‘You’re telling me.’
Normally a speed rush settled, but this bastard kept going.
‘So, uh, tell me about yourself, Watto.’ I fought the urge to grind my teeth.
‘Whatcha wanna know?’
‘You’re working for Craig Murdoch and Emery Wade, yeah?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Where’d you meet?’
‘Wade I met inside. He got me off an armed rob charge. Craig I knew before. I’m an associate member of the Red Devils.’
‘And you’re, like, their enforcer?’
‘Yep. But I do other stuff too.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I acted interested, all the while wiggling my hands behind my back. But subtly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. ‘Like what?’
He leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’m a writer,’ he said proudly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m a writer. I’ve written a fucking book.’
I tamped down the urge to laugh out loud. Jesus. Everyone was a fucking writer and I’d had enough of all of them.
‘No shit.’ I tried to look impressed. ‘What do you write?’
‘About my life. Like Chopper Read or that guy who wrote that book about breaking out of prison and going to India. Shanta-something.’
‘
Shantaram
?’
‘That’s the one. You read it?’
‘Yeah,’ I lied. I’d seen it in friends’ bookshelves, but the thing looked more like a doorstop than a book. ‘It was awesome.’
‘Fucken oath, and it sold a shit-load. Same with Chopper. That’s why I reckon I’ve got a bestseller on my hands.’
‘You’ve written a whole book?’
‘Yeah.’ He was getting defensive, like I didn’t believe him.
‘That’s great. I just don’t know where you’d find the time.’
‘I don’t sleep.’
‘Oh.’
He jumped up and collected his backpack from where it was sitting in the corner, unzipped it and showed me a sheaf of paper and about a dozen small notebooks, covered in scrawl.
‘You wrote about killing Isabella?’
‘Yep.’
‘You gonna write about me?’
‘Probably.’
‘Won’t that sort of, I dunno, incriminate you?’
He rolled his eyes as if I were dense. ‘I change the names.’
‘Of course. Sorry. So you enjoy offing people?’ I couldn’t believe we were having this chat.
‘If they’ve got it coming.’
‘Think I do?’
‘Shit yeah. Stupid bitches fuck with the wrong people. Dumb cunts. Like my mother. The cuntingest of all.’
Mother issues. Shit. I really didn’t want to go there.
‘Yeah. I know I was stupid, now.’
‘Fucken oath you were.’
‘Can you just tell me one thing before you kill me?’ I asked.
‘Depends.’
‘Oh, okay, don’t worry about it.’
‘What was it?’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t know anyway.’
‘What? Fucken tell me.’
I sighed, like I was reluctant. ‘Well, I just wondered how Craig figured out Isabella knocked Lachlan. I mean, your boss must be a pretty smart guy. Smarter than me. I can’t work it out.’
Watto’s eyes lit up like a little kid. ‘It was me.’ He sat up straight in his chair.
‘Nooo, you’re fucking with me.’
‘It was!’ he practically squealed.
‘How?’
‘I read her book.’
‘
You
read
Thrill City
?’ I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice and he took offence.
‘I’m not a dumb cunt, I can fucken read. Fuck’s sake, I’ve written a fucken book.’ He pointed to his backpack.
‘Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just didn’t think it’d be your sort of thing.’
‘Wasn’t. I didn’t read all of it. Picked it up mainly ’cause she looked hot on the cover and pics of hot chicks are hard to get hold of inside. Anyway, I was bored and flippin’ through it in me cell and there’s this bit, right, where this banker dude gets brained by a fucking miniature replica Harley. And when I was readin’ it I was thinkin’, I know that house, I know that replica and I know that banker cunt. Elliot. I was there when Craig gave him the fucken Harley for a present. So I went and showed Craig.’
‘How’d you get hold of the novel?’ I asked, although I think by that stage I already knew.
‘When that rich cunt Rod Thurlow came to Port and did a writing class. He brought in a whole bunch of books for the prison library.’
P
oison segued into Joan Jett, ‘I Hate Myself for Loving You’. Now I knew. Craig had put the hit on Isabella because of what she’d written. And Rod had an unintentional hand in it, by off loading her novel at the jail.
‘Craig just wanted his money back, and to send a message that you don’t fuck with us. He’s in prison because of them.’
‘I thought he was in prison for trying to blow up another clubhouse and nearly killing the head of the Assassins.’
