A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  “Sure. Don’t worry about him.”

  Darren walked himself to the front door, she followed.

  “Thanks…thanks for…everything,” he hesitated.

  “Oh. I forgot. I have to pay you for the pizza!”

  “Sorry. But I can’t remember what that cost.” Darren smiled and left her in the doorway.

  ***

  Further north, not far from Cairns, Eddie had taken a wrong turn on the Bruce Highway and somehow wound up in Atherton, on the Tablelands. He blamed it on his lack of sleep. Between Atherton and Mareeba, Eddie had slipped off the road and had parked the Camry for a rest. A last look at his watch before falling asleep showed just after 3am. He woke at first light, about 5.30am. Without a blink of an eyelid, he started the Camry and resumed his journey to Cairns. It was drizzling.

  By 7am he was cruising through the village of Kuranda, looking for a cup of coffee. The village was dreary and wet. All the shops had their doors shut. The only sign of life, a few Japanese tourists checking out shopfronts, peering into the glass at displays. Aboriginal Art shops dominated the street-scape, Eddie wondered where all these industrious Indigenous artists came from.

  After cruising the short narrow streets which went around in circles, he nearly gave up on the idea of coffee. Doesn’t anyone open for coffee in this hippie-hole? Eddie grizzled under his breath.

  He drove through the same intersection, except from another direction, and saw some movement on the left under a large canvas awning. A lean woman with dark hair tied back in a bun was putting out some cane chairs. Eddie quickly swung the Toyota into a 45-degree parking spot in front of the café. Without getting out of the car, he stuck his head out of the car window and barked, “Got any coffee?”

  “If you ask me nicely,” was the curt reply, and she didn’t even look at him.

  Eddie narrowed his eyes, “Okay. Will you make me a coffee? Please. With two sugars and a shot of milk.”

  “Give me ten minutes.” Her reply was as snippy as the first, she walked away from the outdoor area, and disappeared inside.

  A bitch with attitude. Fuckin’ spare me. Eddie grumbled silently.

  Driving alone for hours had given him time to think about his next move. He had to get in contact with his cousin Bob – probably the last person he ever wanted to talk to. But Bob was family, and Bob would know a few things about cousin Bogdan. The main question being: why was ‘Boggo’ banished from the family?

  Eddie rummaged in his overnight bag, he fished out a small vinyl folder, unzipped it and fingered for a bit of paper. He found what he was looking for. A folded note-paper. On it written in black pen, a phone number; next to the number the name Bob. Eddie put his hand back in the bag and produced a mobile phone. With squinting eyes, he copied the number from the bit of paper onto the phone’s key pad. Patiently, he waited for the call to be answered.

  “Hello. Who is it?” A gruff greeting by cousin Bob, who sounded like he had a mouth-full.

  “It’s me, Eddie. Gob full of food, aye?” An equally crusty reply.

  “Uh. You. Whaddaya want? I’m having bloody breakfast.”

  “Bacon and eggs everyday will kill you, Bobby.”

  “Not havin’ bacon ‘n eggs. Leftover pizza from last night’s tea.”

  “Oh. Pizza night last night, aye? That’s original.”

  It reminded Eddie of his stay with Bob, hiding from the coppers after the Manly bloodbath between the Sinners and the Italians. Pizza delivered most nights for weeks on end, until he couldn’t stomach the sight or smell of one. Eddie hadn’t eaten pizza since then.

  The image of his fat cousin stuffing his gob with pizza was disgusting. He could see bits of food falling from his mouth, not making the grind. You fat fuck. Eddie raised his upper lip.

  “I want to know what happened to Bogdan. Why was he outcast by the family?”

  He heard him chewing.

  “Come on Bob, can’t be that hard.”

  “He was a bad boy. That’s all I know,” Bob replied with a burp.

  “Hey Bob, fuckin’ get real. All the boys in our family were bad. Except you, of course. Your shit didn’t seem to stink as much as ours.” Eddie tried his best to be nice, fearing Bob would just shut him out and hang up. Crawling to Bob made him want to gag. Eddie hoped he hadn’t pushed the button too hard.

  More chewing. Eddie pulled a face imagining Bob’s.

