He was your typical Maori bad-ass, bulked-up to the size of a small battlecruiser. Black hair slicked back, ringlets falling in little wet rat-tails down his neck, whipping in between his shoulder-blades. He had the kind of swagger you could dry clothes on, and, if I wasn’t mistaken a sizeable shooter tucked under his left arm.
I knew right off what he was here for.
I knew right off I didn’t have it.
There was a crowd of say, eight, nine people between us. Good ol’ boys sucking back VB, stocking up for a shot at the local bush pigs. None that would move to pull a greasy stick out of a dog’s arse, never mind step between Jonah Lomu and a city boy who’d barely gone bush long enough to break the seal on his Drizabone.
“Couple beers, mate,” I shouted out. Stood up to meet the barman as he rose. He slapped the local rag down on the bar-top, spoke:
“Beer?”
“Yeah, two … one for me and . . .”
He lifted a hand, I thought he was gonna swat a blowfly, “Kind?”
“Come again …”
“Mate, I got beers and beers.”
The Maori was two yards off, homing in on me, “Right, right, eh … Crownies.”
The barman softened. Ironed out his creased brow, said, “Good choice.”
I watched him slide off, caught sight of two sun-cracked elbows poking through his flannel. The fuck was I doing here? I touched my hip, there was still a way out. A dark battlecruiser-shaped shadow crossed the bar.
****
Patto had said take it easy, but take it. I remembered the words because I’d followed them to the letter.
“Time and place is all I need,” I said.
“You’ll get a call. Don’t miss it. Don’t question it. Don’t even respond. You got it?”
“Sure mate, no need to wig out.”
Patto had the appearance of what he was, a parasite. A fat fuck. A lazy, loose-moraled -- scrub that -- amoral, piece of shit. He let his heavy lids hang on his bulging eyes for a moment or two then he flashed his tongue like a skink, “You dinkum?”
“Mate, you know I am … I fuck up you root the boot, Patto that’s not gonna happen.”
I had him. The eyes sunk back in his fat head. Face played that drongo expression he saved for most days. Only this wasn’t gonna be most days for him … or for me.
****
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Not gentle, but a lot less than I was expecting. These big guys, a mate of mine had once said are all talk and no trousers. It’s the size, the sheer scale that usually excuses them from any kind of conflict. Pound to a pail of shit, the jaw’s never been tested. I mean really tested. As I turned, I wasn’t about to try out this theory myself.
“Brooks.”
“Who’s asking?”
The Maori removed his Oakleys. Put his dark eyes on me, “That wasn’t a question.” From the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt he produced a picture of me, slapped it on the bar.
“Looks like you got my number.”
A nod. No change on his face though, that ancient native’s wisdom thing going on. I tried a smile. Nothing.
The bar-man arrived with the Crownies, “Grog’s up!”
“Ah, cheers, mate,” I picked up the beers, offered one to the big fella.
“Don’t touch alcohol.”
Knew at first sight of him that he was probably pumping his arse with steroids, so probably not gonna touch the cold stuff, but thought to try anyway.
Bar-man, appalled: “That’s a fuckin’ Crown Lager, you’re turning up mate!”
“No worries, won’t go to waste,” I told him.
The Maori disagreed, said: “Oh, I think it might.” He picked up the bottle, snatched mine with his other hand, then smashed them both together. Glass and expensive beer splashed over the floor.
The place fell silent.
Then: “Get your fucking arse out to the car, Brooks.”
****
The call had came at 2.20am.
I took the details and climbed out of bed. I had an old Valiant, never failed me, purred into action first turn of the key.
The streets were quiet heading out through Spottswood. I'd rented a unit in the burbs to keep everything as low key as possible. Was ready to crack the shits with the life after a couple days but stuck it out to get the job done. Right down to the 9-5 appearance, RM Williams footwear, the lot.
The call dropped me the details of a coastal spread near Apollo Bay, down the Princes Highway. I needed to push the Valliant to make the time, but I’d been lapping the burbs so long, figured the burn would do it good.
When I pulled in there was a set of pimped-up utes in the road outside, Holdens, with the full chrome roll-bar kits, roo-catchers and foxtails on show. The instructions were simple, take the crate from the good old boys, one marked Tullamarine Airport, bring it back to Patto.
In and out.
Pass GO and collect $20,000.
If only it was so simple.
