The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘Check. Check … Is this bloody thing on?’

  Doris gave him the thumbs up from the head table.

  ‘Yeah? Okay. Everyone enjoying themselves?’

  The guests responded warmly.

  ‘I bloody well hope so. I had to pull a few extra jobs to pay for this extravaganza—so eat, drink and be merry, ya bastards.’

  Laughter.

  ‘Righto. First off I’d like to welcome all our guests from the land of the long white cloud across the Tasman.’

  Applause for a table of Brenda’s Maori relatives: grandparents, uncles and aunts and a cousin. Voss launched with a gag.

  ‘Hey, I heard a funny joke the other day. Why is New Zealand like a box of matches?’ Voss held it for a second or two. ‘Because the black ones don’t work!’

  Cue crickets chirping in an uncomfortable silence. A couple of young Caucasian blokes laughed from a back table.

  ‘There ya go, they got it up the back there … Now, just a few quick words from the bride’s old lady before everyone gets too sloshed.’

  Brenda’s mother, wearing the best that Target could provide, walked up on stage with an unsteady glass. She took the microphone.

  ‘Hello, everyone. My name’s Jean. I just want to thank all of you for coming to celebrate my gorgeous daughter’s wedding. God knows we’ve done it tough over the years after Brenda’s dad passed away … but I know Isaac’s looking down and is very proud of you, Brenda darling. Just like I am. I’d like to thank the Voss family for practically taking you in and treating you like their own daughter. Nathan, I love you like a son. Take care of my angel.’

  Overcome with emotion, Jean Aranui left the stage. Voss was back on the mike. ‘On ya Jeanie. You’ve done a great job with Brenda. She’s developed into a fine young lady. Know what I mean, fellas?’

  Voss turned to address the bridal table, where Nathan sat holding Brenda’s hand smack bang in the spotlight. He ran a finger between his shirt collar and his neck. ‘Brenda. Pumpkin Pie. You look beautiful today. You may not be Snow White any more …’

  Brenda’s mouth dropped. ‘Aaaw Stan!’

  ‘But you’re still a princess in my book.’

  Voss turned his attention to his son. ‘And the groom. Nathaniel. Very proud of you, mate. You’re my elder son … and if young Christian keeps going the way he’s going, you might be me only son soon.’

  Stuffing his face with apple pie next to his mum, Christian didn’t miss a beat. ‘Good one, Dumbo!’

  More laughter.

  ‘Watch it, boy …’

  Repeated laughter.

  ‘No, seriously … no-one else in this room tonight would know this—but me and Nathan share a special bond. Don’t we, son?’

  Nathan sat with a dumb smile. Brenda leaned in and whispered something. Nathan shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Should we tell ’em?’ Voss asked the groom, a sinister glint sparking in the spotlight. ‘Tell ’em what our special bond is? Only you and I know what it feels like, don’t we? Should we tell ’em?’

  Nathan’s expression turned to one of consternation. The guests appeared intrigued.

  ‘Tell us!’ someone yelled.

  Voss held the suspense. He was the man. Stan the bloody Man: the crowd eating out of his hand. He winked to Brenda.

  Brenda blew Stan back a kiss, knowing full well he would fuck her if she let him. She enjoyed the teasing game he encouraged her to play. A flash of her tits here and there. A glimpse of her snatch if he was really lucky. A brush up against his groin every once in a while. Stan was the money man and Brenda knew how to string him along: the predictable big dumb ox that he was.

  ‘I love you Stan,’ she yelled.

  Voss grabbed at his heart. ‘I love you too.’

  And then it was back to his son. ‘So should we tell ’em, son? Should we? Yeah, let’s tell ’em … We both love Brenda more than anything in the whole wide world—apart from old Doris, of course.’

  Smattered applause. Nathan breathed a relieved grin. Voss raised his champagne flute.

  ‘Three cheers to Mr and Mrs Nathan and Brenda Voss.’

