The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

‘Yeah … and crying and fucking sooking and he says, “You’re not gunna cut me cock off now, are ya?” and Kane goes, “Nah. You are, ’cos I’m gunna set fire to this garage’’.’

  Rowdy laughter. The barman approached. ‘Righto, gents. Last call for you two.’

  Letts scoffed. ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, fellas. Time to go.’

  ‘What’s the fuckin’ problem?’ Thompson demanded.

  ‘We’ve got families eating in the bistro. I won’t be able to serve you any more.’

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  ‘Come on, fellas. Just leave quietly. I don’t wanna have to call the cops.’

  ‘Listen,’ Letts said, teeth bared and eyes wide, ‘I could have some bikies down here in an hour to trash this shit-hole.’

  ‘C’mon Billy. Fuck this place. Let’s just go.’ Thompson pushed his mate toward the door.

  ‘I’ll be back. You hear me, cunt? Me and my mates’ll be back.’

  Letts faked a punch on the way past a punter. The drinker flinched. ‘Fuckin’ weak as piss, the lot of ya!’

  On rubbery legs, Letts and Thompson laughed their way outside. Thompson headed to his ute. Letts straddled Pig Dog’s Harley.

  ‘Hey, Thommo! Listen to this!’ Letts kicked the Harley and revved it hard. The hog roared. Letts rode it up onto the hotel verandah and smoked the back tyre against the decking. ‘I’m the rocker! I’m the roller! I’m the out-of-controller!’

  He had to yell above the burning tyre.

  ‘I’m a fuel-injected suicide machine!’

  Letts was going nuts, his mate laughing and applauding. The bike lurched off the verandah and, at drunken speed, Letts lost control on the gravel. The Harley careered into a parked car.

  ‘Billy!’

  Thompson lifted the ram-damaged hog off his dazed mate. The two surveyed the busted horse.

  ‘I’m a dead man.’

  Thompson collected the stray pieces.

  ‘Come on, dickhead. Roll it into me ute and let’s get the fuck out of here before the jacks turn up!’

  CHAPTER 12

  Stan Voss was on a roll: four pizza shops, the Chinese joint and an Indian restaurant over the past few weeks and no sign of stopping. Why would he stop, considering he had his browbeaten son’s upcoming wedding to pay for—thanks to the bride’s loser father having croaked it and her mother being an obsessed pokies freak. Voss knew damn well that he was Brenda’s surrogate father and sugar daddy to boot, and that this after-hours robbery caper was a good little earn on the side. Watching his victims squirm and beg was just a cherry on top of the ice-cream. He thrived on holding the balance of power. Thrusting a gun into a mouth or threatening to blow off a cock. Maybe Nathaniel would benefit from a bit of this action: give him the balance of power over the domineering fiancée at home. Brenda was an all-right sort, for a coconut, but she had Nathan by the balls. It had been that way since they started dating all those years ago at high school.

  Voss had come a long way since his first stick-up. There was almost a perverse, depraved attraction to armed robbery now. Tonight he was going to burn another wog place—a pizza tavern in Mitcham—the only way he knew how. In trademark Schwarzenegger mask he went in the back door, bailing up the male owner.

  ‘Get inside, wog boy.’

  Inside there was an added bonus. A woman: most probably the wife. Sticking to his modus operandi, Voss ordered his victims down on their knees, face first against a wall. Hands behind heads, fingers clasped. The man offered Arnie the world. Fucking pathetic, Voss thought to himself. The woman whimpered.

  ‘Shut up, Rita,’ Voss yelled. ‘Ha! Rita the Eta eater.’ He touched his barrel to the back of her head.

  ‘Don’t mate,’ the bloke pleaded. ‘Please. We’ve got kids.’

  Why did they always say that? Standing over the woman, Voss undid his fly and flopped out his dick. It wasn’t hard. No. He didn’t have time for rape or torture. But he did want to humiliate. Degrade. Disgust. He shot a squirt of piss on the woman’s head. She screamed and shook. Her husband pleaded.

  ‘Don’t, you bastard. Please … Don’t do that.’

  Voss let a warm bitter stream go, drenching the woman. She coughed and spluttered and began to retch.

  ‘You sick fuck.’

