The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘What about the jacks?’

  Letts turned to Connie.

  ‘Hey, I’m not gunna blow this … and fuck the jacks. I’m never goin’ back in.’

  He snorted another line of the rough cut. ‘I’m never goin’ back! Robbie, you ready?’

  ‘Fuck yeah, man, I’m ready.’

  Robbie howled like a mutt. Letts bared his teeth, his pupils the size of black marbles.

  The SOG received the call. Message from The Robbers: the situation had escalated. It was time to apprehend Letts, his potential co-offender and the wife. Letts had forced their hand.

  Letts, with revolver down the front of his jeans waistband, was on his way from the front porch to Connie’s LTD when the Sons of God moved in on foot, two SOG marksmen hidden as shrubbery taking a bead on the targets. Robbie, carrying the busted sawn-off, was right on Letts’ heels. In five-man formation the Sons of God encroached, ordering the suspects to drop their guns and lie on the ground.

  ‘Police, don’t move! Drop the guns, now!’

  Letts stopped and propped, his hand on his revolver. His brain was aflame; his mercury up. He was never going back. He went to draw down. A SOG round hit his chest, the ugly snarl of gunfire blinding him.

  Robbie stood a white pawn amid the black knights: the busted sawn-off glued in his frozen grip. Rapid-fire rounds tagged his right cheek, sternum, shoulder and hip. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Letts saw the kid go down in a red blur. The SOG men continued to converge, shrubs coming to life with precision muzzle fire as Letts raised his handgun. Letts turned with each poke of God’s invisible finger. In an instant he was down looking up into the grey scape, Connie’s scream floating through his mind. AC/DC had it all wrong.

  Fade to black.

  CHAPTER 24

  Angela Chambers’ chief adviser brought her in the morning papers along with black tea and toast. Robbie Walters’ inconsolable mother had come out of the woodwork to cry blue murder. She’d been all over the news the previous evening. On the radio that morning. Splashed across the front of every newspaper. The promos were suggesting she was due to appear on that night’s A Current Affair. Chambers was on the phone to her Police Minister, Russell Kavanagh.

  ‘Who had ultimate control of the operation? I see … Yes. I need to get the relevant people together. It’s time we looked at the bigger picture. Phil will organise a meeting.’

  Chambers hung up. Sat back in her leather throne with fingers clasped. The Armed Robbery Squad had become a thorn. Bad publicity outweighed outstanding clean-up rates. She sipped as she read: the Herald Sun’s front page picture showing the bodies of Billy Letts and Robbie Walters lying dead where they had been felled.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered to her adviser. ‘Are we living in Melbourne, Victoria … or Tijuana fucking Mexico? Set up a meeting with Russell, McFarlane, Jack Clancy and Stuart Davis—asap please.’

  Voss—an expert at facades—whistled as he worked. The Lucky Dragon restaurant, nestled in an industrial estate in the eastern suburb of Chirnside Park, was a big job all right. He had himself and the talkback radio bloke for company. Owner-manager Jimmy Chang entered the main room from the refurbished kitchen with a plate of steamed dim sum.

  ‘Stan, snack for you.’

  Voss put down his roller, ragged his hands and selected one. The little fucker was hot.

  ‘D’oh!’

  He blew on it and took a bite.

  ‘Mmm, that’s nice.’

  ‘My food the best in Melbourne. When we reopen, you come here often.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Chang. I’ll be back once you’re open. I might bring my son.’

  In an austere mahogany Parliament House boardroom—adorned with photos of Melbourne’s changing city skyline post Batman—the premier sat with those summoned before her. Police Minister Kavanagh. Chief Commissioner McFarlane. Deputy Commissioner of Crime Jack Clancy. And Stuart Davis. The premier poured herself a red wine, an air of authority about her even if it was after hours. Kavanagh, a soufflé politician according to the newspaper cartoonists, also took a red. McFarlane, all shiny crowns on the shoulders, drank soda water. Clancy, still in uniform, drank nothing. Davis, a clammy stretch of uncooked dough who could have been mistaken for a tax auditor, ate a biscuit with cheese from a silver tray. Chambers addressed the policemen.

  ‘Gentlemen, you know Stuart Davis, chief investigative officer of the PEC.’

  The men nodded.

  ‘Of course,’ said McFarlane.