  Standing by the bar with his mates after dinner, the groom was deep into a story. ‘So I get him up against the bench and I put a nail gun to his balls and tell him, “We don’t like poofs working on site, lookin’ to nail us straight blokes. How about I nail you?”’

  The other young men laughed. Skolled cock-sucking cowboy shots. Voss interrupted from behind. ‘Excuse me gentlemen. Mind if I have a word with the proud new husband, so I can tell him that his life is now well and truly fucked?’

  The lads laughed. ‘No worries, Mr Voss.’

  The young blokes headed to the dance floor where the cherry puffs were dancing to Michael Jackson’s ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough’. Voss stood alone with his mate.

  ‘Jesus, Dad, you scared the shit out of me during your speech. I didn’t know what you were doin’ … whether you were gunna say something.’

  ‘I was just funnin’ with ya.’

  ‘I reckon we do another stick-up soon. I fuckin’ miss it.’

  ‘Yeah. When you get back from your honeymoon. But listen. Less talking about nailing poofters and bashing blokes, right? You gotta be more like me. Everyone loves Stan the Man. I’m a bloody crack-up. I’d be the last bloke anyone would suspect of anything. You gotta be like that too. You got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Righto, buzz off. Go dance with your missus. I’m still copping it from Doris for not dancing enough at our bloody wedding.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Nathan Voss pulled down his Rambo mask. The Thailand honeymoon was over, the Phuket tan had worn off and it was back to business. He followed his dad into the Shark Moon Chinese restaurant nearing closing time. Both bandits had guns up. A waitress saw them come in. Her tray crashed to the floor. There were only two customers left. Nathan ordered them to raise their arms across the table and hold hands, fingers splayed. He taped their wrists good and tight. Taped them to their chairs.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, bitch.’

  Voss had herded the staff inside the restaurant proper and had them kneeling with faces to the wall and hands on heads. Voss picked up a menu. Took a look. He was becoming quite the expert at comparing restaurant prices. He nudged one of the staff members with his gun.

  ‘Oi, you gotta knock down your prices.’

  He looked across to his son, taking pleasure in terrorising the couple with his gun.

  ‘Hey Johnny! Fifteen bucks for honey chicken! Twenty-two for crispy duck!’

  ‘Fuck, I won’t be bringing the missus here.’

  Voss laughed. Moved to the register. Nathan took up guarding the whimpering staff. ‘Fucking pissants.’

  ‘Righto, John, let’s go.’

  Nathan was out the door. Voss turned. ‘Hey, China.’

  Still on knees, the manager turned.

  ‘When you call the police tell ’em the Terminator was here. Tell ’em I’ll be back.’

  The scene was saturated in red and blue when Shepherd arrived. Rogers thanked one of the staff for her statement. Approached his inspector. ‘Boss, the fucking prick left a message for us.’

  CHAPTER 36

  The Police Academy chapel was the venue chosen to brief all officers handpicked to play a role in the stake-out phase of Operation Paradox. Farley had rubber-stamped the mission. Some forty members from the eastern district had been hand-picked. Every member of the Armed Robbery Squad was on board.

  Shepherd stood at the altar. It was nearing seven o’clock.

  ‘Thank you for your attendance tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I expect you’ve read the operation orders but, as an overview … you are all involved in this phase of Operation Paradox. We are tracking two violent armed bandits. Over the next four weekends, two-man teams will be sitting off restaurants nominated as possible targets. Thank you all for coming on board. I know some of you have young families and ther
efore have better things to be doing on Friday and Saturday nights. But needless to say, this is a high-priority operation. I’ll now hand you over to Detective Sergeant Max Rogers, who will run you through the strict operational orders and contingencies. Max …’

  Rogers stepped up. ‘Thanks, Ken. Due to the nature of an operation such as this there are very strict guidelines that must be adhered to. Now, you should all have a copy of your papers. If you could turn to page one, please …’

