“Come on, wake up,” Eddie mumbled under his breath, pushed with his boot. Checking for a pulse pressing his finger on the cabdriver’s neck feeling for any sign of life. Nothing. Eddie grabbed the man’s limp wrist and ran his finger up and down searching for a heart-beat. Shit. Nothing. Now, he felt his hand stinging when he moved his fingers, the knuckles behind his forefinger and middle-finger were cut and bleeding.
Eddie got up from his crouch and stood straight. What am I going to do with you? Fuck, can’t believe this. Running his uninjured hand across his trouser pocket, he reached for his mobile, after retrieving it he pressed speed-dial 2.
After seven rings, Eddie got a response. “Yeah, what.”
“Hey, I’m gonna need a ride.”
“Why? Where the fuck are you?” An irritated voice.
“Out in the sticks. Sandy Point, somewhere near the boat ramp. On that road.”
“What the fuck are you doing out there?”
“Long story. You need to come and get me,” straining to breathe with calm, “in something quiet. Don’t bring the Harley, or the Chev.”
“What?”
“Just fuckin’ do as I ask. Alright?” Snapping.
“Commodore alright?” Davo grunted.
“Yeah. I’ll be walking back towards the road, the one that goes to the boat ramp. But you go all the way to the ramp, turn around and drive back. I’ll be watching you as drive past. I’ll flag you down on the way back.”
“That’s a lot of instructions for a simple pick-up.” Davo mumbled.
“How long you reckon?”
“Fuck. Half hour easy. Maybe even forty-five. Gotta get the Wagon from the yard, first.”
Eddie did a quick mental run-down of his looming clean-up job. “Forty-five is good.” He ended the call and stuck the phone back in his pocket while looking at the body on the ground. The creek. Dump you in the creek. With a bit of luck, the crabs will clean you up. Eddie remembered seeing the creek when they drove into the bush estimating the muddy waterway to be a couple of hundred metres away. It wouldn’t be too hard to drag the skinny corpse over. Eddie bent down and found what he was looking for, Bilal’s belt. He unbuckled and ripped the belt from the dead man’s trousers, then tied the belt tight around Bilal’s ankles. A few drops of blood from his cut knuckles fell onto one of the dead cabby’s shoes. Eddie wrapped the leather belt around his right hand, held a firm grip and dragged the feather-weight corpse a few metres. Easy.
After a few minutes of dragging the body over rough ground, one of Bilal’s shoes slipped off, causing the belt to release from one ankle. The freed leg flopped on the ground and wound up in a twisted tangle. It wasn’t long before Eddie realised the belt had slipped. Annoyed, but not deterred he decided it wasn’t worth tying the loose leg back up, continuing with staunch resolve.
Before long the foul odour from a low tide became stronger, leading the way to the creek.
Ten minutes later, he saw the reflection from a half-moon glittered on a four-metre wide channel of smelly water moving from a change of tide. Standing at the edge of the steep bank, he looked down. With no time to waste, he dragged Bilal’s body to the crest of the bank, unleashed the belt, pushing with both hands he rolled the body down the embankment. Bilal’s corpse came to rest with a splash. From half submersion in the dark water his body slowly sank, drifting into obscurity. A high tide was flowing in.
In the distance, he could discern a glow from the boat ramp parking area. He looked at his watch, what could he do with the cab? There wasn’t much time. Dumping the cab in the creek might spark a search for a drowned cab driver. Setting it alight would prompt alarm bells straightaway. Eddie decided to leave the cab, it was far enough into the scrub. He would be long gone before it got discovered, before the coppers would be crawling all over it. He imagined the scenario.
An abandoned taxi found in isolated scrubland.
Unusual? A little. Although every bastard dumps unwanted cars here. Not taxis though.
Hijacked? Maybe.
What do you reckon? Stolen and dumped? Looks like it.
What about the driver? No sign of him or her.
Any sign of violence? A badly smashed up two-way radio.
What does that mean? Start combing the area for a victim.
The coppers would search the immediate area around the abandoned taxi first.
It would be hours before anyone would start to look for a body in the creek. And even then, it would be race between the crabs and the SES volunteers.
