The Second Son, page 24
I’m as stunned as Anto, but by the time Granny Slater levels her ancient revolver at me, I’ve got my gun back out. She pulls back the hammer just as Marko appears at the back door, brandishing a Smith & Wesson 9mm. For a split second, Granny Slater wavers, her aim moving from me to Marko, but she is fierce and determined, nothing like the sweet little old lady from moments before.
‘Put the gun down, lady, or I will shoot you. It is no problem for me. I have killed old ladies before. It is easy.’
Something in Marko’s eyes makes Granny Slater buckle slightly at the knees. Her right hand starts to shake, as if she’s having trouble supporting the gun. Closing the distance between us, I prise it from her arthritic fingers and hand the revolver to Marko. I shove my Glock back into my jeans and ease the old lady onto one of the kitchen chairs. She’s breathing fast now, her colour bad.
‘Anto, sit down. Marko, do something about his arm.’
‘She shot me! The old lady shot me!’ Anto glares at Granny Slater as if she has turned into some kind of winged demon.
I open cupboards until I find glasses, which I fill at the sink. The heat in this kitchen is crushing. I give a glass each to Anto and Granny Slater, who are now sitting side by side at the kitchen table. I wait while the old lady drinks the glass of water, then I use Mum’s old stockings to gently tie her hands together in her lap. The nylon material still smells vaguely of feet, so I use a scarf to gag her. I explain what I’m doing, each step of the way. Her breathing slows as she calms down. She seems to be accepting what’s happening.
There’s blood everywhere. Anto is pale and the stink of sweat mixes with the acrid tang of discharged gun powder. As I tie up Granny Slater, Marko wraps one of the stockings around Anto’s bicep, where there’s a neat hole. There must be a bigger one out the back of his arm. Marko grabs a tea towel from the oven rail and uses it to pad the exit wound, before strapping another stocking around it. Then, with another tea towel, he fashions a makeshift sling. Fast and efficient, like he’s done it a hundred times.
Now I’ve got Granny Slater immobilised, I find the bullet in the door frame. With the help of my switchblade, it comes out easily enough. The nose of the bullet is flat. I drop it into my pocket, then grab disinfectant and dishcloths from under the sink and clean up all visible traces of blood. When the police burst in here, they won’t be spraying luminol around looking for blood splatter. They’ll be searching for a van load of drugs.
‘I think we’re ready, don’t you? You feel okay, Mrs Slater?’ The old lady looks resigned, all the fight gone out of her. She manages a nod.
‘Anto, go and sit in the front passenger seat. We’ll look after Mrs Slater.’
Anto shoots the old lady a nasty look, lurches up and heads out the back door.
Marko puts his hand under Granny Slater’s elbow and helps her to her feet.
‘Come on, Mrs Slater. Tetka Branka, she is waiting for you. She will give you a nice cup of tea.’
Granny Slater looks up at Marko, a frown on her face.
I pick up the old lady’s rumpled floral handbag, containing her purse, glasses case, a clean handkerchief and a set of keys. I put her gun back in the bag. There’s no point leaving it behind for her to use on me some other time.
Searching for a mobile phone, I find one plugged into its charger on her bedside table. I take the charger as well. The phone is so old it might be the only one of its kind left in existence.
In Slater’s bedroom, the ecstasy and the gun are still taped to the underside of the bed, ready for the police when I can work out how to get them here.
Back in the kitchen, I pick up the bag of bloodied tea towels and lock the back door behind me. Through the dusty window of the garage, I spot Slater’s Harley. I jiggle the door handle. Locked. One of the keys on Granny Slater’s key ring does the trick. Once inside, I bring out my switchblade again and slash both tyres. The Harley lists to starboard, then keels over with a nasty, expensive-sounding crunch that makes me smile.
Back in the driver’s seat, I turn around to check on Granny Slater. Marko has her securely stashed in the seat furthest from the door. The tinted rear window is the only window in the back of the van. She looks small and frightened, so I give her my most reassuring smile.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be back home soon. I promise.’
