Good to get that straightened out. And thanks, Mum, for sticking up for me.
*
Jockey’s being a real mate but he doesn’t need all the attention I’m drawing: his mercury is also rising due to some of his own enterprises. Any hint of me will give the police an excuse to run through his house and run through hard.
‘This is fucked, man,’ I tell him. ‘I’m getting that much heat here I’d rather go back to Melbourne. It’s too hot for me here, you know, with my face everywhere.’
He agrees and being the gentleman that he is, even gives me a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun to take. Since getting shot five times the day after he was released in February, after a fourteen-year term, he well believes in being tooled up and ready. More of a loan than a gift, though, because he’s planning to join me in Victoria when I get work lined up.
*
Melbourne’s the last place the Armed Robbery Squad will be expecting me, but it’s still a bit warm here so I accept Smiles’ offer of the use of a property at Glenlyon, near Daylesford.
It’s about an hour to Melbourne, it’s on 40 hectares, and it comes with an old Italian fella who’s the best cook ever. Suits us just fine.
Whenever I go to the city to scout possible targets I return with a bottle of scotch. The caretaker loves a drink and is great company, always decent to me and Roxy and even her yappy little chihuahua. He’s good for a chinwag – although he never asks why I sometimes wear a wig. Keeps his curiosity to the odd quizzical glance.
Yet, to be honest, funds are low. I’m being financially supported by friends and I don’t much like that. I feel better when I’m paying me own way.
I have a sawn-off shotgun, two handguns and a stolen car. All I need to earn.
*
First cab off the rank is the State Savings Bank at Doncaster Shoppingtown, right across from Doncaster Motor Inn with its shitty bistro service.
I’ve selected this bank after a promising recon. The tellers work behind old-style cages that go about three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, leaving ample clearance to go over the top and drop at the foot of the counting table. I know where the table is because, when I scouted the place, the staff slipped up, failing to fully draw the curtains that shield the table and the bank’s stand-up safe from public gaze. It always gives me tingles seeing staff handling bricks and bundles of the good stuff.
Timed right, the safe will be open, and so will the inner drawers – meaning a sledgehammer will not be required. That’s good: less to carry and my wrist is still weak.
The distance from the front door to the cages is just over three metres, so I can be up and over before the staff know what’s going down, with the operation – including clearing the table and the entire contents of the safe – complete in less than 60 seconds.
Wearing a wig under a baseball cap, a blue plastic glove on my right hand, and a bandana ready to pull over my face, I’m on-site bright and early, loitering a short distance from the bank with a sawn-off shotgun in a shopping bag. There are no customers yet, just staff clearing the night deposit chute and opening and counting the leather deposit bags. The safe will now be open. Roxy is idling out the front; she is today’s getaway driver.
Time to strike. An employee arrives, with a young bank staffer inside crouching down to release the floor locking device and admit him. Walk up behind the man, I ride his coat tails as he steps forward to enter. But the young fella inside sees me pulling up the bandana and reaching for the shotgun and the horror shows on his face even as he reacts instantly, shoving the door back at me as hard as he can.
The other man sees the shotgun pointed at them and joins in the struggle to hold the door closed long enough to lock and secure it. Normally in this state I could barge through ten office cunts but my wrist is twinging horribly and just doesn’t have the power; I can’t meet the pressure.
Everyone in there knows now what’s going down – the staffer at the counting table slamming shut the time-delayed cabinet that must have a few hundred G’s in it. Every fucking second is slashing my payday and drastically increasing the risk.
All I’ve fucking got to my name is a two-dollar coin in a stolen car with no fuel so when kicking the piece of motherfucking shit door doesn’t work I level the gun, signal to the staffers to get the fuck clear and pull the trigger. Glass sprays everywhere but there’s still plenty there and I don’t give a fuck what’s in the way anymore; I’m running through it and leaping up and over the teller cage to land exactly on point but 40 seconds too late to get all the bricks of cash that were so neatly stacked for me right before that fuckin’ hero slammed the door in my face. The inside cabinets, treasury and time delay are all secure. But so be it; we’re all just doing our jobs and today he did his better than me, so right now my task is to sweep the deposit satchels into the bag, charge out to Roxy and go go go.
