Crooked

by Camilla Nelson

  He raised his hand absently to his cheek and was surprised to find it damp. He wasn’t a broken down old man. He was a survivor. His kind would outlive them. With the sailors arriving on shore leave from Vietnam, things were sure to pick up. It would be just like the last war with them military blokes throwing thousands of pounds round the ring like they were desperate to get rid of the stuff.

  Reilly pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose hard. It seemed to make him brighten. He walked in through the doors of the Rex Hotel and ordered a glass of fizzy water.

  In Johnny and Glory’s purple brick semi, on the far side of Sydney, the green plastic telephone started to ring. Faraway through the murk, an electric light beamed. Glory gave Johnny’s huddled form an anxious shove with her toe. ‘Johnny, wake up. It’s Chooks.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I dunno. I reckon he dunno if he’s Arthur or Martha.’

  Johnny rubbed the sleep from his eyes, threw off the blanket, and picked up the telephone. His face filled with an expression that made Glory’s heart skip three beats. Johnny had taken the knock-backs before and proved he could get up and go, but it was suddenly as if he was unable buoy himself up with any real hope.

  ‘There’s been a raid at the club.’

  They snatched up their clothes and made their way down the stairs. Johnny with his beige trench coat belted tight over his pyjamas, Glory stooping to pull up the zipper on a camel-straw skirt. She paused outside Kimberley’s door next to the landing, eyes sweeping over the bright hair on the coverlet, and the litter of toys on the floor.

  ‘No worries,’ said Glory, waking her mother a few seconds later. ‘I promise I’ll be back before she even knows that I’m gone.’

  Johnny and Glory parked the Valiant two blocks from the club and walked back. Johnny pushed open the wire mesh gate and Glory followed at his heels as he ran up the stairs. Her pupils dilated in the darkness. Shadows resolved themselves into broken chair legs, upturned tables, telephones pulled out at the root and a flutter of betting slips spiralling up in the draft. Chooks was curled up on the floor in the corner, the moonlight shining through a hole in the shuttered window, casting a ghastly blue pallor over his face.

  ‘Aw, mate,’ Johnny fell to his knees. He lifted Chooks’ head and stared into his face with a gentle concern. ‘You all right, mate?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ moaned Chooks.

  Johnny righted an upturned chair and settled him on it.

  ‘Maybe we ought to get him a doctor?’ said Glory.

  ‘Nah,’ said Chooks, arms circling his rib cage. ‘I reckon it’s bruises.’

  Johnny checked his coat pocket then glanced at Glory. She pulled a half-pint of E&J out of her handbag, and untwisted the cap. Chooks took a swig, then started to cough. ‘Easy,’ said Johnny, yanking the bottle out of his grasp. ‘What happened to Moylan?’

  ‘Coppers got him.’

  ‘And Tommy?’

  ‘Out through the storage chute.’

  ‘These coppers, did you see who it was?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Chooks. ‘Maybe –’

  Johnny looked hopeful.

  ‘Hell, I dunno.’ Chooks wound up, lamely. ‘It was such a schmozzle.’ He wiped the alcohol off his face with the back of his hand, frowning all the while with the effort of memory. ‘But I reckon it wasn’t a friendly sort of raid. They said they couldn’t make any deals on account of the orders were coming from somebody important.’

  ‘You know who’s done this?’ said Johnny. ‘Dick Reilly’s done this. He’s trying to take me down.’

  ‘I dunno about that,’ said Chooks, cautious.

  But Johnny wasn’t listening to Chooks. He was looking at Glory. ‘It’s him or me.’

  ‘How do you know Reilly was behind it?’ said Glory. ‘It could’ve been anybody, some copper high up who’s giving the orders.’ They were sitting together in the barely moving air of the car, after taking Chooks home.

  ‘I tell you, that bloke’s coming at me. He’s coming at all of us.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Yes, he would.’ Johnny’s voice was taking on an edge. ‘He gets people killed and houses bombed, and cars blown up, and the coppers do anything he tells them. First up, he takes out Pretty Boy Walker. He gets him with an Owen submachine gun, maybe four years ago. Then there was Jackie Hodder, knifed at a dancehall in Paddo. There was Jackie Steele, sixty slugs they tossed into him. Barney Ryan, Charlie Bourke and Mad Dog Sheridan, never seen again. And Big Barry Flock, they found him on a park bench with half his brains hanging out. Then there was Graham Moffitt. He turned on the headlights of his ute … and va-boom! There weren’t nothing left.’

