Thunder Road (19 page)

Rebel glared but said nothing: waiting for the big man to control the negotiations I guessed. The door closed and for a while no one said anything. Then Sloane spoke. His voice was slow, deliberate, lacked any emotion.

‘If I had known how difficult you were going to be to keep tabs on, Devon, you would never have left Rebel’s.’

He stared hard at Devon, looking for some sign of response. Then he went on.

‘A friend of mine has a pet food factory. It has a machine that can turn a large animal into fish food in minutes. A bit like a mincer. It doesn’t matter what you put in one end, it always looks the same when it comes out the other. It’s not far from here.’

He stopped, letting the words sink in. Angela slumped in the seat, closing her eyes tightly but Devon lit up. I admired his bravado: no sign of fear, no attempt to make himself liked. If Sloane was thinking he would fall to his feet begging
forgiveness
, he was wrong. The silence lengthened before Sloane cleared his throat.

‘What do you have to offer me?’

It was the wrong move. I could see it in a tiny alteration of Devon’s body language. Now he held some small advantage.

‘I’ve been thinking long and hard. The situation has changed since we spoke at Rebel’s. A lot’s gone down. Some really bad shit. There was stuff I was prepared to do then … but it’s no longer on offer.’

Sloane held up his hand. ‘Save it. I don’t know what you’ve been practising in front of the mirror but this isn’t a social call. All I want to know is whether you have enough of what I want, to buy me off. If you don’t then you and your mate … and blondie here … will take a little trip to my friend’s factory. And after that, how about a midnight cruise on the Manukau Harbour? Trouble is, you won’t see much, because you’ll be in forty litre buckets.’

I sat rigid, struggling to keep my face still, to keep the lid on every outward sign. My mouth was dry, and my whole body prickled with sweat.

Sloane’s voice became louder and sharper.

‘So don’t fuck with me, Devon. I want the weed, the money and anything you might have bought with it. Then maybe … and that’s just maybe … I’ll let you walk away.’

It was the accent that I picked up on. Beneath the tough talk there was this accent I’d heard before. It wasn’t like ours. Then it clicked. He was a private school boy. His accent was the same as Richard and Jason’s. What were the odds that he had been to the same school? Behind all the wannabe gangster talk was a private school upbringing he couldn’t hide.

I looked at Devon. His mouth was open but no words came out. Angela was pale, and had this sad blank look on her face, like she was trying to make herself invisible. I could tell that Devon had been outplayed: that he had nothing to bargain with. Show and bluff were not going to work this time.

Sloane’s face broke into the smile of a reasonable man. The whole process had been easier and faster than he’d expected. I guessed he was relieved. I had to do something. My heart was beating like an over-revving engine.

‘I’ve had a gutsful of this shit. I’m the one to fix it.’ My voice sounded strange, like it wasn’t really mine.

They all looked at me. This wasn’t part of anyone’s plans. My own included.

‘Yeah, this whole thing has got out of hand. I’m going to fix it now. No one’s going to get hurt.’ Then I added, ‘There’s been enough hurting.’

‘Ah! Sense at last … from the silent partner. Maybe we should have dealt with you from the word go.’

‘He’s a bullshitter too.’ Rebel spoke for the first time but Sloane ignored him. He seemed to have no status here.

‘It’s Trace isn’t it?’ Sloane’s voice warmed.

I nodded.

‘What can you do, Trace? There’s a lack of trust here. We’ve been ripped off by this guy too many times. He’d piss on your back and tell you it’s raining.’ Sloane relaxed a little. ‘You guys have had your fun. It’s cost me plenty. We were two years in setting up that crop. I had a guy living in the bush for four months. Pest patrol. Local farmers. The cops. All working together… .’

‘A community project,’ Devon couldn’t resist.

‘You fuck up!’ shouted Rebel.

‘…and you two walk in and rip off the lot,’ Sloane continued, ‘right in the middle of harvest. I was sure it was one of my guys, someone got greedy. There was some bloodletting in my team, but it all led nowhere. Then we figured it was our old rivals, the black gangs. They like to think they’ve got the whole scene sewn up. Like it’s part of the Treaty of Waitangi!’ He laughed and Rebel gave an involuntary snort. ‘But my tame farmer kept maintaining it was a couple of white boys.’

