Drinking warm stubbies in the hot sun had morphed the boys into a frenzied group of lame warriors. Time to ride the taxi! “My fucken turn, gimme th..k..kkeys!” Charlie slurred with a command and snatched the keys from the bonnet of the Mitsi. He hurled himself behind the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing, not even a click.
“Fuggen car. Fuggen wone start,” slurred a very drunk Charlie after holding the key for what seemed an eternity.
The other boys laughed and laughed more. Watching Charlie fall out of the cab and trying to get up was just too hysterical.
“Gonna burn the cun’. I’m gonna fuggen burn it.”
More laughing as the boys sat on the ground. Baz ripped the last six pack open, seized a stubbie and threw the remainder in front of the other boys. It had been a great day for the group. Baz reflected on the earlier part of the day; bored and hungry with no money they had the same thought: find a victim with a wallet. Instead they got a lotto win, some dickhead left his keys in his car, wallet on the passenger seat, while he’s paying for fuel. How fucken good was that? And he even bought us a carton of piss. Baz cracked up laughing, spitting while sipping on his Northern.
Max noticed it first: the taxi bonnet was up and Charlie was tinkering with something. He watched as an aggravated and drunk Charlie swore at something angrily, next he was holding some hose he’d reefed from the engine bay. Satisfied with his action Charlie fiddled in his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a smoke. Then, Charlie lit a match.
“Faark! Charlie…noooohhh!” Max yelled out.
Too late.
Under the bonnet exploded into a ball of fire. The loud whoomph blew the bonnet off its hinges, and the fireball hugged everything in front of it. Charlie was flung back – onto the ground lit like a torch. He screamed as flames enveloped him.
The boys were stunned. Baz dropped his stubbie, Little Billy started crying, Max shook his head as if to wake himself from a dream.
Twenty seconds later Max rushed to his friend only to be thwarted by the flames, then screaming, “Charlie! Charlie! What the fuck!”
Max tore his singlet off to dampen the flames; partially successful, he fell to his knees and pushed his burning friend over, and rolled him further. Like a madman, Max started slapping, patting, slapping and whacking Charlie’s body and clothing which had turned into charred bits of nothing. Baz and Billy stood wide-eyed and gob-smacked as the burnt bits of fabric floated in the air around them. The heat from the burning taxi became more intense. Max grabbed Charlie’s feet, dragging his badly burnt friend away from the furnace of the cab.
“Is he dead?” Little Billy sobbed.
Max collapsed to his knees next to Charlie’s charred skin. Combined with the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, the tears welling in his eyes, he couldn’t focus. His head was spinning, his mind going blank, and stomach churning. Max heaved and spewed, narrowly missing the lifeless Charlie. Bent over clutching his gut, he spat and wiped the slobber from his face. Slowly he righted himself finding two sets of eyes locked onto him.
Billy was shaking from his sobbing; Baz stared with an empty gaze, “What we do now, Maxie?”
“You the ideas man, Baz, you tell me. I dunno.”
“Think he’s dead?”
“Fucked if I know. Look at him. He’s fucken cooked.”
“He not moving much, aye?”
They both fell silent; the crackling of the fire the only sound in the middle of what felt like: nowhere, apart from the noisy waves of Little Billy’s hyperventilating sobs.
Minutes which seemed like hours went past. There wasn’t a single moan or groan, not a twitch from Charlie. The taxi was still burning. Although the sun had dropped to the tops of the low-lying scrubland in the distance the temperature had barely gone down a degree.
“We gotta bail. The smoke is gonna give us away,” Baz said sullenly.
“Guess so.” Max rose from where he knelt, brushing some dirt from his bare knees. “What d’ya wanna do with the car? And what about Charlie?”
“If we leave him the cops will find us,” Baz said blankly.
“You wanna ditch him?” Max said staring at the burnt body.
“Creek’s just there.”
“Baz’s right. He dead anyway. He won’t know the difference,” Little Billy said sniffing. The older boys were surprised at Billy’s matter-of-fact statement.