  Glory watched the glitter of Johnny’s eyes in the darkness.

  ‘Oh Glory, I reckon I must’ve been a wrong one ever since I grew up. Maybe I ought to have been a plumber or something. But the way things used to be in this town, any bloke could have a go, so long as he showed respect. There was always some big crooks, some of them bigger than Reilly ever was. But they always left space for the little bloke to have a go, and never put you out of business unless you made an error of judgement or something. I’ve got to go through with this, I’ve got to, Glory.’ Johnny’s big shoulders heaved. ‘I dunno no other way.’

  Johnny didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night, and the next morning his face was pale, with blue onion rings under his eyes, and his clothes bagging loose, as though they’d suddenly outgrown him. But standing in the sunny air in Chooks’ backyard, he was looking more like himself again. Glory smiled slightly as she sat watching the pair of them, thinking what a strange picture they made. Chooks, who was small and wiry, was pacing and doing stuff, and Johnny, who was big, was stock-still and grinning, his foot hoisted up on a broken bit of stump, hands on knees, elbows cocked out.

  Chooks grumbled all the while as he trundled to and fro, carting buckets of mixed grain into the fowl house. ‘Twenty-five bucks is all Moylan gave me. Twenty-five smackers. I reckon you’ve been doing business with a ratbag, Johnny. That’s what I reckon.’

  Glory was dimly aware that Moylan and Johnny had offered Chooks ‘good money’ if he ever went to prison on account of his work at the club. But though Chooks had taken a regular walloping last night, he hadn’t spent any time in the actual slammer, and Moylan had argued that all bets were off. Adding insult to injury, he was also demanding settlement on a debt of some four hundred dollars that Chooks had run up on the ponies.

  Johnny chuckled slightly. ‘Well, it so happens I’ve still got that other job open for you, the Reilly job. I figure it’s worth maybe five hundred dollars. Enough to straighten out the betting books, with a hundred left over for Marge and the kids.’

  Chooks stepped thoughtfully out of the fowl house. He closed the gate, twisting the wire loop over the tin latch behind him. He picked up the bucket and took it back to the house. He hosed it out carefully, leaving it out on the dust patch to dry. He sat down on the bottom rung of the steps, beside Glory. ‘I dunno,’ he said.

  Johnny flicked Chooks a sly glance. ‘I reckon if you’ve got the guts for it, you could drive the Valiant up alongside Reilly’s Maserati, and I’ll throw a bucketful of petrol and a match over him.’

  ‘Cripes,’ said Chooks, impressed.

  ‘Sensational,’ said Johnny, poking Chooks in the ribs.

  ‘My God, Johnny Warren.’ Glory got up abruptly, and stared down at the pair of them. ‘I’ve never heard a worse idea. The sound of screaming will bring folks running for miles.’

  ‘I couldn’t imagine a bloke like Dick Reilly screaming,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Yeah, well you might not even kill him, and then what?’

  ‘I guess I could get in an extra shot with the Parker Hale, just to make sure.’

  ‘Smash in his head with a meat cleaver or something,’ Chooks chortled, then stopped as abruptly.

  ‘I’ve made a great study of the plans,’ said Johnny. ‘Petrol is only one of
the options. Either way, I’ll need some back-up, a good driver to make a getaway from the scene, for instance.’

  Chooks sat there, cheeks drawn in, eyes blurry with concentration. ‘It’s not often that I agree with Glory, but this incineration business, I reckon I’m fully against it. Thieving and gambling is where my skills are. This thing …’ he shrugged. ‘I reckon I don’t have the relevant experience.’

  Glory exploded – Chooks’ obtuseness was infuriating. ‘I’m glad you don’t often agree with me, Chooks, but don’t you reckon you owe Johnny something on account of his being banged up an extra three years for you?’

  ‘I was in gaol too.’ Chooks hung his head. ‘Anyway, it’s ancient history.’

  ‘Sure. You got banged up for two years, and it’s a mystery to everybody as to how Johnny got five.’

