‘Honey, get me a drink,’ she ordered from the table.
Voss watched his eldest son respond dutifully. Nathan had transformed from a pencil-necked shady type to a muscled young bloke full of unearned bravado. Voss was proud of his boy—his mate—even though he was under Brenda’s thumb. A twenty-five-year-old builder, Nathan hit the gym maybe three times a week and dabbled in some boxing. Voss had always hoped Nathan might have made it as a footballer—maybe even play for the mighty Magpies—but the kid was a lug like his dad; liked the piss too much. Lacked the required discipline. Nathan returned with a stubby and a glass of white. Brenda took a sip. Turned her nose up.
‘Is that from a cask? I don’t drink wine from a box.’
Nathan returned to the kitchen as Doris placed a large plate of sliced silverside on the table.
‘Pass the mash, please.’
Brenda lifted the bowl over to her farther-in-law, who dumped a scoop of creamy white on his plate. Christian received a scoop. Everyone started to help themselves to what was on the table. Nathan returned with a bottle of white and poured a glass for his fiancée.
‘So, Brenda, what’s up?’ Voss asked.
With impish grin Christian sat poking his finger through a hole formed by fingers on his other hand. Voss side-spied the gesture and clipped the young one behind his ear.
‘How’s work?’ Voss tried a second time.
Brenda scooped some peas. ‘Pretty boring to be honest. But I won’t be there for much longer.’ She looked back to Nathan.
‘Why love?’ Doris inquired. ‘Have you found something else?’
Brenda sat with a smile. ‘No. I’m pregnant.’
Doris’ eyes lit up like a fairground. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God!’ She rushed around the table and hugged Brenda. Hugged her son. Nathan gnawed on a silverside roll. Raised his eyebrows and took a slug of beer. Voss noted an apparent lack of enthusiasm.
‘Congratulations you two,’ Voss said, raising his own stubby. ‘I’m gunna be a granddad. Jesus wept.’ He watched Brenda point to the sliced meat and click her fingers, gesturing Nathan to serve her a piece. She’d certainly come on since the days when Nathan first started bringing her home. In those days Voss had viewed her as a tasty piece of Bounty in a high school dress, sizing her up like a paedophile might a child at a church fete. Voss wondered how she’d taste now, as a controlling woman. He cut into his meat. It was pink. The way he liked it.
‘When did you find out?’ Doris asked, taking her seat.
‘I peed on the stick a month ago.’
As he chewed on his meat like the dull ox he wanted everyone to see, Voss imagined Brenda squatting to piss. He turned to his eldest. ‘How about you, bludger? How’s the building trade?’
Nathan spoke through his food. ‘We’re putting up a set of townhouses in Berwick at the moment.’
Voss raised his eyebrows. ‘Berwick. Very fancy … You need a painter?’
‘Mick’s already got someone he uses for interiors.’
‘No worries, pal. I always say there’s no harm in askin’.’
‘I’ll keep an ear open for ya, Dad.’
‘How’s the new house coming along?’
‘It’s been plastered and the floors are done. We just need to paint and move the furniture in.’
Doris’ eyes again lit with genuine excitement. ‘Is that right? That’s fantastic kids.’
‘Yeah,’ Voss echoed. ‘Good on ya. I’ll come over on Sunday and slap a coat on for ya.’
The whole new house saga had been giving Voss the shits.
As the dinner continued, with a few stubbies on the side, a sense of charity washed over Stan Voss. His eldest son was henpecked. Pussy-whipped by Princess Brenda, cock tease that she was. It was time to offer Nathan an opportunity—unlike his own dad, a demon drinker with the railway union who some nights had offered him nothing more than a burning belt across his arse. And they had been the good nights. On the bad ones Voss senior had strapped him blue and degraded and hurt him with longneck bottles.
‘After tea we’ll go out into the garage and have a beer and a chat,’ Voss whispered.
Voss sat on the couch in the garage, twisting a stubby top to the tune of a silverside belch. ‘Bloody great cook that woman … Cheers, big ears.’
