Holy Orders

by Angus McLean

  ‘So what line are you in, Daniel?’ Kinnear enquired. He’d taken a seat at the card table already.

  ‘Corporate risk,’ I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly does that entail?’

  ‘Managing risk for corporates,’ I said. ‘Mostly boring HR type stuff.’

  It wasn’t too far from the truth, and the business cards I had in my pocket backed that up.

  ‘And what line are you in?’ I said, keeping the vibe of the show rolling.

  He gave me a supercilious sneer that I wanted to wipe off his mug. ‘HR,’ he said.

  It figured.

  I was saved from any further interrogation by the arrival of the last member of their poker group. He hurried in full of apologies for being late, clapped Dearlove on the back and shook my hand.

  ‘Chappy,’ he said with a warm smile, ‘pleased to meet you.’ He was in his sixties with a florid face and thinning grey hair. His black suit had seen better days and his shirt was frayed at the collar.

  We took our seats at the table and Ducky took the lead, flicking cards across the green felt with expert ease. I sat out and observed. The players quickly got into a game of seven-card stud, murmuring between themselves and moving their chips about.

  Apparently they played twice a week here, always the same players and always the same times. They seemed a disparate sort of group, with a twenty year age range and varying types of personalities.

  Kinnear was the alpha dog of the group, loud and cocky, the sort that I would quickly fall out with. The older gents treated him like a cheeky younger brother, either ignoring his outbursts or placating his cry for attention with a smile or a nod. Dearlove was very focussed on the game but was clearly the worst player. Ducky was an experienced old hand, completely comfortable in his environment and quietly strategizing. Chappy was the glue, the affable character who played pretty well and remained calm and jovial throughout.

  I watched and worked my way to the bottom of the tumbler, feeling the buzz of strong alcohol in my veins. I’d had tougher days at the office, to be fair.

  Dearlove was the first to fold and he immediately got himself another drink. Chappy took the pot with a straight flush and that was the signal for more drinks all round. I left them to their friendly banter and made my way downstairs to the entrance, taking a few minutes to have a proper recce of the club.

  The fact that the theft had occurred while Dearlove was otherwise occupied at the club couldn’t be a coincidence. It was timely and smooth and clearly an inside job, but inside what? The club? His outside circle of friends? The neighbourhood?

  Having seen him in action at the card table today, my gut told me that someone in the club was behind this. Even I could tell the man was no cardsharp. He’d have been better off playing Snap for lollies. So how was it that he had done so well on the exact same day that his garage was broken into and his classic car stolen?

  Maybe it was just his lucky day in that regard. Cards involved a fair bit of luck and luck had to change, right? Maybe that was just a coincidence. He’d stayed at the club longer than normal due to his winning streak, that was true, but had the thieves needed that whole time? Maybe they’d hit the place as soon as he’d pulled out of his driveway. They could have been in and out in five minutes easy, with no need for him to spend the rest of the afternoon at the club.

  There were too many unanswered questions for me to have a firm plan just yet, so I figured I’d do what I do best; poke around and see what popped up. Sometimes you have to create your own luck.

  The punters from the main bar area had mostly dispersed, maybe to play other games or to meeting rooms or who knew what. A small handful remained at a table, having coffee and a snack and chortling among themselves.

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with, sir?’

  The liveried doorman had appeared at my side, creeping up like an assassin in the night.

  ‘No, I’m good thanks mate.’ I gave him a pearly dazzler. ‘Just taking it all in.’

  He nodded sombrely and stayed beside me. Maybe he thought I was going to steal the print off the wall near the door. Maybe it wasn’t a print, maybe it was a real masterpiece by one of those weird artists who used to cut off their ears and had names I couldn’t pronounce. I didn’t have a clue.

  ‘So what d’you do here mate?’ Doormen and waiters are always a good source of information; they see and hear everything.

  ‘I’m the concierge,’ he replied. He was a short guy with coppery curls and the hint of a tattoo beneath his tight collar. He was somewhere in his late twenties. He had no name badge.

