by Nick Spill
THE JADED KIWI
PART ONE OF THE JADED SERIES
Nick Spill
© Nicholas Spill 2015 Miami Beach, Florida.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the copyright holder.
The Jaded Kiwi, Nick Spill – 1st US Edition
The Jaded Kiwi
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Spill, Nick
Crime – Fiction Mystery- Fiction
Action and Adventure – Fiction
Thriller – Fiction
New Zealand–Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-9839080-8-1
Book Cover: Angie Alaya
Format and Design: 52 Novels
Back cover photo: Leon Smith Photography
More information about The Jaded Kiwi can be found at
http://nickspill.com
and
http://nickspill.blogspot.com
About The Jaded Kiwi
The summer of 1976 in Auckland, New Zealand.
There is a severe marijuana drought.
Two couples, a gynecologist and a physicist, together with a violinist and an actress, meet by accident in a pub and help a Maori evade the police.
A group of Maori plans to deliver a truckload of cannabis to Auckland.
A Chinese family has harvested four greenhouses of enhanced sensimilla.
A criminal mastermind plots to start a drug war.
A police inspector hunts a fugitive Maori.
The war on drugs starts in New Zealand.
To Ken Friedman who coined the phrase the Jaded Kiwi, and to my wife Joy who has to put up with a Jaded Kiwi.
And to Wiremu, wherever you are…
This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance or correlation to any events or places or persons is purely coincidental.
Contents
1975 in Northland, New Zealand
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Notes
Characters
Playlist
Also by Nick Spill
About The Author
1975 in Northland, New Zealand
Thousands of seeds floated from a giant net, changing colors in the golden dawn. The helicopter flew low over the kauri forest until it came to a wide clearing and released its harvest into a massive bonfire.
The flames illuminated the faces of the policemen and officials. Police Commissioner Ian Thompson and Inspector Bernie Grimble looked over at the TV news crew and journalists from Radio New Zealand, the Herald, the Auckland Star and the local Whangerei paper. The five photographers looked more concerned than the others at the destruction.
Commissioner Thompson approached the makeshift podium. He took out a piece of paper and began to read his speech. The journalists did not look interested. They had already received their copies.
“Let’s hope the wind changes, then we’ll all get high!” one of the photographers grumbled.
• • •
Three Maoris sat on a couch and listened to every word the police commissioner said. Wiremu Wilson was bolt upright in the middle, with his hands on his knees. In his thirties, with masses of curly hair, he wore a black singlet, green army pants and spit-shined black boots. Hone Wilson, his younger and larger brother, sat on his left in an ironed plaid shirt with glasses and short hair. His face was blank. Hei Hei, usually the clown, was at a loss for words and cupped his face in his hands. He made up for his lack of size with a beer belly and longer hair. Hei Hei stared at the bonfire.
“Operation Weedout has wiped out all illegal marijuana growing in Northland. We have seized all plots of the foul narcotic and are now arresting the criminals who have grown this vicious weed that threatens our children and our community.”
“It’s ‘whom,’ not ‘who.’ He can’t even speak English.” Hone muttered as he lowered his eyes, unable to look at the remains of their year’s work.
“I thought it was who.” Hei Hei shot out.
“And you’re the poet.” Wiremu sighed.
“With help from our friends in the United States, we have eradicated the illegal narcotic from our land. This is a tribute to the hard work and dedication of our police force.”
They watched a Huey helicopter release another net full of plants into the fire. There was a huge upheaval of flames and sparks. The down draft from the helicopter created dense white whirlwinds around the assembled police and press. Men coughed and covered their mouths as they leaned over and choked on the thick fumes.
“Do you think they got stoned?” Hei Hei asked.
The screen changed to a windswept commissioner who smiled at the camera despite the fact that strings of his white hair now stood straight up behind his ears. The talking head in the studio continued.
“This morning, Police Commissioner Thompson called Operation Weedout a huge success as an estimated five thousand marijuana plants have been seized from public and Maori lands and destroyed.”
Wiremu leaped up from the couch and kicked the TV over. It sputtered and died.
“Shit! I was going to watch the Avengers,” Hei Hei yelled.
“I’ll give you vengeance!” Wiremu growled back. “All that work. For nothing.”
“There’s next year,” Hone offered.
“Fuck me! What about our plans?” Hei Hei held his head again.
“Look at those seeds. They flew all those plants bursting with seeds over half of Northland. They’ve done our work for next year,” Hone explained.
“Yeah! They reseeded the whole of the fucking forest. We won’t know what to do with all the plants that will shoot up next season.” Hei Hei threw up his hands. “Fucking pahekas! God bless the fucking idiots!”
• • •
The previous week Wiremu had been in that forest. He had stepped into a wedge of light and turned to cast his shadow over a male cannabis sativa plant that was six feet tall. He knelt on his right knee to examine the plant. His face touched the serrated edges of the leaves as he inhaled the damp smell of the forest. He lifted his head to see a piwakawaka singing above him. The bird kept flicking its grey and white tail in the air while it sang its small song. Tane, god of the forest, must have approved of his project, he had mused.