Roxy and I blaze through a couple of fat joints of pot as we kick back with a few close friends and count the earn. A fraction better timing on my part and it would have been $440 G’s, but even so I’ve taken $140 G’s and there are worse days in the office than that.
Too hot for me to show my face at present so my mates run an errand for me, heading down to the local newsagency to place a personal ad in tomorrow’s Herald Sun. Addressed to the Armed Robbery Squad, it simply announces:
BADNE$$ IS BACK
ANNETTE:
Badlands was about 100 kilometres west of Bundaberg and when I got back there I was supposed to call Steve to check on my dog. I was going to be calling Steve at his friend’s house on the Friday night. It was a Croatian guy: they had dinner together there every Friday.
But when I rang, his friend said, ‘Steve has passed away.’ Steve had been found dead on his couch at home.
I tore back down to Melbourne, not knowing what the hell was going on and what’s happening with my dog. When I got back I was told that Steve’s body was going to be shipped overseas on his brother’s authority, Rob’s [name changed] authority, so I rang the funeral parlour and said the brother has no right: ‘Steve has two sons: they have the final say in what happens to their father’s remains.’
But Steve did want to go back to Croatia. So after I thought about it, I told them to go ahead.
They had a memorial service for Steve but I’d missed it because I’d still been heading back down from Bundaberg. And Chris and Barry couldn’t go to it either because they were both in jail. Barry not for long – he was no Chris; he was never serious about criminal rubbish.
And then what do I hear all over the media? Chris has escaped. I felt stunned. Disbelief.
He hadn’t been kidding when I saw him. He did it again.
The media is all, ‘Australia’s most wanted, danger man, public enemy number one,’ and full of all the sensational headlines they could think of.
He did it again and it just did my head in, again.
I was in shock, again, and petrified, again, that he would get shot. By rights, having this son, I should be in the grave.
Funny thing was the police never bothered me. But they knew me by then – they knew I didn’t have much to do with Chris when he was out – and they didn’t raid me or come looking for him at my place.
In the end I think they felt that damn sorry for me. They’d raided me many times before when he was a teenager and he’d escaped from Turana. My phone was monitored and I was followed a few times but whenever he was out I hardly heard from him at all anyway. He did call me once when he escaped from St Vincent’s, and I said, ‘Stay away: it’s very hot here.’
One day I noticed this car parked a little up the street with two guys sitting there in the usual sunglasses; they just give themselves away. I came out and brought them a cup of coffee each and said, ‘I thought you’d be thirsty by now.’
‘Oh,’ one of them said. ‘Thanks.’
‘No point hanging around. He’s not here.’
One day when Chris was on the run and a huge manhunt was underway
– his escape from Parramatta sent them berserk and they were looking for him everywhere – one of my girlfriends was visiting, a German woman.
She was looking out the window and said, ‘Someone’s walking up your driveway.’
I had a look and here comes this Mexican-looking fellow with a moustache and all this black hair. ‘Don’t know him,’ I said. ‘What the hell does he want?’
There’s a knock on the door and I open it and this guy lifts his finger to his lips and goes, ‘Shhhhhhhhh.’ I looked in his eyes: it was Chris.
My girlfriend nearly collapsed. He gave her a kiss and she said, ‘I’ll never wash that cheek again.’
He was that well disguised I didn’t even know him, and I know my son. He just came in and called me outside to talk in case the house was bugged. My girlfriend was reeling with shock. I couldn’t believe that he’d do that – he had such audacity.
48. DUST TO DUST
5 DECEMBER 1992: GLENLYON, NEAR DAYLESFORD
CHRIS:
‘This’ll ease you into a whole ’nother world, mate,’ says the caretaker’s friend, Rob, passing me a fat joint of his highly potent pot. ‘And, darl? One for you.’