  ‘So you man the door and run round after these guys?’

  His smile revealed bad teeth. ‘Pretty much. Look after the cloakroom, book taxis when they’ve had too much sherries with their lunch.’ He paused. ‘What they want, they get.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I nodded.

  The undercurrent in his tone was the same one from servants the world over. The staff that were employed to be part of a world they weren’t really part of. He was not an educated man and I guessed the club were not over the top with their pay.

  He sniffed. ‘Anyways, I better get back to it. Got coffees to make for the bridge game. Nice to meet you, sir.’

  ‘You too.’ I watched him go and as he walked away he glanced towards the bar. The collar of his shirt slipped down slightly and I caught a glimpse of the tattoo hiding there.

  A glimpse was all I needed. It was a green and red tattoo of a crown, about an inch square, on the lower left side of his neck.

  It told me I was on the right track.

  ***

  ‘So who are these clowns?’ Mike had his face screwed up like he’d eaten something bad. He was having dinner at our place so it obviously wasn’t that.

  Bangers and mash with a twist was one of my favourites and Molly did a mean serve – a wide heap of creamy mash, three pure pork sausages on top with a gallon or so of thick, rich gravy and fresh green beans on the side. The twist was that the mash was kumara, not the traditional spud. We like to mix it up in our house.

  I was nearly half way through mine and didn’t have time for chit-chat. I finished my mouthful before repeating myself.

  ‘They called themselves the Kings of the City. The crown tat was their symbol.’

  ‘And they were burglars?’

  ‘Yeah, high-end only though. Not garden sheds and rats and mice stuff like that. These guys hit car dealerships, jewellery stores, and the upper suburbs.’

  ‘I kinda remember you talking about them years ago,’ Molly said. She skewered a fragment of banger onto her fork and added a smidgen of mash. No point going crazy. ‘How did you come across them if they were targeting the upper suburbs?’

  What she meant was that all my policing had been done in the badlands of the south, not the blue-ribbon areas of Remuera, St Heliers and St Mary’s Bay.

  ‘They hit a couple of the flasher places in Mangere Bridge when I was on the burglary squad, and we got onto them.’ I loaded up my fork for the next delivery, ensuring it got a good proportion of everything. Wasted time was a wasted opportunity. ‘We got them before Central did.’

  ‘Stole the glory?’ Mike grinned.

  ‘Yeah, kinda cut their lunch a bit.’ I grinned too. ‘Never mind.’

  I scooped gravy onto the fork load of food and shovelled it into my mouth. Molly watched me with barely-disguised lust. Lust or loathing; it’s a fine line, but I like to think positively.

  ‘So you reckon these turkeys could be behind it then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I paused to let my food settle. ‘It’s a good place to start, at least. The guys we locked up back then all got decent lags, but they’d be well out by now. For that, at least. Could be that they’ve reformed since they got out.’

  I managed to keep a straight face when I said it.

  ‘But you didn’t recognise this guy at the club?’ Molly said. She reached for her glass of pinot gris. ‘Maybe he’s new to the ga
ng?’

  ‘Could be.’ I nodded and surveyed my plate, strategizing my next move.

  ‘So what’s the plan then, Sherlock?’ Mike had a fork load ready to go, dripping gravy on his plate. ‘Do what we do best?’

  I grinned. ‘You know it. Shake a few trees and see what falls out.’

  ‘Working with such geniuses,’ Molly said, shaking her head with a bemused smile, ‘I’m such a lucky girl.’

  Five

  It was not only illegal for Buck to share confidential information with me, it was also completely unfair to put him in that position. Naturally I did it anyway – God loves a trier.

  His office was ridiculously cramped and poky and smelled like farts and old people. As a community constable he had a lot of the latter come to visit. Whether they brought the other issue with them or not, I didn’t know.

  I parked myself across the desk from him and plonked a large green tea and bran muffin on his blotter. He was on a health kick at the moment and looked lean and cut. He also looked broken.

  ‘What?’ His tone was monotone and he barely glanced at me as he continued stabbing at the keyboard in front of him.