‘He was half right….’ Rebel chipped in.

‘I thought maybe he was involved, but the broken leg … it didn’t add up. Then finally the dak began to make its
appearance
, it’s got this trademark hallucinogenic stone. First it was here on the strip right under our noses, and then all over Auckland. Now the gangs are selling it by the shit-load.’

I’d heard enough. ‘We’ve got money and we’ve got dope. We’ve had a few expenses but most of it still adds up.’

‘That BMW one of your expenses?’

‘No. It’s her dad’s.’

The attention all rested on Angela who had buried her face in the back of Devon’s neck.

‘He’s some big cheese in the cops.’ It came to me on the spur of the moment.

‘My arse!’ Rebel, unable to contain himself.

‘Get rid of him,’ I said pointing at Rebel. ‘I’ll make a deal but I can’t do it with him mouthing off every two seconds.’

Sloane was hooked. He turned to Rebel. ‘I can take it from here. You wait with Mark.’

Rebel was a puffed up ball of fury. I heard him mutter, ‘
Fucken
nigger,’ as he climbed out. I guessed it wasn’t aimed at Mark.

‘You were at Collegiate?’ I asked.

Sloane’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know that? You know something about me?’

‘A bit. Bartram there when you were there?’ It was worth a try.

‘Yeah, I took his history classes. Hated the place. I was a boarder.’ He eyed me hard. ‘The old story, my father thought it would straighten me out.’ He laughed bitterly. Even the laugh had the familiar ring to it. The frat house laugh. A bonding laugh that had little to do with humour.

‘Well, let’s sort this,’ I said, wanting to keep the momentum. ‘We’ve fucked up, and I want to put things right and move on.’

‘A bit of sanity at last.’ He flicked a look at Devon that was pure contempt.

I shifted in my seat. ‘We’ve brought the last of the dope. I’ll have to pick up the dough on my Norton. We came in good faith. There’s not much left thanks to your two skins torching Johnno’s place but I reckon that’s down to you, not us.’

He considered it.

‘Yeah, well they certainly paid the price for that.’ Sloane sounded almost sad. ‘Go on then. The girl can stay here with me. We can get to know each other while you’re off on your
errand
.’ He reached over and gave Angela’s bare knee a squeeze. ‘I don’t want him around though,’ he said, indicating Devon, as though he was less than human. ‘Rebel can mind him until you
get back,’ then he added, ‘they deserve each other. Be straight with me, Trace. It’s your one chance. You’ve got an hour, then I take these two fishing.’

Devon was so angry he wouldn’t look at me.

Sloane dropped the window of the car. ‘Rebel,’ he said quietly to Mark, who went off to get him. There was a tense silence until Rebel appeared at the window.

Sloane turned to Devon. ‘Keys!’ He handed them over to Sloane who passed them out to Rebel. ‘You wait with him in his car. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.’

Me and Devon climbed out. I stared at Sloane and pointed at Angela.

‘Police Commissioner’s daughter. The car’s a cop car too.’

I don’t know whether he believed me. I hoped so for
Angela’s
sake.

As we walked back to where we were parked, the Taylors
tagging
along with Rebel behind us, Devon muttered to me, ‘What the fuck are you doing Trace?’

‘Trust me, Devon. Hang in there, we’re going to make it.’

I knew I would have to be quick. He couldn’t last much longer.

I fired up the Norton and rode carefully back along the rows of parked cars. It was as busy as ever: the wild street cars doing their thing and force-fed fours laying down nine second runs. We had been oblivious to everything in the back of the Merc.

At the end of Whaitiri Street there was a car parked in the shadows. It was Carmody, the street racing cop. I wondered if there was any way I could involve him. It was all too difficult. We had been totally outmanoeuvred. We should have lain low or left town. The thought of us all dealing together was an idea straight from Noddy-land. It was never going to happen.

