The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  A moment’s silence. Awkward rather than reverent.

  ‘Jesus. Sorry, pal … When you said she was stabbed, I thought—’

  ‘She didn’t die from the stabbing—directly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Malone took a breath. ‘It was a Saturday night. We were out. Jess was heading to Parliament Station. He got her. Grabbed her bag, then stabbed her. Severed her spinal cord. She ended up in a wheelchair—no use of her legs.’

  ‘Jesus …’

  ‘She slashed her wrists in the bath six months later.’

  ‘Oh fuck …’

  ‘Yeah … I felt like an angel kicked me in the balls the day I met her. And then she was gone.’

  ‘Where were you when she got stabbed?’

  Malone twirled his glass. Skolled its contents.

  ‘In a fucking bar. I was pissed off. We’d had a bullshit argument and she left to catch a train. I didn’t follow her … I just kept drinking.’

  ‘Was the piece of shit arrested? Charged?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good … but you feel responsible.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon you do.’

  ‘Well deduced, Sherlock.’

  ‘That’s gotta be tough to live with … You poor bastard. And you haven’t moved on, I’m guessing.’

  ‘To quote De Niro—“I am alone but I am not lonely’’.’ Malone hoped Kelso did not see through the lie. If he did, the detective didn’t let it show.

  ‘Heat,’ Kelso said instead. ‘Great fucking movie … Hey, let me give you a tip. Get back into the game. Play the field before your elbows start looking like your ball bag.’ Kelso winked over the top of a tilting bourbon glass. Smirked. ‘That’s when it’s all over.’

  Malone chuckled as he chewed ice. ‘What about you? Married? Divorced? Kids?’

  Kelso shook his head. ‘Perish the thought. Roy’s the happily married one. Three beautiful boys. Wife’s an absolute champion.’

  ‘How long you been with The Robbers?’

  ‘Seven years. Long enough to know we run this town. The crooks fear us, and that’s the way it should be. They fear us and they hate us. We hate them and we break them. Plain and fucking simple.’

  ‘And how do you feel when you cross the line?’

  For Malone, the response to this question was to be the crucial answer.

  ‘I sleep soundly,’ Kelso said without a waver in his voice. ‘Everything I’ve done has been for a righteous cause. The common good.’

  ‘Waddabout the PEC? Are they going to cause … prob’ems?’ Malone was starting to slur a bit; the room turned at a gentle spin as another round of bourbons hit the table.

  ‘Those spankers? If the Beach Inquiry couldn’t get The Robbers I can’t see those idiots touching us.’ Kelso leaned in and continued, passion engraved in his voice. ‘It’s like the Cowboy Carter high hit. He might have paid the price at the tribunal, but big hits will always be a part of football. Think footy and you think Brereton, Dipper, Rhys-Jones and Lockett. The real hard cunts … Think Victoria Police and you think The Robbers. We still shirtfront the bad blokes.’

  Kelso sounded proud and bullish. Malone turned to watch the two hostesses rubbing satin against satin to Bowie.

  ‘You know what,’ Kelso offered. ‘I look at you and think maybe we’re not that different—you and me.’

  Malone raised his eyebrows. He’d now decided on which character, Mr Blond or Staff Sergeant Barnes, more suited Kelso, who slammed down his bourbon glass, butted his smoke and rose.

  ‘Time to get my bat sucked. You?’

  Malone declined. ‘I’m gunna get going. I’m fucking wasted.’

  ‘Suit yourself, pal. Adios.’

  Malone watched Kell take his hostess by the hand and lead her through a dark doorway. He had no doubt in his mind now that The Robbers were the real fucking deal—and that Kelso was the one he was after.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was midnight when Kelso arrived at Flinders Street station, just in time for the last train home. At the steps he crossed paths with a Salvation Army volunteer, and his hand plunged into his pocket. He pulled free the three hundred and forty bucks he’d earlier ‘seized’ from the hooded street bandit—and stuffed the lot into the tin. The only witnesses to the charity, apart from the male volunteer, were a drunken punter painting his face with souvlaki, two pashing ferals and nine silent clock faces.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the volunteer shouted.

  Kelso winked. Saluted on the run.

