by Chris Krupa
In January, he was responsible for causing thousands of dollars of damage at the Tavern, which placed him squarely in the cross hairs of the publican, Andy Coates. Also, as much as I hated thinking about it, Rob owed a lot of money to George and Carmine, and people have been killed for less. His de facto fiancé may or may not have been cheating on him before he was killed, and on top of that, up to the time of his death, Rob faced no less than six pending court matters.
My mobile rang and vibrated across the side table. It was an unknown number.
‘Matt Kowalski.’ I said.
‘I think we need to have a word.’
I didn’t recognise the voice, but I sat up. ‘I don’t think we’ve been acquainted.’
‘Oh, cut that shit out. “Acquainted.” The fuck d’you think this is, sunshine?’
‘You tell me.’
‘It’s a fucking warning, and if you don’t want that hot cunt of a daughter of yours bent over and split in two on my fat cock, you’re going to come down here, and we’ll have a little talk.’
My hand tightened around the phone, and my guts turned to milk as I thought about Alice.
What the hell does she have to do with anything?
‘Where’s here?’ I said.
‘Henson Machinery in Tom Thumb Close. It’s an industrial shed.’ He told me the number. ‘You be here at half six.’
I pulled my phone away from my ear and noted the time was five fifty.
‘I know where you are, so don’t give me any bullshit about not able to make it. Just come alone.’
The line went dead.
I calmed myself and took stock. It couldn’t have been Philip Le Mat, as we’d ended our talk on a mutually beneficial level. Maybe he’d had one of his cronies place the call, testing the legitimacy of my number, but.... Why the threat? And what about the reference to the call being ‘a warning’? My gut told me that it related to Rob, and maybe word had got around that I was investigating. Either way, I’d obviously struck a nerve with someone.
I looked up the address on my phone. The location was seventeen minutes away. The sun had disappeared behind the western escarpment and the light was dimming. I locked the room and rushed downstairs to the ute.
I checked under the tonneau for one of the crowbars I kept in the back. After a quick search, I found ‘Old Blue,’ one of my trusty silent partners—a galvanised, solid chunk of cold hard hurt. She came in handy for my more difficult clients.
I climbed behind the wheel, placed her on the passenger seat, and drove out of Sussex.
Chapter 12
Thinking about the call made my guts churn. I replayed his words over and over in my head, let them fire up my determination, and fantasized about what I’d do when we met face to face. I took short breaths and tried to distract myself, but repeatedly slammed my hand against the steering wheel, hard enough that pins and needles shot through my fingers.
When I’d started private investigation work, I promised myself one thing: whomever I met in my line of work, they would never interact with Dee or Alice. I needed to make sure my mysterious caller never touched a hair on their heads.
No shit-eating scumbag is going to talk about Alice that way.
I found Tom Thumb Close, turned into it at a skid, and slowed the car to check the numbering on the line of factories and warehouses that lined the street. I pulled up across the road from a large, industrial, bulky goods warehouse signposted ‘Henson’s Machinery.’ The front roller door stood open.
I checked the dashboard clock: 6:20. The sky glowed in a vivid purple-orange behind the flat, vaulted roof, and a large shadow covered the concrete forecourt area. I scanned the property and saw no signs of life. No vehicles lined the street, and as far as I could tell, only a tile outlet remained open for business. The surrounding land was overgrown, and a lone sign advertised land as potential business park for lease.
I got out, walked up the driveway, and entered the vast unknown blackness of the warehouse, all senses on hyper-alert. It was cold, and smelled new. Positioned halfway along the centre of the ceiling, an overhead crane sat dormant, like a long-dead monster claw. Various supply packages and barrels lined the northern wall, and brand new concrete mixers, still wrapped in plastic, stood hobbled together in the southwestern corner like squat, lifeless robots.
Movement to my right drew my attention, and a man in a black balaclava and leather gloves stepped forward. He held a pistol in his right hand.
Despite what most people saw on TV shows about private investigators, I’d never had a gun pointed at me, and certainly not with the intensity projected from the stranger in the mask.
I raised my arms and stood still.
He reached up and pressed a red safety button on the wall. The roller door engaged and descended slowly.
My opponent stared me down until the door closed with a cold finality, and the warehouse plunged into darkness. Lights came on towards the back, as the man slowly stepped away from his spot, and his flat grey-green eyes never left mine. He appeared to be holding a .38 Smith and Wesson pistol, and I was close enough to see that the chambers held bullets. He stood as tall and as broad as me, rounder in the middle, and less defined in the shoulders. I discerned a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his left leg, as if he had a knee injury. He wore jeans and a buttoned-up flannel shirt under a black leather jacket.
The more I looked at him, the more he reminded me of someone, until.... It finally clicked. He had to be the attacker from the previous night, at the front of the motel with Annette. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but I was pretty damn close.
I took stock and glanced around the warehouse. No CCTV cameras filmed me. I was surrounded by a mostly empty industrial park, standing on a vast concrete floor that could be bleached and hosed down, the kind of place where gunshot residue could be easily disregarded as a dropped load. A quick scan of my assailant showed no discerning marks or tattoos, as he’d made sure to cover every inch of skin. Unlike most guys who threatened big, he seemed more than capable of following through with his threat.
