A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  A mobile rang.

  Matteo fumbled in the pocket of his boardies, the rush to answer was clear. Especially, to Slice who watched intently from behind his dark, wrap-around sunglasses. Matteo turned away from his visitor and walked up the ramp, abandoning the Moke. The Italian displayed theatrics typical of the breed, Slice thought as he assessed the nature of the call. Matteo was swinging his free arm wildly, speaking loud.

  Too loud. Way too loud.

  “Go back? Tomorrow. Yes, okay, okay,” Matteo nodded demonstratively, with an open palm to the sky.

  Loud enough for Slice. Bullseye.

  The call didn’t last long but told Slice exactly what he suspected. Discretion. A concept this guy obviously has never heard of, Slice mused.

  The tinnie bobbed against his thigh.

  ***

  It took Matteo numerous pulls on the starter cord to get a response from the outboard. Slice watched the disgruntled Matteo, he lost count after a dozen unsuccessful attempts. Matteo squeezed the fuel primer repeatedly, the smell of fuel wafted over the boat.

  “Matteo, I don’t know much about boats, but I can tell you that you’re flooding the carburettor every time you squeeze that thing. Doesn’t help starting, I don’t think.”

  “Steven. I know about outboards!” Matteo snapped.

  Slice ignored his outburst. He wished he could light up a smoke, which gave him an idea.

  For later.

  Maybe.

  Too messy. Dousing the bastard in fuel first. Then I’d have to swim a long way. Sharks. No thanks. Slice was daydreaming, before another dreadful thought occurred to him. Fuckin’ jellyfish! He shook his head.

  “You are shaking your head,” Matteo sneered.

  One last pull. The engine bubbled to life, with a thick blue puff of smoke. Then it roared.

  “See.” Matteo smiled and pushed the lever into forward gear.

  CHAPTER 52

  DIG DEEPER

  Slice was relieved to be back at his apartment after a long day. Under the shower, he felt elated to wash the salt off his body. The wind had never come up, a few clouds coming and going had doused the sun’s unrelenting burn, for short intervals. It had been a very hot outing. Two fish, that was all for three hours of getting scorched. The swim inside the stinger net was equally disappointing. The ocean’s water temperature was hovering around thirty degrees, especially in the shallows. It was like bathing in horse-piss, as far as Slice was concerned. The cold shower now was invigorating, allowing his mind to cool, reflecting on the stunted conversations of the day.

  His thoughts were suddenly disrupted.

  A noise. He turned off the shower.

  Door knocking. Who could that be?

  A short pause of nothing.

  More knocking from the front door, this time sounding with more determination. Cops? How could they have found him so quick?

  Slice snatched a towel from the rail, and quickly dried himself, finishing with a vigorous rub over his hair. He wrapped the towel around his waist. A good excuse not to spend too much time entertaining questions, if it was indeed the constabulary. They might feel uncomfortable and piss off.

  “Just a moment,” Slice shouted.

  “Police.” A muffled reply from behind the door.

  Fuck. It is them!

  Slice unlocked the door, still dripping water on the carpet from his wet legs.

  “James Earl Jones?” the female copper asked.

  “That’s me. You found my car?” Slice thought it best to come straight to the point.

  “Unfortunately, what’s left of it.” This time the answer came from the tall policeman, and he introduced himself and his sergeant, omitting Gibbs’ rank.

  “Sergeant Fiona Gibbs.” She leered at the constable, her face unhappy.

  Gibbs reverted her attention to the semi-naked man, eyeballing him up and down, her nose turned up.

  “Can you tell us a bit about what happened? And curiously, how come you didn’t report it?”

  Slice appraised her. A smartarse bitch.

  “I am embarrassed. Sorry. I intended to report it, but you see … this is so awkward, so shrivelling.” Slice’s impersonation of an effeminate man was theatrically perfect – he himself was impressed.

  “We’re listening,” Gibbs wasn’t impressed, shifting impatiently on her feet.

