by Graham Guy
“Don’t ask,” she replied, handing him the addresses of Gina, Franco and Luigi. “I have my ways.”
When John James got into the cab he’d hailed to take the two of them to Marcella’s place, he was careful the cab driver didn’t get a look at him. He sat directly behind him, almost in a crouched position. If Marcella noticed his over-cautious behaviour, she didn’t comment. John James had the driver circle Marcella’s place three times before he was happy to pay and let him go. Moving as quickly as his irregular gait would allow him, he and Marcella were soon inside her apartment. John James was also confident no-one had seen them enter.
“We better be quick,” he told her. “There’s no telling if those bastards are onto you… or me.”
Marcella went quickly to her bedroom and took a suitcase from a wardrobe. She was busily packing her clothes into it when John James walked in to join her.
“I have something for you,” he told her.
“Oh, Peter, you’ve already given me so much… and when this is all over, wow, it looks like it’s going to be millions.”
Marcella could see John James was holding something behind his back. Her eyes opened wider in anticipation. “Oh, you really are spoiling me.”
“Turn around and close your eyes.”
They were the last words Marcella would ever hear. The moment she put her back to John James, he jerked his pen-gun from his shirt pocket, pressed it to the back of her head and released the firing pin.
Marcella never uttered a word as she fell, dead, onto her bed. John James had watched carefully to see where the bullet would lodge after passing through her skull. But this was one bullet he wouldn’t retrieve. It had gone through her bedroom window. Coldly he looked at her. He foraged through her handbag and withdrew the remaining $100 bills he’d given her. He went to the kitchen, soaked a tea towel and rubbed it over all the places where he felt his fingerprints could be found. He checked around the rooms to see if by chance there was anything that could identify him. He returned to the bedroom and placed a finger on her neck to make sure the woman was definitely gone. She was.
“Sorry, babe. You were a loose end. I can’t afford loose ends.”
As he hurriedly, but cautiously, left Marcella’s apartment, his mind was spinning with the thought of such a massive booty. It might be nothing, but it might be all the money in the world.
Now I know where these sons of bitches live I’ll just take my time. When the move is on, I’ll be there. Then we’ll see who gets kneed in the balls!
* * *
McLoughlin and Bourke were having breakfast in their room when the news came on the radio. The death of the Italian woman was being widely reported, but no different to any other murder.
Homicide squad detectives are investigating the death overnight of a woman in her King’s Cross apartment. Believed to be aged in her early thirties, the woman is thought to have been alone at the time and was killed by someone known to her. Detectives say there are no signs of a struggle. She died after being shot in the head at close range by a small-calibre handgun or possibly even a pen-gun…
McLoughlin nearly dropped his coffee cup. Bourke looked at him. “It’s the fucking Weasel… the bastard’s done it again!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The pen-gun! The fucking pen-gun! He knocked a sheila off in Melbourne years ago with a pen-gun.”
“I thought they went out with the ark?”
McLoughlin shook his head. “They used to be big in the jails, but they managed to clean that up. But some of the crims still use them. By Christ, they’re effective. But this sheila? I’m telling you. It’s the fucking Weasel, believe me,” he said reaching for his phone.
“Who you ringing?”
“Johnson,” he said and he moved away from the table. “Sir, good morning, sorry to bother you. It’s McLoughlin…”
The police detective then explained to the New South Wales Police Commissioner what his suspicions were about the overnight killing of the Italian woman.
“This bastard’s got form with a pen-gun sir. I need everything there is on this investigation.”
“I’ll see to it right now you are called within the hour by Inspector Harry Springer. Springer heads up homicide.”
“Thank you, sir.”
* * *
John James remained holed up in his flat for nine days before he went outside. He listened constantly to radio news bulletins, and television newscasts became compulsive viewing. The death of Marcella received heavy coverage in the twenty-four hours after her body was discovered. As it turned out, that was three days after her death. A local council employee, topping a nearby tree, reported seeing a bullet hole in her bedroom window. Before killing Marcella, John James bought three second-hand VCRs from pawn shops so he could tape everything that went to air.
