The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘Do you know whose crew you’re fucking with, cocksucker?’

  Malone forced Dicko to sit at the table in the kitchen. On a bench along the wall closest to Malone sat a line of maybe half-a-dozen large glass tanks—aquariums minus the water and the fish. Instead, each was filled with combinations of sand, rocks and tiny plants; a heat lamp craned above each tank providing a humid glow. Had the tanks been filled with cannabis plants it would have looked like a standard crop house. Malone took in the kitchen. Dicko growled.

  ‘Do you know who owns this house?’

  Malone was breathing hard under the mask. He felt light-headed. No peripheral vision.

  ‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘But my name’s Abbott—remember that, you piece of shit. Now where’s the speed, and where’s the money?’

  ‘You’re a dead man, Abbott. Fuck you.’

  Malone bumped his elbow against one of the tanks. The sudden disturbance triggered its inhabitant, a large cobra materialising and rising erect. Hood swelled in warning. Forked tongue flashing. Malone reflexively backed off, raising his gun. Now he knew how Indiana Jones felt.

  ‘Don’t shoot it, you fuck!’ Dicko warned. ‘It’s worth a shit load.’

  Malone still knew how to handle a revolver. He took aim and pulled the trigger. The tank shattered as the snake’s head exploded like a tomato; the kitchen wall splattered in red. Malone almost spewed.

  ‘You’re dead, you dumb fuck!’ Dicko spat.

  ‘Hey, I’m pretty sure cobras are illegal. I just did you a favour.’

  He trained the gun on to the next tank. ‘What you got in that one? A rattler?’

  Dicko raised his hands for calm. ‘All right. All right. The drugs and the cash—it’s all in the back bedroom.’

  Malone forced Dicko onto his knees, face first against the far kitchen wall with hands clasped on his head. He was using the Paradox bandits’ m.o. just as Shepherd had described it. He placed the gun to Dicko’s head.

  ‘You know we’ll hunt you down, Abbott!’

  Malone threw Dicko a roll of electrical tape.

  ‘Wrap one of your wrists and leave the roll hanging … Now put your wrists together behind your back.’

  Malone wrapped Dicko’s wrists. Trussed his ankles. Wrapped tape around his head to cover his mouth. Left him conscious to remember everything exactly as it happened, so the idiot could report things accurately back to Tommy Gunston. He left Dicko with a threat designed to goad rather than intimidate: gun pushed harder against Dicko’s head.

  ‘You come after me and you’ll get what your snake got.’

  In the back bedroom Malone found a backpack filled with pre-packed gram bags, and a white rubbish bag half-filled with cash. Adrenalin up and with bags in hand, he bolted into the night. He was definitely on the dark side now and past the point of no return.

  CHAPTER 75

  The following afternoon Rogers and Kelso paid Wu another visit—not so cordially as the day before. Kelso took him to task. It was time to corroborate Barrett’s story. Lock him in for future reference.

  ‘We know you’re bullshitting about Barrett. We know he’s extorting you for cash. We know this because he told us you had a financial interest in the sex industry. We’ve made inquiries and a reliable source has confirmed that you co-own two unregistered brothels—where you’re more than likely running illegal girls. One’s in Brooklyn, and the other’s in Footscray.’

  Rogers followed that first punch with a body blow. ‘You lied about that. We also know that you ain’t an Australian citizen yet, and that you’re living here making a nice earn in the land of milk and honey because the Australian government says you can. The Federal Police and the immigration department would be very interested in your extracurricular business activities.’

  Kelso: ‘You’d be a chance to get shanghaied back to China—no matter how bloody good your spring rolls are.’

  Rogers: ‘Mr Wu, we’re Armed Robbery Squad detectives—not vice. We don’t particularly care what you’re running on the side …’

  Kelso: ‘As long as it doesn’t involve underage girls…’

  Rogers: ‘Which it doesn’t, ’cos we checked. All we want is the truth about Barrett.’

  Wu took respite in a chair. ‘Yes. Okay … He started extorting me as soon as I bought the place. Said regular payments would stop him from robbing the restaurant when it was full of customers. Stop him from shooting my staff. He even showed me his gun.’

