Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Being a patched member would not save his hide, if he was found out. An undercover copper posing as a patched member. Fuck. Eddie and the boys would roast him alive, carve him up like a leg of lamb. That was a prospect he wouldn’t be looking forward to.

  CHAPTER 72

  WHAT WAS THAT SONG?

  The towie had just winched the Pantec onto the flat-bed. “This’ll be fun. Getting it out of here and down the hill,” said the bald tow-truck driver.

  Matt had never seen eye-brows so thick and bushy, it made him want to get scissors and cut the lot. The man’s rollie was glued to his lower lip. Half-smoked and not re-lit, it was hanging on while he mumbled as he secured the chains to the truck. He waddled mechanically, shifting his body weight over one bandy leg to the other, as he moved from the right side of tow-truck to the left-side. The skinny legs must have started buckling from scoffing too many pies, cakes and beer, mused Matt. Another thought crossed his mind, fuck, could be me in a few years.

  “Appreciate you coming so soon,” Matt said. It was 6.35pm. Dark. Martin was nowhere to be found.

  “I’ll be dropping your truck in first thing. Too late now.” The towman coughed. But not before he caught his rollie. He held it between thumb and finger, as he heaved and coughed, and spat. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, pulled up his sagging pants and climbed into the cabin.

  Matt felt the vibration of the mobile in his pocket. He groped in his pocket to retrieve the device. “Matt here. Before you talk, if I drop out, I’ll ring you back in twenty minutes.” Matt recognised the number and the voice. It didn’t surprise him to hear back from Eddie.

  Eddie bellowed in the phone, “Ring me back and find a good spot to talk! “

  Silence.

  Matt didn’t wait for the towie to leave and stomped towards his car, slammed the door shut and gunned the Land Cruiser up the driveway. Speeding over the access road of his property he saw oncoming traffic. Fucking Martin. Matt flashed his high beam at the on-coming lights. Both vehicles slowed down and came to a wary halt next to each other. Both occupants wound their window down.

  Matt barked, “Don’t you be going anywhere until I come back!” Without winding up the window, he put his foot down on the pedal and drove off.

  Martin peered into his rear-view mirror, “That’s the last time you’re telling me what to do.” And Martin put his foot down.

  He arrived at the cottage skidding to a dusty halt. Angry. Seething about Peter and the mystery van. Angry about the copper pulling him over. Furious at Matt’s continued lack of respect for him and treatment of him, as if he was a nigger.

  He stomped through the front door and went straight to his room. He retrieved the back-pack from under the bed. The sight of the black bag was like a calmative. His anger dissipated.

  Martin removed the heavy Browning from the back-pack. The weight and size of it was impressive. Decisions had to be made. Would he let Matt keep a gun? Should he let Matt in on his secret? Would Matt ever treat him as an equal? Would Matt kick him around again? This last question stirred the devil in his brain and the anger in him started to boil. No. Matt was not getting a gun.

  The sound of the approaching diesel and the crunch of gravel from a fast travelling car pumped the circle of his thoughts. How did my life get so turned upside down? Everything was all smooth and easy a month ago. Why did Matt throw me on the ground? Why did he kick me in my head? I did nothing wrong. He heard the short skid on the gravel, the diesel stopped running and then the slamming of a car door.

  Martin’s eyes grew darker. He steeled himself for a confrontation and there was a snake writhing in his stomach, spreading its venom.

  Martin put the heavy weapon down on the low table in front of him. The back-pack rested on the sofa next to him. His thick flannel coat hid the Smith & Wesson, which was stuffed in the small of his back. Although uncomfortable he’d seen everyone on the TV shows do it. The Browning was not loaded: the three remaining bullets were in his trouser pocket. The Smith & Wesson was loaded. He wondered if he could pull the trigger. Martin had shot the .38 on two occasions, when Matt was away. Twice, but one shot each time only. It was very loud, so he didn’t push his luck in case the shots would be heard. He had some practice with the .22 calibre Beretta. There was plenty of ammo for the twenty-twos. At a rough count he estimated at least a hundred shells. And the .22 was quiet. So a few practice shots did not faze him.