  Chooks scrambled to his feet. ‘You calling me a fizgig?’

  Johnny put a calming hand on his shoulder. He steered Chooks out of Glory’s earshot and said, ‘Look, mate, I can’t give you the money Moylan wants, I’m broke myself. But if you have any further thoughts about the Reilly job, then I’m prepared to double my existing offer to one thousand dollars.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Chooks, and took a deep swallow. ‘Only I dunno that I ought to be doing a thing like that. Killing a bloke, I mean. Not even for money or nothing.’

  ‘Chooks,’ said Johnny. ‘This is not even killing. It’s self-defence.’

  Gus sat in a red leatherette booth at the Corinthian Milk Bar talking to Agostini over breakfast. ‘Maybe it’s just like Tanner says. Maybe O’Connor arrives at the Latin Quarter and shoots himself, and the guns get messed up in a debacle at Scientific Investigations.’

  ‘How can you suggest such a thing after the stuff you’ve found out?’ Agostini gaped at his friend in astonishment. ‘I’ve been at CIB five years longer than you, and I know there are coppers who are raking in a heck of a lot more than an extra dollar here and there.’ He heaped three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. ‘I reckon your loyalty is misguided. I also reckon you’ve got to make a choice where you stand.’

  ‘On the right side.’

  Agostini laughed. ‘I reckon you can’t see the difference.’

  Gus flared. ‘I’ve got no love for crooked coppers, but this is Tanner you’re talking about. Reg Tanner,’ he repeated, taking in an unsteady lungful of smoke. ‘Show me some evidence that says something to the contrary –’ He stubbed out his cigarette in his saucer and knocked over his cup, spilling the black sugary liquid over his trousers.

  ‘No worries.’ Agostini pushed a handful of paper napkins across the table.

  Gus dabbed his trousers then paused, as a long purplish shadow fell over the table.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Agostini.

  Pigeye Donaldson, dressed in a loud batik shirt and Panama hat, walked up to the table. ‘Oi, Gus. I’ve been looking for you all over the place. Tanner wants us to chase down the last of the witnesses in the O’Conner case, wind up the paperwork. He’s got to see Allan later tonight.’

  Gus left Agostini at the Corinthian and set off along the pavement. He had extracted no comfort from the morning’s conversation, and though he still attempted to convince himself that his friend was wrong-headed, he found that no matter how he arranged his thoughts – in squares or in circles – he couldn’t abandon some feelings of doubt.

  ‘What was Agostini rabbiting on about in there?’ said Pigeye, tossing Gus the keys to the car.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gus. ‘The usual,’ he added, climbing in.

  ‘Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t hang around with Agostini as much as you do. The other coppers at CIB don’t think very much of him. Now Tanner’s got a high opinion of you, and that’s enough to keep you on side with the rest of the squad. But you don’t want to waste it, hanging around with the wrong sort of element.’ Pigeye glanced sideways to make certain that Gus caught his meaning.

  ‘Sure,’ said Gus, eventually, with heightened colour.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Pigeye, seeming satisfied.

  But the words only caused Gus’s face to redden further. He knew he should’ve rushed to the defence of his friend. For the first time in his life he was thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  Gus eased the unmarked out into the traffic, heading onto the Cahill Expressway and over the Bridge. He drove up the Pacific Highway, past rows of used car yards, mechanics’ garages, plumbing and electrical supply stores, before veering off the main road into the green, leafy suburbs. The day wore itself away in the grinding of shoe leather as witnesses were tracked down, re-interviewed, and crossed off the list. The heat gathered, melted and floated away, and a soft-yellow dusk was falling as they came back into town.

  Gus threaded the unmarked through the William Street traffic, then swung right into a shabby cul-de-sac of pink stucco and purple brick apartments. An early moon rode low in the sky above the ridge of the buildings, and a soft tang of moist leaves hung in the air. Gus drew up alongside a clump of garbage cans, and peered through the windscreen. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Thought you’d recognise the place. We’re going to see Dolly Brennan, Harry’s mate.’

  ‘Dolly is a witness?’ Gus gave a start of surprise.

  But Pigeye didn’t seem to notice. He swallowed the warm remains of his hamburger, and disgorged from the car.

