Glory Hunter: He'll win the votes, if he lives long enough ... (Hollins & Haring Book 2)
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Publishing Details
Glory Hunter by T.J. Beach
Published by T.J. Beach Writes
© T.J. Beach Writes
The moral right of this author has been asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright restricted above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. The views of the author belong solely to the author and are not necessarily those of the publisher.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Version
(1st edition, 2022, electronic)
ISBN: 978-0-6487737-6-4 (epub)
Glory Hunter
By T.J. Beach
To Alison, always.
To Rob, who’s been there since before day one.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CHAPTER ONE
GARY HOLLINS LIKED the Esplanade — the ‘Espy’ to Bell’s Landing locals. The pub sprawled across an entire town block facing the tourist attractions at the end of the town’s famous jetty, impossible to ignore. It brought to mind a castle, though Hollins couldn’t say why, perhaps because it had iron railings.
Hollins missed traditional English pubs with daft names like The Greyhound and Gooseberry, and dingy booths, real ale, horse brasses or boat lamps — sometimes both. Australian licensees favoured vast drinking halls, Formica-clad bars and an astonishing variety of lager options, but the Espy managed to do it with warmth and character.
A dozen or so drinkers graced the forty-odd tables on the outside deck — a nod to warmer weather as winter gave way to spring. In full summer, the patio would be packed late on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe not next year, with a massive craft brewery taking shape in the park across the road between the pirate ship playground and the cafe.
Hollins sniffed. The brewery operators would have to do without him. So-called pints in four hundred millilitre glasses for fifteen dollars — bugger that. Fortunately, the row of pepper trees on the park perimeter blocked most of the construction site from view.
He wandered into the main bar and checked the restaurant, but Debbie Haring hadn’t arrived, so he bought a pint of good honest Swan Lager — nine bucks for a proper twenty-fluid-ounce pint — and went out to enjoy the fresh air.
He looked for a seat in the shade. After six months in Australia, his English complexion still burned bright red after a few minutes of exposure.
His search halted on a group of four morons at a high table in the centre of the deck. Early twenties, dirty jeans, lumberjack flannel over black tee-shirts, laughing too loud, yelling to be heard over each other, three or four empties per drinker. The biggest of them was a mean-looking customer with a blue cap that had a motorcycle logo on the crest. Pale eyes and freckles somehow made him look more dangerous. He slammed his pint down on the table and called out to a guy nursing a drink alone a few tables closer to the fence. “Come’n have a drink with us. Don’t be shy.”
The solo drinker tossed his droopy fringe off his forehead and looked away.
Hollins had seen similar scenarios play out a dozen times on the sleazy side of South London. A bunch of boozed-up meatheads picking on a guy in skin-tight jeans and a figure-hugging tee-shirt. It ended every time with blood pouring out of the smaller guy’s nose.
The meathead pressed his invitation. “I’m offering you a drink, mate. Don’t you want to drink with us?”
The slim guy’s back straightened a little, but he kept it turned to his tormenter and stared across the park, probably wishing he could be at the snobby, over-priced chapel of hop worship under construction on the foreshore.
“You got a problem with us? What is it, mate? Are you a faggot?”
The slim guy tried for a nonchalant sip, but his glass shook in his hand.
An elderly couple rose from their table, picked up their drinks and brushed past Hollins on their way into the safety of the bar.
He didn’t blame them. That’s where he should be headed. Not his fight. Anyone with half a brain would get out before the trouble started, maybe say something at the bar to salve their conscience. He twitched in that direction, but his feet stuck on the deck.
“You look like a faggot,” Meathead said.
If Hollins yelled at them from the doorway, he could maintain a safe distance but most likely make it worse for the slim guy. He exhaled through his teeth. A quiet word might be enough to talk down Meathead on his own, but four dickheads three pints in wouldn’t let it go without blood.
A smile touched Hollins’ lips. It would be a change for a couple of the mutts to get their faces re-arranged instead of the well-dressed guy. He shook it away. That Hollins — the alpha thug he used to be — re-surfaced at times, despite his best efforts.
Hollins took two righteous strides towards the troublemakers, then an idea struck him, and he changed course and made for Slim Guy calling out, “There you are! I was looking for you inside.”
Four would-be gaybashers turned his way. Hollins smiled and nodded as he pulled out a stool and sat down next to the object of their taunts.
Slim Guy froze, his mouth half open.
Hollins cuffed his shoulder as if he’d known him for years. He muttered, “I’m the mate you’ve been waiting for, okay?”
