by JR Carroll
They chewed over the situation for a while. No hurry—no one was going anywhere.
‘What’s the next move, boss?’ Christo said.
Cornstalk threw down his cigarette. ‘We get inside,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘I’m working on it,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Got any ideas?’
Stav took a swig of the Beam.
‘Here, gimme that,’ Cornstalk said. The bottle was nearly empty. He finished it off. Didn’t matter—there was another one just like it in the car.
Stav was examining the bullet-hole-riddled door. ‘We could try shooting out the lock,’ he said.
‘We could,’ Cornstalk said. He’d already thought of that. He positioned himself in front of the door lock, which was housed in a steel plate. ‘Guy takes no chances,’ he said. ‘This is heavy-duty shit.’
‘So just blow it to fuck,’ Christo said, standing back.
Cornstalk levelled the pistol, a .44 magnum. Next to his Beemer the gun was his most treasured possession. He’d got it off a Sydney hood for the best part of five thousand dollars, near-mint condition. Trouble was, in the movies they shot out these locks no problem, but in real life it wasn’t that easy. He knew a guy, an Angel, who shot himself in the guts doing just that, hit by a ricochet. On top of which a piece of metal hit him in the eye, blinding him.
‘Fan out,’ he said. He aimed at the lock, angling the shot so the ricochet would fly off to the right, put a hand over his face and squeezed the trigger: Bang, bang, bang.
When the smoke had cleared he examined the steel plate. There were three decent dents in it, nothing more.
‘Well that did a lot of fuckin’ good,’ Stav said.
‘I got a chain in the car,’ Cornstalk said. ‘But there’s nothing to attach it to. Wouldn’t grip properly on the doorknob. Anyhow the door opens inwards. Need a … a battering ram or a fuckin’ sledgehammer.’
Cornstalk inspected the windows, tried the bars. ‘What kind of idiot puts steel bars on his fuckin’ bush shack?’ he said.
‘The kind who doesn’t want a bunch of homicidal maniacs rocking up to do him in,’ Stav said.
Cornstalk glared at him. Stav just grinned back. Water off a duck’s back.
‘Yeah, but … apart from that. Wouldn’ta been the reason way back when he had ’em installed.’
‘Well, he’s an ex-cop. Ex-cops have enemies with long memories. We know that for a fact,’ Stav said. ‘How about I blow out the windows, shake ’em up a bit?’ He was itching to do some shooting of his own.
‘Give ’em somethin’ to think about,’ Christo said.
‘Yeah, go for it,’ Cornstalk said.
13
One Sunday Cornstalk had a phone call from Hegarty. A ’78 Pontiac Firebird TransAm was coming in, and he needed someone to drive to Sydney to pick up some parts.
‘Take the truck,’ he said, referring to the E-Z company workhorse, a Ford 350. ‘Rick and Tommy’ll go with you.’ He supplied the name of a wrecker’s yard in Penrith. Cornstalk knew of it; they’d done business before.
During the journey, Rick Hegarty had little to say. All he wanted to do was listen to the radio. Cornstalk didn’t like him much. He was a quiet customer, almost sullen, until he got drunk, and then you couldn’t shut him up. Rick was an alcoholic—oftentimes he drank himself legless and had to be carried home to his wife. He was a good enough worker, but when he cut loose he was a mess. It seemed to Cornstalk he struggled with the fact that his older brother was so much better in every way. If there was a weakness in the organisation, it was Rick.
Tommy, on the other hand, was a Greek with a strong personality and a sound work ethic. Nothing complicated about him.
When they got to the wrecker’s yard there was no explanation necessary: everything had been arranged. Cornstalk gave the fat-bellied manager a wad of cash, which he promptly trousered. Then he pointed out the wreck in question and disappeared back inside his crummy wooden hut of an office.
It wasn’t the same model, but it didn’t matter as engines and other vital components were interchangeable in the Firebird range. This one had been hit hard on its side; all the windows had blown out and there were bloodstains on the front seat and dashboard—looked as if it’d broadsided into a pole at high speed.