Nathan drank. Voss rummaged for a joint in an empty paint tin. Found one freshly rolled and lit it. Took a hit. ‘You under the pump with Brenda, mate?’
He passed the joint over to his son. ‘She busting your balls?’
Nathan shrugged his shoulders. Took in a suck of glutinous smoke.
‘You want some respect, stick your finger up her arse,’ Voss offered. ‘Don’t ask me how I learned it, but it works on dogs and it works on people.’
Nathan sniggered. ‘You’re a sick fuck.’
Voss winked and smiled as he accepted back the joint. ‘You don’t know the half of it … Hey listen, can I trust you?’
‘Yeah, course. What about?’
‘Are you sure I can trust ya?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Righto. Then listen. I’ve got a nice little earner going on on the side. Want you to be me partner.’
‘What is it?’
‘The armed robbery business.’
‘Hey?’
‘You heard me. You can make good money and go home with the smell of a man about you.’
Nathan had heard the magic word. ‘How much money?’
‘It adds up. It’s real easy.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Help me rob places, knucklehead.’ Voss gently butted the joint, got up and walked to an old-style cabinet in the corner. Pulled out a box and threw his eldest son a rubber movie mask. ‘This’ll make ya look scary. Make ’em shit their dacks.’
Nathan studied the mask. ‘What sort of places are ya talkin’ about?’
Voss handed him latex gloves and a roll of silver electrical tape. ‘I’ll show ya.’
Arnold Schwarzenegger and John Rambo stormed the Montrose chicken shop at closing. Voss forced the guy to the wall, down on knees with hands on head.
‘Tape him, Johnny! Tape him!’
Nathaniel Voss, all heart rate and fumbling fingers, dropped the roll of tape. Jesus, this was the real deal. He couldn’t believe his dad was into this. He got the tape going and wrapped wrists. Bound ankles. Voss was at the register.
‘Come on, John! Let’s go!’
The bandits were out the rear door and gone. Arnie now had a partner.
CHAPTER 22
Connie Letts arrived home from work just after two in the morning, with new buddy Robbie Walters in tow. Billy Letts was lying topless and propped up in bed semi-dozing in front of some bullshit late-night television, his tattooed left arm wrapped from elbow to wrist in thick gauze bandage.
‘Hun?’
Letts stirred.
‘Hun, I’m home … This is Robbie.’
‘Who the fuck—’
‘He’s a bit of a fixture at the caravan park across the road from the pool hall. Plays the tables.’
Connie ruffled Robbie’s hair. ‘Don’t ya, ya spunk?’
Robbie shrugged his shoulders.
‘Go and make yourself a sandwich.’
In the Special Projects Unit device room, Drake—wearing headphones attached to a laptop—sat listening in on the lives of William and Constance Letts via the LDs secreted in their kitchen and main bedroom. So far nothing of value had come up. But time was on The Robbers’ side, if in fact Letts was their man.
Connie sat down on the bed. Letts whispered angrily.
‘Jesus, Con. What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ bringing a stranger here? Now?’
‘He’s not a stranger. I’ve known him for ages. He’s basically a street kid. Had nowhere to go tonight.’
‘Fuck, what are we—the lost dogs’ home? You’ve already gone to your fucking doctor and the chemist when I told you not to—’
Connie started to weep. Pulled away. �
��You’re a real fucking prick. I’m gunna take a shower.’
Parked up the street just over a rise, Gucciardo and Lynch sat in a dark squad sedan.
‘Wimbledon Heights my arse,’ Gooch muttered. ‘No strawberries and cream around here. This place is a dump.’
Lynch sipped on a Gatorade. The big sergeant shook his head.
‘You know you drink too much of that stuff, don’t you.’
‘It stops me cramping.’
Gooch shook his head. ‘I’ll tell ya what’ll stop you cramping. Stop racing Happy around the Tan every chance you get. That’ll stop you cramping.’
‘Gotta keep the fitness up. Cheekbones and abs—that’s what the chicks go for.’
‘Bullshit … Do you cook for any of your puttanas, or do you just take ’em out to restaurants?’
