by JR Carroll
During the short ride, Corny suggested they meet up for a drink at a pub in Punchbowl one day the following week. With some misgivings, Sammy agreed.
30
Tim told Amy: ‘Keep away from those windows! Just stay put!’
She nodded. She was still standing against the wall, hands pressed flat against it as if trying to force her way through it. She seemed paralysed with fear.
He hurried downstairs to the lounge room window at the rear of the house where the land sloped downwards and access was only possible with a ladder.
By the time he got to the window, one of them—the American—was already halfway up. The sledgehammer was in his right hand.
Tim could see no other weapon.
He threw open the window, shouting, ‘Hey!’ to get the man’s attention.
The man raised his face. He was staring into the black hole of the pistol.
‘I wouldn’t do that!’ Tim said. His hand was steady; his jaw and the rest of his body clenched tight.
After a long moment, the American smiled at Tim, and began descending the ladder. ‘That’s cool, man. Easy on that trigger finger.’
Leaning out the window, Tim trained the gun on him as the man reached the ground. I should shoot him, he thought. This is my chance. But he couldn’t bring himself to take up second pressure—didn’t have it in him to kill a man in cold blood. If only he’d tried something—
The American began to walk away, but then—in a flash—he spun around and threw something up at Tim. Something heavy.
Reflexively Tim ducked back inside. The object, whatever it was, flew end over end; in a split second it whistled past his nose and slammed into the window frame where he’d been standing a moment earlier, embedding itself there.
It was an axe—a tomahawk.
The American scuttled around the side of the house.
Damn. Tim had had his chance—he might not get another one.
Now he cursed himself for a weak bastard.
*
Still feeling embarrassed and bruised from having lost his weapon, not to mention stabbing shoulder pains—Stav didn’t know shit about first aid, but he sure knew how to hurt people—Christo made his way to the BMW, gingerly rolling his shoulder as he walked.
He hoped he’d get another crack at this Fontaine bastard.
What annoyed him was how long it was taking to bust their way into the house. He didn’t understand why Cornstalk didn’t just torch it as per Stav’s suggestion.
That Stav, what a firebug. Christo had heard stories about his past exploits.
He opened the back of the Beemer.
*
Concealed in the shrubbery not ten metres away, Jimmy Raines watched, waited and listened. There was the sound of a chainsaw coming from the front of the house. He had on his night-vision goggles, so that everything showed up a luminous green in the darkness. There was someone, a tall man, at the door, wielding the chainsaw over his head, as if he were about to do something with it.
Then he saw a figure emerge from the dark. Jimmy had been watching the house and hadn’t noticed a second man approaching from the side, out of his vision, towards the BMW. He shrank back a little further.
He watched, holding his breath, as the figure opened the BMW’s trunk and started rummaging for something inside. After a minute or two he closed the door again.
Jimmy was anxious the guy might turn around and spot the Subaru down the track a ways—a dead giveaway. The car was twenty, twenty-five metres off, around a slight bend. Most of it was hidden, but the front was completely exposed. The man only had to turn around.
Jimmy could see he was holding a weapon of some kind—a pistol, maybe. He put it down the front of his pants and headed back towards the house, rolling his shoulder as he walked, as if he was in some discomfort. He did not look back towards the Subaru.
Jimmy breathed out. In his hand he held an adjustable wrench from the Subaru’s toolbox. He considered his options: crack the guy’s skull with the wrench, take him out right now while his back was turned, or wait and familiarise himself with the situation more thoroughly. He still didn’t know how many of them he had to deal with, how well armed they were, or the state of play regarding Tim and Amy.
If he took this guy out, the others might come looking for him. He might put himself into a position where he had to take them all on at once. That would be a no-win situation.
What Jimmy had going for him was the element of surprise, and little else. He decided to maximise his advantage, not do anything just yet, or until he knew more.
He watched as the man made his way to the front of the house. The one with the chainsaw seemed to be attacking the door. Far as Jimmy could ascertain, there were three men moving around.
