A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  At the funeral, Darren had kept an eye out for anyone that seemed to be out of place; not one person stood out from the small crowd. He recognised a few faces from the Ingham days, but the only person who knew him was Simon’s widow. She spoke to him briefly, thanked him for coming.

  Her parting words had stuck with him since the funeral, “Good riddance. I begged him to stop. But he refused, the dark life was like a tonic, an addiction. I’m flying out tomorrow. Never coming back here. I hope you didn’t get caught up with any of Simon’s dodgy deals.”

  Dodgy deals with Simon? Only two.

  The phone rang.

  Darren answered, “Hello.”

  A voice asked for confirmation of identity. “Your speaking with him,” replied Darren.

  Darren listened to the mono-drone voice, “Mister Mangan, I have to inform you that this conversation is being recorded and monitored by our staff. I also inform you that irregularities in relation to your business with our bank have come to light. The nature and gravity of these irregularities have prompted our management to take all necessary steps to get to the bottom of your relationship with our former employee, Simon Rowe.” The caller stopped for breath.

  “Did you cunts sack him just before he got his throat slit?” Darren mouthed.

  “I beg yours?”

  “Never mind, get to the fucking point.” Darren’s face reddened with anger.

  “Look Mister Mangan, ideally we would like to resolve your issue within the confines of our internal walls. In other words, at this stage we have not engaged the police. It may help your cause.”

  “Oh, what cause is that? To keep your dirty laundry out of the papers, I suppose.”

  Darren’s agitated state fed his impatience.

  “What’s your offer?”

  “A re-negotiated mortgage with an adjustment in your applied deposit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, applied deposit?” demanded Darren.

  “The currency applied towards the deposit of your loan, was unusual.”

  Darren twigged. This isn’t the bank talking! His mind raced.

  “I had a hundred and sixty thousand for a deposit, Simon arranged for that money to go towards a home-loan.” Darren opted to play a little dumb.

  “The arrangement that Mister Rowe entered into with you is not considered to be valid, Mister Mangan.”

  The caller’s language was starting to signal an alarm bell – Darren bit his bottom lip and cursed under his breath. Fucking bastards. Then he let fly, “You’re as much a bank manager as I am!”

  “I may not be a bank manager, but from now on you will be taking financial advice from us. Failing to do so will cause you a great amount of grief, I assure you. Our organisation is out of pocket, and these stolen funds must be re-paid. The amount you will pay us is four hundred and ten thousand dollars with interest accrued.” The voice was venomous.

  “Say what? Four hundred grand? Where the fucking hell did you get that figure from?” Darren was now pacing around his lounge room, seething.

  “Four hundred and ten thousand. One hundred and sixty thousand dollars is the sum of money you took from Simon Rowe, plus two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a kilo of cocaine, which you acquired from the back seat of a cab, apparently,” the caller articulated.

  “Hey, I sold that to Simon,” Darren replied.

  “And that thief owes us. Simon is dead. Someone has to pay his debt.” Then the caller hung up.

  Normally, Darren couldn’t hear the clock on the wall ticking, but now the tick---tick---tick was audible – it seemed to compete with his thumping heartbeat. He gazed at the round, white clock, watching the arrowed hand stop-start-stop-start. The countdown had started, he waiting to hear the starter pistol.

  Someone has to pay his debt. That someone was him.

  A subtle knock on his front door stirred him from thought. Darren let it go. The knocking from the door resumed, but louder, more determined. Darren heard a muffled voice saying something that included the word ‘police’. Great. What do these jokers want?

  He stepped to the door and opened it. Darren was surprised to be confronted by a tall, lean Aboriginal man in a police uniform. The sight of the unexpected visitor deflated Darren’s hostility. A dog with a wagging tail stood next to the police officer, looking at his master with eyes that said, “Here’s me new mate.”

  Darren shook his head, “Great guard dog, you are.”

  “He knows I mean no harm, dogs are sharp like that.”

  “Don’t see too many of you blokes in copper’s gear,” Darren commented.

  “I would’ve come in my loin cloth, but I figured this dress-up was scarier,” the Aboriginal man responded with a broadening smile.