The piwakawaka hovered over Wiremu as he stood up and walked to the next plant. Under his breath he muttered, aware of the irony now invested in the ancient proverb, Noku te whenua, o oku tupuna. (Mine is the land, the land of my ancestors.)
Chapter One
Friday
Police Commissioner Thompson teed off. Inspector Grimble followed the ball as it floated in the early soft light to land near the pole. He placed his ball on the tee and looked up at the surrounding pine trees. The dew on the grass and the distinct smell of pine needles made Grimble feel very much alive. He loved the clarity of the early morning and what such a meeting with the commissioner would bring.
The two policemen had the Point Chevalier course to themselves.
“There’s a Maori I want you to investigate for me,” the commissioner said at the ninth hole.
“You’re finally allowing me to take on these Maori gangs?”
“Oh no. Not those. Much too perilous. Leave them alone. Our target is more dangerous in the long run, because he can attract more moderate Maori and liberal Pakehas to his cause.”
Grimble was aware of Thompson staring at him, as he took his shot. The ball rose high and
veered towards the trees. Grimble would let his boss win, but he was playing a poor game naturally. Golf was not his sport.
“Wiremu Wilson. You know him, don’t you?” The commissioner dropped the name casually.
“Oh yes. I know him.” Grimble let out a quick smile.
“My sources say he’s got too much money and is buying land in Northland. Putting it in other peoples’ names. Hiding his ownership. They worship him up there. You swing too far to the right, your left elbow moves up when you swing, you have to learn to relax more, Grimble.”
As they walked, wheeling their bags, Grimble could hear the sound of a tui, a black bird with a white parsons collar, on a nearby pine tree. He thought the bird’s honking mocked his golf game.
“You mean he’s growing marijuana?” the inspector asked. “I thought we eradicated all those public plots last season.”
“Don’t believe what you read in the papers, Grimble.”
They came to Grimble’s ball off to the right by the pines. Grimble could hear the tui honking again.
“Is this going to be like the others?”
“Yes. Report directly to me. Pick a trusted partner. Bring in others if there’s anything public, but don’t talk to Drug Squad. They’re a bunch of cowboys.”
At the next hole, the commissioner cleared his throat.
“We need to get to the bottom of the Maori gang problem, Grimble. I think Wilson is the key. We haven’t been able to penetrate his organization, and as for those burnings, well, I don’t want him to be my Hone Heke.”
“But Hone Heke was the first to sign the Treaty of Waitangi,” Grimble stated.
“Yes. But you know what I mean. He disrupted everything. Just like Wilson is going to. We’ve put him away before and we’re going to put him away again. For ever.”
Grimble selected an iron and looked to his boss for confirmation. The commissioner nodded.
“I understand.” He lined up the shot, taking care to keep the distant green in his sights.
“I’m retiring soon. If all goes well, I won’t forget you.”
Grimble’s ball went too high and landed in a sand trap. The commissioner shook his head.
“When are you going to learn to play golf?”
• • •
Henry Lotus stood opposite the Jolly Rodger, a two-story Victorian building. He held Mel Johnson’s hand and gazed up at the huge skull and crossbones flag that hung over the entrance.
Every few steps they had stopped to kiss. He inhaled the thick fragrance of gardenia flowers in the humid air. A Bob Dylan song came from somewhere beyond overgrown oleander bushes.
“You know our lives have been defined by going through doors. I first saw you when I walked into your dojo and watched you fight, then you burst into my hotel room in New York, where you saved me from those crazy Albanians.”
“Bulgarians,” Mel corrected as she turned around to see a tall man and on his arm a young Chinese woman whom Mel thought she recognized. The man opened the double stained glass doors to the pub and let the woman in.
“Now we are about to go through these doors on our first Friday down under. Do you think we should?”
“Bad things happen in threes, you know.”
“You wanted to come here. Relive your student days. And I thought it was good things happen in threes. For a physicist, you’re pretty superstitious.”
Henry looked at the limp flag, then at Mel.
“So we’re at the third door. Do you want to go in?” Henry offered.
“If you weren’t so recalcitrant, I’d call you the jaded kiwi.”
Mel and Henry crossed the road and swung open the high double doors. They were engulfed in a wall of noise. The entire pub was packed. John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers were playing “Have You Heard” on the jukebox, loud. Henry was thrilled. New York radio had been playing “Welcome Back” by John Sebastian, but here in the summer of 1976, they were listening to Eric Clapton from the sixties. The pub had that old-fashioned stink of cigarettes and stale beer. A smaller skull and crossbones flag hung above the long polished wooden bar that was, one hour before closing time, choked with overflowing ashtrays, empty beer mugs and foam caked beer pitchers. Mel squeezed to the front of the bar and managed to catch the eye of one of the overworked bartenders. Henry paid for the beer and carried the two mugs and pitcher behind Mel, who parted the crowds as they moved towards the back. No glass only plastic, New Zealand had definitely become more civilized, Henry thought.
