Dark Angels

by Ron Thomas

  Guido held out the penny. ‘You get sixpence for every genuine punter you let through the gate, plus tips.’

  ‘Unless they turn out to be cops. Then you get a shit sandwich!’ Mickey said, obviously thinking he’d said something hilarious.

  ‘If you let any cops in, Meggsie, be glad when they lock you up.’ Guido wasn’t smiling.

  ***

  After a shaky start, Meggsie soon got the hang of being doorman-cockatoo. The regulars soon got to know him and, as his confidence grew, many of them tipped him when he granted them entry. It was a powerful feeling, to have adults admitted or denied on a boy’s say so. Even better, because most punters tipped him, some quite generously, he was making money he’d only dreamed of previously. More than once, he denied prospective punters entry, and might have been in trouble, had he not had backup. A few loud words were enough to bring the Cutter or Mickey Milligan on the run. More often, both came. They were men who courted violence.

  Robbo’s game was one of the social centres of the area, and it wasn’t long before young Meggsie knew most of the criminals and lowlifes infesting Darlinghurst, and they all knew him. Some, he knew by sight, others he got to know better. Nellie Cameron was a regular visitor, and she was on the arm of a new man almost every time.

  Between his day job and the game, Meggsie was earning more than his father had ever made working on the wharves. He bought himself a fancy calfskin wallet to keep his cash in and began to fill a jar with coins, which he hid beneath his bed. With money came confidence. He bought himself a tailor-made suit with wide lapels like Guido’s. Life was definitely looking up for young Gilbert Maggs, cockatoo.

  Chapter 15

  New King of Frog Hollow

  Meggsie had given consideration to his situation since his conversation with Benito. He’d thought hard about Harry Moon and his Forty Thieves, and had come to the realisation that Benito was right. They were very much like himself. Perhaps they too had run away from violent fathers, and had little choice but to find any means of survival, however miserable, in the company of other similarly afflicted urchins. During his brief contact with them, Meggsie had learned that they spent much of their lives hungry or eating scraps, and were cold and lonely every night of their miserable existence. He knew how that felt! That day, had Harry accepted him into the tribe, things might have worked out quite differently for Gilbert Maggs.

  What had really happened to Harry Moon? It still played on Meggsie’s mind and clearly, unless Meggsie knew the answer to that question the nightmares wouldn’t stop. The nightmares were less frequent these days but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there was only one answer. There was no other way than to go down to Frog Hollow, search out the thieves, and find out. If he was to survive the visit, it would take considerable preparation.

  For the next three days, Meggsie was very pernickety about bruised fruit. By that time, he’d accumulated a large boxful of slightly bruised fruit. He rose early and removed the silver pistol from its strap under the desk, wrapped it in packing material, and hid it under the top layer of fruit. Just before Benito arrived, he concealed the fruit box behind the garbage tins in the back yard.

  ***

  ‘I’m off to school,’ Meggsie called, once his morning chores were done.

  ‘Have a nice day, mate,’ Benito replied.

  Meggsie hoped so. He walked out into the backyard and retrieved his box of damaged fruit, replacing it with his school bag. Then, he simply carried the box out into Hopewell Lane and away in the direction of Riley Street.

  Meggsie had piled the box high with damaged fruit, and by the time he’d walked a half mile, he was forced to take a break every hundred yards or so. He was hoping to discover the hangout of the Forty Thieves before they found him, and, once he was in Thieves’ territory, nervous energy kept his heart pumping. He paused in a doorway off Little Riley Street and removed the pistol, checking the safety catch, even though it wasn’t loaded, and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

  He found six Thieves kicking an old, partly deflated football back and forth in the dead end of a narrow, garbage-strewn lane off Little Riley Street. He walked towards them, then lowered the box to the ground leaving enough distance between them so that he could make a run for it if things became hot. They didn’t seem to notice the intrusion for a few brief moments, then he saw one of them point to him. Suddenly, there were intense discussions between them. He recognised Bucktooth Ernie and a couple of the other boys, Herbie and Jack, but there was no sign of Harry Moon. Meggsie decided that his best strategy was to just remain where he was, and hope that they might come to him. Soon, he saw Bucktooth Ernie send one of the boys down the lane in the opposite direction. He surmised that the boy was being sent to pass a message to Harry. At least that would mean Meggsie wasn’t a murderer, but perhaps it might also mean that he could be about to become the victim of a murder. At least, the reassuring weight of Guido’s pistol in his pocket would even up the odds. He’d thought long and hard about possible outcomes from his visit into enemy territory, and knew it could all end in disaster, but anything was better than his recurring dream. It was too late to back out now.

