A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  Slice opened his eyes, but didn’t stir a muscle. It took a moment for his brain to register. He was sure he heard a sound, a noise that had nothing to do with the ceiling fan whirring over him. He shut his eyelids to listen. Was it outside? No. He had heard the click of a lock, a screen door latch! Slice sprang to his feet from the bed, bolted out of the bedroom door, into the lounge room. Nothing. It was dark, some light filtering in from outside. He tip-toed to the window which looked out onto the carpark of the unit complex.

  Fucking little cunts! Slice spied the four figures around his car. Three were on the look-out, and one was bent down, and had just opened the door of the Commodore. Keys! Slice retreated from the window. His car keys were gone from the kitchen benchtop!

  He cursed himself for drinking too many vodkas earlier.

  With the stealth of a panther Slice had opened the screen door, once outside he was only a stone’s throw away from the bastards, although concealed around the corner of the building. The big V8 thundered to life.

  No!

  Slice made a dash for the car. Too late. It had already backed out from the carport. The boys in the Commodore looked surprised as he sprinted towards them. One rear door was open, the one closest to him. Slice managed to grab one of the occupants by the arm, a skinny arm enveloped by strong furious fingers. No seatbelt to restrain the boy, the force from the forward accelerating motion of the car, Slice’s grip – the boy in the rear seat didn’t stand a chance.

  Billy screamed, trying to wrestle free as he was pulled out from the back seat. Within seconds, the angry man had wrapped his arm around his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Billy’s feet lost touch with the ground. The man hissed for him to be quiet. Last thing, Billy remembered was his foot getting a fierce knock from the screen door as it slammed shut.

  As soon as Slice had the boy through the door, he knocked him out with a blow to the side of the head. He lifted the limp body and sat him upright on a dining table chair, he wedged the table against the boy’s chest to stop him slumping sideways. Slice found the plastic ties sitting on top of his duffel bag. He always carried a spare amount. The ties were heavy-duty and long, suited to restraining adult sized ankles, let alone a young, skinny boy whose ankles were the thickness of a banana. He tied each leg by the ankle to each of the front chair legs, and stuffed a rag in his mouth.

  He pulled the boy forward against the table, followed by tying his wrists behind his back. He would have liked to restrain the wrists behind the chair backrest, but to do that he would have had to break bones. A bit too early for that.

  Slice ripped the clear wrapping off a new role of duct-tape, while staring at the comatose boy. Slice’s lips looked like they had a thin line of froth between them, from rage. He pinched the tag end from the pliable tape, and pulled off enough length to stick over the rag stuffed in the boy’s mouth, peeling the rest from the roll as he wound it around the boy’s head several times.

  Satisfied, the car thief wasn’t going anywhere, or attract any attention by screaming, Slice planned to do a quick search around the area, in the hope of finding his Commodore. But he wasn’t about to go empty-handed.

  He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a handgun, a Glock 26. The weapon was brand-new, he had obtained it from a local ‘Victorian’ who was connected with the family in Melbourne. A popular weapon with law-enforcement, compact and easy to conceal – and armed with 9mm bullets would do sufficient damage to anyone who happened to be in front of it.

  Astonished, that no one woke up in the complex to find out what the noise was all about, Slice locked the door behind him and went looking for his stolen car. He figured the boys who’d taken his prized Commodore wouldn’t go far, because their buddy had been left behind. They would either ditch the car, and run home; or come back looking for their mate.

  The search proved fruitless. Slice had walked a few kilometres, he didn’t see or hear anything, other than wailing curlews, giving him the shits as well.

  Frustrated and angry about the theft, he returned to the unit.

  ***

  The white light from the room snuck through the slits of Billy’s eyelids. They fluttered, protecting his eyes from the sudden brightness. Once open, he stared at the table before him. He was slowly finding his senses from being groggy after the thump to the side of his head. The smack to his head from the angry man hurt like hell, he thought his brain was going to explode.

  It happened so fast. They was getten in the car. Ready to drive. Then the angry man got me. He pull me.

