Crooked

by Camilla Nelson

  ‘Oh, Chooks. You’re a bit early.’

  ‘It was the bus,’ Chooks replied meekly. ‘It came a bit quick.’

  Glory tugged Chooks down the corridor into the kitchen. Outside the window the sun shone through mauve clouds of jacaranda. Kimberley was sprawled on the floor drawing with crayons, and Glory’s mother was waving an electric hand iron over the laundry. ‘I reckon you know everybody,’ said Glory, turning towards Chooks.

  Glory’s mother put the hand iron down on the dish rack. ‘Can I get you a feed?’

  ‘Just a cup of tea, thanks,’ said Chooks, hanging his head shyly. He bent down and gave Kimberley a nudge, and soon he was crooking his elbows and flapping his arms like a chicken. ‘Boh, boh. Boh, boh,’ he mouthed. ‘Boh, boh. Boh, boh.’

  Kimberley laughed.

  Glory got up abruptly. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ she said, and walked out of the kitchen.

  The door to the small attic bedroom stood slightly ajar. Glory pushed it wide open. Johnny was sitting on the bed with the Parker Hale in his lap. He peered down the muzzle of the gun, then levelled the barrel at the window and squeezed. The mechanism clicked over.

  ‘Was that my mate Chooks who just came in?’

  Glory sat beside Johnny on the bed. ‘Yeah.’

  Johnny was all business. He put the Parker Hale back in its holster, pulled a duffel bag out from under the bed and laid it on the floor beside the rifle. He got the double-barrel shotgun out from under the dressing table. Broke it down, oiled it, checked the hammer and put it back together again. He stowed the guns and the tackle in the duffel bag, together with three walkie-talkies and a pile of black clothing. He was binding the bag together with a bit of nylon cord when the cord broke in half.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Johnny.’ Glory put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Downstairs, Johnny dumped the duffel bag down at the door. ‘Chooks. How are you, mate?’

  Chooks clambered up in alarm.

  ‘Loosen up, mate,’ said Johnny. ‘You look tense.’

  ‘I’m not tense.’

  ‘Well, you look tense.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel it,’ said Chooks, a small flush of annoyance spreading over his cheeks. Johnny threw his arms wide as if to give Chooks a hug, then tightened to a half headlock and swung Chooks around. Chooks laughed, ‘Cut it out, Johnny.’

  He extracted himself from the headlock, but wasn’t fast enough. Johnny cuffed him one before Chooks got away. Chooks retaliated and gave Johnny a shove. Johnny blundered backwards, causing the coffeepot on the draining board to topple and smash.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Johnny. ‘I guess we’ll be off then.’

  Glory had gone over the crime many times in her mind, each time believing she would be terribly afraid, but now the moment was near she found the seconds ticking by in a mechanical fashion, pulling her along. They climbed into the blue Valiant and drove to the garage where the stolen white Falcon was hidden. Chooks got out, started up the stolen car, and they drove in two separate vehicles, meeting in the car park at South Sydney Juniors. Johnny went in through the front doors of the club, signed the admission book and waited for Chooks, who also signed the book, then continued on down the hall, out the emergency exit near the rear of the Gents. They got into the stolen white Falcon, and this time Glory drove.

  Moving through the early evening traffic, Glory found herself searching for familiar things. The cream-coloured whitegoods in the window of the plumbing and electrical supply store, the advertising billboard featuring a tropical island destination saying ‘Fly TAA’, the pitched roofs of the railway workshops. On Anzac Parade a yellow Water Board truck was blocking one half of the street. Glory brought the Falcon to a halt, then continued towards the Oxford Street corner. Here, a handful of cars had slammed into each other, with three police cars angled to the curb around the scene of the accident. Several young men wearing purple-flowered shirts and white winklepickers were spread-eagled against the fence, with coppers running batons over their legs.

  Once the coppers were safely behind them, Johnny took his black turtleneck out of the duffel bag and put it on. He slipped on his rubber-soled shoes, and crammed the black cotton gloves into his pocket. He took out the extra black mask and gave it to Chooks, who was sitting on the back seat beside him. On the ledge between them a battered wooden wireless was playing.

