by Luke Preston
Chapter Twenty-Three
The sign on the door said, ‘Dreams’. The name promised too much. Wedged between a couple of accounting firms, it was the kind of place you had to look for. Just another titty bar in a city full of them. When Mick wasn’t running the club, he was running illegal whores out the back for twenty bucks a fuck. Cheap, but you got what you paid for. He worked SOG for twelve years before the VPD bumped him over a handful of brutality charges. The loss wasn’t mourned.
Bishop descended the filthy staircase into the neon hell. The inner doors were manned by a bouncer who was missing a couple of teeth and a substantial IQ. He held up his hand and managed to string a couple of words together. ‘Ten bucks,’ he slurred.
Bishop badged him.
The brick shithouse stepped aside. ‘You gonna need this,’ he said, holding out a rubber stamp with an inverted number seven on it. The same rubber stamp Taylor and Rayburn had been branded with.
‘I’ll pass.’ Bishop pushed through the doors.
The place was busy for a Friday arvo. Music pumped out of the speakers. Sleazy girls swung around the dirty poles, while others gave lap dances and flaunted their fake tits in the faces of those with nothing better to do on a Friday arvo than stare at fake tits..
Bishop found Mick Evens sitting in a booth along the rear wall. He was enjoying a steak, a beer and a stripper with a lobotomised stare, shuffling her feet on his table. Evens looked about ten years younger than what he was, wore his hair to his ears and too much gold around his neck. The rings on his fingers tapped against the fork in his hand as he ate.
Bishop slid into the booth opposite him.
‘Wudda yer want?’
‘I want to know who Justice is.’
Evens wiped his mouth with a dirty napkin and looked up at the stripper. ‘Fuck off.’
She let out a sigh, shuffled her way off the table and disappeared into some other dark corner of the bar.
Then he fixed his gaze on Bishop. ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re on about.’
‘So why send the girl away?’
He shrugged.
‘I want the fifteen mil you, Taylor and the others knocked off three days ago.’
‘I haven’t been a cop for a long time, haven’t seen Con or any of those cunts for years. So why don’t you walk out of here while you’ve still got all your fuckin’ teeth?’
Mick Evens didn’t see it coming.
Bishop pulled the fork from his plate and slammed it through the top of Evens’ hand.
Blood across the table.
Evens let out a squeal so Bishop slapped him.
‘Who’s Justice, Mick? Where’s the cash?’
It took Evens a couple of moments to catch his breath, but he eventually managed to spit a few words. ‘You’re gone, pig,’ he said. ‘Point of no fucking return.’
His gaze shifted over Bishop’s shoulder. The brick shithouse of a bouncer was coming up fast. Bishop turned and pulled his piece, aiming it at the bouncer’s groin. ‘No skin off my nose if your balls exit this world.’
The bouncer froze.
Bishop turned his attention back to Evens. ‘You got something you want to tell me?’
Spit flew out of the gaps between his clenched teeth. ‘Get fucked.’
‘You know what you did, I know what you did.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
‘What do you think I’m going to do: run you a hot bath?’
Bishop yanked out the fork and slammed it back in again. The tips dug into the table.
Evens went pale. Sweat soaked his shirt. ‘No one knows who Justice is. And, and the cash. It’s safe,’ he hissed. ‘I don’t know where. You think they’re going to tell me?’
Bishop hit him with the weapon, breaking his nose. Pulled back. Pushed the barrel in his face. Hammer back. Blood rolled over the muzzle.
Mick Evens pissed his pants.
Bishop’s finger squeezed the trigger.
‘Wait!’ he squealed. ‘I swear, I don’t know who Justice is. Nobody does, but I know who, who …’
‘Spit it out.’
‘I got ’em a guy. Planted him in the truck, had him working legit. A driver.’
‘Who?’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Evens took a couple of run-ups at stuttering the name, then eventually the whole thing came out. ‘Jay Franks.’
