The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

‘You blokes are tight. You can tell.’

  Lynch had Gilmore in a playful headlock.

  ‘Fuck off, Whiskers!’ Gilmore yelled as Lynch rubbed with his knuckles.

  Gucciardo, holding up a pillar with his monolithic frame, guffawed at something McCrann had said, a pot glass looking more like a seven-ouncer in his walrus paw. McCrann knocked back his pot.

  Kelso and Barlow stood by the screens urging on their horses. Elated, Kelso grabbed Barlow on the shoulders as the field crossed the line.

  ‘You little beauty!’

  Barlow appeared less enthusiastic, his tickets ending in the bar trough to join the other discards and the squeezed, brown-arsed cigarette butts.

  ‘Yours is hoping there’s another lap,’ Kelso ribbed.

  Malone watched an outsider—a short Italian bloke—walk over from the opposite bar corner.

  ‘Told ya she’d get up, Kell,’ the little bloke enthused. ‘Second up. Went boom!’

  Kelso raised his pot glass.

  ‘Nice tip, Tone. She’s a beauty … Pity Tickets here didn’t take your advice.’

  ‘Franky. I told ya, buddy. I told ya.’

  ‘Yeah, next time, Tone. Next time.’ Barlow turned back to the bar. ‘Give us a bourbon and Coke please, Jules.’

  The bartender poured the drink and pushed a promotional ticket across with it. ‘Have a scratch. You might win a T-shirt.’

  Barlow scratched away the silver. Sorry, not a winner.

  Kelso bought another round and re-joined O’Shea and Malone, mid-conversation.

  ‘Tell us about yourself, pal.’

  A fresh pot appeared under Malone’s nose.

  ‘Drink up,’ Kelso encouraged. ‘The afternoon is but a pup.’

  O’Shea eyed Kelso with a smirk.

  ‘I worked as a police reporter for the Southern Star for two years. Broke some good stories and The Age gave me a call. It’s a bit left of centre there … I’m hoping to jump to the Herald Sun down the track.’

  With sleeves still buttoned at the wrists, Rogers limped over and joined the trio.

  ‘Tell us more,’ O’Shea prodded.

  Malone swallowed his pot. He wasn’t a big drinker—any more—but was starting to regain the taste. Maybe it was the company he was keeping, wanting to prove he could mix it with these blokes.

  ‘Okay, I was actually in the job for eighteen months. Deferred my uni degree late and went through the academy.’

  ‘You were a copper?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where’d you drive the van?’ Rogers asked, as if testing for a lie.

  ‘Did probation at City West. The rest of my time was in Springvale.’

  ‘Old Chingvale,’ Kelso offered. ‘Skag central.’

  ‘Who was your officer in charge?’ Rogers probed.

  ‘Barry Hopkins.’

  Rogers nodded silently.

  O’Shea continued the interrogation. ‘Why’d you pull the pin?’

  ‘The job wasn’t for me. I joined for the wrong reason.’

  Rogers fired another. ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I was searching for something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Revenge. Salvation. I dunno.’

  Kelso’s ears seemed to prick, as if he knew the music. ‘Revenge for what?’

  ‘My girlfriend got stabbed by a mugger. I deferred my degree and joined up thinking I could make a difference. I realised I was wrong. One bloke can’t make a difference.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Kelso.

  ‘Do you honestly believe that?’

  Rogers cut in. Whether Malone was friend or foe was still to be established. ‘Why journalism?’

  ‘I can shine a light in dark places.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Kelso said with exaggerated verve, ‘a crusader.’

  O’Shea smiled into his pot. ‘What else do you do?’

  ‘Watch movies.’

  Kelso was showing interest. ‘What sort of movies? Got plenty of porn up in the office if you need some.’

  Rogers returned to the main line of inquiry. ‘Who helped you out when you were at the local rag? Which coppers?’

  ‘Sorry, Max …’

  ‘Roy,’ Kelso interjected. ‘Call him Roy.’

  ‘Sorry, Roy, but I can’t reveal my sources.’

  Kelso, Malone decided, was playing the good cop. ‘Aah, so you’re a trustworthy crusader … How about the girls? You got a current girlfriend? A wife?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ Rogers muttered, taking a swig and brushing down his neat moustache.

