I sprang to my feet and dragged the angel behind the hibiscus bush.
“Ballina,” the voice said, dropping an octave in three seconds. S/he pressed a piece of paper into my hand. A car had driven up. It stood at the kerb with its engine running. The angel raced to it in a flurry of robes and jumped in, flashing purple socks. As the car drove off I unfolded the note. It read:
Paradise Motel. 2 p.m. Sunday. Divine Worship.
“What a funny place for a church service,” Captain said, reading over my shoulder.
I went around to the Byron Bay police station and bailed Baby out. I had a feeling I was going to need him.
Baby and I checked into the Paradise Motel at noon on Sunday. We’d barely got into the room when the phone rang and a heavy voice I didn’t recognise told me to “Get rid of that gorilla.”
“I think they mean you, Baby Chops.”
“Well I ain’t going.” Baby was sprawled on one of the twin beds, guzzling designer beer from the bar fridge and checking over the gun he’d been carrying under his outsize flannelette shirt. The ubiquitous Conan novel lay by his side.
I walked along the corridor and knocked on the door of the room next to ours. Inside, Reg and the surveillance team had everything organised: holes had been drilled through the wall adjoining ours, cameras and microphones had been set up.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, O’Neill,” Reg said darkly when he saw me. “You don’t think this guy’s going to front up without heavies, and they’re sure to be carrying.”
I started back to my room before Reg could ruin my nice adrenalin rush.
“I know you’re crazy, O’Neill,” he hissed down the corridor after me. “Whatever you do, don’t leave the motel. Don’t leave Mother!”
Half an hour later, the phone rang again. This time it was Wayne.
“I thought that bloke was in gaol. Why is he here?”
I began to feel uneasy. Maybe God was omniscient, after all. Did he know about the agents who were all over the building? Maybe he intended to roll me for the money and string my body up from the clock tower of THE BIGGEST LITTLE TOWN IN AUSTRALIA as a warning to any other narcotics agent who might think of disturbing his lucrative empire.
On the bed lay the suitcase containing twenty thousand dollars, all I had been given by the department to show. Underneath the top layers, the rest of the money was mere paper, a fact that made me nervous.
At precisely two p.m. there was a knock on our door. It wasn’t God, however, who came in; it was Wayne.
“Did you get all the bread?” he asked.
I indicated the suitcase lying open on the bed beside Baby. Wayne advanced on it as if to count the money.
I blocked his path. “Where’s the gear? And where’s God?”
Wayne gave me one of those smiles. “God’s changed his mind. He wants me to do the deal for him.” He produced two weights and threw them onto the bed. “That’s the sample.”
“Where’s the rest?” I demanded as Baby counted him out the appropriate amount of money in marked one-hundred-dollar bills.
Wayne pocketed the money. “The rest’s at a safe house across town. You come with me. We can do the rest of the deal over there.”
I got myself a beer from the bar fridge, making a point of not offering him one. Wayne then suggested we split the gear and the money into five separate lots. He’d bring each lot to the motel and we’d do the whole thing here. It was no way to find God.
“Listen,” I said to Wayne, “I’ll level with you: my boss is Italian, I’m his right-hand man; that there,” I pointed to Baby, “is his cousin. Look,” I shoved the phone at him, “I’ve got to hand the money directly to God, they’re my orders. And he’s got to come too—you can’t insult the boss’s cousin.”
Wayne hesitated. He flung a glance at Baby, who lay on the bed trying to look smouldering and Italian. Then he took the phone from my hand and started pressing numbers.
I hoped he’d stay on the phone long enough for the call to be traced. I went over to the window and pretended to study the landscape. Down below, a blonde with magnificent hair teetered out of the vestibule carrying a large shoulder bag. She wore a tight leather skirt, a leopard-print top and spike heels.
“Okay,” Wayne said; he hadn’t been on the phone long enough for a trace. “God says he understands. It’s a lot of money. He’ll be there.”
“OK.” I locked the briefcase and pocketed the keys. “Let’s go.”
We were flying on a wing and a prayer. With a suitcase full of paper money and two guns between us, we were driving away from all the security we’d had.
I was still optimistic. There’d been enough time for Reg to organise a tail for us—and Wayne was going to lead us to God. All we had to do when we got there was stall for five minutes and the place would be surrounded by bureau agents. Wayne had patted us down in the hotel’s parking lot and taken our unmarked Smith & Wessons, but he’d missed the Semmerling LM4 each of us carried in an ankle holster. Our possession of these five-shot pistols—small as a derringer but with much more stopping power—was unknown to the bureau, although we did have licences for them.
Out on the highway, Wayne started glancing in the rear-view mirror a lot. “Did you put a tail on us, O’Brien? Those bitches are following us.”
Three cars behind, two young women, their hair whipping in the wind, were zooming along in a white sports car.
“Maybe they like our looks,” I offered. “Drive slower.”
“I want the redhead,” Baby rumbled from the back seat.
Wayne put his foot down on the car’s accelerator. He executed a hard left turn and some very fancy rights, and we found ourselves at a river. The vehicular ferry was on our side. There were no bridges.