Stripping the car of everything they needed took up most of the day, including the wheels, engine block, transmission, cooling and electrical systems. Most of the working parts were in good shape despite the body damage. Although he was no mechanic, Cornstalk had picked up quite a bit since coming to Hegarty. He knew his way around a car’s innards well enough. But it was tough going, hard physical slog, loosening seized bolts, lots of heavy lifting under a hot sun without the advantages of being in the workshop.
They drove through the night on the way home. They were all drinking beers by this time, spent but pleased with themselves. Cornstalk mentioned something about Hegarty’s Harley, and Rick casually let drop that his brother was a member of a local chapter of the Hells Angels.
Cornstalk was stunned. At first he thought Rick was bullshitting, but no. Dave Hegarty was anything but Cornstalk’s idea of a biker. To him a motorcycle gang consisted of roughnuts—brawling, lawless bastards who wrought havoc wherever they went. They were criminals, killers, standover merchants, drug dealers, gun runners. There were turf wars going on most of the time. Dave Hegarty definitely didn’t fit that profile.
Some time later, at an opportune moment when they were in the pub together, Cornstalk decided to raise the subject. It had been gnawing away at him for weeks.
‘You’re a Hells Angel, aren’t you?’ he said out of the blue.
‘Where’d you get that?’ Hegarty said.
‘Oh, you know. Heard it around.’
Hegarty grinned, even as he fixed Cornstalk with those watery blue eyes. ‘Rick, eh? Got a mouth on him sometimes, that boy. Anyway, doesn’t matter. It’s no big secret.’
‘You don’t look like a biker,’ Cornstalk said.
‘Why, because I don’t wear leather and chains and go around shooting up the streets?’
‘I guess so, yeah. But you just don’t seem the type to go in for a massacre.’
‘All kinds of people are in the Angels, Corny. You’d be surprised. Hot-shot lawyers, businessmen …’
‘Lawyers? You’re kidding me.’
Dave shook his head. ‘We’re a low-key outfit. Don’t go in for that crazy shit. Just go on runs, enjoy the great outdoors. Hang out in the clubhouse, play some pool. What’s the harm in that?’
Now Cornstalk was sure Hegarty was pulling his chain and Hegarty saw the dubious look on his face. He burst out laughing and slapped Cornstalk’s arm.
‘Well, maybe I’m exaggerating,’ he said, and went to the bar. When he returned he explained: ‘Only reason I don’t advertise, I don’t want these big, strong boys coming up, fancying their chances, you know—bring down a Hells Angel. Plus, I don’t need cops nosing around. Cramping my style.’
That was understandable, given his line of work. For Cornstalk it was another dimension of Hegarty that set him apart from the crowd. He wouldn’t have minded being part of an outfit like that himself. He’d never really belonged to anything, the army wouldn’t have him, his own family didn’t mean much to him, so maybe a motorcycle club was the next best thing. But how did you get into the Angels? Cornstalk decided to see if Hegarty could help in that respect, dropped some gentle hints here and there.
A couple of months went by, nothing happening, and then one day when they’d shut up shop, Hegarty suggested they go for a drink at this pub Cornstalk had never visited before. It was a warm summer evening. The hills were purplish and the sky a perfect duck-egg blue: a fabulous Southern Tablelands day. Cornstalk well and truly called it his home by now.
When they got to the pub Cornstalk saw all these Harleys lined up outside, their chrome gleaming in the late sun. Hegarty grinned at him as they went inside.
The bar was half full of Hel
ls Angels in their club gear, all leather and denim, tattoos everywhere. When he had a schooner in his fist, Hegarty introduced Cornstalk to a huge bear of a man named Wombat. Wombat had a beard down to his chest. He was apparently the sergeant-at-arms. When he shook Cornstalk’s hand he gave him a hard-eyed stare, as if he wanted to crush him like an ant. But Cornstalk wasn’t fazed, or scared. This was what he expected. They weren’t the boy scouts. They were the one-percenters—the lawless breed.
Later on Cornstalk asked Hegarty how he could join Hells Angels. Hegarty’s immediate response was to laugh in his face.
‘You don’t just join the Angels,’ he said. ‘It’s not like, you know, a debating club. Takes time. Years. Took me five years before I was patched in.’
He then explained the process involved a series of stages, from ‘Hang Around’ through to ‘Associate’, ‘Prospect’, and ultimately, if he was voted in, ‘Full Membership’. Cornstalk realised he had a long haul in front of him.