‘That’s ’cause he caught them selling our shit. Our E’s were the only ones in the country with that stamp. The cook checked and they were all the same chemicals and that.’
‘And Craig thought Lachlan Elliot had split and sold the stuff off?’
‘Until I read the book in jail and then his body was found.’
‘Did you torture Isabella for information?’
‘Not much. Just cut off her finger and she told me everything I wanted to know. Said the pro on the radio—Desiree or whatever—came up with the idea, the black bastard off loaded the shit, and Austin and that hot writer chick . . .’
‘Victoria Hitchens?’
‘Yeah. Said it was her and Austin knocked Elliot. Said that’s how she got the idea for the book and knew about the Harley and that—through them.’
‘She was lying. Victoria didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Thought she might be. Kept telling me she was innocent. Didn’t know what to believe so I decided to knock them both.’
Christ. If only I could let Rod know what had really happened, that he had the wrong man. I had to do something. Only problem was, I was tied to the fucking chair.
My mind was racing.
Joan was singing.
Watto screwed up his nose. ‘Ain’t my CD,’ he said. ‘Bitches can’t rock. I’m gonna fast forward.’ He approached the computer.
His back was to me and the music was loud. I strained and flexed what little muscle I had left, felt my head almost pop, and my shoulder nearly dislocate, but it worked. I wrenched one sticky wrist free without him hearing. I leaned forward and ripped the gaff off my ankles while Watto was hunched over the laptop, fiddling with the mouse, looking through the song list. He seemed to settle on something, left clicked and straightened, and there was a brief moment of silence. Didn’t matter. By that time I was behind him, holding the chair above my head. As he turned I brought it down full force.
The thing broke and he went down, but only for a second before he flipped and grabbed my ankle. I fell on my back, lifted my head and saw him reach for his knife. I was still holding a section of chair frame and reacted fast, smacking him hard in the temple and then once more on the back of his head. That did it. Finally the prick was still. I got up off the floor, still holding the splintered piece of wood, breathing hard and all lathered up like a racehorse. My heart was racing and my mouth was dry, so I grabbed another bourbon from the six-pack and nicked one of Watto’s durries, flicking the lighter and drawing back hard.
I was so hyped up I was feeling kind of addled and like I ought to come up with a solid plan, but hundreds of thoughts crowded my mind and it was hard to settle on one. I realised that Joan Jett had just saved my life and went to the computer to put ‘I Hate Myself for Loving You’ back on, keeping an eye on Watto the whole time.
Perhaps I should have staved his head in then and there, but I wasn’t real keen on murdering people, no matter how much better off the world would be without them. I’d already killed one person in my life, and even though it had been self-defence it still made me lie awake at night feeling like I would either go straight to hell or get reincarnated as something hideous, a tapeworm hanging out of the arse of a mangy mutt.
‘Get your shit together,’ I told myself. ‘Tell Rod, rescue Nick, save Alex and Sean and yourself.
‘Thanks, Joan,’ I said as I downed the last of the bourbon and ground the cigarette out on the floor.
I heard a voice underneath the music and thought it was Joan replying, before realising it was a little early for the speed psychosis to set in. The computer had buzzed into life and Wade was back onscreen, wiping food off his moustache.
‘Watto, turn that god-awful music off.’ He squinted into his monitor, obviously wondering what the hell was going on. I stood in front of the laptop and waved.
‘Where’s Watto?’ He frowned.
‘Screw you,’ I said, taking what was left of the chair and smashing the shit out of the web-cam.
I crept down the hallway, heading straight for the lounge room, hoping the bikies had departed, leaving their guns behind. They’d gone alright, but taken the weaponry with them. I couldn’t imagine Rod turning up without an armed guard, so it had to be a regular mine’s-bigger-than-yours circle-jerk out at the shed. With any luck they’d all shoot each other, Tarantino style.
I had Watto’s knife in a sheath around my waist as I prowled about, but didn’t know if it would do me any good. It’d been drummed into my head at some long-ago self-defence class that a knife could easily be snatched away and used against you by someone of superior force, which was pretty much every swinging dick around the godforsaken farmhouse. I wished I’d taken the splintered chair leg.
