A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  “It’s me.”

  “You’re late.” Predictable and deserved.

  “My sincere apologies. I had an important meeting with someone,” Slice winced as he spoke. He knew what was next.

  “In your life, no one is more important than me.” Direct, with a terse reminder. “What can you tell me?”

  “The cab driver’s house is sold. Don’t know about your money, my contact says that the Feds are all over the paperwork, digging through archives and records like wombats. Might be an idea to back off. I’m happy to complete the job. I can do it next week.” Slice hoped the mobster would be appeased with his offer.

  “I know already. Old news. Get rid of the cockroach. Make sure his body is never found. What about Matteo? When will you see him?”

  “I am looking into his affairs from this end. Perhaps I can get more mileage from questioning his contacts up here.”

  “Don’t ring me until you have some important news to tell me. I want answers to my questions about Matteo.” Salvatore ended the call.

  Slice placed the phone on the glass table top.

  He didn’t like Salvatore’s tone of voice. Maybe it was time to think about breaking away, after finishing his jobs here. At least, no questions regarding Eddie.

  ***

  “Who was the bleach blonde pretty boy? We don’t sell cruisers or yachts here.” Bruce had a chuckle. He’d seen the XR8 take off.

  “My first sale, Brucey,” Eddie replied.

  “And bloody good onya too, mate. I hope you didn’t give it to him,” Bruce said applauding.

  “I checked the tag in the book. Added a grand and sold it to him for five hundred more than the listed price.”

  “Too fast. Come again?”

  “I told him five grand. He offered four and a half. I reluctantly agreed to his low offer,“ Eddie said smiling. “I noticed the list price was four thousand.”

  “You’re the kinda salesman that gives the industry a bad name. More fucking power to you cousin!” Bruce slapped Eddie on the shoulder. “We only needed three to break even, you’re a legend.”

  “Weird cunt, though. Didn’t give much away. An intense bastard.” Eddie peered into the direction where the XR8 went.

  “Let’s piss off from here,” Bruce suggested.

  “It’s only lunchtime. Might sell another car this arvo.” Eddie appeared disappointed.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I do need to sell cars. But there’s other issues that need to be dealt with. Bianca will be in shortly, and handle any enquiries this arvo.” Bruce beckoned Eddie to follow him to the office, where they could sit in air-conditioned comfort.

  “Matteo will be meeting the Pom tomorrow. This time the money will be right.” Bruce sucked from his cigarillo, trying to blow smoke rings.

  “You let this dude on the boat get away with breaking a deal?” Eddie grunted with disapproval.

  “Temporary measure. We need the merchandise.” Bruce casually dismissed the problem. “Matteo knows how to sail a boat. You know anything about boats?”

  “Not a bloody thing,” Eddie replied curt.

  “Not interested either, by the sound of it.” Bruce’s response had sting.

  “Mate, I’m a biker. I like roads.” Eddie’s answer was forward and terse. “Besides I get seasick.”

  “Would you care about seasickness if the money was right?”

  “You ever been crook out on the water? There’s no amount of money worth spewing your guts out until there’s nothing left but your insides. No thanks. You want a skipper find someone else.” Eddie looked at Bruce and held firm.

  “Tomorrow we’re shopping for a boat. I hope shopping for one doesn’t make you seasick,” Bruce spoke with sarcasm.

  “I haven’t asked you for anything since I came to see you. If you don’t like what I’ve got to say, I’ll be on my way.”

  Bruce threw up both hands, “Stop. You talk like a sulking kid. Okay. I’ve never been seasick in my life. I must admit, I’ve seen some basket cases. Forget about boat trips. I will spare you the vagaries of the sea. You are flesh and blood. As your older cousin, it is my duty to make room in my house, and business …” Bruce’s phone rang.

  “G’day Robert. What a nice surprise. How long has it been? A year or more?” Bruce’s reaction was theatrically pleasant, initially. Then the raving from the other end started, unrelenting and garbled, cousin Bob was having a tantrum. Bruce’s face started clouding over.

  “Settle, Robert. Why the aggro?” Bruce stiffened his body and sat up higher. “What! Why would I know anything about a Charade?” His thickset, square jaws tightened, one corner of his top lip reared, his head shook stiffly. The ranting from Bob was doing his head in.