  ‘Can you turn off the bloody squawk box?’

  ‘It stops me from getting the collywobbles,’ stammered Chooks.

  Johnny took out the double-barrel shotgun. He nudged the muzzle up against Chooks’ leg. ‘I’ll give you the collywobbles.’

  Chooks was so startled he banged his head on the roof of the car. ‘Jee-suss,’ he spluttered. ‘Jee-suss.’ Gasping, he grabbed hold of the gun and pushed it away. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘Ought to have seen your face,’ said Johnny, between bursts of laughter.

  ‘Yeah, and what if the bloody thing went off. What then?’

  ‘Reckon I’d let something like that happen?’

  ‘I dunno,’ whispered Chooks. ‘I reckon maybe you’re nuts.’

  Glory sat motionless in the front seat. ‘Stop it. Just stop it, the both of you.’

  Johnny’s face fell. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Chooks, and gave out a spooky laugh.

  Glory gave a right-hand signal and eased the Falcon back into the traffic, following the lines of the road down to Double Bay. She swung right into Manning Road and stopped.

  The sky was bright indigo, and reflected cloud-light illuminated the streetscape. The building in front of them rode high above the footpath, fronted by a generous portico. On the footpath below, Reilly’s Maserati was angled to the curb, sleek and grey, gleaming in the ghost-light.

  Johnny climbed nimbly out of the Valiant and looked around.

  He had laid his plans carefully, down to the last detail, leaving no space for doubt, not a single deviation, but now that the moment was here he found himself filled with a clamour of unresolved questions. He had pictured himself standing behind the stonewall that ran along the south end of the boundary, taking his shot down the side of the building. But Reilly’s car was wedged in an uncomfortable position. One look told Johnny there was a telephone pole directly blocking his line of fire.

  He looked again. Just down from the entrance a hedge of variegated abelia was growing around the base of a plane tree, the first in a long straggling line that stretched down the block. The tree looked easy to climb and the shrubs around it would provide more than enough cover. The angle made the shot awkward, but the quickness of his solution made Johnny elated. He pushed aside all thought of failure and concentrated on the means.

  ‘Right-ho, you lot,’ he said, turning back to the car.

  Chooks got out first. He was dressed in his black mask and gloves, but clutching his arms to his belly.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Johnny. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not going through with it?’

  Chooks stared at Johnny soulfully. ‘I promised I’d stick to you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Good on you.’

  Chooks picked up his gun and staggered away to the gate over the road, where he took up his position.

  Johnny watched Chooks go, then turned to face Glory, who was staring at him through the open car door. They stood there, matching each other’s reactions, reluctant to make the next move. Finally Glory broke the spell. Johnny clung to her briefly before he jerked himself away. He picked up the Parker Hale and the double-barrel shotgun, and moved away through shadows, secreting the rifle under the hedge. He climbed the tree and wedged himself tight between the branches, easing the muzzle of the shotgun over the bough. He stilled his head, and stared into the unquiet darkness, waiting for Chooks to respond.

  Chooks stooped down, drawing himself into the darkness of the gate. It was too dark to see much. Leaves glinted, scabs of vegetal matter peeked at him through masses of foliage. Chooks
’ scalp began to itch from his mask of black nylon. His hands began to tremble along the stock of his gun. He counted off the moments until he could stand it no longer. His stomach lurched. His knees buckled under. He fell face down on a bed of dry leaves.

  Glory eased the Valiant into the side of the road and sat alone in the smothering darkness, waiting.

  ‘Johnny,’ she spoke into the walkie-talkie. But there wasn’t any answer. ‘Johnny?’

  ‘I’m here. Where’s Chooks?’

  ‘I dunno, but I’ve got a bad feeling. Maybe we ought to call it off for tonight.’

  ‘I reckon we call this thing off and we’ll never get another chance,’ said Johnny. Glory didn’t say anything, so Johnny spoke on. ‘Go and find Chooks. Maybe his radio has conked out or something.’