“What about the car? Better ditch it too.” Max said.
“Lezz stick Charlie in the boot and drive the fucken car into the creek.”
Both Billy and Max nodded at Baz’ suggestion, and without any further discussion the boys carefully picked up the blackened body, dumping Charlie in the trunk of the Mitsi.
Max navigated his way further into the scrub, knowing from past adventures in the middle of nowhere that Stony Creek wound its way deep into the land. There – a good spot: steep bank and a deep section of the creek. Max stopped the Mitsi on the berm; he sighed heavily and got out of the car. The other two followed. Baz took good look around for any possible spectators while Little Billy peered the creek.
“Mangroves will help to hide the car,” Baz remarked. “Lezz do it.”
Max had left his door open; the Mitsi was parked facing the creek a few metres below. “I’ll release the handbrake, then we push.”
The Mitsi bumbled down to the water’s edge unimpressively; as it hit the water the boot-lid opened up exposing Charlie’s corpse. One last goodbye, like an open casket at a funeral, the boys looked at one and other.
“See ya cuz. At least you won’t be goin’ to the lock-up,” Billy said.
Then all three watched in silence as the Mitsi disappeared under water.
CHAPTER 6
AN ELEPHANT’S VENGEANCE
Sydney, at dusk, in a hotel room not far from the airport.
The appointment had been completed.
The young man, Serge, his trade name, brushed his hair back over his ear. The sex hadn’t lasted long. For that he was thankful. Not that his client had been impolite, or had mistreated him in any way. That wasn’t it. The man had a cold streak, ice cold.
Like now, Serge was getting himself dressed, while his client, who called himself Steve was ignoring him completely. The man sat silent, naked, smoking a cigarette in front of the plate glass window, on the 14th floor of the luxury hotel.
Blue smoke jet-streamed from his client’s lips until it hit the glass where it silently dispersed shaped in a ring, a ghost-like silent explosion on the window of the high-rise hotel room in Sydney. Serge spied the reflection of his client in the glass. The man’s face was haggard, but behind the black-translucent frame of his spectacles his dark eyes were alert, intense. Cold. And strange, to be wearing his glasses, but no clothes.
Serge finished tying his shoelaces.
The client looked insulated from the outside world, observing in silence as traffic movement down below brush-stroked the red and white lines in opposite flows. He took another drag from his cigarette.
Serge stood from the comfort of the Ottoman.
“Nice to meet you. Steve.” Serge was already halfway to the door, not waiting for an answer.
The door closed with a subtle click.
The stillness in the hotel room was interrupted by a monotonous low-pitched buzz, in lazy five-second intervals. The man whose real name wasn’t Steve looked at the vibrating phone. His bony hand looked mismatched compared to the long and slender fingers, the highly-manicured fingernails. He answered the call.
***
The man behind the plate glass window was known as Slice, and those who’d had experience with his expertise wouldn’t bother asking for his real name. Speculation had some guessing it was Silvestro, or Silvio. In fact, Slice wasn’t even Italian, Sicilian, Calabrian or Mediterranean. Real names in the circles of organised crime had little meaning until you became a headline on the front page of a major newspaper. Slice was an expert in appearing from dark shadows and returning into ob
scurity when the job was done. Slice would do this work silently and with surgical precision.
For strangers and most of the outside world, his name was Steve. For clients, it was Slice.
Salvatore, or The Old Boy, as Slice called him, was crazy with rage not only from the loss of two family members, Lewis and Paul, but also the package of cocaine that went astray. Stolen right from under their noses! By bikies he never trusted.
The Devil’s Sinners had turned out to be a curse on the family’s business interests in Sydney. Although the missing cocaine certainly wasn’t a financial disaster in the scheme of things, the whole deal gone cock-eyed was a massive embarrassment for the family. This high-grade cocaine had come from a new source, a prestigious contact who would propel the Melbourne family’s business interests far and wide. The loss of this cocaine was a huge loss of face. The cunt responsible for this monumental fuck-up: Eddie, the former leader of the Devil’s Sinners.