  “Who Eddie?” Bruce speared the eagle-eye’s wrath at his cousin opposite. “No, I haven’t seen him. I’ll let you know when I do!” Bruce slammed the handset on the desk.

  Eddie’s nose had flared with anger, his neck tense. “Bob!”

  Opposite, Bruce’s face was flushed red, angered not so much with Eddie, but Bob’s stupid outburst and accusations. Bruce’s fingers were digging into the desk.

  Eddie gave him a minute to calm, realising he’d have some explaining to do.

  “Guess the coppers found the Charade. Had it registered in Bob’s name,” Eddie rubbed his fingers over his rough chin.

  Bruce’s expression was still sour. “They found a body in it. Mate!” He grizzled. “You didn’t fucking tell me anything ‘bout a corpse!”

  Eddie stared empty.

  “Care to enlighten me?” Bruce’s eyes grew with a scowl.

  “You never asked.” The excuse was thin.

  “Well, I am now.”

  Eddie stood from the comfort of his chair.

  “I had to leave Townsville in a hurry. Some trouble with a couple of idiot bikies. There was a score to settle so I sorted them, smacked them around a bit. Things got out of hand. Had a bad run for a few weeks, and after the scuffle with the bikies I made a split decision to leave Townsville. Figured either them or coppers were going to catch up with me, so I fucked off quick. Ran out of juice, south of Cardwell. I was stranded, hardly any traffic going north. Thought I’d wait until the morning. My luck changed, a car pulled up. The Camry. Bloke come out with a torch to check the car. I ducked, and stayed under.”

  “You’re a cunt.” Bruce interrupted his cousin. “Bloke didn’t stand a chance, did he?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t like that! It wasn’t until he started asking questions about my plates.”

  “Bullshit, you weren’t looking for a ride. You wanted his car.”

  Eddie made no comment and held his gaze.

  “Why did you come to North Queensland?” Bruce asked.

  “I went to Townsville chasing a shit bag who owed me.” A thin answer Eddie hoped would satisfy Bruce’s curiosity.

  “Did you succeed?”

  “Not yet. He’s bailed on me.”

  “Fuck it. Let’s get a drink.” Bruce got up and led the way.

  CHAPTER 57

  A SLICE OF PARADISE

  The small Pantec removalist truck was a freebie for overnight use. Although the Pantec was overkill for Darren’s move, he was happy his whole kit ‘n caboodle could be loaded and shifted in one trip. Darren conned Joel into helping him with the bigger items. Lugging a fridge down stairs wasn’t a one-man job. All Darren’s meagre belongings would go to the storage unit he had rented; he had packed a suitcase of clothing for himself and was yet to gather Patch’s possessions, two dog bowls and a dog bed, to take to Dougie’s. The Patrol was supposed to be taken to Dougie’s as well. Darren would drive the XC until he’d get sick of Joel’s constant badgering and moaning about his dying Civic. Besides, he was as broke as a church mouse, selling the XC or the Patrol would be a matter of time, and not too far off.

  “You think I come over to help you out of the goodness of my tender, Indigenous heart. Ha. No bloody way, fella. I want the wheels.” Joel poked his head over the
fridge as he pulled the heavy appliance on the trolley.

  “Fucking still on about the car. Told you, haven’t decided yet,” Darren pushed the trolley on the Pantec’s hydraulic lift.

  “What’s there to decide? You are as broke as a bloody Abo church mouse. And I’m offren you a small fortune.” Joel countered.

  “I reckon it’s worth more than ten grand,” Darren mumbled.

  “Ah, finally. You are thinking about the money. What do you reckon it’s worth then?” Joel leapt at the comment.

  “Didn’t say, I’d sell it,” Darren spoke back. “But I might consider it seriously for fifteen.”

  “You’re a born whitefella robben bastard. But I’ll buy it off you today. Hear me. Today. For fifteen grand.”

  Darren eyes darted around for a few seconds, “What? You’ll give me fifteen grand?”

