Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Three weeks of holing up with his much older cousin in Merrylands presented him with a choice of, either killing his cousin who was driving him crazy, or escaping the city and his meddlesome cousin. He wanted to head to Townsville. If not to take back his cocaine, at least to find that little scumbag and kill him for single-handedly ruining his life.

  The light over the bathroom mirror shone a pathetic amount of light, but it was enough for him to see where to cut his hair without slicing his ears with the sharp scissors. Large locks of thick dark-brown hair fell into the sink as he snipped. Years of careful manicuring gone in seconds. Eddie liked to look perfect, acutely aware of creating an image of being a perfect bikie leader, a hero in a pirate sort of way. Debonair, strong, masculine and visually ruthless in appearance: a ‘you cannot fuck with me’ look.

  Cringing with deep reluctance, he took to his perfectly groomed full goatee. The gold-coloured scissors snipped chunks of facial hair. He stopped for a moment to look at his past persona in the sink and the morphing one in the mirror. He shut his eyes, deploring the person he was about to become for the rest of the world to look at. He changed the scissors for the electric grooming clippers. Thousands of little brown hairs fluffed in the air before dropping on top of the basin. Now he was presented with another choice, shave his head completely or find a barber to tidy up his badly butchered hairdo. He chose the first option. An hour later, a different person was lodging with cousin Bob.

  “You’ve been up to something, haven’t you Eddie? Running from the law again. Mum always said you were a worry.” Bob was rocking the chair he was slumped in.

  “Shut the fuck up, Bob. And by the way, I’ll be gone in the morning,” Eddie barked.

  There was bugger-all to pack for the drive to Townsville. His face felt strange and naked. Lots of pimple-like spots had appeared where his goatee used to be. He was satisfied that he wouldn’t be recognised. A visit to Lowes in the Westfield shopping centre had provided him with a new look. He could pass for ex-military, judging by his shaved head and large upper body with hulking shoulders and small tree trunks for arms. Maybe a footie-player. The size of him didn’t match the small Daihatsu he’d bought a week ago. Even the seller of the vehicle thought it strange for a big burly bloke that looked like a biker to buy his Charade. “It’s for my loving wife,” Eddie had assured the man.

  The Bruce Highway is a very long road. It is ridiculously narrow in many parts and resembles a goat track for plenty of miles, requiring good concentration to safely travel the great distances between population centres. It was not the first time Darren had travelled this highway and little had changed over the years. From the Sunshine Coast up the scenery changes dramatically from lush and green forests to a much drier and flatter landscape, the further north you drive. Very late spring equalises the temperature differences a little, but halfway between Rockhampton and MacKay, Darren could feel the intensity of the heat. No doubt, it being just after lunch time also made that difference notable. Patch was stretched out in the back seat panting with his tongue hanging out. The back window was wide open so he could stick his head out to catch the wind. Not as keen as before. The intense heat bouncing back from the road-surface combined with the intensity of the sun’s rays only made it hotter for the dog when he stuck his head out. Darren was worried. Patch was a cool temperature dog; he was used to the unpredictable temperature drops, cool wind changes from coastal southerlies and south-westerly blasts from the Snowy Mountains, not the searing temperatures of the tropics.

  Flat, boring, a mostly dry and light brown landscape, the last one hundred kilometres to Townsville were slow and tedious. Not because of traffic or road-works. Darren was just tired and keen to get there. Two-and-a-half days of driving a few thousand kilometres was exhausting. Thank fuck for that. Wulguru. Turn left. The outskirts of Townsville.

  Darren’s brother, Dougie Mangan moved to Wulguru about ten years ago. South of Townsville, but located not far from the city, the move had allowed him and his wife to afford a small fibro home to start his family. Dougie worked on the roads. It was a great long-term career. He’d been unofficially promoted to be a bit of a crew-leader, which was a great feat for a bloke who was shy and soft-spoken. Dougie didn’t look anything like Darren. His face was smooth with puffy cheeks and a receding hair-line. His shoulders were drooping and he had a healthy beer and pie gut. Their reunion was celebrated with a dozen ice-cold Four-exes, each. Glenda, his equally pudgy wife, cooked up a wonderful meal with curried sausages and mash, as she guzzled from her white ‘cardonnaye’. Patch lay in the shade under a large clump of golden cane palms, still panting but relieved he didn’t have to get up.