‘One thing,’ Hegarty said. ‘You never tried to join the cops, did you?’
‘Nope,’ Cornstalk said. ‘But I did try for the army once.’
‘Army’s OK. Cops are not,’ Hegarty told him. ‘Tell you what. I’ll put in a word, see if we can get you started. Course, you’ll have to get yourself a Harley.’
Cornstalk was on his way to becoming a Hells Angel.
He soon acquired a 1000cc hog, similar to Hegarty’s but not as expensive, then set about learning the ropes, riding it around the backstreets so as not to draw attention from busybody cops. One time he went out on the highway and opened her up to see what she’d do. She flew like shit off a shovel. And that note gave him such a hard-on he gave his old woman no rest in the crib each night. Riding his hog always put him in the mood to ride his woman.
Soon as he got his licence, Cornstalk was hanging around his future brotherhood as often as they’d let him, at the same pub, the Royal Carbineer, and at the occasional barbecue. He got a real buzz seeing his Harley lined up with the others outside the Royal Carbineer. One thing he found out: he had to prove he could load up on booze and stay on his feet. That was no problem either.
By the time the nineties rolled around, Cornstalk was pretty much accepted into the fold and had advanced as far as ‘Prospect’ status. He found out he’d been associating with the bikie gang longer than he’d thought: they’d been part of the car rebirthing business from the get-go, stealing the cars that ended up in Hegarty’s workshop.
He was becoming more widely known in Hells Angels’ circles as he circulated among them, trying to gain their friendship and trust without coming across as some pathetic tryhard. Candidates were supposed to meet everyone in the various New South Wales charters—smaller versions of the local chapters. Once in Newcastle he got into a pub brawl and had his nose bent out of shape. He got on OK with the main man, an imposing figure about Cornstalk’s own height, but built. His name was Edd Brunello, but everyone called him Jaws because of his prominent front teeth. Seemed no one in the Angels went by their proper name, which suited Cornstalk. And no one was even slightly curious as to what his real name was.
By late 1994 he was beginning to wonder when, if ever, he’d gain full membership. And then out of the blue Jaws told him he had to pass one more test. Someone needed ‘fixing up’, he said: a man named Vernon Cartwright.
‘What’s he done?’ Cornstalk said.
‘Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know that,’ Jaws answered.
Fair enough, Cornstalk thought. What difference did it make? He was only too happy to oblige.
Jaws told him that Cartwright was the night manager of a pub in western Sydney called the Golden Lion. He knocked off work at about eleven each night. His car, an old dark blue Commodore, was always in the car park behind the pub. The car park was poorly lit. When Cartwright approached his car, Cornstalk was to attack him—with a baseball bat.
‘How’ll I recognise him?’ Cornstalk said.
‘You won’t have no trouble with that,’ Jaws said. ‘This motherfucker is fat, real fat, with a fat, bald head.’
‘OK,’ Cornstalk said.
‘Just remember,’ Jaws told him. ‘Put him in hospital, not the cemetery.’
‘OK,’ Cornstalk said. ‘When?’
‘Any time you like,’ Jaws said.
Sooner the better, thought Cornstalk. He went out and bought himself a baseball bat, having decided to get it over with next day.
Eleven o’clock the following night, a Wednesday, saw Cornstalk behind the wheel of a borrowed Ford Falcon in the rear car park of the Golden Lion. With him were two gang members—Wombat and another guy named Tony L’Huillier, known as Oil Can. They were present as witnesses or for assistance, if needed. The rain was pelting down when Vernon Cartwright exited the hotel through the back door. He had a six-pack in his hand, no doubt planning on a nightcap when he got home. But he wasn’t going home that night.
Cartwright made a dash for his car and as he was fitting the key in the lock, he swung his head sideways and saw the looming figure of Cornstalk coming out of the sheets of rain. Next thing he knew was the baseball bat crashing with ferocious power against his shoulder blades. That was the end of him, right there. When he hit the ground, Cornstalk laid into him good and proper, hit Cartwright so hard and so often the bat broke in half. That was when he put the boot in. The drenched and bloodied mass of flesh twisting and writhing on the ground groaned and wept and begged for mercy, but Cornstalk wasn’t stopping. In went that boot, again and again; blinded with rage and bloodlust he set about finishing the job, and would have except that Wombat’s hand grabbed him. He stared at Wombat, realising he’d lost it.