  “Alright then. Well, I had a … a friend over the other night, you see. And he … oh, this is so embarrassing …” Slice rolled his eyes and kinked his head, “We had a disagreement, and he left … in a hurry. People don’t know about us, you see. I am very new to this.”

  “Still doesn’t explain a burnt-out car, which belongs to you.” A terse comment by Gibbs.

  “Yes, I know. Bradley only told me last night. He left the keys in it the other night. He was so upset about our argument. He’s such a darling,” Slice spoke lovingly.

  “Sounds familiar,” the male policeman said. “The keys, I mean.” He looked away.

  Gibbs narrowed her eyes, assessing the worth of the reason for not reporting a stolen vehicle.

  “Your friend didn’t see who stole your car?” Gibbs asked.

  “No. He didn’t. He is very, very sorry.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Gibbs replied. “If you want to collect on insurance, you’ll most likely need to report it.”

  “Sorry, about all this. But how did you find me?”

  The question surprised Gibbs. “There was a card found on the floor. Belonged to an auto electrician, we rang him and here we are.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Gibbs’ two-way radio went off; she had held her eyes on him as she responded to the call. “On our way.”

  Gibbs broke off her gaze, “Thank you for your time, Mister Jones.”

  Fiona nudged her off-sider and both police-officers turned on their heels and left. They didn’t speak on the way back to the squad car. Once in the car, her offsider said, “Another weird customer.”

  To which Fiona responded, “Mister fucking Jones, my arse. Something wrong here. I can smell it.”

  ***

  Slice shut the door quietly. He leaned against it for a moment, and sighed with relief. His heart was thumping. Without warning, the towel which was wrapped around his waist fell to the floor. It was time to get dressed anyway.

  His phone went off.

  After snatching the towel off the floor, he reluctantly picked up the device and pressed the answer button.

  “How was your fishing trip?” Salvatore’s question was laced with cynicism.

  Slice wasn’t in the mood for frivolities, “Your nephew is screwing you in the arse.” An answer sure to evoke the ire of The Old Boy, Slice calculated.

  And Slice was correct.

  “Fanculo!” the Italian shouted through the phone.

  “Don’t tell me to fuck off!”

  Tempers flared, no one was having a good day.

  It was the first time, Slice had lost his cool with the crime boss. Although frazzled from the day’s events, he realised that antagonising the Italian would bring certain repercussions. “Sal, I am sorry for that outburst. Please accept my apologies.”

  “Vaffanculo.” Salvatore’s answer was pointed, but had no fire in it.

  “Yes. I deserved that.” Slice was repentant.

  “Okay. We have some anger today. We are men. How you say in Aussie … build a bridge, get over it.” Sal chuckled briefly. A rare offer of compromise.

  A moment of silence followed.

  “He’s very smart. Comes across as a dunce, but Matteo is not dumb. I could not get him to trip and give me answers that would implicate him in anything other than his admiration for his uncle. You.”

  “So why do you think you he is scroowing me?”

  “He got a phone call from someone before we left the ramp.” Slice reached for his smokes, lighting up a cigarette. “A heated discussion. Something must have gone wrong. He was angry and worked up when he was talking to this person. I
overheard that someone was screwing them over.” He blew a thick plume of smoke. “While out on the boat, Matteo was preoccupied, like something was really bugging him. He was careful, guarded, pretending he didn’t understand what I was on about.”

  “You ask him about drugs?”

  “He wouldn’t be lured into a discussion about drugs. He insisted that he would have nothing to do with drugs. Never did.”

  Slice put his cigarette out, noticing his nude reflection in the microwave oven door. It was really time to get dressed and start on the sanitation job of the unit.

  Salvatore sighed heavily, remaining silent while considering the news.

  “I did manage to find the originating call,” Slice added. “I looked at his phone call history, when he was having a piss.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “No one comes to mind. It turned out to be a caryard. Some young girl answered, so I pretended to be interested in buying a car. The boss was out. Apparently, they are based in Cairns. Bruce’s something, something cars. The girl promised to text me some details: address, sales consultant’s name.”

