Crooked

by Camilla Nelson

  Driscoll added, in an altogether different tone, ‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘Too early,’ said Gus.

  He put the flask back. ‘Well, Allan asks me, “What exactly are you suggesting I do? Send a truckload of coppers marching into these people’s houses?” I say, “So we’re just doing nothing?” and he tells me, “I’m not saying that we’re not looking into the matter. Just that we could be embarrassed if we don’t proceed cautiously.”’

  Gus tried to be reasonable. ‘Well, maybe he’s right about that. We have to go carefully with something this big. I mean the names in the book –’

  Driscoll cut him off. ‘I tell you what else Allan says. I’m turning to go, and he asks, “What are you going to do?” I say, “How do you mean?” and he tells me, “Well, you don’t want to prejudice your career, for instance?”’

  ‘He couldn’t have meant it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Driscoll swore. ‘Look at the names in the book. Look at the officer in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gus’s face drained of colour.

  ‘I mean Reg Tanner’s there. He’s there in the book.’

  ‘He can’t be.’

  ‘Well, he is,’ said Driscoll, as if he was relishing the thought.

  Gus could see where things were headed. He didn’t go there. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing. Tanner’s a detective. He doesn’t get to choose the company he keeps. Besides, it was Tanner who authorised the raid that shut down Reilly’s club in the first place.’ Driscoll laughed, and Gus said reproachfully, ‘I’m not seeing anything particularly funny in this situation. Maybe you should lay off the grog.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Driscoll.

  Chastened, Gus said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m giving it to Allan, of course. He’ll shove it under the hugest bloody carpet he can find. Shove it halfway to China, if he can. I’ve done my bit. I’m seeing no reason to get involved any further.’

  Allan tried to keep the story quiet. Then it grew. ‘GAMBLING MURDER’ ran the Sun. ‘Dick Reilly, 59, Blasted to Death in Busy Double Bay. Victim of …

  ‘EXECUTION IN PUBLIC’ –the Mirror went for a more colourful angle, with a three-page spread designed to bring the trappings of the high crime life to the public’s attention. ‘$100,000 home! $17,000 car!’ with photographs showing the palatial interior of Reilly’s Castle Cove mansion and its sweeping views out over Middle Harbour. Outwardly Allan expressed his disgust, but he was secretly relieved that they hadn’t discovered the worst of it. On a more worrying note, the paper also called the public’s attention to the city’s ‘rising wave of lawlessness’, compiling a ‘Dossier of Death’, containing a ‘grim list of Sydney’s unsolved gangland killings’. The editorial demanded action:

  VENGEANCE IN THE STREETS!

  A man well known to police was gunned down last night in his expensive sports car in the main thoroughfare of one of Sydney’s most fashionable districts. Nobody saw the shooting.

  A few weeks ago, another underworld figure was shot in a Sydney nightclub. Nobody saw just how it happened.

  There are streets in the very heart of Sydney where it isn’t safe for a law-abiding citizen to walk at night without risk of molestation. The frightening aspect is that the public is becoming so accustomed to crime that a most dangerous complacency is developing. It’s time public opinion aroused itself and demanded intensive efforts all around to wipe out the illegal activities that give birth to violence.

  As Allan had predicted, the longer the investigation took, the stormier things got, with coverage spreading quickly from the murder itself to the flourishing of illegal gambling in general. ‘BACCARAT BOOMS,’ ran the Mirror. ‘12 games! No arrests!’ ‘We have no sympathy for gangsters and criminals who get themselves killed preying on people’s weaknesses,’ the article ran. ‘But it is the police who should be getting tough with these baccarat schools and their organisers. The players can find the games easily enough. Why not the police force?’

  Allan made the critical mistake of ringing the editor and answering this accusation in person. ‘Police action is taken at all times and in all cases when evidence of any unlawful gaming or wagering is forthcoming,’ he told them. The news editor put the quote under a headline that said, ‘REALLY, MR ALLAN?’ and in boldface type underneath, ‘Come off it, Norman! Your Boys Don’t Know the Way? Ask Anyone at the Cross!’