  Wu began to weep. ‘Who knows what he would have done if I didn’t give him money.’

  Kelso couldn’t resist. ‘He probably would have shot ya, pal.’

  ‘Are you going to charge me over the women?’

  Kelso was careful. ‘We won’t, as long as you write us a statement detailing Barrett’s extortion campaign.’

  Out by their car, Rogers gave an update.

  ‘Barrett’s story has stood up so far. Can’t wait to get the results on the projectile you found and the comparison with his .38.’

  ‘While we’re out this way,’ Kelso said, munching on another free spring roll, ‘let’s pay Maggs a visit … if anything just to piss him off.’

  The two Robbers approached the bar inside Wet Velvet. On deck was the same girl Kelso had dealt with last time.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Like I keep telling you, he’s not here.’

  ‘So, where is he?’

  ‘Look, how long’s this gunna go on for? I passed on your message last time.’

  ‘You tell me where he is, or I’ll personally have liquor licensing down here every Friday and Saturday night and a booze bus set up out the front. Your choice.’

  ‘Jesus, keep it in your pants … He’s doing his boxing at the old church hall.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘You’re the detective. You work it out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kelso offered in disingenuous tone. ‘I’d call you hot pants, but you never seem to wear any.’

  The makeshift boxing gym was all wooden floorboards varnished with sweat and blood. The smell of confrontation and the will to survive was just as strong inside the vacuous space as the odour of chlorides and linament. The gym ran two rings, surrounded by bags. There were a fistful of pugs going at it when Rogers and Kelso breached the ministry of bruisers, the dull sound of leather smacking leather lulling Rogers. He knew this music. Maggs was in a corner working a bag.

  ‘G’day, Johnny.’

  Kelso’s voice echoed. Other boxers stopped their sessions to watch on. Maggs stopped punching. Grabbed the heavy bag either side to stop its motion.

  ‘Looking good, slugger.’

  ‘Whad’ya want Kelso?’

  ‘A return phone call would be nice.’

  ‘What you lookin’ for? A tap on the head for a job well done?’

  ‘You played the game, cocksucker, and lost. It’s the business.’

  ‘Nah-uh. I sense it’s personal with you.’

  Maggs stood moving his gloves, throwing repetitive uppercuts to keep his shoulders limber.

  ‘It’s personal when two of my colleagues get shot.’

  Maggs shook his head. ‘Why you comin’ to me about that? I dunno nothin’ about those shootings.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you might know something about the two blokes we reckon did it. A two-man stick-up crew—doing mainly Chinese and Indian restaurants around this area. They like to tape up their victims …’

  Maggs started working the bag again. He had a good idea who Kelso was talking about, thanks to Nathan Voss’ confessions. Could Nathan—and his dad—actually be the blokes who knocked those cops? Maggs continued to hammer away. ‘I’m a reformed man now.’

  ‘Yeah, running a nice little respectable strip club—that’s a perfect front for a reformed bloke like you.’

  ‘You here to arrest me, Kelso? Slap with me with a search warrant?’

  Maggs threw a few combinations, demanding his muscled physique to punish the bag. Knock its stuffing cl
ear. He stopped again. Puffing. Dripping wet.

  ‘No? Didn’t think so.’

  ‘Come on,’ Kelso urged. ‘Do your conscience a favour and at least pretend to be a solid citizen. Humour me.’

  ‘How about you get down on your knees right here, Kelso, and do what you do best.’

  Rogers intervened. ‘Mr Maggs. We’re here off the record. Approaching you as gentlemen—’

  Maggs looked Rogers up and down. ‘Piss off, Shorty. I’m no fuckin’ dog informer.’ Maggs shaped up to Rogers in an attempt to intimidate him. He faked a right hand.

  In a blink, Roy landed two swift jabs. Marked Maggs: his nose bloodied and a cut opened under an eye.

  Kelso mimicked a boxer’s defence. ‘Keep ’em up, Johnny. You gotta keep ’em up.’

  Maggs spat. Touched his glove to his face. Studied the blood.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Kelso winked. ‘You’re still an ugly cunt.’

  Rogers flattened his hair back in place. Rubbed his moustache flat with his hand. Bade farewell.

