caught the ire of a Highway Patrol Unit waiting to merge. Martin spotted him and applied his brakes to slow from a hundred and thirty to eighty. Fuck. Not long after, in the rear view mirror the lowered Commodore with flashing lights bore close. Martin signalled and pulled into the widening shoulder, controlled and safely, to demonstrate he was eager to be law-abiding.

  The Highway Patrolman emerged from his squad car after several minutes. Martin waited patiently with his driver’s licence in his hand.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Martin volunteered his licence straightaway.

  “Thank you.” The p
oliceman took the plastic card. “I know you were speeding, but from where I was watching you I can’t prove that you were. Both of us know, you were travelling at a high speed… Martin Villier. Hmm.” He compared the license photo to Martin’s face; more than a few times. Then the police officer perused the interior of the Corolla and briefly inspected the outside of the vehicle.

  “Your lucky day. Next time, I catch you, it’s going to cost you points and hard-earned cash. Understood?” The patrolman handed the driver’s license back and cursed silently. Bloody radar. Should’ve already been fixed.

  That was close. Martin drove off as if he was parading before the Queen.

  CHAPTER 57

  LIKE SAND IN AN HOUR GLASS

  The big diesel puffed a cloud of black smoke and the loud rattle of the engine subsided into a smooth tapping. Matt let the engine warm up while he waited for his cousin to get his act together. Radio-reception was poor in the driveway, or anywhere on the property. Although pointless, he still fiddled with the tuning knob, it kept him busy for a few moments until Martin opened the passenger door.

  “Ready now?” Matt enquired.

  “Had to make sure the guns were stashed. I had them out last night for a clean.”

  “We will suss them out this trip. See if they’re interested,” Matt said. “But. I will do the talking. Is that clear?” He added, because Matt wasn’t fooled. Martin’s lips had it written all over. “But they are my guns.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. They are your guns. But I’m still in charge here.”

  “Well maybe, I don’t always agree with you. I’m not some fucking shit-kicker you can just boss around all day!” Martin bit back.

  Even the magpies flew back into the gumtrees when the Land Cruiser came to a sliding stop. Matt pulled the handbrake up, opened his door and jumped from his seat. He stomped around the front of the big four-wheel drive. Confused, Martin watched him come around to his door. Matt lifted the handle and flung the door back. He threw his right arm into the car and seized his cousin’s flannel shirt collar. With furious force he yanked his much smaller cousin out and threw him on the ground. Matt kicked him in the head. Once. Then again one more time, harder.