The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  Teasedale slurred a sloppy smile. ‘Kirsty’s a princess, pal. Told her I’d bring home a pizza a bit later … So what do you reckon about a chick at the squad—I mean, how’s that gunna work?’

  The big guy missed a regulation shot. He’d obviously pinned the ears back early and appeared to be feeling the drink.

  ‘She’ll be right,’ Kelso said, watching one of the tradies take his shot.

  ‘Reckon she’ll be hot?’

  Kelso leaned over the table. Didn’t have much on offer. ‘You reckon command’s gunna hand pick us a glamour?’

  Teasedale spill-sipped his pot. ‘Probably not.’

  Kelso potted two. The other tradesman missed a double.

  ‘It’s all about the fall of the wall,’ Kelso said.

  Teasedale pulled up mid-shot. Looked over. ‘What’s the Berlin Wall got to do with it?’

  ‘Not that wall, you fuckin’ goombah. The wall on the obstacle course at the Academy. Since that came down it’s been open slather for more peewees to make it through.’

  Malone carried a couple more beers over to the table. Teasedale, about to play on the black, was pulled up by one of the young tradesmen.

  ‘No shooting back on the black, mate.’

  Teasedale stood, full chest expansion.

  ‘You can shoot back. Table rules.’

  The second tradie, full of booze, took a stand next to his mate.

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  Kelso attempted to soothe things down. ‘Come on guys. No room for heroes here.’

  Teasedale would not be soothed. ‘This is our pub … and that’s the rule of the table.’

  ‘Who the hell do you blokes think you are?’

  Kelso, again placatingly. ‘No-one special.’

  A third tradesman, an Islander fully inked in black Samoan design, returned from the brasco, nostrils flaring at the sight of confrontation. Malone stepped in to stop his advance, only to cop a fist. He tried to throw one back, but a second blow dropped him like a sack of shit. Teasedale dropped the Islander. Drake appeared and had another of the tradesmen down on the ground in seconds. The remaining tradie raised his cue to strike. Kelso caught the stick.

  ‘Nah-ah. You don’t wanna do that.’

  One by one the tradesmen were tossed out onto the footpath. Big Gooch stood silently in the doorway, pointing in a far-off direction. That’s where the tradesmen headed. Malone sat in The Robbers’ corner holding an ice-filled tea towel to the bridge of his nose. The detectives had closed ranks. Drake recounted the punch.

  ‘Jesus Malone, I thought you had him covered.’

  ‘I would have needed a fucking Magnum to take that bloke down.’

  Teasedale gave him a stinging pat on the back. Kelso placed a fresh pot on the bar for the injured soldier.

  ‘You need a Magnum, pal? We can arrange that.’

  Detective Teasedale was as pissed as a cricket, a fart and ten men combined—and he was yet to buy the promised pizza for his awaiting bride-to-be. Five minutes into his drive home from the Royal, he realised his headlights weren’t turned on. He fumbled for the knob, swerving and skittling a rubbish bin on the nature strip.

  ‘Strike one,’ he mumbled.

  Ignoring a Give Way sign while taking the back streets, Teasedale picked up a tail. It was a local divvy van scouting for drink drivers skulking home on the quiet. A quick blast of the siren. Lights ablaze. Teasedale had two choices: pull over and wield influence over the two junior burgers in the van, or drive on. Maybe the connies would drop off when they checked the plates and realised they were buzzing a crime squad sedan. Teasedale drove on. Another ‘bwoot’ of the siren. Teasedale floored it. Took a sloppy corner. Weaved on to the wrong side. Took another wide turn. The van was still there, but further back now. Teasedale didn’t even notice the traffic island as he mounted it. The jolt busted the front axle, causing the sedan to buck in Teasedale’s hands. The car swerved uncontrollably, jumped the gutter and headbutted a metal dumpster sitting in a car park. Strike two. The impact was a sobering experience. Belying his intoxicated state, rational thought swam to the surface. Teasedale reached across and ripped open the glove box. He rummaged for a screwdriver kept for such an emergency, ripped his keys from the ignition and jammed the screwdriver into the keyhole. Teasedale was out and across the road heading into a kiddie park when the divvy van pulled up. The two officers were out, torches up and in pursuit. Teasedale was blowing hard. Along the back of the park ran a high wire fence separating the swings from a lawn bowls club. Hitting the fence with a clumsy leap, Teasedale scrambled to the top—only to become entangled between three lines of barbed wire. Hanging awkwardly, he reached for his Freddy. He had the badge up and in the air by the time the two constables had him in their torch beams.

