by Nick Spill
“Good. You’re going to need it. We’ve a long weekend ahead. By the way, you were pretty good with that alarm.”
“Thank you, sir. I located it last time we were there.”
“Before you found the book?”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone rang and Grimble picked it up. He mumbled into the receiver then hung up, not taking his eyes off the sergeant.
“That piece of plastic spoon we found under the, er, bed, has a partial of Plum Blossom’s thumb.”
“But how can we admit that as …”
Grimble held up his hands.
“Don’t worry. That’s taken care of. The report’ll be dated Monday. And I’m going to get a warrant to tear apart every place he owns, piece by piece.” He swung around in his chair, pulled out a file from a cabinet next to his desk and laid it on top of the other files and reports.
“Get ten copies of this. It’s a list of every property he has interest in. We’re going to find Miss Plum Blossom in one of these. And she’ll probably tell us, if she’s still alive, who killed Hone Wilson.”
The phone rang again as he sent Cadd out of his office.
“Wally McShane here!” the voice at the other end barked. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve been getting lots of rumors about something big, for Sunday.”
“Sources?”
“Usual. Mainly Maoris on bail trying to swing a deal. Plus a low-grade dealer we’re nurturing.”
Grimble did not want to know how McShane interpreted the word “nurturing.”
“There’s no pot on the streets.”
“You’re right, Grimble. That is, for people who still deign to smoke god’s own weed.”
“You’re very patriotic this morning.”
“No. Pissed off at all this cocaine. I’ve got a terrible feeling about it.”
“Keep me posted, will you? I mean anything. It might be linked to this homicide case.”
“You mean that coconut Wilson. He was a DB man.” McShane referred to the beer brewed by Dominion Breweries.
“But his brother isn’t. Wiremu Wilson’s also wanted for that shotgun incident.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with that fire last night?”
“Could be. I’ve got a team watching the tangi, and he hasn’t shown up.”
“That’s odd.”
“Yes. A Maori so immersed in his Maoritanga that he can’t attend his own brother’s tangi. I ask you.”
“How does all this tie in?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.” Grimble was not going to tell McShane about the search warrants until the last possible moment. He did not want the drug squad cowboys crashing through windows while his men went through the open doors.
• • •
Plum woke with a start. She saw a polystyrene cup on the floor. She could smell the coffee. A croissant on a piece of paper was next to the cup. She had a headache and felt nauseous. She sat up on her camp bed and felt wet between her thighs. It was too soon for her period. She tried to stand up but was overcome by dizziness. She was not in her cell. She had been moved. Probably drugged as well, for she did not remember anything. She stuck her finger up her dress and under her panties and felt the stickiness. She held her finger up to her eyes. No blood. Vaseline and that familiar smell from the Flamingo Paradise that she swore the walls were covered with. Plum closed her eyes and wiped her hand on the side of the bed.
When she stood up, she vomited. There was nothing in her stomach. In a hot sweat, Plum dry retched over her coffee and croissant. How she wanted to spit out every part of him that was still inside her.
She swore she would do anything to annihilate Terry Turner, even if it meant losing her life.
• • •
Hei Hei’s apartment was deserted. There was blood on the sofa and the telephone lay in pieces on the carpet. There was a terrible smell coming from the kitchen. Wiremu went to his house and called Hokianga.
Rangi was cleaning a spark plug from the 1968 Bedford truck parked in the barn. When he heard the phone ring, he carefully placed the spark plug and a piece of emery paper on an oily rag on the driver’s seat and ran to the house.
“It’s me. Is everything set?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you at the tangi?”
“It’s too hot.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about Hone. I mean, I, well, you know how I felt about him. He was an example to all of us, and…”
“Okay. I understand. Is it all packed?”
“You bet.” Rangi had supervised the entire process in his barn.
Hundreds of uprooted marijuana plants had been hung up to dry in the rafters last year after the police had come to raid Northland. Wiremu had not lost as much of the crop as he had suspected. They had decided to stockpile and hide half their harvest and store it for the inevitable drought next summer.
Rangi and his crew had packed the dried and cured leaves and buds into quarter-pound plastic bags that were carefully weighed and sealed.
They planned to sell each bag for $300 to gangs and dealers and the hippie network of shorthaired ’60s’ kids who were now lawyers and accountants and architects. Twelve hundred dollars a pound was a bargain at this time of year. It was also the best of dope, strong, sweet and hallucinatory enough to demand the higher price. The dealers would love selling it.
There were 120 bags in a box. Thirty pounds meant $36,000 a box. There were 120 boxes in the truck; 3600 pounds equaled $4,320,000. A staggering amount for a truckload of green leafy material taken from public lands. There was no capital investment with this crop, only sweat and secrecy.
Wiremu confirmed that everything had been packed according to his specifications and that Rangi had double-checked all the bags. A ten percent error would cost almost half a million dollars.
“Now listen carefully,” Wiremu continued. “Meet me at five o’clock. You know the Helensville turnoff on Titirangi Road?”
“Yeah.” Rangi swatted a fly that landed on his trousers.
