Sweet One

by Peter Docker

Get up.

  They slowly get up, with Bremmer cradling his bleeding arm. Sweet One drags them towards the back door leading off the kitchen. He opens the door. There is a TRG officer standing there in full black overalls regalia holding an automatic weapon. Sweet One shoots him right between the eyes and he crumples. He bends and takes the automatic weapon, and a pistol from the dead cop. He turns back to the handcuffed detectives.

  Any noise at all, and I will shoot you in the head.

  What difference does it make?

  Sweet One puts the still-hot barrel to Bremmer’s forehead.

  Do you want to die right now?

  Bremmer drops his eyes. He is starting to shake. Going into shock. Mapleton tries to meet his eyes but is completely distracted by the dead cop and the Beretta Dolphin 9mm in Sweet One’s hand. Sweet One leads them down the back stairs. Even in the darkness the overgrown neglect of the small backyard is obvious. Bremmer never comes out here. There’s no shade. Sweet One drags them through the weeds across the yard to where there are two sheets of corrugated iron lying flat on the ground. He moves the sheets and there is a hole going down into the earth.

  There’s a ladder. Go.

  The two detectives get on the ladder with Mapleton going first, his hand connected to Bremmer with the metal cuffs held high over his head, and Bremmer’s pulled hard down below him. They climb unsteadily down about six metres and hit a small landing. Sweet One is right behind them. They hear him dragging the iron sheets back over the hole, and apply himself to the ladder. He switches on a small light on a head-harness, and drags the cops along an underground corridor. Bremmer bleeds and staggers.

  Come on, says Sweet One.

  A few minutes later the tunnel opens up into a small chamber. Sweet One stops. He shines his head-lamp into a big hole in the dirt floor.

  You got the keys to the cuffs?

  In my pocket, says Mapleton.

  You’re in this together, says Sweet One.

  He pulls Mapleton over to the hole and shoots him once in the stomach. The force of the shot throws Mapleton backwards, and he falls into the hole, dragging Bremmer with him. There are some scuffling sounds as they bounce off the walls on the way down, and a big splash when they hit the water at the bottom of the old shaft. Sweet One listens to the frantic splashing for a moment, then turns and goes.

  We’re All in It

  Izzy’s phone goes off. She looks at the digital clock radio by the bed. 2:47am. She grabs her BlackBerry. Private number.

  Izzy Langford.

  He got the two dees.

  What?

  The Baal dees. Just like you said.

  Who is this?

  A friend, says Senior Constable Dillon.

  Where?

  The new flats in McDonald Street, near Big Rock Road.

  Thanks, she says to the dead line.

  Izzy jumps out of bed and throws on her jeans. She dials Charlie’s number.

  Don’t you ever sleep, Izzy from the Star?

  You can talk, Charlie.

  Where are you?

  Shamrock Albion.

  Burt Street?

  Yep.

  Ready now?

  Yep.

  Izzy puts on a sweatshirt, pulls on her Blundstones, and goes down to wait on the street. She lights a menthol, takes two drags, coughs, and throws the stupid thing away.

  Those things will fucken kill you, she says to herself.

  A cab slides into the kerb. She jumps in.

  That was quick.

  Time is money, says Charlie.

  McDonald Street.

  The new flats?

  One and the same.

  The police have everything blocked off.

  Take me as close as you can.

  It’s going to get really ugly now, Izzy. If he’s killed those cops, adds Charlie.

  Izzy gives Charlie a little sideways look.

  You know about soldiering, Charlie?

  Spent ten years with the Tamil Tigers. Charlie strokes his long wispy moustache. Sharon wanted to do it. She loved those little buggers. I followed her into it ... I’d follow her into anything.

  You two must’ve stood out, comments Izzy.

  We made quite a couple ... Those government troops must’ve been shocking shots.

  Charlie watches the road.

  The Tamils used ta believe in spirits that took you over during battle ... Makes ya think. I’ve heard blackfullas talk about those old white murderers like that ... Like something had hold of them.