There was nowhere to stand or sit. The bar was packed elbow to elbow, men with long hair and earrings and women with crew cuts. You could not tell the poet truck drivers from the philosophy professors. Groups of young people were engulfed in clouds of cigarette smoke made denser by the stifling humidity. Packs of men in sweat stained T-shirts ordered two or three pitchers at a time. A group of young Maori men were clustered at the opposite end of the bar making a lot of noise. There was not a sober person in the house. Everyone seemed to be swaying to their own inner beat, not the jukebox’s, intoxicated but secure in their communal drinking.
“Nostalgic enough for you?” Mel yelled in Henry’s ear.
“Don’t know, hardly ever came here,” he screamed back.
Henry spotted two chairs at a crowded table, and they worked their way around so they could sit down. Henry poured the beers without spilling any. They raised their plastic mugs to toast each other.
“But you’ve been talking about nothing else all week, Friday night at the Jolly Rodger, as if it’s the center of your universe!” Mel screamed at him. “You’re not jaded, you’re …”
“From New York to Auckland!” Henry roared in celebration, getting into the Friday night spirit. He ignored Mel’s look.
She pushed back her hair as she surveyed the room. A big bear of a man turned around to look at Mel. Mel had seen him enter the pub. He had a thick red beard, long red hair swept back over his shoulders and a ruddy complexion that bore a smile from ear to ear.
“You’ve come from New York? We just got back too!”
He had his arm around a woman who looked fourteen years old. She was a little plump, with a pageboy fringe and black hair to her shoulders. With high cheekbones, big almond brown eyes and a nose that was too small for her wide face, she looked deceptively innocent. She was a third generation Chinese New Zealander.
“Yes. Got back Monday. Been away years. Cheers, mate!” Henry raised his mug and the four of them sipped their cold beer as if it was the finest they had ever consumed.
“I’m Henry Lotus,” he began with a mock Yankee accent. “Retired physicist. At your service.” Henry would never have been so outgoing without the aid of the beer.
“Clovis Tibet. Violinist and liberator of young damsels in distress!” Clovis let out. His companion tried to whisper in his ear.
“That’s Dr. Johnson, the gynecologist!”
“That’s wild because we’ve just come from there too,” Mel added somewhere in the conversation, though they were all confused as to who had been introduced to whom, and what the other person had just said.
“Yeah, it’s nice to be back down under!” Clovis shouted. “My girlfriend, Plum Blossom.”
They had moved their chairs and managed to shake hands. Mel shook Plum’s hand as if she had just met her, a situation she would have to get used to, bumping into patients in social situations. She felt uncomfortable. What could she say? “Hey, never seen anal scarring like that before!”
The jukebox blared out a very distorted “Purple Haze.”
Henry looked around and noticed the group of Maoris by the far corner of the bar.
“Drink up. I’ll get a refill!” Henry topped off everyone’s beer mug and stood up with his empty pitcher. “I think I recognize that Maori.”
Henry edged in between two large Maoris. He was so hot he had undone another button to his shirt, something he never did. He didn’t feel any cooler as he tried to catch the attention of the barman.
The
Maori to his right turned and looked into Henry’s eyes. They were the same height, although the Maori seemed taller.
“Hey! Henry, right?” His eyes shifted to the pendant. He embraced Henry. The piece of jade was shaped like a large tear, with a color so dark green, it was almost black.
“Wiremu! It’s you! My God!” Henry grinned as he looked over Wiremu then across to Mel who had been watching.
“I always wear it.”
Wiremu smiled.
“Hey, I want you to meet my little brothers Hone and Hei Hei.”
Suddenly a wave of cold air swept through the bar and the noise level dropped for a second. Two policemen, in their summer blue shirts, stood in the double doorway. They looked more like targets than law enforcement officers as they surveyed the crowd in their high, white metal helmets, although neither was tall enough to see across the heads of the drinkers. A plastic pitcher went flying through the air to greet them. The taller policeman’s helmet was knocked off and both were covered in beer. The policeman picked up his wet helmet and retreated, followed by his partner. The doors shut behind them. Henry had not seen who had thrown the pitcher, for he was shaking Hei Hei’s hand, a greeting that seemed to go on forever, with Hei Hei fixing him with his dark eyes.
“What a waste of beer!” Wiremu roared and the others followed in a manner that suggested to Henry that Wiremu was the leader and these men would laugh when he laughed, cry when he cried and would follow him anywhere.
“At least they’re plastic now! Can’t hurt anyone.” Henry shrugged. There was more laughter, but not as defiant as Wiremu’s.
The packed room erupted again into a louder chaos of shouting and drinking.
• • •
Mel thought it was the tall Maori next to Henry who had thrown the beer. Clovis looked at Plum then over to Henry, trying to figure out what had just happened. There was another group of Maoris standing shoulder to shoulder nearby. Perhaps they had done it.
• • •