‘Come on,’ Wombat said. ‘Job done. Let’s blow.’
That was it. Cornstalk was now a fully patched-in one-percenter. It was October 1994. There wasn’t a happier man on the planet the night Jaws gave him his patches. After the ceremony in which he swore lifelong allegiance to the HAMC, he drank himself into a total stupor and ended up sleeping it off on a pool table, his long legs dangling over the edge.
As for Vernon Cartwright, he finished up in a wheelchair with brain damage and a fractured spine. There were no witnesses and his assailants were never identified. It was always thus. No citizen in his right mind was going to stand up in court and point the finger at mobbed-up bikers, a crew of hard-head supporters in the gallery giving him the stare.
Cornstalk never did find out what Cartwright’d done to cop his whack. Not that he was interested: life now was all about riding the hog with his brothers-in-arms, decked out in his World War II bomber jacket bearing the famous insignia of a winged death’s head encircled by the words HELLS ANGELS AUSTRALIA.
All this time he continued working for Dave Hegarty. They’d backed off a bit on the rebirthing in recent years, following a spate of newspaper articles. Some Sydney journalist had gone undercover, made a name for himself; now the cops were taking a closer interest. There was talk of a dedicated task force in biker circles, cops swarming all over them. Cornstalk never read the papers, except for the sports pages, but now he figured maybe he should. Cops were the enemy; you had to be ready for them.
He also decided it was time to arm up. Through underground connections he bought two shotguns, a semiautomatic handgun and a .22 rifle that had been cut down and modified so it could be used as a pistol. In the realms of fantasy, he saw himself dying in a hail of police gunfire and taking down as many of them as possible, right to his last breath.
Most of his fellow gang members did not have jobs—at least, not legitimate ones. They supported themselves by dealing drugs, ripping off drug manufacturers, armed robbery, prostitution, extortion, beatings and even killings for hire. It was a world Cornstalk had warmed to. This was the life. He wanted to embrace it full time, but he stayed on at E-Z Body Repairs, mainly out of loyalty to Dave Hegarty. In the meantime he was making a name for himself: his lack of fear, the willingness to get in there and do what had to be done building hi
s reputation.
They soon saw he was a born terrorist and standover man. Wombat was starting to look over his shoulder, his job maybe in danger.
Over time, Cornstalk had warmed to a gang member, Stav—a Canadian—partly because of his exotic background and accent but also because he had a certain charisma. Mostly he was quiet, good-humoured, but when he erupted someone was going to suffer.
14
Tim had identified three voices by now, including an American, he thought. Who were these people? He was sure he didn’t know any of them, which meant they’d been sent by someone else—someone he did know. Someone with a major grievance against him.
He trawled through a list of dissatisfied clients. There were some, not a lot, no more than you had to expect as a criminal barrister. There were those who expressed anger and disappointment at the time, also some who bottled their resentment, and they were just as dangerous, possibly more so. They didn’t send hate mail or make threatening phone calls. They just appeared out of the blue, burning for revenge.
Recently, two, three years ago, a matrimonial case lost, a disgruntled client hid in his lawyer’s front garden and shot him as he put his key in the front door.
One thing for sure: Tim would never go anywhere near matrimonial matters. As a noted brief told him once, there were no winners in those cases.
In all, Tim counted five or six possibilities in his own past. There was Trevor Peebles, who had murdered his grandfather believing he had money stashed in the house, which Peebles needed to buy drugs. Peebles made a full confession, then retracted it and pleaded not guilty. When he was convicted, Peebles seethed vitriol towards his defence team, led by Tim, who he believed had conspired with police to get him convicted.
And there were others, similar but perhaps not as bad.
Dale Markleigh? He was certainly angry and dangerous enough. Murder was nothing new to him, so he was top of the list. He ticked all the boxes: he was an embittered ex-cop who’d already committed at least one murder; he hated Tim for failing to get him an acquittal; he bore lifelong and deep-seated grudges; he was recently released from jail; he knew his way around the underworld and was well-connected enough to put together a hit team like this bunch.