Chick Magnet

By Joel Rheinberger

If you're a ninja, nobody knows you're a ninja. So everyone thinks Mick's an accountant.
But when his mob is robbed, he has to trail the thieves in brothels and bikie bars. Can he maintain his mild mannered disguise, or will he have to start stabbing his way through the scum of Sydney?
Chick Magnet is a pacey crime caper with a sharp tongue and a poison pen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312876002

Book preview

1

Mick Jeffrey was the book-keeper for a Sydney company that imported cheap electronics.  His meticulous spreadsheets were full of speaking toys, no-name motherboards, mobile phone chargers and tiny speakers.

Smith & Wang bought the stuff cheaply from Asia, mostly wholesaling it to two-dollar shops around the country.  Though Mick's boss Smitty also ran a profitable little stall at Paddy's Markets, so sometimes they would take a punt on a new gadget, buy a crate of them and see how the buyers reacted.

A slender 26 year old with a neat appearance and excellent posture, Mick carefully cultivated blandness.  His mousy hair was neither too short nor too long.  He chose good quality clothing without obvious branding or bright colours.  He drove a grey Toyota Corolla and never broke the speed limit.

On a Thursday in November, he arrived at the Marrickville warehouse by 8:20am in order to make coffee before he was due at his desk.

Mick was the quiet one at work.  He was well respected as Smitty's second in charge, but his reserved manner meant that he usually ate his lunch alone. After nodding and murmuring greetings to a few people, he went into his office and pulled the door not-quite-closed.  It was the same signal as his body language – you can speak to me if you need to, but if you don't, then don't.

He spent the morning calling various creditors and debtors.  At lunchtime he walked to a nearby Vietnamese bakery for ban mi tit – a crusty roll with salad and several types of preserved pork.  In the afternoon he spent some time calculating the company's quarterly GST, before doing the day's banking at the local branch of the Commonwealth Bank.

At the day’s end he drove home to Concord, picking up a platter of sushi for dinner on the way.  It was big enough to share with Gino and Tasha, two of his housemates who were also home tonight.

They ate it in front of the TV, because Thursday night meant The Simpsons and two episodes of Law and Order, a weekly ritual.  But Mick excused himself shortly after sunset and went upstairs to bed with a faked headache.

After locking his bedroom door, he sat on the floor for ten minutes and meditated.  Then he changed into dark clothing and slid out the window, climbing silently down an apparently sheer wall, where he had previously chipped out some finger holds between the bricks.  There was a large tree growing outside his window, so he would not be spotted on his way down.

He jumped the side fence into the neighbour’s yard, tossing a chewy treat to their dog, then slid over the opposite fence and onto a narrow footpath that split the block.  He followed it towards the train tracks, ducking well away from overhanging branches where orb weavers liked to build their huge webs. He’d copped spiders in the face a few times on this path, so he was careful now.

He crossed the tracks and a few blocks later he found the car at the pre-arranged spot.  The key was magnetically attached to a wheel rim.

The car was an unremarkable ex-rental registered to a deniable shelf company.  One of the Darrens had delivered it here and would pick it up later, when the contract had been completed.

Mick drove to Bondi, parking near the beach.  Not many night-swimmers at this early point in the season, but still plenty of people sitting on the sand with fish and chips.

Across the street from the beach was a colourful array of cafes, bars, fashion stores, and shops selling Aussie print tea towels and gaudy mugs for the tourists.  Mick wandered over and joined the flowing throng of pub crawlers and back packers.

He'd been to Bondi plenty of times before.  And he knew today's particular route quite well, having contrived reasons to be in the neighbourhood twice over the last week.  He followed his planned course away from the water and the crowds, a few blocks into suburbia.

He stopped at the corner of the target’s street, pulling out his phone and allowing a slender brunette to walk past as he fiddled with it - he wanted the street empty before he walked into it.

Once she was gone, he sauntered onward.  The house had high fences and a canary yellow Prius parked in the driveway.  With a final look up and down the street, Mick scaled the front fence and dropped low onto the lawn, creeping around to the back yard.

