‘Get back inside.’
The voice was gruff. Menacing. Belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Staring down the barrel of a handgun, Rovati dropped the garbage bag and did what he was told.
‘Get down on your knees,’ Schwarzenegger commanded when back in the kitchen. ‘Face against the wall. Hands on your head.’
Rovati complied.
‘Please … The money’s in the till … Don’t shoot me. I’ve got a wife and four kids.’
‘Then you should be beggin’ me to pop ya.’
The bandit in the rubber mask scanned the kitchen and front counter area. He locked on to the cash register and stuffed the dollar notes in his pocket. On the way out he noticed a pizza—minus a slice—sitting in an opened box on the preparation counter. Impromptu takeaway.
‘Oi, that yours?’
Rovati looked around to see what the bandit was talking about. His glance was fleeting, eyes quickly returning to the wall.
‘Yeah … it’s my dinner.’
‘What sort is it?’
‘It’s an Aussie.’
‘Got anchovies on it?’
‘You don’t put anchovies on an Aussie pizza.’
‘Good,’ Schwarzenegger said. ‘I hate fuckin’ anchovies.’
CHAPTER 5
Friday morning. 8.04. Shepherd’s phone rang so loudly that it shat itself. With a flick of the CD remote he shut down Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9. There were to be no odes of joy today.
‘Shepherd. Armed Robbery—’
He leaned back in his chair and took it like a man.
‘Yes, sir … Yes, sir …’
O’Shea stuck his head in, coffee mug in hand and the day’s newspapers folded under one arm. Shepherd looked over, shaking his head.
‘Yes, sir, but … I really don’t see how that’s necessary … Yes, sir. No, sir.’
The one-way conversation terminated at the other end. Shepherd slammed down the phone.
‘Three bags fucking full, sir!’ He looked up to O’Shea, sleeves already rolled to the elbows. ‘How bad?’
‘Mixed bag,’ O’Shea answered, underarming the newspapers on to the desk.
‘Shit, that sounds slightly encouraging.’
Shepherd didn’t bother to study the papers straight away.
‘That was His Lordship Farley,’ he said, eyeing his phone. ‘Wants the Pascoe arrest report so he can hand deliver it to Clancy—and lick some DC arse while he’s there.’
O’Shea leaned against the doorway.
‘Clancy would be secretly applauding the Pascoe arrest.’
Shepherd lit his first for the day.
‘Yes, but Clancy’s not the boss. He answers to Chief Wombat.’
Reading glasses on, Shepherd pulled the morning papers apart from their three-way hate fuck on his desk. He started with The Australian. Flicked through, and stopped at page seven.
‘The Oz,’ he began, talking aloud like a pathologist at a post mortem. ‘Picture of unidentified suspect being loaded into an ambulance. A smaller picture of the arrest, lifted off the telly. Headline: “Robbery Squad Probe—Internal Affairs Investigate Violent Arrest”.’
He took a deep drag. Tossed The Oz.
‘Are we being probed by the Rat Squad?’
‘Apparently so,’ O’Shea replied; no fuss.
‘Nice of ’em to tell us … Next. The Herald Sun. Front-page picture of unidentified suspect in ambulance. Pic of arrest, lifted off the telly. Again, Pascoe unrecognisable. Headline: “Brutal Force—Violent Suspect Injured in Ram Arrest”. Okay. Fair enough. Can live with that.’ Shepherd lifted his coffee mug to his lips, only to realise the cup was dry. He straightened the third paper. The story, again, was splashed across the front.
‘The Age. Hmm. Ian Malone’s got the jump today. Mugshot of Glen Pascoe. Picture of arrest, lifted off the telly. Headline: “Robbery Squad Rams Nazi Suspect”. The banner along the top reads: “Special Feature Inside: The Armed Robbery Squad—Friends or Foes?’’’ Shepherd placed his smoking dart on a corner of the ashtray and turned to the squad feature. What about Ian Malone? Was the journo friend or foe? Could a journalist be anything other than the enemy? The filth? Shepherd began to read.