  “Was my dialect not in your tribe’s lingo? Yes. I said I will give you fifteen thousand bucks. Today. You have to agree today.”

  Gobsmacked, then a broad smile, then a shit-eating grin, “Done deal,” Darren speared his hand out, “Shake on it.”

  Joel shook Darren’s hand, “Interesting. Either you’re a very crafty bastard, or I am a sucker.”

  “Oi. You two. Can you stop your silly man stuff and help me up here? There’s still a bed and suitcase needing to be removed.” Ruby’s was head poking out from the window upstairs.

  She had been released an hour early from her evening shift at the vet clinic. And I lose an hour’s pay to go clean his house? Two dead cockroaches and a mess of dirt and dust stared her in the face where the fridge used to be housed. Ruby grumbled a bit, snatched the broom and started sweeping.

  “I won’t forget this, you know,” Darren said as he carried his suitcase out of the bedroom.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll remind you.” Ruby rolled her eyes.

  Darren dragged the suitcase down the stairs. Ruby had already organised Patch’s possessions; his dog bowls, the twenty-litre bucket filled with kibble, the bright-green ball thrower, the tugging rope, all sitting on his dog bed ready to be taken.

  She’s a gem, Darren mused. Nothing like Cate in any way, except in her strength, and determination. A different beautiful from Cate, Ruby was softer and more caring. But the dainty, blossomy appearance was also deceiving. That sweet gentle voice he was so taken with at the start, held a hard as nails person in disguise. There was very little hidden about Cate, beautiful, bold, aggressive and smart. Too smart for her own good. Ruby had turned out to be harder to judge, she held secrets. He had been infatuated, in love with Cate, from the minute he’d met her. Was it any different with Ruby?

  She had definitely captivated his attention, he really liked her, was intrigued by her, and his feelings for her were strong. His concern for her safety made him committed. Ruby’s dedication to Patch was only matched by his own. And that, as far as Darren was concerned, had created an inseparable bond.

  “Bed’s still here.”

  ***

  A week later, the settlement of the house had proceeded without a hitch. And why wouldn’t it? Everyone with a financial stake had grabbed their money and split with the crumbs, like rats running for cover. Darren closed his account with the bank. From now on, money was to be held by him only, as cash. Despite Pete’s objections to pay him in cold hard cash, instead of bank deposits, Darren held firm. With Joel, he made an agreement that the XC was to be paid for in five three-thousand-dollar instalments, all in cash.

  Everyone was happy. Joel was cruising around in his new XC, Darren flitted between Dougie’s and Ruby’s. Pete was happy because his best driver had come back to work without missing a day for a week. Ruby was happy because she finished cleaning Darren’s house, vowing never to do that again. Patch was happy regardless.

  ***

  Slice had arrived in Townsville, slowing the XR8 to the posted speed limit of 80.

  The escape to Cairns had not only interfered with Slice’s schedule but also the trail which he had established to keep tabs on the cab driver. Coming back to Townsville would present a few problems for him. Apart from ensuring his anonymity, because the police would have their eyes out looking for a wanted fugitive, he would have to be mobile. Short-term stays wherever he went, and that meant motels or caravan parks. It was expensive and tedious to have to find new accommodation every night.

  On top of that he had to pick up the taxi driver’s new trail. One of two ways to locate his target: find his place of employ, or get lucky and spot him driving around in his XC Falcon. Staking out four taxi businesses to find his quarry would be time-consuming; asking for the cab driver by description at each business would arouse suspicion, possibly a phone call to the police.

  In the meantime, he could concentrate on the other matter that needed to be sorted, and perhaps finalised. Magnetic Island. The island paradise.

  This time there was no phone call to Matteo. Slice had arrived unannounced, making his way to the most convenient car hire business. To blend in, he chose a topless one, of which there were at least a hundred on the island. The topless hire cars were popular with backpackers, day trippers, and other tourists; few people would take notice if a topless car was parked on the side of the road, even in Matteo’s out of the way street.

  Slice did a drive-by passing Matteo’s cottage, observing the Moke wasn’t in the yard. All the better, he thought. He drove the little car further and parked it partially hidden at the dead-end cul-de-sac. The hire car would be visible, and not out of place. Tourists adventuring around the creek and bush.

