Billy followed Jimmi, who followed Max; Jarrah was way ahead now.
“Maaxxx. I’m tired,” Jimmi whinged, breathing rapidly.
The distance between them and Jarrah grew another twenty metres. The lagging threesome slowed to a crouch, with Max stopping, putting his finger to his mouth and hissing, “Shush!”
Jarrah had stopped by now, he bent over resting his hands on his knees. He waited for the others to get up from their crouched position to join him. Jarrah had controlled his heavy breathing, concentrating on regaining a normal heartbeat. Stupid kids, he thought. He ogled them from the corner of his eye, as they slinked closer.
“Youse cunts are too slow! Ya gotta learn to run fast,” Jarrah scolded the boys in a hiss.
Max leered at the older boy, Billy and Jimmi cowed.
“Tomorrow we go to Annandale,” Jarrah spoke. “There’s a flash Commodore with fucken twenty-two-inch wheels I seen the other day.”
“Sweet,” Max said.
“We done now.” Jarrah walked off without another word, the others followed him without a murmur, until going their separate ways upon reaching home turf.
***
Busta growled briefly, without menace. Billy tip-toed over the front yard and approached the patio, Busta slapped his tail twice, lifting his head with a friendly look. Then Billy heard the kitchen door squeak, “You bin bad again, Billy? You bin doing criminal with de otha boys?” Auntie Jilli stood at the door, knuckles tucked into her ample hips.
CHAPTER 47
KARMA
The nail-clippers were a disappointment. If Slice’s tools of the trade were that blunt a few of his victims would still be walking around. Lost in thought, filing the tips of his nails with the precision of a watchmaker, he tried to forget this evening’s farce. The sortie to the Strand wasn’t a total disaster, just a disaster. The taxi driver had seen him, and had made him. That look of recognition, that rage on his face.
This Darren guy knew exactly what he was looking at. Getting close to this man could prove to be a challenge. Not that he would turn his back on a challenge, but there was no job worth getting injured over, or dying for, God forbid.
It was by chance Slice was out for a drive along The Strand when he spotted the parked XC Falcon. Should’ve kept driving. But he did a U-turn instead to check it out, to see what the taxi driver was up to – only to be staring into his eyes, three minutes later. Bad luck.
The anticipated phone call came.
“Yeah, I’m available now,” Slice replied and put down his nail file.
“Tell me about my nephew. Is he behaving himself?” Salvatore asked impatiently.
“There is nothing to indicate to me from his living conditions that he is making money. His behaviour towards me was casual, vague and superficial. I did not spend much time with him today. We had some coffee and he spoke about his love for fish, and playing with girls. Is he up to something behind your back? I do not know. Is he being frivolous on purpose, hiding something? Definitely.” Slice reached for his cigarettes.
“Ungrateful bastardo,” Salvatore muttered.
“You are jumping to conclusions. I will go back and ask questions. But I must have your permission to ask … difficult questions, to get meaningful answers.” Slice lit his Dunhill, inhaling, then blowing smoke into the air above, watching the haze dissipate.
“Hmm. I want to know what he is doing. Do not kill him. Do not leave any permanent scars. You know what to do. He’s not Simon Rowe. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“What about my money? Is the house sold yet?”
“Not that I am aware of, but I will check.”
“When the house is sold and the lawyers are finished, you finish that taxi driver too.” The Italian grunted through the phone.
“I assumed as much. I have been keeping an eye on him.” Slice lay back in his recliner.
“Good … and Eddie? Where is that snake? You have not said anything to me, about him.” His comment cloaked a threat.
“Yes. I realise that I haven’t been successful in locating him. Give me time. I promise I will deliver.”
“Soon.” A command.
Call ended.
Slice put the mobile down, picked up his nail file. Salvatore could be very difficult to deal with. One day he would rethink his relationship with the gangster boss.