  The mobster grunted unimpressed.

  “What would you like me to do?” Slice asked, waiting for instructions.

  “Keep digging. Don’t touch my nephew for now. If he’s fucking me over, he will be yours.” He paused for a few seconds. “Remember this: my sister must be able to recognise him when he is laid out in his casket. Keep his face intact.”

  “You have my word.”

  Salvatore couldn’t see Slice’s eyes rolling, as the hitman ended the call.

  How boring.

  ***

  3.07am. Joel eyed the digital clock. Tired, but wide awake. How did that work?

  Billy’s grotesque murder had caused a week of sleepless nights for Joel. Pondering the plight of disadvantaged kids in the depths of the night would guarantee him a spot on a sideways track away from police work. It was hard to separate the whys’, and the how-comes’ from the end result of a car heist. Tomorrow. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. He thumped his pillow into shape, and vowed to get some sleep.

  The rumour mill in the local community hadn’t taken long to turn in overdrive. Being a close family friend didn’t help in consoling Auntie Jilli, but the anger from a grief-stricken aunt, lamenting the cruel death of her nephew did produce a single name: Max. Billy had been out with Max and his new mate, an older boy whose name wasn’t known to her. Joel left her house and set out to find Max.

  In the area, Joel’s questions were met with suspicion, and resistance to help the cause was overwhelming. Joel put it down to grief, and a sense of anger growing in the community. An ‘us’ and ‘them’ divide, feeding the mistrust. Joel’s uniform represented the establishment. A blackfella not acting in the interest of his own people. Why would he be chasing a local kid? Hadn’t there been enough deaths already?

  One person, she did help. Gemma.

  Joel ran into her at the shops. She volunteered, he didn’t even have to ask her.

  Max would be hanging out at the bus stop behind the school, waiting for end of school, to sell drugs to the schoolkids. Max was a cool cat, Joel had interviewed him after they had been caught red-handed with a wallet at the Strand, stolen from an overweight racist. Max was savvy to the workings of the system, and therefore very cocky and uncooperative. The system had helped him become untouchable.

  But not today.

  Joel wasn’t going to be a copper today, at least not as far as his approach to Max was concerned.

  The unmarked car Joel was cruising around in blended easily, and gave him an opportunity to observe the mixed group of teenagers, hanging around the bus-stop opposite the school’s sports field. The maroon coloured car was parked a hundred metres away. Joel spotted Max; the boy was slouched like a little king, with a couple of younger kids milling around him like fairies.

  Joel decided to sit back and wait.

  The school’s siren blasted at three o’clock. Minutes later, the hordes of school children poured out of the myriad of buildings. Max and his apostles didn’t relinquish their fiefdom. Within minutes about half-a-dozen students had joined Max and his entourage. The other children appeared to avoid the bus-stop vicinity altogether.

  Joel waited for the school crowd to dissipate. To walk from here would likely cause him to be noticed, although he wasn’t in uniform. Max would probably run. Joel started the car and slowly drove towards the bus-stop. As expected, no one noticed, all too busy on their phones, or swooning over Max.

  Joel drove past the bus-stop shelter and parked ten metres away. The group was at the back of the bus-stop facing the school grounds. Joel casually strolled towards them. The kids mostly ignored his advance, one didn’t.

  Too late.

  Max tried to evade Joel’s hand, but the cop had grabbed hold of his T-shirt. As much as Max tried to pull away, Joel had yanked the skinny boy back. By now, the other kids had dispersed and all of them running off without looking back. Joel had his arm around Max’s head, who was struggling with all his might to free himself.

  “You gonna calm down?”

  “What you fucken want!” Max snarled, still thrashing about.

  “I wanna know what happened to Billy.” Joel squashed Max’s chest briefly, causing the boy to utter denial.

  “Which Billy? Don’t know no Billy.” A ridiculous reply, which was met with a slap to his head. Joel’s patience was wearing thin, so he dragged the protesting boy to the car.