  Kelso elbowed Malone. The journo rode the ribbing. Drank down half his second pot as another appeared in front of him.

  ‘How old are you?’ Rogers asked, his inquisitorial tone continuing.

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘So you’re not professionally jaded or professionally immune just yet?’

  Kelso, all sleeves up and cigarette smoke, quizzed Rogers. ‘Where the hell’d you get that from?’

  ‘Read it in a book. Liked the description.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘Snow Falling on Cedars.’

  ‘Sounds like a poofter book.’

  ‘Way too deep and complicated for you. Stick to Batman comics.’

  O’Shea confided to Malone, ‘Kell’s only good with picture books.’

  The parry and thrust was without hesitation, or venom. Typical Robbers banter, as Malone was quickly coming to realise. Taking the piss was SOP—standard operating procedure.

  The afternoon slipped into evening quickly, the molten gold continually appearing in glass after glass before Malone—who could not help but feel that he was being baptised, Robbers-style. Malone watched the young James Dean of the squad chatting up an office girl near the cigarette machine.

  ‘He’s got a bit of dash,’ Malone said to O’Shea while gesturing over to Lynch. ‘He’s on to a nice one there.’

  ‘Whiskers is a natural.’

  ‘Why do you call him Whiskers? ’Cos he doesn’t look like he shaves yet?’

  ‘’Cos he knows how to talk to pussy.’

  Malone smiled. ‘What’s Kelso’s story?’ he asked, watching the scruffy one of the bunch regaling a war story.

  ‘Mind like a steel trap. Knows the criminal network better than most. Plays hard. Works harder.’

  ‘How about Roy? He seems … stand-offish.’

  ‘The boys don’t usually sit around smoking the peace pipe with the press. You have to remember that … Roy—he’s your classic six o’clock copper.’

  ‘What’s a six o’clock copper? I’ve not heard that before.’

  ‘Straight up and down. Roy has a brilliant investigative mind and he’s also our moral barometer. But don’t judge a book. He can go. Could have made the Olympics as a junior amateur lightweight.’

  ‘And Roy and Kell are on the same crew?’

  ‘They work like chisel and hammer.’

  Malone was on another smoke. He knew that when he gave the booze a nudge—or rather, when it nudged him—he practically chewed on the bastards.

  ‘Roy’s just sizing you up,’ O’Shea continued.

  ‘What’s with his limp?’

  ‘A rotty ripped his knee apart during a raid. One year on and he’s still upset that he had to shoot the dog. He would have much preferred to put down the owner.’

  O’Shea changed tack. It was now after dusk. ‘Ian, I’ve got some interesting mail for you—but it didn’t come from us.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘According to force command, no member of the Armed Robbery Squad is allowed to roll out with a shotgun any more. Jobs requiring the use of shotguns will now be handballed to the SOG.’

  ‘Jesus. That’s a major decision.’

  ‘Major. One that could endanger squad members—and the public.’

  ‘Why is this happening? Because of the Pascoe arrest?’

  ‘Dunno, but there’s a change in the wind. McFarlane is all
about corporate image and the PEC is running full steam with that paper-pusher Stuart Davis. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but Vic White is sure to fire up over this.’

  ‘Yeah. He will.’

  Malone looked at his watch. Nearly half past six. He still had about an hour before first edition deadline.

  ‘Let me make some calls and I’ll get something in tomorrow.’

  Defying his sozzled brain, Malone clicked into work mode. Armed with a blank serviette and a pen at an outside table, he rang the Police Union press secretary. Vic White was on the line within ten minutes, Malone scribbling down his quotes on the napkin. It took another fifteen to scrawl out the story. Another ten or so to file it over the phone to a copytaker. Fucking bingo! He’d hit the jackpot with The Robbers, again. The shotgun yarn was going to run as an exclusive sidebar on one.

  By nine o’clock McCrann was the last of the married Robbers to trudge off home. Some of the single blokes, led by Lynch, had decided to head to St Kilda to chase some backpacker skirt. Kelso was heading in another direction, one up.

  ‘Malone, what are you up to?’

  ‘Was probably going to head home,’ the journo mumbled, feeling like a beer-soaked balaclava had been pulled over his head.

  ‘Bullshit. The night is but a pup. Come on.’

