A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  After battling for a spot to order a cold beer at the bar, they headed for the bistro. Bustling and noisy, surrounded by the smells of grilled steaks and garlic prawns, the men found a table out of the way from the other patrons. While Darren hunted around for an extra chair, Simon staked his claim on a table.

  It didn’t take long before the beer glasses were empty. Darren offered to shout promising to come back with a jug, maybe two. From the line in front of the bar Darren could see Simon talking on his phone, his head hung over the table. Next thing, he laid the phone down on the table, covering his face with both hands. That doesn’t look good, Darren mused.

  “Here you go, mate,” Darren said as he stood next to the table pouring beer from the jug, then setting the full glass in front of Simon.

  Simon seemed startled, “Thanks. Just had a call from the missus. She’s threatening to walk out.”

  “Shit. Aren’t you having a kid?” Darren gulped from his glass.

  “No. There was talk about it.” His expression was glum, he picked up the glass and drank until it was empty.

  Darren nodded, but refrained from comment.

  Simon poured himself another.

  “This bloke. The one who rang me. He is very scary.”

  “How so? I remember someone else pretty scary.”

  “That was Ingham. We’re not at school anymore.”

  “Wasn’t there a family who moved to Brisbane, suddenly?”

  Simon ignored Darren’s delving of history.

  “He works for a powerful family. Mostly, based in Melbourne. They have some connections here.”

  “What in Townsville?” Darren wiped some froth from his mo.

  “Uhuh. The family has its fingers in many pies. And some here. I didn’t realise how much until I started dealing with someone from the island.”

  “Go on.”

  Silence.

  “The less you know, the better.”

  “You started the conversation.”

  Silence again. Although the noise from the busy pub was deafening.

  Simon downed the remaining liquid straight from the jug.

  “Fuck. You keep going at that pace and I’ll have to carry you out of here. By the way, you can fuckin’ stand in line next.”

  Simon didn’t reciprocate with a laugh or smile, but got up and headed to the bar.

  Darren observed his friend’s unsteady step to the bar. The dodgy arrangement he had with Simon started to feel shaky. One day everything’s hunky dory, and the next thing the wall’s crumbling around you. Darren could hear Cate’s admonishment in his head. She would have given him an earbashing, had she been here.

  Ten minutes later, Simon reappeared from the crowd at the bar.

  “I’m in deep,” said Simon placing the jug between them.

  “Do I want to know?”

  “That call today wasn’t a warning. It was a promise. These people don’t give you warnings, there’s no consultation, there’s no reprieve.”

  “Did this bloke threaten to kill you?” Darren sat up with concern.

  “He didn’t have to. He has a reputation.”

  First reaction, when someone’s out to kill you: You look around. Darren lifted his glass slowly, turned his head facing the crowd, eyes scanning the pub.

  “They’re also after a bloke called Eddie, a former bikie. Know anything about him?”

  “Fuck,” Darren said and hung his head.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been trying to find him ever since I came back from Sydney.” Darren immediately regretted revealing this.

  “What’s his story? He must be popular,” Simon commented.

  It was Darren’s turn to be sullen; his skin crawled at the thought of Eddie, he didn’t want to bring up Cate, or the coke package. If there was a problem with the coke package, it wasn’t his. When Simon took the dope, it became Simon’s responsibility.

  “Well, mate? What’s Eddie’s caper?”

  “Eddie’s a low-life killer. He murdered my best mate, in cold blood, in a cowardly ambush,” Darren revealed. “When I find him, I will gut him like a fish.”

  “Sounds like you don’t like him much.” Simon drained his glass again.

  “Why do these friends of yours want Eddie?” It was a question Darren already knew the answer to. Again, he chose to keep that knowledge to himself. Mateship only went so far. Although he considered Simon a mate of sorts, he didn’t want his plans to be compromised by Simon covering his own arse.

  “Eddie must have double-crossed someone, a person who cannot be double-crossed.” Simon shifted in his chair, moving his face closer to Darren, “Hey Daz, you can tell me, I won’t rat you out. Did you hijack that coke from Eddie?”

  Darren shook his head, “For the millionth time, pal. No.”

