‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want you to concentrate on these teenage dances sprouting up all over the place. There’s a ratbag element among these kids and they’re getting too big for their boots. They’re forming gangs. Bodgies, they call themselves. Well, I want them reminded that crime does not pay. I want them hit left, right and centre. I want them taught that it’s dangerous to stand around street corners at night in large groups.’
This remark brought a chuckle from the group until Everard’s raised hand silenced them.
‘I’m deadly serious, lads. These gangs are extorting money from innocent people simply taking the evening air. Young girls are not safe on the streets. If these kids aren’t nipped in the bud they’ll be into armed robbery and God knows what else soon. Are there any questions?’
‘I’ve got one.’ Knocker Reid got up and walked to the window. ‘Do we have departmental backing if we get in the shit?’
Everard waited a moment for impact before answering. ‘You don’t need it. You have my backing and I’ll kill with my bare hands before I’ll let any one of you go down. You have my word on that.’ He waited another moment before continuing. ‘And I expect the same loyalty from you four and anyone else connected with Thirty-Three Division.’
It was Stan Ames who spoke. ‘That’s fair enough by me, but you’re asking us to play a dangerous game, boss.’
‘I’ll be playing it too, sergeant.’
‘What about money, sir?’ asked Bromley.
‘There’s a slush fund available with plenty of cash to go round. Sixteen constables will report here tomorrow morning. You’ll get four each. Three squads operational and one manning the office on a rotational basis. We also have three unmarked cars and a Bedford van at our disposal.’ Everard took a five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to Reid. ‘I want you to take the rest of the day off and get to know one another. I want a close-knit family with not a word to anyone about our business. From eight o’clock tomorrow morning I want Thirty-Three Division operational. Is that clear?’ The four stood in obedient silence. ‘Good! Now off you go, lads, and mind you don’t drink too much. Tomorrow’s a working day.’
The four men gathered up their coats and hats and were leaving the office when Everard interrupted them. ‘Sergeant Bromley, I’d like a word with you. You other men wait downstairs.’ He threw a set of car keys to Knocker Reid. ‘The black Ford downstairs is ours, Bill. Don’t smash it.’
‘Ours permanent?’ asked Reid.
‘That’s right. Unless, of course, you smash it, but that won’t happen, will it?’
‘Too right it won’t. Thanks, boss.’
The three men trooped off laughing and Tom Bromley waited as an uneasy silence developed.
George Everard moved over to the window and looked down over the parade square. Then he turned and looked Bromley straight in the eye. ‘This school has a great tradition, Tom. It’s the cradle of the thin blue line. Do you get my meaning, son?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We all enter this job with a certain innocence, but that innocence soon disappears when you start dealing with society as we policemen see it. Passion, hatred, greed and the like are basic human emotions, Tom, and we see them so often we can easily become inured to them. People murdering, people stealing, people cheating and even tearing each other to pieces. Are you with me, lad?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Everard turned back to the window and was silent for what seemed like minutes to Bromley. Then he spoke quietly and deliberately. ‘I’m nobody’s fool, Tom. I can see Thirty-Three Division becoming the most powerful arm of the police force. I know it’s early days but, mark my words, a unit with the free-ranging powers we have can only become more and more successful and do you know what success breeds?’
‘Power, sir?’
‘Exactly! Power!’ Everard gazed over at the parade square. ‘And what does power breed, Tom?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Corruption! Not the corruption we know, Tom. Not a few free beers and the odd meal or maybe a whore on the side. Oh no! The kind of corruption that can make honest men dishonest … and rich.’
Bromley frowned. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t follow.’
Everard turned back and fixed him with an icy glare. ‘You’re a good copper, Tom. I’ve watched you develop over the years. You’ve got a good heart and you’ve an honesty about you. That’s a rare gift. That’s why you were the first man I requested for this unit. The others downstairs, they’re good coppers too and tough! Tougher than you, lad, and more experienced—but they lack wisdom. That’s what you’ll give them, Tom. Wisdom.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes, you. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good men who’d die proudly for the badge they wear, but like most men, they’re corruptible, whereas Tom, I don’t think you are.’
‘I won’t play the spook for you, Inspector, if that’s what you’re after. I won’t dob anyone in.’
‘Oh, yes you will, sergeant. If it becomes necessary you bloody well will. I’m not talking about The Ways & Means Act.’ This reference to the fictitious act of parliament invented by policemen to explain their illegal behaviour made Bromley smile despite his indignation. ‘I’m not talking about bricking crooks, for Christ’s sake. Fabrication of evidence is fair play so long as you’re sure you’ve got the right crook—God knows it’s one thing we have up our sleeves that the criminals don’t. And I’m not talking about free beer and whores. They’re part and parcel of the game we play. What I’m talking about is using the badge to get rich. Abusing the power for personal gain. Taking bribes, lad! Becoming a crook. That’s what I’m talking about. If that happens, we’ll all go to hell in a handcart.’ Everard moved towards him. ‘Do I make myself clear, Tom?’