‘Might take ’em out for dinner then sit by a bar. Most of the time it’s just drinking and fucking.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Unbelievable. Take the advice of a forty-three-year-old Italian cooking sensation—knock up a pasta dish or a scaloppine and serve it with a nice bottle. Do that and women will worship you.’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue how to cook anything like that. It’s skinned chicken for me at home … But next time Dick takes us out on the bay I could get a few flathead and throw ’em in the oven.’
‘Il mio amico e un idiota—’
‘What’s that?’
‘I said “my fucking friend’s an idiot” … Listen, learn how to cook magnificent meals. You wouldn’t serve a lady flathead. I’ll bring you in some recipes. Like bruschetta di pomodori or gamberi in salsa verde—Gucciardo-style—for starters. You could follow that with a spaghetti alla bucaniera or a petto di vitello ripieno, depending on whether your guest likes seafood or meat. And for dessert, something classical and light like fragole al vino bianco just to spark the palette—before the sparks start flying in the bedroom, or on the kitchen bench or wherever she jumps you first.’
‘That all sounds pretty good.’
‘It’s better than pretty good, pal. It’s the duck’s nuts of dining—if you can nail it.’
‘So, you’ve still got one or two in the stable at the moment?’
‘Hey, all my mares are well fed.’
Lynch laughed. Took a call.
‘Whiskers, Duck here, pal. It’s sit rep time. We’ve got the male Letts in the main bedroom. A second male, unknown, in the kitchen. The woman’s in the shower. No relevant talk.’
‘Okay, thanks, pal.’ Lynch hung up. Spoke to his sergeant. ‘Three inside. Nothing’s happening. I’m going in … to get a look at the layout.’
The house was a weathered Phillip Island weatherboard set on an overgrown block. An old trailer and discarded junk—a bent spring camp bed, a broken TV and an array of car chassis parts—sat dumped in the front yard. Under moonlight, Lynch crept along a neighbouring front lawn and down the side of the target shack. Saw no-one through the lounge-room window. He moved to a smaller window at head height. It was open and exhaling a sweet-shampoo waft. Stepping on to the dry garden bed, Lynch silently negotiated his way in behind a hedge bush and peered inside. The bathroom was covered in a light moist haze, Constance Letts standing under the shower in the bathtub. Little tits. Shaved box. Okay legs, despite some bruises. With the hedge providing cover, Lynch took the opportunity and unzipped his pants. He worked up his rod and proceeded to unload. For Detective Jack Lynch, mundane surveillance work sometimes came with perks. And he hadn’t had to cook a thing.
CHAPTER 23
Billy Letts sat at a cluttered lounge-room table toying with his revolver, spinning the weapon on his finger like a wounded gunslinger. He placed the weapon down to pull a cone. The bong water bubbled gently as he sucked down the smoke, dull honey filling his brain. The pain on his arm dissolved. Across the room, wrapped in a doona on the tattered couch, lay Robbie Walters—looking warm, secure and dead to the world. Connie was up early and down at the supermarket buying some bacon and eggs. Said she wanted to cook her men a decent breakfast.
Connie arrived home some time after ten o’clock. Robbie still lay asleep, stained white socks poking from the end of the doona. From a shopping bag Connie pulled a folded copy of The Age. Opened it on the table.
‘Only one story in the papers today.’
‘Good girl. Let’s see what the jacks know.’ Letts scanned the article. ‘Ha, they’ve got no idea. Listen to this. “Police believe a bandit who shot it out with two payroll van guards during the bungled Pakenham bank heist stole two getaway cars from Dandenong railway station.” Fucking cockheads, I only stole the Commodore. Sammy pinched the Falcon.’
In the SPU device room, Teasedale had the day shift. This was what The Robbers wanted: the mention of specific detail only an offender could know.
Letts continued to read. ‘“The bandit, said to be aged in his mid forties—” Jesus, they’re way off there—“is believed to have burned his second getaway car, possibly in a remote rural area.” These jacks are dickheads. The Commodore’s hidden in Sammy’s garage.’
The rest of the story was harmless. Didn’t point to Letts at all. ‘I reckon I’m pretty clear Con.’