  Both men had a robust chuckle.

  “Probationary Constable Joel Shallowater,” the visitor introduced himself and asked, “Darren Mangan? Or what’s that joker’s name … Tom Selleck? Magnum PI.”

  Darren nodded, “Both. I used to be a movie star.”

  And they laughed again.

  Darren shook the man’s extended hand and beckoned him to come in. Although on guard in the presence of a copper, Darren was relaxed in the company of Indigenous people. In fact, he disliked the term ‘Indigenous’, as if the word described some sort of diseased people. They were people just like him, and anyone else, until you proved yourself to be an arsehole.

  “Anyway, mate. What is it you want from me?”

  “We have a mutual friend.”

  Darren turned around facing his visitor, “And who would that be?”

  “Sergeant Fiona Gibbs, the short, blonde, ill-tempered copper who you’ve met, twice so far. I think.” Joel answered with a smile.

  Darren returned a blank face which slowly morphed with a devious smile, “Ah, that one. Yeah, she’s a piece of work alright. You wouldn’t trust a fuse that short without running for cover.”

  They both laughed heartily. Darren invited the visitor to take a seat and offered him a drink. Joel declined, but sat down on the dated, worn lounge.

  “So, Simon was a mate from school?” Joel questioned hesitantly.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I got that impression from Gibbs. You were on your way to his funeral, I believe.”

  “Simon was a school mate. Hadn’t seen him for years until a few months ago. A bit of a shock to find out he’s been killed. The papers call it a cold-blooded murder of a respected citizen. What do you think?”

  “I, err…I think sometimes things happen for a reason,” Joel said stumbling.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? He deserved to die?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “What then?” Darren prodded.

  Joel cleared his throat. “Sorry. Let me explain. Sometimes people get themselves caught up in dangerous activities.”

  “Are you saying Simon was involved in criminal activities? And he pissed someone off and got his throat cut?”

  “How’d you know his throat was cut?”

  Darren’s eyes narrowed, frowning he replied, “I’m a cab driver, mate. Not much goes past us.”

  “Maybe you could tell me more.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know about Simon. And if you don’t mind, I have shit to get on with.” Darren marched to the door, opened it and waited for the police officer to get up and leave. Joel got the message and stood, he brushed off his cap and put it on.

  “By the way, I like your Ford. The XC. My uncle used to own one years ago. Took us for trips up to Innisfail and Tully.”

  “Got it from my old boss. An ex-taxi. In case you’re wondering.”

  Joel shrugged off that remark.

  “If you ever want to sell it, let me know.” And stepped towards the door.

  Darren’s mobile rang.

  Joel glanced at the noisy device, “Your phone’s ringing.”

  The lean man descended the stairs skipping a tread with each step. Darren shut the door and picked up his
still ringing phone.

  ”I need time.”

  “You have a month. Better sell your house. And…before we conclude our business today… Mum’s the word.”

  The caller was gone.

  From lounge room window Darren stared at the empty space in front of his gate, most coppers on duty drive company cars, so why’s he driving off in a clapped out Civic? He’s either not a copper or he’s out on a private mission. Regardless, Darren knew everything from today would be different.

  CHAPTER 17

  TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE

  Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Ryker contemplated the phone call. All this stranger wanted was for a few of the boys to rough up a bloke, a cab driver, and send him this message, “The bank always gets paid.”

  This cab driver would know from where the message had come. A quick return, a nice five-hundred-dollar earn. ‘Dog’, one of the Riders’ oldest members had met this stranger at The Boar ‘n Chain, a pub, known to be frequented by local motorcycle enthusiasts. The stranger also alluded that this small favour could lead to business opportunities rarely offered to people outside the circle.

  Secretly, Davo likened Ryker to those stupid idiots that would part with a hundred grand to get a hundred percent return in six months, after receiving financial advice from a new friend. Absolutely no risk, just ask these people. Why would a perfect stranger offer the club these ‘supposed’ rare business opportunities? Ryker ignored Davo’s concerns, a dollar was a dollar, didn’t matter where it came from. Davo had a great idea – Eddie – let’s put him to work. Since the stoush at the caravan, Eddie had made himself scarce around the club. There was even a rumour that he was looking for other accommodation again. No one trusted the big ape of a man, and this suspicion was turning into feelings of hostility.