  ‘Compliments of the Armed Robbery Squad.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Dave Gilmore was running late for his son’s game. The statement had taken longer than expected. You couldn’t rush a witness, even if her detailed description was eating into the first quarter of your only child’s under-nine game. Gilmore locked his car and stood on the boundary line. Acknowledged some of the other parents.

  ‘Good one, Timmy! Good kick son!’

  Thumbs up to the boy. The quarter-time siren blared. The boys ran to the huddle. Tim Gilmore ran towards his dad. Gilmore hugged his son.

  ‘Go and listen to your coach, pal.’

  After the game father and son walked hand in hand back to the car.

  ‘Sorry I was late.’

  ‘That’s okay, Dad. I won’t tell Mum.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, pal?’

  ‘Mum says you love your job more than you love me, and that’s why you can’t live with us and take me to school and see me play every game of footy or cricket.’

  Gilmore stopped, lowered to one knee. Placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘That’s not true. Your mum’s wrong on that one … I don’t have a normal job like Matt’s dad. Or Jake’s dad. Sometimes I work during the day to catch the bad guys. Other times I work at night time to catch them.’

  ‘When do the bad guys go to sleep?’

  ‘Well, some of them never sleep—’

  Gilmore lifted his boy and tickled him.

  ‘—like monsters that go “ooga booga!”’

  The kid giggled and struggled. Gilmore laughed too, and hugged his son. Carried him the rest of the way.

  ‘Just never forget that I love you more than anything in the whole world.’

  ‘I love you too, Dad.’

  ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘I’m very proud of you too, Dad.’

  ‘Righto. Come on. You want some Macca’s?’

  ‘Mum says I can’t have McDonald’s. It’s bad for me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, your mum ain’t here right now … After that we can go to the ’G and watch the Cats beat the Saints if you like. I’ve got two tickets right here in my pocket.’

  Tim’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Cool.’

  A big black crow sat perched atop Malone’s throne as he and Berenger’s Staff Sergeant Barnes sat in a Saigon nightclub watching a den of naked Asian women entwined. Barnes, in jungle fatigues and green bandana, passed the whiskey bottle over. Malone took it. Drowned himself in rye. One or two of the feeding women called on him to join the orgy.

  ‘I shit on you all,’ Barnes laughed.

  The staff sergeant turned to Malone, his heavily scarred face grotesque yet demanding of admiration. Respect. Barnes leaned in.

  ‘Elias was full of shit,’ he whispered in a threatening tone. ‘Elias was a crusader.’

  Malone’s crow spoke into his other ear. ‘Nevermore.’

  Lathered in sweat, Malone sat bolt upright in bed with an invisible train spike jutting from his skull. The pain drove his head back to the pillow. Momentarily lost, his brain like an empty hard drive, he lay as his mind rebooted: files and programs slowly restoring. It was Saturday morning. He’d spent yesterday afternoon at the Fleece. Took calls from Dick O’Shea and Stuart Davis. Drank a skinful with The Robbers at the Royal. Bashed and pissed
on some bloke in an alley, on Kelso’s urging. Lusted after high-class Asian hookers at the Chinese club. He couldn’t remember getting home. Despite cobbling it all together, Malone felt lost … and then there was the nightmare. His subconscious mind was obviously talking. Was it guilt or a fear of being caught out? Was it a warning about the dangerous game he’d chosen to play? Squinting against the sunlight, he remembered a Ken Shepherd phrase about Glen Pascoe—and knew that he himself was now rolling the dice. A crow perched in the tree outside cawed loudly, as if to steel any wavering resolve.

  ‘Nevermore.’

  Malone righted himself on the edge of his bed. Peered across at the enlarged framed photograph of Jessica, her frozen black-and-white smile eating into him as it still did every morning. Opus Dei would have classed this punishment akin to self-flagellation. Malone peeled off and scratched his way to the toilet. Cracked his neck and dry-retched in the shower, the water washing away the toxins but not the sins from the night before. Drying in front of the mirror, he caught himself checking out the state of his elbow skin. It wasn’t scrotum just yet. Kelso was a funny cunt. Impossible not to like. And therein lay Malone’s burgeoning dilemma.

  Two hours later Malone dragged himself to the Fleece. Amber’s newsflash: ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Give us a lemon squash will ya please?’