  “Staying long, mate?” Dougie asked.

  “A few days, if that’s okay. I’ll be looking for a place to rent for a while.” Darren replied.

  Dougie lifted his stubbie. “You can stay as long as you like.” He took a gulp from the cold beer. “Doesn’t the new Patch look like our old one?” He drank again and lamented, “Was a sad day, aye. First time I ever saw Dad cry.”

  “Yes, it was,” Darren agreed.

  “Hope he’s got more road sense than old Patch did,” Dougie commented.

  Like a snake in tall grass he slithered his way into a job with JBH Civil Works. Martin was good at fibbing; it was second nature to him. Up here, far away from the eyes of the law and other undesirable, nosy busy-bodies, he felt comfortable about being Martin Villier. There was work aplenty. Working for a big mob on big civil construction sites offered opportunities to not have to work very hard. Lots of people working and therefore opportunity to find out the good stuff. Martin was convinced that in six months he would be able to make some connections with local organised crime. He was hooked on the thrill of being on the bad side.

  “So, you’re the new bloke,” said the over-weight man extending his hand.

  “Yeah.” Martin reached out to shake his new boss’ hand. “Martin is my name. Some people call me Villo.”

  “Well, follow me Villo,” And the healthy-sized construction worker led the way.

  Eddie took a look at himself in the rear-view mirror. Sleeping on the back seat of a Charade was a memory he could live without. Get fucked, it’s a long way. He whinged to himself. A service station sign pointed to the right off the highway. Marlborough, a tiny speck on a map. He pulled into the servo and filled up the fuel tank with unleaded. As he finished tightening the filler cap, he heard a familiar sound coming up the road; the unmistakeable thump from a Harley. The bike-rider pulled up behind Eddie’s Charade. The now bald bikie appraised the new arrival. The biker took off his Bell Rogue matte black helmet, revealing a thirty-something face with a scruffy light-brown beard, thick eye-brows and deep-set brown eyes. Had he been blond, Eddie would have sworn it was a re-incarnation of Bushy.

  “What are you looking at?” barked the unfriendly biker before he got off the Harley.

  Eddie wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, but ruffling someone’s feathers in the driveway of a servo didn’t seem a good idea. So he answered, “Sorry, mate, you look like someone who was recently killed. A mate of mine. Didn’t mean to be offensive.” Eddie’s short-sleeved T-shirt exposed part of the Sinner’s devil’s head tattoo on his upper arm.

  “What’s that tattoo?” Look-alike Bushy asked.

  “Club colours,” Eddie replied, “Devil’s Sinners, Sydney chapter.”

  Look-alike Bushy nodded, approving. He disembarked from his Soft-Tail and approached, stepping casually, Eddie could tell he was wary.

  “Dave,” the biker extended his hand. “Strange mode of transport.”

  “It’s a story,” Eddie replied.

  “Redemption Riders, Townsville chapter.” The stocky bikie showed off his colours, patched on the front of his brown leather-jacket. He turned around and stepped back to his Harley to top up his fuel tank. Club colours were proudly patched on the back of the jacket.

  “You headed to Townsville?” Eddie asked.

&nb
sp; “I am,” Dave replied as he squeezed the handle to release the fuel pumping from the bowser.

  “Buy you a coffee, mate?” Eddie offered, as he watched a B-Double slowly pass entering the large open truck parking area behind them. The big rig kicked up a storm of dust, as it drove in.

  “Black. Four sugars,” Dave ordered.

  Eddie walked off and entered the small truck-stop café to pay for his fuel and order coffee.

