Crooked

by Camilla Nelson

  Charlie stuck out his hand and flagged down a taxi. Askin clambered in first, shoes on the front folding seat, felt hat tipped forward, with Charlie and Browne squeezed in either side. Streetlights shone down through masses of sweating foliage as they drove through the night, alighting in front of a bar on Macleay Street, under a giant jumping bronco studded with stars. They didn’t enter through the front of the building, but scampered instead down an adjacent alley. Browne rang a doorbell on the side of the building. It was answered by a large woman in a yellow kimono.

  Askin led the charge up the stairs. ‘Let’s see what they’ve got. Let’s see what they’ve got.’

  Browne lumbered up after him, catching himself with both arms on the banister. Music and the sound of women’s laughter wafted towards them as they crept down the hall. Charlie hesitated, deciding whether it was prudent to stay or to follow.

  OCTOBER 1967

  Gus walked down the macadam at Brighton-Le-Sands, extracting the list from his coat pocket detailing the latest batch of names from Dick Reilly’s black notebook that he’d been assigned to investigate. In front of him, a dreary half-mile of blue asphalt staged with telephone poles opened onto a haze of white water with the prow of a container ship edging out between the buildings.

  Gus scuffed up a small yellow weed sprouting through the footpath. ‘Johnny Warren, you say?’

  Pigeye ran a finger about the sweat-soaked band of his hat, and replaced it. ‘Yeah, Warren.’

  Gus walked up the cement path and rang the doorbell. He kept on ringing until the door opened. ‘Sorry to trouble you –’ he started, with his badge wallet out and open. ‘I’m Detective Finlay, and this is Detective Donaldson. I understand Johnny Warren lives here?’

  Glory was standing behind the screen door. ‘So what if he does?’

  ‘I’d like to have a word with him,’ said Gus. He put his foot on the doorstep and his hand on the latch. ‘May I?’

  Abruptly Glory flipped up the lock and opened the door.

  Gus followed her down the hall into the living room, a swift movement of his eyes catching the stacked empty packing crates, indicating arrival rather than departure, and the scattering of toys. Johnny Warren was sitting in a red velveteen armchair with a child playing on the floor by his feet. His lavender braces hung down round his trousers. His eyes glanced moodily from right to left.

  ‘Johnny Warren?’ said Gus, pulling out a chair from the adjacent table and straddling the back of it. ‘Your name has arisen in connection with an investigation we’re carrying out into the death of Dick Reilly. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions –’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Johnny aggressively, ‘and who are you?’

  ‘I’m Detective Finlay and this is Detective Donaldson from CIB,’ Gus started, but Glory pushed past him.

  ‘Leave him alone. He dunno a thing.’

  ‘How do I know that if I haven’t asked him any questions?’ Gus asked, quite calmly, turning back to Johnny. ‘Just tell us what you do know.’

  ‘Well, I heard the bloke got himself shot, and I heard it was showy.’

  ‘What else did you hear?’

  ‘That he was a miserable bastard when he was alive, and now he’s dead. I reckon you ought to be grateful.’

  Gus scowled. ‘I guess you better tell me where you were then, on the night of the shooting.’

  ‘Why should I tell you that?’

  ‘You don’t tell us here, you can tell us at the station.’

  Glory interrupted, ‘Just tell them, Johnny.’

  Johnny told them. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was down at the pub the night Reilly got shot. I distinctly remember because I heard the news over the wireless, and I took a spare ten from my billfold and shouted the joint.’

  Gus didn’t move his eyes off Johnny’s face.

  ‘You can check it out all you want.’

  ‘We’ll check it out plenty,’ said Gus, glancing around. ‘Who knows, maybe the bloke who did it got paid enough to put a tidy deposit on a nice new flat like the one that you’ve got.’

  For a moment Gus thought Johnny was going to rush at him. He braced himself. But Pigeye intervened, jamming his forearm across Johnny’s neck. ‘We find out you’re lying –’ he said, and let the threat hang.

  Johnny stood there with his hands working his sides. Eventually Pigeye jerked his arm away. He backed off with Gus into the afternoon light.