  Why did they leave him behind? You’re my friends, my brothers.

  Billy started to cry, to sob uncontrollably.

  He couldn’t wipe the tears from his cheeks, on account that his hands were tied behind his back, his aching arms squashed between him and the back of the chair.

  Now his left foot was itchy, from mozzie bites. He couldn’t even rub it against anything to itch it, because his ankle was lashed around the chair leg with a cable-tie. The right foot was a bit sore, because the plastic tie was pulled really tight around his ankle and the chair. The wad of cloth in his mouth made him want to gag. He couldn’t spit it out because it was stuck on his mouth.

  A noise.

  Billy heard the door. He’s coming back. His breath was stuck in his throat.

  He felt his heart beat thumping in his ears.

  No more crying, Billy told himself. Pretend you’re asleep.

  His eyesight was blurry from tears. So, when the angry whitefella come into the room, he couldn’t see his face properly. The man was skinny like his uncle Desmond on Palmy. Uncle Desmond’s hair was white too, but not like this feller. Billy wished he was on Palm Island again, and not here.

  ***

  Slice listened at the door. Not a sound. Then he went in.

  He put his forehead against it, sticking the key in the deadlock, turning it until the deadbolt clicked. He slowly turned, looking at the slumped figure on the chair, feeling a tinge of remorse. The Aboriginal boy was young, and stupid to have been drawn into a car-thieving raid by his older mates. The boy avoided eye contact with him, he blinked incessantly, his eye-lashes looked pasty. Still, the boy was complicit in stealing his very expensive car. A grave mistake, a poor choice in target selection, however, you put it – it was bad luck for you buddy. Slice looked down at his prisoner, the boy finally managed to make eye-contact, if only briefly. Slice lifted his shirt enough to expose the butt of his Glock. The boy’s eyes widened and he shifted fearful, shaking his head.

  “Oh, you like the gun,” Slice spoke.

  The boy shook his head vehemently.

  “Let me show you it close up.” Slice put his hand around the butt and drew the gun from his belt. Slice aimed the ‘baby’ Glock at the boy, inching the barrel closer to his trembling face. After a minute of complete silence, the hitman raised the weapon ninety degrees, bringing the barrel to his lips.

  “I got another one to show you. Stay where you are and don’t move,” Slice ordered. As if. You look like a frozen doll. Shame you’re not a white boy.

  ***

  Billy didn’t want to piss his pants. But he just did.

  He wanted to cry more. But he couldn’t.

  Billy was really humiliated. Being scared was humiliating too. He couldn’t take back the pissin’ in his pants thing. But he could stop being scared.

  He thought of Charlie, before he fried himself. “Fuck the white cunts, done’ ever givem nuthin’.”

  The angry man had returned. He was holding a fucking big and shiny silver gun.

  Billy’s eyes nearly popped. But this time he wasn’t going to be scared.

  ***

  There was a change in the boy’s eyes. Slice noticed it straightaway. He was an expert at picking up nuances. A must in his profession. The look in the boy’s face had changed from petrified to blank, it was in transition. Slice also noticed the growing wet patch soaking the boy’s shorts, his urine was slowly dripping onto the tiled floor
.

  “You’re a disgrace.” He went to the ensuite and came back with a towel. He lobbed it under the hostage’s chair, then he pushed the towel further with the tip of his shoe.

  “See this.” Slice rested the barrel of the .357 Magnum on the boy’s nose. “You need to talk to me about your mates. I am going to remove the tape. If you scream I’ll job you. Only this time it’ll hurt a lot more than before. You get me?”

  The boy nodded feverishly.

  Slice ripped the duct tape off, taking hair with it.

  The boy yelped from under the stuffed rag, shaking his head from the sting.

  After he settled down, Slice removed the wad of cloth.

  Billy blew and spat bits of cloth from his mouth and lips.

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy coughed.

  “Billy.” His throat hoarse.

  “Where did your mates take my car?”

  Billy shrugged.

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” Slice said angrily.

  “Dunno. I didden get to go wid them!” Billy spat out.