Lewis was a favourite nephew, born and bred in Australia, destined to be a boss in the family’s criminal organisation. His murder, or rather, execution by the Sinners’ under the pretence of a meeting for a debt settlement was not going to be unpunished. Salvatore had a memory like an elephant, particularly when it came to retribution; his only consolation was that Lewis managed to kill one of the bikies, the lawyer one. Slice vaguely remembered a photograph of the biker – a beautiful man, not typical of a biker.
***
“Yeah. Uh-huh. Is that so.” The expression on Slice’s face was bland. The ranting on the other end of the line, relentless.
“Find him! I don’t care how long … I want this motherfucker dead! And … you make sure that he knows where his punishment comes from.” The accent was thick, but unmistakeably clear. End of the call.
Slice lay the mobile back on the glass table. Slice shook his head.
He looked past the glass reflection of himself in the large window. The city of Sydney had woken up, above the city skyline the tell-tale sign of an airplane flying off: the intermittent flashing of distant lights like a beacon to a destination he could only speculate about.
His destination? No speculation necessary. It would be a direct flight to Townsville. It was rumoured Eddie had fled to Townsville. Apart from the wild goose chase, Salvatore had another cleaning job for him to do.
He picked up his phone and pressed a single speed dial number, “Book me a flight to Townsville, one-way. Tomorrow. Use Sal’s account. Thanks.””
CHAPTER 7
LOW TIDE
Joel couldn’t contain his excitement or the huge grin on his face; the siren and the blue and red lights were on – his first day on the job! Now he was spurred to drive like a controlled, possessed person.
“Show us what you got. That high-speed driving course must be good for something,” said Fiona. “Get us there in one piece, though.”
Joel was on top of the game now; driving real fast wasn’t new to him – a skill he thought better not to elucidate. Only this time he did have to worry about stacking a new, highly modified Commodore recently acquired by the Queensland Police Service. The incognito HSV was meant to go to Highway Patrol, but it was the only vehicle available this morning, so upon threat of death by firing squad, if the car was damaged in any form or way, the Duty Sergeant allocated the car to Fiona Gibbs, and her new rookie, for the day.
“Steady, Eddy,” Fiona said grasping the side of her seat.
“No worries, boss.” Despite the high speed, Joel deftly navigated the HSV through heavy traffic on the highway, weaving his way in and out of lanes with the coolness of a get-away driver.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yes ma’am,” Joel replied in a fake drawl.
***
Stationary, the engine idling with a faint rumble, the silver Commodore looked out of place in front of a narrow dirt track. Fiona and Joel were thinking the same thing: what would a drive on this dirt track do to the car? Or more to the point: their careers?
“We’re not walking, are we?” Fiona broke the dilemma.
“We could call in a four-bee,” Joel suggested.
“We’re wasting time, let’s go.” Decision made.
Piloting the lowered Commodore over and around the ruts and bumps proved time-consuming and hair-raising, particularly the parts that groaned and squealed from the under the vehicle. Never mind the scratching of the sparkling duco from the overgrown scrub! Joel winced at every clunk from the undercarriage, dreading the imminent roasting after returning the brand-new cruiser.
A small group of people were clustered up further. Joel pressed the accelerator a little harder; the narrow track had given way to a clearing. A couple of boys turned to see where the rumble came from, prompting a quick alert to the rest of the group – the gathering suddenly spread out, all eyes focussed on the cop car.
Most of the boys were clad in dirt-bike riding gear. Their dirt-bikes were parked securely away from the bank; the row was organised with helmets and gloves placed on the machines. The anticipation in their faces was uniform; despite their guarded expressions they exuded a kind of cooperation, after all they called it in and reported the finding.
“Hey guys, how are you today?” Fiona emerged first, stuck her cap on her head and donned her sunnies.
After a polite, mumbled greeting by the group, one spokesperson stepped forward. “Better than the bloke in there,” he said while pointing to the creek.