When the initial surge of reports had run their course, the death of the Italian woman received little or no coverage after 48 hours. Within 72 hours, all coverage of Marcella’s death had dried up. Still, John James persisted in listening and watching for any indication that police were on to him.
* * *
It was only a matter of hours after Marcella’s body was found that homicide detectives were climbing all over the Lay Lady Lay nightclub. Yes, Marcella was a regular. No, she didn’t mix very much. Yes, Enrico was forced to admit he’d had sex with her and that was as far as their once-only association went. Yes, the barman was forced to admit he too had had a sexual encounter with her. Gina admitted she was a casual acquaintance, other club patrons said they knew her to say hello to with Franco and Luigi telling police the woman wasn’t known to them. But the common thread emerging from the inquiries was the man she met casually and infrequently in the early hours of the morning. All gave a common description of a slightly-built man, of unfortunate looks with a peculiar hopping gait. No-one knew his name or anything about him, much less where he lived.
McLoughlin’s phone rang. It was Inspector Harry Springer.
“Commissioner Johnson has spoken with me, what do you need to know?”
“I need to know if the prick who knocked the Italian sheila is the little germ I’m after.”
Springer told McLoughlin what was known of the case at that stage plus a description of a man she was seen with at irregular intervals.
“Yeah, that’s the bastard.”
“Not much to go on is it?” Springer retorted.
McLoughlin gave a slight grunt. “Definitely a pen-gun?”
“That’s what first reports indicate… need the lab report to be sure.”
“And germ-features walks with a kind of hop and is as ugly as sin?”
“Seems to be the case, yes. The commiss played this one pretty close to his chest, Sergeant. What’s going on?”
“Can’t tell you that Harry. Sorry. But I do need to be kept in touch with everything about that woman’s death. What I can tell you is that it’s priority, right to the top. I have to catch this bloke.”
“We’ll do our best. This the only number?”
“Twenty-four hours, Harry. Ring it anytime.”
* * *
John James counted down the days to September. He knew there was a lot to do to single out which of the brothers would be the runner. His persistence paid off. After continually staking out each brother’s home, suddenly a four-wheel-drive appeared in Enrico’s driveway.
Him. It’s got to be him.
In the days that followed, he noticed bigger tyres had been fitted to the vehicle. A large front-to-rear roof rack. Several jerrycans were lined up along the front of the rack. A bull bar was added, which in turn had been fitted with a winch and high-powered driving lights. Two large radio aerials. A hi-lift jack mounted on the rear. A large car fridge then went in. The vehicle’s seats were replaced with custom-made highly expensive Recaros.
From a distance, John James watched as the vehicle was transformed over a period of two weeks. Every day something else was ad
ded.
These pricks are planning a very, very long trip. But when? And where? Whatever it is, it’s big. Damn big. Maybe Marcella was right. Maybe the hit is for twenty million. That’s even too much to dream about. But you’d hardly do up a bus like this if you’re not going somewhere. And, by hell, they’re going somewhere!
John James began to wonder about his own vehicle. If he suddenly had to take off and follow, which is what he was expecting to do, he would also need to carry extra fuel. His mind went to the car he seldom drove, locked safely away in the garage at his flat. He felt confident he could go anywhere anytime in it, and with safety.
Better get a couple of jerrycans, I think.
The installation of pen-guns in the air-conditioning ducts in the dashboard also gave him an added-feeling of personal security. Fearing anything might happen, John James loaded his vehicle with everything he’d need for a long journey. As he sat outside the Italian’s house in the early hours of the morning, the stillness of the night was broken with the arrival of three vehicles in quick succession. Enrico emerged from his front door, hugged his brothers, shook hands with a woman (That’s Gina, has to be… bit hard to tell from here though, but it has to be!), climbed into his vehicle and drove off. John James waited for a few moments, then followed.