BACK AT THE MOTEL I scooped the Holden key off the kitchen bench. Something on the couch caught my eye. Devon’s Yin and Yang necklace. I pocketed it and headed off for
Angela’s
house. The streets were deserted and my mind throbbed with crazy ideas.

There was nothing about Sloane I trusted, least of all his word, but the idea of the machine that ground up bodies had a deadly credibility. Everything was coming down to the next half hour or so.

I was pleased that Devon hadn’t parked right up Angela’s
driveway
. The possibility of her father returning was too much to think about. I left the bike in the street and drove the Holden back to the cottage in Parnell. I planned to pull the block I had hidden in the back garden as well as the bag in the garage. At least then I knew that I had done everything I could to clear the situation. No amount of money was worth the risk with the hole we’d dug ourselves into. If Devon still pulled some crazy stunt, it would be on his head, not mine.

I parked in the garage of the flats and grabbed my cut from the rafters. Then I ran out onto the road, cramming it inside my jacket as I went. The only light on our old house was the glow of the town houses next door. It was going to be difficult to find the money. I went to the front door. It was wide open. Well worked over, I supposed.

The dank smell of the empty house covered another one
– the faint smell of aftershave – that I only recognised after I’d stumbled in and turned on the dining room light. There in front of me was Wiremu. He was impeccable in his black leathers, sitting on the last remaining dining room chair,
sawn-off
shotgun lying across his lap. He looked the business. For a moment or two I just stood there. I had forgotten all about him since our meeting.

‘Hi,’ I said, feeling flustered and forgetting everything I was here for. ‘Are you waiting for Devon?’

He sat there for a moment or two saying nothing, and then he spoke in his soft voice.

‘Devon owes me. I’m here for the rest.’

He could see my eyes glued on the gun, and he smiled.

‘It’s not for you. Last time I came there were these guys doing the place over. This time, well, I’m ready.’

‘Do you operate … alone?’

‘Shit no. I’ve got my people. We’re whanau, me and my boys. You never heard of the Scorpions?’

I had. They were one of those gangs that people talked about but that never made the papers. Didn’t wear patches.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but I never met one.’

‘What’s your name, bro’?’

‘Trace.’

‘OK, Trace. Tell me what’s happening.’

Where to start? There was no time to work out an ‘edited’ version so I told him the lot. From the beginning. He enjoyed the story, grinning and nodding his head from time to time. When I’d finished he laughed.

‘You guys. You’re babies, man. You thought you could unload all that weed and no one would know. Jeez. I done some dumb things in my time but you guys … you guys could teach me a
thing or two. So what now?’

‘I was about to hand over all we had to get Devon and Angela out of there.’

‘And you thought they’d leave you alone?’ He started
laughing
again.

I nodded.

‘Uh uh. Don’t believe it. I reckon as soon as you hand over all your stuff, you’re fish food all right. Devon agreed to this?’

‘He didn’t. This was my idea.’

‘Your idea.’ He shook his head. ‘Man, I bet he’s pissed with you.’

‘You might say that.’ There was a pause. I couldn’t think of what to say.

‘Well, what can I do? They’re waiting for me.’

‘You can do what Devon should have done in the first place. Come to me and I’ll put out the word. Where did you say these petrol heads hang out? Whaitiri Street? Thunder Road.’

He pulled out a cellphone and wandered outside onto the back deck. I could hear him talking but it was low and soft and much of it in Māori. He must have made three or four calls in rapid succession and then he came back in. He folded the phone and put it in his pocket. The shotgun was placed inside a tennis racquet cover that he pulled out from under the chair.

He was aware of my silent gawping and held up the cover.

‘Anyone for tennis? Old sport.’

I made a funny noise. It might have been a laugh.

‘It’s all on. Let’s move it. It’s all going down in twenty
minutes
.’

There was a black Ford Fairlane parked at the end of the street, a real gangster wagon: lowered, blacked-out windows.

Once we climbed in, Wiremu’s unhurried coolness all
changed. We U-turned with a big screech of rubber and shot through the red lights at the end of the street. Wiremu was smiling. For the first time in weeks I thought that maybe I had grabbed back a bit of control. Maybe I’d lucked out.