  ‘Hey, friend.’ My full-wattage smile was completely wasted on him. I waited, my cheeks starting to hurt.

  He thumped the keyboard some more. Buck’s pretty chilled by nature, but something had obviously wound him up. Eventually he paused his attack on the keys and looked at me.

  ‘You want something, Dan? I’m bloody busy here, obviously.’

  ‘You going through the change of life, mate?’ I was doing my best to repel his angry glare but it was no easy task.

  ‘I don’t have time for jokes, mate.’ He gestured angrily at the monitor. ‘I’m up to my eyes in crap from Kennedy.’

  I opened my mouth to speak but he wasn’t finished.

  ‘Liquor licensing visits, background checks, community patrols training, Neighbourhood Watch group meetings, crime prevention visits,’ he ranted. ‘Recruit enquiries, Red Victims, High Risk Offender management plans…you name it, I’m doing it.’

  He waved at me to shut up. I shut up.

  ‘On top of that he’s tasked me with prevention patrols for two hours a day and response cover for Thursday and Friday late shifts for the next month.’ He shoved himself back from his desk with a growl and turned to me. ‘How the hell am I supposed to deal with all that?’

  ‘Today’s Thursday.’ I checked my G-Shock. ‘It’s only midday. You’re early for late shift.’

  ‘I had to come in early to get everything else done.’ Buck sounded like he was talking to a child. Or a person of limited intelligence. ‘Otherwise I won’t get time later on.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  I ignored the snipe. Normally it goes the other way. ‘What does your senior sergeant say about it? It’s not Kennedy’s place to be tasking you.’

  ‘It is when he’s my boss,’ he spat. He caught my double-take and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Exactly.’

  I nodded sombrely. ‘Riiight…so he’s trying to break you.’

  Buck let out a groan and scowled at the ceiling. ‘Seriously? That’s your insight? I know I wasn’t a real detective like you Dan, but even I managed to figure that out.’

  I bit my tongue and let his anger ride. Now was not the time for a battle of egos.

  ‘I won’t bother asking why,’ I said. ‘That’s kind of obvious.’

  Buck grunted.

  ‘So how’re you going to deal with it?’

  Buck scowled at me. ‘Well I thought I’d just run myself into the ground trying to keep him off my back and hope for the best. How does that sound for a plan?’

  I considered him for a long moment. ‘Well mate,’ I said, ‘you’ve had worse…’

  We locked gazes for an age, before I saw the shift in his eyes. His shoulders dropped and he grinned reluctantly. He shook his head and rubbed his face.

  ‘Oh mate, what a shambles,’ he said.

  ‘I know I’ve said this before,’ I said carefully, ‘but if you decide to chuck it in, there’s always a job with us if you want it. With a better package than what you’ve got now.’

  He opened his gob to retort but I gave him the pointy finger of silence.

  ‘And if you say anything about the sleazy reputation of PIs, I swear to God, I’ll smack you straight in the mouth.’

  He chuckled. ‘Fair enough.’ He lifted his chin. ‘And thanks.’

  I nodded my acknowledgement. Enough said. Maybe now wasn’t the time to ask for a favour.

  Six

  Back in my day the Kings of the City had been transient, operating from wherever they happened to be at the time.

  Unlike more traditional gangs this made them harder to track. None of them had a home base to deploy electronic surveillance on. They had always seen themselves as more of a syndicate than a gang; maybe it seemed more metro, slicker.

  In the absence of a better plan I went back to basics and propped on the concierge from the club. Dearlove told me his name was Kyle. He also wanted to know why I wanted to know. I was suitably vague but he was no fool. He assured me that Kyle couldn’t possibly be involved.

  ‘All staff there are fully vetted by your old mob,’ he told me via the hands-free. ‘I am absolutely confident that you’re barking up the wrong tree there, chap.’

  I assured him that he was probably right and went with it anyway. A blue Mazda 6 is an ideal car for surveillance – smart enough but not flashy, comfortable, more tow than a Roman sandal and there are hundreds of them on the road.