  Sometimes I wonder if something hasn’t gotten hold of us, says Izzy.

  Ya have to guard against it.

  Izzy looks to Charlie, to search for any sign of levity. There is none.

  It takes the cab five minutes to get there, and the only other traffic they see is police vehicles. He pulls up in front of the police line. Izzy tips him ten dollars and jumps out. She steps up to the police line. An officer in dark overalls and carrying a shotgun comes over to her.

  What do you want?

  Press.

  Piss off!

  Right then, Mort’s car screams up next to her, and he jumps out.

  Go home, Izzy.

  I’ve got no home, Mort.

  You can’t come in!

  He ducks under the tape, and strides towards the apartments where the main police activity is.

  Mort! I’ve seen him!

  Mort stops in his tracks and wheels around to face her.

  What?

  I’ve met with him!

  Let her in, Mort says to the copper with the shotgun.

  Izzy moves quickly to catch up with Mort, who continues his stride.

  Who called you now? Mort says.

  A friend.

  You got friends but no home?

  I’m a gypsy, Mort.

  How did you meet him?

  They snatched me off the street.

  They hood you?

  Yeah.

  How far in the car?

  Don’t know.

  Guess.

  Maybe an hour. But they might’ve just been driving around town.

  Don’t fuck me around, Izzy.

  Don’t make me laugh, Mort. They drugged me. Knocked me out.

  They arrive at the door to the apartment. There are two cops there with automatic weapons. They look to Izzy, then to Mort.

  She’s with me, says Mort.

  They go up the six steps to the landing with Izzy looking hard at Mort’s back, trying to read the meaning of his tone there. She deciphers nothing. There is a detective on the landing. He looks lost.

  Whadda we got?

  Blood, drag marks, one dead TRG officer, execution-style – one in the head. Bremmer and Mapleton missing.

  What the fuck were they both doing here?

  The detective shakes his head. They go into the apartment. There is a pool of blood on the floor. One of the chairs looks pushed aside. Mort picks up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  Don’t touch the evidence, says the detective.

  He doesn’t fucking drink, growls Mort, and takes a big slug from the bottle.

  The detective shakes his head.

  Anyone hear any shots?

  The detective shakes his head. Izzy has her BlackBerry in her hand.

  Don’t take any fucking photos!

  Wouldn’t dream of it.

  I got you back on the paper.

  You who got me sacked in the first place.

  Mort goes to the back door. There is a dead TRG officer still slumped where he fell, a hole between his eyes. Mort swears. He nudges the body with his shoe to see if it is stiff. Not yet.

  You’re in it now, Izzy.

  We’re all in it.

  I’ll get him.

  No you won’t, Mort. You know him. You’re one of them!

  Who?

  The killers. You, Sweet One, Smokey, Silver Hair, Four Axehandles – BlackCu.

  Mort looks out into the overgrown backyard. The detective hovers just behind.


  I don’t know how he got close enough. The yard is so open. That head-shot looks point blank, says the detective.

  Mort leans back and grabs the torch that the detective is holding.

  He didn’t come in this way. He left this way.

  Mort steps over the body, and goes back into the apartment. He goes into the bathroom. Izzy follows.

  When you were over there in the middle of your fake war, fake peace broke out on the home front. This situation must frustrate the shit out of you. You don’t care about racist cops, or old dead black men in the back of divvy vans. Now you have come to get Sweet One. And you know he’ll kill you. And you are scared.

  Mort shines the torch up to the roof, and onto the manhole. There are tiny scratch marks at the edges. Mort marches back out the front of the apartment block. Blue light flashes across the street. More and more police are arriving. Mort goes down to the end of the single-storey building three apartments down. Izzy is like a cattle dog nipping at the heels of a mallee bull.

  Are you frightened you’ll have to kill me, when you’ve gone and gotten attached to my curly little head? Didn’t stop you with the morgue kid.

  That wasn’t me.

  You’re all the same to me. Hard to separate out the shit from the sewerage.