“So, that’s the crate?” I asked the homeboy, Collingwood cap on backwards, singlet and thongs style.
“Yeah, mate … that’s the fucking tiger!”
“What?”
“In there. The tiger!” He seemed confused, a look that said he’d just been anally-probed.
“You're shitting me, yeah? No-one said a thing about this.”
“Mate, why do you think there’s so much fucking interest … it’s not a stuffed bloody wombat!”
I put a torch on the crate. Sure enough there was a livestock stamp and clearance papers attached.
“Well, what is it? It‘s not big enough for a fucking tiger I know that!”
The two shit-heads laughed, started to slap each other on the back, then: “Mate, this is a Tasmanian Tiger … you’re looking at upwards a million bucks!”
I pulled the top-layer of the paper covering the crate and steadied the torch. There was a little movement inside. Then two yellow eyes flashed for a second at me and disappeared back into the darkness of the crate.
“You sure about this?”
“Fair Dinkum!” said the mouthy one, he took off his cap and scratched his head, then: “Look, I got the word on this coming through, it’s top fucking secret.”
“But, the tiger’s extinct!”
“Supposed to be. This one doesn’t know that … the stupid bastard trapped itself in a logger’s shack … found it licking the inside of a stewpot!”
“So, it’s genuine! No shit, a Tassie Tiger.”
“Mate, it’s been authenticated by fucking scientists! It’s the find of the fucking century!”
“So why haven’t I read about this in the papers?”
“’Cos if you had maybe some mad bastard would get the idea of stealing the fucker …”
The pair of them laughed themselves stupid. Real eye-watering laughter. I couldn’t watch.
“Yo, fellas … then this is our heritage we’re talking about here.”
The laughter stopped flat. “What?”
“Have you no idea what this is … you’re ripping off yourselves, this is fucking un-Australian.”
The pair looked like I’d just torched the utes sitting behind us. I guessed there’d be plenty more opportunities for them to make a killing cherry-picking the cargo bays, but this deal, I decided, wasn’t gonna pay for them.
“On the road …”
“What?”
I unclipped the Baretta from my belt, “There’s been a change of plan …”
****
“So, how do I know you’re who you say you are?”
The Maori didn’t even blink as he produced his badge and a little plastic wallet with his face punched into it.
“Can write anything on paper,” I told him.
In a flash he had me pressed against the driver’s door of my car, an armlock so tight you could jack-up the Valliant with it.
“I didn’t come all this way to be fucked over … there’s a time factor and not to mention the limits of my patience.”
I’d been hardballed before: “There’s also the fact that I’m the one with all the cards here, Kiwi … now get your fucking mitts off me or there’s gonna be one thirsty, hungry animal gnawing at the confines of a crate in the midday sun.”
He twisted harder, said: “Anything happens to that animal …”
“You’ll what, break my arm …” I let him get the taste of that for a while, then, “what do you think it is out today, 35, 40 degrees … fucking hot for sure.”
“Okay, what do you want?” said the Maori.
“What we agreed.”
He loosened off his hold. Stepped back. I could tell he thought I was pond life. Worst kind of scum. But my conscience was clear. I was doing the right thing. I’d queered the deal for Patto, put my arse in a sling, was no way going back to Melbourne … I needed reassurances.
The Maori pulled down his Oakleys, looked out to the horizon, “Patto’s been pulled in already.”
“The others?”
“The cargo guys, fucking small-time … the Federal Government won’t waste its time on them …”
“I meant Patto’s mob … are they being pulled. If he knows it was me …”
The Maori drew heavy breath, pulled his gaze back to me, “They’re all finished, Brooks. You’re out. And in the clear. You can have my guarantee on that.”
“And the … cash?”
He pulled a Jiffy-bag from the back of his shorts, “Delivered in person.”
I ripped open the bag. All sound.
It was getting hotter. I shielded my eyes from the sun, brushed a layer of bush dust from the top of the Valliant, “Come here,” I said.
The Maori followed me round to the front of the car, “Rudd should be calling me in person to thank me for this y’know.”
“Oh, I think the Prime Minister’s a bit busy for that … but assume he appreciates what you’ve done, Brooks … now if we can?”
I wet a finger on my tongue, started to draw a map in the bonnet’s dust, “The tiger’s tucked up in an old settler’s hut about three miles from here …”