  Gus trailed Pigeye up the footpath. The flat building was grown over with bougainvillea and fronted by a rusty iron gate that had dropped off its hinges. The place was dark, but here and there above the tangle of night-blackened branches a window shone brightly, illuminating the red-washed cement path that led to the door. A series of bells nestled in a splatter of crazy wiring by the entrance. Gus read, ‘Bobby two rings’, ‘Zelda three rings’, and ‘Horn for Sale, $25. Flat six’. The bottom bell said, ‘Brennan’. Gus pushed it.

  Dolly was standing in the doorway a few seconds later. ‘Well, if it isn’t Harry’s little friend.’

  Dolly was dressed in a pair of green silk pyjamas and feathered mules. Her face was brittle with make-up, her hair piled up on her head. She was wearing fake lashes.

  Gus cleared his throat. ‘Detective Donaldson and I would like to ask you a couple of questions. May we come in?’

  Dolly’s face registered a fleeting look of discomfort. But she opened the door and they followed her to the end of the hall. There was a telephone in an alcove at the foot of the stairs. The sign tacked above it read, ‘Pay First in Office. Thank You’.

  Dolly stepped down onto the lower landing, unlocked a door and drew them inside. The apartment was crammed with odd bits of furniture. There was a sofa upholstered with green dancing dragonflies and beside it, a teak wood table with claw-and-ball legs, littered with bottles and glasses, and an open jar of cold cream with a fag end sticking out. A thick jungle of chandeliers hung down from the ceiling.

  Pigeye settled himself on the sofa. ‘Mrs Brennan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That would be Dolly Brennan?’

  Dolly located a box in the shape of a Buddha among the debris. ‘I reckon you know that already, Mr Donaldson.’

  Pigeye made an elaborate tick in his notebook. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to get that wrong.’

  Dolly extracted a cigarette from the Buddha and fitted it to a black plastic fag holder, which she clicked between her teeth. ‘I don’t really know I’ve got anything to say that I didn’t tell the coppers already. I was there at the Latin Quarter on the night of the shooting, but it was getting kind of late. I was pretty lit up, and getting ready to leave. Next thing, some bloke squeals, “Look out, he’s got a gun.” I hear a sound like crackers and this funny-looking bloke is laying dead on the floor.’

  ‘And?’ said Gus.

  Dolly turned towards a side table and fumbled for a match. She lit her cigarette and waved the match thoughtfully, dropping it, still burning, into a black onyx ashtray. ‘And nothing,’ she said, blowing a half yard of billowing smoke u
p to the ceiling.

  ‘I guess that about wraps it up then,’ said Pigeye, and picked up his hat.

  ‘Hang about.’ Gus sensed there was something awry, though he wasn’t really sure what it was. He said, ‘I find out you’re lying about this, like you lied about Harry … well, you think that was grief, I promise this will be more grief than you ever dreamed.’

  Gus let the threat hang there, then walked to the door. ‘Come on, I reckon we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘No, wait.’ Dolly raised her head slightly, pressing her fingers to her temples. Then, eyeing the half bottle of scotch on the table, she poured a neat inch into a tumbler and tossed it straight back. ‘I didn’t say anything before and I know it was wrong, but I’ve got my reasons. I would’ve mentioned it earlier. Only they told me. They warned me –’

  Gus interrupted, ‘Who warned you? Sammy Lee?’

  Dolly gave a shrill, artificial laugh. ‘Oh, Sammy, I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s as sweet as they come. But Sammy’s got problems.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette, and started again. ‘It was late in the evening. Just before three. I was talking to a couple of blokes at the bar and this other bloke is trying to squeeze past me. Anyway, I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind when I feel something hard strike my foot. I bend down and see that it’s a very large pistol. So I look hard at the bloke who’s dropped it, and I say, “That’s a funny thing to drop.” But the bloke doesn’t say anything. He just picks up his gun and puts it back in his pocket.’ Dolly’s manner was almost perfect.

  ‘What did this bloke look like?’

  ‘Like Ducky O’Connor.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you met O’Connor before?’

  Dolly affected to look shocked. ‘Do you reckon I’d know somebody like that? After he was shot, they put his picture in the papers. I recognised him from the photograph.’