“Okay. Before you get to Titirangi Road, about a half-mile up, there’s a little track on the left. It’s not marked and it looks like it goes nowhere. But it does. It’ll be real dry there, so drive up till you come to a fallen log. Cut the engine and honk twice. Only twice. You got it?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He swatted another fly. Wiremu made him repeat the instructions.
“What truck did you load?” Wiremu asked.
“The Bedford.”
“What? What happened to the Toyota?”
“They went down to the tangi in it. Don’t worry. The Bedford’ll be jake. I’m fixing it.”
Wiremu did not know how to react. Here they were with over four million dollars in merchandise and they were using an old truck that might not make the trip. How could you justify three and a half tons of dope on the back of a truck to a traffic cop who has stopped you because you’re in a ditch and can’t start your engine? He had no control of the situation up there. All he could do was hope and pray Rangi knew what he was doing. If Hone were alive, he would have been up there making sure everything went according to plan.
“Don’t let me down. Five o’clock. No later. No sooner.” Wiremu hung up. He did not tell Rangi anything about Hei Hei. He had changed the rendezvous and the distribution plans, and Rangi had decided to use the Bedford instead of the Toyota. What if Hei Hei had snitched to the cops about a Toyota truck loaded with dope? Wiremu’s mind wandered off on the possibilities of Rangi breaking down in Dargaville and trying to bribe the local cop with a bag of grass.
At the rendezvous, Wiremu would take several boxes to a cave nearby and conceal them with sacks. Other cartons would be repacked into large plastic garbage bags and hidden farther up the road in locations he had scouted out with his brother two weeks ago. After the initial deliveries that night, any additional sales would involve cash up front and a map to guide the buyer to the merchandise. For an extra fee a guide could be provided. But Hei Hei would no longe
r be the guide.
Then he would be off to see Alan Crispfeldt, Esquire, with the cash. Bags and bags of cash. To invest in short-term high-interest loans. Up to 25 percent for six weeks! Before the land deals could be worked out.
Every toke a Pakeha inhaled was another sod of earth back to Maori. Into the hands of the Ngapuhi they smoked. This was revisionist history. Maori karma with a vengeance. And there was no Paraquat or 2,4,5-T sprayed over this stuff. It was organically grown on Her Majesty’s lands. Royal weed!
• • •
“Shit! The little buggers! They haven’t packed it up yet.” Terry gave the binoculars to John as they stood next to their car on a rut-filled road at the back of Pukekohe. John adjusted the focal length and scanned the four greenhouses of the Look brothers.
“No. Not in that one.”
“Not in any of them!”
“They had everything hung up and cured the last time I poked around.”
“We’ll shock them into action.”
“With Plum?”
“No. She’s the bait. See over there. No white Volvo. One Land Rover. A motorbike. No Honda and no Ford.”
“Er?”
Terry got back in the car and sat in the driver’s seat. John hurried in as Terry fired up the engine and backed up.
“Cars usually follow their owners. Bruce’s wife drives the Ford and Tony Look has the Honda. Tony was home this morning when I phoned. And Bruce has sent the wife and kids packing because he expects violence. Which is correct. But he’s got the wrong place and the wrong time.” Terry wrestled the car through the ruts and swerved onto another dirt road.
“Are we going to play Maoris?
“No need,” he smiled. “No prisoners.”
John grinned. He had heard the expression before.
• • •
Bruce stood in the center of the greenhouse. He took a deep breath of the harvested crop before them. Chuck ran his hands over a tray of buds that were cured.
“Is Tony coming over?” Chuck asked.
“Later,” he sighed. “He’s going to mow his lawn, then clean his car. He has this routine he won’t change, even now.”
“I don’t think he’s as concerned as we are.”
“Yes, he is.”
“He wants to hold out. Plum doesn’t mean anything to him. Another number. He’s thinking like a Pakeha. No sense of family. And he’s an accountant. A cost accountant! Like that fucking Prime Minister. You know?” Chuck stood up and went red in the face.
“What do you think we should do?”
“In principle, we shouldn’t gamble with Plum’s life. We should give them what they want. And a lot more.”
“How?”
“Martin’s gone. That Maori raided the Wongs. We’re all in danger now. Not just Plum. We can’t trust anyone outside. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“We can deliver a lot more than this.” Chuck grabbed a handful of dried buds. He crushed them in his fist and they turned to powder. “Is this worth a life?”
“I never said it was. But why should we give in to these people, be they Maori or whatever.”
“Exactly.” Chuck waited again to get Bruce’s full attention. He wiped his hands.
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, it isn’t legal.”
“Is this?”
“After that incident with that Maori last night, we stayed up till dawn thinking of all our options. And…”
“Come on.”
“Ricky has contacts, and through swapping some seeds, he managed to get some C4 explosive and a couple of radio controlled detonators.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yeah. We’ve thought this through. We could do it without jeopardizing innocent lives. I mean, Ricky worked it out.” Chuck explained how Ricky was going to arrive later with everything they needed.