  Glory got out of the Falcon, inching her way along the footpath. She was barely in sight of the gate where Chooks was hiding, when the darkness outside the door of the flat building drew suddenly back. Reilly appeared, silhouetted in the door-light against the green of the planters. He was dressed in a dark pinstripe with a wide black fedora. One hand was jammed tight into his coat pocket, the other hanging loose as he came down the stairs.

  ‘He’s here,’ said Glory.

  ‘I seen him already,’ said Johnny.

  Glory saw swirling skies and violet haze. ‘Good luck, love. Be careful. Don’t shoot unless you’re positively sure of being successful.’

  Up in the tree, Johnny was frightened that he was losing his grip. His thoughts coiled round him in tight little circles. He watched as Reilly approached the edge of footpath, the white sheen of cement lost in the sprawl of his shadow.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said Reilly, arms swinging wide towards the trees, as if he could hear Johnny rustling in the foliage. ‘Who’s there?’

  Johnny didn’t answer. He didn’t dare breathe. Reilly pulled out his keys and stepped towards the car. He pressed the magic button on his key ring and the car lights came on, white and brilliant. Johnny didn’t hesitate. He fired through the leaf cover.

  Chooks heard the report clear across the asphalt. He stood up and rushed around the gate, but couldn’t see much, the glare of headlights was so intense. Then a dark apparition came stumbling out of the dazzle, wild and reeling, and heading his way.

  Reilly let out a long, wordless roar and reached for his gun.

  Chooks had a clear shot from this angle, and walked across the asphalt to take it. Then stood there, stricken with fear, unable to move.

  Johnny racked the pump action of the shotgun, and let the empty cartridge fall away. He sighted Reilly through the scope once again, but the telephone pole was blocking his line of fire. Desperate, he dropped down through the branches, landing on all fours under the light on the footpath. Reilly lunged towards him. For a full second, it seemed they were facing each other. Johnny could see the actual blood spray on Reilly’s face, gleaming on the skin of his cheeks, buzzing at the edges.

  Next thing Johnny knew, Reilly was at the wheel of his Maserati, revving the engine. He swung out wide, almost knocking him down. Johnny steadied himself, raising his gun as the car put on speed. He fired at the car twice, watched it fishtailing up the mouth of the road.

  Six separate pages of a newspaper floated by.

  Johnny heard a deep sonic roar like a building collapsing, followed by several subsidiary bangs, like windows shattering, metal tearing, a fuel tank exploding, and a blaze like pink shell-fire filling the sky.

  Johnny sprang out of the blackness and climbed into the front seat of the Falcon. Chooks clambered into the back, seconds behind. Glory turned the ignition and the car leaped forward.

  ‘Listen to what the bugger’s got to say,’ said Chooks. ‘He’s fired at him twice and missed.’

  ‘Yeah, and where were you?’ said Johnny. ‘You didn’t even let off a shot.’

  The road curved and turned as it led up the rise. Glory threw in the clutch and swung the wheel over. She changed gears once again as the car skidded over the crest of the hill, and the motor began singing with a whet-edge sound, powering along the flat of the road.

  ‘Don’t tell me you missed with the double-barrelled shotgun?’ said Glory.

  Johnny was staring very bleakly at nothing at all. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I was there on the footpath, and Reilly kept coming at me like a bloody tank. I fired the gun and I know I hit him. I aimed right at the centre of his guts. I mean, the bloke is so huge I couldn’t miss a target like that. But he looked right at the spot where I was standing, and kept coming.’

  Chooks said, ‘Yeah, maybe you winged him, but you couldn’t have got him because he climbed into his fancy sports car, reversed into an L-turn – an L-turn! – and drove off like he’s going on a Sunday School Picnic. Faster,’ he added. ‘Go faster, Glory. The coppers will be swarming all over this place any minute.’

  Johnny burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. ‘Believe me, Chooks. The jacks are the last thing you’ve got to worry about. If Reilly’s still alive, he’ll go on a mad shooting orgy after tonight. Sydney will be strewn with bodies.’

  ‘Stop laughing,’ said Chooks, on edge.

  But Johnny couldn’t stop.