Remaining at a lengthy distance behind, he followed Enrico as he made his way up the freeway to Newcastle and beyond. Because the four-wheel-drive looked so much like so many others, John James sometimes thought he’d lost his quarry. It meant he had to remain doubly alert. On through the morning, the day and into the night, Enrico only stopped briefly to take on fuel. John James was grateful the Italian was so pre-occupied with the job at hand, he didn’t even bother to check to see if anyone was following. For three days, Enrico kept up a frantic pace behind the wheel. John James was near exhaustion. His eyes felt like balls of sandpaper. He knew if he stopped to sleep when Enrico stopped to sleep, he’d wake to find him gone.
So he forced himself to stay awake. Enrico continued to travel north. John James would check the map.
Bloody hell, if he keeps going like this he’ll end up in the ocean.
Finally, the waiting was over. John James backed off considerably when he followed the Italian through Normanton.
Karumba, he thought. There’s nowhere else to go.
Satisfied his assumption was correct, he drove his car over salt-pans to a bushy area, a long way in off the road, south of Walkers Creek camp. Checking that he was safe from hijackers, muggers and car strippers, he switched off the engine, locked all his doors, left his driver’s side window open a little and tilted his seat back. He put a pengun in his hand and a cushion behind his head.
He didn’t wake for ten hours. When he did, it was with a start. He turned the ignition key to accessories and lowered the windows in the two front doors.
I bloody heard something! I know I did.
As he strained his ears for the slightest sound, it came. Quickly he opened his door as silently as he could, knowing if someone was approaching it would be from the passenger side. He rolled onto the ground from his seat and crawled on his belly into nearby bush. In a few seconds he had cleared his car and become invisible. His heart began to race. As he peered through the bushes, he saw two men approaching. They were nervous and fidgety. They were also in a hurry. As they closed in on John James’ car he heard their conversation.
“Get a load of this! Jesus, is this Christmas day or what?”
“Can you see anyone?”
“Nah. Must have broken down. Poor bastard will be in for a shock when he gets back eh?”
John James watched as a tool box was opened and a spanner placed on his vehicle’s wheel nuts.
The mongrel bastards! They gonna strip my bloody car.
Crawling on his belly he wondered how he was going to deal with two of them. One wasn’t a problem. Two were. He would take the first one by surprise with the pen-gun. But both were much bigger men than himself. Especially the one on the other side of the vehicle. One wrong move and he knew he’d be dead.
John James moved as silently as a cat. When he was only a few metres from the man on the driver’s side, he leapt to his feet and lunged. His leap landed him right next to the man removing the wheel nuts from the vehicle.
“Happy Christmas, arsehole,” John James sneered.
His victim didn’t know what hit him. The pen-gun was jammed into his ear and the firing pin released. The would-be thief slumped forward, dead. Hearing the Happy Christmas greeting and a shot from the other side of the car, his accomplice raced around the vehicle. He caught John James by surprise, still on his haunches, landing a vicious blow to his head. John James slumped to the ground, almost senseless.
His attacker was yelling and screaming as he threw himself on top of him, wrapping his arms around him in a vice-like bear-hug. John James thought he was going to pass out with the pain of such a hold. Gradually, he was able to move his hand across to the top of his belt and jerk the rip cord. It was attached to a pen-gun he wore on his belt but was pointed to the rear to cover him for just such an attack. He heard the gun go off, a screeching “Aaaah!” and then felt the big man’s grip on him loosen. The bullet failed to find its mark but it gave John James sufficient time to free himself and push his attacker on to his back. As he did, he threw himself directly on top of him and jerked a second rip cord.
This one was attached to another pen-gun which was aimed to annul any attack from the front. Again John James heard the little weapon fire. This time the bullet did its job, penetrating the heart of his attacker. He watched the big man’s eyes roll back into his head, a look of total surprise on his face. Covered in blood back and front, it took John James all his strength to drag the two bodies into nearby bush. He took their personal effects to prevent immediate identification, then covered them. He was grateful at being so far off the road.
