THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER

by Michael Smith

  Unlike Watson, when Ronnie Prince walked into the room, flanked by two larger men on either side of him, the room fell silent. It was staggeringly similar to how Watson had entered. Harris laughed softly to himself when he noticed the affectation. Watson was a clever boy, in some ways. Ronnie Prince, Sydney’s criminal kingpin, a former state boxing champion, a landowner, a gambling boss, a head pimp, a racketeer and a drug baron. He was what you might consider an all-rounder. A first-generation immigrant who’d arrived on Australian as a lad and risen to power in the 1930’s after the razor wars which had torn apart the gangs of his predecessors Matilda Devine, Kate Leigh and his own mother, Emily Prince.

  He was a decent kind of man, as criminals go, and where he could, he kept violence off Sydney’s streets,. He was once a big man who’d stood at around six foot two inches, with a frame that had carried him to the New South Wales heavyweight championship. By 1963, he must have been in his late sixties or early seventies, and though he had lost some of his height and much of his muscle mass, his presence remained. A lifetime of looking over his shoulder was fast catching up with Mr Prince, and he was beginning to look increasingly tired. “Evening Jim.”

  “Mr Prince.” Harris looked over at Prince’s bodyguards, two absolutely gigantic men who were standing around, looking as mean as they possibly could. “Tweedledum, Tweedledee.”

  “Be friendly, James.” Prince and Harris shared a smile.

  Harris passed the envelope to Ronnie. “From George.”

  “Watson?” Ronnie raised his eyebrows as he looked through the envelope, it was crammed with cash. “He’s doing well.”

  “He’s moving in on your rackets. He’s been taking money off Harrington’s. They’re in a bad way.” Harris waited for an order as to how to proceed.

  “They make beer… Unless the world goes mad, or the Temperance Society pipes up, they’ll be fine.” Prince was distracted. “He’s taking my money and handing it back to me?”

  “Want me to do something about it?”

  “No, the kid reminds me of myself. It’s what I did to Leigh and Divine when I was coming up.” It was clear that Prince was hesitant.

  “He’s not like you Ron, he’s an angry little man.”

  “It never held Napoleon back. Don’t be fooled, that kid is going places. He has vision.” Prince dismissed the conversation. “I need to talk to you about Melbourne.” Prince had a long-standing and funny sort of grudge against the city of Melbourne. No one knew why, he just really disliked the city and its inhabitants. “A Melbourne man won a lot of money in a Sydney casino yesterday, one of my casinos.” Harris pulled out a notebook and readied himself to take down some details. “Put that fucking thing away.” Prince looked at Harris disapprovingly. “I’ll be damned if that man is going to go back to Melbourne with my hard-earned money. And as luck would have it, I know what hotel he’s staying in.”

  “Something tells me luck doesn’t come into it.” Harris muttered under his breath.

  “It’s one of my hotels.” Ronnie clicked his fingers and one of his minders passed him a package wrapped in brown paper. “Key to his room, a little something to help you persuade him, and remuneration for a job well done.”

  “Right now?” Harris’s mind drifted back to the situation awaiting him back at the station, “It’s not a great time.”

  “It’s time-sensitive. This man is connected. It has to be done before he goes back to Melbourne, James. Because if my money finds its way into the hands of Paulie Zambrotta, I will hold you personally responsible.” Zambrotta was Melbourne’s equivalent of Prince at the time, they loathed each other. Prince watched Harris closely as the Englishman inspected the contents of the package; a room key from the Kelly Hotel, No. 23, a generous stack of notes, and a revolver.

  “Teach him not to come into my town and take my money will you, lad?” When Prince was done speaking, Harris subserviently nodded. With business concluded, Ronnie focussed on the man in front of him. He noticed the dark rings under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw and the unkempt way he wore his suit. “You’re not using again, are you James?”

  Harris didn’t answer, had anyone else asked him, he’d have likely lied. He didn’t lie to Prince, he would have never done him the discourtesy of treating him like a fool. Instead he stayed quiet and an awkward pause ensued between the two men.