  ‘I’m in the job! I’m in the job!’

  Strike three.

  Free from the wire and back at the van, Teasedale blew .125.

  ‘Jesus detective, you’re nearly three times over.’

  ‘Can’t you blokes just drive me home? I’ll come and get the car tomorrow.’

  Teasedale was pleading for more than just a ride home.

  ‘Sorry, mate. The PEC are running random integrity tests. We can’t take that risk.’

  ‘Do I look like a bloody Poindexter from the Police Ethics Commission? I’m with The Robbers, pal.’

  ‘The PEC are everywhere. I try and do a brother a favour and get busted, and I’m out of a job. Sorry, but I’m gunna have to charge you with drink driving and leaving the scene of an accident.’

  Teasedale rocked on wavering ground. Rested back against the van to steady himself. ‘You blokes are gunna cook my career.’

  ‘You did that all by yourself, detective.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Teasedale plucked his phone from inside his suit jacket. It was time to ring Shepherd and tell him that one of his flock had strayed.

  And then he’d have to call Kirsty. There’d be no pizza tonight.

  CHAPTER 28

  Malone’s clock radio told him that an unnamed Armed Robbery Squad detective had crashed his car in South Melbourne while allegedly drink driving the night before with a blood alcohol reading of .125. The detective involved had been charged. The 3MR station crime reporter, Tony Hemmings, had it as a morning exclusive. Malone phoned the police media liaison bureau to make some inquiries, not in a professional capacity but rather to see what he could eke out of the on-duty sergeant. One of The Robbers was in a world of shit. According to the media liaison officer, the information had not come from her office. The sergeant explained that she was making inquiries herself to confirm the news so she could tap up a press release. Someone had obviously leaked it to Hemmings. Malone phoned Kelso on his mobile.

  ‘Kell, it’s Malone. You’re not in any strife are you?’

  ‘Me? No … Why, what have I done?’

  ‘3MR are running a story about a Robber getting done for drink driving last night. You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Pal, I’m still in bed with hand on cock.’

  ‘It sounds bad. Crashed car. Blew .125.’

  ‘Fuck. Shep’s gunna be pissed. I’ll ring you back.’

  The return call came ten minutes later. ‘Yep, Shep’s pissed all right.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Tiny Teasedale … Bloody dickhead.’

  ‘Hey, this was a leak to the radio reporter. Media liaison know nothing about it.’

  ‘What are you up to today?’

  ‘I’m visiting my nanna at her nursing home … But nothing planned after that.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got the boys coming over this afternoon for a squad barbie. You’re invited. Bring yourself and some piss. Shep will want to hear about this.’

  Malone walked his way across the nursing home lawn, the deciduous trees like mummified claws groping for some sun. Inside the nursing home that synonymous smell filled Malone’s nostrils like treacle. It was akin to fermented perfume; a sickly sweet o
dour contrived of urine, overripe fruit and impending death. The aroma hung like a mist. The Reaper’s mist. Like museum exhibits minus their stuffing, the home’s inhabitants sat with vacant eyes and sagging skin: time-ravaged vessels devoid of any spirit. Malone often wondered how they felt while simply waiting in gowns and slippers for their own bell to toll. Like a marathon runner lying exhausted on the grass? Or like Michelangelo staring up at the completed Sistine Chapel? Or was it a melancholy experience, like the heavy feeling one gets when boarding a plane to fly home alone after falling in love on an overseas holiday? Maybe it was just downright terrifying. Malone gently knocked on his grandmother’s door and peeked in. There she was as she nearly always was—lying in her bed, a plum-blotched husk of the woman she was when she’d started raising him after the killer car crash. What was once brunette was now nothing but fine wisps of grey. Her limbs were skeletal. She had zero quality of life. Mortality was a merciless and morbid bitch. Malone pulled up a chair and slid his hand in under his grandmother’s. He no longer squeezed. She turned her head and managed a smile.

  ‘Hi Nan, it’s Ian.’

  ‘Hello, love. It’s good to see you.’

  Malone was thankful she didn’t notice his two burgeoning black eyes. He called her ‘Nan’ but she was effectively his mother: the guardian who’d introduced him to the silver screen greats. Movies had provided a world of escapism for the boy left orphaned at age six by the accident. The irony that he now earned a living documenting life’s harsh and often unjust realities was never lost on Malone. He popped a straw and speared it into an orange juice, placed it on the bedside table, opened his nan’s drawer and retrieved her current book. He opened to the marked page and picked up the story.

