The mobile was pressed hard against his ear, his fingers ached from squeezing the device. Nick wanted to get into the phone, to be there instantly. All he could hear was a distant soft thump, a doggy sound, but couldn’t really make out what it was. Then he could clearly discern the sound of a whimpering dog and a faint scratching. Paws! It’s Patch! Nick yelled out through the phone, “Patch, Patch, good boy.” But there was no answer. Nick paused and his heart raced.
Slowly he moved the phone away from his ear and lowered his arm to his side, his hand still holding the device. He stood and his mind went blank for a moment, as if time had stopped. A brief flash of emptiness.
I have to go to him. I have to help him! Fuck, think Nick. Goddamn it snap out of it! The frustration, the anger and the despair rose from his gut. He brought the phone to his ear, “Rafe, talk to me, come on, talk to me.” He went silent waiting for a reply, a murmur, a whisper, a breath, anything at all. But all he could hear was a slight buzz. Nothing else.
The faint ticking of the kitchen clock interrupted his intense focus to listen out for any sign of life on the other end of the line. It was time to act. Trying to find life through the phone was a waste of time. The hands on the cheap plastic clock showed it was only six forty five. If he left now, he could be at Peter’s valley by ten or ten thirty. Yes. He could leave now.
It was black all around him. Despite opening his eyes, everything was black. Or was it dark? His fingers felt the gritty dirt. He moved his hand. Suddenly a sharp pain came from his neck. Then he remembered something hitting him under his chin, with great force, and he lost vision. He moved his head. Fucking dog. His eyes couldn’t quite focus on the light-coloured coat of the cattle dog. But the natural night-vision adjustment in his eyes made it possible to discern that shape. How he hated dogs. It was an unusual thought ‘why did he hate dogs and cats so much?’ Stupid question. Martin dismissed the ridiculous feeling of doubt, the questioning of his beliefs.
A soft snarl changed to a growl. Martin moved his head and lifted his right knee off the ground. The growling continued. “Fuck off, dog!” As he swung his left arm to find firm ground to propel himself up, it hit a hard object. His hand fumbled around and his fingers found a rock, a jagged rock about six-inches round. I’ll fucking sort that fucking mutt!
Grossly overestimating his strength he brought his arm up, while righting himself, the rock plonked on the ground near Patch. It was a girly throw. Martin winced from the pain in his neck and throbbing of his chin. The dog snarled, but the savvy canine thought better than to hang around and Patch took off into the darkness.
“I’ll fucking get you. I’ll find you. Fucking miserable mutt!” Martin yelled into the dark night.
A glimmer from the invisible moon shone just enough to make visible the area around the cabin and marked the cabin as a dark silhouette. Wounded and sore, the skinny killer got to his feet. He missed his .38 and his switchblade. Suddenly panicked, he bent down to feel for the missing weapons, but bending over caused his neck to send out bolts of pain. He fell to his knees and fanned his arms on the ground feeling for any sign. His hand connected with the second man’s leg. There was no reflex, no sound from the fugitive. Martin composed himself and scanned the ground for the Smith & Wesson. As his eyes became used to the darkness he found both of his weapons.
The last sign of life emanating from the valley for the next few hours was a little Japanese sedan, a white Corolla bunny-hopping up the side track with its lights dancing against the gumtrees. Soon the lights disappeared.
Patch heard the sound of a metal chain, far away. The dog returned to the Kombi and lay down in the centre of a path separating his two lost comrades.
CHAPTER 81
NO ONE FUCKS WITH US
Eddie had summoned his troops. The concrete driveway between the clubhouse and the big metal shed to the back of the property started filling up with big black, chrome decorated Harleys. About fifteen show-ponies so far. The burly crowd of bearded and pony-tailed bikies watched as the smooth-faced newest member arrived on his 2001 model 1450 Fat Boy. The consensus was praising with regards to the Fat Boy, but as for its rider, the jury was not unanimous in approval. It was a hair thing. No self-respecting real outlaw shaved or had faggot glasses on his face and a faggot hair-cut on top of that. Although the tattoo with the cobra coming out of a skull was well-admired. Fair enough, he also passed the beer and bourbon test, and righto then, a couple of the moles thought he was a great root. Real respect from the brothers was won when Mojo came up trumps in an all-out brawl at the pub up in Foster. When it was over Mojo was one of the last bikies standing. Yeah he’s alright for a fucking faggot.
