Teeth of the Wolf

Teeth of the Wolf ebook-10-1

CHAPTER 5

- Matiu -

Matiu pulls into the garage, scans the space as the roller door rumbles closed behind him. All around are the shapes of cars covered in thick tarps, trolley jacks and toolboxes, stacks of tyres, vehicle parts and barrels smeared with grease. A few buzzing fluorescents hang on corroded chains from the ceiling, throwing a pallid light across the dark space. Along the back wall there’s a temporary spray booth, complete with extractor, compressor, and a trolley loaded with spray-painting air tools. He pulls the car into an empty space and climbs out, opens the back door for Cerberus. The dog extends his front legs, sticks his rump in the air and yawns, before moving off to sniff at a nearby pile of tyres. Matiu lets the leash spool out so the dog can explore but not wander off.

“Yo, Screech.”

“f**k off, we don’t want any,” calls a voice from down the back.

Matiu grins. A pair of legs can be seen on a car creeper poking out from under the only vehicle not covered in a tarp, a blood-red vintage Camaro. A relic of the days when fuel was cheap, and the hobby of importing niche vehicles for specialist buyers was actually a viable business. Now it’s just a rich bastard’s game.

“s**t, you don’t see many of these around nowadays,” Matiu says, impressed.

The creeper slides out, revealing a pair of grimy overalls, hands stained with engine grease, and finally a dirt-smudged face mostly hidden behind a scraggly beard. “Well f**k me days,” the beard says. “There’s a face I didn’t think I’d ever see again. Pretty boy like you, thought they would’ve eaten you alive on the inside.”

Matiu spreads his hands. “Guess I was more than just a pretty face, eh? Good to see you, Screech.”

“Good to see you’ve still got the door code memorised, bro. Even though I change it every month.” Screech pushes himself up, tossing a tangle of electronics into a small tub of clear liquid near the toolbox. Hissing yellow smoke bubbles from its surface.

Matiu lifts an eyebrow at the dissolving circuit board. “Man, if you want that s**t to be secure, you need to upgrade to an algorithm I can’t crack with a phone app. Especially if you’re busy cutting out Gee-Pee units before you chop and shop stolen cars in here. So what, you carry a scrambler when you boost the car so the unit can’t transmit, then rip it out here and give it a little acid bath for its troubles?”

Screech thumps Matiu in the shoulder. A seventeen-inch wrench dangles from his other hand. “Dude, you got me. Some s**t never changes, right?”

Matiu shrugs, and nods at the Camaro. “Nice ride. Someone’s baby?”

“Sure was.” They regard the sleek lines of the American sports car, brought across the ocean on a cargo ship decades earlier during a surge in popularity among Kiwi revheads for muscle cars, back when shipping was cheap and drag racing was a pastime of the average joe, not the extremely rich. The bonnet bulges with the sweeping curves of the intake, and the polished chrome mags shine even in the garage’s gloom. “She’s a beauty. 2014 six-point-two litre COPO, concept design. Only ninety-three of these puppies ever made. Check out the twenty-nine inchers on the back axle.”

Matiu whistles in appreciation of the oversized rear tyres. “That’s extreme, bro.”

“Not even street-legal when they built them, strictly drag racers, but someone twisted some arms so they could drive her around our mean streets.”

“Bad luck for them they didn’t lock it up better, eh?”

“And good luck for me. So, what brings a write-off like Matiu Yee all the way down to Screech’s humble vehicle redistribution facility?” Screech turns to look him over, his eyes going to the dog. “Up to your old tricks again as well, eh? Got a few prospects in the rings?”

Matiu smirks half-heartedly, a carefully manufactured expression. “Not likely. You hear about Hanson? Heard his dogs got loose, messed him up real bad. Real bad.”

Screech shakes his head. “Guy like Hanson I can do without hearing about, you know?”

“No s**t. Anyway, I got some panel work needs doing, and a flat tyre. Figured you’re the guy to see.”

Screech gives Matiu a searching look, before wiping his hands on a rag and wandering towards the Commodore. “s**t, they’re a good car, eh? Good call, bringing them back into production when they did.” He leans down and regards the bent number plate. “Fleet car. You work for the man now?”

“The man. My old man runs cars, keeps me in paid employment. Probation office likes that.”

“Company car. Why’d you come to me then? Won’t the company wanna use someone they can run their insurance through?” Screech walks down the passenger side of the car, reviewing the damage, then looks back at Matiu. “I’m guessing this is some s**t you don’t want dear old Dad to know about. The sort of s**t the Probation Office might not want to hear about, either?”

Matiu puts on the special smile he reserves for those moments when he really needs someone to just come to the f*****g party and not ask any questions at the door. “Screech, my brother. Guy like you, operation like this? Security on the front door that a s**t-for-brains like me can crack with his cell phone?” He points at the COPO. “That Camaro’s worth over a hundred and fifty gee to buy, so an easy seventy-five for a guy like you once it’s had a paint job and some tracing mods. Move one of those every coupla months, oughta keep you in a good living.”

“You threatening me?” Screech stares at him hard, the wrench tapping his open palm.