  “I respect the fact that you’re not lying to me. But if you keep using that shit, well, I don’t have to tell you what happens then, do I? Understood?” Prince, notoriously, didn’t like employing those who abused drugs. They did make notoriously unreliable employees.

  Harris walked off like a child who’d been disciplined by his parents. Prince watched as he left, it was a sad situation, the old man felt. Harris had been doing his level best to cure his own sickness since 1942, and none of his preferred medicines, all opiates, had broken that cycle. It seemed to get worse with each year that passed.

  Chapter 5

  The Kelly Hotel was a haven. Sydney might have been one of the younger and richer cities in the world, but the hygiene of the place left much to be desired. Its streets were littered with garbage, everything was covered in a layer of smoggy dirt, and seagulls used the place as a toilet. But step foot inside the Kelly Hotel and it was marble floors, brass banisters, and oak bookcases filled with first edition hardbacks that dated back to Stoker. It was the crown jewel in Prince’s empire. A luxurious getaway in the heart of the city, fit for royalty, used by dignitaries, and popular amongst celebrities. Or so I’m told.

  I was barred from Prince’s business after a post office robbery gone wrong. A colleague of mine decided he was too tired to continue moving the charges into place, so he took a load off. Unfortunately for me. He sat on the detonator. It blew him sky high, and knocked a gaping hole in the wall of the neighbouring restaurant, Prince’s restaurant. There I was, with a thick layer of dust on my face, and ringing in my ears. There he was, tucking into what was a beautiful cut of Australian beef. Neither of us could quite tell what had just gone wrong. He took it surprisingly well, and after a decisive beating, he let me off with a few cuts and bruises. He politely requested I stay away from his businesses henceforth. I didn’t need to be told twice. I knew my next trip into one of his pubs, clubs or shops would be followed by a trip to his funeral parlour.

  When Harris walked into the hotel and over to reception, he stuck out like a stubbed toe. The receptionist was clearly taken aback by the junkie dirtying the beautiful polished marble floors. She might have said something, but Harris wasn’t in the business of wasting time on letting people speak. “Mr Prince sent me,” He said. “I believe a guest is expecting me.” The receptionist had clearly been briefed that something was going to be occurring in the hotel and gave him a knowing look.

  “Fourth floor, second door on the left.” The woman pointed to the staircase.

  “You look like you need a coffee.” Harris winked approvingly. He was somewhat of a charmer when he wanted to be.

  “I’m going to go on my break.” The girl walked out from behind the reception desk and straight out the grandiose antique double doors that led to the street outside.

  The door numbered 23 was situated in a long and immaculately furnished corridor. Harris pressed his ear up against the timber and listened for a moment. It was quiet. Too quiet. If the guy had indeed made his way back to Melbourne, well, let’s put it this way, Harris didn’t feel like making the 15-hour drive down south. He reached down and grabbed a newspaper at the base of the door and placed it under his arm. Giving the corridor one last glance, he put the key in the lock, opened the door and walked inside.

  A man in his twenties awoke from an incredibly deep sleep. A drunken sleep. He was met by the sights and smells of a trashed hotel room. It stank of booze, sweat and sex. The furniture was lopsided at best and shattered into splinters at worst. He’d clearly overdone it the night before. The poor lad barely knew where he was; there were empty bottles of whisky scattered around the
room. On the windowsill was a mound of cocaine that could have driven a blue whale to overdose.

  But, as the lad’s eyes adjusted to the afternoon light, he noticed something altogether more destructive in his presence, Harris sitting at a breakfast table. The Englishman had a penchant for the theatre of discomfort. He slowly rolled a teaspoon around the cup, scratching at the porcelain as it went. He didn’t look up; his eyes were fixed on a newspaper on the table. The kid quickly shook off his tiredness and reached under his pillow.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Harris lifted the newspaper to reveal the gun beneath it.

  The lad slowly pulled his hand from under his pillow to reveal it was empty, he sat up and looked at Harris with a confused expression. “Who are you?”