  CHAPTER 37

  Dave Gilmore did not visit his wife’s home—his former home—unless he absolutely had to. The divorce proceedings spurred by ‘irreconcilable differences’ were soon to be finalised but the tension between him and Julie was still palpable. Gilmore often wondered what it was that he’d actually fallen in love with. Had he really loved Julie at all? Of course he had. She was vivacious and sexy. Her friends gravitated to her. She had a passion for taking black-and-white photos. Portraits and landscapes; had quite an eye for it. Julie must have loved him at one point—early on—or else they wouldn’t have tied the knot. But life changed. They bought a home. After the birth of Timothy, Julie had to trade in her job for a second-rate gig so she could run a household and play mum. Her convivial nature was snuffed, her camera stored away. Gilmore then got a spot with the Armed Robbery Squad. Life as a crime squad detective meant many more office hours, including weekends. And it was a dangerous vocation, adding to existing stresses at home. Sometimes stress can galvanise people, bind them together for a common cause. Other times it can drive a wedge between people. The Gilmores’ whole tapestry unravelled; their relationship dissolved like tissue paper in acid. There were arguments. Things said in the heat of the moment, comments to regret. To be ashamed of. Gilmore understood his wife’s resentment. He’d tried his best to appease her. Tried to make things as best as they could be: as happy as they could be. But it hadn’t been enough. Julie had since moved on. The new guy’s name was Derek. He was a chartered accountant. A nice enough bloke whom the crooks would have termed a nine-to-five ‘squarehead’: just another number scratching out an existence. Young Tim Gilmore was in his pyjamas and brushing his teeth when his real dad arrived. Gilmore grabbed him, gave him a kiss and a cuddle. Sat him on his knee at the end of the boy’s bed. Once again, Gilmore was going to be the bad-news bear.

  ‘You know how I’d promised to take you to Cameron’s party on Saturday night?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Well your mum’s going to have to take you, okay? I have to work that night.’

  ‘With Uncle Shane? And Uncle Steve?’

  ‘Yep, with Uncle Shane and Uncle Steve and Uncle Marcus. All of ’em. We’re trying to catch two really naughty men who scare people. So that’s why I can’t go to the party … I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

  ‘Okay, Dad.’

  ‘Good boy. Now c’mon. Into bed.’

  Gilmore lifted the doona. Tim was in and under.

  ‘Well look what I’ve found—the biggest bedbug I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Come on, Dad, I’m not a bug!’

  Gilmore kissed his son on the forehead.

  ‘I know you’re not a bug, pal. You’re a top kid. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Dad.’

  ‘And I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘I’m very proud of you too, Dad.’

  Gilmore left his son tucked in the warm blue glow of the night-light, the untainted boy fading to sleep safe and sound and at peace. It was that sight—that thought—that instilled a true belief within Gilmore: a belief that what he was doing as a Robber was right. That the end did justify the means. Gilmore knew that every member of the Armed Robbery Squad—whether they had children or not—worked by that philosophy. They’d all silently pledged to commit to the rule of extreme prejudice, for the greater good.

  Julie was waiting for Gilmore in the kitchen. ‘Jesus, you know how to break that little boy’s heart.’

  ‘The whole squad’s in on this job. It’s a big one.’

  ‘They’re all big jobs, David. Big jobs cost us our marriage. Now they’re affecting your relationship with your only son. Your biggest job should be spending time with him when it’s your turn.’

  ‘It’s not that easy when you and your lawyers only let me see him every second weekend.’

  ‘I’m not getting into this. Just go … Ride off on your horse and leave your son behind.’

  ‘Why would you want to make me feel worse than I already do? Fair enough there’s nothing between us any more, but don’t try and poison his mind against me. You could actually pretend to be proud of what I do, so that he can see that.’

  ‘I just don’t feel like I want to help you.’

  In the past this was how an argument would have started. Julie had an ability to anger him in a way that no shit man ever could. It was an innate ability to sandpaper at his pride, as a cop and a father.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Gilmore said. ‘Do it for our son then. Just try and stifle all that spite and do it for our son … I’ll come and get him in two weeks’ time.’