In the late afternoon on this baking hot day, I reverse down the driveway and pull out onto the street. Not a soul in sight. No concerned neighbours coming over to check out the possible gunshot noise. Doesn’t anyone care about what’s happening on their street anymore? I drive off in the direction of my parents’ place. No one coming to stop three men kidnapping a little old lady. What the fuck is the world coming to.
Dad has the garage door open, his Hilux out on the street. I drive straight in and Dad lowers the garage door behind us. Like the old days when Ivan and I brought home a stolen car. This time it’s a stolen granny.
Taking it slowly, I walk Mrs Slater through the house and settle her in a chair at the kitchen table, her hands still tied and resting in her lap. After I remove her gag, Mum makes a fuss, stroking the thin grey hair from the older lady’s face and offering her tea.
I turn my attention to Anto. Dad has him in an armchair in the living room, an old towel under the back of his arm. We won’t get any stick from Mum about blood on her furniture.
I get my mate a beer and a shot glass, leaving the rakia nice and close to his left hand. I dig some painkillers out of the bathroom cupboard. Dad is on the phone to one of his old buddies, a vet, organising a home visit. Once I’m happy Anto is as comfortable as possible, I pull out the flat-nosed bullet and hand it over.
‘You might want to keep a little memento of the first time you got shot…by a little old lady.’ We both start laughing, but Anto grimaces when the shaking hurts his arm.
‘Fuck you, mate.’
‘If I were you, I’d be drinking a fair amount of rakia before the vet gets here to stitch you up.’
Anto pours himself a glass, spilling a bit with his clumsy left hand.
As I walk down the hall towards the garage, I hear Anto toast himself.
‘Živjeli mate, živjeli.’
JOHNNY
It’s getting dark as Marko and I use Granny Slater’s keys to let ourselves in the back door of her empty house. We figure we can climb out Slater’s bedroom window if we hear a car or bike coming up the driveway. We split up, searching the place systematically for any sort of paperwork for another house, a storage unit, a warehouse, a shed. Anywhere it might be possible to hide two people, one of them with a little mole behind her left ear and one who punches really hard.
The idea of my wife and son in a grungy bikie clubhouse makes me so angry I throw my fist through the dining-room wall. Marko comes out of Slater’s bedroom tut-tutting when he sees the hole. We don’t want the police to twig that the place has been tossed when they finally manage to get a search warrant, but I figure Slater could just as easily have punched a hole in the wall. And I’m wearing gloves.
In Granny Slater’s room, there’s a display of framed family photos on the mantlepiece above the gas fireplace. Ink is easy to recognise, rail-thin and snaggle-toothed in every photo. But it looks like he has a younger brother, stocky and unsmiling. In the photos of this same stocky kid all grown up, he’s as tall as Ink but built as if he’s shifted a lot of weights. In one photo, he’s in full army commando gear, rappelling out of an army helicopter over water. In another one, taken in a desert somewhere, mountains in the distance, he’s standing with some buddies, fully kitted up and carrying Blaser R93 Tactical sniper rifles. I call Marko in.
‘Yes, Slater has a little brother.’ Marko nods.
‘Not so little anymore.’
‘Come and see his room.’
I thought the third bedroom was empty. No posters on the walls and nothing to suggest there ever had been. The single bed has an army-issue blanket, tucked in so tight fleas would find it hard to squeeze in. Nothing on the bedside table. But in the dark timber wardrobe, a dress uniform hangs stiffly alongside army fatigues. Dress boots and one pair of everyday army boots have been polished to a mirror finish. Pinned to the inside of the door is a yellowed photo of Ink Slater’s brother, aged about five or six, holding hands with a dark-haired woman. This time the kid has a smile on his face.
Marko pulls out the top drawer of a small chest of drawers to reveal three small, black boxes, embossed with the rising sun and crown crest of the Australian Army. He opens each box reverently.
‘Three tours of duty in Afghanistan. Ink Slater’s brother is a war hero.’
‘Shit. Let’s hope he doesn’t come home to find his granny’s been snatched and get in the middle of all this.’
We back out of the pristine room and resume searching. We come up with exactly nothing. I’m close to punching another wall. I make my way back into the kitchen, where Marko is rummaging through drawers. I feel a vibration in my pocket and a strange ring tone.