  The detective and the journo jumped a cab.

  ‘Chinatown, thanks pal.’

  The two got out at the corner of Exhibition and Lonsdale. Kelso flicked the stinky man a twenty-buck note.

  ‘Buy yourself some Old Spice, sport.’

  Malone’s gut grumbled. A 7/Eleven store beckoned.

  ‘I gotta grab a pie.’

  ‘Eating’s cheating, pal.’

  ‘I’ve gotta get something.’

  A sound caught Kelso’s attention. It was the unmistakable thwack of a fist hitting flesh, followed by a victim’s plea. Kelso strode down the alley next to the convenience store. Malone followed. At the dead end, a gaunt man in a hooded top had a young Indian man by the scruff; another punch to the face. The victim fell to his knees. The hooded man sunk in the boot.

  ‘Give us your fuckin’ wallet, curry-muncher.’

  Kelso took a fistful of hood. Throttled the perp’s windpipe. He gargled. Like a hound incited by the scent of blood, Kelso threw the bottom feeder up against the wall. Justice had arrived. Kelso looked over to the original victim, now back on his feet.

  ‘You okay?’

  The young Indian bloke nodded, rubbing his jaw.

  ‘Good. Buzz off.’

  Kelso turned back to the perp.

  ‘How much have you got?’ The hooded man looked surprised. It was a rip, and he was now the victim.

  Hand still around throat, Kelso frisked him.

  ‘You got any sharps? Anything I’m gunna prick my fingers on?’

  The perp shook his head. Kelso found what he was looking for: a bunch of scrunched notes in a front jeans pocket.

  ‘You’ve been a busy boy.’

  Kelso fired an uppercut into the hooded man’s solar plexus. He crumpled.

  ‘Hey Malone, give him one.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Give him one. Break his fucking nose.’

  The hooded man was on his knees, airless lungs on fire. Backdraft in his chest. Malone was slightly unsteady, the invisible booze-soaked balaclava sitting heavy. Kelso dragged their prisoner upright again. Held his arms behind his back.

  ‘Go on! He won’t tell anyone … Punch this piece of shit right in the face.’

  Malone felt as unsure as a blind man in an unfamiliar room.

  ‘Come on. Do it! You know you want to!’

  Malone dredged his depths, right hand tightening into a taut, bleached fist. His first punch was a sweet one. Caught the hooded prisoner flush.

  ‘There you go!’ Kelso urged with a grin. ‘Give it to the cunt!’

  Malone unleashed another one. And another. And another. On the dark side of the moon he was incommunicado. When his senses returned, the hooded man lay whimpering at his feet. Breathless, Malone felt warm jam on his knuckles. Kelso seemed proud of his charge.

  ‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Malone replied, eyebrows raised as he sucked in the air.

  Kelso counted the money. Three hundred and forty bucks.

  ‘Proceeds of crime,’ he beamed. ‘Seized under Section fuck you shitman of the Crimes Act.’

  He pocketed the dirty cash.

  ‘Now go on,’ he goaded Malone, gesturing towards their victim. ‘Finish it. Let him know that he’s nothing but a germ.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Piss on the cunt. Show him that he’s nothing.’

  In his boozed state, Malone couldn’t decide if Kelso more resembled Madsen’s Mr Blond from Reservoir Dogs or Berenger’s Staff Sergeant Barnes from Platoon at that moment. Kelso grabbed Malone by the scuff. Positioned him over the target.

  ‘Don’t be a fucking pussy.’

  To placate the detective, Malone unzipped. Mustered up a jet. Pissed out on the victim. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel doing that. And he didn’t really want to know.

  ‘Job’s done, pal,’ Kelso applauded. ‘C’mon. Let’s go.’

  Malone looked back at the dazed, urine-soaked man groaning on the ground in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Where the hell are you taking me?’ he asked.

  Kelso dragged him on.

  A marble dragon stood defiantly at the gates of Chinatown. A left turn and the duo were at their destination: a door in an alley wall. No signage—just a slinky Asian doorbitch painted red by the glow of a Chinese lantern: a sultry cherry-lip pout stamped on a catwalk face.

  ‘Evening, Jin. Is Kim in tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Up you go, detectives.’