  Kyle was certainly not surveillance-aware, giving no indication he knew I was there as he left the club and trotted to his seen-better-days white Celica with a fat exhaust.

  He sparked up a smoke, gave the Toyota a burst of gas and accelerated away towards the central city. I sat back and waited until he was out sight before easing away from the kerb into the late afternoon flow.

  Losing sight of your target in a city centre is fatal for any surveillance operative. Unless, of course, you’ve attached a tracking device to the target’s vehicle, which I had. Highly illegal of course, but a proper surveillance job requires at least three well-trained operators acting together, and we didn’t have the resources for that. Mike was over on the North Shore interviewing parties for an insurance job and not due back until much later, and Molly wasn’t properly trained in the sort of driving and techniques required for this.

  So the fall back option was the electronic device that could well land me in jail and get me stripped of my license if I ever got caught. Best I don’t get caught, then.

  I took my time cruising the CBD, never laying eyes on Kyle’s Celica until he pulled into the car park of a gym near Freeman’s Bay. I parked down the street and waited. The red dot on the screen of the tablet beside me blinked, showing the Celica as stationery. The blinking blue dot told me I was also stationery, 150 metres away.

  I sat back and listened to the hits of the 80s and 90s on The Mix while I waited. I was fed, watered and prepared to do this for hours. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t right up on my target; all I needed to do was be available if the Volvo P1800 popped into view somewhere. I had Dearlove’s spare key in my pocket and his authority to recover the car.

  How that would pan out, who knew?

  Kyle wasn’t long at the gym and I had no idea what he did there, but whatever it was it wasn’t a workout. He bounced back out after only a few minutes and was off again, heading through the hipsters of Ponsonby to the left-wing voters of Mt Albert. I closed up as he ducked into the car park of the Westfield at St Luke’s, getting the feeling he’d reached his destination. He swung sharply into a slot near the entrance and was off on foot.

  I dropped the Mazda in the closest spot and bailed out fast, popping the boot and diving into the kit bag there. It contained a selection of clothes and bits and pieces for just such occasions. I ditched my jumper and grabbed a hoody, yanking
it on as I hurried away, slapping a baseball cap on my head and slinging a day pack over my shoulder.

  I had no idea whether he had subconsciously clocked me or not, but if he had he could only have seen my upper body. A change of clothes was a quick fix and the use of the cap and bag broke up my profile. The bag also contained another top for a further change if needed.

  Kyle was inside the mall already, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, threading his way through the crowds. I tagged along, keeping back and off to the side to enable smooth evasive action if he turned.

  I was also aware that people have an uncanny sixth sense, a premonition of danger. Too many operations had been blown in the past because a target got spooked they couldn’t put their finger on.

  He hit the escalator and went up, glancing around him as he did so. I waited until he was nearly at the top before hopping on, keeping several people between us and not staring at him. That sixth sense could be activated by anything.

  He disappeared from sight and I rode up, knowing that my worst nightmare right now would be for him to be waiting at the top, facing me. I’d have nowhere to go and would have to try and bluff my way through it.

  I reached the top and spotted him entering the food hall. He went directly to a table where a girl waited with a tray of KFC on the table before her. He leaned in, gave her a kiss and sat down with his back to me.

  A girlfriend, presumably. Meeting her for dinner? If so, she probably worked somewhere in the mall. A food court was hardly the most romantic place for a young couple to meet otherwise.

  I segued off to one of the food outlets and ordered a large Coke Zero with lots of ice. The trick with drinking while on surveillance is to limit your intake to prevent the need for an urgent outlet. Filling the cup with ice would save me from myself. Plus, I also got a nice big cup that could come in handy if I really did an urgent outlet. What? So shoot me.

  I couldn’t sit anywhere near them because I risked being burned by Kyle but I would also expose myself to the girl, who may become a future surveillance target. Or she could just be more aware than him. Never underestimate the females; they’re the more deadly of the species. Someone said that once, I think. Or something like it.