  Matt’s boots thumped on the veranda. It was hard for Martin to hide his loathing for the cousin he adored so much years ago. The front door creaked as Matt pushed it open, wiped his boots on the bristle mat and continued through in a fluid motion. He shot Martin a brief glance before making his way to the fridge. He pinched a can of Victoria Bitter from the shelf and pushed the fridge door shut with a measure of force. His finger popped the ring and he pulled the tab back.

  “So what’s Martin doing then?” As he took a drink his eyes focused on Martin and the Browning in front of him on the table.

  “Nothing.”

  “Looks like you’re up to something,” Matt said with a melodic intonation, then he hummed a tune, before verbalising it, “Martin’s got a gun, dah, dah, dah, Martin’s got a gun.” Matt took another long drink from his beer. “Do you remember that melody, cousin?”

  Martin was at a loss for words. He looked at Matt thinking he’d lost his mind. He didn’t respond.

  Matt hummed it again briefly, before saying, “Aerosmith. Song was called Janie’s Got A Gun. You know what it’s about? I’ll tell ya, it’s about a girl who has had enough of her abusive father. So she’s gone and got a gun.” Matt was gloating.

  Suddenly, Matt became jovial as if he was going through some weird Christmas spirit. “C’mon sing it with me, Martin.” Matt started snapping his fingers and humming the tune. Moving his body and rolling his head over his neck like an Indian Bollywood dancer. “Martin has a gun.” He abruptly stopped and yelled, “Snap out of it, you fucking moron!”

  By the time Matt had finished those words, a glistening, black .38 calibre Smith & Wesson stared him in the face. Martin’s face contorted like a rabid wild animal, his arm holding it taut. A momentary silence followed.

  “So Martin’s got a gun, after all.” Matt didn’t sing the lyrics this time. He said it matter of fact, with a gentle bobbing of his head.

  Martin held it steady about an arm’s length away from Matt’s face. Martin said nothing, his eyes told all: I’ve had enough, you’re not taunting me again.

  Matt slowly lifted his hands up higher, can of beer still in one hand. Martin hated his cousin now. He hated him for making fun of him. He hated him for humiliating him. Hated him for putting him into a corner. But Martin still said nothing. He was like a statue. A statue with black lifeless eyes.

  Matt carefully broke the stalemate. “Okay, I am sorry.” Martin didn’t react so Matt softly went on, “So, where do we go from here?” The question echoed in the air.

  Martin lowered the weapon very slowly. Matt kept his eyes on Martin. Matt’s heart had been thumping so hard that his chest was hurting. His face felt hot and flushed, his arms were tingling, then he started to feel nauseous and unsteady. As he tried to compose himself, he tripped ever so slightly. Matt kept his eyes on Martin as he watched his cousin in slow motion, raising the beautifully polished revolver, its beauty lit by a flash. BANG!

  Matt’s body twisted, while one side of his head exploded in a thousand pieces. Blood and brain matter had splattered all over the side and front of the white fridge. His body collapsed in a heap, his head making a cracking noise as it hit the floorboards. The contents of his skull splashed like a spilled bucket of liquid all over the timbered floor.

  Martin was frozen. He was frozen in time. He wanted it to go back. Please go back. Please go back. No. Go, go back. The smell of cordite, the puff of smoke, the revolver was shaking in his hands. The weight of the gun was too much for him now and his arms fell before him still holding the gun pointing at the floor. He
was mesmerised by the explosion and the devastation. “No, nooohhh!” He screamed. No one heard him, not even the ghosts of the night. Martin fell to his knees and to the floor. Wailing, begging and crying, waiting for solace. But it didn’t come. Everything was dead quiet.