  Out on the macadam, Gus came to a halt by the car door. ‘Do you reckon he might’ve had something to do with it?’

  ‘Johnny Warren?’ Pigeye scratched at his armpit. ‘I reckon he hasn’t got enough brains to strangle a mangy cat.’

  December 1967

  Johnny left the apartment at Brighton-Le-Sands and made his way into town, where he lay in the back seat of the Valiant, smoking. He and Glory had been going hammer and tongs for weeks, ever since those coppers turned up at their door. After a long afternoon spent arguing about nothing, he was restless and unable to sleep. He’d decided to keep watch on some premises in Oxford Street that he suspected were being turned into a club, but so far nobody of any interest had walked in or out of the building. Outside, the night was steaming. Neon signs blinked down at him. ‘Money Lent … Used Tyres All Sizes … We Make False Teeth.’

  Johnny’s spectacular crime hadn’t brought him the success he’d expected. It seemed to have driven him and Glory apart, not brought them together. Johnny couldn’t find criminal employment of any description, couldn’t get a backer or the capital to start up a club. Reilly was gone, and with him the fear that clouded Johnny’s mind receded, but nothing was any clearer. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he was sure there were sinister reasons behind the stuff that was happening. There was something going on. Increasingly, he’d taken to sitting outside crooks’ houses and watching their to-ings and fro-ings for hours on end. He had particularly taken to following Lennie McPherson around, and also set watch on his old partner, Moylan (and once or twice Chooks), not to mention the coppers who’d sworn out the warrants on the Liverpool club. He felt as if he was holding all the pieces of a puzzle but couldn’t fit them together.

  It didn’t take long to run out to Chooks’ house. Johnny eased the Valiant onto the gravel shoulder of the road and got out. He picked his way through the dew-damp hydrangeas and covered the last half hundred yards almost on tippy-toe. The house was dark. One window was open. Johnny spat on his fingers and hauled himself up, peering into Chooks’ room where it was murky as twilight.

  ‘Oi,’ he whispered hoarsely, shaking the smaller of two mounds in the bed.

  Chooks started up with a yelp.

  ‘What did you reckon you were doing?’ said Chooks, when they were comfortably ensconced in the kitchen three minutes later. Chooks was only half awake, and sleep was still gumming his eyelids. He yawned, and scratched his ribs dreamily through a hole in his striped flannel pyjamas. ‘Sneaking up on a bloke like you was some kind of criminal.’

  Johnny was irritated. ‘What’s wrong? I reckon I’d do the same for you. Give a bloke a bit of grub who’s spent the whole night in the shithouse.’

  Chooks shook his head. ‘Just gave me the jumps, is all.’

  ‘Well, get over it. It’s like you’ve got worms.’

  Chooks stuck the kettle on. Johnny sat down at the table. He opened the sugar pot and ladled three spoonfuls into his cup. ‘I’ve got great news for you, Chooks. I’ve got huge plans in train to make back the five hundred I owe you over the Reilly job –’

  ‘That would be handy.’

  ‘I’m also prepared to guarantee you a wage from the baccarat club when it opens, so long as you help me out with shooting McPherson.’

  ‘Jee-suss,’ said Chooks, burning himself on the gas. ‘I thought you were over that?’

  ‘Over it?’ said Johnny, aghast. ‘This shooting has created the greatest sensation in the whole history of Sydney –’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Chooks, sitting oppos
ite. ‘Where have I heard that before?’

  ‘It’s just about finishing what we already started. I’m putting a list together. McPherson, maybe Moylan as well, and also them coppers that swore out the warrants on the Liverpool club.’

  Chooks spluttered, ‘What do you want to do that for? Knocking off blokes in the bloody police force. Hell.’

  ‘Well, maybe not the blokes on the police force then, but when I get another chance at McPherson I’ll give you a call. You can bring the guns down, and I’ll go ahead with the actual shooting.’

  Chooks frowned. ‘I thought you’d disposed of them guns?’

  ‘Yeah, I dug a big hole and buried them out there.’ Johnny pointed at the yard beyond the kitchen window.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ said Chooks, crossing himself. ‘What if the coppers come here and dig the lot up?’

