Read Online No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller by Roland Fishman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Roland Fishman
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cough and pointed at the vending machine across the bar. “We got chips, nuts, Twisties and Kit Kats. Help yourself.”
“Just give me a large bottle of water then.”
She reached into the fridge behind her and placed a bottle on the counter.
From the other end of the bar, a voice boomed, “Mate, this is a pub. Not a flaming milk bar!”
Suppressed laughter and a faint cheer rippled through the room.
Carter thanked the woman, grabbed the bottle, undid the cap and took a long, cool swig. Then he turned toward the voice.
A barrel-chested bushie with a curly mop of rust-colored hair stared at him.
“Really?” Carter said. “I suppose a chocolate malted milkshake is out of the question then?”
A couple of people groaned at the attempted joke.
Must have been his timing.
The guy started walking toward him and the crowd parted in silence.
The breadth of his shoulders, his bulging biceps and powerful chest suggested he’d been tossing steers in his backyard since he was five.
He pulled his six-foot-six frame to its full height, stood unnecessarily close to Carter and eyeballed him. Judging by his swaying swagger and the glazed look in his eyes, he’d already put a good few beers away.
“Mate, I thought that was pretty funny,” he said. “But I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Carter smiled.
“You here for that kung-fu movie?” The bushie waved his arms in circles in the air in a mock martial-arts move. “You pretty good at kung-fu?”
“Just passing through.”
A big smirk appeared across the guy’s sun-lined face.
“Fair enough.”
He put out his big meaty right hand.
Carter took it. The big bushie clamped down hard, as if trying to break the bones in his fingers.
“Don’t hurt him, Bluey!” someone yelled, then laughed. “We don’t want a bloody ambulance and a bunch of medics interfering with our drinking.”
Carter adjusted his grip and drilled his thumb into the pressure point between Bluey’s thumb and forefinger.
Seven long, silent seconds passed.
Bluey grimaced, turned away and said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck me …”
But he didn’t let go.
Carter glanced around the room. All eyes were on them. If this turned into a fight, it’d be on for young and old and he’d find out nothing.
He eased the pressure. Bluey let go.
Carter took half a step back.
Bluey flicked his hand in the air and glared at Carter.
“Let me buy you a beer,” Carter said, “and we’ll call it quits.”
Bluey said nothing. Carter watched the cogs turning slowly in his beer-addled brain.
“No,” the man said. “It’s my shout.” His face broke into a broad grin. “You sure you’re not in that kung-fu movie?”
Carter smiled and shook his head.
Bluey beckoned to the woman behind the bar. “Cheryl, pull us a couple of schooners would you, love?”
“Mate, gotta fair way to drive,” Carter said. “Let me buy you one. I’ll stick with the water.”
While on assignment, Carter rarely drank. Alcohol muddied his perception, slowed him down and cut him off from his higher instincts. After his binge the night before, the last thing he needed was more alcohol.
“Round here we find it hard to trust a bloke who won’t sink a schooner or ten with you,” Bluey said.
Carter needed information and Bluey seemed as good a source as any to gather it from. He nodded at Cheryl. Fourex was the glue that bound men in these parts.
“A schooner of Gold,” he said.
Bluey patted Carter on the back.
Cheryl pulled two foaming beers and placed them on the counter.
Bluey grabbed one of the frosted glasses and downed a third in one gulp. He leaned on the bar. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“I’m looking for someone on that film shoot.”
“Won’t find them here, mate. Mostly Indos on that gig. They never venture far off the reservation. Mostly stick together and say their prayers.” Bluey lifted his schooner level with his eyes. “This is my god.”
“You know where
“Just give me a large bottle of water then.”
She reached into the fridge behind her and placed a bottle on the counter.
From the other end of the bar, a voice boomed, “Mate, this is a pub. Not a flaming milk bar!”
Suppressed laughter and a faint cheer rippled through the room.
Carter thanked the woman, grabbed the bottle, undid the cap and took a long, cool swig. Then he turned toward the voice.
A barrel-chested bushie with a curly mop of rust-colored hair stared at him.
“Really?” Carter said. “I suppose a chocolate malted milkshake is out of the question then?”
A couple of people groaned at the attempted joke.
Must have been his timing.
The guy started walking toward him and the crowd parted in silence.
The breadth of his shoulders, his bulging biceps and powerful chest suggested he’d been tossing steers in his backyard since he was five.
He pulled his six-foot-six frame to its full height, stood unnecessarily close to Carter and eyeballed him. Judging by his swaying swagger and the glazed look in his eyes, he’d already put a good few beers away.
“Mate, I thought that was pretty funny,” he said. “But I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Carter smiled.
“You here for that kung-fu movie?” The bushie waved his arms in circles in the air in a mock martial-arts move. “You pretty good at kung-fu?”
“Just passing through.”
A big smirk appeared across the guy’s sun-lined face.
“Fair enough.”
He put out his big meaty right hand.
Carter took it. The big bushie clamped down hard, as if trying to break the bones in his fingers.
“Don’t hurt him, Bluey!” someone yelled, then laughed. “We don’t want a bloody ambulance and a bunch of medics interfering with our drinking.”
Carter adjusted his grip and drilled his thumb into the pressure point between Bluey’s thumb and forefinger.
Seven long, silent seconds passed.
Bluey grimaced, turned away and said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck me …”
But he didn’t let go.
Carter glanced around the room. All eyes were on them. If this turned into a fight, it’d be on for young and old and he’d find out nothing.
He eased the pressure. Bluey let go.
Carter took half a step back.
Bluey flicked his hand in the air and glared at Carter.
“Let me buy you a beer,” Carter said, “and we’ll call it quits.”
Bluey said nothing. Carter watched the cogs turning slowly in his beer-addled brain.
“No,” the man said. “It’s my shout.” His face broke into a broad grin. “You sure you’re not in that kung-fu movie?”
Carter smiled and shook his head.
Bluey beckoned to the woman behind the bar. “Cheryl, pull us a couple of schooners would you, love?”
“Mate, gotta fair way to drive,” Carter said. “Let me buy you one. I’ll stick with the water.”
While on assignment, Carter rarely drank. Alcohol muddied his perception, slowed him down and cut him off from his higher instincts. After his binge the night before, the last thing he needed was more alcohol.
“Round here we find it hard to trust a bloke who won’t sink a schooner or ten with you,” Bluey said.
Carter needed information and Bluey seemed as good a source as any to gather it from. He nodded at Cheryl. Fourex was the glue that bound men in these parts.
“A schooner of Gold,” he said.
Bluey patted Carter on the back.
Cheryl pulled two foaming beers and placed them on the counter.
Bluey grabbed one of the frosted glasses and downed a third in one gulp. He leaned on the bar. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“I’m looking for someone on that film shoot.”
“Won’t find them here, mate. Mostly Indos on that gig. They never venture far off the reservation. Mostly stick together and say their prayers.” Bluey lifted his schooner level with his eyes. “This is my god.”
“You know where
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