The unit Slice had rented was located in a quiet suburban street, leafy by Townsville standards, but not insulated from the local marauders. Having no lock-up garage didn’t worry him, he came to Townsville with a suitcase of clothes, a couple of wigs, and a make-up kit. A leather carry-case containing three knives accompanied him on his travels. Slice always declared the contents of the case at security check points in airports. After all, a Chef who travelled for his work, needed to bring his tools of the trade. It was an excellent guise.
If needed, a handgun would be made available wherever his job would take him. Salvatore’s cousin in Townsville had provided him with the use of a .357 Magnum.
Slice felt he was a man of simple habits and wants.
He didn’t own a home. It made you trackable. He preferred renting a unit short term, or staying in a top hotel, between jobs. He travelled to Thailand frequently, where he would disappear for months, living a simple life near the beaches, and young men.
He had little time to become attached to the trappings of modern living.
What he did hate, however, was interference or disruption to his routine.
With a passion.
So, to find his Commodore had been tampered with overnight, infuriated him to no end. A carport did not provide for much protection from car thieves, neither did the disconnection of the Commodore’s alarm system.
Slice had the car-alarm disconnected for reasons that befuddled the auto-electrician. Slice’s real reason: he couldn’t have an alarm going off by mistake while in the process of carrying out a job.
Although there was nothing inside the car to take, someone had tampered with the ignition to try and start it. The wiring had been messed up, requiring the services from a mobile auto-electrician to fix it. Angry about inconvenience and cost of that repair, he was furious that he had been targeted. Two fuck-ups in twenty-four hours.
Bad karma?
Slice wasn’t a religious person. He was not a zealot who enjoyed ridding people from this world as a calling for his profession.
He killed for money. And sometimes he enjoyed this process immensely.
He was also a believer in good fortune.
Karma, was not a personal issue for Slice. Whether good or bad. He didn’t do things personally to others to warrant a Karma response. He was the thing in the middle. In his own aura Slice was removed from any personal Karma. It worked like this: a client wants someone dead – Karma comes to bite that someone, that Karma came in the form of Slice. And if the client got run over by a bus a week later, that was bad Karma following the client.
Two fuck-ups in a row. That had never happened before.
Could bad Karma be a circumstantial by-product for bad-luck? Slice pondered.
A totally convoluted idea.
For the arseholes that had tried to knock off his car: it wouldn’t be Karma waiting, he would be.
***
Matteo had no idea that Slice was on his way for another visit. Little did he know that the trip to go out to the Reef, was a gift from providence.
Karma. For Matteo.
The 5.5 metre centre console Trailcraft didn’t offer a great deal of protection from wind-blown spray as the aluminium boat punched through the crests of white-capped waves. Easterly winds were a common feature when going out to the Great Barrier Reef.
Matteo ran his fingers through the wet mop of hair on his head. His eyes were stinging from the salt crystals, left behind when the spray had washed over his face. His off-sider was standing next to him hanging on the bar over the screen with one hand, the other was manipulating the steering wheel. The four-stroke Suzuki was
purring at a steady 2600 rpm. To a novice, it would seem to be a dangerous speed, the vessel was flighty at times. It wasn’t a cracking pace, but in these seas cutting the revs back to 2000 rpm was probably more perilous. Both men on board had done this trip many times, and understood the dangers.
“There he is!” Matteo shot his arm out over the screen, finger pointing in a north-easterly direction. The skipper adjusted his course slowly, picking his way over the waves.
The forty-foot sailing vessel was anchored on the lee-side of the atoll, a partly exposed coral island. Matteo elbowed the skipper and directed him to slow up, as they approached the white yacht.
“Look at the colour of the coral below. The water clarity is beautiful today,” Matteo marvelled.
“You diving after we do the biz?” Larry, the skipper asked.
“Yes. I haven’t been here before.”
Larry saw his image in the Perspex screen, his wild mop of sun-bleached hair looked like he’d been electrocuted. He took the Pump bottle with fresh water from the console drink-holder, picked up his sunglasses, and squirted water over them washing the salt off. He wiped the Oakley’s with a clean shirt stored under the seat. The outboard engine was idling quietly, the Trailcraft drifted slowly towards the yacht.