Every minute counted in his favour, because in the murky warm waters of North Queensland’s creeks a human body bouncing over the muddy bottom during a strong tidal flow was fair game for everything that lived in there, especially for saltwater crocodiles.
CHAPTER 2
A LITTLE BROWN LIE
Although it was dark and there weren’t any streetlights, Eddie wasn’t taking any chances; he hid behind the dense scrub waiting for the Commodore to pass. From here he could spot headlights a mile away.
With the stillness of the night closing in on him, the thoughts stirring from his deed started cluttering his head. Did I miss anything in the rush of dumping that cabdriver? Maybe I should have driven that cab further in. What the fuck am I telling Davo?
It was still. A little rustle, not far away. Eddie turned his head startled. Something hopped away several metres from where he sat. Gone in seconds. A wallaby, maybe. Then, a noise near him, crickets intermittently chirping from one side of the road to the other.
In the distance, from hundreds of metres away, Eddie thought he heard the sound of a prolonged splash.
Oh. Here we go.
Headlights from a car appeared, approaching fast. Eddie waited for the car to pass. A white Commodore Wagon. Satisfied that it would be Davo driving he emerged from the scrub. Eddie could hear the wagon spinning its wheels in the gravel some three hundred metres away. Fuck. Sound travels here.
Eddie’s eyes were blinded by the approaching car, grinding to a halt a few paces from him. The lights dimmed as Eddie rushed to the passenger side door. “Go. Get me the fuck out of here.” Eddie speared himself into the front seat.
Davo complied without so much as a nod, gunning the Commodore onto the bitumen. There were no questions or comments. Although Davo drove the car hard, he did so without speeding too much. Twenty minutes of silence. A hard turn, a short skid and a swift halt. They had arrived at Davo’s.
“Wanna tell me what the fuck you were doing out at Sandy’s?” The gruff biker demanded to know.
“I need a beer.”
“Don’t we all? What’s the story?”
“In due course. Beer first.”
Eddie’s mind was calculating, stalling. Mix a bit of truth with partial answers. The cab driver is off limits.
“That wasn’t the answer I was looking for,” Davo warned.
Both got out of the car. Eddie brushed the dirt from his jeans. He ignored Davo.
The stocky biker jumbled a ring of keys in his hand, impatiently waiting for an answer. With a sigh, he pointed the remote to the car. Blip, blip.
Angrily, Davo led the way to the back door of the weatherboard cottage. The biker’s boots stomped on the timber deck. The message was clear: Davo was not going to wait for an explanation much longer.
“Okay Davo. Appreciate you getting me out from the sticks. And I am sorry that I got you up from your beauty sleep. I’ll tell ya what happened as long as you shout me a cold one.”
Davo turned abruptly facing Eddie, “That’s the problem with you.”
“What problem?”
“You’re a presumptuous bastard.”
***
The kitchen light was on. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and half a dozen empty bottles littered the square table in the middle of the room. Davo pulled out a chair, made a gesture with his hand directing his guest to sit. Eddie nodded and sat down, his eyes following Davo who was retrieving a couple of XXXX’s from the fridge.
“What?”
“Yeah. He reckons you’re getting way too … friendly.” Davo took another swig and said, “Reckons you’re overstepping your status.”
Eddie broke out into laughter, but not the genuine, funny belly-laughter; it was more of a demonic outburst. Suddenly he stopped and berated, “Your leader’s a fucken pussy!”
Davo’s eyes narrowed, he scowled, “Those words could be taken as … fighting words. You might go easy on your tone, as well.”
“What do you think? You think I’m going to run your club into the ground?” Eddie locked eyes with Davo.
“That’s not the issue here, mate,” the biker shot back, “And by the way I’m still none the wiser about picking you up from the middle of nowhere.”
“Don’t worry yourself too much about what I did earlier. Ryker’s accusation is an outright challenge. That’s how I see it.” Eddie sipped his beer without taking his eyes off Davo.
“It’s not a challenge, mate. You’re not even a real brother. No one’s invited you to join us, have they?” Davo turned towards the fridge. “You listen up.”