  ‘Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen. Dantes, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was for every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack, extricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts to free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still lower …’

  Armed with a dozen VB stubbies, Malone arrived at Kelso’s Essendon home in the early afternoon, disconnected thoughts of his ailing grandmother, Edmond Dantes and deceitful revenge playing on his mind. The sight of the squad men gathered in the backyard, enjoying some rare winter sunshine with beers in hand, brightened him. Jeans, cargo pants and polo shirts formed the off-duty weekend uniform; the sizzle and spatter of snags and chops no doubt a pleasant change from the weekday’s constant police transmissions over the office radio. There was a convivial air of merriment, despite Teasedale’s indiscretion. It appeared to Malone that Tiny was the only squad member not there. A handful of younger children kicked a footy on the grass. Three teenagers sat in an open shed playing handheld games, their fingers moving at subsonic speed. Wives and girlfriends knew the other wives and girlfriends. Malone imagined family gatherings would have—and should have—felt just like this. Handshakes. Pats on the back. Concerned queries about his black eyes. Introductions. Karen Rogers. Greta McCrann. Louise O’Shea. A girl called Sophie with baby girl in arms—she was there with Drake. He was introduced to two Robbers detectives he had not yet met, Peter Hamill and Scott Beaumont: they formed part of a Crew 404 but were currently upgraded as uniform sergeants. Hamill had a missus. Her name was Tara. Kelso handed Malone a VB in an Armed Robbery Squad stubby holder. Cheers. They drank.

  ‘You hungry, pal? Grab a chop.’

  Shepherd arrived not long after Malone: a bottle of red in each hand. With him was a trim forty-something woman: attractive in a Cheryl Ladd kind of way at a twenty-year Charlie’s Angels reunion. At a table cluttered with salad bowls, sauce bottles, glasses and two opened bags of sliced bread, Shepherd rolled his eyes at O’Shea in response to an obvious mention of Teasedale. The inspector poured his woman a glass then filled one for himself. Left the rest of the bottle to breathe. The men stood by the sizzling meat—Gooch had taken the role of chief grill man—and the women sat around the outdoor table gaggling and sipping champers or pre-mixed drinks. By the barbecue, Malone found himself the focus as he briefed the squad men on how media liaison had not received any details of the drink drive incident before it went to air on 3MR. In other words, it was a leak. And, Malone told them, they could bet their bottom dollar the incident would be all over the news that night and in the Sunday papers.

  ‘Who’s the leak?’ Gilmore asked. ‘It wouldn’t be South Melbourne uniform.’

  Barlow nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Who is this Tony Hemmings?’ Shepherd inquired. ‘Who does he talk to?’

  ‘He’s supposed to have good contacts up in Spring Street,’ Malone replied. ‘Kavanagh’s been known to throw him information when it suits the cause.’

  O’Shea was quick. ‘So you reckon the police minister leaked it?’

  Malone lit a cigarette. ‘Possibly … but I think it could be more sinister than that.’

  ‘McFarlane?’ asked Kelso.

  ‘Worse than that.’

  Shepherd took a stab. ‘The PEC?’

  ‘That’d be my guess.’

  Hunter was outraged. ‘Those sneaky fuckin’ cunts.’

  Malone spoke his thoughts. ‘It smacks of a smear campaign.’

  ‘Right, boys,’ Shepherd said in informal work mode, ‘if Ian’s right—let this be a warning. The peckerheads are casting their net. They’re desperate for a big scalp to justify their existence. No more public fuck-ups. Capeesh?’

  The men stood in agreement, some nodding silently over their beers. Shepherd pulled Malone aside. The inspector felt it was now the right time to bring him up to speed on the Paradox investigation.

  ‘I just wanted to mention a job we’ve got running at the moment. I’m happy to tell you about it because it’s obvious we all trust you. But do me a favour and sit on it until the time’s right. You’ll have a front-row seat when we catch these pricks, but at the moment we need to play our cards close and control the flow of information.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  Shepherd ran out the basic Paradox details—the masks and the m.o. How Schwarzenegger forced his victims face-first to the wall with hands on heads at gunpoint before Rambo taped them. He told Malone about the target venues.

  ‘They like hitting the Indians and the Asians.’

  ‘What about a story asking for public information? We could detail each stick-up on a big graphic—’

  ‘Not the right time. We’re thinking of running a stake-out op. I’m not sold on the idea yet but Morris Farley’s pushing hard. If we were to run it, we wouldn’t want a story tipping these two off.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I understand … I’d appreciate a green light when the time is right though.’