  Clancy said nothing.

  ‘Now,’ the premier continued, ‘what are we doing about the Armed Robbery Squad? Recent media publicity has been far from desirable, to say the least.’

  Davis—his conservative glasses looking slightly too large for his shaved balding head—referred to a folder, his thin fingers flicking deftly through damning documents.

  ‘Angela, according to our raw data there’s been a very high number of complaints made by criminals against the Armed Robbery Squad.’

  He handed out copies of a graph his people had compiled. It showed the number of complaints made by suspects against each of the major crime squads.

  ‘As you can see there’s a glaring disparity,’ he continued, his rolling accent carrying a sour bouquet.

  McFarlane got in on the act. ‘The Armed Robbery Squad has traditionally viewed assaulting criminals as a primary role, as if it’s standard procedure. That mentality is old and tired. It should have ended with the death of “The Majors”. And then there’s incidents like the Phillip Island double shooting.’

  Clancy weighed in. ‘“The Group” is responsible for what happened on Phillip Island. Both suspects were armed and a team moved in to arrest them. A coroner will decide if they acted unlawfully.’

  McFarlane glowered at his number two. Davis watched on with a hint of delight as the commissioner went to continue an in-house argument.

  ‘The Armed Robbery Squad was running that operation. They were second-guessing and had no contingencies in place, other than to send in the SOG.’

  ‘Well, you did take their shotguns off them. Maybe if they’d spent less time briefing “The Group” and more time concentrating on their own efforts …’

  ‘Jack, the Armed Robbery Squad fucked up on this one. End of story.’

  Clancy, soon to be gone after a forty-five-year career, seemed not to be salivating like his boss. His voice remained that of reason.

  ‘What’s with the agenda here, Trevor? Why are you and these bureaucratic muppets so hell-bent on wiping out The Robbers?’

  ‘Times have changed, unlike you and your outdated philosophies,’ McFarlane decreed. ‘Policing styles have changed. The “old-school” mentality no longer suits our professional and modern style.’

  ‘What’s the nature of the complaints?’ Chambers asked to regain focus.

  Davis took the opportunity with relish. ‘Heavy-handed methods. Brusque techniques. Suspects have rights. They cannot be brutalised for the sake of a “result”.’

  He moved his fingers to signify quotation marks. Clancy shifted uneasily in his chair as Davis continued, ‘They assault suspects. They’re over-aggressive. They put handcuffs on too tightly.’

  A flying squad detective in his day, Clancy interjected. Forcefully. Yet again. ‘And what’s next on your list, Stuart? They don’t give a crook two sugars in his coffee? I mean, with all due respect, what the hell would you know about real policing? You’re ex–Scotland Yard IA turned bank fraud advisory division.’

  McFarlane attempted to gag his deputy. ‘Jack—’

  Clancy lifted a finger. ‘No. Trevor, I can’t sit here and listen to this bureaucrat sermonise about state police procedure and force culture.’ He turned directly to Davis, ‘Have you ever confronted
an angry man who wants to punch you into next week because of the colour of your uniform? Have you ever kicked in a door at dawn knowing you’re probably going to be staring down the barrel of a gun?’

  Davis sat unruffled, knowing he was Teflon: a government-appointed enema who had the commissioner’s ear.

  ‘We all know your history, Jack. Consorting Squad. The Majors. The Armed Robbery Squad is just an extension of those extinct groups.’

  Chambers stepped in to separate the pair.

  ‘All right gentlemen. I love the passion. Let’s remember we’re all on the same team here … I have to agree—the squad is skating on thin ice. But I think before we start exploring the most serious of options, I suggest we soften the squad’s image. I want a female detective working up there by the end of the month.’

  A silence hung over the table as Chambers finished her red. That decision was not what Stuart Davis had been angling for. He nearly choked on his cheese.

  It was six o’clock and Rogers and Kelso were reviewing every Paradox file and IR for the fourth time. Maybe there was a thread they’d overlooked, a thread that, if pulled, would unravel Schwarzenegger’s cloak of invisibility. The phantom bandit had a partner now; younger, shorter with muscular build. Wore a Sylvester Stallone mask. They’d done a chicken shop together. The electrical tape used to bind the victim was too common to trace. No prints. Were they workmates? Neighbours? Old cell mates? It seemed an odd combination due to the apparent age difference. Schwarzenegger called his accomplice Johnny, presumably meaning John Rambo. And Schwarzenegger was urinating on victims. He may as well have been pissing on the squad itself.