  “Bob. Please. I just wanted to know why he was banished. I want to visit him. He is our cousin. A blood relation. Surely, you must appreciate that.” A grovelling Eddie, his molars were grinding.

  “Why do you want to know about Bogdan? He’s up north somewhere. Cairns, the last time we heard,” grumbled Bob.

  “Got a contact number?” Eddie asked.

  Silence again.

  Eddie watched the skinny but tallish woman come out with a large mug in her hand. Was she slender and elegant, or a skeletal rake under that café apron? Eddie pondered about her. She snaked her way through the chairs and tables, came up to Eddie’s door. She flicked a few locks of hair from her face which had loosened from her bun, and said, “Here you go. That’ll be five bucks.”

  Eddie gave her a filthy stare, opening his wallet. He picked out a fiver. With the note wedged between two fingers he offered payment. She took the money and passed him the mug. She turned and went back to her kitchen. A semi-elegant rake, Eddie decided.

  “Time’s a ticking away, Robert. Have you got an address or phone number?”

  “No. Last time we heard, he was concreting.”

  “Concreting? Wasn’t he a car salesman in Sydney? Seems weird to me that a car salesman with lily-white fingers would suddenly be a concreter. Don’t you think?”

  Pressure. Bob would feel intimidated. Eddie was good at intimidating, squeezing. He was also running out of patience.

  Still no answer.

  “Well? Come on chubby checker. Tell me what you think.”

  Bob hung up.

  It took Eddie a few seconds to realise. Arsehole. He always was a fucking dweeb, and a dobber. He put the phone down.

  The drizzle had cleared.

  Eddie sipped from the mug. The coffee was outstanding.

  CHAPTER 38

  SHADOWS IN THE DARK

  “There’s a bloke at the front desk, looks like Tom Selleck, he’s after you. Says, you are old friends.” Her frown accentuated a devious smirk.

  “Thank you, Mizz Dawson.” Joel’s eyes bore deep into hers.

  She turned with a short huff.

  Joel ogled the rounded, firm backside. He half-hoped she would turn her head and scold him with that venomous smile. Joel liked the Communications Clerk, they had been on a flirtatious path for a few weeks – maybe a coffee would be next.

  Joel and Fiona Gibbs were due to go on road patrol in ten minutes. He had to be quick. Joel gathered all his accessories for the shift, roughly tidying his desk and parking his chair. He was keen to talk to Darren.

  Joel could see him from the corridor. Darren had one hand resting on the counter, even from twenty metres away Joel could tell he was uneasy. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought. People say things, unintentionally sometimes, when they are stressed. Darren’s frown was deep. It didn’t change much when Darren saw him coming, pushing his sunglasses down his nose.

  “Good morning. Although, by the look on your face, it hasn’t been all that happy for you. Why don’t you follow me out? Easier to talk out there.” Joel pointed his arm towards the exit.

  Darren grunted and followed the officer.

  As soon as they were out of the door, “I got stalked last night. Got any ideas?”

  “Stalked? How? Stalking is a big word.”

  “Dark coloured Commodore, tinted windows so black it would even make you jealous.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “They were parked out front, last night.”

  “Out front where?”

  “Where do you fucking think? My place, that’s where.” His
forehead sweating.

  “Got any ideas? Wasn’t any of us.” Joel shook his head with a baffled look.

  “You sure about that?” A snippy question.

  Joel didn’t respond and kept walking a straight line. He ran through some scenarios in his head. Could have been the Criminal Investigation Unit, if so, it was going to be hush-hush, and they would have by-passed Wilder as well. In the last week, the Simon Rowe homicide had gone to the back burner – no more media coverage, someone had swept a broom quietly, and swept all the dirt under the carpet. Nothing to uncover, walk away from this one. Very strange.

  “Hey, mate, are you listening?” Darren had grabbed Joel’s upper arm and pulled him back.

  Joel’s eyes bore into Darren’s. “Let go of me,” the copper snarled.

  They eyeballed at each other, angrily.

  Joel broke the spell, pulling his arm from Darren’s grip.

  “I’m a blackfella swimming in a white man’s pool. As long as I don’t ripple the smooth water they will probably let me swim a few more laps. But I am learning how to dive underwater. Hopefully they won’t notice. Soon I’ll be able to see everything like diving the Reef on a clear day.”

