‘Who’s that?’
Sammy lifted an empty glass and peered into it, as if he might find an answer. ‘Lennie McPherson. Next to Dick Reilly, he’s maybe the greatest crook that ever lived. Lennie started out thieving, pilfering cargoes, organising bits on the side with the waterfront unions. It was Dick who gave him his first break, put him in touch with the sorts of blokes who could really get things kicking along for him. He does stuff for Dick, running bits of his business. Just like your mate O’Connor. By the way,’ he added, meaningfully, ‘Dick’s asked to see you.’
‘Dick Reilly?’ Charlie’s attention had been drifting, but the name brought him back.
‘He’s been asking around. I didn’t know you knew the bloke.’
‘There wasn’t anybody in the neighbourhood where I grew up who didn’t know who Dick was. He boxed down at Storey’s Gymnasium on the corner of Devonshire Street. He was a very good middleweight.’
‘And now he’s a very good crook.’
‘He was a friend of the family.’
‘It’s nice to have friends,’ said Sammy, but the irony was lost on Charlie.
Sammy fanned out his hands, as if deciding to say something he’d rather not. ‘Reilly might be a goodish sort of bloke for a criminal, but that lot …’ he pointed across the room with his head. ‘I’m telling you, first one small thing will be asked, then other small and large things, and before you even know where you are, you’ll be a thumb-knuckle away from disaster. Believe me,’ he added, and walked off between the tables.
Charlie stayed at the table and stared into the mid-distance. He drank off the rest of his beer, traversed the full length of the room without incident, and with Sammy’s words ringing loud and unheeded in his ears, stumbled through the rotating glass doors into the street.
He tottered out onto the blue asphalt and hailed a taxi. ‘The Kellett Club!’ he shouted. ‘On to the Kellett!’
Charlie alighted at Kings Cross and stumbled his way in the darkness, out of the whimper and blare of music on Darlinghurst Road. Up ahead, a sailor swung round a gatepost and chucked-up in the garden, and two refugees from the affluent suburbs were sprawled in the gutter in their evening attire, singing ‘Vive la Révolution’ in the flutiest of ABC voices. One fell back in a glorious coma, feet splayed against the stars.
Charlie was six steps ahead of them, and knocking on a door.
A hatch slid open and a squinty-eyed gnome stuck his nose through the grating. ‘Who are you?’
‘Gillespie’s the name.’
‘Charlie Gillespie?’
Charlie nodded cautiously, and the gnome threw open the door and waved him inside. Charlie followed him down a dank and doubtful-looking corridor, and up the back stairs. He clipped his toe on the top step, caught himself on the bannister, and entered the gaming room, meandering through the yammer and hum of the crowd around the tables. He drank in the green glazed room with tracery on the ceiling and thick purple drapes. Mouths roared. Dice rolled. Laughter boiled up around him. Everything grew fuzzy about the edges. Everything glowed.
‘Cripes,’ muttered Charlie, but the sound of his voice was swept away in the roar of a winning streak rising up off the tables.
Just then, the thickly clustered crowd seemed to ripple and burst open, clearing a path to the end of the room. There stood Dick Reilly, with his arm around a creature of almost preternatural beauty. Her face was clear as alabaster, with a coil of dark hair rolled up in a beehive that was struck through with a diamante brooch.
Reilly called him over. ‘Oi, Charlie. How are you, mate? I’ve been meaning to give you a ding-dong.’ He turned back to his shimmering companion. ‘Leave us alone half a tick, will you, Aileen? Charlie and me are going to confabulate.’
Dick Reilly eased himself in behind the kidney-shaped desk and planted his socked feet on a chair to one side. He pulled down the knot of his tie, pushed it askew, and scratched his left foot where a sparse clump of black hair was sprouting off his ankle. ‘Know what that copper Reg Tanner says to me the night he comes busting into my club, Charlie? “Election time,” he says. Election time! I can tell you I’ve been in the courtroom more times than I can count since that Askin-bloke got himself elected, and the beaks and the mouthpieces are bleeding me dry. Nobody’s doing any business. The place is a mess.’
‘But the election was almost a year ago, Dick.’