For the past twenty-five years they have carried a fearsome reputation, traditionally regarded by the vicious crooks as the toughest detectives in the Victoria Police force.
Men in black wearing ties stamped with crossed revolvers, the Armed Robbery Squad is distinct from other police squads—it investigates crimes but is also proactive, tracking and nabbing the country’s most violent criminals in the act.
‘Okay … questionable methods … historical claims of noble corruption … fatal shootings and Project Beacon … yada, yada, yada …’
Upon meeting current—and former—squad members, three things become clearly evident to an outsider. The first is the squad’s commitment. Long days and nights, an unwavering focus on unsolved cases and meticulous detail in preparing briefs of evidence have become the squad’s trademark. The second is their unique camaraderie born from a trust developed during raids when a colleague is covering another’s back with a 12-gauge shotgun. The third is their knockabout nature, sometimes shared with offenders in the squad interview rooms.
‘Knockabout nature shared with suspects … I like that. This Malone’s a smart cunt.’
Former squad head Murray Neagle …
‘He’s dug a bit deeper than most,’ O’Shea interjected.
‘Yeah,’ Shepherd nodded, eyebrow raised. ‘Got Muzza to go on the record.’
Former squad head Murray Neagle says armed robberies were a rare crime until drugs like heroin hit the scene. ‘In 1962 you would have been lucky to have had ten armed robberies, but in the late 1960s drugs started to come into the picture and crazed addicts started robbing banks,’ Mr Neagle said. ‘During the ’70s and ’80s, professional robbery gangs emerged. Banks and armoured vans were robbed weekly. Shots fired. People injured and terrorised. There are still professional bandits and amateurs having a crack.’ Mr Neagle said his fondest memories of his time with ‘The Robbers’ were of ‘catching the desperadoes who terrorised citizens’. Summing up the archetypal ARS detective, Mr Neagle said: ‘Dedicated is probably the best word to describe them. They have to be articulate and forceful in their duties to catch armed robbers who are, in reality, desperate, hardened and violent urban terrorists.’
‘Nice one, Muzza.’
There is a general consensus that the Armed Robbery Squad earned its tough-man image during the 1975 Beach Inquiry when thirty-two officers were charged with conspiracy, assault and unlawful arrest. None was convicted. Detective Inspector Ken Shepherd, the current boss, seems an old-fashioned, hard-boiled type.
‘Righto, and then he goes on to quote me. Yada, yada, yada.’
‘It’s not a bad piece,’ O’Shea admitted. ‘Covers all the bases.’
Shepherd folded closed the broadsheet. It had taken the morning’s honours. He sucked life into his cigarette. ‘Hey, Dick, I need you to call the boys together. All crews please. I’ve got an announcement, and no-one’s gunna like it.’
CHAPTER 6
Shepherd went to sip from his coffee mug. Emblazoned with the phrase ‘God is busy, may I help you?’, it was a gift from his daughter Chelsea—given many years ago when home life had been harmonious. Before Lorraine had announced the affair, and the fact she was leaving him for another copper. Before Chelsea had blamed him for the break-up. He realised the mug was still empty. He strode onto the office floor. Assembled, as requested, were his crews.
‘Morning, gentlemen. I’ve asked you to momentarily drop tools for an announcement from on high. In his wisdom, the chief commissioner has decreed that the Armed Robbery Squad will no longer turn out with shotguns.’
Murmurs. Perplexed looks. Shepherd stood with hands raised waiting for calm.
‘Arrests requiring the use of shotguns will now be handed to the SOG. When it comes to firepower we’re left with
side arms only, gentlemen. That’s the order.’
‘What the hell are command up to, boss?’ McCrann queried.
‘Chopping off our balls,’ Hunter spat.
‘Fucked if I know … Sending a message, I suspect,’ Shepherd said.
Teasedale chewed on a toothpick like a steroid-infused woodchuck that had just demolished a log cabin. ‘This is bullshit, boss.’
‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but orders are orders and we will follow this one. According to Farley, McFarlane was specific … That is all.’
Kelso swivelled back to the desk to face Rogers. ‘Jesus, it’ll be like sending Jimmy Barnes out on stage without a bottle of vodka.’