‘Loud and clear, sir. If I ever see it go that far I’ll tell you. You can rely on that.’
‘Good.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s the last time we’ll speak of it. Go on now, get about your drinking and have one for me.’
The first dart flew through the air and landed in the number sixteen of the dart board. The second followed almost immediately, hitting sixteen again.
‘Thirty-two, Lucky,’ shouted a large man in a green felt hat, ‘Double sixteen and the game’s ours, mate.’
The dart thrower grinned and took aim. The dart flew through the air and landed in double sixteen. A roar went up from the patrons in the bar of The King’s Family Hotel at Bondi Beach and Lucky Bill Norris was immediately surrounded by well-wishers. He suffered the slaps on the back and the congratulations then joined his friend at the bar.
‘There’s no doubt about it, Lucky, you throw darts like a man with no arms.’ Tim O’Brien doffed his felt hat in salute.
‘Never mind the bullshit, how much did we win?’
Ten quid and all the grog we can drink between now and closing time, courtesy of Kitty Logan the meanest bitch ever to run a public house.’
‘You better keep your voice down, Timothy; if she hears you talking about her like that she’ll break your jaw.’
The two men laughed and Lucky Norris ordered another round of drinks.
Bill Norris wasn’t called Lucky for nothing. As the Daily Mirror’s senior crime reporter, he’d broken more top crime stories over the years than anyone else in his profession. He was always the first to know when a major crime was committed and always first on the scene with his photographer, Tim O’Brien. That was why the other journalists called him Lucky, although everyone knew that luck really had nothing to do with it. Norris knew every senior cop in the force and practically every crook they’d ever arrested. Over decades he cultivated an elaborate collection of informers from both sides of the fence. To his newspaper editor and owner he was worth his weight in rockinghorse shit.
No-nose McBean, on the other hand was definitely not worth his weight in rockinghorse shit. He was an alcoholic cripple who lived on the fringe of the underworld, making a livi
ng by trading information for small sums of money. Nobody knew his real name, they all called him No-nose. It wasn’t because he didn’t have a nose—in fact, he had a huge nose and whenever anyone remarked on it he would reply, ‘You l-l-leave my no-nose out of it.’
No-nose McBean stuck his huge nose through the open door of the public bar of The King’s Family Hotel and quickly caught the eye of Lucky Norris. No-nose tapped the reason for his name with a forefinger and disappeared.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, Tim,’ said Norris.
‘Where are you going? We’ve got beer to drink.’
‘I’ve got a feeling a little bird is going to whisper in my ear, mate,’ Norris replied.
He found McBean in the laneway behind the hotel. ‘Hello, No-nose.’
‘Hello Mr N-N-N-N-N—’
‘Norris.’
‘Y-y-yeah.’
‘What do you know, mate?’ said Norris, smiling.
‘The Prince of D-Darlinghurst’s been p-promoted.’
‘George Everard made up to Inspector? Old news, I’m afraid, mate. I believe he’s taking over the Police & Citizens’ Youth Club. Better luck next time.’ Norris turned to move away.
‘Th-th-that’s bullshit, Mr N-N-N-N—’
‘Norris,’ said Lucky, turning back. ‘What have you heard?’
‘A n-n-new division’s b-been formed. Th-Thirty Three it’s called and M-Mr Ev-Everard’s in charge of it.’
‘What’s its function?’
‘S-s-search me, but he’s g-got a right p-p-pack of bastards in it w-with him.’
‘Give me some names.’
‘Kn-Kn-Knocker Reid, T-Tommy Bromley, Jim F-F-Fadden and that unholy m-m-man from B-Broken Hill.’
‘Stan Ames?’
‘Th-th-that’s him.’
‘Christ Almighty, what are they going to do, start a war?’
‘D-d-dunno. It’s all v-very h-h-h-hush-hush.’
‘Thanks, No-nose,’ Norris felt in his pocket and handed the man five shillings, ‘here, get yourself a drink on me.’ He then turned and headed for the bar.
‘Thanks Mr N-N-N-N-’
‘Norris,’ he yelled back over his shoulder.
Jim Fadden knew he was pissed when he joined in a rendition of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. Christ, he’d known some wild men in his time but Knocker Reid took the cake. Knocker hadn’t stopped since noon and it was nine o’clock at night. They’d matched him drink for drink and were all smashed. They’d started in the Rose of Tralee Hotel and now they were in a sly grog shop in Chinatown.
‘Here’s to the Dirty Tree,’ Knocker roared and raised his glass.
‘The what?’ Bromley leaned on the bar and stared at Knocker.
‘That’s what Everard calls it! The Dirty Tree,’ he said, adopting Everard’s Irish brogue. They were all looking at him now. ‘That’s how he says Thirty Three. Dirty Tree! And from now on that’s what we’ll call it. Cheers.’