  Mort shines the torchlight up onto the roof at the back corner. It is clear that the tin roof has been interfered with. The edge of it is still turned up where Sweet One unscrewed the roof bolts, peeled back the tin, and went in.

  This is where he got in. So where did he go?

  Mort strides back for the apartment.

  Did you travel on bitumen, dirt, gravel, what? he says.

  Mainly bitumen. Last bit of gravel.

  What did you learn?

  Sweet One didn’t kill the Americans in Pakistan.

  Who did?

  Dunno.

  Was Smokey there too?

  I think it was him. They were masked.

  Mort snorts. They go back into the apartment.

  They’re lying, says Mort.

  Why would they?

  Mort ignores her. Izzy keeps going. Something about his tone of voice is setting her off.

  And they mentioned gear.

  Mort takes another swig of Jack as he goes past.

  Gear? Mort repeats.

  Have to be drugs. Opium.

  No way, he says. Could be anything.

  Mort, Mort, Mort. That’s not like you.

  What?

  Now I know it was drugs, because of your denial. You must be really under pressure.

  Mort looks out over the backyard.

  Was it a house, a shed, what?

  Underground bunker, at least five metres down. They had a lot of equipment down there.

  Underground, Mort says to himself.

  He goes over the body of the TRG officer, and down the steps into the backyard. With his torch beam he picks up one blood splash, then another. He stands upright, and with the torch he finds the two sheets of corrugated iron lying flat on the ground. He draws his pistol.

  Get back, he says quietly.

  Izzy shrinks back to the light spilling onto the body of the dead copper. The detective draws his revolver, and follows Mort. Izzy can’t help herself. She snaps a shot of the slumped dead policeman with the big red hole right between his eyes. She pockets her BlackBerry again. Mort pulls back one sheet, then the other, to reveal the hole. He swears. Mort turns to the detective.

  Get the TRG Commander out here.

  The detective turns away and pulls out a radio. Mort heads out the front with Izzy close behind. The TRG Commander comes over.

  There’s a tunnel out the back. Take a full team. You’ll find the bodies down there. Don’t take any chances, says Mort.

  They’ll be tied together. Handcuffed, probly, says Izzy.

  Mort gives her a look.

  Why do you say that? asks the TRG Commander.

  Give them a chance to get their stories straight, says Izzy with no enjoyment.

  The TRG Commander speaks into his headset, and a group of about ten officers assemble around him. Mort gets a text. He checks it, then heads for his car. Izzy follows.

  Where are we going, Mort?

  We’re running out of time, Izzy. He’s killing cops now. The police are going to explode. The state authorities are going to be all over us.

  I’m coming with you.

  Mort stops at his car.

  I can’t guarantee your safety, he says.

  I can’t guarantee yours, says Izzy.

  There will be no going back.

  Back where?

  They jump into the Caprice. Mort burns rubber as he reverses up the street.

  Just You, Me, and Fifty Mill

  Mort threads the big car through the streets, and then heads east down a dirt track. The track eventually leads down between two big slag heaps looming out of the darkness beyond the headlights. Mort lights up a Stuyvo. Izzy lights a menthol. Mort turns to look at her.

  You want to know about the gear?

  I want to know about BlackCu.

  The Americans, DiMaggio and Washington, they were our toecutters. Under Thorpe’s command. It was Thorpe’s idea. He was the one who got control of our own drone.

  From the CIA?

  Mort nods.

  Through Blackwater?

  We started calling in drone strikes on the Taliban moving operation, and stealing the opium with tribesmen who have no love for the Taliban.

  The A-Team?

  Izzy glances at Mort. She already knows the A-Team didn’t kill Washington and DiMaggio. Where was Mort? Where was Thorpe? Where is the money from the drug deal? Mort smokes, and ashes out the window, his eyes full ahead. They get trained in this shit. But she can see that he is nervous, just a little thing at the corner of his mouth.

  Another one of Sweet One’s names. We hurt the Taliban in the hip pocket.