Matteo threw the bow line to a bikini-clad brunette waiting on board the sailing vessel. She caught the rope and held it while the visitor made his preparations to board. Larry grabbed a rail to stop the Trailcraft from banging into the fibreglass hull, while Matteo scaled onto the deck. Larry pushed the runabout off. The girl let the rope go.
“Give me five or ten minutes,” Matteo yelled out and waved him off.
Larry nodded and pushed the throttle level forward, steering the boat well away from the 50-foot yacht.
He remained at a distance of forty to fifty metres. Still in sight, and close enough for a speedy pick-up, if necessary. Matteo’s orders.
Fifteen minutes has passed and Matteo had not surfaced from the yacht’s cabin. Larry’s job was to wait with the boat, the extent of his involvement. His payment would be in the form of drugs and a couple of hundred bucks, to cover fuel. No questions asked.
Larry didn’t want to drop anchor, so he kept the Suzuki idling while drifting between shallow coral. He decided to give it another five before looking for a spot to drop anchor, in case the ‘biz’ was going to drag out longer. Five minutes later, Larry stood at the bow with the anchor dangling from a metre of galvanised chain, when Matteo emerged from the cabin of the yacht.
He waved impatiently.
Larry stowed the anchor and motored to the yacht’s stern.
Matteo climbed down from the yacht and hopped onto the Trailcraft, balancing himself on the gunnel he urged, “Go. Hurry, let’s go.”
“Thought you wanted to go diving?”
“No. Changed my mind. Just go back.” Matteo did not mention anything about the meeting on board the yacht. The two-hour journey back gave him plenty of time to think about how he would handle this new deal. The sea had become rougher from strengthening wind, the men had remained silent until they beached at Horseshoe Bay, on the northern end of Magnetic Island.
“See me later, I will fix you up.” Matteo turned and marched up the white, sandy beach.
It was only a short walk to his home.
He barged through the front door of his unlocked cottage, searched for his mobile, which he never brought on any of the Reef trips. Matteo had heard that it was possible to track the mobile, not ideal when he was taking deliveries.
Two missed calls. Both from private numbers. One voicemail.
He pressed 101. Listened patiently for voice prompt to finish, “Steven here. Call me. I want to go fishing.” -------.
Later. I need to call Brooce. Dismissing Steven’s message.
CHAPTER 48
ONCE SHY, SECOND TIME BITTEN?
The return trip on the Sealink Ferry from Magnetic Island was standing room only. That was okay with Slice as he preferred to stand rather than sit. But being jostled, and having lost his favourite spot at the railing on the upper back deck of the ferry, that did add to the mounting pressures of the day. The irritations were chiselling at his tolerance. In his line of work, patience was not a virtue, but an undeniable necessity. Lucky, he thought, he did not have a job today; it was easy to become careless in the state of mind that he was in – nevertheless, he really wanted to neck someone!
He would have to catch up with Matteo another time.
Despite an unproductive day, time hadn’t stood still. Back in the carpark at the ferry terminal Slice had a thought. He had driven past the Reef HQ Aquarium on many occasions and never bothered to stop to check it out. Today he felt the urge to visit, see what wonders of the Coral Sea he could discover. Why not? I have time. A vacant parking spot in front of the tourist attraction sealed the deal.
An hour until closing. He followed a small group of high-school aged students led by a frumpy teacher in her thirties. They stopped at a display which showcased a small crocodile being fed by a guide. Slice cut his way through the small gathering and continued following the unguided tour signs. Wandering around the tunnels surrounded by glass and fish didn’t excite him. A couple of passing reef sharks overhead livened his senses. He made sure he stopped regularly, pretending to admire the displays, although he hadn’t seen what he came for, yet. The group of school kids were gaining on him, driving him to step up his pace to stay ahead.
There … a sign, ‘Come and see our new attraction, The Box Jellyfish’. Follow arrows.
Now that was of great interest to him.