“I’m all ears.” Eddie grunted and pushed back into the chair.
“Just because you were a brother down south doesn’t mean you’re one of us. You’re a guest, a fellow outlaw invited for a couple of weeks to enjoy the hospitality of a great North Queensland outfit. But a few weeks has turned into months. And in defence of your company, you haven’t bludged off us. You’ve paid your share. Moneywise, at least. But Ryker and a few of the boys don’t like your ways. You’re arrogant and show no respect to the older guard. You’ve worn out your welcome. And the only reason you’re still here … is me.”
“And two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of coke,” corrected Eddie.
“That might be so.”
The men eyed each other off in silence, Eddie sitting at the wooden kitchen table and Davo standing in front of the fridge.
Eddie broke the spell, “That beer you’re holding for me is getting warm.”
“So, what were you doing in Sandy’s?”
“Deal gone wrong,” Eddie dismissed.
“What sort of deal?”
“I was doin’ a bit of business on the side. Cunt pulled a gun on me and sent me packing. Took the stash and cash.”
“Sad bit of poetry.” Davo finally offered the beer.
“Not very poetic, mate.”
“Sounds a bit … unlike you. Thought you were more … seasoned with doing deals,” Davo mumbled holding his beer bottle up. “Anyone I might know?”
Eddie shrugged and got up. “It’s been a long day. I’m headin’ home. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. That alright?”
“You know … the coke thing, the brown paper bag … the brothers are saying you’re full of shit, they reckon you’re lying. They say that it’s a carrot on a stick and we’re the bunnies.” Davo took a swig, and lit a smoke.
“Yeah, right,” Eddie huffed walking through the back door.
Davo slammed the door shut behind Eddie.
***
Eddie took a deep breath, finished his beer in a couple of gulps and chucked the bottle over the chain-wire fence. The clinking of the bottle on the gravel started a chain reaction of dogs barking. Then, he heard, “Fuckin’ shut the fuck up, you mangy mongrels!”
Although the Riders had been bighearted when first meeting him, time had dulled that generosity to barely a cursory nod, whenever he walked through their door. After several months of goose-chasing, he had all but given up finding Martin. He was tiring of the innuendo, the whispers from behind the walls – Eddie knew exactly what Davo was saying.
Restless was how Eddie felt, and he saw himself going around in circles. He had no interest in joining the Redemption Riders; he didn’t connect with any of them other than Davo. Eddie knew what it was; they would never accept him as their leader – he was an outsider. It was an invisible barrier. Eddie had similar sentiments, you bastards would never have been Sinners.
It was clear to Eddie that a new strategy was needed, with no reliance on the Riders. He kicked a crushed aluminium drink can out of the way. Another thought dawned on him, I’d better be watchful, can’t trust those bastards now. I will have to do this myself.
Martin. Like looking for the illusive fox. Despite the dead-end leads, Martin was worth the wait; Townsville wasn’t that big. I’ll catch up with you, you little thief, Eddie promised.
And that Sydney cabdriver. Him too. He had a score to settle with that cunt.
CHAPTER 3
AN EXTRA SHIFT
On a tributary of the Haughton River, in tropical North Queensland Darren squatted on the muddy bank of the creek. Looking up at the great blue sky and squinting he couldn’t see a single cloud before him. A bead of sweat rolled from his nose. Plonk. He watched the droplet create a small circle as it broke tension on the still water surface. The miniscule circular wave dissipated in seconds. Not a breath of wind.
The midday sun burnt like a branding iron on his neck. Darren’s dark blue singlet was sticking to his chest and back, soaked in sweat. He rose from his squat while his eyes had remained fixed in front of him, as if expecting something to rise from the muddy creek. The surface remained undisturbed. No wind. When he turned around, he saw that thick dark clouds were starting to build.
His feet made sucking noises as he moved away from the muddy edge. When his toes touched the dry dirt, he took larger strides to reach his thongs left in the shade under a mangrove. Blowing a flat and hushed whistle, his scorched feet searched for the thongs. He swatted a mosquito on his forearm. After briefly cooling down in the shade, he returned to his Nissan Patrol. Lying under the truck, a light-grey speckled cattle dog lazily lifted his tail a few times, a friendly wag.