  ‘Who’d want to dig a hole in your filthy backyard?’

  ‘Pipe down, for Pete’s sake. Marge and the kids are asleep.’ Chooks stared angrily down at the table. ‘Are you and Glory at loggerheads again?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Johnny, suddenly glum. ‘I dunno what’s been happening to us.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it will sort itself. Unless –’ Chooks’ voice trailed off.

  ‘Unless what?’

  Chooks frowned, ‘Do you reckon she could be seeing somebody?’

  Johnny grabbed Chooks by the front of his pyjamas. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Chooks hedged, then started pedalling backwards. ‘I dunno anything. Cross me heart.’ Johnny let go and Chooks, still gasping, said, ‘Well, if you’re bent on going after McPherson I’d strongly advise you to dumdum the bullets. That way you’ll get a splat wound, the same as a soft-nose bullet, and the coppers will be unable to trace any of the weaponry.’

  ‘You reckon?’ said Johnny, almost cheerful.

  ‘Christ, yeah,’ said Chooks. ‘I’ll show you myself.’

  Johnny hadn’t come home the previous night, and Glory spent the next morning trying not to think about things. But, now and again, when thought was unavoidable, she began to consider that she’d been treating Johnny unfairly since the coppers came round – that what should’ve been a time for standing together, back to back against the rest of the world, had become a moment of division. That she’d been angry when she ought to have been tender and careful. That she had been wrong, and would be certain to tell Johnny the minute he was back. Gradually the hands of the kitchen clock inched up to twelve, and there was a knock at the door. Thinking it Johnny, Glory flew down the hall and threw the door open, only to find Moylan standing on the doorstep, dressed in a bright Malay shirt, his face brick-red and glistening under a Panama hat.

  Glory hadn’t seen him for almost six months.

  He whipped off his dark glasses. ‘Hello, you beautiful thing.’

  ‘Why, Mick,’ said Glory, showing him into the lounge.

  Moylan laughed, and watched Glory mix drinks. Then, stretching his arms along the sofa, glass in hand, with the ice tinkling in it, he casually dropped in, ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Johnny must be knocking some berries off the bush.’

  ‘We’re getting along.’

  ‘Uh-huh. What are you doing for money?’

  Glory’s face clouded. ‘What’s with all the questions?’

  ‘Hey, this is the Mickster you’re talking to.’ Moylan humped over the coffee table, and stared down at his glass. When he looked up, he was frowning. ‘Where’s Johnny?’

  ‘I dunno, but I reckon he’ll be back.’

  ‘So that’s what it is. You’re as nervous as a cat. Thought something was wrong. Don’t worry about Johnny. He’ll come half-drunk and swaying through that door any minute. Meantime, the Mickster is here to keep you company.’

  Glory smiled and sat down beside him, and soon fell to wondering if she could talk Moylan into staking Johnny in a new gambling venture. Determined to put the matter to him, she was leaning towards him with a conspiratorial air, when the door swung open and Johnny walked in.

  ‘Oi,’ he said, looking ghastly, and taking in the scene.

  ‘Johnny, my mate,’ said Moylan, arms stretched wide.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Moylan shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I just thought I’d stop by, check up on the two of you. But if you don’t want me here, I guess I’ll be pushing along.’

  Glory led Moylan out into the hall, throwing an angry glance in Johnny’s direction.

  ‘No worries,’ said Moylan. He dropped another wet kiss on her cheek.

  Johnny poked him in the ribs. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m saying goodbye.’

  ‘No, you were not.’

  Johnny pushed Moylan’s back to the wall, elbow to his chest.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Johnny?’ Glory tugged Johnny’s sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Mick. I think you better go.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Johnny. He kicked Moylan out, slammed the door, opened it again and yelled a bit more.

  Glory stormed down the hallway into the kitchen and started running the taps, then went back into the living room, picking up glasses. Johnny followed her around, talking non-stop.

  ‘Tell me, what was that about?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘That thing that I seen.’ Johnny took a glass out of Glory’s hand and set it back down on the table.