  “You want to watch your mouth. I don’t like your tone. Where do you and your mates live?”

  A short pause.

  “Dover Plains way,” Billy replied meekly.

  “Why did you little shits pick my car?”

  “Jarrah wannet it.”

  “So where is it now?”

  Billy shrugged his shoulders, and smirked. “Dunno. Maybe Jarrah will leave your car on the road. Park it, when he dun with it.”

  Slice appraised the insolent response. His unbridled cheekiness angered him. “What’s so amusing about this? You think stealing is a joke?”

  Billy shrugged, “You leave your keys on the table, we take’m to drive the car. You, a silly buggah.” Billy’s smile widened with the innocence of a naughty, naïve child, caught with chocolate on his fingers, standing next to the Maltesers.

  The angry man’s eyes grew.

  Then Billy realised he was the silly buggah.

  Slice lashed out with the Magnum, backhanding the defenceless kid, knocking him over, chair and all. Billy’s head hit the floor, and he shrieked. Blood gushed from a cut on his cheek, just under his eye. Slice jumped on top of him snatching the towel from the floor to cover the boy’s mouth. Crouched, and pinning the struggling boy to the floor with his knees, he smothered his face for several minutes, until he stopped wriggling. Satisfied, he was subdued, Slice removed the towel. The boy coughed, groaning while lying on the floor, his ankles still tied to the chair, torso twisted perpendicular to his lower body, hands wedged. There were blood smears over his whole face.

  Slice got up from the floor, still holding the gun.

  He grabbed the boy and chair, bringing them both upright.

  Billy flopped like rag doll. Slice straightened him.

  “Never speak to me in that tone again.”

  No response. The boy stared, eyes fixed on nothingness.

  Slice stepped to the kitchen bench. The local business guide with the back page facing up glaring at him, showing a half page ad: Discount Car Parts, largest range of parts in stock. It gave him an idea. A horrible idea.

  I am going to teach these thieving cunts a lesson! His mates are not going to forget little Billy. He was fuming.

  CHAPTER 49

  NEED TO KNOW

  Darren was annoyed with the idea of Patch having to be in the house overnight. Dogs lived outside, dogs barked when intruders came around, dogs were man’s best friend, but a dog was not a person. Patch was his best mate, no one was ever going to touch him again, and the only way that was going to play out – not leave Patch in the yard, at least until Eddie was dealt with. Patch had to be kept safe, until he could fend for himself. But another lunatic was on the prowl – the mystery man in the Commodore.

  “One happy family,” Ruby applauded Darren’s decision to let Patch in the house.

  Patch moved with humility, low and slinky when Darren called him in, directing him to a floormat, ordering him to lie down. Patch looked a little uneasy, nevertheless, he settled in quickly, particularly when Ruby came out with a dog treat.

  “I keep these in my bag. You know for emergencies,” she chuckled.

  “That’d be right.” Darren frowned.

  He unscrewed the top to the bottle of Merlot. Darren didn’t like red wine. It would always go straight to his head. Ruby had started asking a lot of questions. Like: I don’t understand why you are selling a property you only just bought, and what seems to be at a loss. Does not make sense to me. So why?

  Why did I buy two bottles of this shit? Suppose I could tell her a little. The last glass from the first bottle, he emptied it in his. The conversation was going really well, for Ruby, not him.

  “You what? You were in possession of cocaine?” Eyes wide.

  “Don’t look so … surprised. You Pommies do drugs, fucking look at Boy George. You’d have to be on drugs to dress like him.” Smiling broadly at her, he then downed the rest of the Merlot.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Let’s have some more of this truth serum.” Ruby held out her glass.

  The second bottle of Merlot nearly put Darren on his head. Ruby wasn’t faring much better. But the truth about Darren’s recent life events started to dribble out.

  This bit started the snowball.

  “Never met anyone who sold drugs to a bank manager,” Ruby said shaking her head in disbelief. “And where did you say, you got them?”