  It was obvious that a change of tactics was in order. Allan asked Tanner to try calling some reporters who owed him a good turn. He was rewarded with a quote, which Allan read with some satisfaction over his bacon and eggs the following morning, ‘Since Norman Allan took over as Police Commissioner, life has been unpleasant for criminals – they’ve been booked and chased and charged and kept on the move. My detectives have got more confidence in Commissioner Allan than they’ve had in anybody for years.’ Allan also gave permission for some trustworthy reporters to accompany task-force detectives on a series of gaming raids, and was rewarded with several blow-by-blow accounts of acts of police heroism on the spot. The reporters dubbed the task force the ‘squad to end squads’, destined to shut down ‘every night trap and gaming room on the east-side of the Harbour’. But within days the task force was reduced to rousting out winos and molls to rack up arrest rates.

  ‘SILENCE IN GANGLAND,’ ran the Mirror. ‘Raids fail to gain lead to murderer!’ And more generally, ‘MURDER DEAD-END’.

  Gradually, as each deadline followed the next and nothing appeared, Allan was able to convince himself that the story was dwindling. But, as things turned out, this was a terrible presumption, a point that became rapidly apparent when a three-paragraph item appeared in the middle pages of the Mirror stating how a black notebook had been recovered from the body of murdered crime boss Dick Reilly, and that the notebook contained ‘the names, addresses and silent telephone numbers of prominent Sydney identities.’ The story continued, ‘At least nine of the names have shocked high police.’ The story was expanded in pieces, with speculation adding names to a growing list. Bookmakers were singled out, as were gamblers, moneylenders and civic authorities – this last inclusion raising a storm at the Monday morning meeting of the Sydney City Council.

  Desperate, Allan rang Premier Askin, who asked his good friend Frank Packer to play the matter down. Packer obligingly ran an editorial asking, ‘Would it have sounded so sinister if the book had been green?’ But it was already too late. The names of several well-known politicians were entangled in the rumours, together with the startling revelation that the notebook contained figures, representing sums of money, indicating the size of each pay-off.

  Allan didn’t need to open a paper. On every street corner the news was front page.

  MURDER SENSATION – MLA, GIRLS, BIG MONEY

  The Mirror today exposes a secret list of names and big money transactions found on the body of gangland murder victim, Dick Reilly.

  The politicians, the police officers and the massage parlours – the girls, the vice and standover rackets – all figure in the list now held by police.

  When the Mirror broke this story last week we reported the cops had a notebook ‘containing the names, addresses and silent telephone numbers of prominent Sydney identities.’

  And: ‘About nine of 15 names appearing on the list have shocked high police officers.’

  Since then more has come to light – or more information has come from people who, rightly or wrongly, have seen that list.

  1. It contains at least 15 names.

  2. A Cabinet Minister

  3. At least one MLA.

  4. At least one senior cop

  5. And beside each name is a figure representing an amount of money.

  That list apparently was NOT found by the cops. There is evidence but no confirmation that it was found by officers of the Bankruptcy Court. How? Why?

  Why indeed, thought Allan, as his black unmarked clunked into the gutter outside the State Office Block,
a thoroughly modern edifice with a sun-dazzling tower of glass and steel with bronze cladding. He squinted through the dust and dazzle at the crowd of reporters gathered in the forecourt beside the green spiral-shaped fountain. Seeing him, the reporters jumped to their feet like a long line of puppets jerked up on a string, and came clambering across the square.

  Allan turned to his underling. ‘So, are you getting rid of that lot, or do you expect me to?’

  ‘What do you reckon you’re playing at?’ said Askin, swinging around on one heel and yelling at Allan as he came down the room. Askin was standing in front of a large picture window, the city spread out beneath him, almost as if from the tips of his shoes. Here were the white-capped waves of the Harbour, with sailboats and ferryboats chugging up water, and ribbons of grey terraces unravelling in every direction, and the smokestacks of factories lighting up the edges. Askin swung back to the window, arms outstretched, fingers extended, as if appealing to the rackety metropolis for an answer.