  Glory picked up the glass, defiantly. ‘I dunno what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’m saying what’s this thing between you and Mick Moylan?’

  ‘Thing?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been told things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Things Chooks told me,’ said Johnny. ‘Anyway, I was told it.’

  ‘Yeah, you was told it by Chooks,’ said Glory in disbelief. ‘I dunno what’s got into you, Johnny Warren, acting like you weren’t born with a full set of brains. I reckon you ought to leave.’ Glory hadn’t meant to say any such thing, but almost against her own will she found herself taking a more belligerent attitude. ‘Get out of here, Johnny.’

  ‘But Glory. What’s wrong?’

  Johnny’s face broke, he spun on his heel and walked out the door. He crossed a clipped square of glass, ducked under the Hills Hoist, climbed into the Valiant, and disappeared down the asphalt.

  Mick Moylan was feeling pretty good about things as he parked his white Sunbeam Rapier on the corner of Oxford Street, and got out. The sky was bright. The wind blew in fitful gusts. He walked through a brass-shuttered doorway and up the back stairs. Workmen were painting the hallway, and they had to move their ladders to let Moylan through. The top floor was almost finished and the crystal chandelier he’d bought in the backstreets of Saigon was being hauled up. He couldn’t wait for opening night, when the hurly-burly began.

  Tommy Bogle was loitering under an archway, pitching pennies at the wall.

  ‘Careful,’ said Moylan. ‘That wallpaper cost more per yard then you earn in a week.’

  Tommy tucked the coins into his petrol-smudged trousers.

  ‘I thought you were working days at the garage.’

  ‘Actually, I’m more of a nightshift kind of bloke,’ said Tommy. ‘Anyway, Len told me to drop by and say he couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Pity. I saw Johnny Warren this morning.’

  ‘Got a few roos loose in his top paddock, I reckon.’

  ‘He’s just disappointed that things didn’t turn out. I thought we might throw him a bit of business, set everything square.’

  ‘I reckon Len’s got his own ideas about that.’

  Moylan registered the note of menace. He wondered if he’d ever have the fortitude to stand up to McPherson. He decided he didn’t. ‘Let’s leave it to Len then.’ He edged past Tommy and went down the hall. ‘I’m getting myself a drink.’

  ‘Len said to meet him at South Sydney Juniors tonight.’

  Moylan swung around. ‘Does that bloke ever sleep?’

  ‘He told me to t
ell you.’

  ‘Fine. Okay. Only I was hoping for a better class of company tonight.’

  Johnny shambled down the side of Chooks’ house late that afternoon, passed mounds of used tyres overgrown with nasturtiums and bits of flattened tin. Chooks was sitting on the bottom rung of the back steps, swigging from a pint bottle of milk. He screwed up his eyes against the last rays of sunshine. ‘Crikey, Johnny, you’re back pretty quick.’

  ‘We’ve got to dig up the weapons and get rid of them, Chooks.’

  Chooks clattered down the steps, got down on all fours, grabbed a couple of shovels from under the house and set out after Johnny, heading for the paddock that abutted the back fence. Johnny stuck his shovel in the ground and flipped over a black clod of turf. Chooks paused for a minute, foot propped thoughtfully on the ridge of his spade. ‘Hold on a minute, mate. I reckon you ought to tell me what’s up.’

  ‘Moylan is trying to turn Glory against me.’

  ‘Glory would never go against you.’

  ‘I reckon I didn’t know this woman, Chooks. She was purple as hell.’

  Chooks pulled at his earlobe. ‘Marge is always going at me, but I never took any notice. Just let her alone for a bit and things will come right.’

  ‘Yeah, but I reckon that Moylan bloke would stoop to anything. He might try and put me in.’

  Chooks shrugged, ‘Well, I guess we ought to get cracking then. In any case, I’ll be thankful to get the guns out of my garden.’

  Chooks dug a deep hole, six feet wide, three feet across, then struck something solid. Johnny jumped down into the ditch, extracted a green plastic packet tied up with string, and gave it to Chooks. Chooks took an army knife out of his pocket and cut through the knots. Out tumbled two shotguns and six boxes of bullets.