He put thin leather gloves on, settled behind a wheelie bin, and listened carefully through a nearby open window.  For half an hour he measured the tread of a single male occupant.  Then finally he heard the toilet seat drop, his signal to slither in through the window.

Mick crept along the hall, body relaxed and senses extended, then slid into the target's computer room, which was next to the toilet.  He would strike while the target was washing his hands in the bathroom across the hall.

But after struggling with his prostate issues for a good ten minutes, the dirty old bastard didn't wash up, he came straight out of the toilet and into the computer room.  Mick waited behind the door and made a mental note not to touch the target's hands.

As the old man settled into his chair and booted up, Mick peeped around the door.  The positioning was textbook perfect for a clean kill, but the target was not.  Because this was not the target.  This was Harry, the target's boyfriend, who was not to be touched.  And who normally worked late at his shop on a Thursday, so was quite unexpected.

Harry logged in and started looking for porn.  He had lots of bookmarks and he browsed a few before choosing a video stream to watch.  Once it started, Mick used the grunting noises from the video as cover and slipped out of the room.  He would return on another day.

As he came to the hallway, he heard the key in the front door and flattened himself against the wall.  The target came through the front door, oblivious to Mick's presence until a strong hand clamped his throat closed and dragged him off balance.  The target had time for a moment of shock, of uselessly trying to shout, then felt a tickle in his ear hole.  Mick was carefully placing the tip of a narrow plastic spike there, and once it was lined up he shoved it into the man's brain.

The spike was once a chopstick, which had been lifted from a Chinese restaurant and sharpened to a point.  An utterly untraceable shiv that matched almost perfectly the steel shuriken spikes that Mick had trained with.  Using such a weapon required extra precision, as it was not hard enough to reliably penetrate skull bone and must be threaded neatly through the ear.  But the local coroner, exposed to plenty of bodies from jail, would just see it as the signature of a killer who had done hard time.  A small but effective misdirection.

Mick held tight until the target stopped shuddering, then dragged him into the lounge room and laid him out on the carpet.  He quietly left by the front door, peeling off and pocketing the gloves as he walked outside.

He slipped through the gate and strode around the corner, ambling through the back streets of Bondi until he was sure he was alone.  Then he made his way to the light and noise of Campbell Parade.  He was tempted by the smell of Oporto’s spicy chicken, but wanted to avoid appearing on anyone’s security camera, so he crossed the road and returned to the car for the trip home.

As he parked, he called the Darrens and said done before hanging up.  They would pick up the vehicle before morning.

Mick mopped down all the surfaces he'd touched with a disinfectant wet wipe.  He cleaned up the phone too and left it in the glove box.  He left the car behind and slipped through the neighbourhood yards to climb back up to his bedroom window.

He emerged, only a couple of hours after going upstairs for a snooze, joining his housemates on the couch for some awful late-night TV.

Alibi, sweet alibi.

2

The next day, Mick arrived at work by 8:25am with a pair of strong coffees from the Greek restaurant down the street.  Smitty insisted that Greeks made the best coffee, so that's what Mick always brought for their Friday morning meeting.

Smitty's office was a sty, in contrast to the neatness that Mick cultivated.  But Mick knew his boss could lay his hands on any piece of paper he needed.  There was clearly a pattern to the chaos, just not one apparent to anyone else.

Smitty was looking through a catalogue of computer peripherals and fidgeting with the one ball that was bigger than the other.  Underpant comfort was a problem for a man with uneven balls and Smitty adjusted them constantly.

He was a very short man, but with his enormous hands and beefy shoulders you'd never call him small.  He had a face that had been punched too much beneath sparse sandy hair, with a growing bald spot at the crown.

How's that contract lookin'? Smitty asked as Mick closed the door.

It's been finalised, Mick said, sitting down.  The partner was there unexpectedly, but I managed to complete my business without letting him know.

Shit, said Smitty, glad you worked things out.  Would have been hard to collect, otherwise.  Do you think the cops will blame the partner?