  For half an hour, Martin sat with his legs crossed like he was attending a yoga class. Surveying the room he was contemplating what to do. If I burn it down, it will attract attention from nosy people. His face took on an air of disgust. Cleaning up the mess that Matt had made was simply too great a task. Look what you made me do. With that thought he got to his feet, brushed himself off, collected his back-pack, picked up the .45 from the table and stowed it in the bag. His mind flashed back to Brookvale. On the run, then. On the run again now. With the same back-pack.

  After throwing some personal belongings together in a travel bag, he stepped out of the cottage. The front door was still open. Maybe the animals will clean him up. An afterthought. The Land Cruiser was parked next to his sedan. Another decision. But first there was a job to be done. He had to search the wagon for a package. A package that was going to make him rich. Another prize.

  Standing between both vehicles he made up his mind to stick with his frugal Corolla. Another advantage for him was that not many people knew to connect him with the Corolla. The bikers knew the Land Cruiser. The bikers were set to be very, very pissed off that someone had run off with their cocaine. So, Martin threw his duffel bag in the back-seat of his car. Satisfied with his decision, he opened the barn-doors of the Toyota wagon and lifted the carpeted ply-wood lid to the false floor built for storage behind the rear seats. He bent over and leaned in as far as he could while he inserted his arm deep into the concealed storage compartment, his fingers touched a soft object and he found what he was searching for. He retrieved the brown-paper wrapped package and returned to his car. Both the guns and the cocaine would have to be hidden. Lifting the boot of the small sedan prompted him to return to the cottage to fetch some items to fill the space. In case he would be pulled over by the coppers, the boot needed to look like he was on a holiday trip.

  The light from the kitchen shone through the front door opening. He had to step over his cousin’s corpse to access the stuff he needed. Martin briefly glanced at the body, as he came back from the laundry and store room. Without any feeling of regret and remorse he stepped over Matt’s body and left through the open front door. His arms were wrapped around a sleeping bag, a large fishing tackle box, a one-man tent stuffed in a bag slung over his shoulder and some loose blankets. He ran back to the cottage veranda to collect a couple of fishing rods. He arranged the camping gear haphazardly in the boot space. The back-pack was in plain view, but the brown package was well hidden.

  His second last decision was to switch off the kitchen light. It would be weeks before anyone would be looking for Matt.

  The little car sprung into reverse and sprayed some gravel and dust as the tyres spun on the loose surface. Martin pointed the car to the exit track and sped off with the headlights on high beam dancing in the trees ahead. He was breathing with excitement, as if let out of prison. He was free. As the distance between the scene of the crime and Martin grew, so did his sudden focus on his mate Peter.

  Yes, he would visit Peter on the way north.

  CHAPTER 73

  NOT CLEAN

  The call came just after 9 o’clock. The loud ringing of the phone disturbed an important scene being played out on television. The ringing cancelled out the final words from the hero to the foe. Irritated and gruff Eddie reached over to seize the portable phone. He recognised the number. Fucking wog. He had a bad feeling. He stood up and turned the television off before pressing the answer button. “Yeah.”

  “We want the parts back. You have two days,” the voice on the other end stated.

  Eddie’s heart sunk. “Let’s talk about this. We can have it delivered by tomorrow night. It’s no problem.”

  “It is a problem. You have a problem. Someone’s been asking questions,” the mildly accented voice said.

  Eddie could hear the man inhaling, waiting for his reaction. “What do you mean, someone is asking questions. What sort of questions?”

  “Some weeks ago, one of my boats was boarded by some federal boys. Only we didn’t know they were feds. They pretended to be tough guys after a score. Said they knew about some drugs and wanted in on the game. It was bullshit. Just some scare tactic. But I have a lot of friends. So after asking my friends and my friends asking theirs, we find more bullshit. Someone said the Sinners are not clean.”

  Eddie reacted, “What do you mean we are not clean!”

  “What do you think ‘not clean’ means?” The Italian puffed, but before hanging up he repeated, “We want the parts back. You have two days. Make sure you have it.” Click.