  A dividing line ran across the round pub table, Darren saw it in Simon’s eyes.

  Silence, once more.

  “I’m going to call it a night.” Simon rose, put his empty glass down.

  “Fair enough. See you when I see you next.”

  Darren watched Simon saunter into the street, his mobile phone hugging his ear, flagging down a cab.

  Back in school, Darren recalled a young smart-arse lad with a penchant for wheeling and dealing everything from bike parts to a few ounces of home-grown weed. He used to taunt Simon, challenging him for the dubious title, of being the school’s number one drug dealer. One morning soon after, he was found, bound and gagged, out in a cane-field. Beaten so badly, they couldn’t identify him until he was reported missing from classes. He survived, but never came back to school. Months later, his family pulled up stumps, and moved to Brisbane. The rumour mill pointed to Simon. Of course, no one ratted for fear of having to move to Brisbane.

  He drained the last of the jug into his glass, scanned his surroundings slowly and wondered if he might run into Eddie here, tonight. No such luck.

  CHAPTER 13

  A SLICE FROM THE ACTION

  Slice cracked the window of the Commodore, blew out the first drag of smoke through the narrow gap as he gently put the mobile phone down on the console. Slice was happy with the acquisition. He put his hand on the cold, polished metal knob of the stubby gear selector. The lowered SS Commodore was subtle in its exterior looks, but under the body and bonnet this car was unique, and tuned to outrun everything other than a Bathurst V-8 supercar. Although he was sure he could give Mark Skaife a run for his money.

  The Old Boy, Salvatore, had offered a great earn. Not being part of the clan allowed Slice more freedom. He had never met Paul, who used to clean up messes for the family. With Paul’s demise, the opportunity to do more cleaning jobs had improved – not that he needed more work. His unique skills were in demand in high places. Slice was selective.

  Slice wasn’t just a hired hit-man. His skillset projected well past his expertise with very sharp knives – he was a one-time tax fraud investigator with an incredible gift for unearthing inconsistencies. He was also an artisan in make-up and disguise.

  Simon Rowe, the bank manager had messed around with Salvatore’s business interests. Although this pretty boy wasn’t part of the family business, Simon’s business activities were chipping at the edges of Salvatore’s financial interests. A critical mistake on the part of the bank manager by bragging to the wrong person about his great coke score, saw him promoted to the spotlight. Not long after the right ears in Salvatore’s empire got wind, the wheels for retribution and restitution were set in motion. When the news hit The Old Boy’s desk, he was livid. Punishment for stealing from the family wasn’t the only thing that the crime-boss wanted; he also wanted to know – how? And who else was in on this deceit? On top of that: where the hell does Eddie fit into this? After all, he was the bastard who’d created the mess.

  The links in the chain were not hard to follow.

  Start with the bank manager, then find who sold it to him, find out where the seller got it. Presumably, from this Eddie character. So the Old Boy
reckoned. There was plenty of digging to do, and the Bank where Simon Rowe worked kept an up-to-date record of transactions. Slice was an expert in checking accuracy and consistency of records. He didn’t mind the climate in Townsville, and was happy to settle in for however long this job would take.

  Finding the beneficiary of the transaction with Simon Rowe wasn’t too hard: a taxi driver by the name of Darren Mangan.

  ***

  On his third night of investigation, Slice got lucky, because when he had started his surveillance at Darren Mangan’s address, the cab driver had just climbed into the front seat of a taxi – as a passenger no less. Sheer luck. No one was going to notice him following the cab. Even better, it turned out that Darren Mangan was meeting Simon Rowe. Not that it was a complete surprise, because Slice had spoken with the bank manager earlier, sending the wind up him a little. Partners in crime unite when things get hot. Slice smiled.

  Slice had parked his Commodore at the Coastguard parking area, and was able to spy the men as they sat and spoke. A short time later, unknowing, they made their way past him. Direction: The Strand, Townsville’s waterfront entertainment strip. Slice checked out his new hairdo in the rear-view mirror. Today’s dress-up was about blending in as a middle-aged tourist, bland with a neat hairstyle. He adjusted the thin wire-framed glasses on his nose. It was very nice, he smiled approving, turning the ignition key.