  “Housekeeping.” Harris replied without the slightest hint of humour.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” The poor lad was fighting a stinking hangover and a rotten come-down, he’d surely have mustered some manners to the man holding the hand cannon otherwise.

  “I’ll never understand your generation… I couldn’t sleep that late if I wanted to.” Harris peered over at him curiously.

  “It’s the cocaine…” The gambler rubbed his throbbing head.

  “Not my lot… We sleep soundly through the lonesome dark and whistle early with the lark.” Harris looked into his teacup and took a sip.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m feeling a bit under the weather. What d’you want?”

  “My employer, the hotel owner, sent me. He’s not happy with the state of his furniture.” Harris looked over at the bedsheets in disgust. “Or the bedding.”

  “I’ll pay for it, alright?” The gambler protested. The man reached under his pillow.

  Harris responded by getting to his feet and pointing his revolver in the Melbourne man’s direction. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “D’you want the money or not?” The man was stuck. He didn’t know whether to pull his hand out or leave it there. It was too early in the day to be dealing with armed robbery.

  Harris approached the bed and gestured for the naked man to move over to the foot of the bed. “Move, dickhead.”

  When Harris shifted the pillow, he saw that the boy had slept with his head soundly resting upon an envelope full of cash. And a gun. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time, but if you pull a gun from anywhere.” Harris peered at the man’s naked flesh curiously, “And I do mean anywhere, I’ll shoot you in the face.”

  “I’ve got a wife and two children at home.” The man was nervous and clutching at straws. He’d already lost his cash, and Harris was coming off as the sort of chap who didn’t value life all that highly.

  “Yet you come to Sydney, spend all night in the casino. Drinking, taking cocaine, and you come back to your hotel with a prostitute… You’re not exactly the picture of a family man.”

  “You’ve got the money. Just leave. I won’t come back. Just don’t shoot me.” The boy was visibly upset.

  “Boss told me I have to teach you a lesson.” Harris put the gun in the back of his belt. He stood over the man and clenched his fist.

  “Ok, ok. Just not the face, I don’t want to have to explain to my wife.” The man seized up, ready for what was to come, he closed his eyes and waited for the force of Harris’s oversized fist to fly into his tensed-up torso.

  “Brace yourself.” Harris smiled, enjoying the sight of the naked man tensing his entire body, waiting for a punch in the face. Then he pulled the gun out from the back of his belt and shot the man in the thigh.

  The man howled and writhed in pain.

  Harris reached down onto the table, stuck the newspaper under his arm and walked out the room. He didn’t rush. He walked.

  It was all blue skies and smooth seas until he took that very last step and that vast frame of his landed in the foyer. There, he bumped into a uniformed police officer. I don’t think I need to tell you that’s less than ideal, given the situation. “Sorry mate, a gunshot was heard from inside the building. I can’t let anyone in or out.”

  Harris pulled out his warrant card and handed it to the patrolling officer.

  The constable peered at it, “Major Crimes? Sorry sir. I didn’t realise. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?”

  Harris smiled bashfully, “I just popped in to nick a newspaper,” He brandished the newspaper he’d taken from the man’s doorway. “I heard the noise, it sounded like it was up on the fourth floor.”

  The constable looked at Harris in suspicion. It was clear the Major Crimes Detective was involved in some way, or at very least he knew more than he was letting on. That was policing in the 1960’s. There was very little black and white, everything was grey, no one knew who to trust, or who to arrest. An unspoken mantra of NSWPOL at the time was: “Do nothing and you’ll do nothing wrong.”

  Harris placed a large hand on the constable’s shoulder “Can you handle this?”

  “Yes sir.” The constable nodded slowly, it lacked conviction. Harris pulled out a couple of notes and placed them in the constable’s breast pocket. All of a sudden, there was a good deal of conviction to the nod.

  “Understood sir.” The constable counted the cash before folding it and placing it into his jacket pocket. He’d eat, drink, smoke, snort and shag to his heart’s content that night.