Slim Guy nodded. He had big blue eyes. His lashes were so dark Hollins wondered if he dyed them for startling effect with his Pacific Islander complexion.
“Who’s your friend, Faggot?” Meathead yelled.
Slim Guy flinched.
Hollins turned. “All right, are you?”
Meathead sneered. “We just offered your friend a drink.”
“We’re good, thanks.” Hollins grinned.
“You got a problem?” Meathead asked.
Hollins swivelled his stool to face them, deliberately casual, letting them get a good long look at him. He studied each of the boozed-up morons in turn, taking his time. “No problem.”
Me
athead chewed his lip.
Hollins held his gaze. Dickheads didn’t like it when you looked them in the eye. They hated it when you weren’t scared. They were all soft where it mattered — beer guts and fleshy arms. Hollins flexed his biceps in case they hadn’t noticed he looked after himself.
Meathead turned away.
Hollins turned back to his new acquaintance.
“Who are you?” Slim Guy asked. He had a strong New Zealand accent.
“Your old friend, Gary Hollins.”
“Sweet, bro.” He threw a fearful glance over his shoulder. “Shall we go inside?”
“If you want, but if we stay here, they’ll go.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but it’s nice here in the sun.”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Me, too. She’s late.”
He shrugged, which Hollins read as an acknowledgement of mismatched sexual orientation.
“So?” Slim Guy flicked another peek over his shoulder.
“Sorry to butt in. I can go if you like.”
“No. Thank you. Stay.”
A seven-year-old girl with long blonde hair climbed into the chair opposite them. “Hi, Gary. Mum’s taking Lachy to the bathroom. She’ll be a minute.”
“Hi, Jenny. What have you been up to?” Hollins asked.
“We went to the beach.”
“Which explains why you’ve got sand on your nose.”
She crossed her eyes, trying to see, then ran her fingers over her face and glowered at Hollins when she found nothing. “Hello,” she said to Slim Guy. “Are you Gary’s friend?”
“Something like that. I’m Devon.” He offered his hand with a smile.
“There’s a boy in my class called Devon.”
“I’m sure he’s very nice.”
“Yuck, no. He picks his nose.”
Devon laughed.
“Devon?” A tall, broad-shouldered man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts loomed beside Jenny, glanced at Gary and back to Devon.
“It’s a frigging fag party,” Meathead called.
The newcomer gave him a cool stare.
One of Meathead’s pals joined in. “The smell’s getting really bad around here. We should go.”
Devon’s friend waved them away. “Run for your lives. You can’t be too careful. It’s catching, you know.”
Hollins rose. “Come on, Jen. I think they’ve got this. Let’s go and find your mum. Nice to meet you, Devon.”
“You, too, Gary.”
As Hollins and Jenny crossed the patio, Debbie entered the main bar from the opposite end, shooing ahead her youngest, Lachlan.
Hollins caught her eye and pointed to an empty table in the corner. She nodded.
Jenny stopped to poke her tongue out at the bogans from the deck swaggering into the bar.
Debbie sat Lachlan and turned on her daughter. “Jennifer! That was so rude.”
“Well, they were rude to Devon.”
“Devon? The boy from your class?”
“No. Gary’s friend Devon. He’s gay.”
“Jen.” Hollins chided. Trust a seven-year-old to call it the way she saw it. “We don’t know whether he’s gay. It’s not nice to make assumptions about people.”
Jenny rolled her eyes.
Debbie took in the bogans with a frown. “Have you been doing your alpha male thing, Gaz? I leave you in charge for thirty seconds, and you’ve got Jennifer—”
“It was nothing. Settle the kids. I’ll get the drinks. House white for you?” He could sometimes distract Debbie’s office tirades with coffee. Alcohol might work in social situations. “Coke for the kids?”
“Yes, please. Can we have chips?” Jenny asked.
Lachlan nodded eagerly.
Debbie huffed and put her hands on her hips. “All right, but you’d better eat your dinner. And make mine a G&T.”
The kids were happily colouring by the time Gary got back with the drinks.
“By the way.” Debbie split the potato chip packet for her children and marshalled their drinks. “We’ve got a new job.”
“Another cheating husband to spy on?”
“We do other work, you know.”
Hollins had once studied the Kim Ridenour Investigations invoices. The company Debbie served as office manager made most of its money on creditworthiness and business security assessments, but she had only ever employed Hollins to take photos of a cheating husband. “Who’s been playing away from home this time?”
“No one. It’s bodyguard work.”
“Someone wants Kim as their bodyguard? Do they know him?” Kim, a washed-up former cop, spent his days in the betting shop until the pubs opened and only returned to his office to sleep it off on the couch.