  Up a set of stairs and Malone was at a toilet basin washing the hooded man’s blood off his hands. The junkie arsehole could have been infected with anything. Malone’s gut churned; an invisible hand reaching down his throat to scrape the barrel. He spewed projectile-style, vile brown liquid spraying the basin. His gut lurched again. More spew. He spun into a cubicle and yelled into the toilet. Face numb. Hands clammy. Back at the basin, he took several deep breaths. Splashed his face. Regained his resolve. He was in way too deep to pull out now.

  Inside the Chinese club proper, Malone sat at a booth already under the command of Kelso: a maverick with a badge and bad tendencies. The venue was a high-society gentleman’s club minus the striptease poles and bare dancers, distinguished in design and tasteful in its temptations. Dim hanging lanterns lit plush booths. A redwood dance floor was the centrepiece. A bar, inset with aquariums, was set to the right. Pretty luminous fish swam in neon-lit water as dainty Asian women in satin oriental dresses moved between the tables. Hostesses sat with customers, some on laps and others smoking cigarettes. Laughter. A song. Cheers as a shot was swallowed: another instantly poured. Kelso had his own demure hostess. Another appeared next to Malone as soon as his arse hit the couch. She could have been a clone of the other. An older Asian woman, most likely late forties, walked up to the booth. She, too, wore a Chinese-style dress. Hers was royal blue, not hostess red, and embroidered with an intricate gold dragon.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Kelso. Long time no visit.’

  ‘Yeah, been a while, Kimmy.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you. Who’s your friend?’

  Malone jammed a cigarette between his teeth. His hostess lit it before he could whisper Peking Duck.

  ‘Kim, this is Ian Malone. The city’s top newspaper crime reporter.’

  ‘A newspaper reporter …’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m off duty.’

  ‘He’s cool, Kim. One of us.’

  ‘Well then, good evening, Mr Malone. What are you gentlemen drinking?’

  Kelso answered for them both. ‘Two bourbon and dries.’

  ‘Enjoy the atmosphere. You know the rules, Mr Kelso—treat the place as your own.’

>   Kelso was way ahead of the manageress, surreptitiously fingering his hostess’s moistening pussy under the table. The young woman didn’t give the slightest hint that she was being strummed. Malone’s hostess had her hand on his thigh. She was an exotic beauty; chocolate-drop eyes, charcoal black hair, beauty spot above a smallish mouth just made to accommodate his girth.

  Kelso withdrew his finger. Blotted it on a napkin.

  ‘Feel free to go and dance, girls.’

  The hostesses complied, moving seductively against each other on the redwood floor to David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’.

  ‘What is this place?’ Malone asked, breathing out smoke. The joint felt like a darker version of Club Obi Wan from the opening scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Kelso lit a dart. Thanked a waitress for the bourbons as they arrived.

  ‘Bottoms up.’

  The men tasted the bourbon. It wasn’t cheap shit.

  ‘This is a VIP gentlemen’s club for power brokers, businessmen, high rollers and captains of industry,’ Kelso explained. ‘I know Kim from way back. Helped her son out of a jam when I was with the Asian Squad, before The Robbers. She treats me like a king and keeps her eyes and ears open. A fair bit of nefarious shit happens here in Chinatown. Extortion. Gambling. Prostitution. Kidnappings. All sorts of rackets—but no complaints, and therefore no reported crime. And therefore … excellent for city crime-rate stats. Force command loves this precinct.’

  ‘So is Kim a gig of yours?’

  ‘Unofficially.’

  ‘That’s handy.’

  ‘Handy for blow jobs. The girls who work here are high class. You up for getting your dick wet?’

  ‘Not with a prostitute.’

  ‘Don’t worry, pal. Kimmy runs a clean kitchen. It’s true what they say—once you’ve had Asian, you’ll never go back.’

  Malone took a slug, and drank in the surrounds. The girls truly were beautiful: a high-class Asian smorgasbord.

  ‘So, who’s Jessica?’

  The question caught Malone off guard.

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Who’s Jessica?’

  ‘She was my girlfriend … Why?’

  ‘Because you told Hoodie Man “This is for Jessica” while you were punching the snot out of him.’

  Malone rubbed his eyes. Hadn’t realised he’d said that. He wanted to change the subject.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s dead.’