‘Woooa. Just stop there.’ It was Georgie intervening with her usual flare for the dramatic. ‘No guns, replicas, real or otherwise. Once you start using guns you’re inviting trouble.’
‘Totally agree,’ said Noel. We’ll have bought ourselves enough trouble just robbing a bank in the first place. Let’s not compound the problem by turning it into an armed hold-up.’
Simon turned to Sue. ‘Sue?’
‘Gangsters and thugs need guns. We can rob the bank with brains, not guns.’
‘Okay,’ conceded Simon. ‘No guns.’
Before the conversation continued, Georgie got up and said, ‘time for a brew, coffee everyone?’
‘Cripes, I thought you’d never ask,’ said Noel. Within a few minutes Georgie, with Sue’s help, had organised the brews while Noel and Simon chattered about Noels current employment back in uniform and plodding the beat. ‘Thanks Georgie, said Noel as he took a mug of coffee. ‘You know, I think I’ve seen enough Vietnam demonstrations to last a life time,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And half the people who turn up wouldn’t know what they’re demonstrating for, even if they are university students or members of the CPA, which most appear to be. We’re used for crowd control and to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. Special Branch seems to be more surreptitiously involved, taking photos and hauling away known agitators.’
‘Well, let’s hope the demonstration march along George Street will be heavily patronized and noisy as we’ll join them after we’ve robbed the bank. You have a date and time for this march yet?’ asked Simon.
Noel nodded and said, ‘Yes, it’s on 14 October starting at two o’clock. They’ll be marching from The Quay, along George Street to the Town Hall where they’ll hold a demonstration. That okay?’
‘Sounds fine,’ said Simon. ‘That’s a week before LBJ arrives in Sydney so everything will be so chaotic no-one will notice a simple little bank robbery.’
‘You mean we actually have a date for our robbery?’ asked Sue with excitement.
‘Looks like it,’ replied Simon, not knowing whether to be pleased or alarmed at the prospect of becoming a bank robber.
‘If that’s the case,’ said Georgie as she placed her empty coffee mug on the table, ‘I think we need to choreograph these cash switches and accidental collision we’ll be doing.’
‘Well, don’t plan it for tomorrow,’ said Simon. ‘I’m heading off to Canterbury for some therapeutic gambling on the neddies. The only other thing we have to give some thought to is a rendezvous after we all clear the bank. Can I suggest we take a room at the Menzies for the night of the fourteenth and all meet back there?’
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said Georgie. ‘Sue, why don’t you and Noel stay the night in town as well? I’m sure we’ll all need a night of relaxation and a drop of wine after robbing a bank.’
CHAPTER 10
Simon didn’t go to the races very often, but when he did he preferred the mid-week events held at Canterbury Race Course. The crowds were never huge and he found it far more relaxing than the bustle of the Saturday meetings at Randwick or Rose Hill. He took the train to Canterbury and arrived at the course a little before midday. After buying a ticket to The Paddock area, along with the obligatory race book and pencil, Simon wandered the betting ring taking in the odds of the runners in the first event to be run at twelve-forty. He enjoyed the atmosphere, the bookies barking the odds, the pencillers madly scrawling their incomprehensible scribble on the betting cards while the bookies’ clerks recorded the details of each bet on their large pads.
After collating the details of all the runners and their jockeys, and taking into account the respective odds, Simon made his decision and placed a bet with a bookie who, for some unknown reason, reminded Simon of Fred Astair. Having pocketed his betting ticket, Simon retreated from the betting ring and soon made his way to one of the numerous bars to be found at the course where, after buying a middy of new, he settled back to watch humanity pass by.
‘You got the big wheels out today, Simon?’
Simon turned to find the question had come from a small balding man aged in his fifties, dark friendly brown eyes and a face hardened by an outdoor lifestyle. His dress, which consisted of a pair of dark grey slacks, a beige open neck shirt and a brown sports coat, was neatly tailored and well fitting. It was unfortunately the gentleman wearing the attire was one of those people you could dress in a tuxedo and he would still look untidy.