Roxy is plenty stoned already, but she’s never one to turn down another pipe or pill or dance or drink, or anything else that’s gonna take her to a higher place. Her eyes don’t even seem to open but one hand curls vaguely in Rob’s direction, glides by to take between her fingers the expertly rolled joint and plant it between her lips. Her head never moves from where it rests against the back of the couch. I don’t think she’ll ever move again.
‘Migh’ washa, washa movie,’ she says, slowly floating up and wandering away. I’m not sure what she’s talking about because the TV’s right here. Tonight we’ve watched fucking every scrap of news we can: our robbery’s all over the media.
There’s always something weird, though, about seeing me own jobs on TV. It just isn’t how it was, you know. Like the colours or the angles, or I don’t know what, are just wrong. They’ve got to get in there, and not all filmed up from a corner in jerky bloody black and white silent shit. And fuck all that shit with a reporter standing out front of the bank talking all troubled and serious and then lapping up whatever routine shit the coppers serve ’em. I guess I find the bits where scared fucking customers or staff – people who were fucking there – say something about the shock of it, that’s the bit I can relate to, you know. ’Cos it is a fucking shock, to me, too, ya know, the stress of it; I’m going through a lot of stress. Maybe not on the same scale as the victims. But the fear, the threat, it does something – seriously – especially if I’m by myself, like today, I’ve got to be aware of everything, of what the fuck’s going on around me. Know what I’m saying? If I don’t want to get trapped or shot in the back or whatever, I got to take everything in at every moment.
That’s why I draw this joint deep into my lungs. To savour what’s inside, savour all that’s fucking happened, and then fucking exhale. Release the stress. Release the tension. That’s how I step back from that edge.
*
‘Saw a good job done on the telly tonight. You and Roxy, mate. What a team, ay. Bonnie and Clyde,’ says Rob, sliding a bag of buds towards me. ‘That should tide you over, but you need more just let me know. Don’t hold back, all right? You deserve a good smoke after a job like that.’
This friend of the old caretaker’s been coming round a lot lately. Unlike the old fella, who’s retired for the evening, Rob’s not shy of raising the topic of my work. I figure he should be okay, though, if he’s allowed here but if there’s one thing I miss most about Badlands, it’s the isolation.
Sometimes up there it’s like there’s no one else on the planet – just me and Roxy living like the Garden of Eden: Adam and Eve with bongs, guns and sex toys. Peaceful, ya know. We’re content.
Other times it’s like, ‘What the fuck we doing here? The action’s all out there – let’s go.’
I’ve been recreating bits of my Badlands lifestyle here: dressing in boots and camouflage for doing jogs in the bush. Rob’s seen a bit of it, of my gear and interests. Sees me shooting left-handed the other day. Worked out all right, though, ’cos I was getting short on ammo and he come up with a bit of resupply.
Shifty cunt seems to have whatever I need.
‘Use the Ford today, didja?’ asks Rob, referring to the stolen car I’ve had sitting in the open garage until today. ‘Easy to knock off, hey.’ Observant fella, he even twigged to the front and back number plates not matching.
He’s doing a lot to get on my good side, is Rob, and after another joint or two he mentions he has a mate inside a bank who reckons things could run sweet for a perfect earn. Rob even wants to get in with his hands on the tools, he says. Got a few handguns and knows how to use them – just hasn’t had the chance to work and learn with a real pro.
‘I’ll consider it,’ I say.
*
I take Rob at his word and start planning the job. Through his friend, we’ll know the timing of cash pick-ups, we’ll also have keys for all the cabinets and drawers, and everything else an insider player can deliver.
‘He’s getting cold feet,’ Rob says when I’m ready to take things to the next level. ‘He’s not comfortable.’
So it’s sour. Next.
*
Roxy and I still get out and about some nights. I’d say to meself, ‘I’m not going to live as a prisoner in society.’ So I’d go out and do what I wanted to do, I would just be a bit more cautious.