Rogers shook his head, eyebrows raised. ‘Like Sugar Ray Leonard in the ring, minus the sugar.’
Shepherd walked over to his senior sergeant at the desk.
‘Dick, we’re not gunna take this lying down.’
‘What do you wanna do?’
‘You got that journo’s number?’
‘Ian Malone?’
‘Yeah. Have a drink with him. Get a feel for him. If you reckon he’s okay, leak him the shotgun story. White will fire up over it. Maybe we can work this in our favour.’
Malone awoke, his bedside alarm clock having been spared its duty for the day. He lay staring at the ceiling, mulling over what were—this time around—dreams of fond intimate times with her. He didn’t always get so lucky. Some mornings he had to break free from the memories that so often tormented his mind. He had the day off, having worked the previous Sunday shift. This was his long weekend. It was about nine o’clock when he rose, a hard-on in his boxer shorts. Sunshine beamed in through the window of his sixth-floor bed-sit, a two-room home complete with kitchenette that he preferred to call a ‘studio apartment’. Malone was kidding himself. The place was not a studio and didn’t class as an apartment, but it did have a view of the city skyline. Fifteen steps across the room—past a bewitching black-and-white portrait of Jessica—and Malone was in the bathroom, turning the shower taps. The tepid water hit his body as he stood: head bowed, eyes closed, left hand pushed against the tiles and right hand working cock. He dearly wished Jess was still there to do it for him with a gentle soapy hand.
In jeans, thongs and a fading Darth Vader T-shirt, Malone walked with damp dark hair to the 7/Eleven. With a packet of Winfield Blues in his pocket and the morning papers under his arm, he pulled up an al fresco chair at Café Orange on Chapel Street. It was time to eat some breakfast, enjoy his newspaper victory of the day, smoke cigarettes with his coffee and watch some of the so-called beautiful people walk by.
In the early afternoon, it was only a short walk to the Golden Fleece from Malone’s South Yarra ‘apartment’ block. The Fleece was a quaint little back-street pub with its tacky carpet and frosted honeycomb partitions. Bar manager was Amber, a cool chick in her mid-twenties who, like Malone, was a movie buff. The Fleece was Malone’s local and his second home: a place where he could wile away spare time over a few beers and common conversation. A place where he spent nearly every Saturday afternoon sipping a couple of pots, watching the cricket or the footy depending on the season, and sucking a surreptitious scoob with Amber in the beer garden. Amber pulled Malone a cold pot of Friday afternoon Carlton. He lit up a cigarette.
‘You know,’ he began, watching the grey smoke rise from the orange tip, ‘Forrest Gump had it nearly right.’
‘How’s that?’
‘It might be ironic but life is actually like a pack of cigarettes. You’ve got menthol, filtered or even rolled. Fours, eights, twelves, sixteens or twenties. Cartier or Camel. Peter Stuyvo’s or Peter Jackson. Fashion or flavour … Whatever your choice, you’ve got to suck the most out of that cigarette. Suck in the experience before you die.’
‘That’s pretty fucked up,’ Amber said, pulling a pot for another punter.
‘Pop quiz,’ Malone continued after Amber served the beer. ‘Simple one from Jaws. Mayor Vaughn’s first name and best line.’
Amber stood, polishing wine glasses as she thought. ‘Oh shit … Larry. Larry Vaughn. Such a seventies-sounding name. Favourite line: “Brody, this is sick vandalism. That is a deliberate mutilation of a public service message. Now I want those little paint-happy bastards caught and hung up by their buster browns!’’’
Malone laughed and clapped. Amber’s was an excellent impersonation. ‘Love-fifteen.’
It was Amber’s turn to try to beat him. ‘Hmmm. Okay. Full name of the journalist from Burton’s Batman. And line.’
‘Easy. Alexander Knox. Best line: “Lieutenant, is there a six-foot bat in Gotham City? And if so, is he on the police payroll? And if so, what’s he pulling down … after taxes?”’
Amber smiled and nodded as she polished. ‘Fifteen all.’
Malone felt a finger jut into his ribcage.