He approached me with a swagger, and patted me down, squeezing my pockets and checking my ankles for concealed weapons. Once satisfied, he stepped back and aimed the gun at my head, gripping the pistol like a cop ready to lay down some fire.
When he spoke, I detected a minor speech impediment.
‘Who hired you?’
I felt my moral standing being tested. As I stared down the blackness of the barrel, I shocked myself when I shook my head. ‘That’s privileged information.’
‘Was it George?’ he asked. ‘Or Carmine?’
I bristled at the mention of my relative’s names.
His eyes shimmered and he nodded. ‘I thought so. Why do you give a shit about Rob? He was a maggot, a lying shit-heel who deserved to die. You’re sticking your nose into shit that doesn’t concern you. So, you need to get back into your ute, and get the fuck out of here.’
He came closer, stopped, and seemed to be taking a perverse joy from having power over me. Suddenly, he took another step and shunted the barrel of the gun into the right side of my face.
I could almost taste the steel as the force of the gun against my cheek grated against my molars. I smelled a pungent mix of sweat, onions, and marijuana, which practically convinced me this goon and I had met before. With each of his words, he pushed the gun into my face for emphasis.
‘Give it up,’ he said. ‘Pack it in, and fuck off home.’
A voice called out from the darkness.
My tormentor quickly removed the gun and turned around, and we both watched as a man loomed toward us from a back of the warehouse.
He appeared to be about medium height, dressed entirely in black—leather boots, jeans, hoodie, and a balaclava.
I couldn’t make out his eyes in the dim light.
He motioned with his hand, and the big man with the gun ambled over to him, his limp a little more pronounced the quicker he walked. They exchang
ed some words.
The big guy tucked the pistol into the back of his pants, and looked in my direction. ‘Just don’t fucking move.’
He strode to the back of the warehouse, to the spot from which the other man had appeared. After a few seconds of scraping sounds, he appeared with a seat, and planted it a few meters in front of me. ‘Get the fuck over here. Sit down.’
I crossed the floor and sat in the seat.
The big man went behind me, and I braced myself.
‘Hands.’
I put my arms behind me, and felt a strap tighten around my wrists. I took the opportunity to try to place the silent one, and could only think of Philip Le Mat, which felt like an omen of entering darker territory. I was more than familiar with bikies, and how they liked to enact some serious beatings.
The big man came back in front of me, and the two of them stood there looking at me.
Despite myself, I started talking. I needed to fill the silence with something, and it took my mind off the situation. ‘You lot are pissing your pants. I’ve gotten too close to something, haven’t I? Someone I talked to... or I’m looking too closely at something. You wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t at least skirting around the edges.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ barked the big one. He obviously seemed to be the mouthpiece.
‘So, are you guys self-employed, or do you have a boss? Or do you work for Michael Le Mat? Or are you with the Hell Spawn club?’
The silent one whispered something to the big one, who grunted and retreated to the back of the warehouse again. He re-emerged with an aluminium baseball bat.
I tensed as he walked past me and took up a position somewhere behind me.
‘Just say something else, cunt,’ he said. ‘Please say something else. Give me a reason to fuck you up.’
I looked up at the silent man and met his blue eyes.
He crossed his arms and took up a wide stance.
I said, ‘Looks like I’m fucked either way.’
The bat hit my right shoulder.
The big one came back around into sight with a shit-eating grin on his face, enjoying the look of agony on my face.
My upper arm stung as I took short breaths and cautiously rolled my shoulder forward and backward. I thanked Christ that nothing felt broken.
What is it about hitting people in the arms with baseballs bats?
The silent man whispered into the big one’s ear again.
He approached me, and I braced myself.
‘Jesus Christ.’ He smiled. ‘Take it easy. I’m just going for your fuckin’ wallet.’
Once he managed to wrangle my wallet from my rear pocket, he opened it up and took out my private inquiry licence. He held it up and squinted. ‘Kowalski? Are you a German cunt?’
He looked at it again. ‘You’re nothing but a shit-eating scumbag. What the fuck does your wife think of you? She proud you go out and get your rocks off spying on people fucking each other? You’re packing shit, aren’t you, you little prick?’
He leaned in close to my face. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
I scoffed and shook my head. ‘I’m just trying to work out which one of you ugly pricks killed my cousin.’
The silent one whistled.
The big one straightened and turned his head, and the silent one waved my tormentor over.
‘Maybe I can blind him with a left cross,’ the big one whispered. ‘He won’t see fuck all for a week. Match his poncy little scar. I want to pile drive his nose into the back of his frigging skull.’
The silent one whispered a few words I couldn’t make out, and then the big one fell silent too, as if the whole warehouse held its breath.
After a moment, the silent one spoke in a husky whisper. ‘Same as Mooregold.’
‘That it?’
‘Worked, didn’t it?’
The two exchanged a glare, and the big one relented. With the debate over, and like a man following orders, the big one laid the bat on the floor, took three steps toward me, and punched me flat on the nose.
