From a stack of blue folders that reached halfway up a wall Tanner yanked out a file and showed it to Gus. Gus glanced down to the foot of the page. He read, ‘Finlay, F.C., Constable. Darlinghurst Branch to CIB. Effective immediately.’
Tanner came round the desk and put a hand on Gus’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got great hopes for you, Gus. I reckon we’ll have some high times together.’
Gus was uncertain what to say, or how to react. He managed to stammer something out in the corridor five seconds later. ‘I just want to tell you I’m grateful,’ he said, and stuck out his hand.
But Tanner made no move to take hold of it. ‘Well, I reckon you ought to be.’
Gus let his hand fall back to his side. ‘Well, I am,’ he said, transferring the sweat from his palms to the backs of his trousers. ‘I owe you. Like I said, I reckon I’m grateful.’
‘Bravo, lad.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gus, and turned his face slightly to hide his relief.
MAY 1967
Charlie walked the length of Hyde Park until the Archibald Fountain was set squarely at his back, under a long curling arch made of sun-blackened branches. He stopped at the mouth of Macquarie Street and breathed in the scent of the Pacific as it blew in off the Harbour, tousled the brim of his Panama hat, and swept the grit on the footpath back and forth in a lullaby swoosh.
He had recently secured bail for his client, Raymond ‘Ducky’ O’Connor and he’d spent the rail journey back to Sydney from Melbourne attempting to ignore the glaring reality that the foul-smelling dwarf was quite criminally psychotic. For his part, Ducky had gone back to his old ways with a vengeance, cock-waltzing bars, standing-over bludgers and hoons, rolling punters, drunkards and toothless old geezers, and kicking molls, like footballs, along the length of the Doors. Between such activities (intended, for the most part, Charlie supposed, to offset the bulk of his upcoming legal costs) he also found time to ring Charlie upwards of nine times each day and was forming an unnerving habit of turning up on his doorstep, wielding a cutthroat razor or a sawn-off shotgun, and without an appointment.
But, considered in plain daylight, the considerable gratuity he had derived from the successful resolution of the Melbourne matter had put his practice on an even keel. One or two new clients had trickled in through his door and some of his more regular offenders had (thankfully!) returned to nefarious pursuits. He had met the arrears he owed to his landlord, Crick, Humbert & Co, and had paid the rent on the premises for more than one month. This sudden lack of indebtedness made him feel buoyant.
Charlie swung left into Martin Place, then left again into Castlereagh Street, for a meeting with his new friend Frank Browne at the Hotel Australia.
Charlie had devoted much thought to the affairs of Dick Reilly, and though his thoughts on this matter had been hazy at first, he had eventually concluded that he couldn’t do better than seek out Browne, with the object of asking for some particular advice. Browne was one of a new breed of PR consultant, a notorious muck-raker and well-known dabbler in politics, who made most of his money in the shadowlands between business and government. He spoke out the side of his mouth, and drank regularly at the Long Bar of the Hotel Australia, where a few of his political cronies would stop by. Recently, Charlie had become known in such circles as a man with a hankering after some political manoeuvring.
Charlie wasn’t so naive as to announce his desire to stand as a candidate (let alone anything higher), but nursed a faint, secret hope that, on the strength of the talents he so obviously had, and the friends he was making, that he might find his way into Parliament. As to political views, his own were mild if not altogether malleable. He had once professed some interest in Labor, seeking the liberation of the toiling masses when he himself was oppressed, but now he was bent on raising himself above the general ruck, he was divesting himself of unsuitable views. Lately, he had announced himself an Askin supporter, if only because people in the society in which he sought his daily bread were, by and large, in the same line. So, with the prospect of affluence set firmly in sight, was growing as conservative as you please.
Browne, by contrast, wasn’t particularly interested in views, nor was he unduly concerned with the winning or losing, but in the game for its own sake. And so Charlie thought Reilly’s case might appeal to him.
Browne was dressed in a grey chalk-stripe suit, white shirt and dark tie. His ears were puffed up like cauliflowers, his cheeks slightly flushed above the stubble, and his eyes squinted intermittently beneath round horn-rimmed goggles. He also whistled slightly when he breathed, from the burden of weight and the wastes of his cigar.