  Darren was pleased to be back in the tropics. He wasn’t sure about staying in Townsville for long, but he knew that if Martin was here, he would find him. Even if it meant living here for the next few years. Dougie and Glenda looked after him and treated him like royalty. After a few weeks he had enough of the monotony of their lives. On the last night of his stay, his brother mentioned something that changed Darren’s world. Dougie was no stranger to talking about work and the blokes at work, their stories of family woes, car woes, ailment woes, and mother-in-law woes. Darren wished he could put his life into rewind; taxi-driving wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “We put on this new bloke the other day. Fucking strange bastard. Something wrong with him I reckon,” Dougie swigged from his stubbie.

  “Why is that?” Darren asked in automatic response, bored with his brother’s monotonous conversations.

  “He’s got these strange black eyes. He’s only the size of a frigging cane-toad.”

  Darren choked on his beer. “What did you say?”

  “He’s the size of a fucking cane-toad. Short. Although he’s as skinny as a grass-hopper.” Dougie sipped some more amber liquid.

  Darren’s day had just improved.

  The Redemption Riders Motorcycle Club was not unlike the Devil’s Sinners Motorcycle Club, except that it wasn’t defunct. Although the Redemption Riders membership accepted Eddie as one of their own, he wasn’t granted patched status. Eddie’s time was mostly spent with Dave, or “Stocky” as he was nicknamed by the other members. Eddie filter-fed his new friend the events from the south, leading to his quest to find a better future. Trust had to be earned, but it went both ways. He needed the Riders’ trust and they weren’t going to put their trust into him, until he could persuade them otherwise and offer something worthwhile. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine was worthwhile. So the feelers went out. Find the scumbag that took the Sinners’ drugs.

  Look for a scrawny bloke, not quite a man but not a boy, in his twenties with a receding hair-line, thin light-brown hair, that’s if he hasn’t cut it off or shaved his head. But above all, you’ll not mistake him when you see his eyes, black, beady, sort of like the eyes of a white pointer. “No, not tits.” A point that needed clarification after a few comments and laughs. “Seriously, boys, those eyes possess a lifeless quality. You won’t miss them.”

  CHAPTER 98

  HOLIDAY?

  At ten to seven in the morning the temperature was already an unbearable 27.5 degrees. Martin wondered why he should be putting up with this. He was disappointed that after six weeks of working for this company, he hadn’t met any blokes that were even remotely bad. Eddie’s phone was dead. This number is disconnected, he mimed the operator’s voice.

  His mobile rang. However, the big diesel from the 30-tonne excavator nearby coughed a lot of black smoke as it came to life. The warm-up idle was quite high, and the noise prompted Martin to move away. “Just a minute. Can’t hear. I’m moving to another spot.” Martin commanded his instructions through the phone without hearing who the caller was.

  “Remember me?” The voice spoke.

  “No. Who the fuck are you?” Martin answered sharply.

  “The taxi-driver, mate. From Manly. It’s good to catch up with you.” Darren’s voice turned into one of a long lost friend. And he rattled off, “Fuck me, how’s that? I’m sitting around talking to me brother the other day and by sheer luck I find out that you’re the new bloke on his job.”

  “How’d you know it was me?” Martin was a little suspicious.

  “Oh, mate you can’t hide those good looks of yours.” Darren laughed. “He described your eyes and it sounded familiar. Your voice is definitely familiar.” Darren crossed his fingers. There was no response.

  “Still got those guns?” Darren volunteered another friendly chuckle.

  “Funny you should say that, because I do still have some of them.” Martin was serious. “This time, I don’t want to be fucked around.” Hesitantly, Martin asked, “What about your mate? The one who owned them.”

  Darren bit his lip, “He’s dead. He doesn’t need them anymore.” He paused to let that bit of information sink in. “I’d be happy to buy a couple, you know. This is Queensland. Lots of things can kill you here. A bit of protection won’t go astray, you know what I mean.” Darren’s play surprised even himself. Lying and pretending to be mates with this rat was difficult for him to pull off.

  “I’ll think about it. I have to go. Ring me tomorrow.” Martin ended the call. He wasn’t sure about this, although it was an opportunity to get rid of a couple of guns. He was sick of cleaning them anyway.