  On the waterfront of Sydney Harbour, Harris discreetly and expertly dismantled the pistol before tossing the pieces into the water. In front of him, Sydney Opera House was under construction. It was beginning to take its iconic shape. Harris gave it a bemused look before walking into the anonymity of the hustle and bustle of the city’s most busy streets.

  Chapter 6

  There was a cloud of uneasiness hanging over the day. It was draining. Generally, you don’t get into the criminal life because of your love for a hard day’s work. The docks and shipyards are where you find that particular kind of animal. A life of crime starts as a desperate attempt at a shortcut, then it becomes the path of least resistance. But this day, it was different. It felt like hard work. By the time Harris walked back into Missing Persons, he was knackered. He felt like he’d walked and driven over every cobble in Sydney. He’d barely had time to let himself think about the Death Car. As he sat back down amongst the files he had pulled from the shelves earlier, it hit him all at once.

  DS Lescott, who hadn’t moved, noticed the effects of stress on the Englishman. He looked up and saw how drained Harris was. “Fred Lescott.”

  “James Harris.” The pair shook hands. Harris looked the drunk up and down, trying to ascertain whether the man remembered their meeting earlier that day.

  “Are you alright there, Jim?”

  “One of those days… You know?” Harris noticed a funny kind of look on Lescott’s face. It was like he wanted to say something but didn’t know whether it was his place. “What?”

  “You left that brewery’s books on that desk, I didn’t realise it was one of yours, so I had a look… It was an interesting read.” Lescott smiled.

  “You didn’t realise?” Harris didn’t buy it.

  “Of course I realised. You shouldn’t have left it unattended. It was careless.” Lescott, as it happened, wasn’t selling it.

  “Yeah?” Harris wasn’t eager to discuss the fact that he was working the rackets.

  “What are you doing bringing evidence pertaining to a racketeering case down to Missing Persons?” Lescott smiled knowingly.

  “You’ve got a good eye.” Harris had been caught out. This wasn’t a huge problem. No one in that station was going to report him. It was more likely to end in a shakedown. Silence. The shakedown didn’t come. “What are you working on over there?”

  “My fifth beer.” Lescott stopped smiling. Harris gave him a probing look, “A woman and her child disappeared a couple of years ago.”

  “Any luck?” Harris was making conversation to take his mind off his own grisly workload.

  “None.” />
  “Did you hear about the Rolls Royce?”

  “Should I have?” Lescott shrugged.

  “Everyone else in Sydney has.” Harris raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, no one told me.” Lescott gestured to the rows made up of stacks and stacks of files and the obvious lack of people between them. “No one tells me anything.”

  “I could do with a second opinion.” Harris was struggling, “But it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s pretty horrible.”

  Lescott whistled softly. “Welcome to Missing Persons.”

  The pair went through what they knew. Harris showed Lescott the crime scene pictures he’d picked up from the lab, and a preliminary report compiled at the scene. Lescott noticed something in the file. “And they have the driver in custody?”

  “Ready for an ID parade.”

  “When?” Lescott’s mind was clearly at work.

  “End of day.” Harris studied Lescott’s reaction, and although the Missing Persons detective was obviously doing his best to hide it, the rising of his eyebrows let him down.

  “A witness at the scene said a tall, thin man was driving the car. They said he disappeared the moment the car broke down. Vanished into thin air, they said. And then what? In a city of over two million people, none of whom will cooperate with the police force, they found him? When’s the ID parade?”

  “End of day.” Harris continued to study Lescott, “Plenty of time for them to round up potential scapegoats? Pay off witnesses? Get their stories straight?”

  Lescott hadn’t wanted to say it. Harris could see him thinking it. “Listen… What Major Crimes do… Their processes, their methods… It’s not really my place to say.”

  “But…”

  “Before I was here, I was in Arson, before I was in Arson… I was in Internal Affairs. Based on my time there… I’d say that’s a pretty common practice. Framing someone for positive PR. This sounds like a horrible crime. It’s a case that’s going to attract public attention. And incite a lot of emotion. They’ll want it closed as quickly as possible.” Lescott paused, “The New South Wales Police aren’t here to do police work… They’re here to be seen doing police work.”