‘And they’ve been dragging me through the courts ever since.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Yeah, so am I.’ Reilly scratched at his ankle some more, and started again. ‘Just today I find out the coppers are appealing the court case all over again, trying to get a judge to declare us and shut the place down. I suppose it might be kind of amusing, chuck a bit of coin at some fellows like you, except every day I’m in court, we lose bets, we lose banks. The coppers do a raid here, do a raid there, making out like they haven’t been copping the sling all along. “Crime wave”, it says in the afternoon papers. I’m telling you, there isn’t any crime because nobody knows whether to stay open or shut. The uncertainty is taking the bottom out of the market. Next thing, some bludger from the back of beyond reckons he can waltz on in and get himself a piece of my racket. So now I’ve got this upstart to deal with –’
Charlie felt his head beginning to clear. ‘What upstart?’
‘Name of Johnny Warren. He’s started up a joint.’
‘He’ll probably never get it off the ground.’
‘I’m never going to let him try. I sent somebody around to have a talk to the bloke, but this bloke doesn’t want to talk. And the reason he doesn’t want to talk is he’s a thief, and the only way he ever earned a quid was from thieving it. He doesn’t understand the workings of this town, that’s the problem.’
Charlie ventured another grin, ‘No offence, Dick. But I reckon I don’t need to know any more about that.’
Reilly glanced at him with a mild sort of surprise. ‘No worries, Charlie. Just got to put the frighteners on more than what’s usual. Drink?’
‘Thought you didn’t drink.’
‘Never touch the stuff,’ said Reilly, slopping a bit from a bottle of Bell’s into a glass. ‘Just being hospitable, like. Say when.’
Charlie said when. ‘How have you been, Dick? You’re looking good.’
‘I’m fit as a fiddle. Work out every day. Reckon sometimes I ought to have stayed in the ring.’
‘I reckon you made your packet and got out while you were good for it. Set yourself up in a normal sort of vocation. So you can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m a regular Cassius Clay. I am the greatest!’ Reilly laughed, making Charlie laugh too. Then, just as abruptly, all the laughter fell out of Reilly’s eyes. ‘I was in the old neighbourhood and ran into some blokes who told me you’d made good, and I thought I could do you a turn. I was figuring you might like to do some work on my court case, that you’d be glad of the extra coin.’
Charlie didn’t doubt the value of a client such as Reilly (the butcher and taxman were far from the only credible clients to his way of thinking), but he found himself squirming in his seat, a gesture that Reilly obviously mistook for lack of enthusiasm.
Reilly tried to talk him round. ‘I guess you’ve got to understand that me and the last government weren’t really that organised. Just a few friendly people doing business on the side. But because there were politicians involved everybody was willing to turn a blind eye so long as nobody was being inconvenienced. Anyway, I got round to thinking of you, and I reckon you could put it to these blokes in the new government that if they were lenient in the matter of shutting down the club, me and the businesses I represent would be willing to reciprocate in a more organised fashion than was done in the past.’ Reilly squirted some soda into a tumbler and drank it off slowly, staring at Charlie over the rim of the glass. ‘What’s the matter?’
Charlie was out of his depth. ‘I reckon you know,’ he s
aid, feebly.
Reilly put down his glass. ‘Yeah,’ he said, and nodded gravely. ‘Maybe I do. But I dunno a single lawyer that has got himself arrested, at least not for asking.’ He went on, with a hint of defensiveness in his tone. ‘Don’t sit there and tell me this bloke Askin doesn’t have a deal with the bookies. He was SP himself. Still bets SP and, I can tell you, he doesn’t pay out his bookie on any regular basis. I mean, that doesn’t sound like the sort that’s falling over googly-eyed on account of you coming at him with a sound proposition.’ He glanced at his knuckles and added, ‘Obviously I don’t need to say I’d be looking at a generous ongoing retainer for anybody who’s able to make such an arrangement.’
Charlie knew Reilly had a way of inducing a bloke to call square things circles, but there was a large part of Charlie that was happy to see things from a different angle. ‘Fine, Dick. Okay,’ he said, throwing up his hands in mock resignation. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’
Reilly stepped out from his desk. He grinned, stretched, and scratched at his armpits. ‘That’s all I’m asking, Charlie. Just have a chatter to the bloke.’