  “If we send Eddie, and something goes wrong, they won’t pin it on us,” Davo argued. “He’s not one of us. We disavow him, if he claims brotherhood. Besides his tatt doesn’t say Redemption Riders, it says, Devil’s Sinners MC Sydney.

  “And how are you going get him to do this favour for us? He’ll want payment.”

  “Ask him to do it in return for our past generosity, make amends and have him accepted back as a visiting brother,” Davo said.

  “You’re fuckin’ dreamin’, mate. Pretty sure, he doesn’t want to be accepted,” Ryker grunted.

  “Might give it a go. Never know, he might not want to burn all his bridges.”

  The clubhouse for the Redemption Riders was a fibro cottage in the middle of one of Townsville’s industrial suburbs. Until recently, Eddie had been shacked up in the backroom of a warehouse, next door, belonging to one the business operators in the motorcycle club’s circle of associates. A mate of a mate. One day, Eddie had packed up all his gear and moved out. He’d left his forwarding address with Davo, the only Rider he liked and trusted.

  ***

  The next morning, Ryker answered a knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in tandem on the rickety timber landing. The shorter one behind scoped out the surroundings, he took note of the wrecked station wagon against the mangled wire fence. No tyres or wheels spelled out a certain permanence as did the growth of weeds.

  “You Ryley Willendorff?” the officer up front asked.

  Ryker grunted without a word, and spat over the side of the little porch.

  The coppers viewed him with disdain.

  “What do you want?” Ryker avoided eye-contact.

  “Can you confirm your name first?”

  “I’m him. Now, what do you want?”

  The officer reluctantly accepted the biker’s curt reply, dispensed with the other standard questions and proceeded, “A call was made for a pick-up by taxi to this address, about three weeks ago. That same taxi was found in bushland, torched. Records show this was the last address that this taxi went to. Do you remember who made the call?” The police officer retrieved his notebook and started scribbling.

  “How the fuck would I know? We don’t use cabs mate, we got our own rides,” Ryker replied. The arrogant biker reached for his smokes in his top pocket.

  The copper flipped a few pages of his notebook, and replied, “Number twenty-seven, wait let me …”

  “Oi. Just a sec.” Ryker stopped him, lit his smoke.

  “This isn’t twenty-seven, pal. This is number twenty-two.” Ryker squinted at the coppers as he dragged heavily on the cigarette.

  The shorter cop interjected, “Could’ve still come from here.”

  “Time wasters. Piss off, you got the wrong address. Go and knock on the door at twenty-seven.” Ryker gestured with his thumb to the other side of the road and started to turn.

  “Looks deserted from here.” The short cop looked at the house across the street; weeds as high as a cane-field, glass smashed in all the windows out front, and a dilapidated timber letterbox with blistered paint – the number: 27.

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “Well I’ll tell you what is,” the short cop moved forward. “You see the taxi went walk-about and was found, burnt out. Now the taxi didn’t drive itself to Sandy Point . No sign of the driver. He disappeared without a trace, a family man. Now it is a missing persons case, I suspect it will turn into a murder case. Plain clothes will be earning frequent flyer points coming here, pal. Still think you don’t have a problem?”

  Ryker stared ahead blankly for a moment, then he dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the timber floor with his boot. “You done?”

  “For the moment. See you soon.” The shorter cop’s eyes lingered on the biker’s face. Then he stepped off the porch and returned to the car with his partner in tow.

  The police cruiser reversed slowly from where it was parked. From behind the tinted windows, it was clear that the occupants had maintained their interest. Ryker observed them from the doorway. Above the noise from local traffic, he discerned the familiar rumble coming from approaching Harleys. “Great timing, boys.” He sighed.

  Around the corner, two riders on Harleys skirted the police car which had just left the clubhouse. A questioning face from under the helmet greeted Ryker as the biker pulled up.