  ‘It wasn’t my people,’ said Allan glumly. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  But Askin seemed not to hear him. ‘You said you could keep it quiet. You said you could keep everything out of the papers.’

  Allan opened his mouth to say something further, but one glance at Askin told him the course was unwise.

  Askin went on, ‘I fixed it for you when Labor was demanding your resignation. I stood by you when I could’ve buried you and your whole blasted police force. I ought to have sacked you. I ought to have sacked the whole lot of you. But I didn’t. Do you want to know why?’ Seemingly unable to find a satisfactory answer to this, Askin sank back against the edge of his desk. ‘Hell, I thought we had an arrangement?’

  Allan finally got it out. ‘But it wasn’t my people. It was the bankruptcy boys who discovered the notebook when they went through his house.’

  ‘You telling me you stuffed it?’

  ‘Not exactly –’ said Allan. ‘The thing is … well, it turns out Dick Reilly was an undischarged bankrupt. It seems he defaulted on a loan for some radios, and the bank pinched the guarantor bloke for the missing cash. Naturally enough, this bloke asks Reilly for his money back, only Reilly refuses, so the bloke applies to the Bankruptcy Court and has him declared. Soon as Reilly dies, the Bankruptcy Court sends their boys round to impound the movables, and they discover the notebook that was leaked to the press.’

  Askin sprung off the edge of his desk. ‘How much did he owe?’

  ‘Four hundred.’

  ‘But everybody told me the bloke was that rich.’

  Allan shrugged, ‘Officially speaking, he didn’t have a penny to scratch himself with.’

  Askin appeared to think the matter over for several seconds. ‘That Labor mob, they’re not going to let this go.’

  ‘Well, I reckon I can help it blow over.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Askin. ‘You know why they’re doing this, don’t you?’

  Allan decided to play dumb. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Because I was born in a back slum and grew up in a shack out at Ironbark – and Renshaw, he can’t stand to see a working-class bloke turn himself into somebody. I’ve got me a knife-edge election coming up, and he thinks this smear is his ticket. He reckons he can knock me because there’s some minister involved –’

  ‘That isn’t quite right.’

  Allan pulled a brown vinyl briefcase up onto his lap, clicked open the locks and brought out a notebook encased in a clear plastic envelope, with a tag saying ‘Evidence’ hanging off it. He tapped it with a finger. ‘I think you’ll find the key word is “former”. There’s a former minister involved –’

  Askin lifted the notebook gingerly out of its bag. Allan could almost read his lips as they moved through the long list of names, which included several notable backbenchers, and finally Jack Mannix, ex-Minister for Justice in the former Renshaw Cabinet. Askin took a sharp intake of breath.

  Allan nodded sagely. ‘That’s what the fuss is really about.’

  Askin actually whistled. He gave the document another glance before laying it and the evidence bag carefully down on his desk. ‘Of course, those blokes … It doesn’t surprise me.’ He opened a drawer, extracted a cigar and chewed off the butt. He picked up a lighter and began turning the cigar over the flame until the orange end was flaring. ‘And I reckon I know exactly the right person to put the wind up them.’

  Just eight minutes after Allan departed the Premier’s wing of the state office block, Charlie clambered out of a taxi and made his way towards the entrance. He rose up in the empty elevator, crept through the back door and, after a few minutes conversation, tucked a brown manila envelope into his outer-breast pocket and stepped onto the footpath again. His first port of call was the office of Jack Mannix, ex-Minister for Justice in the former Renshaw Cabinet. Charlie didn’t bother to knock. He just threw the door open. Mannix, blustery-faced, jumped up from his chair and started across the carpet.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Jack. How are you?’ said Charlie, grinning at him amiably but pushing straight past. He sat himself down in the chair Mannix had just vacated, and propped up his feet, pulling the long manila envelope out of his pocket. ‘My name’s Gillespie, but you can call me Charlie if you like. We met at the racetrack a couple of times. Anyway, I just thought I’d stop by, show you something that belonged to an old client of mine that got dropped in my cubbyhole.’