“I don’t know if they know Kim. They didn’t ask for him.”
“They want the receptionist?”
Debbie gave Hollins a look that would kill a goat at fifty paces. “Admin officer.”
“And a very efficient one, who has her own copy of her boss’s private detective licence with her photo laminated over his.”
“Gary. Flapping ears.” She indicated the Haring children engrossed in their colouring.
Jenny didn’t miss a thing. Lachlan would be in a world of his own, the strong silent type like his father toiling away on a distant mine site.
“You should get your own licence,” Hollins told Debbie. “You’re good at all that detective stuff.”
Her eyes narrowed, looking for an insult hidden in the compliment because they only did banter, never praise.
“They asked for the Englishman,” Debbie said.
“Which would be me.”
“We have no other lazy, pommie beach bums on our books.”
Hollins shifted on his seat, resisting the urge to check the room for familiar faces, wishing he’d taken a chair with his back to a corner of the room the way he was taught. How the hell did anyone know to ask for him? Barely half a dozen people knew Gary Hollins, and three of them were at the table. He came halfway around the world to the quietest, least likely hidey-hole on the planet to achieve precisely that. “What did they say exactly?” He shook his head. “Who asked?”
“Austin Gould.”
“Austin Gould.” Hollins snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I guess? Who the hell’s Austin Gould?”
“Hell’s a swear, Gary,” Jenny said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. Isn’t it, Mummy?”
“It’s blasphemy. Don’t swear in front of the kids, Gary. Do you ever open the papers?”
Hollins spread his hands wide. She knew he didn’t.
“I thought you at least listened to the news on the radio.”
“Only football results.”
“Have you noticed any change in the front yards around town?” The question dripped with sarcasm.
Hollins wracked his brain. He didn’t pass many homes between his semi-deluxe caravan park cabin, the beach, and the shopping centre. Did Austin Gould make designer letterboxes?
“Little signs,” Debbie prompted. “Vote Labor. Vote Liberal. Vote Australian People’s Party.”
“The state election?”
“Duh. And the star candidate of all is standing for election right here.” Debbie nodded, expecting Hollins to fill in the details.
“The Premier? Whatshisname.”
Debbie sighed.
“Austin Gould’s a movie star, and he grew up in Bell’s Landing.” Jenny tossed in the intelligence without breaking concentration on her artwork.
“It’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations,” Hollins said.
Jenny poked her tongue out.
Debbie tutted. “That’s a bad habit, Jennifer. Stop it.”
“You should beat it out of her,” Hollins suggested. “She needs a good thrashing.”
Jenny screwed up her face at him. Hollins scowled back. And poked his tongue out.
“Now I know where she gets it from. I�
��ll beat it out of you with pleasure. The point is that a seven-year-old knows more about current affairs than you do. It’s pathetic, Gary.”
Hollins didn’t think so. He wore his ignorance of world events as a badge of honour.
“Austin Gould, star of stage and screen — well, screen. I don’t know if he’s ever been in a play — is the APP candidate, Australian People’s Party, and he needs a bodyguard.”
“A famous actor asked for me by name?”
“Not directly, no, and it wasn’t him. It was one of his people. Stars don’t make their own phone calls.”
“Or politicians.”
“This APP woman said Mr Gould wants a bodyguard, and she heard we had an English bloke who was presentable and knew how to handle himself.”
“Presentable?”
“Yeah, that surprised me, too.” She raised an eyebrow at his shorts, tee-shirt and thongs.
“Do you think they’ll expect me to shave?” He rubbed at his two-day stubble.
“Yes. Every day. And shower.”
He sighed at the imposition. “Did they say how they knew me?”
“They obviously don’t know anything if they think you’re presentable.”
Jenny snorted.
Hollins bared his teeth at the top of her head, then turned back to Debbie. “How do you think an international movie star heard of Ridenour Investigations?”
“Our excellent local reputation.”
“I meant—”
“They didn’t say. I guess a few people know what happened in … that other business.” Debbie glanced meaningfully at the kids.
“Like your pal Detective Sergeant Reilly? This candidate — whoever.” Hollins had already forgotten his name. “He called the police?”
“Politicians have contacts. They use them.”
“Makes sense. If you want advice on personal protection, call the head of the South-West Criminal Investigation Bureau.” He was quite chuffed that Stu Reilly recommended him. Also relieved. It meant there had been no echoes from his hidden past. “What if I say ‘no’?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You need the money to get a new car and a decent place to live.”