  Alby heard the verbal sacrilege. ‘Bullshit, love. Give him a pot of the real stuff.’

  Malone perched himself next to the old Painter and Docker, a form guide and seven-ounce glass in front of the florid codger.

  ‘Man up, boy. You’ll feel better for it.’

  Amber pushed the pot of Carlton under Malone’s nose. She couldn’t hide her grin. ‘What did you do last night?’

  ‘You don’t wanna know.’ He took a mouthful. Swallowed razor blades. Felt like he was going to spew.

  ‘You tie one on, lad?’

  ‘I was out with the Armed Robbery Squad.’

  Alby chuckled.

  ‘Told ya to be careful.’

  ‘Who are you? Fuckin’ Yoda?’ Malone chinked Alby’s glass. Took another sip. Amber moved on. Malone spoke quietly.

  ‘Hey, Alby, you still connected?’

  Alby continued to study the form.

  ‘Connected …’

  ‘You know what I mean. You still in contact with some of your old Painters and Dockers mates?’

  ‘I’m not the only one still breathing.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘You don’t need that kind of help.’

  ‘I need to score some drugs.’

  Alby sniffed. Pondered while rubbing his white-prickled chin. Spoke to his form guide. ‘You’re still pissed, boy. Go sleep it off.’

  ‘I’m right, old man. I just need to buy some gear.’

  Alby faced Malone. ‘You’re not lookin’ for heroin, are ya?’

  ‘No. Some speed.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I just need a pick-me-up … but I dunno where to get it.’

  Alby took a sip. ‘Well, I guess I’m not ya dad …’ He ripped a corner from the newspaper. Jotted down a phone number. ‘Give Tommy Gunston a ring. Tell him I gave you this number. He’ll be able to point you to someone.’

  ‘Thanks Alby.’

  ‘Be careful. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell ’em your real name. If you’re doin’ business with that crew and they get wind you’re a journo, you’re a dead journo.’

  It was five o’clock when Stanley Voss, a self-employed interior painter, finished up a dining room in Doncaster. He whistled as he worked his brush across the cornice; his transistor radio broadcasting the aftermath of the Geelong–Saints game from the MCG. After washing his gear, he packed up his station wagon and cracked a VB can. He rang the missus, inquiring about dinner.

  ‘Fish and chips or Chow’s? No worries. I’ll get us a bit of everything. Fried rice. Not steamed. No worries, darl.’

  It was quarter to six and Voss sat reading a TV Week while waiting for his dinner order. A little Asian man appeared with three white bags of food. Voss paid the man. Grabbed a menu. ‘Thanks, China.’

  Just after eleven o’clock, Voss sat in his car in a side street across from the same Chinese restaurant. Wearing a tracksuit and blue latex gloves, he pulled on his Arnold Schwarzenegger mask and checked again that his revolver was loaded.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Monday morning meeting. Shepherd stood in front of a whiteboard, addressing every member of the squad. No-one missed the Monday morning meeting, unless they were dead or on leave. Scrawled on the board were a list of current investigations with notes and photographs of suspects. It was a time for updates from every crew, so each was up to scratch on how the others were progressing. Ideas were traded and exchanged. Relevant information passed on. It was a true team environment. One in, all in.

  ‘Right,’ Shepherd said with finality, reading glasses halfway down his nose. ‘Last but not least we’ve got a new guy on the scene. He’s hit two suburban pizza joints and a Chinese restaurant, all in the eastern suburbs. He did the Chinese joint on Saturday night.’

  Shepherd turned to information reports and skim-read the relevant details aloud. The crews listened intently; some men took notes.

  ‘Armed with a handgun—most likely a revolver, according to witnesses. Wears some kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger rubber mask. Hits at closing time for pissant amounts. Sounds Caucasian. Estimated to be in his forties. Six footer. Has only popped up in the last four weeks so, Roy, check for any recently released stick-up merchants on the Parole Board’s books. The rest of you, work your gigs. It may be lowball but it’s a series, so this guy falls to us. Roy, start a file. Call it Operation Paradox. Anything else, gentlemen? Righto. Monday morning meeting is over. Let’s go to work … Dick, can I see you for a sec?’