Mojo was the second last to arrive. Bushy followed soon after. After five minutes of mingling Eddie ordered his troops inside for the meeting. The crowd was rambunctious and the innuendo from rumour had created an anticipation of action. Despite that many of the members were hard-working family men, they were also bored with day-to-day bullshit and a scrap was a great way to let off a bit of steam.
“Good of you boys to come at short notice. Gives me a good feeling,” Eddie opened. The group mumbled a few ‘no worries’ and ‘we’re here mate’ comments. They re-affirmed their loyalty to the club and each other with plenty of handshakes and back slaps.
“We have some serious grief coming our way. One of our shipments has been hijacked. We need to find out where it’s gone to. One of the couriers has fucked off with a key of coke, worth a shitload of dollars. The Italians are spewin’ and pissed off at us for losing it.”
“The cants from the bush?” A tall, lanky outlaw named Dieter asked. German migrants, Eddie knew a few of them, still couldn’t pronounce some words properly.
“Yeah, the skinny one blew his cousin away and took the coke,” Eddie answered.
“Why don’t we go and find this prick?” Someone bellowed from the crowd, followed by a murmur of approval.
Group logic, Eddie thought, “Well, that’s a great suggestion but it will be a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack. No doubt he’ll turn up somewhere, but only when he tries to offload the bootie. We have more immediate problems: pissed off wogs. They want their money or their pound of flesh. Probably both.” Eddie said.
“They want to facking come here and kill us?” Dieter remarked with some sarcasm, evoking a group chuckle.
“I want everyone to hang around here until we hear from them. In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled on the street for any sign of trouble.” After issuing his orders Eddie left the room for the privacy of his boardroom.
The middle-aged Italian ran his fingers over his balding head and stroked his remaining grey hair locks back. The phone was cradled between his stubbled chin growth and collar bone. He reached for the open packet of Camels and shook the fragile packet, and a deformed cigarette fell out. He straightened it and dabbed one end on the hard surface of the desk and brought it to his mouth. He flicked the lid of the zippo. After a couple of attempts to ignite the gas, the flame erupted and he quickly lit his smoke. He inhaled deeply.
“No, they reckon it’s gone. He says he will try and get some money together to make good his debt to us.” He blew a long thin trail of white smoke across the desk.
The voice on the other end became agitated. Lewis spoke Italian, but preferred English; the ranting and raving on the other end of the line was in Italian. “He fucking pays. Make him pay. And make an example, no one fuck with us!” The line went dead.
No one fucks with us. Lewis put the phone down. He drew heavily on the cigarette that was burnt nearly to his lips. He sighed and pressed the butt into the already brimming full ashtray.
He folded his arms in front of him on the desk, there were times he wished he had been born into a normal family. Not a Calabrian one. Wishing was for little girls, and right now he needed a good man. He picked up the phone and dialled the number.
“Yeah.” A curt greeting on the other end.
“Come by for a grappa, toni
ght. Okay?” Lewis instructed.
“Okay.” The line went dead.
Make an example. So who will be the example? Lewis fingered another Camel from the packet. Setting an example was tricky, you needed the right victim. If he chose Eddie, there would be no chance in getting any money and possibly the Club could fold. This bikie group was not like the others, they were small and ran a legit business, didn’t get too much attention from the cops because they weren’t too political. That’s what was so good about these guys, discreet and trustworthy. Stupid idiots got into bed with some jokers. He decided on a strategy, one that would hopefully appease Salvatore. Lewis shook his head, fucking old prick gets way too excited. In times of excitement, as Lewis euphemistically referred to balls-ups, one had to remain cool and calm and always buy some time.