  ‘Like I said, we came here as gentlemen.’

  ‘You don’t own me. I’ve done my time. Fuck off.’

  Kelso turned before leaving, his voice loud. ‘See you at the club. I’ll bring some mates from the Drug Squad. If we like the joint, we might become regulars.’

  Maggs spat again.

  On the way to the car, Kelso cracked a smile. ‘Nice combination.’

  Rogers shook his head. ‘I just couldn’t help it. He brought the best out of me.’

  CHAPTER 76

  Lynch was the first of three Robbers to be questioned by the PEC over the Pascoe bashing. With union-funded barrister Robert Lleyton, QC, by his side, Lynch sat before Davis and Dreyfuss in a PEC interview room. Just like a police record of interview, Dreyfuss confirmed Lynch’s particulars. In suit and Robbers tie, Lynch sat bolt upright. Spoke straight ahead to no one person in particular.

  Davis outlined the allegation. ‘We have a complaint from a man by the name of Glen Pascoe—who in relation to this inquiry will be publicly referred to as P88. Mr Pascoe alleges that you and a Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo unlawfully assaulted him in an Armed Robbery Squad interview room on 2 August of this year. What do you say to that?’

  Lynch spoke deadpan. Followed his legal advice. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you have this complainant, Glen Pascoe, in your custody on that date?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I put it to you that seized records indicate that you took Glen Pascoe into custody on that date after he reported on bail.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Gucciardo was put through the same line of questioning, with the specifics of his actions put to him during interview.

  Davis: ‘I put it to you that you struck Mr Pascoe several times with a Yellow Pages telephone book to his face and head as he sat compliant in the interview room in your custody.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘No comment, right. I put it to you that you struck Mr Pascoe seven times to the face and head with the Yellow Pages telephone book. What do you say to that?’

  ‘No comment.’

  The questioning continued. It was thorough. Touched on all aspects of the alleged assault. Gucciardo continued to reply ‘no comment’.

  The last of the Robbers to be interviewed was Shepherd. Davis put certain allegations to him.

  ‘According to Glen Pascoe, you entered the interview room at some stage during his time in custody and spoke to him. Do you recall entering the room and talking to him?’

  ‘I performed a welfare check on Mr Pascoe, yes. He appeared lucid and in good health, with no sign of any physical injuries.’

  ‘Glen Pascoe was in the custody of which detectives at that time?’

  ‘I do not recall.’

  ‘I put it to you that the following conversation took place. Mr Pascoe said: “Keep your dogs off me, Shepherd. Keep ’em off me.” You answered: “They’re not my dogs. Everything’s going to be fine as long as you act like a gentleman.” Do you agree with that?’

  ‘Yes I do. I believed Mr Pascoe was referring to police surveillance officers, and I told him I did not have charge of any surveillance police and that he was going to be looked after.’

  Davis took a second or two. Shepherd had an out thanks to a lucky choice of words. ‘I put it to you that you failed in your duty of care to Mr Pascoe.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  In a booth at the 3MR studios, Hemmings sat with headphones on and about to go live with top-rating afternoon drive host Wendy Lewis. Hemmings had received the good oil about the morning’s PEC interviews from a highly placed leak. If it was good enough for McFarlane then it was good enough for Stuart Davis.

  Lewis spoke. ‘The time is now twenty-five minutes to five and with me I have our crime reporter, Tony Hemmings, who has some exclusive news about a Police Ethics Commission investigation into members of the recently disbanded Armed Robbery Squad. Over to you, Tony.’

  ‘Thanks, Wendy. I can exclusively reveal that the PEC today interviewed three detectives over the alleged assault of a suspect in their custody.’

  ‘What do you know about the allegations?’

  ‘According to inside sources, the suspect made a statement claiming he was punched, headbutted and bashed with a phonebook.’

  ‘Sounds incredibly serious …’

  ‘It’s my understanding the PEC is treating this extremely seriously and is very confident about criminal charges being laid over this.’

  ‘It doesn’t get much more serious than that for a serving member of Victoria Police.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. The PEC is expected to air the investigation at a public hearing in the coming weeks where the accused men will have to answer questions in a courtroom. Criminal charges could then be laid, pending the outcome of that hearing.’