  After another hurried round of discussions, the Thieves advanced towards him en masse, led by Bucktooth Ernie. To Meggsie’s eye, they seemed uncertain. Perhaps it was the box. They didn’t know what was in the box.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be back,’ Ernie shouted. ‘Frog Hollow is still Forty Thieves territory, you know. You ain’t welcome here.’ ‘We’ll see about that, Ern,’ Meggsie replied, trying to still his racing heart and sound nonchalant. ‘G’day Jack, Herbie.’

  Neither boy spoke, and for a while it was a standoff.

  The hair on the back of Meggsie’s neck began to bristle as he realised that the boys were looking not at him, but at something behind him. A quick glance told him that he was trapped between Harry Moon and the messenger, and the other Forty Thieves.

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ Harry Moon called gleefully. His nose was a flattened protuberance splattered on his face. ‘We know you can run. Now we’ll see whether you can fight.’

  With his focus on Harry, the other Thieves began closing on him from behind. When he turned back to the gang, Harry began to inch forward.

  ‘I didn’t come to fight,’ Meggsie said. ‘I came to make peace.’

  ‘Ha!’ Harry replied. ‘Right after I flatten your nose.’

  It was getting serious, and Meggsie realised that if he didn’t balance the odds quickly, he was in real trouble. He pulled Guido’s pistol from his pocket, making sure that the Thieves saw it, and pointed it squarely at Harry’s chest. Meggsie’s heart was thumping, knowing that if Harry called his bluff, it would probably be the end of him. But when Harry went a shade paler and took a couple of steps back, Meggsie’s confidence grew. He doubted the other boys would take action without Harry’s lead.

  ‘If it’s a fight we’re having, Harry, let’s get on with it and I’ll put a couple of holes in you. If you want to listen to me, it might be worthwhile.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in the Darlinghurst Push now. It’s not just kids. I work for Guido Caletti.’ He could tell immediately that Guido’s reputation had reached the gang members. ‘If you want a fight, Guido will bring the boys down here and give you one. I brought this fruit down as a peace offering.’

  Harry Moon clearly didn’t want to be cheated out of his revenge. ‘We could just beat the shit out of you and take the fruit,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Now that would be really dumb, Harry,’ Meggsie replied. ‘Then, I wouldn’t bring any fruit next week, would I? You ain’t that dumb are you, Harry?’ To emphasise the point, he reached down with his left hand, chose a banana, and began peeling it with his teeth. Meggsie knew what it was like to be hungry, and he knew too, that he had their undivided attention. Harry, not the sharpest pencil in the box, was the only one who hadn’t seen it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Meggsie
encouraged, moving away from the box. ‘I brought it for you.’ That was the moment when Harry Moon lost control of his Forty Thieves. Led by Bucktooth Ernie, the Thieves attacked Meggsie’s fruit like a tribe of madmen. Harry Moon stood motionless in his uncertainty, until the fruit began to disappear. He could see that within a few minutes, there would be no fruit left for him, and he joined the melee, pushing the smaller boys out in his eagerness.

  It didn’t take long before the box was empty. Harry Moon had eaten his fill and then had stuffed his pockets with Meggsie’s fruit. He was hardly in a position to resume hostilities. Herbie and Jack, still with remnants of mango around their mouths, came over to where Meggsie stood, leaning against the wall, not yet confident enough to put the pistol away.

  ‘Is that real, Gilbert?’ Herbie asked, pointing at the pistol.

  ‘Yes,’ Meggsie replied. ‘My word, it is. It’s the gun that shot Eric Connolly,’ he lied.

  ‘Geez,’ Jack said. ‘Would you have killed Harry?’