Bishop sized him up, then lowered his gun. He could have been lying, but nobody lied after they pissed their own pants.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bishop stripped the weapon. Cleaned it. Put it back together. When he was finished, he lit a cigarette and scanned the underground car park through the windscreen: a mother wheeling a pram; a couple of kids blowing off school; an employee collecting trolleys. Nothing to worry about.
A government issue pulled in, circled the car park and came to a stop. Ellison climbed out, scanned the area. Bishop flashed his headlights. She caught the signal and headed over. Just before she reached the car, he slid the .45 into the back of his jeans.
She climbed in and tossed a folder onto the dashboard.
‘Put your hands on the windscreen,’ he said.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Bishop nodded.
She put her hands on the dashboard and he frisked her. To get to the underground car park, Bishop had sent her to three different locations, tailing her the whole way to make sure she wasn’t being followed by anyone else. When he finished patting her down, she leant back in the seat.
‘Happy now?’
Her perfume engulfed the cab, so Bishop cracked a window. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, fuck, I went to a lot of trouble getting that.’ She stabbed a finger in the direction of the case file on the dash. ‘I shouldn’t even be here; everyone’s out looking for you.’
Bishop picked up the file. ‘What did you find?’
‘Jay Franks, twenty-seven, 5’10, long blond hair. Tattooed to the hilt. One conviction, served three years. The youngest brother of Mickey and Val Franks. All of them three generations deep; crime is in their blood. Grandfather ran prostitutes and gambling, Dad shifted into cocaine in the ’80s and was very active during the waterfront wars. He was even suspected of having a hand in the killing of Gary Shannon. Nowadays, the three boys specialise in ecstasy and meth. Their inner circle is small, the rest just contractors; they never get orders directly, which is how the Franks boys have managed to stay in business. Well, that and the fact that they are known for being extremely violent. In short, they don’t fuck around. Jay is the black sheep in a family of black sheep. They don’t trust him with anything. But they also have a problem they don’t know about yet.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s a UC in their crew.’
Bishop was impressed. ‘How’d you find out?’
‘A name kept popping up. At first I thought it was just a CI, but some dickhead handler left in a badge number. I pulled the guy’s file and put two and two together.’
Bishop flicked through the pages. ‘He’s been under nine months.’
‘Long time with the same crew.’
The photo clipped to the file showed a clean-cut, honest-looking badge. A rookie. After nine months, it was doubtful those words could still be used to describe him.
Ellison lit a cigarette, smoothed out her skirt. She was building up to something. ‘They say you killed Con Taylor.’
‘People say a lot of things.’
‘You’re really going after Justice, aren’t you? I want in. I want to help.’
‘You have helped,’ Bishop said, holding up the folder. ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you fucking serious? You can’t do this by yourself. Half the department is out looking for you.’
‘Ellison, look, trust me. You’re young and—’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘Stop pouting.’ He softened his
tone. ‘Go home. Call in sick for the next couple of days. Stay as far away from this thing as you can.’
She stared him down for a couple of seconds. ‘What don’t I know?’
‘Forget about what you don’t know.’
‘It wasn’t just Taylor, was it? There’s others?’
‘I don’t know that,’ Bishop lied. ‘You can’t go around asking questions.’
She stared out the window, her mind in overdrive.
‘Ellison, promise me.’
‘Is this thing that big?’
Bishop nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jay Franks was a fuck-up from the beginning, with a few aggravated assaults, a couple of B&Es and a quarter share of a rape to his credit. The youngest in the family, he also had the most to prove. Bishop guessed that Jay had branched out on his own, trying to show his brothers he wasn’t the useless piece of shit they thought he was.
The Franks lived at the Lincolnshire Arms, an old pub that had been in the family for decades, but hadn’t been in business for the past couple of years. It sat at the end of a residential street, three storeys tall with blacked-out windows and fading blue paint on the walls.
Bishop pulled over to the kerb and climbed out. The street was silent except for the distant hum of traffic from the freeway a couple of blocks away. Two wooden, skinny double doors served as the main entrance to the pub. He knocked twice. Instantly, one opened. A shotgun barrel stared him in the eye.