A few minutes after Charlie walked out of Dick Reilly’s office, Glory McGlinn regained consciousness on the floor of Johnny Warren’s Famous Baccarat Club, and attempted to stand. Johnny was sitting, back to the wall, at the end of the room. He had bruised cuts on his face where Reilly’s boys had laid in with their cricket bats.
‘Oh God, Johnny,’ said Glory. ‘What’s happened to us?’
Johnny winced, gagging on something wet in his throat. ‘Reilly reckons he owns this town. He’s trying to make things so nobody else can make a living. I’m going there right now to tell him that he can’t get away with it.’
Glory’s eyes filled with horror. ‘No you won’t, Johnny Warren.’
Johnny tried and failed to get up off the ground. ‘Somebody’s got to fight him. Somebody’s got to stand in his road. He’s been doing it for years. I’ve barely opened up, and he won’t let me be. He’s trampled on everything I ever dreamed. I’ve got nothing left.’
‘You’ve got me,’ said Glory, emphatically. ‘And Kimberley.’
Johnny’s eyes blazed across the room. He took in the upturned chairs and plastic water jugs, the card tables with their green-baize cloths blackened at the edges, and the dust, rising from a white vinyl armchair sliced open. Then his eyes alighted on Glory and his face softened.
Glory knew she’d follow Johnny to the moon so long as he asked.
Detective Constable Gus Finlay wandered in through the unfamiliar precincts of the Criminal Investigation Branch, oblivious to the urine-secreting wall paint that lined the corridors, the dust, ash and paper clips swirling along the grey speckled linoleum tiles. He passed the Breaking Squad, the Consorting Squad, and 21 Division, the Safe, Arson, Pillage and Pawnbroking Squads … and paused. Up and down the hallway, doors stood ajar. Everywhere men sat behind desks strewn with gummed-up collages of match books, chip packets, and mildew-infested teacups, their shirt-collars buttoned tight over ready-knotted ties on hoops or clips, and suit jackets, worn to a shine, draped in skewed folds over the backs of their chairs.
Gus stared at the note in the sweaty palm of his hand. ‘Finlay, F.C. Detective Constable. Report to Senior Sergeant Reginald Tanner. Immediately.’ His mind began calculating all the things that the note might imply.
Gus had heard rumours that the inquiry into events at Darlinghurst Station, known as the Harry Giles Inquiry, was being wound up, with Harry’s underlings and associates being seconded, or transferred, or kicked off the Force. So this is it. They’ve made their decision. Gus tried to tell himself he didn’t care.
But he did.
Gus had joined the Police Force five years ago at the age of twenty-one, starting out as a beat cop in the city, walking the nightshift from Hyde Park to the Haymarket. He rousted winos, cuffed molls, put deros in the drunk-tank. He chased down ghost armies of the homeless, the desperate, the drunk and deranged. He got himself from beat one to beat two, and telephoned on time. He got promotion, got transferred to Darlinghurst and put into plainclothes. It was late in 1964, the year he met Harry. He was an L-plate detective and Harry had taught him everything there was to know. Partners, they became friends. They made cases together. Then the chief of the vice squad retired and Harry took command of the squad. Things changed overnight. He said he’d had enough, and gave out new orders – clean up the lower reaches of Palmer Street, known as the Doors. It only took a few weeks for the rumours to get started, allegations that Harry was taking a sling from the brothels, maybe a bit more than a pay-off. Within days, the story kicked loose on the front page of the papers. Allan ordered a comb be put through Darlinghurst Branch and Reg Tanner was assigned to carry out the inquiry.
Gus had wanted to take his fury out on the rest of the world. He didn’t believe what they were saying about Harry. Harry was a mate. Gus would have known. But after months of desk duty, he had become extremely good at hiding this anger. He was still a cop like his father before him, no matter how many papers he filed, or forms he filled out.