He picked up the phone again and tapped his finger on the desk. “Hello Eddie, it’s me.” Lewis cradled the phone again, leaving his hands free, one for his Camel, the other to doodle. He was doodling a little caricature of a bikie with a thick beard, then he drew a noose around his neck.
Eddie returned with a polite greeting, “How are you, my friend.”
“It’s quite a balls-up. My uncle is deeply disturbed. I assume that you don’t have the merchandise. So other arrangements have to be made. You understand it’s not just about the purchase price, but the dividends from the sale. That’s well over a million, maybe even two.”
“Hey, now, fuck that. I figure about two hundred should cover the cost,” Eddie shot back at him.
“I would like to see my two-fifty back. You will absorb the fee as a penalty for losing my stuff.” Lewis extinguished his cigarette butt, and without lifting his hand he moved it sideways and fingered a new one from the packet. “It is not negotiable.” There was no reply from the other end. “I am generous. I will give you one week to pay me, at least half. The rest in another two weeks. Is that fair?”
“Do I have any choice? Sounds to me you have it all worked out. Guess I better get busy collecting myself,” the unhappy bikie replied.
“I will hear from you in one week from now.” Lewis was satisfied with the first instalment of his plan. Buy some time, get them off-guard. Buy some time to organise a message. Give Paul time to check out the Sinners, so he could choose his first target.
Fucking strange bunch. Hell is about to break loose and the bastards are filling their heads with piss and smoko. Bikies: fear is not in their vocabulary. Mojo stood back from the bar. I admire them for that.
The pool-room was smoke-filled, from both tobacco and marijuana, the beers were flowing. It had been a few days since the crew had congregated. Eddie went straight to the bar and grabbed the tequila bottle. The good stuff, Mezcal, the original tequila with a fat worm in the bottom. He unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his mouth and took several swigs, breathing in the firewater.
“Right,” Eddie exclaimed loudly. The noise from the boisterous group of leather-clad bikies subsided. “Righto, listen up.” And the boys turned to face their leader.
“We have five days. We need to collect on our outstanding debts. Push for early collections. We need to scrape some coin together. One-hundred and fifty thou. Drink up tonight. Tomorrow we better get very fucking busy.”
“Waht about the facking vogs. Don’t they vant to fight?” Dieter again the ringleader of aggro. A few murmurs of support emanated.
“We keep an eye out. Don’t let our guard down. For the moment I don’t think they want blood. They want their money, so we focus on payment,” Eddie announced.
“And the package?” An articulate and clear voice emerged from the mumbling crowd and immediately drew Eddie’s ire.
“You and Bushy come and talk to me. Now!” The big man took another gulp from the Mezcal bottle and led the way to the boardroom taking the bottle with him.
The door slammed behind the two disciples.
“What are you fuckin’ on about?” Eddie leered at Mojo. “You don’t fuckin’ ask questions like that when I’m at the head of the table. It sends a bad message. Like I’m missing something. So keep your bloody gob fuckin’ shut, pretty boy. Get it?”
Mojo leant against the wall with his arms behind his back and nodded his head in acknowledgement, realising he’d overstepped his mark. He apologised, “Won’t do it again, boss.”
“As I said before, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s no good to him until he finds a buyer, unless he cuts it up into little bundles. A quarter of a million wholesale is a lot of money. Fucked if I know how to get it back.” Clearly frustrated with the predicament of the lost package, he dismissed his two disciples.
A long swirl of smoke blew past the short dark-haired man sitting opposite Lewis. His Mediterranean looks were complete with a five-o’clock shadow and the short-cropped haircut complemented his classic appearance. His dark eyes and bushy mono-brow gave him up as a serious personality, rather than someone prone to frivolity. His slow, but direct body language betrayed an underlying menace.
Paul, his real Calabrian name, ‘Pasquale’, was Italian born and had migrated to Australia some fifteen years earlier, possessing a talent useful to the family business. That talent included extortion, stand-over tactics, debt-collection and murder.
They raised the small glasses filled with grappa and toasted each other.