‘He’s willing to rat out his Labor mates?’ said Browne, once Charlie unburdened himself.
‘Oh, it’s more a matter of business, I think, than any road to Damascus.’
‘Well then, I guess you’ve come to the right bloke.’ Browne grinned, sending his voice in a downward trajectory so that it travelled no further than the bar. ‘First up, I think you’ve got to understand that business kept its hands in its pockets, for the most part, the day Askin went out to campaign this last election. He wanted to do something for the rabble, the working man (the salt of the earth, the backbone of the country), drag his party somewhere the votes are, but the party doesn’t want to go. So money was tight throughout the election, with only the stalwarts like Frank Packer putting in. But Askin, he gets himself elected against the wildest expectations of many and he’s governing on a knife-edge, diverting the best part of his attention to the next round of votes. What are you drinking?’ he added.
‘Whisky.’
Browne snorted approvingly. ‘Only kind of poison that does the job right.’
The bartender set down two glasses and poured in a finger of whisky. Charlie took a good pull. Browne downed his in a single gulp.
‘Steady on,’ said Charlie.
‘Why? I’m aiming for a wall-eyed hangover tonight.’
Charlie lit a cigarette, before steering his friend back to the matter at hand.
Browne went on, ‘Askin’s got his hands in the treasury tart-shop and things are looking up, but sometimes the taxpayer’s dollar isn’t enough. Or it’s just not the right sort of money that’s wanted.’
‘And what sort is that?’
Browne took a deep swallow from his second glass. ‘Chap in that kind of position … What he’s doing is collecting cash for the slush funds, the unofficial funds that help keep control of the Party.’
A woman in fox furs sailed by.
‘Of course, there’ll be something in it for you,’ said Charlie, with a prim tug to his tie.
Browne laughed, ‘I dare say there will. And from Reilly I’m expecting double or nothing. But it’s not as grubby as you think,’ he added, striking a more serious pose. ‘Thing is, I never make any quid pro quo on the donations I get. I just say that, for a fee, I can get business in to see whoever it is in the government they’ve got a problem with. Take Reilly, for instance. I think you’ve got to let him know that it’s mostly just a matter of money. He’s got to put it in, and keep putting it in, until they come round to seeing him in a much brighter light.’
Charlie stared about the shiny marble interior of the Long Bar. Underneath him, down the generous sweep of an exterior staircase, was Princes restaurant, over the road, the faded glory of Romanos, and to the rear of the lobby was the Wintergarden, with its solid blue walls and art deco stars on the ceiling. Together these institutions marked out the world in which the rarefied thing known as Sydney society gathered, and carried out its rituals in complete ignorance of the sufferings and wailings of the rackety metropolis rushing around it.
‘What exactly can you do for me, Frank?’ said Charlie, taking the plunge.
‘I can get you a pow-wow with the money boys, maybe even the big man himself, as long as your donation is solid.’
Charlie was grinning wider than was usual, causing Browne to break into a stream of raucous laughter. Browne waved a brown banknote
at the bartender. ‘Pour my friend another.’
Two hours and eight whiskies later, Browne lurched sideways off his barstool. He stared down at Charlie with unsteady concentration, swaying slightly on his shoes. ‘Come, sir! Before the pot-wallopers throw us onto the footpath.’
Charlie stood up and followed Browne as he crashed onto the street, proceeding in a southerly direction to the Latin Quarter.
The night was hot, the air as thick as formaldehyde and filled with the mysterious, though unmistakable, scent of fried onions. On the corner to their right a ghostly billboard loomed up, ‘Lafitte French Brandy … C’est Si Bon’. Off in the distance, Australia Square Tower thrust itself skyward like a white marble finger stretched out to the moon.