  Darren pulled a face. “Is this what they teach you in Abo school? Speak in garbled tongue?”

  “You got the drift, didn’t you?” Joel expressed his satisfaction.

  “Well, sort of. Still doesn’t tell me who those bastards in the Commodore were!” Darren shot back.

  “I can’t answer that question. How about telling me what happened, exactly.”

  Darren’s face tensed.

  “Righto.”

  He related what happened to Joel, leaving out the bit where he aimed the .38 at the Commodore.

  Joel nodded.

  “I’m sure it’s not our bunch, mate,” Joel responded.

  He paused.

  “Unless it is some black-op surveillance, like in Miami Vice, chasing a vicious taxi driver for dumping a granny with too much attitude.” With a serious face, at first, before breaking out in a laugh.

  “It’s not that funny, mate,” Darren snarled.

  They walked in silence.

  It was only another three metres or so before they approached Darren’s Falcon, and Joel stopped in his tracks, “Mate. I fucken love that car of yours.”

  He stepped closer to the XC and lay his hand on the turret, then he moved towards the front of the classic car, sliding his hand down the windscreen and the bonnet.

  “Shit, that metal gets hot!”

  “Be nice to me and I might sell it to you one day,” Darren grunted.

  “Careful what you say, can’t stand being teased,” Joel warned.

  “Neither can I.”

  “Darren, I do not know who followed you or who was behind this. But … I’ll tell ya one thing, your mate Simon has really stirred up an ants’ nest. So much so, that his case has been pulled and relegated to some ‘non-urgent’ tray in archives.” Joel kicked a pebble with his shoe, “Wilder thinks it’s bullshit. He reckons it smells like a giant arse covering exercise.”

  “Simon was destined to play with the big kids. When I knew him in Ingham, he was the biggest dope dealer in school. I was one of his few mates,” Darren spoke.

  “Why was that? You were peddling dope too?”

  “Nope. Simon couldn’t push me around like he did the others. The other kids were respectful of him.”

  “Respectful? Or scared? I’m well acquainted with the type. My school days were very educational, if you get my drift. I was a scrawny Abo, skinny as a fucken rake. I was taught how to toe the line.”

  An ear-piercing whistle cut through the background tunes of squabbling finches fighting over breadcrumbs. The sharp whistle was followed by an irate chastise. ”How many times, have I asked you not be late for a shift!” Fiona Gibbs was fuming.

  Both Darren and Joel turned to face the wrath of the five-foot-four stick of dynamite marching towards them.

  “Hey Gibbs, Darren’s gonna sell me his car.” Go on, give her a nice big Abo smile. Disarm, placate and survive.

  She slowed her stomp, and stopped snorting. “Hope he’s not ripping ya off.” She cast an evil look to Darren – with eyes narrowed.

  Darren slowly turned his head to face Joel’s wide grin, and quick wink.

  “Anyway, we haven’t got time for your car dealing crap this morning. Let’s go.” Gibbs trundled off.

  Joel nodded once and left Darren standing next to the XC.

  Darren was none the wiser from his meeting with Joel, but he did believe the stalker was unlikely to be cops. Reflecting, he was intrigued by Joel’s mention of Simon Rowe’s case being side swept.

  Shadows in the dark.

  The question was who would be coming out of the shadows next?

  CHAPTER 39

  FAMILY TIES

  The early tropical air had a prickle already – Slice could feel the moisture under his skin wanting to vaporise. A light south-easterly wind gust ruffled the water’s surface. The floating jetty reacted little to the disturbance, Slice listened to the light splashing against the pontoon. To his left, the twin, yellow hulls carved quietly through the channel, the tinted windows on the white two-storey superstructure boasted a glint from the sun. As the Magnetic Island ferry prepared to dock, Slice turned to face the big glass panels separating the outdoor seating area from the busy departure lounge. Looking like a complete local was out of the question, but he liked the bloke mirrored in front of him, board-shorts, a worn T-shirt with a faded XXXX beer logo, and thongs. The washed-out Broncos cap on his head was the winner, he thought. The final touch, his wrap-around sunnies, made him look, meaningful? He wasn’t sure, but it would make people avoid him – stop the small talk: beautiful, are you on holidays?