  Why not just raze the crops?

  This way the growers have already been paid. We’re targeting them as they move it around. After a while the operation was so successful that Thorpe started to siphon off. Before long his skimming changed to wholesale toecutting. We all got the chance to get rich.

  Sweet One didn’t like it?

  He went along. It was going fine until those GPL4 arseholes cooked his grandfather to death back home. Sounds like something the Taliban would do. If they really hated the prisoner.

  He wasn’t Sweet One’s grandfather.

  Well, they’re all fucking related.

  So are we.

  What’s your fucking problem, Izzy?

  Where’s the money?

  It’s hard to move big money around. We have a network. Each warlord has to be paid as we go through his territory. And we can’t let them know how much we really have.

  The car comes to the end of the slag heaps and turns right. There is a sea container plonked onto a raised-up mound of dirt, with a new Toyota Prado parked out the front. Mort jumps out. Izzy follows.

  What’s this?

  Mort stops, sucks on his cigarette, and considers her.

  We don’t have to be enemies, Izzy.

  Who said we are?

  I’m just saying.

  What are you saying?

  I like you, Izzy.

  Mort, don’t.

  Mort throws his cigarette down, and goes to the big swing doors at the end of the sea container. He opens one side. Izzy is just behind him. In the sea container is a desk and a couple of chairs. There are maps on the walls, and a computer set-up. Silver Hair and Four Axehandles are both there. They have stripped down to white singlets, and are wearing pistols on their belts. Tied to a chair is the naked figure of Xavier. His head is slumped forward. He is covered in welts and burns. There are electric wires connected to somewhere in his lap. Below the chair is a puddle of urine and a slop of faeces on the rubber flooring. Xavier has a bright light shining on him. His Afro is flat from the water they’ve been pouring on him.

&
nbsp; What are you doing?

  Izzy’s voice comes out like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. She instantly regrets it. She knows full well what they are doing. Silver Hair and Four Axehandles turn out, their hands on their weapons.

  Wha’d you bring her here for?

  He got the detectives. She was right.

  Is he dead? Izzy asks.

  Shut up, says Mort, and his tone of voice almost makes her jump.

  Mort takes a slow step into the sea container.

  We can’t be doing this, Mort says.

  You’re not giving orders, says Four Axehandles.

  We’ve run out of time, says Silver Hair.

  It’s getting messy, says Mort.

  Thorpe is dead, says Silver Hair.

  Mort stops.

  What? How?

  IED.

  When?

  Yesterday.

  When were you going to tell me?

  We’re telling you now, Mort.

  Mort swears. He half turns back to Izzy, and with his hand that is shielded from the others by his body he gives her a hand signal – thumbs down: enemy! Izzy takes a step back and starts to turn away. Mort pulls his pistol, spins and shoots Silver Hair in the heart. Four Axehandles is throwing his body down and trying to get his pistol out when Mort shoots him twice in the chest. He walks up to Xavier and puts his pistol to his temple. Xavier raises his head to look straight at Izzy. His face is bruised, swollen, bleeding, and streaming snot and tears. His eyes are calm.

  No, Mort!

  Mort looks back to Izzy, and she sees his killer’s face. He hesitates, the barrel unwavering against the side of Xavier’s head.

  Please, Mort. You don’t have to. Please don’t, she says, and her mind races to find the dummy mounted on the broomstick, searching for it in his eyes.

  Izzy...

  You and Thorpe killed those Americans, she says.

  And now Thorpe’s dead. And I know where the money is.

  The drug money?

  US government money. Fifty million. Come away with me, Izzy. We can disappear. You don’t think I’m not sick of it?

  You love it.

  It’s all right for Sweet One. He’s got something to believe in. He’s got a real war. All I’ve got is fifty mill.

  You’re jealous of him?

  Come away with me, Izzy. Let’s disappear.

  We’ll talk about this later.

  No. Now.

  If I say no, will you kill Xavier?

  You know him?