Charlie peered tentatively down a black alley, past a howling cat, a stack of wooden crates labelled ‘Penfolds’, and other sorts of wreckage. He was surprised to see the rear door of the Latin Quarter fly open, and Sammy Lee, the mournful and lugubrious nightclub proprietor, ejected summarily through it, with Detective Sergeant Pigeye Donaldson hard on his heels. From his sprawling position on the asphalt, Sammy adroitly grabbed hold of a large hobnailed boot that Pigeye was sending his way, causing Pigeye to tumble and crash through a complete row of garbage cans. They tussled about among the slops and dead lemons for a minute until Pigeye punched the nightclub proprietor half-conscious, walloped him, kicked him repeatedly, blowing out a steady stream of epithets such as ‘wog’, ‘dog’ and ‘Yid’.
Charlie turned back to his friend, thinking it better not to make their presence known at this point.
Five minutes after Charlie backed out of the alley to the rear of the Latin Quarter, Ducky O’Connor slipped up the front steps and stared at the crowds streaming endlessly out. Exhausted, he watched as they climbed into their pink and plum Holdens to begin their long journey home to the suburbs – the men anxious and nerve-ticked, the women shivering in red sateen and slithers of acetate, with make-up falling in hideous drifts from their faces.
In his crumpled shirt and petrol-smudged trousers, it was obvious Ducky didn’t belong. He was better than them. He could do anything better than them. He’d been close to death – violent death – many times. But never this close. Never his own.
Ducky had sent McPherson messages from Pentridge but each time McPherson had failed to respond. He’d sent him threats, said he would rip out his guts and blow his brains through his eyeballs, but still no one came.
The jacks, the screws, the toffee-faced lawyer who bailed him out, they all thought he killed for no reason.
He had reason enough.
He pictured the woman standing on the fringe of the crowd with her dumb, frightened eyes. Her friends had treated him like dirt: ‘You’re less than a maggot that’s crawled off the slagheaps of Sydney’. Each time he thought of those round eyes he was seized with a wicked kind of amusement. He had killed for the sake of this … scum town. Its harbour slithering with inlets and rivulets, crammed with rust-bucket hulks and leprous boats spewing out garbage. Beggars ran free on its streets. Freaks wielding sawn-offs crawled out of its jerry-built hovels. Mould grew over its buildings in defiance of the sunshine. Sometimes he imagined the pollution soaking in through the soles of his shoes, moving up through his toes, filling his throat, oozing from his eyeballs. Then terrible things happened. Not the taking of a life, not the murder of another human being. He hardly gave that a thought. Violence inflicted in the carrying on of business was wholly deserved. Persons who crossed him had only themselves to blame.
No, the thing he feared most was the cold and the emptiness, the bad dreams that were his constant company. He wanted to stop the nightmare. He wanted to turn off the dark. But then the pollutants descended as thick as a woollen blanket and smothered his face, so he could see and breathe, only with difficulty. Those times, not even the sunlight could warm his poor shivering being.
‘Stow it,’ said Ducky, when he came banging through Reilly’s door earlier that evening. ‘Just hand over the ready, I’m broke.’
Reilly was cocked back in his swivel chair, nursing a chihuahua on his knee. He glanced at him strangely through half-lowered eyelids. ‘I hope you’re not here intending to cause a blue, like you’ve been blueing with all of the people in this town. I dunno what’s got into you, Ducky. But if you keep on like this, you’ll end up the same as some others I could name.’
‘You threatening me, Dick?’
‘Could be.’
Reilly’s eyes drifted to the Smith & Wesson that lay on the edge of his desk, but Ducky beat him to it. He snatched it up, waved it around. Reilly’s chihuahua got up on its hind legs and tore at Ducky’s sleeve.
‘Shut up the rodent or I’ll mangle him, Dick.’
Reilly scooped up the dog, muffled it with his fingers. ‘Look, mate, I reckon we’ve been friends for a very long time. I know you’re in a spot of trouble over this Melbourne matter, and it’s got you shook up. That’s why I’m going to give you a monkey.’ He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad. ‘But I want you to see Lennie and set things to rights.’
Ducky sneered, waving the gun. ‘So this is how the great Dick Reilly handles his business? Go and see Len, go and see Len. Let Lennie sort it out. I reckon you don’t see what’s coming, do you, Dick?’