  Voss had heard enough from the bloke. After zipping up, he gun-whipped the lippy guy to the floor and proceeded to kick the living shit out of him. The woman tried to protect her husband. Voss slapped her down, his dick growing hard. He kicked her too, for good measure. Leaned down and placed his .38 to the back of her head. Blood filling his thick cock, he pulled on the trigger. Misfire. A dud round. What were the chances?

  ‘Hey Rita, an angel must be watching over you.’

  Voss kicked her unconscious and fled.

  CHAPTER 13

  Shepherd butted a cigarette and closed the Paradox file to the tune of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. He removed his glasses. Rubbed his red eyes. Looked into his ‘God Is Busy’ mug. It was time to stretch the legs. In the mess room, Rogers sat reading the Herald Sun while munching on a homemade sandwich. Shepherd spooned Nescafé java.

  ‘What did you get today, Roy?’

  ‘Chicken and avocado. You?’

  ‘I’m making my lunch right now.’

  Steam rose from the mug. Three sugars.

  ‘You want half?’ Rogers offered. ‘I’ve already had two.’

  ‘If there’s a spare half going …’

  Roy rewrapped the remaining half a sandwich and tossed it across the table. Shepherd picked it up to take back to his office.

  ‘Lorraine never made me lunch. Not even when things were good.’

  ‘Probably a blessing, boss. She was a shit cook.’

  Shepherd took a sip hit. Sweet coffee: a lawful man’s cocaine if he drank enough of it. The inspector rested back against the sink bench.

  ‘Sometimes I envy you, Roy. Karen. Your boys … watching them develop—fucking up as they go and learning from their mistakes.’

  ‘Have you heard from Chelsea?’

  ‘I’m leaving messages. She’s sticking to her guns. Doesn’t want to acknowledge that Lorraine and I were passing each other at home like sharks in a bloody aquarium.’

  Rogers sat back, hands behind head.

  ‘You know what they say, boss. Sometimes familiarity breeds contempt.’

  ‘I don’t want things to go that way with Chelsea.’

  ‘She’ll ring you, boss. Probably just busy with uni and the orchestra. A boyfriend. You know how it is.’

  ‘I don’t. And that’s the problem. I don’t know much about what’s going on in her life. She’s swimming in the opposite direction. Just like her bloody mother did.’

  Shepherd took another sip. Caught the Herald Sun’s back-page headline. The Richmond footy club was in the news again, for inglorious reasons.

  ‘Bloody Tiges,’ Shepherd said, craning his neck to catch some of the story.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rogers said, pushing the paper across. ‘Sometimes I wish my boys barracked for someone else. They’ll be dead before we win another flag.’

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘Jesus Roy, they’re still all under twelve, aren’t they?’ He pushed the paper aside. ‘What’s the word on our Hallam pizza couple?’

  ‘They’re both conscious. He scored a broken jaw and bruising on the brain. Having trouble remembering his own name. She got away with abrasions.’

  ‘Lucky her brain wasn’t blown through her skull.’

  ‘Incredibly lucky. One in a million chance that round didn’t fire. Just to let you know, I received a memo from the wombats upstairs. People in high places are getting itchy about Arnie. Step on this bug for me will ya, pal? I don’t want him biting us on the arse.’

  ‘Kell and I are on it, boss.’

  CHAPTER 14

  It was the end of another day of making inquiries. Chasing information. Rattling cages. Searching for pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Rogers and Kelso still had no id
ea what the picture was going to look like, apart from depicting a man: Arnold Schwarzenegger unmasked. The partners sat across from each other at their desks, a late-night cleaner’s vacuum the only sound. Before Rogers sat a VB can and a handsome pile of betting chips. Kelso took a swig of his own VB, studying his hand. Rogers laid down his cards with a smirk.

  ‘Aaw, piss off,’ Kelso whinged, throwing down.

  Rogers, sleeves still buttoned at the wrists, raked in the chips with both hands. ‘I also accept traveller’s cheques and personal IOUs.’

  Kelso sucked his can dry and crushed it as Rogers dealt again. ‘My mind’s not on the cards …’ He dumped the can in his bin. Walked to the Coca-Cola dispensing machine and pushed the button twice. Two cold VB cans dropped into the tray. Kelso placed one in front of his partner.

  ‘Arnie’s a phantom—but not by design,’ Rogers suggested in a knowing tone. ‘He’s just been bloody lucky.’