  Meggsie smiled. ‘Not unless I had to,’ he replied, empowered by Jack’s awe of the weapon.

  ‘Geez, thanks for bringing the fruit,’ Herbie said. Meggsie was grateful for the change of subject before they could ask whether the pistol was loaded.

  ‘We have plenty of fruit. I work at Benny’s fruit shop, up at Darlo. That’s where I met Mister Caletti.

  ‘I wish I worked at a fruit shop,’ Jack said wistfully. ‘I like mangoes.’

  ‘You two seem to be pretty good mates,’ Meggsie said. Both boys seemed quite reticent about answering what appeared to be a simple question.

  ‘We stick together,’ Herbie answered. ‘We have to. If they bully us, they have to take us both on.’

  ‘How long have you been in the Forty Thieves? Both boys answered at once.

  ‘Two years,’ Herbie said. ‘A year and a half,’ said Jack.

  ‘Do you like it? You could leave.’

  ‘Where would we go?’ Herbie asked. Meggsie didn’t have an answer.

  ***

  Meggsie had been outside the green door for more than an hour and the game was well underway. He’d already accumulated more than a pound in tips. Most of the regulars were inside already, and with nothing to do but watch, Meggsie’s thoughts turned to his confrontation with Harry Moon and the Thieves. Although Harry Moon had accepted Meggsie’s bribe he knew he’d have to be careful when he went back without the assurance of the silver pistol. Herbie and Jack seemed to be young boys trapped in an impossible situation and their only option was petty crime, inevitably leading to bigger things. He sympathised with their plight, and wished he could see a way to help.

  Meggsie had let his mind wander, and the jaywalker came from the other side of the street, partially hidden by the traffic. Meggsie took pride in his ability to spot trouble at long range, but this fellow was already closing in and Meggsie needed to react quickly. He was fairly certain he’d never seen the man before, but something definitely wasn’t right about him. He was well dressed in a neat, light-grey suit, broad of shoulder and tough looking. Although he assumed an air of nonchalance as he approached, it didn’t quite fit. Some instinct told the cockatoo that he was bringing trouble. Meggsie quickly rapped three times on the iron door as the man neared him. The moment he spoke, Meggsie decided he was talking to a policeman.

  ‘This where the game is, mate?’ the man asked casually.

  ‘Don’t know nothing about no game,’ Meggsie replied, raising his voice so it could be heard clearly behind the green door.

  ‘They told me to come down here, and you’d let me in. I just want to have a flutter. Come on, mate. Be reasonable,’ the man cajoled.

  ‘Don’t know who they are, but they told you wrong, mister. I’m just waiting for the tram.’ His voice was even louder and had a panicky edge to it.

  ‘This ain’t the tram stop. Come on, mate, give me a break.’ The man seemed to be trying hard to give the impression that he’d had a few too many drinks.

  Over the man’s shoulder, he saw Charlie the Cutter and Joey Pozziano round the corner and head towards them at a jog. The man must have sensed them too, though they were behind him. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a whistle and blew into it, hard and loud. Meggsie turned to run, but the man had him firmly by the collar.

  ‘Sergeant Blissett, CID,’ he announced. ‘This is a raid.’ No sooner had he spoken, than police cars converged on the spot from either direction and uniformed policemen carrying batons spilt from them. Two of them had a great steel pipe, with handles on either side that they slammed with all their might against the green door. From the corner of his eye he saw that Joey and the Cutter were backed up against the façade with their hands raised. The sound of sirens issued from the direction of the back lane.

  That green door put up a great show of resistance but, battered and bent, it finally gave way, and the policemen who had been forced to cool their heels went trooping down the alley beyond, waving batons and yelling at the top of their voices. Then a strange thing happened.

  In the distance, Meggsie could hear singing.

  Onward Christian soldiers

  marching as to war

  With the cross of Je-sus

  Marching as before.

  The singing died as Blissett manhandled Meggsie down the alley, interrupted by a very loud bellowing voice.

  ‘Po-lice! Remain where you are! This is a po-lice raid!’