“Leave the big guy, Eddie, alone for the moment. I don’t want any action against him for another two weeks. But do some checking out, discreetly. They operate a car-repair shop. Maybe you can use that angle to get closer. Leave it to you. But select a target, and make sure when you do it, they know where it came from. Do this one soon. To set an example. No one fucks with us.”
Paul acknowledged with a curt nod.
CHAPTER 82
CARNAGE
The screen lit up on Darren’s mobile. ‘NICK’ it displayed. Another two hours to go on the shift. The phone kept vibrating in the storage tray in front of the console. Darren reached for it and brought it to his ear. At the same time, he slowed the cab and pulled over in a bus-stop lane. “Hey mate, what’s up?” Darren politely answered, wondering why the call this late and remembering how long since he had seen Nick.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, man.” Nick was stammering.” He’s dead, it’s a mess. Oh fuck. I don’t know what to do. Oh, man. It’s Rafe. What do I do?” Garbling semi-nonsense and hyperventilating.
“Nick. Stop, mate. Just stop.” Darren sat up straight in the cab, trying to make sense of his friend’s complete chaos. “What’s happened? What is going on?” Even Darren started to feel a mild panic.
The line went quiet. Just a tongue-tied silence, then, in a calm and rigid voice, “They are dead.”
Darren eyes narrowed, his head low, he asked, “Say again, mate.”
“Rafe is dead. Peter is dead.” Nick said, devoid of emotion.
“Rafe dead? How come? And who is Peter?” Darren was trying to figure out what to make of Nick’s call.
“He was Rafe’s friend,” Nick muttered. “He’s killed them both, it’s dark here,” Nick paused. “That ugly skinhead. Rafe told me it was him, it was Martin.”
Darren couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How the fuck did that little shithead rear his ugly head on the other end of this call? “What, mate? The scrawny cunt from the Mona Vale?” There was no reply.
Darren was trying to control the one thousand images in his head. “I’m coming. Where the hell are you?”
The answer was slow. “Down the coast.”
“Down the coast where?” Darren was at a loss.
“Milton way. You know, the South Coast. I can give you directions,” Nick said flatly.
“What the fuck was Rafe doing there? Jesus, mate, this is pretty insane.” Darren had not expected to go driving down the coast and, at this point, was unsure what to do. Shit. I can’t let him down. And that Martin should be there. Things were running through his head. What about Cate?
“Hey, Nick. Is that Martin char
acter there too?”
“No. He’s not here. What can I do with Rafe? Should I ring the cops now? I can’t just leave him here.”
Darren interrupted his friend, “No cops, not yet. Just hang in there, wait for me. I’ll knock off now.” Darren looked in the rear view mirror checking to see for any buses. Then he realised it was too late in the night for most buses. Only mugs like him were still driving around.
“Give me some directions, mate.”
His next call would be to Cate. He hated doing this, but he would have to tell her a little white lie. Just for now.
In the wee hours of the morning, Nick sat in his ute at the entrance in front of the open gate. His mind was wandering in and out of sleep, dreaming how to figure out the waves from a board then being sucked under a giant, gargantuan dark grey swell getting swallowed up by white froth. Staying under.
A short sharp car-horn tooted and the lights shone into his eyes, as he came up blasting through the water’s surface. Nick woke with a start. Where was he? Where are you? Rafe.
A tall and gaunt silhouette came from the big sedan. As soon as he passed the beam of the headlights, Nick recognised Darren. Wearily, he stepped out from the ute, stretched his body and arched his back with his hands cradling the flabby spread of his sides.
Darren ambled up to him, “You alright, mate?” Genuine concern was expressed on his serious face.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty fucked up, mate.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about your mate. Truly sorry.” Darren kept a little distance. “So where is he?”
“Down there.” Nick half waved his arm, pointing in a general direction towards the darkness.
“Okay, let’s go down there then. Want me to leave the Falcon here?” Darren asked.
“No. Drive it in here, follow me for a bit, until I stop. Park it and jump into mine.” Nick instructed. Darren stood for a second and waited for Nick to settle into his seat. He sighed and returned to his ex-taxi. He drove the car through the open gate and
Stealth Page 36