  Chooks launched himself between the seats. He pounded Johnny’s arm. ‘Why did you shoot, you silly bastard? Why did you shoot when you couldn’t be sure of getting him?’

  Johnny wrenched his arm away. ‘You’ll be right, mate. Nobody’s connecting you with something like this. It’s me who’s got to wear it.’

  Chooks took this in, sober and frightened. He shook his head with a slight shuddering motion.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ said Glory.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Johnny, ‘but I reckon that I couldn’t have had a better opportunity. Reilly wasn’t more than fifteen feet from where I was standing, and then there was the explosion. Nobody could’ve survived that.’ Johnny glanced sideways at Glory, seeking reassurance. But Glory couldn’t find an answer, and so they drove on in silence.

  Streetlights flashed across the windscreen. On either side of them boarded-up warehouses stood in weed-choked lots.

  ‘Stop,’ yelled Johnny. ‘Stop the car.’

  Glory crammed on the brakes, throwing everybody forward.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Chooks, rousing himself.

  Johnny pressed his index finger to the windscreen, pointing at the run-down garage that abutted the grey paling fence of a wrecker’s yard. ‘Pull in over there.’

  Glory nosed the Valiant into an empty space at the mouth of the mechanic’s shop, alongside a truck labelled ‘Blagg Bros Towers & Wreckers’. Just beyond the headlights, a red telephone booth sat on a strip of cracked asphalt with grass sprouting through.

  ‘Chooks,’ said Johnny. ‘I want you to ring up the radio and say, “This is on account of O’Connor.”’

  ‘Well, I reckon I shouldn’t,’ said Chooks. ‘I reckon that’s asking for more trouble than I’ve already got.’

  ‘Well, do me a favour and quit thinking,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Sure, I only helped you shoot the bloke. What right have I got to think?’

  ‘Look, I’ve already explained that you’re in the clear,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s me that’s going to answer for this. In fact, I reckon if you were a real mate and not just pretending, you’d want to help me out.’ Chooks went silent and Johnny pressed his advantage. He scrawled down a number on a spare bit of paper. ‘Just ring this and say, “This is for O’Connor and more is to follow.” I reckon it’ll put the coppers off for a bit, and providing our alibis are okay …’

  Chooks opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He climbed out of the car and trundled across the lot. He swept a Pineapple Crunch Bar off the green speckled ledge of the telephone booth, slipped a five-cent piece into the coin slot, and dialled the number.

  Reilly’s Maserati had gutted the shopfront clean to the air, exposing the strange assemblage of glass curios and silk parasols that crammed the interior
. The floor was scattered with shattered glass and tile, and crosshatched with odd spokes of shadow from gaping brickwork. The wreck itself was spotlit with yellow arc lights, but only the parts touched by the light made any sense. The rest was a dark smudge of metal and shadow and, dimly, in the middle of this, Dick Reilly was slumped against the window, thick-bodied, with one arm swinging loose, fingers curled, spattered with blood.

  ‘Sweet Jesus.’ Tanner pushed a sweat-soaked grey hat to the back of his head. ‘King of the Underworld, they called him, and look how’s he’s ended up. Just another sad bastard who didn’t catch the right break.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Gus.

  Just then, a photographer with a hat down over one eye dodged under the barricade. He jammed his camera right up to the scene.

  ‘I saw you do that. I saw how you got that picture.’

  Tanner held out his hand and the photographer gave up his camera. Tanner extracted the film and let the camera go, the photographer just catching it before it smashed to the ground.

  ‘He got here pretty fast,’ offered Gus.

  ‘And the rest of his mates will be here any minute. The half-wit that does this, he rings up the radio and says, “This is for Ducky O’Connor and more is to follow –”’ Tanner’s voice trailed off. He wasn’t looking at Gus anymore, but at something over his shoulder.

  Gus swung round. Behind him, the street corner was cordoned off with crime-scene barricades and the space in between crammed with tow trucks, demolition trucks, a fire engine, four police cars, and a black mortuary wagon with its doors flung open. Further up the rise, an official-looking car pulled in to the side of the road. Gus watched in astonishment as Allan clambered out, heading their way.