“Come on Patch, let’s get out of here. Fuckin’ croc is not going to catch Eddie. We are.”
***
The loose timber sash rattled in synchro with the rolling thunder. Within seconds the tin roof awning over the front steps burst into a roar of clatter from the rain. A predicted afternoon storm had come early. A sudden mist of moisture blew through the front-door flyscreen. Darren quickly shut the door. The wooden double-hung window was next; although loose in the frame the only opening sash was difficult to operate, binding at every dag and uneven layer of enamel paint solidified over the last sixty years. Still, despite the high-set house being riddled with oldness and noisy creaks, ‘she’ had stood the test of a few cyclones. The last shake and push – and she was down with a clang. Fix this bloody window one day! At least he didn’t get his fingers jammed this time. Outside, the monsoonal downpour intensified.
The mobile-screen lit up. Darren snatched it from the cane and glass coffee table. “How are ya?” Darren’s dull and flat welcome. He listened and replied, “Righto, I’ll be about fifteen.” Click. No sense in asking too many questions, it was hard to hear anything over the roar of the rain.
***
Funny place – the tropics: you’re always wet, either from rain or sweat, or both, Darren mused; he ran down the stairs trying to dodge the deluge. Once under, he straightened only to be greeted by an equally drenched cattle-dog. He ran his hand over Patch’s wet head, “You be good, I’m off to work.” Darren pointed to the wooden dog-kennel, “Go on, in ya get.” Patch retreated to his kennel.
Darren got into his XC Ford parked under the high-set house. As he backed out into the weather, and an already flooding driveway, he mused while looking at his Queenslander, good score this place, thanks Martin.
Afternoon traffic was at a crawl. Darren was amused at the erratic behaviour of drivers in the wet. Unbelievable, you lot, you can go a little faster than five kay an hour. A slow drive to work, time to think about the panic-stricken call. He was ‘mystified’ after being told that one of cabs and a new driver had gone missing. One of the new A
sian drivers, they never studied the street-maps. Probably fell asleep after getting lost!
Darren pulled into the Northern Taxi Company’s driveway. The carpark was awash, too far from the office door, so he opted for workshop opening with its roller door half-down. His car could go no further than the driver’s door. Darren ejected through a waterfall into the dry shed.
“Won’t be long boys!” Darren shouted over the clatter from the roof. A couple of mechanics and a driver were sitting at the canteen table having smoko. Not a wave or nudge from them.
Darren went straight to the office.
“Need you to cover a shift, mate,” his boss said.
“Haven’t even shed a drop on the floor yet. G’day to you too,” Darren answered back, sweat and rain drops rolling down his face.
His new boss was named ‘Pete’ as well, except this one had the personality of a water-buffalo, not one friendly hair on him. Although Darren disliked the new taxi-boss for his complete lack of personality, he was organised, unlike his previous boss, Pete from Sydney, who was a good bloke without any common sense.
“Ready to go? The phone’s going nuts. Bloody weather.”
“What’s the story on the cab that’s gone walk-about?”
“Been missing for two days. And the driver.” Pete replied with efficiently few words.
“What he ran off?”
“Not sure. It’s messy. Yesterday’s shift supervisor didn’t do his job well. I picked up on it this morning. My day off yesterday. The diary from two nights ago mentions the last time he reported in. Driver picked up a fare for a Dover Plains destination. Missing ever since.”
“Who’s missing?”
“Indian bloke, Bilal.”
“Right. One of the new generation of drivers.” Darren rolled his eyes. “Called in the coppers?” Darren was casually scanning the roster.
“Yes. Just now. They should be here soon.”
“Good luck.”
Darren shot his boss a glance before leaving to start his extra shift. Out in the driveway, he looked up with surprise – the downpour had vanished. He moved his car from the workshop door and parked it. The vast puddles hadn’t drained yet, his shoes were drenched. Darren unlocked the taxi, opened it. He wiped the armrest on the door before settling behind the wheel, turned the key and drove out thinking, another day, another dollar. Maybe, even two.
A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Page 2
