A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2) Read online

Still panting, but regaining composure, Darren said, “You’ve got the same shithouse mug as your equally ugly cousin.”

  It was like waving a red rag to a bull, Bruce charged at Darren who sidestepped him, following up with a round-heel-kick which caught the wild man just behind his ear. More luck than accurate offense, it was nevertheless, a great blow. The velocity from the kick combined with the rough sole on Darren’s sports shoe had ripped part of Bruce’s ear from his head, causing it to bleed.

  Disoriented, grabbing the severely bleeding appendage Bruce tried to shape up but Darren had already gone in low and deep, giving his opponent an almighty upper cut. His clenched fist connected with Bruce’s chin snapping the brute’s head back. His head bounced back like a training ball, lolling around, eyes rolling in their sockets, unsteady and ready to pass out – Darren smashed his other foot into Bruce’s groin with a soccer kick. One that sends the ball into a cheering crowd. The car dealer keeled over and Darren finished him with a knee to the face. A loud grunt signalled the end for the big man as he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Darren had his arms up in sparring mode, lightly springing his athletic body with the rhythm of a boxer wanting more. He sniffed hard, gargled and spat on his opponent’s face lying on the floor, out to the count.

  “Yep, just as fuckin’ useless as your cousin.”

  Darren took one more look at Bruce, picked up the .38 from the floor and left the same way he came. Outside a commotion was stirring in the street. The neighbours would have been alarmed by the gunshots. Darren heard the murmur from a small crowd which had gathered at the front of Bruce’s house. Jumping over the rendered wall, he snuck through the neighbour’s backyard and disappeared without being noticed.

  Once he got back to the truck, the bruises started to ache and he felt like he’d been in a blue with five blokes.

  And still no Eddie.

  CHAPTER 67

  SLEEPING WITH THE FISH

  Bruce hadn’t answered his phone. Eddie had rung four times. Looking out in front of him, a street light down further next to the deserted freight yards, reflected with a glittering star on the crest of the bonnet. He looked at the time. 11.47pm. It was rare for his cousin to go to bed before midnight. Eddie hadn’t realised that the car ferry wouldn’t be travelling to the island until the morning. Stuck in a deserted street.

  Eddie hadn’t been to the island before. Despite Magnetic Island being eight kilometres from Townsville over water, the island was regarded as another suburb of the city. Passenger ferries travelled back and forth every half hour. The car ferrying barges went across less frequently, taking longer and didn’t do any ferrying much after dark. A siren from an emergency vehicle faded in and out of the night from the other side of the river, then it died. Eddie’s eyes caught the mobile phone: would he try Bruce again? Was there anything to tell him? Oh, Brucey, I missed the ferry, mate. Just as well he hadn’t answered.

  Out here, Eddie was alone, and waiting. The waiting part, he hated.

  His enemies in Townsville were numerous enough to make him a tad nervous. Coppers and bikers. The Riders had contacts on the island, and the bikers would not have forgotten what he did to Ryker, or Davo. The coppers, he wasn’t sure how often a patrol car would do rounds in this deserted area. Where else could he go?

  It was a risk. If there was a mug shot stuck to a copper’s dashboard, it would be of one showing a man with long wavy hair and half-a-beard. Last he looked in the mirror, he was nothing like the old Eddie. I miss the old Eddie.

  He locked the doors of the Statesman Caprice, and settled back into the plush front seat. He made sure the windows were up, leaving the driver’s side window down an inch for air. A luxury car parked near the car ferry terminal was a magnet for curiosity. He kept the .32 calibre close, next to him on the passenger seat, just in case. It was hidden under a newspaper. Eddie lifted the newspaper – the Walther PPK was a gift from Bruce.

  Eddie wasn’t prone to wallow over fond moments remembered with anyone, let alone his arrogant and brash cousin, Bruce. But he did have a flicker of shyness, and a moment of feel-good when Bruce handed him the compact pistol and said, “You’ve come a long way from the ugly bikie look, cousin. Now you’re nearly as suave as the man himself. Bond. James Bond. Here’s his gun. Keep the cunt safe. It cost me a lot of dough.”