  Kelso cracked his can. ‘No dumped stolen cars. No hits on ISYS. No trace evidence, yet.’

  ‘It’s obvious he’s an amateur with no associations. We might get lucky with a DNA profile from his piss.’

  Kelso rocked his head back for a swig. Sat. Pondered.

  ‘I’ve rattled every cage I can think of. Not one stick-up man in this town knows a bloody thing about him.’

  ‘What about Millovovic? He’s usually pretty reliable with names, and is always looking for a favour.’

  ‘Mate, I’ve leaned on everyone along the eastern corridor, from Millovovic and Mama San to fuckin’ Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘He’s out there playing Joe Average,’ Rogers said, flicking out the deal. ‘Outwardly acting like he’s a good bloke and not a threat to anyone.’

  Malone sat on a bench at the Princes Gardens in Prahran watching kamikaze skateboarders dropping down a half pipe under spotlight. One slip or false move and any one of the skaters was up for a crushing fall. Malone leaned back in the dark, next to the old church set among grey Commission buildings. He’d seen plenty of this sort of shit in the movies. He just had to play a role. He pulled his jacket collar up; Sean Penn’s character from one of his favourite films—State of Grace—firmly on his mind. Terry Noonan. Terry Noonan. Just be like him. A nondescript overweight bloke sat next to him. He smelled like mustard: the cheap type they slap on nightclub hotdogs.

  ‘You Terry?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Silence. A skater crashed down the incline. Face first.

  ‘You smell like a cop.’

  Maybe Terry Noonan had been a bad choice. ‘And you smell like a fuckin’ hot dog … I’m not a cop, man.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Alby Miller wouldn’t set Tommy Gunston’s crew up with a cop, would he?’

  Mustard Man sat back, hands in jacket pockets.

  ‘How much you after?’

  ‘Five grams.’

  ‘Seven fifty.’

  Malone pulled folded notes from his jacket pocket. Removed a fifty and handed the rest to the fat dealer.

  ‘Seven fifty.’

  The dealer handed Malone five bags under the steeple of the former little church turned local drama-group playhouse.

  CHAPTER 15

  The kettle boiled. In khaki-coloured paint-stained overalls, Voss reached across and poured himself a tea, a slice of toast smothered in Vegemite clenched between his teeth. Jiggling the tea bag he sat at the kitchen table, his eyes on the Herald Sun. Like most punters, he’d turned to the back page first. He was a Collingwood man and they were having a shit year. Thirteen-year-old Christian Voss appeared in his schooluniform: socks down and crumpled shirt untucked.

  ‘Morning, lad.’

  The boy burped and walked to the pantry.

  ‘Disgusting child,’ muttered Doris Voss, shuffling around the kitchen in slippers and pink dressing gown. She pinched Voss’ remaining half of toast.

  ‘Oi!’

  Doris leant and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll make you another bit.’

  ‘Damn straight, woman.’

  Christian poured a box of Coco Pops into a bowl on the bench, chocolate sugar pebbles spilling everywhere. Christian sat at the table, slurping spoon to mouth.

  ‘Jesus, boy.’

  ‘What, Dumbo?’

  The kid copped a slap across the back of the head. ‘Don’t be a smart-arse. Respect your elders.’

  A car horn sounded outside. The boy darted to his mum, scored a kiss and was out the front door with schoolbag in hand.

  ‘Yeah, tatta!’ Voss yelled. ‘Jesus, Doris. Ever since his balls dropped, he’s become a cheeky fucker.’

  ‘He’s always been cheeky … Where’s Nathan?’

  ‘Said he wanted to put in an hour at the house before he started work,’ Voss answered, head buried in the newspaper. ‘Did I hear Brenda here last night?’

  ‘Yep. She finished late at the clinic and stayed the night.’

  ‘Huh. Probably just wanted a quick pork.’

  ‘Stanley!’

  The newspaper hit the table. ‘Well, it’s true. I know the female mind, Doris. I know how horny young women think.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that? You’re an ox who paints houses for a living, paints bowls of fruit for a hobby and worships the Collingwood Football Club. Not much more to you than that, darling.’

  ‘Oi, watch your mouth … I’ve read your Cosmo magazines. All those stories are about rooting—how women get off and how big the bloke’s dick should be.’