But Reilly wasn’t listening. He dropped the dog, threw a short jab from the right, a hook from the left, connecting with Ducky’s chin.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Reilly, glancing at his knuckles. ‘But I can’t help it when you do things like this. It gets me upset.’
Ducky threw himself into the nearest chair, nursing his jaw, chastened. ‘There’s no way I’ll stand trial in Melbourne, not in a hanging state. I won’t.’
Reilly sighed. ‘Well, it’s a bit late for that. Should’ve thought about it before you shot up that sheila you never even met and dunno from nothing.’
‘I killed for you, Dick. I killed Pretty Boy Walker and Charlie Bourke. I shot sixty slugs into Jackie Steele on account of the fact he was bothering you –’
‘Yeah, and a fat lot of good it did me. Jackie gets up off the footpath and trots along to the hospital.’
‘Have you paid somebody to knock me?’
‘I dunno.’ Reilly scratched his head. ‘But the way you go on I wouldn’t have to pay anything. They’d knock you for free.’
‘Lennie doesn’t like me.’
‘No worries. I’ve had a talk to the bloke. I’ve told him to make the arrangements. Wasn’t it Len got you out last time you was banged up?’
‘He doesn’t want to talk.’
‘God knows he’s got better things to do. But he’s waiting at the Latin Quarter. I’ve already told him you’re coming.’
Ducky edged his way to the door. ‘I reckon you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘And you do?’
‘I can look after myself.’
Reilly called after him. ‘Yeah, well don’t go in there blowing like a maniac.’ But it was already too late. Ducky was gone, leaving Reilly gobbling air.
Things took a turn for the worse. Ducky had parked his blue Holden round the corner from Kellett Street but, for some reason, the engine failed to start. He opened the boot, extracted a tyre iron, and banged it about. But it wasn’t any good. He flung the tyre iron into the gutter and made his way into town on foot, plunging into the stream of slow prowling traffic, causing a red Austin Heeley to crank to a halt in a jangle of burned rubber and lengthy obscenities.
He jogged down Orwell and Victoria Streets, down the crumbling Butler Stairs into Woolloomooloo. He stood there, transfixed by a halo of frosted pink lamplight, before stepping deftly out of the puddle of light that had trapped him and darting off down the road. He seemed to hear footsteps behind him. Cries of, ‘He’s here … he’s here.’ He turned into an alley with a brick wall at one end. He grappled, swung himself up. He could see the city in front of him, the way the light picked out the ledges and lintels of the shiny glass struct
ures. He heaved a bit, gave a short sigh, jumped down off the wall, and scurried up the rise. Past the soft orange light burning in the crypt of St Mary’s Cathedral. Up through Hyde Park. He stank of sweat by the time he walked under the awning and through the rotating glass doors.
Music wailed across the dance floor at the Latin Quarter and shivered inside him. Laughter trilled on all sides, blending with the clink, clink, clink of used glassware collected. Shadows thinned before his determined gaze until he could pick out the shape of the bar and, beyond it, a row of banquettes extending the length of the wall. McPherson was sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor. The glow of the orchestra cast a deep violet shadow over the table, with its scattering of broiled lobsters, beer jugs and overflowing ashtrays. Ducky parted a cloud of blue smoke and wandered up to the table.
‘How are you, cunt?’
McPherson looked up. ‘I’m all right, cunt. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, cunt.’
Ducky grinned, baring his teeth. Then his eyes widened slightly through anxiety into fear.
Somebody yelled, ‘This is for you, cunt …’ and blasted away.
Detective Constable Gus Finlay was sitting alone in the squad room, chair cocked back, feet on the desk, and the radio down low, when the call came blaring over the squawk box. He almost tripped over himself getting up. He ran down the staircase into the courtyard, clambered into an unmarked, and swung a left from the drive. He could see the lights churning from three blocks away. Several groups of uniforms were gathered outside the club entrance, throwing up barricades, running backwards and forwards under the light, or standing on the doorstep, fags cupped in hands, brown holsters dangling. Gus pulled in to the side of the road and badged his way through.
‘Who was here first?’ he yelled, as he walked down the room.
‘Me,’ said Tanner, and brought Gus up short.
Crooked Page 3