‘Tell Mickey, Tom Bishop is here to see him.’
‘No fuckin’ Mickey here.’
He tried to lean away from the dangerous end of the shooter. It followed him, so he pulled his badge. ‘I can come back with some friends, but neither one of us want to do it like that.’
After a moment’s thought, the owner of the shotgun pushed open the other door. He turned out to be a kid, thirteen, fourteen, no older. Bald-headed, bare-chested and covered in the beginnings of a tattoo shirt. Bishop followed him into what used to be the public bar. ‘Wait here,’ the kid said, disappearing through a curtained doorway.
Small shards of light managed to push their way through the blocked-out windows, exposing the dusty bar and cigarette machine that had been busted open and cleaned out. Bishop shuffled his feet on the brown carpet. All the tables and chairs that would have littered the floor were now stacked to the roof in the far corner. There wasn’t a bottle on any shelf and he doubted any of the taps worked.
Mickey Franks barged through the curtained doorway, followed by the kid. In a certain light he might pass for respectable, with his silk shirt, slacks and expensive shoes. That was until his tattoos poked from his collar and cuffs. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he yelled.
‘Detective Tom Bishop.’
Mickey turned to the tattooed kid with the shotgun.
‘You let a cop in here?’ The kid looked sheepish. Mickey slapped him. ‘Next time I’ll have a brick in my hand.’ He snatched the shotgun. ‘Get out.’
The kid took off. Somewhere in another part of the pub, a door slammed.
Mickey held the shotgun like a walking stick. ‘Badge or no badge, I don’t mind disappearing a cunt. Know what I mean?’
‘I’m just here to have a couple of words with Jay.’
Mickey’s face formed a V. ‘Jay isn’t here.’
From behind the curtain emerged the middle Franks brother, Val. Compared to Val, Mickey was a sweetheart. He’d spent more years behind bars than free. He was taller, lankier, with long hair and a handlebar moustache. Behind him stood the UC. Nine months undercover had changed him from the rookie in his file photo; now he had a look in his eye, the kind that men who have seen a thing or two possess and wished they didn’t.
Val snorted. ‘You bastards can’t leave us alone, can you?’
‘Just a couple of words with Jay; that’s all I want. I don’t mean any disrespect and I’m not here to start trouble. I don’t care about the things he’s done. I just want some information.’
‘On what?’ Val snapped.
‘On the crooked cops he’s working with. Anything else is incidental to me.’
Mickey and Val swapped a glance.
‘They already have him,’ Val said.
Bishop stared, confused. ‘Major Crimes picked him up? Rayburn?’
Mickey nodded as best he could with what little neck he had.
A breeze flowed through the room, just enough to part the curtained door for a moment, revealing a small arsenal on a table in the beer garden: machine guns and hand grenades enough for a small army.
‘You boys planning a little something?’
None of them said a word.
‘I want in.’
‘Get the fuck outta here,’ Val said with a laugh.
‘Major Crimes pulled that job. The same crew that picked Jay up were working with him. Inside, he won’t last the night. They’ll kill him and they’ll make it look like he killed himself.’
Mickey nodded. ‘We know.’
‘You’re going to need someone to get you into those holding cells; I can do that.’
‘You’re a cop.’
Bishop pulled his weapon and fired a round into the UC. ‘Would a cop do that?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
He lay on the floor, grasping his knee.
Mickey pushed the barrel of his shotgun into Bishop’s ribs. ‘You better have a pretty good reason for that.’
‘You’re a cop! A fucking cop!’ the UC screamed. It was painful, Bishop knew from experience, but he did think the UC was overreacting.
‘Do you mind explaining yourself?’ Mickey said.
‘He’s undercover.’
‘I fucking am not. Fuck you, man.’
Bishop turned back to Mickey. ‘Is he new? Is he a good earner?’
