“Yeah, same here. Usually come on a Wednesday for a couple, after doing a bit of shopping. It’s nice and quiet on a Wednesday night.”
“You don’t live in town?”
“Nah, I live about thirty kays further south. Closer to the Clyde.”
“Yeah, I live even further south. Closer to Moruya. My cousin and I live on a property down there,” Martin blurted. “What was your name again?”
“Peter.” The lanky fencer noticed the shorter man’s eyes but made no comment, despite their odd intensity.
“What’s your name?”
Martin collected his thoughts. My real name, or will I use Mick again? Martin sized up his new friend for a moment.
“Martin,” he decided.
“Cheers Martin, good to meet you.”
There was a bit of stirring in the crowd. A couple of the band members brought in their guitars and started setting up their equipment. An air of excitement overcame the crowd, the banter slowed and then it fired up again as soon as everyone figured out that the music wasn’t about to start yet.
“I’m going out on the deck to have a smoke. You’re welcome to join me,” Peter offered.
“Sure. I’ll come out. Might even have a smoke myself.” Martin agreed.
The terrace was full. Most of the party-goers were nearer to the terrace doors to be closer to the music, rather than the balcony railing. Martin and his companion choose to be away from the crowd and went towards the edge of the balcony.
The smell of marijuana smoke came in waves of intensity as the cold breeze dispersed the sweet odour. Martin demonstrated his approval with a blatant sniff.
“That’s nice.”
Peter pulled out a small metal container, an old tobacco tin, and pried it open with his finger nails. The lid popped and he carefully picked out a pre-rolled joint. Martin gawked with surprise. To him, going out for a smoke on the terrace was lighting up a Winnie Red. But a little weed would be just fine. The thick joint with a pointed end neatly rolled tight was hanging down between Peter’s lips while he searched his pockets for a lighter. Martin drew his zippo from his back pocket. The back pocket that didn’t have the stiletto in it.
“Thanks,” Peter mumbled as he drew heavily to get his first fix of the day holding his breath for more than a few seconds, then he exhaled slow and long. Peter held the joint like a cigarette to attract less attention, but no one really cared anyway. Even the hotel staff couldn’t give a toss just as long as you didn’t light up inside.
Martin wasn’t uptight anymore, he was relaxed and even sociable. Rum and coke didn’t have the effect on him that it often had on other blokes. Martin mellowed with each serve. Combined with a smoke of weed he’d turn into a Buddha. A Buddha on the outside, with a hibernating devil on the inside.
Martin did survey the terrace in a discreet way. Matt had taught him how to do that. Matt had taught him many important tricks to be in control at all times. “Always look around you and take in what’s there, even when you’re talking to someone it’s possible to do that, be on your guard.” The words didn’t completely evade him at this time.
Martin lit a Winfield Red. As he did so, Peter offered him the joint which was already half-smoked. Martin gratefully accepted and took the joint with his free hand between his thumb and forefinger. After a quick glance to his right he sucked hard. The tip of the joint was glowing red and the Zig Zag was burning fast.
Within a few minutes the scene at the pub changed. It all slowed down a bit. Martin could feel his face warmed and his eye-lids felt swollen. The journey to the bar took forever, but it was okay. Everything was okay. Peter had followed him like a shadow. And that was okay. They were very stoned.
By stealth, the soft strumming of the classical guitar was turning down the volume of a hundred voices until only the sound of the instrument was heard. The music had silenced the crowd and had wooed them into submission. The first songs were ballads and eased the inebriated folk into a comfortable mood.
The line-up to the bar had eased as the music begun, many choosing to abandon their quest so as not to miss out on the entertainment. This suited the new buddies well. More Bundy thanks.
The evening seemed to melt away in time. At the first break, when the band stopped playing, there was a migration to the terrace. The swelling of crowd on the deck went unnoticed by the new buddies. They appeared ensconced in conversation, although in their state of mind much of the content would be lost.
What wasn’t lost on Martin however, was the quality of the marijuana – which Peter apparently grew himself.