At least there’s no one else around, he said to himself, fighting to stop his body from trembling.
He reloaded his pen-guns then took a can of water and a bowl from the boot of his car. Then John James took off his clothes and washed himself down. He grabbed a clean shirt and trousers from an overnight bag and placed what he’d taken off into a plastic bag.
Jesus Christ, I better bury that lot really deep… but not here.
Suddenly, the shock of what he’d endured and the action he took hit him like a tonne of bricks. His face was on fire, pains gripped his stomach and he shook uncontrollably.
Get yourself together, John James, and get the hell out of here,’ he told himself.
He checked his car’s wheel nuts, climbed in behind the wheel and drove back to the main road. A short distance away he came across an old Holden utility.
That’s their bloody car, he thought, slowing down as he approached it.
He checked the road behind and ahead. There were no other vehicles. He pulled up and grabbed a screwdriver from his glove compartment. He hurriedly removed the vehicle’s number plates, used his pocket knife to disfigure the registration disc, piled what belongings were in the cabin into one corner and soaked the car’s interior and exterior with petrol. He then ran a trail of fuel several metres long, up the road. John James raced back to his car, drove a short distance, ran back, threw a lighted match into the petrol trail and rushed back to his car. The flames quickly snaked their way to the old Holden. He saw it erupt into an inferno in his rear vision mirror as he drove away.
“OK,” he yelled loudly as he held one hand to his bruised cheekbone. “So where the fuck are you, Enrico?”
* * *
McLoughlin was becoming increasingly frustrated. “Mate, he’s gone to ground, the prick. Nothing surer,” he said to Bourke.”Nothing from Springer?”
“Only that it’s a dead cert The Weasel’s our bloke, but Jesus, he’s just disappeared into thin air. No bloody sightings from the cabbies. Nothing from the coppers in their cars.”
“I meant to tell you, his bloody picture�
�s at the airports, too. And nothing from any of them.”
“So what now?”
“We just have to wait. I’ll get on to Johnson again and ask him to prioritise The Weasel’s picture. Send it out again if he has to. Somebody, somewhere must have seen him.”
Chapter 11
The place has changed a bit since I was last here, Enrico thought as he drove slowly around Karumba. Television aerials peeped out of rooftops and there appeared to be more front gardens than years before. He pulled into the side of the road and again checked his map which also gave a brief outline of what amenities were on hand. Three caravan parks and six sets of holiday cabins. He looked ahead and saw a sign.
That one will do. Units are cabins, I guess.
He booked and paid for three nights. He didn’t want to be in Karumba any longer than he had to be. After three days and nights on the road, the shower and a change of clothes was most welcome to the city-raised Italian. Deciding not to lose any time in trying to find a pilot, he chose to leave the cabin and go for a walk. He recalled how the one place you didn’t go was The Animal Bar, regarded as being the roughest pub in Australia. Cautiously, he approached the establishment and did something of a double-take when he saw two women standing behind the bar serving.
By hell, that joint must’ve changed, he thought. In the old days, you wouldn’t have found a woman near the joint. He paused for a few moments. Hell, if there’s women barmaids, the place can’t be too bad. I’ll see how it goes.
Enrico walked into the bar and sat down on a stool. A sprightly woman, probably in her thirties, approached. “Howdy… what’ll it be?”
“Just a beer, luv… bloody hot isn’t it?”
She laughed and said, “You must be a tourist. Most of you lot have emptied out by August.”
Enrico laughed back. “That obvious is it? Tell me then, what do tourists do around here for leisure?”
“There’s two TV channels, that’s it,” she said. “You can’t swim here because of the crocs. Bloody big salties, so you need to be aware of that. Know it and respect it. Leave them alone… they’ll leave you alone. They were here first. And if you go walking through the bush,” she continued with a wry smile, “then watch out for the taipans, the pythons, the blacks, the browns, the tree snakes and the goannas.”