He had to assume they were all armed.
*
Cornstalk began cutting into the solid timber of the front door. His plan was to cut around the hinges and the lock mechanism, then force the door inward. The saw hadn’t been well maintained, it definitely needed sharpening, but it was doing the job OK. Blue smoke billowed up around him as he drove the blade deeper into the wood. Be in there in a minute, he thought. Stav stood next to him, finishing off the last of the Beam. He was already wondering if there was another bottle in the car.
Christo was sitting on the disabled Kluger, checking his weapon. He hadn’t exactly covered himself with glory so far, and it showed in his body language.
Halfway around the first hinge, the saw became jammed. Cornstalk struggled to jerk it free, cursing as he did so: ‘Fucking motherfucker! Fucking chainsaw don’t cut for shit! Coming to get you, Tim! Coming to get you! You hear?’ He pounded his fist on the door.
In answer, a bullet ripped through the timber, struck the chainsaw’s guide bar and caromed off into the night.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Cornstalk yelled. He let go of the chainsaw, still embedded in the door and belching smoke, and scuttled to one side, out of the line of fire.
Christo stepped up and put three rounds into the door. But the .22 calibre bullets would not penetrate the two-inch-thick hardwood.
*
Jimmy Raines was deciding whether to make a move. His idea was to sneak up to the rear of the generator shed, keeping it between him and the men clustered at the door. All three had their backs to him. That would get him closer to the action, but it also had its dangers. He would be committed then and there was a real risk he’d be discovered. He decided to stay where he was for the time being, hidden in the bush, watching and waiting.
From there he could see that Tim’s Kluger had been damaged; the tyres were blown, as if shot out, and the radiator grille was a mess. They were making sure Tim wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
The one with the chainsaw had let go of it for some reason, and jumped out of the way. It was still stuck in the door. Then the one Jimmy had just seen at the Beemer fired some shots into the door.
‘Twenty-two won’t get through that,’ the third man said. Going by his accent he was an American. He was swigging on a bottle of something. Guns and alcohol: never a good combination.
Looking on, seeing how determined and violent these men were, Jimmy was torn—he needed to intervene at some point soon, but he would be signing his own death warrant if he took his chances and ran at them. They were obviously well armed, dangerous and drink-affected. He simply had to pin his hopes on an opportunity of some kind presenting itself.
*
Cornstalk pulled the chainsaw free. A strong burning smell came from it. It was out of oil, probably seized up, he concluded, and he flung it at Tim’s car. It bounced off the side, inflicting some dents and gouging deep scratches on the bodywork.
‘OK, Canuck,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, do your thing.’
The moment Stav had been waiting for. ‘About fucking time,’ he said. ‘Gimme a diversion, two minutes.’
‘You got it, cowboy.’
Cornstalk picked up the sledgehammer and slung it over his shoulder as St
av headed around the back to where he’d placed the ladder against the house. He was carrying a can of two-stroke and the empty Beam bottle.
When he reached the ladder, he filled the bottle with two-stroke. Then he removed the bandanna from his head and tore it into a half-dozen strips. These he soaked with the fuel.
There were empty wine bottles lying around near the foot of the ladder, spilled there after their cartons had disintegrated from rain. He filled bottles until the jerry can was empty, and stuffed fuel-soaked rags down their necks. They were lined up like soldiers ready to go to war. He began to climb the ladder. He was feeling a warm glow already.
As he ascended, a volley of shots rang out, right on cue. Then he could hear the repeated bang, bang, bang of the sledgehammer. Stav smiled to himself. This was hard-on territory for him. He could feel one coming.
There was the sound of glass shattering and a woman screaming. When he got to the attic window he forced it open easily, lit the rag in the Beam bottle and hurled it with all his might into the room.
It smashed against the wall opposite like a bomb going off.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, Tim’s attention was immediately distracted from the mayhem out front, the sledgehammer and the shots coming through the kitchen window, to the explosion and subsequent billowing of flames upstairs. He could see their lurid reflection on the walls. Molotov.