CHAPTER 49
BUNDIES, BUDS & BLURTS
“So what do you think about this smoke, mate? It’s pretty awesome, hey.” Peter was delighted with his product and happy to share with his new friend. Martin was impressed in a stoned sort of way. In combination with the effect from the Bundies the drug was an uplift with a floating feeling at the same time.
“Yeah, it is really nice. Where did you get it?” Martin answered him with relaxed near stupor.
“Can I bum one of those Winnie Red’s off you, mate?
Martin reached for his shirt-pocket, under the wool-lined coat he was wearing. After a bit of a fidget he retrieved the packet of cigarettes and gave it to Peter. “Here, help yourself.”
“Actually, grow this myself.” Peter confessed, “I’ve been cultivating the plants for a few years. Every year, it gets a bit better, stronger.”
“What at home in a pot?” Martin queried.
“What did you mean, mate?” Peter was having a momentary lapse of concentration and trouble lighting his borrowed cigarette.
“Do you grow it at home in a pot, like a pot-plant. Haha, pardon the pun.” Martin sniggered at his own lame joke.
But it was lost on Peter. His reaction to that question was that he felt slightly offended, like he was some amateur growing dope at home. Peter did not offend easily, but he did find it necessary to dignify his answer. Unlike Martin, when Peter got offended he didn’t come out swinging, he just needed to set the record straight.
“No, I don’t grow this stuff in a pot, mate. I have a place where I grow these plants. In the bush. You can’t get good heads from a plant in a pot. I mean, you can, but it’s only a few that you can harvest. Not worth the trouble.”
“Fair enough.” Martin replied; his mind ticking over. Hmm, let me put this together. Slowly, he understood that his new mate, Peter, must have a little plot somewhere. Interesting. It was all his thought process could come up with to digest that information. Interesting. Too inebriated for a plan, but not too fucked to ask more questions.
“So do you have heaps?” An innocent enough question.
“Some.” Despite the easy flow of the evening so far, Peter became a little nervous that he might have overstepped the mark. Too many fucking rumbos. He regretted that answer.
“Want to sell some? I can pay you cash,” Martin offered.
“How many joints do you want, or do you want like a half ounce?” Peter relaxed a little.
Although Martin was quite intoxicated he had an uncanny knack to call on his reserves of manipulation to get something or someone. Martin also possessed a very keen sense of street intuition – he could smell opportunity from a mile away.
“Not for me. But someone I know that will pay you good money. I can organise it.” Martin put forward.
“So you in the know?” Peter’s curiosity lit like a torch.
Martin liked talking business. The conversation encouraged him to ‘collect’ his thoughts. This was a chance for him to make his own deal. No Matt. No interference, no more take a back seat and shut up.
“I got contacts.”
The conversation had changed from the earlier blowin’-in-the-wind banter towards a business proposition. Now it began to unsettle Peter. He had not expected the evening to turn out this way. Maybe it’s just paranoia. Fuck, why did I open my mouth?
“So what do you do for crust?” Peter decided to prod some himself.
“My cousin and I have a business,” a proud Martin stated, “We run a courier business. We do special deliveries. And pick-ups.”
“Oh, yeah. Like parcel delivery.” Peter understood.
Martin couldn’t help himself, he had to add, “Special parcels. Know what I mean?”
CHAPTER 50
SECOND CHIP IN THE WINDSCREEN…
“So where the fuck have you been?” The question was not angry, but inquisitive more than anything else. Matt had watched his cousin drive up the track towards the cabin from the comfort of the front veranda. The time was a bit after two in the afternoon. The soft sting from the winter sun was already losing its bite and the shadows on the ground had greater contrast against the penetrating light of the low-lying sun. A stunning afternoon, thought Matt. Too nice of a day to get all worked up over Martin’s night away. Fuck he deserved it. Or did he?
Martin’s white Corolla came to a halt in front of the machinery shed, a large open log structure clad with corrugated iron sheet panels for the back wall and half of each side. The metal roof was a bit how-you-going and had holes from corrosion.
On a slight defensive, Martin answered, “The Royal in Milton.” Matt had left him at the roads authority after the driving test and got a ride back with a mate.