  “This is how it is. You get into the car, and I promise not to take you to the cop shop. You keep up this behaviour, and I’ll call it ‘resisting arrest’ and ‘suspicion’ of selling drugs to minors.”

  “I’m a minor!”

  “Not today you’re not. Get into the fucken car.” Joel’s voice now laced with menace.

  Max complied and got into the car, his face full of defiance.

  Joel slid into the driver’s seat. He started the car. Then he reached under seat and produced his service weapon. A Glock. Black, shiny and imposing. He shoved the barrel of the gun into the skinny kid’s ribs.

  “Do not think for one second, I won’t pull the trigger. It’s called accidental death. The young thug tried to take my weapon. We struggled and bang. Guts all over the door and window. Big hole. Lots of blood. And bone. Small fragments from your ribs. And you won’t die straightaway either. Takes about two or three minutes. Longest most painful minutes of your life.”

  Max’s eyes grew large. “Don’t shoot me.” Terrified. “Please.”

  Joel maintained pressure against Max’s body.

  “Start talking. What were you fucking shits up to the other night?” Joel had his body turned to face his prisoner, there was fury in his eyes. Max was cowed.

  “Jarrah wanted to steal a Commodore. He was hell-bent on getting one that night.”

  “Who the fuck is Jarrah?” Joel prodded the gun a little.

  “An older kid. He’s eighteen. Not from here.”

  “From where?”

  “I dunno. I swear.”

  “Go on.” Pushed the gun again.

  “We found this SS, lowered, nice wheels, just like Jarrah wanted. But we coudden get into it. Some lights come on. We run.”

  “What’s the point. You didn’t get it. Still not telling me what happened to Billy.”

  “Next night. Jarrah said he wanna go back and have another go. So we did. We snuck into this unit. It was unlocked. Got his keys and went to drive off, when the cunt come out of nowhere. Billy was in the back, his door open. This white fella grabbed Billy and pull him out of the car. We wannet Jarrah to stop. Jarrah wasn’t stoppen for nobody. That’s the last we saw of Billy. Swear.” Max’s mouth was quivering. “We didden know that Billy was gonna get killed.”

  “Where was this place?” Joel had withdrawn the gun.

  “In town.”

  “You show me where to go?”

  Max hung his head low, nodded briefly. “We fucked up bi
g time didden we?”

  “You sure did,” Joel replied. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, and shook his head in disbelief.

  ***

  Back in West End, Townsville, Slice had finished packing his bag. After the phone call with Salvatore he made the decision to leave as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be long before the coppers would be back. Although he had never been arrested before, and there wouldn’t be any fingerprints of his on any public record, he always cleaned every hotel room or apartment where he’d stayed. Slice was meticulous in this job, just as he was with interrogation and wielding a knife.

  The flat would be spotless and sanitised.

  CHAPTER 53

  BLINDFOLDED

  Darren was angry when he had left the bank. The sale of the house had turned into a financial disaster for him. Was it ever going to be different? The meagre $14,000 profit he had made on the sale would go to the real estate agent’s coffers, commission. The bank had frozen $160,000 of his deposit, until the police investigation, and the bank’s internal fraud investigation unit had completed their findings. The balance of the sale funds would go to the balance of the outstanding mortgage owed to the bank. His final balance – to pay the bank a shortfall of $2,732.41, payable immediately. To the mystery man, the mob or whoever the cunts were: $410,000 – payable immediately.

  Angry. Yes, furious. My own doing. You’re a fucking idiot, Mango.

  Disillusioned, not in the slightest.

  Defeated. Never.

  Shutting the door of the XC, he viewed himself in the mirror. Time to go into stealth mode.

  What the hell. He still had the old girl, the XC. And the Patrol. But most of all, he had Patch, and now his new friend, Ruby. Nothing would stand in the way of keeping them safe. Nothing.

  A quick wipe of his feet before entering his soon-to-not-be his home anymore saw him greeted by a happy dog. “He doesn’t even bother to come out to the gate anymore. Spoiled.” Glancing at Ruby.