I pull out Granny Slater’s old phone, noticing it’s nearly out of juice. It’s a Sydney number, but no contact details come up. I hit answer, but don’t say anything.
‘Nan?’
‘Mrs Slater can’t come to the phone right now,’ I answer in a posh voice as I sit down at the kitchen table, something like a grin breaking over my face. Marko is watching, bewildered.
‘Who’s that? Where’s Nan?’
‘I’m your worst nightmare, Slater.’ This is really for Marko’s benefit. Clue him in, make him smile for a change. It works, but his smile is kind of scary.
‘Johnny Novak, what the fuck are you doin’ with me nan’s phone?’ Slater’s voice is venomous.
‘We didn’t think she should be left all alone, while you’re off somewhere being a first-class evil prick.’
‘Where’s Nan? Is she there? Put her on, you stupid fuck. Do you have any idea what I’ll do to you?’
‘Your nan is very comfortable. All you have to do is tell me where Amy and Sasha are, and I’ll bring her home, safe and sound.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Really, that’s what you want to say to me right now? Don’t you care about your nan?’
‘Nan knows how to look after herself. Besides, you won’t hurt her. If you hurt her, I’ll kill Amy and Sasha. You keep me nan comfortable, I’ll make sure Amy and Sasha are comfortable. You still need to give yourself up, Johnny. No confession, no wifey.’
My frustration draws me out of the chair.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve got your grandmother! It’s time this ended. You’ve had Amy and Sasha since last night. Fucking hand them over, you psychotic little cunt.’
‘I tell you what, Johnny. I’ll give the kid back to you. If you give me nan back to me. That’s fair. Amy stays put until you give yourself up, cop to the murders and hand over whatever was in the back of Stanislav’s van.’ Then the skinny fucker hangs up.
‘It makes sense, Ink Slater has two hostages, we have one.’ Marko’s taking the pragmatic view as he drives us back to my parents’ place.
The word ‘hostages’ makes me disgusted with myself. I dread to think about what Amy and Sasha might be going through right now.
‘When I get her out of this situation, Amy will never speak to me again.’
Marko shrugs. ‘You are right, you do not deserve her. But Amy knew your family, what you do, before she married you.’
Jesus, that’s the most personal Marko’s ever been with me. He really picks his moments. ‘Thanks for that. But did you ever expect it to get this fucked up?’
Marko ignores my question and comes up with his own. ‘Where are we going to hide his granny? Now Slater knows we have her, he will try to rescue her.’
‘Will he? Or will he just do the swap, like he said? He knows where I live, so no doubt he knows where Dad lives, but fucking with me and fucking with Dad are two different ball games. Otherwise, why wasn’t Dad’s house copping the drive-by and Dad’s neighbour’s dog having its throat slit?’
‘Yes. You are right. But it is a good idea to bring in some of the crew.’
We agree to organise it when we get back to Mum and Dad’s.
I try calling Slater back to arrange the swap. No answer.
I’m like a character in someone else’s movie. The scene in Mum’s kitchen does nothing to dispel the feeling that the world has slipped off its axis.
Mum is at the stove, frying veal schnitzels, and Granny Slater is at the kitchen table, mashing potatoes in a saucepan. They’re chatting away like old friends. Dad is nowhere to be seen. Marko grabs a beer from the fridge and stalks off down the hall. I hear the back door slam. I know I can rely on him to organise the reinforcements.
This scene of domestic harmony nearly tips me over the edge. I want to take the pot out of Granny Slater’s hands and hurl it through the kitchen window. I take a few deep breaths instead, before asking the obvious question.
‘Mum, I don’t suppose you’ve found out where Amy and Sasha are being held, have you?’
‘Gladys does not know. But she has something to tell you. Sit, sit, we eat in a minute.’
There’s no way I can derail dinner. I pull a beer out of the fridge and sit down, repressing the urge to mention Slater’s idea of swapping his nan for Sasha. I need Granny Slater to help me free both Amy and Sasha.
Mum nods encouragement to the old lady. Granny Slater adds some butter and a splash of milk to the mashed potatoes.
‘Ian’s father, now, he started out okay, but he married a drug addict. That girl was a low-down, dirty whore and she turned my son into a drug addict. Hell, Ian came into this world with the shakes. I admit all those tattoos look terrible, but he’s not a drug addict anymore and he can be quite sweet, at times.’