There was a crunch, a flash of red, and my eyes watered as the salty taste of blood ran down the back of my throat. I leaned forward to breathe, but blood flooded out of my nose in a torrent and made me gag for breath.
Someone said, ‘Jesus fuck!’
With the room spinning, I leaned farther forward to try to stem the flow. Blood soaked my shirt, and a warm puddle formed down my chest.
The silent one said, ‘I said give him a light clip. Don’t bugger around with the nose.’
I swallowed another mouthful of blood. It went down the wrong way and I choked. I struggled for air and took a moment to cough and clear my throat. Once the choking subsided, I allowed myself to be righteously pissed off.
‘Cut the fucking band off!’ I shouted. I spat out some blood and flicked my head from side to side. The blood from my nose ran over my lips and dripped off my chin. ‘I said cut the fucking band off!’
Through tears, I saw the larger one approach me. He unfurled a multipurpose knife and went around behind me, and I felt the strap cut free. The immediate release of tension around my wrists felt like a breath of fresh air.
I brought my hands around, pulled my tee shirt up over my nose, then leaned my head back and squinted against the overhead lights. I heard one of them pick the bat off the floor, then footsteps, then a door opening. I got my breath back, rubbed my eyes and my face, and looked around. I was alone.
A side door was slowly closing on a piston.
I tried to get up, but lights burst at the corners of my eyes and I immediately sat back down. Somewhere outside, an engine started. I got up more slowly, willing my body to push through the pain and right itself. I pushed my legs, one in front of the other, and fought the dizziness that rolled up into my head as I crossed the long distance to the side door, which finally closed.
It felt like ten miles.
I dragged myself across the concrete expanse, made it to the door, opened it, then leaned on the door jamb to catch my breath. Car tyres crunched over gravel, and the revs picked up receded. I got outside and rounded the eastern corner as headlights swept in front of me.
I leaned back against the wall as the car reversed onto the road, straightened, and drove away. I blinked away tears and wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands. The car appeared to be a nineties model, dark-coloured Subaru Legacy. I didn’t get the registration.
I sat down slowly, closed my eyes, and wrapped my tee shirt tighter around my nose. My head rang and my shoulder ached. When it appeared the blood flow had eased, I released my grip on the shirt, relieved when nothing further came out.
By the time I’d crossed the road and got back into my car, my eyes had almost swollen shut. I thought about Alice. got my mobile out and called Dee.
‘Hey, Matt, we just sat down for dinner.’
‘Sorry, Dee, it’s just a quick call. Is Alice close by?’
‘Yeah, she’s here. Why? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Everything’s okay.’
‘You sound funny.’
I didn’t want to panic her, and determined to sound even keeled. ‘No, I’m okay. Promise. I’m just a bit... jittery. Okay if I ask Alice something real quick?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Okay. Hang on.’
I heard the rustling sound of the phone being passed on.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi A-Girl. It’s me.’
‘Hey Dad! You sound weird. What’s up?’
‘I’m okay. I know you’re eating dinner so I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘Yeah?’
I swallowed some blood and almost gagged, then took a breath and silently recovered. ‘Do you love school?’
It had been part of our routine ever since Dee and I separated, and I wasn’t there to pick her up after school anymore.
She laughed. ‘No.’
‘Do you love vegetables?’
‘No.’
‘Do you love boys?’
/> ‘No!’
‘Good. Just checking.’
‘You’re weird, Dad. When are you coming back to Wollongong?’
‘Not sure, gorgeous. I might head back this weekend, but who knows. Look after mum, okay? Love you.’
‘Love you too. Oh, Dad?’
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s this thing I really want to get online.’
This type of query normally made me feel like a walking, talking ATM, but hearing her voice and knowing she was okay made me grateful beyond belief. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been doing my chores, and mum’s given me fifteen dollars, but its twenty-five dollars. Can you I borrow ten dollars off you this week and pay you back? It’s just something I’ve really wanted on EBay.’
‘Sure, Hon’, I’ll transfer some money into your account tonight, okay?’
She squealed. ‘Thanks Daddy! Love you.’
‘Love you too. I’m proud of you, you know that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. Go eat dinner. Call you soon, okay?’
‘Okay. Love you. Bye.’
‘Bye, my beautiful girl.’
We rang off, and I put my head back against the headrest. After a few minutes, I called Annette’s mobile and got her voicemail. I hung up, started the car, and slowly drove myself to the Shoalhaven District hospital thirty minutes north. My shoulders ached, my face throbbed, and my eyes strained against the oncoming headlights.
Luckily, casualty was empty. The sight of a snack dispenser in the waiting room reminded me how hungry I was. A clock hung above the machine said it was after seven. I spoke to the triage nurse and took a seat, but they buzzed me in quickly.
A nurse showed me into a small office. She was mid-thirties, thin with fair hair and skin. She put a glove on one hand, looked me over and frowned. ‘And what have we got here?’
‘Broken nose, I think.’
She started to rip open various packets of gauze on a tray, then dabbed at my face with a cloth. ‘Have you had alcohol in the past twenty-four hours?’
‘Some wine, some beer. Not enough to be drunk.’
She made a disapproving noise and unfurled some white tape. ‘Have you ingested any prohibited substances?’