  Nick washed the salt from his face, cupping his hands under the outdoor shower. Surfing this time of year was over-the-top good. His cold shower was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile.

  “Found him.” Darren’s first words.

  “Hey, how are you mate?” Nick greeted. Then he asked, “Found who?”

  “Martin.”

  Nick’s pulse went up a few notches. He wasn’t sure whether finding Martin was such a good thing.

  “You kidding.”

  “Maybe you ought to fly up here and you can help me round him up.” Darren suggested.

  Silence.

  “What, like have a holiday?” Nick hesitated.

  “Whatever you wish to call it. The fishing is really good up this way. Just remember there is a prize catch out there.”

  “Yes. I guess I hear you. Might have to think about catching that big prize of yours.”

  “Call it a holiday, mate. Pity that your mate Rafe couldn’t make it up here as well.” Darren ended the call in anger.

  CHAPTER 99

  PLENTY OF THINGS TO KILL YOU

  It was a sweltering 37 degrees. February in the tropics. The black T-shirt Nick was wearing felt like an invisible blanket of steam wrapped around his upper body, and the heat bouncing back from the dry ground was roasting his legs like chicken drumsticks. Even standing in the small strip of shade that the high canopy of the Nissan Patrol gave him was only a temporary reprieve from the 2 o’clock heat. Nick had arrived in Townsville the day before. Southern heat was different. Beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead and dripping on the rim of his sunglasses. The salty moisture was collecting on the lenses of his Oakleys.

  The piercing heat of the tropics did not dampen Nick’s excitement to explore these creeks to catch barramundi or mangrove jacks, despite his apprehension and anxiety about the presence of deadly wildlife; the ubiquitous threat of a crocodile encounter. Crocodile whispers.

  Townsville was surrounded by creeks and rivers, to the north and south. Like a number of coastal North Queensland Rivers, some remained bone-dry from lack of flooding. Prolonged periods of no, or little, rain were not uncommon in many parts of Queensland. The unique geographical location of Townsville on an east to west direction of the coast interfered with the uplift forces of weather-patterns conducive to creating the ideal conditions for rain. Townsville could endure some long periods of dry weather.

  Not all of these creeks were dry, with many of them under influence from oceanic tidal movements, which could vary greatly as the moon phases went through their cycles. These green and brown murky waters lined with mangroves exuded an eerie and a dangerous ambiguity in their beauty. A deceitful peacefulness. These creeks were not teeming with crocodiles, like further up north or further south, like the Proserpine River, which was infested with crocs. But just because you could not spot them did not mean crocodiles were not there.

&n
bsp; It was just that you couldn’t see past the murky water’s surface, so you never knew what was beneath. Nick had read about the saltwater crocodile and remembered the article:

  The Indo-Pacific, or saltwater crocodile, is an extremely fearsome and very large predator. It is in fact the largest of all crocodilians in the world. And it is the apex predator in this habitat, which unlike a Bull shark, or White pointer, can hunt in the water, or out of the water--- at the water’s edge. The “Salty”, as it is also called has an incredible amount of power in its tail, legs and body and is able to propel itself from complete obscurity under water near the water’s edge and launch out of nowhere, exploding from the surface to surprise and shock its prey into a momentary lull, to then get snatched, crushed by their powerful jaw, and slowly pulled back into the water.

  Nick looked at the creek, where death could be slow, by drowning and the crushing of your bones at the same time --- or violent with wild trashing and rolling --- either way, it was final. The thought sent a shiver up Nick’s spine.

  So certain basic rules apply. One of them: stay well clear from the water’s edge, unless well-elevated. The other: do not clean fish near a boat ramp or any spot frequented by people.

  However, there was no need for paranoia. To be fair, crocodiles did not inhabit these creeks in packs or significant numbers. So the numbers were low and local crocs lived a more solitary and isolated existence. Implicitly, and in paradox, this made the threat of complete surprise and a possibility of an attack even higher.

  Nick wished he had put on shoes instead of wearing thongs. His feet were burning and the black straps on his thongs were scorching his feet.