Behind the Hood (Behind the Lives) (21 page)

27

Nike

It’s just another delivery, nothing special, nothing different from every other. Bullshit! The mofucking place was Guantanamo-Bayed to the max with a high security fence, iron-clad gates and closed-circuit cameras in one of Auckland’s wealthiest neighbourhoods.

Nike unwound his window and stared at the intercom. He really didn’t want to push it. Ash usually sent him to dives, with dregs that were desperate for the next snort. He could handle that, knew how to deal with rough types, but this? This shit was a whole different league.

He looked down at the large package on the seat next to him. Even though he knew it was cocaine, he still hoped that it wasn’t, because the weight alone would get him a long stint behind bars. He leaned back in his seat, took a deep breath then let it out. Ash was giving him a grand to deliver the package. A fucking grand! That would take a huge chunk out of the credit card bill. And he couldn’t let Jess down—they needed the money. He would just have to stop being a pussy and deliver the damn package.

He leaned out the window and pushed the intercom. “I’m here to deliver a package from Ashley Rata.”

A creaking noise answered as the gates slowly swung open. Nike drove through. Large trees he couldn’t name created a tunnel-like entrance as he proceeded down a long driveway. Through the trees, a tennis court, stables, and an equestrian field broke up the manicured lawn. He steered carefully around a woman as she trotted past him on a tan-coloured horse.

Smooth lines, pillars and fancy grill work greeted his gaze as he parked in front of a white two-storey mansion. It looked as though it had been plucked out of some Southern American dream of yesteryear and plonked in the middle of Auckland.

Nike picked up the package and jumped out of the van. He didn’t bother to lock up. It was more likely he’d kiss Tama’s arse than have his van stolen here. Anyway, if he had a choice he would leave behind his shit ride and take either the Maserati or the Lexus parked out front or ... fuck, was that a Cortina in the garage?

His eyes bugged out as he walked closer to the vehicle behind the Lexus. Man, he loved those cars. Enough ogling Cortinas on the internet told him exactly what it was. The two-door, with a silver stripe down the dark blue paintwork, was a 1969 Lotus Ford Mark II. Although the other two were worth more, he’d kill to get his hands on the Cortina.

He ran a fingertip reverently across the perfect paintwork. It was a much sweeter ride than the rusted red Cortina his parents used to own. His family’s car had been a cheaper version, a Mark II with four doors. His father received it in the divorce settlement and sold it when he moved to Australia. Nike wished it had been given to him, but he’d never asked for it as his father needed the money.

“Hello,” a deep male voice said.

Nike whipped his hand back and turned to face a tall Samoan in a black suit walking towards him. The guy’s stern expression promised a whole world of hurt if Nike fucked with him.

He felt like a little kid who’d been caught touching something he shouldn’t have. “Sorry, just admirin’ your Cortina.”

“It’s not mine.” The man indicated with his head. “Come with me, Mr. Craven’s expecting you.”

Nike followed him inside the house. White marble, a huge chandelier and framed paintings decorated the foyer, while grillwork and red carpets created a stunning-looking staircase that veered off in opposite directions.

The man indicated to Nike’s feet. “Take off your shoes.”

Nike did as instructed, then followed him down the passageway on his right. The man opened the door at the end and motioned for Nike to enter.

An elegant office made up of white walls, red curtains and carpets greeted Nike’s eyes. Behind a large mahogany desk a man sat in front of a computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

The assistant prodded Nike forward. “Mr. Craven, this is the courier.”

Mr. Craven looked up. “Please take a seat.” He indicated towards the only chair in front of the desk.

Relieved by the guy’s friendly face, Nike sat down. Shit, he’d been worried about nothing. No scars or Russian accent came with this father-type. With his rimless glasses and bald spot, Mr. Craven looked as scary as a freaking accountant.

Mr. Craven’s smile slipped. “I hope you’re better than the last courier.”

Nike cleared his throat, his nerves returning in an instant. Ash had told him what had happened to the previous courier, and he had no intention of following in the stupid cunt’s footsteps. Instead of delivering Ash’s package to Mr. Craven the guy had disappeared with it. The drugs weren’t found, but he was. Unfortunately, it was in the Waikato River floating face down.

“Ash is a mate. I wouldn’t do that to him,” Nike replied.

Mr. Craven’s smile returned. “Good. May I have it?” he said, holding out a hand.

Nike handed over the package. Mr. Craven placed it on his desk, pulled open a drawer, and removed a switchblade. Nike flinched as the blade swished open. A penknife would have done the job, he thought. He stopped himself from shaking his head. Whether rich or poor, drug addicts were all alike to him. He thought about the disgusting piece of trash he’d visited last week, a Len something or other. The fat bastard also used a switchblade to cut open his drugs. If Ash hadn’t let him borrow his gun, he was sure the guy would have stabbed him.

Mr. Craven slit the plastic and pulled out a clear package containing white powder. He made a small hole, wet his finger and stuck it in, then placed it on his tongue. His smile turned into a grin. He held the package out for the other man to take. “Put it in the safe and bring me the money.”

Nike kept his eyes straight ahead as the assistant took the package. He heard some clicks and a clink, then a black briefcase was placed on the desk in front of him. The locks were opened, and the top pulled back. A whole lot of red back greeted Nike’s awestruck eyes.

“Count it if you want,” Mr. Craven said.

The man behind Nike picked up the briefcase and plonked it unceremoniously onto Nike’s lap. Nike’s hands shook as he counted through the thousands. Holy shit, there was more money here than he earned in a year.

