The Stalk Club (31 page)

“Let’s take a walk.  This place smells like a toilet,” growled
Nelson roughly, his reasonably pleasant demeanour instantly evaporating.

Dendy momentarily tried to struggle but Nelson had the
element of surprise on his side and also outweighed the older man by a good ten
kilograms.  Nelson frog marched him out the nearby fire exit and into the alley
beside the club.  A white delivery van was parked in the alley entrance and
ensured Nelson had some privacy from those walking past in the street beyond.

“Hey, no need to get rough, tough guy,” said Dendy, still
holding his betting ticket and pencil.

“Ok,” growled Nelson menacingly.  “I’ll give you one more
chance.  Now tell me what I want to know.” 

Dendy laughed out loud.  “You’re really starting to scare
me.  You guys are all the same. Go fuck your….”  Dendy didn’t get a chance to
finish his sentence as Nelson ripped a savage right uppercut into his ribs and
followed it up with a crashing left hook to the side of his head.  Dendy had
already been on the way down after the first blow but the second blow ensured
he crashed into the ground with force.  His ears rang, his vision darkened and
blurred and blood began to flow freely from a deep cut that had opened on his
cheek.  He desperately searched for his next breath but failed to find it and could
only manage a slight wheeze.

Nelson crouched down to the prostrate man, his face close
to Dendy’s ear.  “Now you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I’ll tell you
something about me for free.”  Nelson’s voice was quiet and calm.  “I’m here to
get some information and I will do whatever I have to do to get it.  Do you understand?”

Dendy managed to spit in Nelson’s direction.  Nelson
slammed a downward punch into Dendy’s ribs and heard a satisfying crack.  Dendy
shrieked in pain as the cartilage between his ribs separated, sending shooting,
excruciating pains through his body.

“Do you believe me now or will I keep working away at
you?  I’ve got all day you know.  I’ll take it slow and I will hurt you like
you’ve never been hurt before.”  Dendy slightly lifted his head and looked into
Nelson’s eyes, which showed nothing but a calm stare and he realised he had
made a serious error in judgment and as a result his day had just got a lot
worse.  Dendy had survived dealing with some of the toughest and most dangerous
criminals in Sydney because despite his failings as a human being he was normally
a good judge of men.  He knew when to push hard against those who could be
pushed and he knew when to back off.  The look he saw in Nelson’s eyes reminded
him of some of the people he did business with and it scared him as Nelson
crouched above him, alone in the alley.

With great effort, he gave a slight nod of his head. 

Ignoring the man’s pain, Nelson grimly pulled him into a
sitting position with his back against the wall, literally and figuratively. 

“Good.  Start talking.”

Dendy found that he could now manage to talk when he
exhaled in short raspy breaths. 

“I don’t know who killed Emilio Fogliani.  Fogliani was
just an old man……who acted tough, and lived off the handouts from his nephew.  It
came out of the blue……”

“Was it gang related?  Or maybe someone trying to settle
an old score?”

“I don’t think so.  Not that I know of.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but if it was, then no-one is talking about it. 
Normally word gets out.”

“What do you know about two dead bodies at the Fogliani
warehouse in Strathfield.  Who are they?”

“I’m not sure……but maybe I can guess.  A couple of days ago,
two guys were flashing a picture around trying to find someone.  They were offering
good money.” 

“Who were these guys?”

Dendy tried to gently maneuver himself into a more
comfortable position which only resulted in sending new spasms of pain stabbing
through his torso.

“I seen them around, hired muscle.  They’ve worked for
the Foglianis before.”

“What did they want with this guy?”

“They didn’t come out and say outright, but they hinted
that it had something to do with Fogliani getting smacked.” 

“Who was the guy in the picture?”

“I didn’t know at first.  But he had a prison tattoo on
his neck.  I told them to leave a copy of the photo with me and I’d get back to
them.  I asked around some friends of mine who’ve been on the inside recently
and one of them remembered him.”

“What did you do then?”

“I phoned through the information and later in the day
someone dropped off a little money for me.”

“What name did you give them?” asked Nelson, the flat
implacable stare in his eyes masking the flutter of excitement growing within.   

“His name was Torres, Manuel Torres.”

Nelson savoured the name.  It meant nothing to him, but inwardly
he gasped at the possibility, the hope, that he had just found the missing
link.  He casually thanked Dendy for his help, left him in the alley with his shirt
full of cracked ribs, satisfied with his mornings work.  He considered giving Dendy
one hundred dollars for his help but decided against perpetuating his gambling
addiction.  It would be better spent elsewhere.  Nelson returned to his car and
headed west.

Despite the new developments, there were many questions that
remained unanswered and still next to no direct evidence that pointed at anyone
other than Craig Thoms.   Nelson checked his watch and accelerated as he joined
the traffic on the M4.  He decided that the Crenshaw case would have to wait,
and that his immediate priority was to locate Manuel Torres before the
Foglianis or anyone else did.

In hindsight it seemed ridiculous.  Manuel Torres searched
his memory for ideas on how he could find Kylie and apart from ringing her
mobile phone – which she wasn’t answering - he had no idea.  He didn’t
know where she lived apart from it being in an apartment somewhere east of the
city.  They had been together for six weeks and he had never been to her
place.  She had told him she was renovating and that he could see it when it
was finished.  It sounded perfectly reasonable at the time so he didn’t
question it.  He didn’t know where she worked either, other than it was somewhere
in the city.  She had rarely talked about her work and when she did he normally
tuned out through lack of interest or it went straight over his head.