Outside the sun was getting higher in the sky and it had to be at least thirty-five degrees. The dirt had settled to a dull ochre colour and the saltbrush was straggly khaki. I couldn’t see anyone but still felt exposed as I dashed from one hiding spot to the other: the dog shed, back of the van, a rusted water tank. A caravan was hooked up to a generator about twenty metres away from the tank, with an air-conditioner crudely installed and running, judging by the drips.
I knew the lot of them would never be able to fit in there, so planned on heading straight to the large tin shed that Watto’s offsider had dragged Nick into. I peeped around the tank. Rod’s helicopter was roosting on a concrete slab in front of the shed. I crouched, looked underneath the chopper and saw two pairs of legs, one in jeans, the other wearing a combat jumpsuit and lace-up boots, both guarding the door.
The helicopter shielded me from the men as I dashed to the caravan. From there I’d planned on ducking to the back of the shed, but a sudden sulphur and cat urine stench made me pause behind it.
I stood on tiptoe trying to look in one of the windows. The curtains had all been drawn, but there was a small gap and when I pressed my eye to the dusty glass I saw science lab beakers, lengths of rubber tubing, and bottles of every sort of chemical from rubbing alcohol to drain cleaner. A pile of matchboxes on a table had all had their striker panels removed and there was a whole heap of empty cold and flu tablet packets.
So that’s what Watto had been talking about to the bikie in the lounge room, a methamphetamine cook. Perfect place for it, I supposed. No neighbours to clock the stink, no one to call the brigade and the cops if the thing caught fire. I scanned quickly for any weapons, realised I should have checked the black van or searched the house more thoroughly, and decided to backtrack just as soon as I’d seen if Nick was still alive.
I jogged to the rear of the shed and put my eye up to one of the many small holes in the rusting tin. Two Harleys were parked inside, and Nick was tied to a chair atop a concrete floor. Rod stood over him, stripped to the waist and covered in sweat, just like his action hero character, but much shorter. Rod’s Aryan offsider, Dean, stood watching, as did the bikies I’d seen in the lounge room. Everyone was armed except for Rod, who was doing a fair job on Nick with his fists, stopping every now and then to deliver a verbose soliloquy on justice, righteousness and an eye for an eye. Nick’s head hung forward and blood dripped from his nose and mouth, and I wasn’t sure if he was conscious or even alive until Rod signalled his guard and the guy tipped a bucket of water over Nick’s face and pulled his head back. Nick let out a groan and his eyes fluttered open.
‘Wake him up,’ Rod growled.
The guard slapped Nick’s face.
‘Now, you pathetic, murdering cocksucker,’ said Rod, ‘we’re going to take a little joy-ride and you can see what it’s like to skydive—without a parachute.’ He turned to his men. ‘Start up the bird.’
‘Uh, Mr Thurlow,’ the skinny bikie piped up. ‘Craig has a package he wants you to dispose of at the same time.’
‘Fine, whatever. Go get it, but be quick. We’re leaving in five.’
The guy nodded and left.
Five minutes. Damn. I considered yelling out to Rod, but had a sudden flash of insight. He wouldn’t want to know that Nick didn’t kill Isabella. He hated Nick because he suspected she’d still loved him and if I told him he’d just spent a million catching the wrong guy, well, he’d probably refuse to believe it. I’d have given away my position for nothing and it wouldn’t take long for Craig’s guys to find me and shoot me. Speaking of whom, the biker who’d gone to collect my body was going to be raising the alarm any moment. Shit, shit, shit. I ran through the options in my mind, but there weren’t many. Run into the shed to untie Nick, get sprung and we’d die together. Run into the desert and die lost and alone. What about the black van? If Watto had left the keys I might have had a chance, except the bikies would follow on their Harleys, and I’d die in a hail of bullets at the first gate.
I couldn’t get to the van, anyway. I was hidden by the copter as long as I stayed between the shed and the caravan, but as soon as I made a break for the van the guards at the front of the shed would see me, not to mention the guy who was about to find Watto’s unconscious body and come running out of the house. So many thoughts rushed through my mind I was paralysed, didn’t know what to do.
Until I glanced back at the caravan and suddenly had an idea.
Probably wouldn’t work, but I had to try something. It might at least create a diversion and buy me time to get to the van.
I ran back to the caravan, keeping a lookout for the bikie who was heading towards the house. His back was to me as his boots scuffed up ochre dust. I tried the door and was amazed to find it unlocked. Goddamn. Well, we were in the middle of nowhere . . .