After a while, Nike clicked the lid shut and nodded at the man. “All good.” He went to stand up, but felt a hand push him back down.

“I’d like to offer you some work,” Mr. Craven said. “I’ve used some of Mr. Rata’s couriers in the past to do deliveries for me, but now I’m looking for someone to do some other work. Mr. Rata recommended you for the job. I pay extremely well.”

Nike forced himself not to frown. Why the hell didn’t Ash warn him about this? He was told nothing about Mr. Craven wanting him as an employee, and there was no way he wanted to get into this sort of crime. What he was doing was bad enough, but this guy was not small scale.

Nike shifted around in his seat. He didn’t want to insult Mr. Craven, but he also didn’t want to get over his head. “Um ... I’ve already got a job.”

Mr. Craven cocked his head to one side and grinned, making Nike feel even more uncomfortable. The man’s smile didn’t feel so friendly now. Instead, it reminded him of the Joker’s leer.

Mr. Craven pulled off his glasses, wiped the lenses then popped them back on. “That money you counted is what you can earn in six months if you work for me...”

Nike’s eyes bugged out again. He could start saving for a house with that sort of dough, in a nice suburb with a backyard for Jake to play in. Plus, Jess deserved better than Claydon. But what the hell did the guy want him to do for that sort for cash? A fucking blow job every day?

He heard a laugh come from across the desk. “...and that doesn’t include the bonuses I give, if you do good by me.”

Nike opened his mouth then closed it. Shit, he didn’t know what to say.

Mr. Craven continued. “I need a new chauffeur and would like you to start tomorrow. What do you say, son?”

If Nike could have jumped up and down he would have. Holy crap, he’d earn a shitload of money and he didn’t even have to do anything illegal.

Nike grinned. “Thanks. I would like to take up your offer.”

The man’s smile slipped again. “There’s one more thing you need to know about working for me. Whatever you see and hear during your employment is never to be mentioned to anyone. Okay?”

Nike nodded. As long as he wasn’t going to be a drug courier he didn’t care. He was just going to be a bloody driver. What could happen?

Mr. Craven’s smile returned as he leaned over and shook Nike’s hand. “I’ll see you back here tomorrow at nine a.m.”

***

Ash looked like he’d been through the ringer. He had the whole Picasso thing going on; his face coloured in different shades of blue and swollen to the hilt. Nike wondered what the other guy looked like as Ash was a mean motherfucker.

“What happened to you?” Nike asked.

“Dante didn’t like me disciplining Sledge.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Dante looks worse than me.”

Ash stepped aside to let Nike in. He smiled at the sight of Beth’s Fox Terrier attacking the vacuum cleaner.

“Stop it, Snatch,” Beth shouted.

The dog continued snapping at the nozzle as Beth tried to clean the stained blue carpet. With a frustrated grunt, she dropped the vacuum pipe, kicked the off button and bent down to scoop up the dog.

Nike smiled at her. “Hi, Beth.”

She walked out of the room, her “fuck you” expression doing all the talking. Nike’s smile faded. He could only imagine what sort of trash her brothers had told her about him.

“How’d the delivery go?” Ash asked seemingly unaware that his girlfriend had flipped off Nike.

Nike’s smile returned. “Great. Here’s your money,” he said, handing over the briefcase.

Ash took it and headed for the dining-room table. He placed the briefcase on the formica top and clicked it open. “You count it?”

“Yup.” Nike grabbed a chair and sat down. “That’s freaking mega money, man.”

Ash grinned then winced, obviously still in pain from his injuries. He trudged into the kitchen, grabbed two beers and returned to the table. “Yeah, Craven pays well,” he said, handing one to Nike.

Nike pulled back the tab. “Thanks for the recommendation. Much appreciated.”

“What recommendation?”

“The chauffeur job for Mr. Craven.”

“I didn’t recommend you.”

“But he said...” Nike stopped mid-sentence, his mind going over the exact words Mr. Craven had used. “He said Mr. Rata had recommended me for the job.”

Ash thumped his beer down on the table. A shot of froth spilled over his hand. “Fuckin’ Dante! I’m gonna pound that bastard.”

Nike looked at him confused. After the episode with Sledge he wouldn’t have thought the brother would have helped him out.

“Why would Dante do me a favour?”

“Cos it ain’t a fuckin’ favour. It’s payback for yesterday. Craven’s dangerous. There’s no way in hell I’d want cha workin’ for him.”

Nike sighed. Man, he really didn’t want to hear that. He’d been looking forward to telling Jess that they’d finally had a break. “But it’s only a chauffeur job. How bad can it be?”

“You’ll be taking your life in your hands if ya work for him. I’ll ring him and say I don’t approve.”

Nike shook his head. The courier work and Ash’s occasional jobs weren’t enough to get him and his family out of Claydon. Plus, it wasn’t like he was going to be the guy’s bodyguard, drug courier, or any other shit like that—it was just a chauffeur’s job.

“No, Ash, I need it. He’s gonna pay me a shitload.”

Ash leaned forward. “Don’t take it, man. I don’t want cha gettin’ hurt.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m just gonna be a pansy-arsed chauffeur. Don’t be so melodramatic, man.”

Ash shook his head. “I’m asking you to reconsider. If ya need the money I’ll flick you some more work.”

Yeah, Nike thought, more drug running, like that was less dangerous than driving some rich prick around.