“A good night, was it?” Matt enquired.
“Yeah, pretty good. There was a live band. Had a few Bundies and that was about it.” Martin avoided eye contact. He actually looked away. He was fidgety.
Matt took it in. His eyes narrowed and zoomed into Martin’s head.
Matt smelled a rat. He could smell one from a mile away. “See anyone we know?”
“Nope.”
“What, you spent the whole night talking to yourself?” Matt was probing because his gut feeling was that Martin was being evasive and deliberately vague. Matt knew his cousin and despite that he was not a socialising type he had difficulty visualising his cousin standing in a corner downing Bundies not talking to anyone. You see, Martin had this condition in Matt’s opinion, and it was called the ‘loose-lips-from-liquor’ disease.
“Yeah, most of the time I was on my own. Listening to the band. They were good.” Martin muttered on the verge of a sentence stutter. After that he shuffled off into the cottage. Matt was not convinced.
“So what was the name of the band, eh?” That’ll fucking stump him. Matt rejoiced at that question. But no answer was forthcoming. And that was no surprise to Matt either. There was an insect crawling across the timber decking board, near his boot. Matt studied it for a moment and then lifted his leg. The sole of the working boot crushed the little cockroach. Certain that the soft crunch of the boot had done its job, he repositioned his leg. Briefly, he inspected the unrecognisable insect. You’re a liar Martin.
Matt leant back into the timber bench, considering whether to continue his interrogation. He declined for now. But he knew his next step. Find out who he spoke to. Coax him into spilling the beans. Damage control.
Martin’s a blabbermouth. A pisshead with a big mouth. Should never have left him on his own. I’m an idiot. Matt sighed. He would have to be careful. His cousin could react badly and clam up. Martin could react really badly and swing that butcher’s knife. No, he wouldn’t do that to his own cousin. Patience. No need for panic.
CHAPTER 51
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK
Martin unwrapped the bit of paper. It was hidden in the ashtray of his car. A phone number was scribbled on it; hard to decipher. After all, they had downed a lot of Bundies the other night. He would definitely give it a try.
Reception on the property was dismal. It would have been good to ring from here. Matt was out, gone into town to make a heap of calls. Martin only wanted to make one call. He turned the key in the ignition and the four-cylinder engine came to life. It was eleven in the morning and nothing was scheduled for today so far. He’d go to Milton. That way if Peter answered the call he could meet up with him. Not Matt, and him. Just himself. No Matt.
Martin would keep this a secret. Nothing to do with being unhappy with his share of the proceeds. No, Matt was good with the money. Martin was well rewarded with money and a few toys. But he wanted more.
Nearing the bridge at the Bay he turned right taking him along the shore-line where he pulled into the first parking area. A good breeze was zooming along the top of the estuary causing white-capped wavelets to form. Despite some wisps of cloud, there was plenty of blue-sky. There was a melee of flapping seagulls squabbling over a bag of hot chips spread on the bitumen near a bench. They were noisy. Irritated with the squabble, Martin wound up his window to cut the noise down.
The folded and crunched serviette from the pub was laid out on his knee. He dialled the number and after a long pause, it finally rang.
“Hello,” the voice on the other end answered.
“Oh, hey, Peter is it?” Martin fumbled.
“Who is this?” The voice was reticent.
“It’s Martin. Remember. The pub. Last Friday.”
“Yeah. How’s it going, mate?” The cagey voice was friendlier than a few seconds ago. “Pretty wild night at the Royal, that night.” The voice had a reminiscing but restrained chuckle.
Although Martin was ill at ease with small talk, he became competent in conversation when he was scheming. The sea-birds had calmed down and most had scattered and were resting on the timber pontoon, until the next squabble.
Unexpectedly, it was Peter who carried on the conversation, “Yeah, don’t go there much on a Friday and glad I don’t. Took me a whole day to get over that one. Actually slept in the front seat of the truck.” Peter had another good chuckle. “How’d you go the next day? And where did you sleep?”
Martin wished his new friend would shut up. Too many questions. “I had a room upstairs. Went there after the band stopped.”