Wayne drove the Merc onto the old ferry. He slipped the ferryman fifty dollars. The ferryman slipped the tail chain in place and started up the engine. The young women were left jumping up and down on the river bank.
I lit a cigarette and thought as the ferry pulled out into the broad river. Unlike Cliff Richard, we weren’t wired for sound. Now we were completely on our own.
“Baby,” I said, as we bumped off the ferry on the other side of the river, “have you rung your mother lately?”
“My mother’s been dead for six years,” Baby snarled.
I twisted around and looked him hard in the eye. “I think you should ring her real soon,” I hissed. “I’m sure she’d like to know where you are.”
Wayne had pulled off the highway and was speeding east along a sandy track. He drove into an old garage opposite a small cottage near the beach. It was a very isolated spot.
“You go in first,” I told Wayne. “I’m not going in with all this money until I know for certain God’s there with the gear.”
Wayne strode in. Soon a person fitting God’s surveillance photos appeared at the front window, and Wayne stood in the doorway of the cottage, holding up a clear plastic bag full of something white. As we watched he opened it up, dipped his finger into it, put down the bag where we could still see it and walked back to the car.
“Taste it,” he said venomously, holding out his finger to me.
I had no intention of tasting it. Instead, I scaped enough of the powder off his finger and tested with the kit I’d carried with me.It was real all right.
“Okay, Wayne,” I said, “blame it on my toilet training, but I’m not a trusting man; I’m going to leave Baby here. If anything happens to me, well, let’s just say he knows who you are and where your family lives.”
Baby produced the Semmerling from his ankle holster and waved it at Wayne from the back seat. It was then I noticed the seat was littered with miniature bottles of alcohol—all empty—that he must’ve stolen from the motel’s bar fridge.
“Gimme the car keys,” he slurred.
Wayne stepped back out of arm’s reach. “You’ll have to shoot me firs
t. You’re not driving off to get reinforcements and rip us off.”
I would’ve loved to shoot him, but it wouldn’t have looked good in a court of law. I got out of the car and walked into the house with Wayne. I hoped Baby was a good runner. The last phone box I’d seen was at the highway turn-off, three ks back.
Seated in the living room, holding a tumbler of Scotch and ice, sat an elegant man in his early sixties. He wore cream slacks, a cream coloured, Italian-knit sweater and a cream cravat. I imagined a yacht somewhere.
“O’Brien,” Wayne said deferentially, though the deference was not for me, “may I introduce Mr Westmoreland?” He dumped the plastic bag full of heroin onto the coffee table.
“Mind if I look around?”
God stirred. “If it’ll make you feel more comfortable, Mr O’Brien, go ahead, go ahead.”
I prowled through the house. When I reached the kitchen, I saw why he was so cool: two heavies with shoulder holsters were playing Black Jack at the kitchen table. They cut me hard glances as I passed down the hallway.
“Happy?” Westmoreland asked when I returned to the living room.
I was anything but. I had entered God’s lair without backup. Now what? “How about a drink?” I hedged. “Scotch is fine. No water.”
Wayne pressed another of the Swedish tumblers into my hand.
God held up his. “To us!”
We drank. I wondered if Baby had change for the phone.
“And now,” God said, “the briefcase, Mr O’Brien. If you please.”
It was no use trying to stall any longer. I placed the briefcase on the coffee table and tossed Wayne the keys. As he came forward I stepped back three paces and pulled the Semmerling out of my ankle holster.
Wayne opened the case and riffled past the top layer. The pieces of paper fluttered to the floor.
“Shit,” he said and slumped into a chair.
“My name is O’Neill,” I said as quietly as I could. “I’m a member of the Narcotics Bureau. This place is surrounded. Be very quiet please, and lie on the floor, face down.”
Wayne complied but God remained where he was. “Do you mind if I sit, Mr O’Neill? This is something of a shock.” He gestured towards his chest. “My heart, you know.”
I should have insisted but I wanted him alive. Long minutes went by. Where was Baby? From where I stood, I could see into the hallway that led to the kitchen. Wayne had buried his face in his hands. God was fiddling nervously with one arm of the chair.
I didn’t hear the shots that came through the front window. The first bullet took me in the wrist, knocking the gun from my hand. The second hit me in the shoulder, spinning me around. I knew then that the goons in the kitchen had somehow been alerted and that help, if it came, would not come soon enough for me.
The heavies came in. They kicked me a couple of times, just in passing. Suddenly I could see my own funeral: The Eagle looked resigned. Reg was boring someone. Azure was looking beautiful in black—and Baby was still searching for a phone.
I was passing out when in through the doorway leapt a leggy blonde in a tight skirt and leopard-print top. She was barefooted and carried a SWAT team semi-automatic which she waved about in an unfriendly fashion.
“Freeze!” she shouted. “Drop the guns—all of you!”
It was the young woman I had seen coming out of the motel in Ballina.
“Honey,” I said, “I don’t know who you are, but you’re in the right movie.”
“Cut the crap, O’Neill.” It was Captain’s voice. “Just pick up the guns.”
After the bureau boys had come and gone, and the doctor had patched me up (“You again, O’Neill?”), I asked Captain where he’d come from.