He put the .45 in Amy’s hand and brought her other hand up so she had a two-handed grip on the heavy weapon.
‘Anyone gets in, you shoot them, understand? Here, it’s all set to go. Just pull the trigger! And stay clear of the window!’
Frantic nodding indicated she got the message. Tim grabbed the fire extinguisher from its wall mounting and ran upstairs to the second bedroom.
The wall where the bottle had first struck was ablaze, almost to the ceiling. Flames had also raced across the carpet and were now eating up the bedspread. Soon the whole bed would be on fire.
He activated the extinguisher and sent out jets of thick foam over the flames. Within a minute or two he had it under control. The smell of burnt fuel and acrid smoke filled the room.
He went to the window.
The ladder was still there, leaning against the house. On the ground, looking up at him, was that fucking Yank he should’ve wasted earlier. He had something in his hand. Tim saw it come alight a moment before the object was hurled in his direction.
‘Incoming!’ the man yelled—and laughed like a maniac.
Tim leaped out of the way as a second Molotov burst into flames against the window frame. There was fire all around the window; the curtains quickly went up.
Tim went to work with the extinguisher. Holy shit. This keeps up, I’m gonna need more than one of these.
Two more bombs were lobbed in quick succession; Tim was going crazy trying to control the flames that spewed out in every direction.
The loud banging continued downstairs; Tim could hear the splintering of wood, along with sporadic gunshots. He made towards the stairs—then turned to see the bomb-throwing bastard climb through the window.
‘Hey, there, chum!’ the intruder shouted.
He was inside now, standing among the flames. It looked like they didn’t bother him at all. He didn’t even seem to notice them. The man approached Tim, stepping around the burning bed, thigh deep in fire.
Amy screamed downstairs; more shots were fired. If she’s screaming, she’s not dead.
Tim threw the extinguisher at the American but the man ducked and it bounced off his shoulder and crashed against the wall.
Then he charged at Tim, crash tackling him. The wind went out of Tim; his chest cavity caved in and he collapsed to the floor with the man on top of him.
It took a moment or two for his eyes to come into focus. When they did, all he could see were the twin black holes of the man’s cut-down shotgun an inch from the bridge of his nose.
‘Game over,’ the man said, grinning.
The words spun and repeated themselves in Tim’s head; he could still hear smashing noises and chaos downstairs. He whispered—something brief and inaudible.
‘What’s that?’ the American said.
‘Amy.’
31
Kicking back in the cab after leaving Cornstalk and the whisky stash, the glow of pale dawn light on the horizon, Sammy thought about the scene back at the army base. They’d left Dingo lying, or sitting, where he was shot, behind the semitrailer. Everything had been left. Cops would find a dead man, gut shot, a Volvo prime mover that might be stolen and an empty shipping container that definitely was.
He wondered if there was any way he could be connected to the crime scene. Probably not, he concluded. There was only Rafe left who knew about it, and he was a hospital case. It’d be a challenge for the cops.
First thing Sammy noticed when he got to the pub the following week, a semi-dive called the Prince of Paradise, was a tidy row of choppers and Harley-Davidson hogs parked out the front. The day was cold, but Sammy had on his standard gear, T-shirt and jeans, so that his muscle-power was in evidence. The pub’s doors were open, and a group of eight or ten roughnuts stood outside the entrance drinking schooners and talking in loud voices. They made just enough room for Sammy to get through.
As he passed by, one of them gave him a wolf whistle.
Sammy froze for a split second. Then he spun around. All the roughnuts were looking at him.
‘Who was that?’ he said.
‘Who was what, bitch?’ one of them replied. The others all laughed, some so much they spilled their beers.