It's unlikely, he's not physically capable of doing it.

Well done, kid. Taking him out pays for the customs guy at the docks to look the other way when our next shipment arrives, which saves us a few bucks.  And it proves to him that we're too dangerous to fuck with.  That's a nice little double-tap – carrot and stick.

No problem, Smitty.

One of Smitty's nicotine-stained hand reached out, virtually without guidance from his eyes, grabbing a particular stack of sheets from under the pile.  There was a zen-ness to his way, Mick thought, an unconscious knowledge of what was where.  He knew without appearing to know, or even to care.  It was why so many underestimated him.

Smitty tossed the papers over and Mick took them out of their flight path without spilling his coffee.  They were descriptions of new products from their scouts across Asia, several had circles around them.  Universal remotes, shavers, laminating units, electronic toys.

Choose a few of these things to trial.  Then see what stuff the clients want and plan a buying trip for the two of us.  We'll pop in and visit your mates while we're there, pay our respects and that.  Add twenty percent on top of the usual budget – we can afford to invest a bit extra this time around.

Sure.  Leave in a month?

Great.

Smitty pulled a pair of packages from his desk drawer; an envelope and a gift-wrapped item about the size of a book.  He made an awkward bow and held them out.

"Job well done, genin."

Mick took them with great care, sliding the envelope of cash into his pocket.  He saw that the other package was properly wrapped with only folded paper, unblemished by ribbons or tape.  There was a hand-drawn border of dancing cranes along one edge.  Mick bowed in return.

Thank you, Smitty, he said.

You're welcome, son.  Smitty cracked a smile.  I've been talking to your old mates recently, asked them what a young bloke like you might like for a gift.  So I reckon you'll like it.  Now get cracking on that trip, eh?

Mick went to his office and spent the day calling clients, booking flights and accommodation, then organising meetings with various suppliers overseas.  It was a tedious and complicated business, punctuated with long bouts of waiting on hold, so he processed receipts and invoices as he went.

When Mick finally locked his office, it was past 7pm and everyone else had gone to the pub.  His home in Concord was only a few suburbs away, but traffic was the special hell of Sydney on a warm Friday night, so it took over an hour to get there. Mick left the unopened package on the seat next to him, savouring the anticipation of opening it.

His rambling red brick house was in a small street between the railroad tracks and six lanes of traffic on Homebush Bay Drive.  It was the near-constant noise that made it affordable.

Mick bounded inside and checked for housemates, but none were there, so he wouldn't be disturbed looking over his take.  In his room, he counted the cash quickly, six grand in $100 bills.

That seemed short, considering the work it represented, so he inspected the envelope further.  Sure enough, inside was a tiny plastic baggie containing a sparkle of precious stones - a scattering of engagement-ring sized diamonds and a pair of big emeralds.

Mick estimated that it was four or five thousand dollars worth.  He preferred anonymous internet transfers into one of his offshore accounts, but Smitty liked the sort of stuff you could use in prison or on the run – both places he had spent time.  So his payments often came in kind, rather than cash.

Mick pulled up the carpet in his cupboard and flipped up a floorboard, revealing a small safe set into the floor.  He opened the door with a code and dropped in all of the stones and half of the cash, folding the rest into a clip which he returned to his pocket.

Finally, Mick unwrapped the gift.  Under the paper, inside a beautiful box, was a solid-looking block of metal, which unfolded into a multi-tool.  It had screwdrivers, pliers, a pick, a bottle-opener and one blade.  Mick opened it and recognised the smithing from his time in Japan.  There was a single Japanese symbol on the leather pouch.  Chuugi – loyalty.

This was worth more to him than the cash and jewels combined, for it spoke of his true profession and yet he could carry it to work every day.  He put the tool by his bed, then called a cab, quickly brushing his hair and teeth while he waited for it to arrive.

Next was food, drugs, dancing and sex.  In that order.