  The four-hour drive from Cairns was finally catching up with him, his eyelids getting heavier. Eddie yawned and cricked his neck before slumping into the seat. Not five minutes after shutting his eyes, his mobile rang.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Eddie said sleepily.

  “Not Brucey, mate,” a raspy voice over the phone replied.

  “Who is it then?” Eddie sat up.

  “Seppo. Mate of his,“ the man answered pullin’ heavily on a smoke, ”Brucey’s in hospital.”

  “Hospital? What the fuck’s he in there for?” Eddie sat up, wide awake now.

  “He’s got smeshed up pretty good, aye.”

  “What do you mean? Smashed up.”

  “Someone came into his house, and fucked him over, bro.” Eddie could hear the caller sucking on his durrie. “Lucky to be alive. Brucey rung me and I went over to see the drama.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Eddie demanded.

  “Not possible. He’s in surgery, bro,” said the man who called himself Seppo. “Brucey told me to ring you, let you know. You have to call him in the morning.”

  “Why’s he in surgery? What’s wrong with him?” Eddie asked anxiously.

  “They are trying to sow his ear back onto his head, bro.”

  “What??”

  “Brucey’s got kicked pretty hard. His face is pretty fucked up too. Where you at?”

  Eddie was reeling from the news about Bruce. Driving back to Cairns was out of the question.

  “Tell me what happened,” Eddie growled impatiently.

  “Easy bro. Some cunt’s come into his house looking for you. You Eddie, aren’t you? But you wasn’t there. Brucey jumped him but the dude had a gun.”

  “So, who the fuck are you?” Eddie shot back.

  “As I said, I’m a mate of Brucey. He helps me, and I help him. All good, bro. Ring him in the morning.”

  “Is he gonna live?”

  “He fuckin’ better, bro. He’s bringin’ the lamb for next weekend’s hangi.” The Kiwi hung up.

  Some cunt who wants me? Fuckin’ Riders for sure. Eddie bobbed his head against the headrest a couple of times. He didn’t think the Riders would follow him to Cairns. Eddie always thought of them as gutless and lazy. I’ll deal with them after I finish with the Italian on the island.

  Then he shut his eyes for some much-needed sleep.

  ***

  The loud blast from the ferry’s horn startled and woke Eddie at 6.05am. His eyes were sticky and his mouth dry. Pressing the window control to let in some fresh air triggered goose bumps on his arms, massaging his eyes and forehead helped him awaken quickly. Bloody freezing. I need coffee. With that thought, he quickly moved and got out of the car, going across the road to the car ferry terminal to find a toilet then a coffee machine.

  An hour later, Eddie was on the car ferry leaning on the side-rail admiring the early morning scenery with grand views to Magnetic Island and Cape Cleveland. Although the morning temperature was still brisk brushing his face, waves of warmth soon took over, and the glow from the early sun cleared the way for a stunning trip to the island. The seas were flat, and mirror like. Eddie was grateful for that, for he would get sea-sick on a lilo in a swimming pool.

  As soon as he’d arrive on Magnetic Island, he’d call Bruce.

  The ferry deck was loaded with trucks, ranging from a semi-sized dump truck to several small refrigerated trucks carrying supplies for cafes and shops. Eddie was last off the boat, driving slowly past the resort hotel and supermarket, to find somewhere to park out of the way to get his bearings. He consulted a tourist guide which included a map of the island. It had been given to him ear
lier. Getting lost on the island would be impossible seeing only one main road connected suburbs from one end of the island to the other. Horseshoe Bay was his destination. Before going, he grabbed the mobile and pressed Bruce’s number.

  Seven rings, no answer. Fuck.

  The road leading to Horseshoe Bay was narrow in most parts, with short steep and windy sections. Eddie was impressed with the low key and back-in-time look of Arcadia with its palm-lined foreshore overlooking Geoffrey Bay. After driving through the hilly parts of the road he arrived at a straight and flat Horseshoe Bay road, continuing to the beach. Being early in the morning, the tourist strip along the bay foreshore was quiet, with only a handful of young people scattered, sitting under palm trees and the beach.

  Eddie parked the car along the beachfront.

  He pressed both controls and the tinted windows whirred down, allowing the warm air from a brilliant cloudless, sunny morning to enter the car. He looked at the sea and beyond.

  The calm was overwhelming.