‘Freeze,’ a wizened voice yelled. ‘This is a robbery.’
Malone’s hands went up in mock surrender.
‘You’ve picked the wrong bloke, old man. All I got is this pack of smokes and a glass of beer.’
‘Then you’re the richest man I know.’
As Malone lowered his hands and turned, Albert ‘The Major’ Miller lowered his ‘gun’.
‘What’s been happening, Malone? I read that you’ve met The Robbers. Be careful of them. They’re charming.’
Alby shuffled onto his regular seat at the corner of the bar. The old bloke with the snowy hair was a Fleece relic.
‘By the way,’ he said, beginning to roll a cigarette between his gnarled nicotine-stained fingers, ‘I owe you a pot. The Tigers let me down last weekend.’
Amber placed a seven-ounce glass of Carlton Draught in front of Alby.
‘Hello, love. Give him his bloody pot.’
‘It’s all right, old man,’ Malone offered. ‘We’ll go double or nothing next time.’
‘My arse, lad.’
Alby gestured to Amber with a wagging finger. She poured the pot and slid it over to Malone. ‘How could you?’ she whispered. ‘Taking beer off a defenceless old man.’
‘Defenceless?’ Malone countered. ‘He’s killed more men than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He fought the Japs at Kokoda. Came back to work the docks and made a name for himself as a crime figure. Survived the Painters and Dockers gangland war.’
Alby raised his little glass.
‘Up your arse,’ he smiled.
The afternoon ticked along. Some time after three o’clock, and three or four quiet beers, Malone’s mobile rang. The caller took him by surprise.
‘Ian, Richard O’Shea from the Armed Robbery Squad. You free this afternoon for a catch-up?’
Malone changed into semi-formal and jumped a cab to South Melbourne. He was heading to a pub called the Royal. In the taxi, his mobile rang again.
‘Ian Malone speaking.’
‘Hello, Ian.’
The voice was Scottish. Familiar.
‘It’s Stuart Davis calling.’
CHAPTER 7
The Royal Hotel in South Melbourne was The Robbers’ social domain: their sanctuary away from the bullshit politics, the lenient judges, the bad press, the shitbags they chased—and the wives and the girlfriends who spent their waking hours chasing them. The Royal’s publican looked after the boys with intermittent free pots. The joint was a pub where tradies drank alongside suits.
Most of The Robbers were at the Royal by four when O’Shea walked Malone inside and over to the squad’s dim corner. The pub was busy, the din of mixed conversations, a laugh or two and a race caller’s chant swirling among a faint haze of cigarette smoke.
‘Boys, this is Ian Malone. The author of the story in The Age today. Thought I’d get him down for a couple of jars to meet you pricks.’
Malone, dressed in suit pants and an open-necked pale-blue shirt, felt surrounded by the white shirts. There was no doubt they were an intimidating bunch to an outsider, eve
n when at ease with black ties down and beers in fists. One by one the men extended a hand. Malone had experienced disingenuous greetings in the past: greetings when the hand was there but the eyes were elsewhere. But these were real men’s handshakes, with genuine glint. Unlike his first foray into their inner sanctum, Malone this time felt welcome among The Robbers. His feature story must have flicked a green light. Mission accomplished. He’d infiltrated the ranks.
‘Steve McCrann,’ Trapper offered, cigarette between teeth. ‘Good article, pal.’
‘Marcus Gucciardo.’
‘Yeah, Mitchell Hunter. Good to meet you.’
‘Frank Barlow.’
‘Dave Gilmore. How’s it going?’
‘G’day, knackerbags. Shane Kelso. Call me Kell.’
‘Jack Lynch.’
The last of the group was Max Rogers.
‘Name’s Max.’
O’Shea returned with a full jug and two empty pot glasses. Some of the squad men turned to one of the screens to watch a race. Barlow and Kelso had an obvious interest, betting tickets spread out before them.
‘This is where we come to unwind,’ O’Shea explained, pouring out the jug. ‘We can act like normal blokes here.’
Malone sparked up a dart. Took a slug of beer.
The Robbers Page 3