After dealing with his would-be captors and finally
getting home just before midnight, he spent the remainder of the night lying on
his bed chewing panadol while his calf beat like a jungle drum.  He assumed he
had a few hours grace before possibly receiving any further visitors but had
his hand gun on his bedside table in readiness just in case.  Kylie had told
him to throw it in the harbour where no-one would find it but now he was glad
that he’d kept it.  He was exhausted and he tried to sleep but his mind kept
thinking about her.  Although he loved her, he realised he knew very little
about her.  As he remembered and analysed their time together he recalled that on
the few occasions he’d asked her about a personal topic, she had gently
deflected his questions, and distracted him with her physical presence in some
way, which was an easy enough thing to do.

He desperately wanted to talk to her and get her to explain
why it couldn’t possibly have been her who had sold him out because she loved
him and would never hurt him, but in the back of his mind his doubts were spreading. 
As far as he knew, apart from himself, only two other people had known about
the time and the location of the hit he carried out on Emilio Fogliani.  One of
them was Bruno Trulli, a man who he owed his life to and who he would willingly
give his life for, and the other was Kylie.

Manuel felt certain that Bruno would have maintained his
silence because it had been his idea to kill Emilio Fogliani in the first
place.  Bruno had worked tirelessly for the Fogliani family for twenty-five
years and was repaid for his service and loyalty by Emilio Fogliani raping his nineteen
year old daughter late one night in the kitchen of Pellegrinos after Bruno had
gone home.  His daughter had been so traumatised by the event that she refused
to report it to anyone, so Bruno had also remained quiet and devised another
way of seeking retribution.  He had lured Emilio to St Peters on the false
presumption that he would be meeting one of his mistresses for a secret
rendezvous.  It had been an easy enough thing to achieve as Emilio had never
been particularly discreet with his numerous affairs.  Bruno had everything to
lose if his part in the murder was discovered. 

So that only left Kylie.  He shook his head in disbelief at
the possibility that what they had together wasn’t real.  A hot rage began to
simmer mindlessly inside him and yet it was tempered by his confusion and
doubt.  He vowed to find her and find out the truth once and for all.

The next morning, despite the soreness of his calf muscle,
which felt as though someone was jabbing a fork into it with every step he took,
he walked the streets of the city looking for her.  It was all he could think
to do.  He pulled the hood of his jacket to cover his head in search of
anonymity, just in case.  After several hours of fruitless and pointless
searching, scanning the myriad of faces on the street, he decided to go to Nero’s
Lounge and Bar because it was the only place he knew she frequented.  On the
night that he had killed Emilio Fogliani, he had taken a quick glance in there
and seen her there, laughing with her friends.  Finding her here again seemed a
long shot, but it was all he had. 

He sat drinking beer after sullen beer in a quiet corner
at the rear of the bar and waited.  He watched the people who came in and went
out the front door and kept to himself.  At around six p.m. a couple entered the bar and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised their faces.

Manuel Torres struggled with his self-control over the
next hour while they chatted and laughed together.  He sipped another beer and watched
them under hooded eyes as the bar began to fill and the evening outside
darkened.  Eventually his patience was rewarded and they left together.  Manuel
followed them, his face set in a grim mask, the pain in his calf dulled, and mind
swimming recklessly, from an afternoon of drinking beer.  After a short walk
they appeared to say their goodbyes to each other and went their separate
ways.  Manuel followed fifty metres behind her, his eyes burning holes in her
back.  He waited for the right time to approach her, somewhere quiet, somewhere
where there would be little chance of being disturbed while they talked. 

Fifteen minutes later, Manuel saw her turn into a block
of apartments.  His calf had stiffened considerably during the walk and the renewed
pain throbbed loudly throughout his entire leg as if it had its own heart.  He
heard the jingle of keys as she checked her mail box and then made her way
upstairs, her heels echoing loudly on each step.  Manuel quietly followed, closer
now, close enough that he could smell her perfume, which he breathed in deeply.

As Jennifer Nolan unlocked the door of her apartment,
Manuel loomed up quick and large behind her.  He placed one hand around her
mouth and the other tightly, cruelly, around her waist picking her up in the
process.  He pushed her forward into the apartment, bearing her slim body to
the ground beneath his and flicked the door closed with his foot.

Upon his arrival back at Headquarters Nelson threw
himself into finding out everything he could about Manuel Torres.  He checked
the criminal history database and got a full printout of his record including
several photographs from various angles.  Nelson studied the pictures that were
on file and compared them to computerised likenesses of the mystery triggerman that
had been provided by Natalie Bassett and Craig Thoms.  Neither likeness was
particularly accurate, however Craig Thoms’ image showed some resemblance to
the tone of his brown skin, his high cheekbones and squarish jaw.  Nelson noted
that the file photographs of Manuel Torres were taken upon his arrest some eight
years ago, when Manuel had been only eighteen and reasoned that he may have
changed quite a lot in the ensuing years.

The file on Manuel Torres’ criminal history was
surprisingly short as he appeared to have spent almost all of his adult life in
the maximum security wing of the Goulburn prison for manslaughter.  Nelson
phoned the Corrective Services department and asked them to send him a list of
names of those people who had visited Manuel Torres during his period of
incarceration.  He used all his powers of persuasion on the clerk on the other
end of the line to encourage a quick turnaround.  While he waited, he studied
Manuel Torres’ file in an effort to gain an understanding of the man he was now
hunting.  To Nelson’s pleasure and surprise the fax from Corrective Services
arrived within thirty minutes.  He read it eagerly and scanned the list for the
name of Kylie Faulkner, but didn’t find it.  That would have been too easy, he
thought to himself.  Manuel had received very few visitors during his period of
incarceration, however the name of Bruno Trulli appeared several times.  Nelson
was certain he had seen or heard that name somewhere before, but couldn’t quite
place it as he stared up at the office ceiling, trying to force his mind to
divulge its deeply buried knowledge.