Simon’s face broke into a broad grin as he recognised the man. ‘Ron, long time no see. You been keeping out of trouble lately?’ Ron was Ron Lange, with the emphasis on the “e”. As far as Simon was aware, Ron had been involved in petty crime for most of his life and could generally be found at any of the city race or trot meetings. Although a petty criminal, he was considered by police to be harmless and at times had furnished the Force with valuable information relating to underworld activities. In truth, there was very little going on that Ron wasn’t aware of, and if he wasn’t, he had the resources to find out in very quick time.
‘Of course. I’m squeaky clean now. After that last stretch I vowed I’d never go back. But I s’pose that means I don’t intend to get caught again, right?’ said Ron with a laugh. ‘Hey, buy us a beer and tell me what’s going on.’
‘Helen, another middy, no, better make that a schooner, thanks love. Helen was a forty something bottled blond who had been serving behind the same bar at the course since God knows when. She smiled at Simon and gave a wink in acknowledgement. ‘Now, what do you mean by “what’s going on?”’ asked Simon as Helen placed the schooner on the bar.
‘Thanks, here’s cheers,’ said Ron as he picked up the schooner and took a long draught. Simon watched in horror as he realised the afternoon could become very expensive if Ron downed all his beers in the same fashion. Ron finally put the glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Like, you being here. Sure it’s good to see you again, but I didn’t expect to see you on a Wednesday, not with your Chief out here as well. There must be somethin’ goin’ on.’
‘What, you mean Chief Inspector Rose is here, at the track?’
Ron nodded. ‘Sure is. Saw him earlier. He was down talking to one of the rails bookies. Didn’t say hello though as he seemed preoccupied. He comes here regularly, not every Wednesday, but often enough. I think he lives out this way somewhere.’ Already Ron had provided Simon with the answer to the Wednesday afternoon conundrum of Chief Inspector Rose’s whereabouts.
Simon shook his head in annoyance. ‘Look, if you see him again, don’t mention you’ve seen me. I’ve got a couple of days leave left before I head off to Cronulla and I’d prefer not to have him looking for me.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Ron. ‘I heard you and your sergeant had both been dirked by your boss. Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not surprised?’ asked Simon, his interest piqued.
‘It’s a long story, so buy me anotherie and I’ll start at the beginning.
Simon nodded to Helen, held up two fingers in the victory solute and dropped six shillings onto the bar.
Ron found a vacant table and drew up two bar stools. After putting the beers down, Simon turned to Ron and said, ‘Before you start, you asked me what was going on. To be honest Ron, I haven’t a clue. Both Noel, my sergeant, and I can’t help feeling something’s not right in the state of Norway but we don’t know what that something is.’
‘Denmark,’ replied Ron
‘What about Denmark?’ Simon, who never liked Shakespeare while at school, was a little confused.
Ron smiled and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. Just relax and I might be able to shed a little light on what you think you don’t know,’ a broad grin breaking his weather beaten face. ‘To begin with, it seems your boss’s horse gambling is bankrolled now and then by your own CIB slush fund. I believe you have this fund for, how shall I put it, buying information from certain people willing to sell what they know, or at
least pay people for a particular service rendered. You blokes wouldn’t get anywhere without the bad guys selling their bits of info, you know that. Of course, it’s all done on the hush hush as people can get a bit stroppy when they’re ratted on. Still, a man has to make a living.’
‘You’re telling me Detective Chief Inspector Damien Rose helps himself to Police Force funds to finance his gambling habits?’ asked Simon. ‘Before you answer, Helen, I’ll have a schooner myself this time, so make it two thanks.’
‘Hey, it’s not like he does it every day. The frequency of his attendance at the course might coincide with the topping up of the fund, but I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,’ responded Simon with a wry smile. ‘You seem to know everything else that’s going on in the place.’
‘Anyway, getting back to the story,’ said Ron after finishing off the last of a schooner of beer and reaching for the fresh one. ‘He goes and sees his mate, the rails bookie I saw him talking to earlier. Apparently this bookie gets inside information from a stable hand who then passes it on to Rosey. Rosey doesn’t bet with the rails bookies, they’re a bit out of his league, but once he has the good oil he’ll lay a few hundred quid, which he plainly can’t afford on his salary. Hence the slush fund.’