His belief instilled some sort of hope in Connie.
‘It’s time to head out again,’ Letts told her, sucking down another cone. He started twirling his revolver again, peering over at the sleeping teenager. ‘What’s his story?’
Connie was cracking eggs into a bowl in the kitchen. It was comforting to feel like a normal wife doing what normal wives did.
‘I told you. He’s a down and outer. Floats around the island. His mum’s around somewhere.’
Letts scratched his cheek with the gun barrel. ‘You reckon he’d be up to helping me?’
‘Are you fuckin’ mad? He’s just a boy. Probably no older than sixteen.’
‘Old enough to root, old enough to shoot …’
‘Stop it.’
‘Hey, I’m serious. My arm’s still fucked. I could use someone.’
Connie whipped the eggs with a fork. ‘What are you going to try to rob this time?’
‘An RSL. It’s a walk-up start.’
Robbie stirred.
‘Morning spunk,’ Connie smiled.
Robbie scratched his head. Yawned.
‘Want some breakfast?’
‘Yeah.’
Letts injected himself into the conversation. ‘G’day sunshine.’
Robbie immediately noticed the revolver, and did not bat an eyelid. ‘Connie, where’s your toilet?’
‘Down the hall.’
After he’d disappeared into the hall, Letts observed, ‘He doesn’t say much.’
‘Might have something to do with the fact you’re sitting there with a handgun.’
In the SPU bunker, Teasedale was documenting all relevant facts. Suspect Letts armed with handgun.
Robbie returned and sat at the table. Connie placed down two plates of eggs and bacon. Sat and watched on like a mother hen. Robbie tucked in.
‘Get him some juice, Con,’ Letts suggested. ‘Or you want a beer?’
‘Juice, mate.’
Connie obliged.
‘So Robbie, you got anything going at the moment?’
‘What do ya mean?’
‘Any lurks? Any earns? Any deals goin’ on?’
‘Nah.’
‘You want an earn?’
‘What sort of an earn?’
‘An armed rob. You wanna be my partner?’ Letts knew that opportunities for an earn would be rare for an aimless gutter feeder like Robbie Walters.
‘When?’
‘Very soon. Stick around.’
Gucciardo briefed Tomlinson and five of his black-clad Sons of God: Letts was armed and preparing for a hold-up at an unknown location with possibly a second offender in tow—identity and antecedents unknown. A surveillance team was sitting off the property. Gucciardo pointed to enlarged photographs
of the premises: a mug shot of Letts glaring back at the SOG men. Not a wise move. Gucciardo told the SOG, ‘The plan is for you guys to remain on stand-by at the San Remo police station and move in when necessary.’
Tomlinson addressed his men. ‘Down to the van and kit up. We move in ten.’
In the loading bay at the Flinders Street police complex, the five SOG men stood assembled, fully strapped in their body armour: giant soldier ants with black exoskeletons. The team were young bucks, all sinew and muscle and tactical expertise—the new chiselled-down breed of SOG. Gone were the brawny Dolph Lundgren types. The right stuff was all about economy and endurance now. The team lowered on bended knee with helmets under their arms as their senior sergeant addressed them. This was ritual.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst to see right prevail,’ Tomlinson recited. ‘They shall be satisfied. How blessed are those who show mercy; mercy shall be shown to them. How blessed are those whose hearts are pure. They shall see God. And, gentlemen, blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the Sons of God.’
Letts sniffed a line of speed off the kitchen bench through a rolled-up five-buck note. The gear was rough; jumped on with fuck knows what. He handed the note to Robbie who hoovered a line. The kid was pumped: brain burning while playing AC/DC air guitar to ‘Back In Black’. The music boomed.
Connie did a line. In the laundry, Letts opened a cupboard under the trough and pulled free an old sawn-off, its trigger missing. He tossed it to the kid.
Connie gave Robbie a hug from behind. Kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t you hurt him, Billy.’
‘He’s all right, aren’t ya, little big man.’
Robbie shredded a chord on his sawn-off guitar. He was Angus fucking Young. Back in black.
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