Gus squared his shoulders and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses a little further up his nose. He glanced at the door, pushed it wide open, and edged his way through. His eyes wandered down the serried rows of wooden desks burdened with telephones, typewriters and wire trays. He took in the blue metal filing cabinets, the dilapidated mesh barring the windows, and other odd, gloomy features. They were well used and chaotic, unlike his neat desk at Darlinghurst Station. Three doors faced inwards along a short grimy corridor that gave off the end of the room. One was marked with a sign that read, ‘Senior Sergeant Reginald Tanner’ in white Bakelite letters. Gus bunched up his fingers. Knocked, and waited.
A voice yelled, ‘That you, Finlay? Come in, you bastard.’
Gus entered a cramped space strewn with untidy boxes of paperwork, with the remains of last night’s greasy tea on the edge of the table. Tanner was standing to the left of a window that occupied the whole length of one wall, the light seeping through the glass, imparting a greenish sort of hue to a density of stubble on his cheeks. ‘Welcome,’ said Tanner, and saluted Gus comically, with a finger to his temple.
‘Sir,’ said Gus, and stood to attention.
‘Tanner’s just fine.’
‘Tanner,’ said Gus, and tried to relax, then fearing there might be something awkward or unmanly in his manner, stood to attention again.
‘Sit down,’ said Tanner. ‘I reckon you know why you’re here.’
Not trusting himself to say anything, Gus shook his head.
‘Hold this,’ said Tanner, unexpectedly handing him a packet of Bex.
He strode over to a sink in the corner, pulled out a shaving mirror and began soaping his chin. ‘Harry was a good man. He was a conscientious officer, and he certainly thought the world of you. He ought to have stuck it through the bloody inquiry, but he didn’t. Allan ought to have handled it better. He had a copper on the line and he should’ve stood by him. Have you ever met him?’ he added. ‘Allan, I mean.’
Gus shook his head.
‘You’re not missing much,’ said Tanner, eyeing Gus’s reflection in the small shaving mirror. ‘I guess you’ve got to understand that moving paper is what Allan does. Every single task he’s ever been assigned throughout his career is moving paper from the side of his desk where he finds it in the morning, to the side of the desk where he leaves it when he goes. Don’t get me wrong, he’s probably the very best paper shuffler on earth, but he doesn’t know a thing about being a copper, doesn’t know a single criminal, probably never met one, except maybe he’s got a file number on those bits of paper he’s shuffling about. I guess that’s the crux of the problem. Why Harry gets it in the neck.’
Tanner rinsed and towel-dried his face, then took back the packet of Bex. He emptied the contents of a single sachet onto his tongue, and washed it down with water from an eyeglass. ‘Have you seen Harry lately? I heard he’d
skipped town.’
‘He’s moved down the south coast, close to Jervis Bay.’
‘Good fishing there?’
‘I guess so,’ said Gus.
‘Swimming’s pretty good, so I’ve been told. Next time you see him, be sure to say hello.’
Tanner shrugged himself into the jacket that had been slung across the back of his chair. He retied his ochre-swirled tie. The suit was dark blue, and there were three spots of gravy adorning the ends of the tie. But Gus thought him endowed with a kind of charisma that made clothes seem irrelevant.
‘Where was I?’ said Tanner.
‘Commissioner Allan.’
‘Yeah, Allan,’ said Tanner. ‘He’s a Macquarie Street bloke, is Allan. The rest of us coppers are out there, bullets flying round our ears, and Allan, he’s sitting in some lah-de-dah anteroom up at Parliament House, thinking what he’s got to say to some politician about the files, and the paper clips, and the taxpayer’s dollar. I’ve looked into this matter and, yeah, I reckon Harry cut a corner or two. Of course, that doesn’t mean the bloke’s running crooked, but Allan, being a paper shuffler, and essentially a civilian, doesn’t understand that.
‘Allan’s never seen any actual cases being made, only knows what they look like when they’re tied up with pink ribbon, going into the courthouse. So Harry’s case comes up in the middle of the state election, and he never stands a chance. Anyway,’ he said, glancing around the cramped space, full of repressed energy. ‘Allan’s decided to take no further action.’
Gus couldn’t help himself. ‘You mean –?’
‘I mean you’re well out of it, detective, but Harry’s all through.’
Crooked Page 2