The group of boys spread apart to make way for the approaching officers. Fiona led, with Joel trailing a few metres behind; he kept his eyes peeled on the boys, alternating his surveillance from one group to the other.
“Shit,” Fiona mumbled under her breath.
The sedan was covered in a layer of thin mud as it sat front down in the creek. A very low tide had partially exposed the dumped vehicle; the boot lid was up and the body awkwardly stuffed inside it was poorly concealed in brown mud. There was silence all round, only for a few seconds. Joel felt goose-bumps on his arms and a tingle on his earlobes. The mud didn’t hide that the body was that of a coloured boy, or man. The sunken eyes were soiled, but wide open, as if surprised. A morbid warning for all of you watching: the difference between life or death is swift, sometimes you don’t have time to shut your eyes.
“Shallowater, are you okay?”
Joel’s eyes were fixed on the victim’s empty stare. Was there a story coming?
There was a pause but then the words came out. “Too young to be a cab driver. He’s an Indigenous boy.”
“It is a victim presumed to be dead in the boot of a car,” Fiona looked Joel in the eye. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant Gibbs.”
***
Fiona instructed her junior offsider to inform headquarters and ask for assistance. The nature of the incident would trigger the necessary protocols, and soon the scene would be swarming with others. In the meantime, while waiting before chaos to arrive it would be an opportunity for her and Joel to question the boys. She instructed Joel to take a group for questioning first and then casually pick an individual to corroborate what was said. Fiona would follow a similar tactic. It wasn’t rocket-science, a bunch of teenage boys riding their bikes and discovering a gruesome sight riding past the creek. But, the interesting result from both interviews was: the revelation of a burnt-out car, “might have been a taxi”, situated a few hundred metres over “that way.”
Fiona and Joel looked at each other, thinking the same.
“Do you reckon you can show us where exactly?” Fiona asked.
“Yeah, we’ll take you there. You can follow us. Or maybe, jump on the back with me. Might save you damaging your cop car,” said the dark-haired boy with a freckled face, then he chuckled pointing at the apron of the Commodore.
Horrified, Joel realised what the last bit of loud scraping had been. With paint missing and a visible tear in the front of the brand-new car, this day was not going to end well for him.
“
Great,” Fiona remarked, and ushered her rookie towards the freckled boy. “You go with him. And don’t forget to take notes, and some snapshots. Hurry back.”
Joel took another quick look at the damage on the car, shook his head and climbed on the back of the already running Yamaha. He planted his boots firmly on the pegs. Freckles spared little time to get to the burn-site.
***
The recent rain made the burnt carcass of the taxi smell worse. The pungent odour of charred material wafted in waves of intensity, irritating Joel’s throat as he breathed the acrid air. He took a dozen snapshots as he slowly went around the wreck. Nothing left of the tyres; the rims were blackened, a little distorted from heat. Inside the cab everything was completely annihilated, the only skeletal evidence of seats were the blackened springs still pointing up. There appeared to be no sign of a body, charred or burnt to black bones. Joel’s heart was thumping. He swallowed with a sigh of relief.
Joel scanned the immediate area surrounding the taxi. The rain had been heavy, in fact, monsoonal, and eroded much of the crime-scene. Although from what he understood, there wasn’t much to hide from Forensics. Before he decided to go back to the creek site, he did notice some burnt material stuck to the wet ground. Burnt fabric. No. Burnt clothing. He crouched next to his find, reached over to touch it, but there was something else stuck to the charred fabric. Was it human skin? Joel closed his eyes, sighed and got up.
“Give us a ride back?”
“Hop on,” Freckles said.
During Joel’s inspection, the riders had stayed back and patiently watched the copper do his thing. As they left the scene, Freckles shouted out some orders, and the other riders went off in the opposite direction.
***
Another police vehicle was arriving as Freckles and Joel shot out of the narrow track. The two officers who came out of the squad car looked puzzled as Freckles pulled up next them; that was an unusual sight, an Aboriginal copper being ridden around on a dirt bike. “Been walk-about already, aye?”
A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Page 4