3

Mick took the cab to the Viet Vo Pho in the back streets of Glebe.  He had been ordering home delivery from there ever since their brochures started turning up in his junk-mail.  But it was a natural stop on his way into the CBD, so he decided to check out the restaurant in person.

Glebe was a trendy little suburb only a stone's throw from the city.  A generation ago it was poor, but now the tiny terraces had been converted into fabulous boutiques and groovy restaurants.

The Viet Vo Pho was slightly off the main drag, a little diner which had been hand decorated.  Tall bamboo canes were glued in perfect rows to every wall.  Matching clumps of living bamboo were scattered around in pots.  The furniture was mismatching shades of red:  a few dull tables, a bright crimson laminated bench along a wall, faded leather stools bolted to the floor beside it.

Hello! cried the old Vietnamese man behind the register.  How are you?

Good thanks.

What you like?  Pho is good today.

Sounds great.  With extra mint please.

The old man smiled and nodded, waving his hand at the seats.  Mick found a stool with a view of the kitchen, hoping to catch the cute girl who did the Viet Vo Pho's home deliveries.  He was delighted to see her at work amongst the steam, ladling noodles and the magic broth into bowls.

The old man muttered Vietnamese to himself at his till while Mick watched that heart shaped arse flex and bend.  He knew her name was Suong, but not much more.  He wondered what he could find out.

He switched hats internally and looked at her as a potential target for a moment.  Studied the balanced way she held herself, the neat arcs her feet made when walking, the flex of muscle in her forearm.  She was fit and knew how to move.  Maybe athletic training, maybe a dancer, maybe natural grace.

When she came to serve his soup, she was a little surprised to see him, but gave him a smile and set his soup down.

Hi, she said, you're a long way from home.

Yeah, said Mick, on the way to town, thought I'd drop in.  So you cook and deliver?

She shrugged.

It's a family business, everyone does everything.  Enjoy your pho.

Cheers.

She  bowed her head ever so briefly as she backed away from the table.  Mick gave her a quick smile and started tearing the herb leaves into the broth.  He stirred them through the noodles and meat, letting it all steep like fragrant tea before tucking in.  It was exactly right for a man about to wreck himself, nourishing and easy to digest.  And fresh from the pot, it was much better than take away.

While he ate, he texted his usual E connection, who was fresh out but had an alternative supplier that Mick could call.  Mick did so and arranged a pickup in an hour.

He sat on his soup and quietly ogled Suong's rear for a while, not noticing that she glanced sometimes in the kitchen's many reflective surfaces, looking back at him.  He finally finished up and caught a cab to the new dealer’s place into Newtown.

It was in a nasty little alley a block back from the bustle of King Street.  Mick knocked at the grimy door, which was opened onto an even filthier laundry by a muscular Leb guy wearing jeans, a singlet and a pony-tail.

Yeah? said the guy.

Hi, Mick said, I’m Serge’s mate.  We spoke?

The guy nodded and looked out around the alley.

Dude, come in, he said, turning to lead Mick through.

Mick stepped over some underwear with many dirty footprints on it and walked into the lounge room.

It was like coming through a cosmic warp in space and taste.  The lounge was spotless, sparse and expensive.  Solid furniture in black leather and dark woods floated over plush creamy carpet.  A gorgeous flat screen was suspended in the air by near-invisible wires, hovering over a tiny stereo system that punched well above its weight.  There had to be hidden speakers somewhere in the walls.

The only discordant note in the opulence was a rather dirty woman lounging on the couch.  She was spattered with dried mud, but otherwise seemed a very attractive blonde unit.  She noted his entry with one raised eyebrow and then continued watching music videos.

How many, bro? the seller asked.  They're thirty each or four for one-twenty.

No discount for bulk?

A man who actually does the math, very good.  How’s four for one-ten?

Make it eight for two hundred?

Done, said the guy.  He pulled a tobacco tin from his pocked and poured out eight green pills.

What are they? asked Mick, trying to decipher the printing on the pills.

Space Invaders, the seller said, "like the game.  And before you ask, no plastic baggie.  We're clean and green here, plus the cops love to find