The further the story went, the more Simon became confused. ‘I take it Rose has something on the bookie for the bookie to be doing what he’s doing, if you can understand that?’
Ron shrugged. ‘I don’t know the exact reason, but I believe Rosey did the bloke a favour, kept him out of jail for some reason or another. I don’t know how long it will go on for but it’s been going on for some time now. Seems the info is pretty good as Rosey usually wins and has time to replace the funds before they’re missed. Trouble with Rosey is that he never builds up a bank to support his punting. As soon as he wins he’s off to The Taipan Club up in Forbes Street. He likes baccarat, though I can’t understand why as it’s a high rollers game and you can lose your money pretty quickly.’ Ron scoffed the last of his beer and smacked his lips. ‘Gees, that beer goes down well.’
‘Helen.’ Simon raised another two fingers then turned back to Ron. ‘And does he ever win?’
‘What, on the horses or at the casino? I don’t suppose it matters as he’ll lose at both in the long run. No-one can win all the time. Sure he’s doing all right at the moment, he wins enough on the nags to pay back the slush fund and have a few bob in his pocket to play the tables. But he’s playing a dangerous game ’cause one of these days the bookie will get it wrong and he won’t be able to pay back the money he’s temporarily removed before it’s discovered missing.’
‘Does anyone else know what’s going on?’ asked Simon, appalled at what he was hearing.
‘Rumour has it your Superintendent Fisher knows. But that’s the odd thing. If the Super does know, he’s in a position to take Rosey down, but he hasn’t, yet. Of course, the question must be, why not? Just maybe, and it’s a very big maybe, someone is paying him off so he won’t take any action against either Rosey or the casino. And just by sheer bloody coincidence, Fisher, unbeknownst to Rosey, is a regular visitor to The Taipan Club.’
Simon, struggling to keep pace with Ron’s revelations, was endeavoring to sort the information into some sort of order, and failing dismally. ‘You’re telling me Superintendent Fisher is being paid by the owner of an illegal casino to turn a blind eye?’
‘Hey, hang on. I’m not saying he is being paid, just might be being paid. Even so, the owner of the Taipan Club, where Fisher has been seen a few times, must feel pretty cocky having a superintendent of police as a patron, even if he doesn’t play the tables,’ replied Ron with a broad grin.
‘So let’s assume Fisher does know what Rosey’s up to but chooses not to do anything about it,’ said Simon, a look on concerted concentration on his face. ‘Do you think Rosey knows if Fisher knows?’
Ron shrugged. ‘He might as anything is possible, but I’d say probably not. You see, Rosey thinks he has Fisher eating out of his hand, and that Fisher is a sandwich short of a picnic. Fisher is happy to let Rosey think whatever he likes as Fisher’s really in control of the situation. He doesn’t have to do anything, just take a bit off the top from the casino, if he is receiving a kickback, that is. Fisher believes the CIB hierarchy can’t, and won’t, find anything untoward going on. If what I hear is correct, your report on illegal gambling may have been illuminating at the top echelons, but it was binned before it got that high.’
‘Hey, how’d you know about that?’ said Simon suitably miffed.
‘Come on, Simon, you know better than to ask a question like that,’ responded Ron with a hurt look on his face. ‘But getting back to the story. Irrespective of what’s going on, I think Fisher wants to keep things as they are, you know, maintain the status quo. Seems his income from his salary doesn’t quite match his expenses at the moment, but don’t tell his wife that.’
‘So what you’re saying is that Fisher must be supplementing his salary?’ asked Simon, the look of stunned surprise now permanently etched on his face.
‘Certainly looks like it and that would lend credence to the casino kickback theory,’ replied Ron casually. ‘You see, Fisher and his old lady have been married some twenty years now, and with his promotion to superintendent, Agnes, his wife, firmly believed that automatically pushed them a few rungs up the social ladder, which I suppose it should, to some extent, anyway. Trouble is, Agnes likes to be seen in the presence of the “A List” people, you know, the best restaurants, social gatherings, fund raising events, those sorts of things, all of which cost money. Naturally it’s easy for the real “A Listers”, they have money whereas Agnes doesn’t, and never will while hubby’s a policeman. Maybe if he ever made commissioner, but he won’t,’ Ron reflected.