  Shepherd turned off his office light after another day of dealing with the wombats. He stopped to talk to his two remaining men. ‘How long since you’ve been home to see Karen and the boys, Roy?’ Shepherd really wasn’t looking for a reply. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Come back with fresh eyes tomorrow.’

  ‘Couple more hours, boss.’

  Kelso, sitting with feet up on desk, was munching on a bag of salt-and-vinegar while scanning an information report.

  ‘We’re good, boss. We’re good … Want a Samboy?’

  Shepherd headed to the Royal. The woman behind the jump poured him his first on the house. ‘Thanks, Helen.’

  Malone was there drinking with Lynch, McCrann and Hunter. Shepherd joined the table. Lit up a dart mid-conversation. Hunter was quizzing Malone. ‘Okay. You seem to know your stuff. Give me the names of the actors who played the Magnificent Seven.’

  Malone knew the answer, but pretended to struggle to get them out. ‘Yul Brynner. Steve McQueen. Charles Bronson. James Coburn.’ A pause. ‘Robert Vaughn … Horst Buchholz. And …’

  ‘This is the bloke no-one remembers,’ Hunter said.

  Malone ummed and aahed. ‘Brad Dexter.’

  Hunter raised his glass. ‘You know your movies, Malone. You’re good.’

  The group moved off with beers in hand to chase box trifectas on the dishlickers.

  Shepherd turned to Malone.

  ‘Thanks for the story yesterday, pal … Not that it matters now.’

  ‘What’s the wash-up?’

  ‘The Soggies didn’t have a choice. That Letts dickhead forced our hand.’ Shepherd knocked back half his pot in one swig. ‘I was thinking the other day about that question you asked me, about killing a man. It’s not like you don’t think about it, ’cos you do from time to time. Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat. Divine was ex army. Bloody handy with a shooter.’

  Malone knew the background story—and the fact Shepherd received a Valor Award for gunning down Rodney Divine—but he let the inspector recount. Having one-on-one time with the boss of The Robbers over a beer was priceless.

  ‘He was coming hot out of a TAB. Me and my partner converged on his car. He winged Laurie and managed to get two shots off at me. The first one missed. By fluke I deflected the second with this hand.’

  Shepherd held up his left, fingers deformed.

  ‘It was like a bottle of tomato sauce exploded in my hand. The bullet would have gone clean through my chest had it not blown my fingers off.’

  ‘Jesus. You’re a bullet catcher.’

  ‘So, yeah—I shot the prick dead. There were no pangs of guilt. I won. He lost … It was his time to pay the piper.’

  Malone took a drink, Shepherd a drag. If ever there was a ‘copper’s copper’, as diehards were described, then Shepherd was surely it. Malone figured Ken Shepherd well knew his purpose. It was simply to Tenez Le Droit: to uphold the right. But did the end justify the means? In movie copper comparison, Malone decided Shepherd best fitted the mould of Hackman’s roustabout ‘Popeye’ Doyle. He was satisfied Shepherd wasn’t a Hayden Sterling’s Captain Mark McCluskey type, eating spaghetti off the same fork as the gangsters paying him for protection.

  ‘They say you like listening to opera,’ Malone said, elbowing the boss. ‘And classical music.’

  Shepherd cracked a smile. ‘Do they? So much for being staunch cunts.’

  ‘I prefer Les Mis myself.’

  ‘Les Mis, hey? Probably the best of the miked-up musicals.’

  After another pot, Shepherd slipped from the Royal. ‘I gotta go see a man about a dog.’

  He’d arranged for a snappy with Vic White.

  The union president was nursing a pint of Guinness at the far end of their regular inner-city bar. Quips as hellos and then the two were into business, discussing the banning of the shotguns and the failed Letts operation. In-house politics was also on the agenda.

  ‘You’ve still got Clancy up in the tower,’ White said.

  ‘The last bloody bastion. When he retires, that’s it. The guard will have completely changed.’

  ‘Welcome to the world of corporate-style policing. We’re a dying breed us Dirty Harrys.’

  ‘A recruit has to have a uni degree now to even get a look in at the academy.’