Matiu crumples his face into his best pained expression. “No threats here, bro. I wasn’t suggesting anything, just asking a question. What I need is a quick turnaround on some panel work, and a new tyre. Oh, and can you repack the airbag? You’ve got the tech for that, right?” Screech would have, since some security systems caused the airbags to deploy if they detected a tamper. Sort of tech that’s usually controlled by import regulations, given that it deals in explosives. But a guy like Screech, he can be a bit loose with things like regulations. Likes to think of them more like guidelines. “Plus a car to borrow in the meantime. And I haven’t got any money, so it’s like a favour. I’m hoping you’ve got it in your heart to help a brother out, like the old days. Bit of nostalgia. Waddya think?”

“I think you’re a sneaky little s**t is what I think. I don’t like smarmy bastards like you driving in off the street and trying it on with me. Tell me why I shouldn’t just smack in your f*****g skull and dump you in the harbour?”

Picking up on the rising tension, Cerberus starts to growl, low and steady.

“What, you gonna sic your mangy mutt on me?”

Matiu shrugs. “Bro, either you can help me out, and I’ll owe you a favour, or you can’t.”

“Or else? You’ll drop the cops on my ass?”

“The cops? s**t no. I’d never do that to a bro.” Screech steps around the car, closing in. Matiu doesn’t flinch, maintaining the illusion of calm. Screech is all noise and bluster, but there’s a reason he works alone. He’s got the smarts to boost even the most highly secured cars, and the trade skills to move them, but deep down he’s not a thug. He hates fighting, and he can’t stand the company of people like Matiu Yee and Simon Kingi. Screech is the guy who turns up after the pub brawl, but who was mysteriously absent when the fists were swinging. Push him in the right places, and he’ll break. “Guy like Simon Kingi though, he’d love to know where you are these days, the sort of stock you’re moving. What’s the worth in here? Ten cars, fifty-gee each, give or take? Easy half-mill. Good score for someone who knows how to shift the product without tipping the cops.”

Screech stops still, the wrench twitching. “Kingi’s inside.”

“For real? Funny thing then, since I caught up with him today.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and brings up the photo of Kingi Penny took earlier, the one Matiu swiped from her phone while she was fluffing around in the lab with lover-boy Beaker. “Seems he’s looking to fill Hanson’s shoes, make his mark sort of thing. And after that falling-out you and him had, he’d probably be dead keen to make your acquaintance again, you reckon?”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

Matiu shakes his head. “Not to a bro, no way.” He steps up to Screech, puts both hands on his shoulders. “We look after each other, right?”

Screech nods, paler now.

“So, you do a couple little jobs for me, I’ll owe you a favour, and I won’t tell Kingi where you’re set up. Now, which car can I use?”

The Porsche 929-R thrums under his fingertips, the steering wheel feather-light, the car keen to obey. It reminds Matiu of history vids he’s watched about Spitfires, back in the war a century ago, planes built of wood and wire that were so sensitive all they needed was a nudge of the stick to throw them into a soaring roll. The Porsche is a bit like that, part of the same legacy, a warplane on wheels. Throw together a combination of speed and an accidental twist of the steering wheel, and this baby would become airborne, and deadly to boot.

So Matiu drives it like he owns it. Can’t afford another mess all over the road. Pulling into the parking building, he finds a spot on the fourth level and heads downtown, Cerberus in tow, sunnies on. He’s sweating under his leather jacket, but it’s better to feel the discomfort of being too hot and humid than the unnatural chills that wrack him every time he thinks about the other s**t that’s going on. Penny’s victim in the park. Simon Kingi on the bridge. Mārama in the hospital. He needs some time to clear his head, focus on real life. Something to distract him from those words:

He will find you.

It’s your turn.

The Ministry of Justice offices are in a building adjacent to the Auckland District Court, a faded relic of colonial era pillars and stone façade. Seems, for some reason, that while every other building in the city got a facelift sometime in the last fifty years, they like to leave the courthouse looking ancient. Lends it more weight, maybe. A reminder that the government doesn’t care much for fashion, and it’s been around a lot longer than you. Matiu has spent too many hours inside that courthouse. It’s not as imposing on the inside as it looks on the outside, just a shabby replica of the fancy courthouses you see on American movies. A tired, worn-out building for a tired, worn-out system.

Leaving his sunnies on and letting Cerberus lead, he enters the MoJ lobby and makes his way carefully to the reception desk.

“I’m sorry sir, you can’t bring a dog in here,” the cherub-cheeked girl behind the counter says. “You’ll have to leave him outside.”

Matiu feigns startled shock, turning roughly towards her but not quite. “My guide dog?”

The girl turns bright red. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who are you here to see—? Ah, who’s your appointment with?”

“Erica Langley. I hope I’m not late.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here.” She fumbles with her earpiece as she makes the call.

Matiu smiles his friendliest blind man smile, and turns to stare at a blank wall.

Several minutes later, the elevator pings and Erica, all five-foot-nothing of her, hair tied back severely, hints of blonde roots showing through the black dye, storms across the lobby, a charcoal grey tablet clutched under her arm. “Matiu Yee.”

Matiu turns to her, grinning widely. It’s an odd thing, his smile. Has a strange effect on most women, something he’s never really understood. Erica might be immune to his charms, of course, given her demeanour, or maybe she’s just good at hiding her feelings. Probably a requisite for her job. “Hey, Erica.”

She waves a hand at Cerberus. “You can’t bring a dog in here.”

“He’s my guide dog.”

“You’re not blind,” she hisses.

He shrugs. “Never said I was.”