  Suspicious, Mannix moved towards Charlie with his right hand outstretched. But Charlie snatched the envelope away. He opened it, took out a roneoed sheaf of documents copied from the infamous notebook and let Mannix take a peek.

  ‘What’s this supposed to be, some sort of joke?’ He took another look at the sheet, then added warily, ‘I’d say that’s a fake.’

  ‘If only,’ said Charlie, making a soft clucking sound. ‘No, old boy. I’m afraid it’s the genuine article. My police sources are solid. They swear it’s true blue.’

  Mannix sank down on the desk and stared glumly across the room. ‘What do you want? Money?’

  ‘God, no.’ Charlie contrived to look shocked. ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘I dunno what you are,’ said Mannix, but there wasn’t any anger in his tone. Quietly and heavily, he announced, ‘You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ said Charlie. He dropped his feet from the desk to the floor and got up. ‘You always seemed like a good sort of bloke, Jack. Only reason I thought I’d stop by was to tell you what’s coming.’ He opened the door and looked back, grasping the handle. ‘I don’t know much about this sort of thing, really. But I reckon the newspapers don’t hit their deadline until three. Strikes me, I was you, I’d want to take advantage.’

  Renshaw, of course, knew nothing of this as he got out of his taxi by the gates of the Parliament. The press was packed solid to the edge of the footpath, hanging off the spiked iron railings that bounded the forecourt, or scurrying away to some clear empty space from where they could fire off questions. Renshaw grinned back at them, waving his hat, and gradually the whole mob of them creamed back from his passage, clearing a path, and he was standing in the wide open space under the awning.

  He stared out across the dense crowd of faces. ‘I’m sure you all know that serious allegations have been made about criminal figures and senior politicians in the Askin Government. Specifically, the names of several high-ranking MPs are contained in a black notebook found by police –’ An elbow came up and knocked Renshaw’s hat sideways. He shifted slightly on his feet. ‘The Labor Party believes that there needs to be a full and open inquiry into associations between criminals and major government figures. When Parliament returns, we will be calling on Premier Askin to summon a Royal Commission –’

  ‘Don’t you mean senior Labor Party figures?’ yelled a reporter from the back.

  Renshaw cupped a hand to his ear. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.’

  ‘Do
n’t you mean Labor Party figures?’ yelled the reporter again.

  Photographers stooped backwards, soundmen taped their equipment to an ever-widening tree of microphones, television cameras cranked into action and caught Renshaw on film, as he widened his eyes and ballooned out his cheeks. ‘I don’t understand,’ he stammered on a pathetic rising note, making somebody laugh.

  Whoop!’ cried Askin. ‘Whoop! Whoop!’ Askin was sitting at a table in the corner of Chequers nightclub behind a green marbleised pillar replete with sea-style encrustations and a mermaid on top. Smoke curled languorously up from cigar ends to the pressed metal ceiling and from everywhere came the clatter of glassware and the tinkle of silver. The orchestra gave a flourish and coloured water gushed up from a fountain in front of the bandstand. The floor show began.

  Askin got to his feet, bright-cheeked and cockeyed. ‘It stinks in here. Let’s find a quiet place. Browne knows one, don’t you, Frankie?’

  ‘Sure do,’ said Browne, who was talking loudly and at length to a party at the table adjacent.

  ‘Bloke’s got a black book that’d knock your copper’s socks off,’ said Askin, and gave Allan a nudge.

  Browne threw back his head and roared, and Allan laughed too, but foolishly. Then Askin was shooing everybody up a circular stairway that curved around an ornamental pond crammed with baby crocodiles.

  Charlie exited after the others, who crowded ahead of him onto the footpath. Outside, the night was moonless and still, with stars in carnival colours like balls pitching up into a deepening sky. Packer took three or four sniffs of the metallic air, muttered his apologies and hobbled back to his paper. Allan followed suit, leaving Charlie with Askin and Browne, who was weaving up and down the footpath, taking swigs from a bottle of Bells that he’d swiped from the club.