  CHAPTER 38

  The night art of buying methylamphetamine had become second nature to Malone, aka Terry Noonan. Mustard Man was a sure thing. As reliable as Linda Lovelace at a stag party. Devoid of emotion and questions, he was content to shell out five gram portions at Malone’s beck and call. The two had met three times now since their first deal near the church building at the skate park. There was an unspoken trust. And on this occasion Malone was about to push the friendship.

  ‘I’m looking to buy a gun. Can you help me?’

  CHAPTER 39

  The gravesite usually stirred a sense of grey within Malone: a sense of having lost his place among myriad marble angels. But there was more on his mind today. What had started as a charade had grown horribly complicated. Eyes still bruised and blackened, he stood in the rain in front of Jessica’s plaque and tasteful cross. His head was bowed. Hair plastered to his skull. His jacket collar pulled up high around his neck. In moments like these he needed strength: resolve in times of weakness when he may have been questioning his cause. He so wished the ground would open up so he could crawl into the padded casket with her. But that would have been a cop-out when he still had a job to do. And what about Kelso? When would he be told the truth? Malone could only hope for an understanding reaction. From a nearby tree Malone’s crow cawed out into the rain.

  ‘Nevermore. Nevermore.’

  If he’d had a bust of Pallis handy then and there, Malone would have pegged it right at the damn raven.

  CHAPTER 40

  The Saturday night of the second weekend of Paradox stake-outs was a cold evening. In the locker room at Knox police station, fourteen cops—wearing jeans, flannelette shirts and windcheaters or jackets—were kitting up for their covert shift: two-man teams strapping on their gun belts. Of the fourteen setting out from this station in their scruffs, six were from The Robbers. Gilmore and Hunter formed one team. Gucciardo and Lynch another. Rogers and Kelso were in charge, reporting to Shepherd via radio at Ringwood cop shop. Ringwood was base command; Shepherd the go-to man. In ultimate control, if a dire situation arose, was Commissioner McFarlane. Hunter walked past Gilmore, patting his pal on the back. The atmosphere in the locker room was like that of a change room before a football game, minus the swirl of liniment and motivational talk. Game faces were on, though. Kelso held up sheets of paper.

  ‘Righto, guys, listen up. These are the restaurants where each of you will be working tonight … we work until closing for each. Your call signs are attached. We’re using closed channel forty-one tonight.’

  Rogers chipped in. ‘Please follow the contingency and risk-assessment orders. I cannot stress enough the dangers of this operation. Our targets are armed and we just don’t know what they might be prepared to do if confronted.’

  Kelso concluded the briefing, ‘Let’s go to work.’

  It always struck Gilmore as interesting why McDonald’s sto
res predominantly smelled like cheeseburgers. Of all the burgers the chain churned out, the little guys seemed to produce the odour most synonymous with the outlet.

  ‘Two cheeseburgers and two coffees, thanks.’

  Gilmore pulled up his windcheater to get at his wallet in his back jeans pocket. The girl behind the counter saw his side arm, and got an obvious fright. Gilmore saw it in her eyes, and smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m one of the good guys.’

  The girl wasn’t the only person to cop an eyeful. A bald thirty-something man of obvious Mediterranean descent spied the weapon while tucking into a Big Mac. He stuffed a handful of fries into his gob. Took a sip of his vanilla thickshake through the straw. It couldn’t be surveillance on him, could it? Harry Petrakis—who in the current gangland climate never left home without a gun shoved down the front of his pants—watched the jack from the back corner booth. There was a war on the horizon, and Petrakis sat ready.

  Gilmore grabbed up his order and walked it back to the sedan. Sipping on his coffee, Hunter drove the short distance around the grassed industrial estate to take up a static position across the way from their nominated restaurant. The Lucky Dragon’s red and green neon sign reflected across a still pond. Across the road stretched a wide grassed area covered by clutches of trees. Behind the grass expanse ran a concrete storm-water culvert. The two Robbers went to stealth mode, their sedan dark and hidden. Hunter unwrapped his burger. Gilmore, who’d already inhaled his, spoke into the two-way.