Val slugged Bishop hard in the face. Bishop staggered but stayed on his feet. He waited for the ringing in his ears to stop. ‘You know anything about him before he came here?’
‘Victor Green vouched for him.’
‘Is Victor Green a snitch?’
Mickey thought about it for a moment. ‘Check him for a wire.’
Val pulled up the UC’s shirt, then turned back to Mickey. ‘He’s clean.’
‘Check his balls,’ Bishop said.
‘I don’t know,’ Val said. ‘How about we take his word for it.’
Mickey nodded. ‘Do it.’
Val shoved his hand down the UC’s jeans. Bishop couldn’t tell whether the look of disgust on his face was from the task itself, or the fact that he’d found the wire.
‘Piece of fucking shit.’ He gave the UC a sharp kick.
‘Cuff him to the bar, we’ll deal with him later,’ Mickey said, lowering the shotgun. ‘Was that necessary?’
‘Jay won’t last inside and the two of you can’t bust him out alone.’
‘And you can get us inside?’
Bishop grinned. ‘Count on it.’
*
The horn blared. Bishop was the last out of the pub. He crouched down beside the UC, who was handcuffed to the bar, and pushed his mobile phone into his bloody fist. ‘It’s painful, I know, but you won’t die from this.’
‘I was under nine months.’ He yanked his T-shirt down to reveal the dove tattoos on his chest. ‘Do you think I like these fucking things?’
‘Call Patrick Wilson and tell him what’s happened.’
He tried to throw a punch but Bishop was out of range.
‘Remember, call Patrick Wilson.’
Val pounded on the horn again and Bishop walked out.
Mickey drove. Bishop rode shotgun. Val in the back. He breeched his weapon. Checked the rounds. Reloaded. Breeched it, checked it again. Over and over. The obsessive repetition of the noise wore Mickey thin. His eyes snapped to the rear-view and he said, ‘Don’t.’ Mickey was in charge, there was no doubt about it, and Val didn’t breech his weapon again.
The SUV neared a corner and pulled to a stop. At the end of the street stood the
St Albans station. Forty years ago St Albans was on the outskirts of the city and the station was a medium-sized prison. Over the years parts of the site had been sold off and redeveloped and the prison converted into a residential station. It still had four times as many holding cells as any other station, and was used when there was an overflow of prisoners, which there always was.
Val jumped out of the SUV and headed for a nearby payphone. He dropped a coin into the slot and dialled.
Mickey ran his manicured fingers through his hair. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ Mickey said. ‘We’re here to get my brother out. If you start turning into a cop in there, I won’t hesitate putting a bullet in you.’
Bishop nodded. ‘Fair enough, but while we’re talking clarity – you start shooting people I may just turn into that cop.’
Val climbed back in, a shit-eating grin on his face. He pointed through the windscreen. ‘Check this out.’
Sirens wailed in the distance, followed by the sound of prowlers being floored. Red, blue and white specks pulled out, the SUV shaking as the fleet hammered past. There were nine of them in total, filled with pretty much every uniform assigned to the station.
‘Christ,’ said Mickey, looking over the seat at his brother. ‘What did you tell ’em?’
‘Some crazy nut was shooting up a school on Bay Street.’
Mickey glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got about thirty minutes.’
‘Fifteen, if we’re lucky.’ Bishop set the timer on his watch. ‘Once they know it’s bullshit, they’ll leave one unit and send everybody home.’
Mickey nodded, cranked up the engine and they rolled up to the monstrous building. Four storeys of cold, grey granite. Windows covered with bars and the roof with rusted barbwire.
‘Park in the rear,’ Bishop said. ‘Where the cops park.’
Mickey brought the SUV to a stop by the take-home vehicles. They climbed out. The brothers peeled off their overalls; underneath: VPD uniforms. Bishop didn’t ask where they'd got them. It didn’t matter. Mickey twirled his finger; Bishop turned and felt the cuffs slip loosely around his wrists. A shake or two would be all it took for them to fall.