  “From a bikie in Sydney. His Harley was stolen, that’s why he landed in my taxi. Found the package the next day, when I cleaned the cab for the next shift. It was under the seat, in front of where he was sitting.”

  Ruby blinked a few times, “How would you know if it was his?”

  “Believe me, it didn’t belong to any of the grannies I drove around all night.”

  She scrutinised him with narrowed eyes, unsteady with a glass in her hand, the red wine sloshing around in it. “That’s quite a story.”

  Darren avoided eye-contact, “Guess so.” I’ve probably told her too much already. I’m an idiot. As he looked at the red liquid in the glass.

  “And this bank manager is dead? How macabre.” She sipped from the glass. The plot was thickening.

  “I was shocked. I know that what he did was wrong, but he didn’t deserve to be killed over it.” He tried his best to keep the thread of his story. Wasn’t easy, the wine was steaming up his mind, the warm glow on his skin, euphoric, especially when she leaned over the coffee table. The sight of her cleavage, and the firm, smooth skin of her full breasts, they were pulling at his eyes. Hers, had caught his desire.

  “Do you like my tits?” Smiling wide.

  Darren nearly sprayed a mouthful of his wine over her.

  “Bloody hell. You Aussies always so excitable?” Ruby ran the back of her wrist over her lips wiping some of Darren’s pre-tasted wine off.

  Swabbing a few drops from her blouse. “Suppose this will need washing.” She put her glass down, and unbuttoned the front of her blouse. Taking it off she inspected her bra, and noticed a wine stain. “Oh well, may as well wash this too.”

  The bra dropped to the floor.

  As did Darren’s jaw.

  She had a million questions on her mind, but they could wait until morning.

  “Let’s go to bed.” She got up and grabbed Darren by the arm, he followed like a lamb led to slaughter.

  ***

  Darren’s mobile rang out twice. On the third round of ringing, he inadvertently flicked it on the floor. The fan was flying at helicopter speed. The bedsheet didn’t cover his naked body. Ruby’s body was only partly hidden. Her round and firm buttocks were perched against his right leg, uncovered and perfect. Although the wine had done an outstanding job massaging last night’s antics, he felt cheated because he had fallen asleep after the first round of sex. He was afraid to move his leg, in case she wo
ke. She might have regretted what she had done, by staying over. The wine. Bloody red wine. What a killer brew! And a killer fucking headache.

  “Don’t you want to answer your phone?” she mumbled from under the sheet.

  “Too hung over to talk to anyone,” Darren mumbled, closing his eyes. “And I’m not working today.”

  She rolled over and swung her arm over his chest. “It’s nice here. Not ready to wake up yet. I’ve got a day off.”

  They fell asleep again.

  ***

  Darren woke to the aroma of coffee, and the clinking of a teaspoon. The space next to him on the bed was empty. He lifted his head as Ruby came into the room holding a mug in each hand.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.

  “Wow. Coffee in bed.”

  “Hope that’s okay with you,” she replied while passing the mug to him.

  “Luxury.” Darren brought the coffee to his lips.

  He sat up on the bed with his legs crossed yoga style. Ruby put herself on the edge of the bed near him. She ran her fingers along his exposed shin, thigh and stopped before reaching his groin. “Crikey, don’t wake him up. We’ll wind up with cold coffee.” He laughed. Ruby hung her head a little, with a smile, with devious eyes.

  “You are a very naughty boy, Darren Mangan.” She sipped her coffee without taking her eyes off him.

  Her eyes then narrowed as she peered over her mug, raising one eye-brow and tilting her head slightly, “So, who is Cate?”

  Darren choked on his coffee.

  “Oh. Did I say something wrong?” Ruby smiled with matted lips.

  “What makes you think I know a person called, Cate?”

  “Well, you mentioned that name more than once in your sleep,” she replied and sipped more coffee.

  “Busted. I guess.” Darren sighed and unfolded his pose. He jumped off the bed.

  “Is this where I find out that you have a girlfriend, or that you’re actually married?” Ruby fixed her eyes on him.

  “No. Absolutely not. I promise you, nothing like that.”

  “You are single then?”