  ‘It’s called an orgasm, by the way.’

  ‘Whatever. That’s all they bloody talk about, as if it makes their world go round … Is that what you and Bev and Jill sit around talking about at your book club meetings?’

  ‘We’re well past sex talk. It’s the romance we’re interested in.’

  ‘Bullshit. At the end of the day all women want is a good bang in the pants.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘Brenda’s no different … Probably does the haka before she spreads her legs.’

  ‘Stanley! Enough! That’s your future daughter-in-law you’re talking about!’

  ‘She’d be a good root. That’s all I’m sayin’, darl. And Nathan better get what he can before it all dries up.’

  ‘Change of subject, please!’

  A fresh piece of toast, smeared black, landed on Voss’ plate. He picked up the newspaper. Sipped his tea as Doris busied herself by the sink, washing out Christian’s cereal bowl.

  ‘Just don’t forget Brenda’s coming over for dinner next Tuesday.’

  Voss’s eyes remained on the paper. ‘How could I bloody forget? Every time she comes over it costs me another grand. Cakes. Flowers. Dresses. Jesus wept.’

  ‘It’s your eldest son’s wedding … and you know Jean’s situation. Just enjoy the experience.’

  ‘Huh, I’ll enjoy the experience when Nathan finally finishes that fuckin’ house and he and Brenda start living there—out of their own pocket.’

  Doris stirred her own tea. The spoon tinkled in the cup.

  ‘You’re later than usual today.’

  ‘Yeah, I start on that Chinese restaurant in Chirnside Park. Big job. The bloke there’s offered me a free feed when I’m finished.’

  ‘Maybe we could all go there for tea one night—you, me and the kids.’

  No response. A grunt maybe. Indifference.

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘What’s what called?’

  ‘The restaurant! What’s it going to be called when it re-opens?’

  Voss didn’t even try for the answer. ‘Ching Chong’s Palace.’ He closed the paper. Swallowed down the rest of his tea.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Stan. No-one’s ever heard of a restaurant called Ching Chong’s Palace.’

  Voss mimicked his wife.

  ‘You’ve had a lot of restaurant work lately,’ Doris continued.

  Voss stood. ‘Plenty more to come … Hey, where are me fuckin’ car keys?’

  ‘O
n the phone table where you left them.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  On his way towards the front door, he crossed paths with Brenda: a puppy-fat Maori suburbanite with delusions of sophistication and taste. She appeared from Nathan’s bedroom in ugg boots and silk kimono.

  ‘Morning, Pumpkin Pie.’

  A peck on the cheek.

  ‘Morning Stan.’

  Voss lowered his voice to a whisper, a salacious glint in his eyes. ‘Hey, did you and Nathan have a pork here last night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you and Nathan be intimate? You know, get tribal?’

  Brenda yawned, eyes crusted half shut. She rubbed her left boob. ‘Stan, what are you talking about, you fucking loser.’

  ‘You know.’

  Brenda opened her kimono and gave Voss a full naked flash of what he could never have. ‘I gave all this to Nathan,’ she lied, then quickly covered up and blew her father-in-law a kiss.

  Voss stood with a sly grin as Brenda disappeared into the bathroom. ‘Righto. I’m off.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Connie Letts parked her LTD Falcon a block down from the Red Barons’ clubhouse, as instructed by her husband. Fidgeting nervously, like a man who knows he’s about to be sentenced for a stretch but not knowing for how long, Letts sat in the front passenger seat: palms sweating and throat dry. An ex-con able to defend himself in the yard and rough-house pubs, Letts well knew this was a different ball game. He had to break bad news to Pig Dog—the Barons’ sergeant-at-arms. The borrowed Harley was a write-off. It was judgment day.

  ‘If I’m not out in ten minutes, I won’t be coming out.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Billy … It’s not that serious—is it?’

  Letts leaned across and gave his wife what he truly believed could have been their final kiss. Their tongues rolled.

  Ten minutes later and the Barons’ clubhouse shat Letts free like a turd. Connie breathed again. He still had all his fingers.

  ‘So? What did he say?’

  Letts stared at nothing in particular through the windscreen, his mind going over the conversation. Scrambling for a plan.

  ‘For every action, there’s a reaction. Consequences.’