  In the Friday night crowd on the Strand it wasn’t difficult for Slice to melt into the groups of young revellers and older tourists. Slice was the perfect height, just average at five-foot-ten, and his clothing would be considered unremarkable, in a casual but contemporary fashion. Some fashionistas might comment his dress-sense to be boring, but only if you insisted on an opinion. Fawn corduroys, a light denim long-sleeved shirt, tucked in, weren’t exactly a fashion statement. There was no second-guessing: he was a middle-aged nobody.

  From his meandering through the swarm he was able to keep his eye on the two men. When they walked into the pub, he simply joined the throng at the other end of the long bar. Here he could be a fly on the wall.

  All Slice had to do was wait out the evening, until one of them would go home, so he could spend some time with Mr. Rowe. For that, he needed patience. And Slice was a very patient man.

  A few hours on, the men parted company. The taxi driver had remained at the table. The other one left. Slice hadn’t counted on Simon hailing a cab so quick. He had to run like hell trailing the taxi as it stayed behind a slow procession of cars on the Strand. Luckily, the taxi was heading in the same direction where Slice had parked the Commodore. Within minutes, Slice was following the cab from six vehicles back. Darkness was a small advantage, as the illuminated taxi sign helped distinguish the car from the others. The trip through the central business district was slow, allowing Slice to keep up with ease. After travelling several kilometres towards South Townsville, traffic began to thin out, and soon the Commodore was the only car behind the taxi. When the cab drove into the poorly-lit backstreets he kept his distance, switching off the headlights, leaving the parkers on.

  The taxi stopped.

  Slice adjusted the Commodore’s speed to carry out his plan with precision.

  He watched the passenger get out.

  The taxi sped off.

  The Commodore slowed next to Simon Rowe, still standing on the pavement.

  The passenger window whirred down. The dark-green car had stopped.

  Simon’s bewildered look turned to horror as he stared at the gleaming barrel of a .357 Magnum. The person pointing the gun at him looked like he could have been his math teacher in high-school. Uninspiring and boring. But not, while he was holding this cannon.

  “Who …who are you?” Simon’s eyes flitted.

  “Get in.” A cold command.

  Simon’s body language was clear. His resolve was tardy.

  “Don’t even think about it, a bullet travels faster than you can run.”

  ***

  The abandoned factory was isolated.

  The room was located two levels below ground. It was small and damp.

  Simon sat on a wooden chair, his wrists were cable-tied resting on his lap. The plastic cable-ties bound around his ankles tightened with his rising fear.

  The mystery man stood on the other side of the square wooden table.

  “Ever heard of the Yakuza?”

  Simon could see a glimmer of the man’s face; the batten-holder with a single light-bulb suspended from the ceiling by a metre-long cord swung lightly from side to side. Now and then, the man’s face would disappear into the shadows.

  “Japanese mafia,” Simon answered.

  “Then you’ll know what’s next.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon watched as his captor slid a short-bladed knife on the table.

  “Yubitsume. A Yakuza ritual.”

  Confused and afraid, Simon shifted in the hard chair. His ankle bones were rubbing against each other. His heart was thumping under his aching chest. His abductor came into the light, moved towards him and leaned over.

  “Put your hands on the table.”

  The man reached for the knife he’d just put on the table. Simon complied after a moment’s hesitation. Simon felt the pressure from the warm, strong hand grasping his wrists, his other picked up the knife, while the bizarre man held his gaze. He rested the surgically sharp blade on the plastic cable-tie, feeling the pressure, the blade cut through, instantly releasing the tension from the restraints. Simon felt a fleeting moment of relief.

  “Leave one hand on the table.”

  Simon slowly retracted his left hand from the table, his right arm was pulsating. An overwhelming feeling of dread overcame him. He’d just realised what was going to be next. No! Please. No! His heart sank.

  “Yubitsume is how you apologise to your superiors for making a mistake. Your little finger is a small sacrifice to make in the face of your disloyalty and thievery.”