  But his hand reached for his mobile.

  On the seventh or eighth ring, it was finally answered.

  “Brucey’s still out to it, bro.”

  “Hmm, right. He gonna be okay?” Eddie mumbled concerned.

  “Brucey instructed me to tell you … get it done,” Seppo replied coldly. “With me? Bro.”

  “Totally. I’ll sort it today,” Eddie answered.

  “Don’t worry about Brucey, he be fine soon. Bringing the meat for the hangi.”

  The Kiwi ended the call.

  ***

  Eddie looked back at the mud map that Bruce had drawn for him yesterday morning. The directions and description had proven to be on the button, putting him in front of a shanty cottage, surrounded by out of control vegetation and palm trees. Eddie rolled the Statesman at snail’s pace past the property, taking in the small aluminium boat parked in the weed-covered gravel driveway. Sitting there as if ready to be towed. The overgrown, vacant block next to the cottage was as good as any place to leave the car, while checking things out. Before leaving the car, he spotted a Mini Moke barrelling down the street towards him. Oblivious to Eddie’s presence, the driver of the Moke hurriedly pulled into the driveway, slamming to a halt in front of the aluminium boat.

  A Mediterranean man with short legs, and a crop of black curly hair rushed out of the vehicle, then bending over to reach, grabbing what looked like a red jerry-can. Eddie had already started walking towards him.

  Matteo turned around at the unexpected sound of boots crunching gravel. Open-mouthed, with eyebrows raised, he stood stunted, startled and a little confused, to be confronted by such a tall stranger, built like a gorilla.

  But he was more surprised by what the stranger was holding in his hand –

  a small gun, that reminded him of the ones that James Bond used in his films. No doubt, this one didn’t shoot blanks. Matteo sighed, and his shoulders sagged accordingly.

  Eddie moved the .32 a few times signalling Matteo towards the cottage. Matteo dropped the jerry-can and turned to walk.

  “What’s the jerry-can for?” Eddie asked, stopping Matteo’s progress.

  “Petrol for the boat. I am going fishing. My friend will come here in five minutes. Maybe, you put the gun away,” Matteo replied.

  “Fishing? I heard you been on a few solo fishing trips lately. Better ring your friend that fishing’s been cancelled for today.” Eddie pushed the gun gently into Matteo’s neck, forcing him to keep moving towards the house.

  “We have to go around the back.”

  “No surprises, I hope. Would hate to mess up your pretty wog face. A 7.65mm bullet with a hollow point slug won’t leave much for your mother to recognise.” Eddie pushed his captive hard this time, causing the much shorter man to stumble, and nearly falling to the ground, if it hadn’t been for Eddie’s quick intervention.

  Eddie’s free hand had grabbed Matteo’s shirt, pulling him up from his feigned fall.

  “Such drama queens. You lot are the same on the soccer field.”

  Once at the rear of the cottage, Matteo led the way in through the kitchen door. Eddie grabbed Matteo by the collar forcing him to sit on a wooden chair at the kitchen table. He pulled a chair for himself.

  While pointing the .32 directly at Matteo’s nose, he said, “You’re going to tell me everything about you and the Pom.”

  “Why you are here? I don’t understand. I have told my uncle many times I am loyal. I never betray my family. Why he sent Steve, and now you. I don’t understand. Let me ring him. Please.” Pleading with Eddie.

  “Who the fuck is Steve? And who the fuck is your uncle?” Eddie narrowed his eyes, but after a few seconds he lost patience. “Bruce sent me. Remember him?”

  Matteo’s eyes darted around the room looking for answers. None came to him.

  Controlling his nerves, “Brooce. I already spoken with him. Now we wait for the Englishman to come back.”

  Eddie scratched the back of his head. “There’s a rumour floating around in Victoria about superhot deals coming from Queensland.”

  “What is superhot deals?” The Italian puckered his face.

  Eddie’s gaze intensified as his impatience grew.

  Matteo massaged his toes against each other under the table, a nervous trait. Slipping one foot from his thong, then rubbing it over the other foot. His chest was straining from trying to control his breathing.

  Eddie’s eyes released from the Italian’s.