  For the second time that day Eddie hurled the phone and it bounced from a wall in the clubhouse. This time the battery cover flew off and the phone ricocheted into an empty glass, which tumbled over and rolled off the timber bar-top. The glass shattered on the tiled floor behind the bar, sending shards in all directions. Ignoring the result of his temper tantrum, Eddie plonked himself back on the recliner. He rubbed the leather arms, trying to massage the smooth armrests into breaking point. He eyeballed the bottle of Beam’s Rye Whiskey on the bar and bounded from the low-slung chair. He picked up the other mobile phone sitting on the polished bar-top and punched in the numbers for the courier. After several rings, it went to a message bank. He pressed the end button.

  Seeing himself in eight divided images in the mirror behind the bar, he felt a foreboding. His boots crushed the bits of broken glass as he stepped around behind the bar and snatched a square shot glass from a shelf. Grabbing the neck of the half-empty bottle, he went back to the recliner. He poured one shot, downed it and poured another. As for the third, he chucked the shot glass into the wall where the phone had gone before. This time the plasterboard was partly holed, the glass smashed on the tiled floor. He put his hand around the neck of the bottle of bourbon and took several large swigs. Now he could think again.

  Surprised to hear a sliding door move, he saw Mojo coming through the courtyard entry door. “Hey Chief, what’s going on?” Mojo greeted.

  Eddie narrowed his eyes, cocked his head and said in philosophical tone, “Some things are not what they seem to be.” And then he turned back to his bottle and took another gulp.

  Mojo focused on the brown liquid as it was sloshing around in the bottle. Inside, he cringed. “Sorry, Eddie, not with you on that remark, mate,” Mojo said in an off-the-cuff reply. The smooth-cut bikie approached the bar and surveyed the glass mess. “Wow, had a storm in here?”

  “Don’t be a fucking smartarse!” barked Eddie and he swallowed another wave of the liquid.

  “Sorry. I’ll get it sorted, right-away,” Mojo offered.

  But Eddie raised his hand and waved his finger, “No, the new slave can do it tomorrow. Grab yourself a stubby out of the fridge and talk to me. Pull up that pew.” He pointed to a timber chair parked against the wall.

  Mojo obeyed his boss’ instructions and took a Carlton from the fridge behind the bar. He picked up the chair, moved it closer to Eddie, reversed it and sat on it. Leaning forward over the chair back, he sipped from the bottle, briefly looked at the red label and nodded approvingly after tasting the amber liquid. “What do you want to talk about, chief?”

  The bottle of Beam’s Rye was near empty, but Eddie’s brain was near full. A bit clouded from the shots, but also dense with questions about how things could change so quickly. “A few days ago, or was it yesterday? Anyway, it doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Life was simple. Those idiots from the bush come and collect our package. We’ve had a sweet deal with the wogs for six months and then it goes off the rails, because some arsehole can’t start his fucking truck. The mob from Manly wants their stuff back.” He took another gulp of the brown liquid.

  Mojo kept his eyes on the big man in the recliner, while h
e sipped.

  Eddie continued, “Of course that’s fuckin’ impossible, unless you drive down the coast and get it back.” He drained the last of the bourbon from the bottle.

  Mojo spotted Eddie’s indecision about what to do with an empty bottle. The fit and agile, newest patched member reached over and enticed the bottle from his boss. “Let me get you a stubby, while I shout myself another.” Mojo took the drained whiskey bottle and dropped it into the empties bin behind the bar as he went to the fridge.

  “So that’s not all. Those wogs have given us two days to give it back to them.” Eddie went on.

  “What happens if we don’t deliver?” Mojo asked.

  “That’s a foregone conclusion. We’re marked as we speak. You see, the wogs reckon we’re dirty. They told me the feds raided one of their boats, sorry, not like in a raid, but as in posing as buyers to muscle in.” Eddie swallowed half the liquid from the stubby. He burped. Now looking a bit glassy-eyed and slower on the speech, Eddie continued his narrative. “Anyway, after they dug around a bit, word has it that we are dirty. Not to be trusted. So we’re in some shit and we don’t have the goods.” He paused. “Those cocksuckers from down south have got the package. We need it back.”