  Blissett pushed Meggsie through the two gates, and even the hardened policeman had difficulty subduing a grin. There in the back of Singleton’s Simple Funerals, a motley chorus stood facing a batten wielding Robbo, holding song sheets and trying unsuccessfully to hide sly grins. Standover men and prostitutes stood as one with legitimate revellers and out-of-towners to praise the Lord. Robbo had ceased his conducting and stood in a dramatic pose, with baton still raised, as if frozen immobile by the rude interruption. The double gates leading to Hopewell Lane were under siege too, and they burst open just seconds after Blissett arrived, propelling Meggsie by the collar, with feet windmilling wildly, ahead of him. A uniformed policeman continued to use a megaphone to harass the singers, his voice blaring across the back yard and beyond. Blissett deposited Meggsie beside the nearest singer and waved an admonishing finger at him.

  ‘Stay right there,’ he said. ‘I’ll want a word with you later,’ he ordered.

  ***

  Meggsie was bored by the time Blissett got around to him. Most of the hallelujah chorus had been shuffled off into paddy wagons, despite their outraged protestations of piety, and were long gone.

  ‘So, you were waiting for a tram, son? Is that what you’re claiming?’ Blissett sounded like a man who’d just about had enough.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Meggsie replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  ‘Cut the bullshit. Why didn’t you wait at the tram stop like other people?’

  ‘I was going to leg onto it, so the conductor wouldn’t see me. I didn’t have a ticket,’ Meggsie replied cheekily.

  ‘Then perhaps I should take you in for fare evasion.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. You saw that. I was still waiting.’

  ‘Cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?’ Blissett said. Meggsie wondered momentarily how Blissett might have found out he was a bastard, when he didn’t know himself.

  Blissett pulled a kip from his pocket. It had little indentations for the coins. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked.

  Meggsie shrugged. ‘It’s just wood,’ he replied.

  ‘And you don’t know anything about two-up, eh?’

  ‘Two-up? I don’t know nothing about that.’

  ‘I thought not,’ Blissett said, his exasperation showing. ‘I’m not going to pull you in this time, but I want you to know that I’ve got my eye on you. You seem like a bright kid, but if you get caught up in illegal activities, we’ll be after you. Reform schools aren’t pleasant places. You wouldn’t like it there. Perhaps, it would be a good time to consider all that, becaus
e if I see you loitering on the street, waiting for a tram, I’ll know there’s a game nearby. Wake up to yourself, son. Now, piss off before I kick your arse.’

  This time, Benito didn’t bother going to Darlinghurst court. It was as though he’d wiped his hands of his uncle’s illegalities. The following morning, when Meggsie went to buy Benito’s paper, of course Moe knew all about it.

  Benito was stacking cabbages when Meggsie handed over the Herald. Benito took the newspaper, looked him in the eye and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  ‘Well?’ Benito said, anticipating news from Moe.

  ‘Moe says Uncle Guido and Charlie the cutter started a fight when the coppers tried putting them in a cell,’ Meggsie said.

  ‘Oh?’ Benito replied.

  ‘They both copped an extra charge of assaulting a police officer. They gave Guido four months all up.’

  Benito shook his head sadly and returned to his cabbagestacking. A few minutes later, Meggsie heard him humming some strange Italian tune. Benito seemed positively buoyant. To Meggsie’s way of thinking, Benny seemed relieved that his nemesis would be absent.

  Chapter 16

  Dancin’ the Charleston

  Meggsie’s nightly ramblings had taken him further and further afield, and by now he knew East Sydney like the back of his hand. He was attracted to the lights and action of King’s Cross. He’d grown rapidly. Though his shoulders were broad and he needed to shave every day now, he’d never managed to talk his way into any of the various King’s Cross establishments.

  Bolot’s Academy of dance, the pink neon sign announced. At first it meant nothing to Meggsie, but then a little worm of memory told him there was something about it that would be of interest. He didn’t go in, however. At the time, dancing wasn’t of any particular interest. Instead, he peered up the dimly lit stairs and noticed there was an iron gate at the top. From the other side of the lane, he could see the bright lights on the first floor and occasionally he glimpsed the tops of dancer’s heads as they passed by the windows. None of them had red hair.