  Shepherd lit up as O’Shea entered his enclosure, Irs in one hand and coffee mug in the other.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Shepherd was having trouble smothering a wry grin. There was a fire in his eyes, as if he’d lit a match somewhere. ‘Farley’s been on the blower demanding to know how the shotgun story hit the press. Shit’s hit the fan upstairs and at the media liaison bureau, apparently.’

  Shepherd flicked on his CD player. Pushed a button. Now it was time for some Ode to Joy. The inspector lowered the volume.

  ‘This Malone bloke,’ Shepherd said as he sat, taking stock of some reports. ‘He’s all right?’

  ‘Seems genuine, so I gave him the story,’ O’Shea confirmed. ‘You could ask Kell about him. He and Malone kicked on after the Royal.’

  Shepherd made some inquiries. ‘Your thoughts?’ he asked Kelso after summoning him in. ‘Can we trust him?’

  Kelso nodded. ‘He’s an ex junior connie who crossed over, but I reckon he’s a white man, boss. Could be a handy asset. I like him.’

  ‘Righto, thanks Kell. Back to it, pal.’

  CHAPTER 11

  The interior of the Red Barons’ Leongatha clubhouse belied its industrial fortified facade. It was decked out like a saloon, with a bar, couches and a dancing podium complete with stripper’s pole. Billy Letts, a man with criminal form and jail house ‘tough stickers’ to prove it, sat drinking Douglas and cola cans with Greg ‘Pig Dog’ Piper. A fully patched Barons member, Piper wore the perennial colours. Letts—the welcome visitor—sat in boots, jeans and a flannelette shirt.

  ‘I hear Hatchet’s trial’s going well,’ Letts said in conversation. ‘A good chance he’s gunna beat it.’

  Pig Dog lifted his right leg and farted. ‘Burritos.’

  The thick stench only added charm to the clubhouse.

  ‘Real good chance,’ Pig Dog confirmed. ‘We’ve managed to convince the bitch to forget what happened. She cries rape and she’s dead.’

  ‘Happy days. It’ll be good to see him for a drink … Bad news about Stingray.’

  ‘Yeah. The silly cunt got what was coming.’

  Letts changed the subj
ect. ‘So, mate, have you thought about me borrowing your second bike?’

  Shaking his head, Pig Dog placed a fat hand on Letts’ shoulder. ‘Billy … Billy. Lending a man your bike is like giving him your woman.’

  ‘Come on, mate. It’s your back-up hog. It’ll only be for the weekend.’

  The corpulent bikie pondered. ‘And what’s in it for me, brother?’

  Letts leaned in at the bar. ‘My sister-in-law works for a dodgy real estate agent up near Sale. I reckon he could help you clean cash through property deals.’

  Like a fat gypsy at a country fair, Pig Dog smelled opportunity. ‘Hmm. We could use an estate agent. Okay. You’ve got the bike for the weekend. But remember, one scratch and you’re fucked. I mean it, Billy. Fucked.’

  Billy Letts was the king of the road; a horseman of the apocalypse as he rumbled into Daylesford. Gary Thompson was waiting in the pub car park, arms crossed and foot resting up against his ute.

  ‘Jesus mate, nice wheels.’

  Ten pots later and Letts and Thompson were oiled. Former jailhouse mates, they’d done a stretch together in Castlemaine’s medium security for agg burgs and firearms offences. Letts had a prior for armed rob. But neither owed the Parole Board a single day: blokes with form and off the leash. Thompson was holding the day’s intake better than his mate.

  ‘Thommo, you want to get in with a bikie chapter,’ Letts enthused. ‘You should see the fuckin’ parties they throw. Bourbon. Speed. Hookers. I’m a prospect now.’ Letts finished pot number eleven. ‘Me mate Pig Dog, he’s the one who leant me the hog.’

  ‘Fuck, mate, you’re mad. They’re religious about their bikes.’

  ‘Relax. You worry too much …’ Letts yelled to the barman. ‘Hey, knackers, another two pots.’ As the drinks arrived, he remembered. ‘Hey, did you hear about Kane Finch? He came home the other night and found his neighbour chock-a-block up his missus, so he drags the neighbour out into his garage, ties his hands behind his back and jams his dick in a vice. Then he grabs a hacksaw and cuts off the vice handle. The neighbour’s absolutely shitting himself …’

  ‘Ha! As you would be …’