Simon sighed and rested his chin on his fist, his elbow on the table. ‘So, we’re supposed to feel sorry for Fisher who’s not paid enough to keep his wife in the manner she clearly wishes to become accustomed?’
‘Good God no,’ responded Simon. ‘We’re all in the same boat. Most of us try to make do with what we’ve got without trying to skim a little more through nefarious means.’
‘Hang on, Ron. You’re telling me if you had a wage you wouldn’t do anything untoward to supplement that wage? I always thought you were a bit of a crim,’ Simon asked with the sudden thought Ron may not necessarily be the person he thought he was.
Ron ignored the question only to tap the side of his nose with a forefinger and give a sly smile. ‘There’s more than one reason we shouldn’t feel sorry for Fisher. While Agnes has her social life, so does Fisher. He’s not into gambling, per se, but he does like the women who do, and that means the casinos and Randwick Race Course, mainly for the bigger events when the socialites come out of the woodwork. Agnes talked him into becoming a member of the AJC and she loves to be seen in the members’ enclosure; who wouldn’t?’ As I said earlier, Fisher is a patron of a casino but doesn’t gamble. Well, I suppose he does in a way, but when he wins it’s certainly not money.’
‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Simon. ‘So Fisher is stuffing around on his wife at the same time?’
‘Yes, it seems so,’ replied Ron, mater of factly. ‘So you see, we have Rosey addicted to gambling and couldn’t give it up even if he wanted to, and Fisher taking a kickback from an illegal casino, maybe. But even if Rosey knows what Fisher is up to, there’s not much he can do about it without declaring his own little indiscretion. I think it a safe bet that irrespective of who knows what about the other person, neither Rosey nor Fisher will say anything and would prefer to keep it that way. In any case, Rosey wouldn’t be capable of compiling enough evidence against Fisher to make it stick. And let’s face it, Rosey isn’t doing that much wrong; just borrowing from a police fund. God, that beer was good,’ exclaimed Ron draining his glass.
‘’Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. You’ve well and truly stuffed my
quiet afternoon of relaxation. One question. You needn’t have told me any of this, so why did you?’ queried Simon, a frown on his face.
‘Oh, that’s easy. I heard you’ve been posted down to Cronulla, which isn’t a career enhancing move. You can bet your life Rose and Fisher are behind that, both with a different motive, Rose because of a long standing antagonism between you two and Fisher because your report on illegal gambling was probably too close to home.
‘The whole thing’s ludicrous, but I appreciate it, Ron. I can’t see that I can do anything about it but it’s nice to know both of those turkeys have a weak spot. Maybe I can use it one day.’
‘Sorry about trashing your day for you, but you did ask. If ever you want another chat, you know where to find me,’ said Ron and waved his hand in a friendly farewell.
With that, Ron vanished into the crowd leaving Simon pondering the conversation. Christ, as if I haven’t enough on my plate as it is, he thought. Simon sat for a few minutes going over what Ron had told him and, on reflection, it started to make a modicum of sense, the more he thought about it the clearer the picture became. ‘Well, I’ll be buggered, no wonder my report was trashed,’ he said to himself. He nodded to Helen, grabbed a stool against the bar and settled himself to watch the first race that had been run and won some twenty minutes earlier.
CHAPTER 11
It was night time. Noel, Sue, and Georgie sat around the Webster’s dining room table while Simon organised four mugs of coffee. It was planned that this would be the last meeting before the four attempted to conduct a robbery of the Head Office of the Bank of New South Wales in George Street, Sydney. Discussion, so far, had covered a multitude of topics, none of them pertaining to the purpose for which the meeting had been called. The main topic of idle chatter was, as usual, the Vietnam War and whether we should be participating or not. Everyone had a point of view and the conflict was the focal point of many violent demonstrations, some even led by politicians. To break the impasse, Simon raised his voice and said, ‘Well, are we ready to rob a bank, or not?’
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