  Breaking the deadlock of the last minute he placed the Walther on the table, he twirled the gun with his fingers, spinning it around several times, when he stopped he slowly turned the barrel so it was pointing directly at Matteo.

  The Italian’s eyes fell on the gun, his girl-like eyelashes opening and closing gently. The curls of his fringe glistened droplets at the roots.

  “What’s in there?” Eddie’s eyes nodding to the half open door.

  “Some fish.”

  “What fish?” Rubbing his finger on his furrowed forehead.

  “A fish-tank. Is a jelly-fish tank. My hobby I collect fish from the reef.”

  “That’s not all you collect. Apparently,” Eddie rubbed his chin. “Show me what you got.”

  Eddie signalled with the .32.

  Matteo got up. Unsure of what was next, he complied, thinking it might give him an opportunity to distract the man. What did he want? How would Bruce know about his deal with the Englishman?

  “What the hell is that thing?” Eddie pointed at the tank holding the Box-Jellyfish.

  Matteo’s face softened a little.

  “It is Chironex Fleckeri. Or Sea Wasp. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Matteo smiled.

  “It’s as ugly as sin,” Eddie replied.

  “No, she is beautiful, and very deadly.”

  Slowly, Eddie’s and Matteo’s eyes met.

  Eddie’s had lit up.

  Matteo realised he’d just made the gravest mistake of his life. What would this lunatic do next? Surely not.

  “How is it deadly?” Eddie eyes were glued to the weird shape, and how its tentacles were flowing gently underneath its strange transparent body. Didn’t look very dangerous to him. He didn’t like the sea, didn’t care for eating fish, let alone have any interest in what swam around in the ocean. It was a world remote from his.

  A question Matteo didn’t want to answer. His mind was racing to search for simple explanations to the deadly nature of the jelly-fish, “It kills and eats small fish and prawns.”

  “How?” Eddie snapped.

  “Poison from the tentacles, they stun the prawn or fish.”

  “What about humans?”

  Delighted by the stranger’s ignorance, Matteo replied, “Doesn’t hurt humans much. Otherwise, I would not keep one.”

  Their eyes met again.

  “Good. Let’s give that a go. See how it works on you, eh?”

  Matteo eyes exploded in horror.

  His face had paled, mouth open and lost for words.
The man’s drawn expression wasn’t lost on Eddie.

  “Think like your mother. So how about you stick your hand in that tank, and give your little pet a stroke on the head. Does it meow?”

  Relieved, Matteo let out a long breath, quietly. As long as he could keep his hands away from the tentacles he’d be fine. No danger.

  Given the choice between a risky touch, and possible excruciating death, he hoped Chironex wouldn’t dart upside down, increasing the chances of being stung. Matteo nodded once, and raised his hand towards the tank, only to be seized by an impatient, and untrusting stranger’s hand enveloping his wrist, lifting his arm higher and guiding it over the top into the warm water.

  “Where were you going with that boat?” A cold question.

  “Fishing with my friend. I tell you before.”

  “Your mate hasn’t turned up. Has he now?”

  Matteo couldn’t reply, staring at his hand dunked in the warm water, feeling the pressure from the towering man pushing his hand further down.

  “Again, last time. Where were you going?”

  Matteo felt the man’s warm breath on his face. Mind racing, his heart thumping, maybe, he could get both hands close to the Jellyfish. Better to have both him and the stranger stung.

  “Okay. I will tell you.” Hoping his intention to reveal would distract him enough. Matteo’s arm shot down dragging Eddie’s hand down with him.

  Eddie let go immediately.

  Matteo’s hand shot past a darting Chironex brushing the tentacles. He screamed in pain as he wrenched his arm from the tank, splashing water on himself and Eddie.

  Clutching his hand and arm, writhing on his feet, screaming with pain.

  Now bending over, his knees buckling. Wailing like a clan of mourners.

  Eddie stood back surprised, his face bewildered in amazement. How can such a thing do that to someone?

  “Let’s do this again. This is fun.” Eddie laughed and grabbed the Italian by his thick hair, squeezing it into a knot and twisting it hard, while pulling the Italian off the ground.

  “Come on, stick it down there.” Eddie grasped the wrist.

  “I was meeting the Pom … he’s waiting now,” Matteo cried, feebly resisting Eddie’s grip.