  Slice stayed back for as long as possible watching the throng of pushy backpackers swinging their big backpacks into others as they nervously milled around for the best spot. The impatience and disregard for fellow travellers annoyed Slice.

  He waited till last to board.

  On the way up the stairs to the top deck he was jostled. The offending youth paused at the top, started to bolt, but abruptly changed his mind, turned, only to be met by an irritated Slice who blocked the young man’s retreat.

  “Sorry, man, can you let me through? You’re sorta in the way.” The American accent did little to lessen Slice’s annoyance. Slice removed his sunnies, a hint of anger from his eyes gave way to a slow step aside. The American cowed, made himself thin and continued downward without another word.

  Slice made his way to the furthest corner of the deck, and stood against the metal railing looking back at Townsville. He counted on Salvatore’s nephew having received the instructions. Meeting on the island was Slice’s idea.

  ***

  To Slice, the new ferry terminal at Nelly Bay was a poorly designed feature for Magnetic Island with the modern trappings of glass, angled steel that spelled space-age, instead of welcome to a tropical island. It was in contrast to the casual and haphazard feel of the island – that throw-back-into-time feel.

  Stepping off the ramp on to the landing pontoon gave him an unusual feeling of carefreeness, a pleasantness which consumed him for the length of the ramp. At the end, a familiar face made eye-contact, a broad smile and open arms welcomed him like a long-lost relative.

  Although uncomfortable with displays of endearment, Slice understood it necessary for decorum. The eyes on Maggie never missed a wink.

  “Steven, good to see you, mate!” Matteo rejoiced.

  “G’day Matteo, been a while,” Slice responded with less fanfare.

  After a brief man hug the short Italian led the way to the drop-off zone, where his island car was randomly parked askew from the curb, in island-style. Both men jumped into the Moke. Slice forgave the hard seating for the open-air thrill ride of the topless car. Despite feeling the heat of the sun on his arms and legs, the whoosh of warm air on his face was invigorating. Matt drove the
Moke with dangerous confidence, twice crossing the divider lines around the blind corners. Casually slouched in the meagre driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and one arm on Slice’s backrest, Slice assessed that Matteo’s driving style was all Italian, heaps of balls but little brain. Slice’s initial excitement with the drive gave way to discomfort.

  “Lucky, the buses aren’t working today?” Slice commented with his hand on top of the windscreen.

  Matteo smiled, “We’re in front of them. The buses have not left the terminal.”Slice gazed at the stocky figure next to him. The Old Boy’s nephew was obviously in his element. Today’s visit was business and pleasure, and depending on how Matteo was going to react would determine the ratio.

  The population on the island numbered around two and a half thousand, plus day-trippers and tourists. Magnetic Island was a mecca for back-packers, especially from Europe. To Slice, Maggie, as the island was affectionately known, was also a magnet for society’s more eccentric types, a few runaways and just plain weirdos. In sympathy with its laid-back nature, law enforcement for just about anything was equally laid-back, although drink-driving and speeding laws were actively enforced. Crappy parking practices and drug use didn’t seem to attract the ire of the local constabulary.

  Matteo was Salvatore’s sister’s kid, sent to Maggie ten years ago from his native Italy to escape the clutches of a few local heavies whom Matteo had fleeced. Slice didn’t ask Salvatore, nor did he care. The Old Boy had sent him out to the island to make contact and get a feel of Matteo’s activities. The ‘posting’ to Townsville was becoming lucrative for Slice – a flat fee for a kill and disposal – one job done. Next one, the cabdriver: shake his tree, make sure The Old Boy gets his money, then kill him. Find that Eddie bastard: kill him too, but slowly. And now, Matteo: Salvatore’s instruction, or more to the point – his question: Did that little weasel deal with the stronzo from the bank behind my back?

  CHAPTER 40

  UNEXPECTED SURPRISE

  “Are you still driving for me?” Like Pete had practised the words to say. Darren listened to the voice through the phone without immediate reaction. It didn’t come as a surprise. Darren had knocked back a few shifts, he never felt obliged to ‘do the right thing’ by his boss. Darren didn’t care much for Pete, although his reasoning for disliking the brash and personality deficient taxi operator was unclear. Darren just didn’t like him. Period. No reason needed.