Sammy locked eyes with the one who had spoken. As it happened, he was the roughest of the roughnuts, heavy set, dirty shorts and boots, maybe half a head taller than Sammy. The guy was a big bruiser, lover of bar-room fights. It was tattooed on his meaty forehead, above bushy red eyebrows overhanging his eye sockets.
A string of thoughts ran through Sammy’s mind. First off, if he took on one of these bastards, he’d have to fight them all. No doubt about it. It was a contest he had to lose. Second, if he turned and walked away, he’d be a laughing stock—a pussy. That was not an option.
In prison, there was only one thing lower than a bitch, and that was a dog. If you were a bitch and a dog, you were destined for a world of pain and misery. No one inside dared to call Sammy a bitch, despite his gym-sculpted body and his youthful, pretty face. No real man would tolerate having his manhood brought into question, and if you were a Greek Adonis, that went double. Sammy’s threshold in this area was zero.
Once, an inmate had placed a hand on Sammy’s thigh, and squeezed. Sammy was shocked, but not as much as the other man when Sammy drove an elbow into his face, fracturing his jaw in three places. Sammy did thirty days in the hole for that. But it was worth it. Word spread around fast that he wasn’t to be messed with, that he was no one’s bitch.
Third, if he was going to do something, he had to act fast.
He unleashed a straight right that hit the tattooed roughnut’s face with such explosive force his schooner went flying and he was lifted clean off his feet and hurled down the steps and onto the footpath.
Sammy braced for an all-out attack.
It didn’t come.
After a few seconds, the man lying on the footpath propped himself up on one elbow. Looking perplexed and even a little amused, he gingerly felt along his jawbone. There was a little blood at the corner of his mouth, not much.
‘Some punch,’ he said. ‘But you know, a bitch is still a bitch, even if she punches like a man.’
Sammy weighed up his situation. Seemed he could walk away right now with his honour intact. He decided to do just that. The man could have his parting shot if that gave him satisfaction.
He turned and entered the pub. All the roughnuts watched him go, clutching their schooners, but none made a move.
Once inside, he saw Corny, whatever his name was, standing by the window looking out. Apparently he’d witnessed the incident.
‘Nothing,’ Sammy said. ‘Guy shot his mouth off, that’s all.’
Cornstalk turned his focus to Sammy, gave him the once over. Sammy was still pumped, and it showed. Cornstalk broke into a grin. ‘Come on, tough guy,’ he said. ‘Loosen up. I’ll get you a beer.’
They sat at a table next to a wall where there were lots of pictures of racehorses and racing identities.
‘So happens those guys are mates of mine,’ Cornstalk said after his first mouthful. ‘You’re lucky they’re a bit mellow today. They’re capable of bringing this whole joint down.’
Sammy shrugged.
After a pause, Cornstalk said, ‘Any flak from the cops your end?’
‘No,’ Sammy said. ‘Nothing. You?’
‘Zip,’ Cornstalk said. ‘I’d say we’re in the clear.’
In fact, Cornstalk was lying. CID officers had paid him a visit three days prior, asked if he knew anything about a truckload of stolen whisky and a dead guy, apparently a biker, at Warwick Farm. Cornstalk was unfazed, gave them nothing. Dealing with cops was his meat and potatoes. He’d already disposed of the clothes he’d worn, which would contain gunshot residue, and he had a watertight alibi for that night. Several witnesses would swear blind he was visiting friends in Coffs Harbour at the time. Cops would soon lose interest in the dead man—what was one less biker? The truckload of whisky was another matter. That was a big heist. But Cornstalk had sold it into the clubs and pubs of inner Sydney. His prints were nowhere. He wasn’t concerned for one second.
After some more chat, Cornstalk produced an envelope, which he handed to Sammy.
‘What’s this?’
‘Well, open it and find out.’
The envelope was unsealed. Inside was a two-inch wad of green bills. Sammy’s eyes widened slightly.
‘That’s just to show I’m not a total cunt,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Your mate had behaved, he’d be copping the same. But he fucked up, and now he’s dead as a maggot, under six feet of dirt.’