  Horrified, Simon’s eyes widened and his body shuddered when his captor ran the flat side of the short blade over Simon’s little finger. The insane man’s eyes were burning with anticipation as he held the knife for Simon to take from him.

  “It is not for me to perform.”

  “You’re fucking with me. Aren’t you? What do you want from me? I can tell you whatever you want to know.” Simon was desperate, fearful that his abduction could end badly.

  “We can talk after your apology. It will save your life.”

  Simon’s heart was about to blow through his chest, it was turning him deaf. A thousand thoughts screamed at him. What’s he going to do with me? God, please let me out of here. Please. Simon swallowed the dryness in his mouth.

  “Go on. Take the knife. It’s very sharp…Cuts easily. Then you answer some questions and I will set you free.”

  “You’re letting me go?” Simon’s eyes were welling, his voice quivered, his lips were trembling with fear.

  “You must apologise to your boss first.”

  No. Simon shook his head vehemently.

  “I ca…can’t do it,” Simon sniffled.

  The man moved back out of the direct light over the table. The shuffling of his shoes sounded impatient. Simon looked at the drops gathering on the table under his chin. It was so hot.

  From the darkness of the room, “Do you want to live? It is my only offer.”

  Simon squeezed his face together, eye-lids tightly pursed.

  Slice let the moment pass.

  “Okay,” Simon sighed heavily. “I’ll do it. Please give … give me a minute.”

  Simon moved his hand and his fingers touched the leather handle of the knife. Courage under fire. Something that he’d never had to live up to. Why would he have? He’d never been the underdog. He was beginning to understand what it meant. That’s what he needed to muster right now. After all, he would have the knife.

  Courage under fire.

  I’ve got the knife! Simon’s blood pulsed.

  Slice sprang bac
kwards as Simon lunged for him. His brief flight collapsed in a heap when he folded over the wooden table. The wooden chair crashed. Then it all went quiet. Simon’s legs hung limp from the edge of the table, ankles still tied by black cable-ties. The knife dropped from Simon’s hand to the floor, he watched it bounce once, it landed in front of a pair of black sneakers.

  The man bent down and picked up the blade.

  After he finished wiping the weapon clean, he put it back in its sheath.

  Simon shut his eyes, he wished this would all go away.

  A few minutes later, Simon was back in his chair with his wrists restrained. There was no conversation, and the silence was only broken by the sound of a squeaky pair of secateurs.

  “What are you doing with them?” Simon was horrified as he sighted the implement.

  “Finish what you couldn’t.”

  And his insane captor grabbed his wrists with one hand, bore his weight on them, and then he felt the cold blades pinched around his little finger. “Noooohhh! Arggghhh!”

  Simon gasped for air as his finger was separated from his hand.

  “Now. Let’s start at the beginning. Who is Darren Mangan?”

  The sadistic man wiped the blood from the secateurs.

  ***

  It wasn’t until the last of the four fingers was severed from the bank manager’s hand before he caved in. Slice had to insert earplugs from all of Simon Rowe’s screaming. A real downside, when he had to extract information. Slice hated earplugs.

  CHAPTER 14

  BODY IN A DRAIN

  “What is it with karma?” Fiona Gibbs was furious. Ten minutes before knock-off, the call had come in, “Urgent assistance required. Rooney’s Bridge. Traffic control. Gibbs you’re in the vicinity. Good experience for Shallowater.” She rolled her eyes after the last comment. She glanced at Joel who had already started a change of direction by doing a U-turn. Spending the last couple of weeks with him had changed her mind about the rookie. Joel Shallowater was alright. A good ‘kick up the arse’ occasionally wouldn’t hurt him, and that part was fun, she thought.

  A couple of cars were pulled up on the grass verge by the bridge. There was a small crowd huddled at the railing, finger pointing to the river bank. Traffic was slowing from both directions, and the gawkers were speculating – probably, a croc, not exciting enough – keep driving. Lucky, because the bridge was narrow and peak hour was near. Gibbs switched on the Christmas lights as she called them. The crowd responded to the brief hail of the siren, turning their heads simultaneously towards the cop car, and waving. Standing among the few adults were a dozen kids, mostly Aboriginal, the only kids that would venture close to the muddy Ross River.