Nothing had changed at Whaitiri Street. The drags were still going off every minute or so. Carmody’s car had gone and we pulled in at the bottom end of the strip.

‘What happens now?’

‘We wait. The brothers are coming. Then we’ll close the street down from both ends at once. We need to box our
Mr Sloane
in so we can have a little talk. We’ve got history, him and me.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh yeah. I know Steven Sloane from way back. If he wasn’t
useful
he would have gone into the Manukau himself. Long time ago.’ He turned to me. ‘It’s all about being
useful
, Trace. That’s where your plan fell down. You wouldn’t have been
useful
.’

‘So how’s he useful?’

‘Car imports. He and his old man. We’ve piggy-backed cakes of speed in with some of them. Dak seeds. All sorts of shit. It was a good arrangement before he began to see himself as “the man”. Won’t deal with us any more. I heard he gathered a little band of skins. It’s got racial.’

He glanced in the rear view mirror. ‘Here they come.’

I saw two big cars, and then a third pull in behind us. Wiremu finally hauled himself out and wandered over to the driver of the second car. Other guys all milled around in a state of
excitement
. I could see they were used to this sort of thing. Finally a fourth car arrived. It was a big old Chevvy that someone had chopped the roof off. Full of guys.

Everyone got out of their cars and gathered around Wiremu. They bowed their heads. It looked like a prayer or a chant was
being said. This was followed by a cheer and the slapping of palms as they all ran back to their cars.

We wound into the bottom of Thunder Road, the end that the races finished at. There were a few spent cars with bonnets up, the owners watching our sombre procession. Up ahead two cars were rocketing towards us. I could see the rise and fall of the headlights as the cars were chopped through the gears. I remember thinking, ‘He’s not going to play chicken.’ And then a moment later, ‘He is’.

About 50 metres away the drivers separated and shot past on both sides of us. They must have guessed this convoy wasn’t moving for anyone.

We were down among the cars at the bottom of the parked line now and I could see teenagers running for their wheels. They were out of here. It was like the cops had raided: the news passed up the line as if by telepathy. Stampeding sprint cars shot out in front of us and headed off into the night. It was a drill everyone knew.

Up ahead there was the flash of an explosion and a hard sharp blast. In the chaos it was hard to tell what was going on. A moment later the big BMW shot past us. No windscreen, passenger door hanging open. Even in the gloom and smoke I could make out Devon at the wheel.

‘It’s Devon,’ I said to Wiremu, ‘He’s got away.’

‘He’ll keep. It’s Steven Sloane I’m after.’

We reached Sloane’s Merc just as it was pulling out. Wiremu squeezed past and stopped inches in front. The other cars spurted in behind. It was a slick manoeuvre.

The driver’s door opened and Mark climbed stiffly out of the stalled car. Wiremu sauntered over to him in that unhurried
way that big men have. I thought, ‘Now it’s happening.’

I was wrong. They said nothing but locked fists close to their chests and hongi-ed. There was some sort of tie in. I couldn’t believe it. Sloane had gone from gangster to rich white man in a big car. His whole aura had been nothing. None of his friends had stood by him. He didn’t have a gang, it was just image: something I’d grown in my head.

I tried to see what was happening up the road. The cars had mostly gone now; there were just a few stragglers who couldn’t get their engines started. Somewhere there was the thin,
distant
noise of a siren coming, above the roar of engines. The Scorpions were all lounging about, joking and laughing. It had been a bit of an anticlimax. No battles tonight. Some lounged against the front of the big car talking to Mark. Whatever was happening didn’t seem to involve me. The door of the big car opened and Angela emerged, looking shaken and drained, her clothes all askew. When she saw me she burst into tears and lunged into my arms. I stood there holding her, feeling her body heave with sobs.

After a while she spoke. ‘Where were you? Where did you go? Where’s Devon?’

It was too difficult. I didn’t know where Devon had gone either, but I knew he was in trouble. The sobs weakened and died with the questions. We stood there, locked together.

Wiremu emerged from the big car, ‘It’s done, let’s go.’

Our convoy pulled out. Wiremu flicked a ‘Ka kite’ at Mark who was in the process of getting his huge body back into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Thanks for that. I thought we were all goners.’