• • •
Tony Look knelt by his lawn mower in his garage. He had the new rotary two-stroke on its side and was trying to loosen up the clumps of grass that were around the blade. He was careful not to catch his fingers on the sharp metal. He had disconnected the spark plug so the motor would not accidentally turn and cut his fingers off. Once he had swept the drive and the inside of the garage, that damn grass seemed to blow everywhere, he would wash and wax his car. Water was not beading on the paint, so he wanted to apply a better wax compound.
His wife and children had gone out for the day, leaving him in peace. He needed this time every week to gather his thoughts and tender his newly laid concrete paths and driveway and trim the best lawn on the street, in fact, the only lawn on the street. The other houses were being built or had been finished but were unoccupied.
At least he could not be blamed for bringing down the tone of the neighborhood, as first on his street. He was not considered a Pakeha, he was still Chinese, an outsider. He had overheard comments about “how hard those Chinese work, you’ve got to give them credit,” but he could do nothing about such attitudes other than mow his lawn and be more respectable than the others. How respectable could he be with four greenhouses loaded with sinsemilla, which were the object of a blackmail attempt by a Maori gang who had abducted a cousin of theirs?
He scraped harder with his screwdriver inside the underbelly of the lawn mower.
Tony thought about the phone call he received that morning. A high-pitched man’s voice had asked who he was, and when Tony had identified himself, the voice had inquired if his wife was home. When Tony had answered no, the voice had hung up. Was that a burglar or one of his wife’s friends? His wife did not have any male friends.
Tony heard something behind him and leapt in the air clutching his screwdriver. The tall figure had shut the garage door and advanced towards the frightened gardener. Tony saw a smaller man to the side of him and thought it strange that he wore black gloves and a nylon jacket in this heat.
John Eustace walked up to Tony and grabbed his right hand, pulling him off balance. He kicked him in the left knee, and Tony dropped the screwdriver and fell to the floor. John held the right wrist and tightened his grip.
“Listen. Why aren’t you packing up your pot? Those Maoris mean business. They’ll kill Plum.”
Tony Look was silent. He tried to say something but was paralyzed with fear. John acknowledged Terry’s discrete nod by tightening his grip.
“Speak up. We want to help you. Let him go, will you?” Terry acted annoyed towards John. He eyed the frightened kneeling accountant with concern. Tony Look held his right wrist and turned to stare at his short assailant.
“That’s better.” Terry sounded encouraging, as if addressing a naughty child.
Tony took a deep breath. “Where is Plum?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. She is a friend of mine, and I’m concerned about her safety. I believe some Maoris have her.”
The tall man with the cold blue eyes hovered over him.
“And please, who are you?” Tony stood up and brushed some dirt off his trousers whilst keeping his eyes on both men.
“I said we’re friends, and we’ve heard from these Maoris that you’re supposed to give them your harvest for Plum Blossom.”
Tony glared back but did not reply.
“And we also heard you’re not going to give up your crop and that the Maoris were going to rape then kill, very slowly, very, very slowly, your little cousin. Or is she your niece? Whatever.” Terry paused for a reaction. There was none. “Then they’re going to take your crop anyway. And the saddest part is, you’ll be helpless against them. Outnumbered, out armed and out thought!”
“That’s not true!” Tony shot back.
John stepped up to the lawn mower, kicked it over onto its wheels and pulled the cord. It would not start. He examined it then connected the spark plug. He started the motor. Tony inched away, keeping an eye on the silent man.
“So, you have a plan? Er? How will you get Plum back?” Terry’s voice was raised several tones t
o make himself heard above the noise of the lawn mower.
Tony’s eyes darted around the garage as he tried to find a way out of this. He could not imagine what was about to happen to him as Terry motioned John to come within earshot.
He darted for the door that led into his house, but John leapt on him and pushed him to the concrete floor. Tony gasped for air as the big man sat on his back. Terry grabbed a coil of thick yellow nylon cord that hung on the wall and threw it to John.
“Hang him up there.” Terry pointed to an exposed beam in the center of the garage. John bound Tony’s feet tightly together and slung the rope through the beam. Tony clawed at the concrete floor, but before he knew what had happened, he was swinging from the beam, his hands loose. John tied the other end of the cord to a nail and walked over to the lawn mower.
Blood rushed to Tony’s head. Upside down, he tried to grab his legs and the cord with his hands, but he could not reach. He hung his head down and focused his eyes on the upside down figure revving the mower.
Terry stuffed an oily rag into Tony’s mouth, relishing the panic in the victim’s eyes. John smiled as he moved the mower closer to the suspended Tony.
Terry waved John to back off, and he knelt down to whisper in Tony’s ear.
“What are you going to do with the pot?” He looked at Tony for some time then removed the oily rag from Tony’s mouth.
Tony spat in Terry’s face. Terry stuffed the rag back in his mouth and stood up. He walked back to the garage door. He found a box of oversized black plastic garbage bags and took out two. He pierced the bottom of the bag and put it over his head, making holes for his arms. He threw one to John who followed his example.