  Davo reefed his helmet off and yelled out, “What’s the go?” He flicked a thick lock of sweaty, brown hair off his face as he glared at the cop car disappearing in the distance.

  “The go?” Ryker pointed in the direction of the warehouse a few blocks away behind the derelict metal clad sheds. Although he wasn’t a big dude, his screwed-up gob was an ugly and intimidating sight. Davo understood the motion Ryker made with his hand. It was where Eddie had stayed.

  “Someone ordered a cab from here. That same cab got torched out at Bushy Beach somewhere. Remember that story? Guess what else? Cabdriver has gone missing as well. Cops already told me they’re coming back.” Ryker took a moment, “There’s only one cunt that uses taxis around here, and that’s the big ape. He’s a fuckin’ liar.”

  Davo’s head was spinning. A few weeks ago, he went out in the middle of the night – to Sandy Point . Eddie needed a ride. Get fucked. The only person who got taken for a ride that night was me.

  “Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone, Riles,” Davo said.

  Riles. Short for Ryley. Davo was the only bloke who occasionally called Ryker by that name – a hang-over from high-school days, best mates.

  “How’s that?” Ryker quizzed.

  “Help out the coppers, score some points – get rid of Eddie once and for all. Two for the price of one.”

  “Help out the coppers? You nuts?”

  “Help them out in a roundabout way. With a bit of luck, Eddie will get himself hurt or killed even. That’s one. Two: didn’t you want take up the stranger’s offer?”

  “Two for the price of one.” Ryker understood now.

  CHAPTER 18

  HOMO SAPIENS

  On the edge of a swampy creek north of Townsville.

  Under a glaring sky, and a hot afternoon sun, the muddy mangrove-lined
creek offered no relief as the young man shod his thongs to feel the edge of the tepid water-line. Heavy sweat rolled down his forehead while his sunnies slid down his nose for the sixtieth time as the freckle-faced fisherman carefully pushed the mangrove branch to get a better view of what looked to be a wire trap; a crab-trap, mostly submerged in the muddy water. The yellowish rope tied to a white float was stained with a brown muck. Before his sunglasses were going to slide off his nose completely he pressed them back hard against his forehead. Pushing hard wasn’t going to make them stay any better. Crouching as he was didn’t help either. Harold, a freckle-faced newcomer to North Queensland’s muddy creek hothouse world wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist staving off the flow of sweat beads. His throat was burning. He sniff-snorted hard until his throat gargled, gutturally producing phlegm – he swallowed the residue. He inched his bare feet forward. The humidity was overwhelming, like being cooked in a pot. Was this the foreplay before going troppo? He started to understand the meaning. Suddenly, he snatched his cap off his wet head, wiped his forehead again and slapped his cap back on. Then he spat.

  Harold Smith and his friend, Nigel Roberts were students of Marine Science, studying at the university as part of an exchange program from England. Today, during a fishing trip to the Bohle River they got side-tracked when exploring the maze of creeks and came upon an abandoned crab trap. Harold being the braver of the two, volunteered to retrieve the trap hoping to find at least one prized mud-crab.

  “Anything in there?” The question came from behind him.

  “I don’t know. It’s really hard to reach it.”

  “Keep at it. We can’t go back empty-handed,” Nigel urged his friend.

  Harold put one bare foot in the warm water, lifting his heel created a sucking eddy underneath, then he moved his leg forward a little deeper into the water, the other leg followed behind. Advancing like a sloth, arms floating in the air balancing his forward move, he looked awkward and worried. The sweat from his forehead was heavy, running like a tap now – nerves and humidity. The tips of his smooth, pale fingers stretched to reach the soiled Styrofoam float, it kept dancing evasively on the water’s surface as he tried to curl his fingers around it, and without having to move further into the murky water. His forefoot sunk a little further into the mud beneath. By wriggling his backfoot he managed to free it out of the swallowing muck. A ghastly thought shot through his head, wonder if crocs attack during the day? Next thing, he was holding the squeaky float in his hand, pulling the rope taut.