He entered a darkened room. An attendant was hovering in front of a tank, wiping the glass. Slice’s attention was immediate, “Is that a Box Jellyfish?”
The girl turned to see who was asking the question. “Oh hi. Yes, it is. Chironex Fleckeri, a common species of box jellyfish, found in our waters off Townsville.”
Slice came closer and stared in amazement at the sinister creature which was suspended in mid water.
“I’m about to feed it. You can watch.” She hopped off the squat ladder, and disappeared through an access door; moments later, he saw a prawn being freed from metal tongs dropping into the tank. The prawn was still alive and propelled itself far away from the jellyfish. Within seconds, the box jellyfish had jutted its tentacles and the prawn was entangled, instantly stunned.
“Wow.” Slice was mesmerised by the beautiful, transparent and pale blue jellyfish, the speed with which it reacted to prey.
“You can watch it being consumed,” the girl said.
“Can you tell me a bit about them? I have never seen one before.” He lied.
“Sure. The Fleckeri, which is the species you are seeing here is the largest and most venomous and dangerous of all box jellyfish species. The tentacles, about fifteen of them in each corner of the bell, that squarish looking cube, which we could say is the head, well … those tentacles carry a thousand stinging cells on each, called nematocysts, these cells are activated by chemical contact with fish, prawns and other foods. It pretty much instant curtains for most of its prey.” She appeared pleased with her lecture.
“Is this one here a big one?” Slice still had his eyes on the jellyfish.
“Not quite a baby, but small compared to a fully-grown specimen. The bell can measure up to twenty centimetres per side, with tentacles as long as three metres. You wouldn’t want to encounter one of them without a suit.”
“Are they harmful to humans?” Slice asked with the innocence of a kindergarten pupil.
“Enough toxin in a large specimen’s tentacles to kill three grownups. But it depends on how large the jellyfish actually is, where the tentacles touch the victim. The pain from box jellyfish’s sting is excruciating.”
“How does the … eh, poison work?” Slice asked.
“It’s pretty comprehensive. Is that the right description?” she pondered her question. “The effects are three-fold: stings from the Fleckeri have effect
s on your heart, nervous system and your skin. Only just getting into this part in our lectures at uni. Sorry, I can’t give you much more detail.”
“Thank you. You have been very informative. I can always go to the library.” Slice nodded once, with a thin smile, leaving her to attend to her duties.
“The box jellyfish has killed over sixty people since the start of 1900. Confirmed kills,” she added as Slice was exiting the darkened room.
On the way out of the Reef HQ building Slice sensed a zing in his step – he loved learning of new ways to persuade, inflict pain, or kill.
As he stepped out into the street the frustration from his poorly planned meeting with Matteo had waned to indifference. He was already hatching a new plan, one especially for Matteo.
***
Jarrah had broken his own rule: do not return to a failed break-in.
“How come we going back there?” Billy asked with a nervous voice.
“Shut up. Jarrah’s the boss. He wants that car.” Max blew the last of the smoke, dropped the butt, squashing it on the ground. The night’s breeze then swept the flattened filter into the gutter.
Jarrah had snuck himself next to the door of the apartment, like a giant spider against the wall, he inched to within reach of the screen door. He tested the handle to see if it was unlocked. No movement. His eyes jumped from the door to the boys who were nervously awaiting the outcome of his next move, from a distance. He slid his hand into his pocket, producing a Stanley knife moments later. Jarrah cut the flyscreen mesh around the lock, and put his fingers through the hole and pushed the latch.
Next, he pushed the handle down, swinging the security door out. Jarrah pressed his ear against the door. After fifteen seconds, he signalled silence, his finger hard against his lips. He moved his hand forward, his fingers rounding the knob and tightening.
Within seconds, Jarrah had disappeared through the dark opening. The boys could see the flicker of light from a penlight, before Jarrah reappeared. He shut the door carefully, making sure there was no noise. He started to leave, then changed his mind turning around to shut the security door. A click sounded. Not loud, but still a click from the latch.
A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Page 22