‘It was sweatless. Didn’t get what we came for, though.’ He sounded a bit sharp.

‘I’ll get it. It’s in the back of the Beamer.’

‘Yeah, but where? Did you see that ute take off after it?’

It didn’t take much imagination to work out who that would have been.

When we made it back to the old Parnell cottage Wiremu gave me his number. I said I would call him when I tracked down Devon. Angela and I stood on the footpath, watching his Fairlane saunter off into night. Angela was in a bad way. She seemed to have had some sort of breakdown: was
shivering
and crying, unable to speak. There was no knowing what might have happened to her in the back of Sloane’s car. One thing was for sure, though; she couldn’t stay the night in her big empty house alone. I bundled her into the Holden and drove to Karen’s. We staggered up the drive. The house was dark and silent. I hoped Karen’s folks weren’t home. I stood, indecisive, in the front entranceway, then rang the bell, long and hard. A light came on somewhere in the depths of the house. I had to leave Angela, crouched and snivelling on the doorstep. No more dinner invites for me.

Back at Angela’s house it was a relief to be reunited with the Norton. It didn’t take long before I started to feel more like my old self again. I put all my focus into riding, tuning into the gutsy chuckle of the exhaust, finding just the right lines for the corners. Its soothing familiarity allowed me to review my options. What could be done? Where should I go? It had to be the motel. Our last refuge. If Devon managed to shake the Taylors loose, he would head there.

Turning into the double lane bypass road at Greenlane, I rode straight into a blockade of police cars re-routing traffic. Cops everywhere. Reflective raincoats, flashing lights carving the darkness, and hordes of hot cars: the remnants of the drags. There had been a big accident.

I was signalled over while a fire engine squeezed past. Two others were already at the scene. There was this ominous, grinding feeling in my gut but I didn’t let my mind visualise the unbearable. No. Not yet. I wanted to live extra minutes, extra seconds believing he was OK. Believing he had got away. I rode up onto the footpath and parked my bike.

Torn between having to know and the fear of finding out, I stood with the hungry crowd locked into the impromptu drama. I was once more on the outside, a spectator. Somewhere a voice untangled itself from all the other voices. It was familiar, close. Unignorable. Even with his back to me I knew it was Rebel. He was excited, recounting a story to the Taylor Twins. His muscular back mimicked the angry gestures of his fists. Carefully, I backed away, all the fight gone from me. The only thing I wanted was to find Devon and get back to the motel.

I turned and made for the bike. My legs, weak with
exhaustion
, fought to gain speed. Something about my movements caught the attention of one of the Taylors. I pushed the Norton off its stand and off the footpath. There was no time to
kick-start
– they were too close – but the momentum was enough to bump-start in second gear. I felt someone grab the belt of my jacket for a moment before the bike’s torque kicked in and jerked me clear.

Two hundred metres down the road I had to wait at the
intersection
for the police to wave me through. In the mess of lights I could see a ute pulling out of the line of parked cars. It slowed
and the figure of Rebel darted across the road and jumped onto the back, a scary animal grace in his movements.

Up front the police seemed to have forgotten about me and the two cars waiting to make a left turn. I squeezed inside the cars and round the corner, narrowly missing the cop’s
outstretched
arm as I thrashed back towards Newmarket. I rode straight through four sets of lights without even slowing down. Behind me I could see the ute doing the same thing.

Broadway was deserted. A canyon of shops all waiting for tomorrow. On an impulse I plunged into the exit of a big
car-park
building. The sleepy attendant’s cries were drowned by the thunder of the engine in the echoing space. Two or three levels down I was able to duck out the entranceway into the street a block away. Clear at last. No way they could follow me now.

By the time I had reached the waterfront promenade I felt safe again. I rode slowly, breathing the salty air and reaching out to the splintered me hiding deep inside, as if my body was just a shell of who I was. It was all over at last. I could feel neck and back muscles relax and the tension gradually ease from my frozen face. I stopped for a while where the water was lapping against the sea wall somewhere below me. The dim forms of moored boats were bobbing about in the bay. It was time to head back to the motel.