My utter disbelief obviously registers. She puts the masher down and tries to explain.
‘I brought up Ian and his younger brother, Jackson. I did it right. Ian has never been to prison, even though the cops tried to fit him up.’ Her expression is sad. She must be remembering her poor little grandson being hauled off by corrupt police. ‘If he did take your wife and child,’ she holds up an arthritic finger, ‘and I don’t believe it,’ she wags her finger back and forth, ‘but if he did, it’s because he wants something from you. All you need to do is give him what he wants, and he’ll give you what you want. Done.’ She claps her hands together then leans back in her seat, chin up, arms crossed, satisfied with her pronouncement.
‘Mrs Slater, your grandson called me this afternoon, on my wife’s phone, and told me he’d taken my wife and my son. So it’s definitely something he would do. Okay?’
She heard me but is not hearing me. She looks up at Mum, who has just removed the last piece of veal from the frying pan. Mum turns off the gas and reaches over to pat Granny Slater’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Gladys, is like I said. Your Ian has our Sasha and our Amy. How do we get them back?’
Granny Slater sags in her chair. She looks old and tired. I’m starting to believe she has no idea where Amy and Sasha are, but she’s my best chance. I try again.
‘I want this to end peacefully. No one needs to get hurt. If I can talk to Ian, face to face, man to man, we can come up with a solution. Are you sure you don’t know of a place he might hang out, his clubhouse maybe? Somewhere else? Somewhere he might be keeping Amy and Sasha?’
She is thinking hard, one hand stroking the other, as though for comfort.
‘Sometimes he doesn’t come home for days on end,’ she says slowly. ‘I know they’ve got a place somewhere. He and his friends work on their bikes together, play pool and drink beer. They don’t do drugs, though.’
I remember the photo, on Facebook, of the Hyde twins snorting coke from the pert butts of two girls, but I keep my mouth shut and let the old lady keep talking.
‘I don’t know where they go. It’s best if I don’t ask. He wouldn’t have taken your wife and child unless you have something he really wants. What does he want from you?’
‘It doesn’t really matter what he wants, Mrs Slater, he has them, and we’ve got you. We need to work together now, so we can find Amy and Sasha and take you home.’
Two fat tears slide down the old lady’s cheeks.
‘Perhaps he’ll send you a message?’ she says, her voice low and sad. ‘Yes, that’s it. He’ll send you a message.’ She nods as if she’s finally understood something important. ‘Give him what he wants. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he can turn nasty.’ She is pleading with me now. ‘You don’t want to make him angry.’
•
Out on the back patio, I try the landline Slater used to call his nan’s phone, then the mobile she has listed for him, and finally Amy’s phone. No luck. Meanwhile, I’ve ignored three calls from Chaz.
‘Why won’t the fucker answer my call? Doesn’t he want his grandma back?’ My head is in my hands.
Marko grabs my shoulder and shakes it.
‘Listen. We need to break a couple of the old lady’s fingers. Then she will talk.’ Marko is not happy about Mum’s soft interrogation technique. ‘She shot Anto, she is tough. One finger. We can make sure.’
Dad looks at Marko as though he too is actually considering this as a course of action.
I can’t let it happen. ‘If I honestly thought it would work, she’d be tied to a chair and we’d have the pliers out. She’s got nothing to gain by holding out on us.’
‘Okay, what is Ink Slater’s weakness?’ my cousin asks. ‘He does not seem to care enough about his grandma. What does he care about?’
‘I have no idea. Ruining my life? Does he want to run the whole western suburbs? Maybe he wants to be the biggest arsehole in Sydney?’ I sigh, but the question has refocused my mind. ‘He’s got a big crew, bigger than ours, and younger. He has at least twenty-five guys to our sixteen. The Hyde twins are his top lieutenants. We know they have no fucking scruples. Everyone’s wives and children are at risk.’
‘Kill the fucking lot of ’em. Fucking meth-head bikies. Don’t deserve to live. Squash ’em like bugs,’ Stump pipes up. He and Fibs are on guard duty out the back. Bigsie and Shrimp are around the front.