  Slice strolled like a tourist, his head was tilted back, pretending to be searching the trees for koalas, in case someone saw him. He was deliberately dawdling. In front of Matteo’s informal gravel and weed covered driveway, he stopped and perused the cottage and surrounds. He cast his eyes back over the street, the neighbouring property, inching his way further into Matteo’s. Satisfied, the Italian was not at the premises, and no one was spying on him, he continued at a quicker pace, disappearing behind the carport.

  The first thing that caught his eye was a half open wooden door, vertical slats, heavily peeled white paint, the top hinge extended more than the bottom one, giving the door a slant. On closer look, the screws of the top hinge were loose and partially dislodged. The door was jammed against the toilet bowl. Using the dunny would be a tight squeeze. Slice opted not to look any closer, stepping towards the rickety wooden screen door. Again, in desperate need of paint, the latch mechanism was seized, would give little protection against insects as the fly-screen mesh was torn.

  The back door was ajar, and squeaked healthily even when pushed only slightly. Slice listened out for any voices or other noise signifying the presence of people. It was quiet, other than water bubbling, and what sounded like an orchestra of buzzing pumps. Slice pushed the door further, the squeaking hinges betraying his entry into the kitchen. To his left, the opening to the darkened room, the room which was home to a fascinating creature. The creature which had given Slice so much pleasure in learning about. Slice peeked into the room and observed the translucent, blue-tinged jellyfish, peacefully in suspension in the tank. Slice wasn’t here to play – he was on a mission to find anything which could incriminate Matteo in the betrayal of his uncle.

  The slow search of the cottage did not reveal anything of interest. Two books on the messy coffee-table were noteworthy to Slice, both were educational, instruction-type books for sailors. Matteo was learning how to sail, and how to navigate at sea. Slice considered the implications and shrugged them off. Then he mused, if I lived in an island paradise, I’d want to learn how to sail as well.

  Slice scanned the lounge room, he inspected the brilliantly lit reef aquarium, going back through the kitchen, opening cupboards, pantry and fridge. Nothing of note. Slice was convinced Matteo had some sort of stash, hidden somewhere. As the screen-door slammed behind him, his eyes fell on the part open toilet. Even nearing the toilet, he could smell the rank odour of urine. Holding
his nose, he stopped breathing while sticking his head past the door. The toilet hadn’t been cleaned recently. The cistern lid was missing and a wire coat hanger had been mangled and shaped to activate the flushing mechanism.

  Slice thought he had seen enough, until he noticed a manhole in the ceiling from the corner of his eye. A manhole was an overstatement, because only a two-year-old would fit through. Slice’s nose was no longer pinched, the rank smell was strong, but not as strong as his desire to check out if anything was hidden in the ceiling.

  Carefully, he balanced himself on the toilet bowl rim, and pushed the fibro lid up and aside. He wasn’t tall enough to squeeze his head into the cavity, not that he would have. The thought of an angry huntsman attaching itself to his face as he popped through the hole was enough to dismiss that idea. The cobwebbing was thin, indicating to him that this space was often accessed. Reluctantly, he put one hand through the access hole and probed with his fingers for anything he might find. He pushed his arm further.

  It felt like plastic, it covered something which was soft, but firm. Larger than the palm of a hand, but easily picked up by one hand. It weighed about a kilo. Carefully he retrieved it from its hiding spot.

  Bingo.

  Slice smiled. The visit to paradise island hadn’t been for nothing.

  CHAPTER 58

  DOES IT HURT?

  Darren missed driving the XC, unlike the big Nissan Patrol it was easier to drive around town. Actually, that wasn’t it at all. He loved the XC because it had been so much part of him, memories of Sydney, the old days, knocking around with Johnno, the cabdriving around Manly, bolting from a dingy street when Johnno and him nearly got sprung trying to knock off someone’s motorbike, to claim an unpaid debt. And Cate, she loved the ex-taxi, although she’d only ever been in it once. Fifteen thousand bucks was a symbolic trade for his past.

  “Last three grand, my friend. Don’t spend it all at once,” Joel was jubilant, the car was truly his now.