He smiled at me. He was still wearing the wig and the gear.
“The boot of the car,” he answered. He was already into God’s liquor cabinet. “I just climbed in and held it together with a bit of fencing wire. Want some of this? It’s class stuff.”
“Did Reg know about you?”
“Nah, I work alone. Like you used to, O’Neill. The Eagle sent me.”
Baby had turned his attention to the liquor cabinet. “What’s this guy’s real name, anyway?”
“Lawson,” I answered. “Charles Lawson.”
“Sa-ay,” Captain broke in, “are you going to take that desk job, O’Neill, make a little room for me? Ah’se just a po-ah country boay. Ah needs a break.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bastard, Captain?”
He doubled over. The long blonde wig bobbed fetchingly up and down as he laughed. I thought how he could make a fortune in Kings Cross.
“You can’t stop, can you, O’Neill? You’re just another fuckin’ junkie—you’re hooked!”
It was after ten when Baby arrived at the New Brighton house. We’d be gone by dawn—no sense in taking risks—but Azure and Star didn’t know that. I decided I’d leave a note for Star: she could have anything we left in the house, and we’d be travelling light. If the painkillers the doctor had given me held out, I planned to carry Azure to the car at the last moment. If I was lucky, we’d be halfway to Sydney before she woke up and cracked on to what was happening.
The four of us lay back on large satin cushions, smoking God’s dope, drinking God’s Scotch and watching Ridley Scott’s cut of Blade Runner. The air in the living room was thick with smoke. Even Star’s cat was loaded.
By five in the morning, everyone was asleep but me. In the light from the guttering candles Azure’s new collection of brass and crystal elephants accused me. I promised myself I’d chuck as many of them as I could into my kitbag when we were leaving.
I went outside. It was almost dawn. Already the spiders had finished spinning their webs across the path that led to the beach. I ripped out The Plant and pushed it in through one of Star’s open windows, then I went and stood on the dunes.
There was a light wind blowing, and the scent of the Caterpillar wattle mingled with the smell of the sea. What did I want with a desk job?
And yet ...
There are times when I get tired of this existence and think that I’ll get out while I still can. That’s when I think I’d like a vegetable garden like Star’s—even a compost heap, maybe. I’d like to plant some trees and stick around long enough to see them grow.
But then tomorrow comes and things seem different.
Yet I ask myself in the night when I can’t sleep and the day has been particularly dangerous: how much longer do I think I can go on doing this?
Not much longer.
So will I take that desk job?
I don’t know. I’m caught in a web of my own making, though caught isn’t really the right word.
Like the spiders, I can stop any time I want to.
END
About the author
Until the publication of her novel MagnifiCat in November 2013, Danielle de Valera was best known for her short stories, which won a number of awards in Australia and appeared in such diverse publications as Penthouse, Aurealis, and the Australian Women’s Weekly. Many of her short stories are set on the far north coast of New South Wales, Australia, where she has lived since 1977.
More O’Neill and Lawson (aka God) stories
[O’Neill and Johnson quit the Australian Bueau of Narcotics and move to the north coast of New South Wales. Both are still suffering PTSD from their experiences in Vietnam and are looking for love to save them.]
The next story in the series, “Stella by Starlight” can be previewed at:
https://danielledevalera.wordpress.com/short-story-previews/
[Released from jail, Lawson (aka God) fails in his attempt at suicide, but he manages to save Star from her abusive relationship with Wayne.]
In all, nine more stories featuring the characters introduced in “Busting God” will be released in 2014. If you’re a short story aficionado and you’d like to be notified of their release,
email me at [email protected] and I’ll add you to the mailing list. Or (and this way’s faster) follow my blog at: https://danielledevalera.wordpress.com I write a post on the genesis of each story as it comes out.
Other works by this author
MagnifiCat: an Animal Fantasy, 70,000 words, 288 pages.
“Frankie and Juno”. Very short story, 1,000 words, 3 pages—a quick read. [Frankie, a lovesick tom, falls for the beautiful Juno, an elegant white cat, but the relationship is not a success.] FREE on Derek Haines’s e magazine Whizzbuzz Shortz.
https://www.derekhaines.ch/shortz/2013/12/frankie-and-juno-a-fable-by-danielle-de-valera
Tell me about any formatting issues you find with this story
This is the first story I’ve ever formatted; I’ve tested it on a number of previewers, but it’s impossible to test it on all devices. If you should find any formatting errors, please let me know by sending me an email at [email protected] and I will try to correct them.
Connect with me online
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Blogs: About Writers, Writing (and Life in General): https://danielledevalera.wordpress.com
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Questions or comments?
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to email me at: [email protected]
Need help?
I’ve been a freelance manuscript assessor since 1992, and an editor (copy, structural and creative) for even longer. If you think I might be the right person to help you iron the glitches out of your novel, drop me a line at: [email protected]
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https://patrickdevalera.wordpress.com/manuscript-development-services/
One last thing ...
If you liked this tory, please take a few seconds to tell your friends, perhaps n Facebook, Google+ or twitter.
All the best,
Danielle
Busting God Page 2