  ‘Hmm, the story about the downfall of the state’s most feared crime squad continues. Tony Hemmings, thanks for your time.’

  ‘Thank you, Wendy.’

  The three grilled Robbers sat together for a late lunch at the Royal. Ties down and jackets off, they sat drinking pots at their normal table by the corner of their side of the bar. Shepherd had a smoke going.

  ‘The peckerheads are playing this out through the media,’ Shepherd said. ‘I hate to say it, but some of us here are going to be hung out as sacrificial lambs to justify McFarlane’s decision to disband us.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Gooch muttered. ‘That sniveller McFarlane’s gunna look all shiny and those PEC cocksuckers are gunna get some scalps. Roll up. Roll up. Everyone wins a fuckin’ prize.’

  Shepherd thought hard on the current situation, and how it had all evolved. Malone continued to form part of the equation. The journo fitted. Lynch, too, was thinking hard while awaiting his schnitzel.

  ‘What have they got, other than Pascoe’s statement?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Shepherd replied, ‘but they put some questions to me using very specific things that were said.’

  The waitress arrived with three parmigianas.

  ‘Thanks, Kate.’

  CHAPTER 77

  The smell of supermarket sausages sizzling in his kitchen was all too familiar for Nathan Voss. The sight of his plumping pregnant wife standing at the stove in a tracksuit and windcheater prodding at the bangers in the frypan was an all-too-familiar and depressing view. Nathan and his dad sat at the kitchen bench in their work gear sipping stubbies, Voss perusing a hardware catalogue. His son’s backyard needed a decking and verandah.

  ‘Any kicks yet?’ Voss asked Brenda.

  ‘Maybe. Not sure … I’ve been bloody hungry though.’

  ‘You’re eating for two now,’ he suggested, eyeing off Brenda’s bulging boobs. ‘Doris was the same. Ate like a fat pig. By the way, the leader of the opposition says hello. Said she’ll pop around on Friday.’

  An outsider to the conversation, Nathan went to the ensuite. Took a small coin bag from his overalls pocket. T
ipped its white crystalline content onto the vanity next to the basin. He rolled a ten-buck note and snorted up the amphetamines. Rubbed the remaining residue into his gums, wiped his nose clean and returned to his inglorious mundane life: a frigid pregnant wife with sausage toes cooking home-brand snags in a frypan.

  ‘Hey Nathan, I hear the little sprog might be kicking. He could be playing for Collingwood one day.’

  Nathan watched Brenda turn off the gas jet. She’d turned it off in the bedroom many months before.

  ‘Nuh. It’s gunna be a girl,’ she said.

  The conversation was doing Nathan’s head in.

  ‘When’s tea gunna be ready? Dad and I are starving.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up or you can cook ’em next time.’

  Voss pulled a petrified look. Chuckled. Brenda opened the sliding doors and went outside for a smoke.

  ‘Dad, I reckon we get back out and start the stick-ups again,’ Nathan suggested while Brenda wasn’t there. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Voss looked back to his son. ‘Nah. It’s too dangerous. We shot and killed two coppers, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, but no-one knows what happened apart from us and that bloke they’ve charged. According to the news, the jacks said in court that he was there on the night—he was the bloke those cops had on his knees.’

  Voss finished his beer. Belched. ‘Isn’t he an unlucky cunt. Ha! That bloke is so unlucky that if he fell into a box of tits he’d come up sucking his thumb.’

  Nathan liked that one. Actually made him smile.

  ‘He obviously didn’t see anything that proved it was us,’ Voss continued. ‘He’s taken the heat off us completely.’ He plucked another stubby from the fridge. Twisted the top and made a toast.

  ‘To Pat Barrett. He’s gunna cop the wrap for us.’

  Voss drank. Put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder as he made his way back to the bench.

  Brenda returned inside. Dumped some mashed potato on three plates and divvied up the snags.

  ‘Dinner is served. If youse want coleslaw, it’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Wow, they look lovely, Pumpkin Pie.’

  ‘They’re just bloody snags, Stan.’