  ‘They’re calling it “coward college”,’ White scoffed.

  Shepherd shook his head in disbelief. So many years of hard, proud tradition was about to be flushed down the toilet like a stinking turd: the button pushed by plastic jacks with pips and crowns on thin shoulders.

  ‘Command are developing a culture where members are reluctant—or just too bloody scared—to engage in conflict resolution,’ White went on. ‘I’m hearing it from the delegates. I’m hearing it from the subbies.’

  ‘Jesus. If McFarlane gets his way the crooks will be laughing at us. Kicking dirt in our faces.’

  ‘Don’t worry, comrade, we’ll keep those in the tower honest.’

  ‘Good on ya, pal. You know, sometimes I think your game is more dangerous than ours.’

  White bit the ice. ‘All depends on who you’re in bed with.’

  He looked at his watch. 6.41 p.m.

  ‘Righto, Shep, I’m off.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve got dinner and the opera with Chelsea.’

  White walked two blocks and in through a hotel lobby. He checked himself in the elevator’s mirrored walls before stepping out. Halfway down the plush muted hallway he knocked on door 1262.

  It was pristine, symmetrical, perfect pussy you could eat your dinner off. Nathan Voss sat mesmerised by the glory of it all. The splendour. The faintest of hints. The fuckability. The stripper, on all fours presenting to the paying punters, moved her arse in time to the music. According to the track she was living in a fantasy, her own little nasty world. Her leading question: did anyone want to come with her? And was she a nasty girl? Nathan moved to the bar for a scotch and Coke. He was in the Wet Velvet strip club in Ringwood, managed by Johnny Maggs, a former bikie with serious underworld links and a docket for armed robbery and guns. Maggs sa
t next to the regular customer.

  ‘Haven’t seen ya for a while, Nathan—here or at the gym. How they hanging?’

  ‘Low and heavy. I’ve gotta get rid of some dirty water.’

  ‘What, Nathan V’s hit a dry patch? What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m gettin’ married in a coupla weeks to my chick who’s up the duff—that’s what’s fuckin’ happening.’

  Maggs was genuinely taken aback. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Nathan went to pay for his drink. Maggs waved the bargirl away. Nathan lifted his glass in cheers for the freebie and turned to watch the girls.

  ‘It’s all over for you amigo,’ Maggs continued. ‘You know why chicks look so fuckin’ happy when they’re walkin’ down the aisle?’

  ‘’Cos they all wanna get hitched and have kids I s’pose.’

  ‘Nah. They’re all smiles ’cos they know they’ve given their last blow job.’

  Nathan conceded the point. ‘Yeah, tell me about it … Thank God for my old man.’

  ‘What, is he sucking you off?’

  Nathan laughed. ‘Him and me are doing stick-ups together.’

  Maggs’ interest piqued. ‘Bank stick-ups?’

  ‘Nah, smaller stuff. Restaurants mainly. Good fun. We wear masks. I’m Rambo. I tape ’em up.’

  ‘Well, I am fucking impressed.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s addictive. Can’t wait for the next one.’

  A blonde stripper with tatts and hard fake tits caught Nathan’s eye. ‘I’m chasing three grams of speed.’

  He placed the notes on the bar. Maggs accepted payment. ‘No worries, amigo. Sit tight and enjoy the sights. I’ll send number eight back with the gear.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  Shepherd sat in the restaurant swirling his red, a plate of antipasto sitting half-eaten and now uninviting. The seat opposite him remained empty. He snuck a look at his watch. Again. Just after twenty past seven. They were supposed to have met at quarter to seven for a quick feed and then enjoyed the opera together. He’d already left two phone messages. Shepherd took his last mouthful: a nice cab sav turned maudlin. He’d been hoping against hope since the big hand hit seven, but was now resigned. No appearance, Your Worship. He considered issuing a warrant for Chelsea Shepherd’s arrest. That was his vindictive side. The drained wine glass sang a hollow tune. Shepherd stuffed the two unused opera tickets into its gob, signed the bill and left. Outside he sat on a bench seat—just in case his daughter had missed a train or was having trouble catching a taxi. That was his charitable side. He lit a dart and blew off smoke. After fifteen minutes of charity he dialled his ‘sharp aunty’ with benefits: his lady friend before the divorce papers went through.