Roxy wanted to go nightclubbing, so I’d say, ‘All right, but we’re not going to go to the venues where we’re going to bump into crooks, or off-duty coppers that will recognise me. If we go out, let’s have a few eggies with your girlfriends and go somewhere different.’ So we’d go to different venues; we’d still bump into people but at least there wouldn’t be as many.
We’re on the run but I’m enjoying myself. It’s life, it’s fun.
*
Christmas isn’t far off, and it’s the peak of the calendar in terms of the cash movements at banks and in vans. Almost daily I’m in Melbourne researching multiple targets. My thinking is to lay low during this recon phase, then hit hard in a three-day strike period, and after that flee overseas as a very wealthy man. Promised Dad I’d go to the old country and I meant it, but fuck there’s a war on in Croatia. Not sure I want to swap one set of armed men hunting me for another, especially when I don’t even speak the language. But one day. One day. Maybe if I get a nice Croatian girlfriend who can teach me the native tongue.
*
Strange things are happening, and I’m getting a bit suss. I’ve been focusing on two banks and an armoured van. Rob knew about the banks but not the van, and now both bank prospects have soured but no problem with the van.
What’s happened is that bank staff noticed us observing them. They couldn’t conceal how suspicious they were – in fact they seemed close to panic – no doubt because they’d been hit before in a raid that I’m a suspect in. It was clear that they were troubled by the sight of me. If I get made the police are going to swarm. I told Rob, we’re out of here. We were followed by a male bank staffer all the way to Rob’s car; the bloke even kept his eyes on us as we drove off, no doubt getting the registration.
*
I’ve kept Rob in the dark on the plan to hijack an Armaguard van because I’ve had to scratch three bank projects in a row now, and counting back three takes me to when Rob got involved.
*
Jockey’s been in contact. He’s in for the van project. I’ve also got a freelancer signed on: a good soldier who impressed me on a previous job. The three of us will make a tight crew. There’s no room for error when hitting an armoured van. This is elite level. I’ve ordered machine guns and ballistic vests.
Given how much Jockey put himself out for a brother, assisting with my escape and then putting me and Roxy up for two weeks, it feels good to be able to put some work his way. Especially
now that he’s had to flee NSW. It sounds stupid but he got nicked shoplifting minor household appliances from Erina Fair, from Grace Bros department store, I think, pulled a handgun on the store security officer, and then carjacked shoppers to get away.
Makes no sense unless you’ve been to prison. Spend much time there and you’ll completely understand where he’s coming from. That kind of reaction – never give a fucking inch – builds up when you’ve been subjected to all the shit in prison, especially if you’ve done some big terms like Jockey has. He’s spent something like 25 of the last 30 years inside. A man can’t survive that if he backs down. That’s not how it works in there, and what works in there becomes fused into you forever because it is tied to the survival instinct.
Look at my reactions: if I’m driving I won’t stop for the police. It’s us and them; that’s what jail breeds, man. Everything about it is adversarial, and prisoners who’ve done it hard and survived are honest people; I’m an upfront, tell-it-like-it-is sort of fella. Instead of putting on a yessir-mask at classification reviews, I tell ’em to eat shit and die. This is how it is; this is the only way you can live in a cage with the hardcore, with killers and thieves. Show any weakness and you’re a goner.
Jockey’s made it to Melbourne by train but he has no transport. So I do a run in and check a few things, pick him up, and bring him back to the farm. It feels good catching up with someone solid – someone 100 per cent. Rob’s still sniffing about, and he’s very interested when we get back and I’m giving Jockey a tour of the land and facilities. Guess you don’t meet people like Jockey every day. Me old mate and I go for a stroll and I point out a few of the bush tracks where I start commando runs, and some spots where I’ve been working on left-handed shooting.
There’s a spare cabin, but Jockey says he has a property setup about half an hour, maybe three-quarters of an hour, from here – although he has no transport and is basically dependent on people from Melbourne.
Mayhem Page 14