“Yeah, I left before all that. Walked down the hill to my truck. But too out of it to drive, you know.” Peter carried on. There was a pause and then, “How’d you get my number anyway?”
“You gave it to me. You wrote it on a serviette.”
A silent interval on the phone. Then, “Well. What are you up to then?”
“Oh, I’m in Milton.” Martin lied. “Thought we could catch up.”
The line went quiet. Tick-tock, tick-tock, Peter was thinking on the other end. Like you could hear the cogs of his brain turning. Then he said,” Yeah, right.” More interval. Buy some time.
But Martin kept his patience. He was on the right track now. Enough small talk. His friend was thinking; he could hear it loud and clear.
“Just thought I’d call in on the way home, you know. I’ve got a bit to do yet. Call in around yours or at the pub, in a couple of hours.” Martin looked at his watch. Milton was still a good hour’s drive from the Bay. Another pause, on the phone. Martin decided not to press too hard. He needed this bloke. If it was not today, it would be tomorrow, or the next day. But that was it. Not fucking around.
“Social call?” Peter ventured the question and dreaded the impending reply to his next question, “Or business?”
“Social,” Martin answered and the tension loosened in the line. A smart move.
Relieved Peter replied, “Yeah, sure mate. I’ll give you some directions. Had enough of the pub for a few days.”
“Yeah, copy that one. Still got a headache.” Martin laughed. His eyes stared coldly into his rear-view mirror. Fuck I’m good at this.
Peter’s voice was back, “At the end of Woodstock Road, just hang a right. Keep going and you’ll wind up going towards Nelligen. When you get closer to Clyde Ridge Road, you’ll come across a private road. Has a rural gate and no numbers. How long did you say?”
“A couple of hours,” Martin answered. “Say, three o’clock, thereabouts, if I don’t get lost.”
“There’s not much phone reception here, only on a good day.” Peter advised.
“You’re not there, mate?” Martin asked.
“I’m up at
a high spot, where I get reception. It’s near my place. Just doing some fencing,” Peter lied, “My ute will be parked near the gate.”
“Right, see you then.” Martin hung up. He was hungry. He spotted the seagulls huddled together to shield themselves from the breeze that had picked up. He got out of the car. The smell of fish and chips blew from across the road. After looking to his left and right, he crossed the busy road and headed for the take-away shop.
With some time up his sleeve, he could relax and enjoy his lunch. Martin was still half the size of his cousin. It was hard to keep up with Matt’s growing body. Although Martin was not on a quest to become the size of a Sumo wrestler, he did his best to put on a few kilos. He was sick of being scrawny. He was never going to grow taller, but if he could put on some weight at least he’d look a bit tougher. About the best he had achieved was a very small paunch. Still a scrawny cunt. Disappointed, as he viewed himself in the shopfront window.
“Do some weight-lifting.” Matt would say, knowing his skinny cousin was irked about his size. Martin hated any form of exercise. Fuck off, I’m not doing weights!
Martin planned his meeting with Peter today to be very casual. Social. No talk about marijuana crops. No talk about new deals. That would come later. But soon enough. Martin was burning with desire – to be his own boss.
The drive to the rural gate on the way to Nelligen was long. It seemed to go on forever, winding its way up and down next to deep gullies overgrown with tree-ferns. To most people it was a sight to behold. Beautiful rain-forest settings. Especially in winter. Martin had little appreciation for nature, wilderness, tree-ferns or animals.
Beware, the poor wallaby on the track, if Martin was approaching. Run away. Run away.
The white Corolla kicked up dust barrelling down the unsealed road. Martin noticed a metal gate only a hundred metres away, so he slowed the Corolla in a hurry. According to his tripmeter this could be it. There was a four-wheel drive truck parked just behind the gate. Yep that’s it. Finally here.
The brakes squeaked as the little hatchback came to a halt in front of the metal gate. Peter hopped out of the Land Cruiser. An excited cattle-dog barked in the back of the truck and paced back and forth in the tray. His tail was wagging uncontrolled, going in circles.
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