  ‘You got it.’

  The two rejoined the group; talk of Glen Pascoe’s successful bail application was dominating.

  ‘I thought the magistrate was going to walk over and give him a fucking hug,’ Barlow laughed.

  ‘He’ll pop up again,’ O’Shea offered.

  ‘Yeah, real soon,’ said Rogers. ‘He’s a creature of habit.’

  Day turned to dusk. Two congealed chops remained the only survivors on the meat tray. There were plenty of dead empty bottles. As often happened at a Robbers barbecue, Shepherd—with a bottle and a half of red under his belt—decided it was time. Standing on a chair centre stage, he began.

  ‘To a squad of men all as one, who are ready to fight until the job is done.

  ‘When banks get robbed and victims shot, the wombats cry “Who have we got?”

  ‘We are hard and tough and professional too. We do what we have to do.

  ‘So long as there’s bad crooks they’ll need us around. If they get rid of us then crime will abound.’

  He raised his glass and toasted The Robbers. The men, some sitting among the women now, raised their drinks. The ladies did same.

  ‘The Robbers.’

  And then Shep
herd began to sing. In Latin. Unsteady as he balanced on the chair. McCrann and Kelso struck their lighters; beacons against the night sky as their boss sang with gusto.

  ‘Hac in hora, sine mora, corde pulsum tangite. Quod per sortem. Sternit fortem …’

  Although still unaware of what it meant, despite having heard the familiar tune belted out at nearly every squad barbecue, the rest of the detectives knew what was coming and sang as one with their boss, a boozy yet resonant chorus rising from the backyard.

  ‘Mecum omnes plangite!’

  Like a rogue ocean predator Voss was hunting one-up, driving the dark back streets of St Kilda searching for a plaything. A mutated hobgoblin with a flaming torch in hand had crawled from the darkest corner of his psyche as it often did when Voss got the urge to defile. Deprave. Terrorise and maim. It was a burning itch Voss had to scratch. And it was overwhelming. He knew she had to be young. Not the usual skag-fucked carp synonymous with this district. A nubile angel fish: that’s what he was prowling for, undetected. He cruised past several streetwalkers. One or two were young men.

  ‘Bloody fairies.’ Voss shaped his hand like a gun and pretended to shoot them. ‘Poofters!’

  The hobgoblin was bucking and shrieking now, its tail whipping at his mind. Voss drove on. A slight young woman tottering in oversized heels caught his eye, her short pink tartan skirt a bright contrast against her black shirt. Black hair. Black mascara. Not exactly what Voss was hoping for but acceptable for the night’s necessity. He pulled up next to her. Leaned over and wound down the front passenger window.

  ‘How are you tonight?’ he asked, trying to mask the inner demon.

  ‘Looking for company.’

  ‘Good, ’cos I’m as horny as a toad. Hop in, Pumpkin Pie.’

  The woman reeked of flagon wine and Hubba Bubba. With scuffed knees and blotched chest she sat and lit a cigarette, scratching at mosquito bites along her thighs as Voss began to drive. She was a junkie—no doubt. To Voss, she was nothing more than junk. He drove her to a deserted beach car park overlooking the scuttled, rust-encrusted Cerberus wreck at Black Rock, having made small talk about niceties during the twenty-minute drive. She told him the prices. Fifty bucks for a blow job. Eighty for a fuck. One hundred for both. He told her he wanted to fuck her. Do her doggie-style among the tea-tree, despite the rolling thunder and intermittent sky flash. A storm was on its way. Voss paid her the money. She stuffed it in her bag. Voss took a torch from his glove box and led the woman along a winding track to a clearing littered with empty beer bottles, cigarette packets and torn-up stick books. From her bag she took a rubber and handed it to Voss. She pulled her panties down to her ankles, lifted her skirt and lowered onto all fours. Voss hardened as he shone his light on her dirty snatch. Two dry peach slices. He spat on them. Tossed the condom, unzipped and pushed his way in. The hobgoblin was baying for blood now. Teeth salivating. Eyes wide. Sodomising Voss’ senses. Reaching inside his bomber jacket, Voss pulled free his ‘big boy’: a vintage .357 Magnum revolver, it felt more powerful than the .38 he’d been using for the stick-ups. He placed the gun barrel to the back of the prostitute’s head. Thrust in again. Stayed deep.