They downed their beers and Knocker called for more. Fadden was feeling uneasy. He could sense violence rising in Knocker Reid. In fact, he could feel it in himself, the more beers he had. The urge to flex muscle. To display strength. To throw his weight around. He knew all the danger signals and they were flashing red. There was nothing more frightening than drunken cops and he was one of them. Look out, Chinatown.
‘How about some more grog, Mama-san?’ Knocker yelled to the Chinese woman behind the bar.
‘I reckon we’ve had enough,’ said Stan Ames. ‘Why don’t we call it a night?’
‘Bullshit, I’m just getting warmed up. Get the beers, Stan the man while I go and have a piss.’ Reid turned and disappeared through a door at the back of the room.
‘He’s gonna go bang soon.’ Bromley gestured at Reid’s empty chair and looked at the others. ‘He’s gonna go off like a hand-held flare. He’ll start talking about his wife and kid dying in that car accident.’
‘That was ten bloody years ago,’ said Ames as he signalled the Mama-san for more beers.
Bromley nodded. ‘And when he gets pissed he starts remembering and goes off his head.’
‘So what do we do? I’m as drunk as a fart. Fucking oath, he can put it away.’ Fadden finished with a sigh and slumped into a chair.
‘When a man wants a fight, give him a fuck.’
‘What?’
Stan Ames flopped down beside Fadden. ‘I said, when a man wants a fight, give him a fuck.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not gonna fuck him!,’ said Bromley and succumbed to a beckoning chair beside the other two. ‘It’ll have to be one of you two.’
Ames wagged his index finger at Bromley, placed it over his lips to indicate soft talk and whispered, ‘They’ve got a Choy Siu table in this joint.’
‘What the fuck’s that?’
‘It means “playing the flute” in Cantonese.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ said Fadden, ‘How will playing the flute solve anything?’
‘In China, when a girl plays the flute it means she sucks your cock.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘They’ve got a table here with a trapdoor under it. The sheila comes up out of the trapdoor, does her business, and nobody’s any the wiser.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m serious. Call the Mama-san over and I’ll tee it up.’
When Knocker Reid returned to the bar, his brothers in arms were sitting at a large horseshoe-shaped booth in the corner of the room. It had a silk cloth covering the table which reached to the floor.
The new team were talking animatedly when Knocker slid in beside them.
‘I reckon if we do a good clean-up job on these teenage dances they’ll give the squad another brief,’ said Bromley.
‘Like what?’ answered Ames as he winked at Fadden.
‘Gaming maybe? Vice? Who knows.’
‘You’re not talking shop, are you?’ Reid banged the table with his fist. ‘Christ alive, we’re on the drink. The last thing I want to talk about is the job.’ He sipped at his beer and slumped in his seat.
The others continued their conversation, all the time watching Knocker out of the corners of their eyes. Before long, Knocker’s slouched posture slowly and almost imperceptibly straightened. His police hard eyes scanned the room as if searching for trouble. He picked up his beer and sipped it warily.
Ames winked at Bromley. ‘What do you reckon, Knocker?’
‘Eh? What?’
‘Do you reckon we’ll get another brief?’
‘Oh, yes … bound to.’ Knocker sipped his beer politely and then coughed into it.
‘You all right, mate?’ Fadden enquired from behind his hand.
‘Aaah, yeah. Never better. You blokes chat on.’ Reid’s face was turning red and his breath was quickening.
‘You got any idea who the constables are we’re getting tomorrow, Knocker?’ Bromley chimed in.
‘Ooooh, fuck! Eh? What?? … No, no idea, shit!’ Reid’s face was turning purple and his eyes were beginning to bulge.
The three men continued to chat as Reid’s breath came in gasps.
‘You’re going red in the face, Knocker. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Never better. Touch of blood pressure, that’s all. Christ almighty! Ooooooh, faaaaaarrkkk!’ Knocker Reid ejaculated and subsided with a huge sigh.
Ames struggled to maintain a concerned expression. ‘You sure you’re all right, Knocker? You look fucking terrible.’
Knocker picked up his beer and finished it, while under the table, tiny delicate hands refastened his fly buttons. ‘Actually, I might call it a night, lads, these Chink places are really weird.’ He slid out of the booth and quickly glanced at the front of his trousers. ‘Anyway, you know what the boss said, tomorrow’s a work day. I’ll be seeing you.’ He turned and walked out of the premises without looking back.
The three cops fell to pieces. They roared with laughter until the tears filled their eyes.
George Everard turned
off the engine of the police car and sat behind the wheel looking at the front door of his house. A light beamed onto the front porch, giving off a warm, welcoming glow. He sighed, remembering when he’d loved this house. When it was full of screaming kids and life. He remembered the barbecues in the backyard, his mates and their wives drinking, eating and dancing under a full summer moon. He’d loved it then. Life had been good.
He heaved himself out of the car and walked up the side lane to the rear entrance. He knew what to expect. It was seven o’clock. His dinner would be in the oven with a saucepan lid over it. He would eat it at the kitchen table, then he’d feed the cats at seven-thirty. God help him if he didn’t feed the cats.
Maude would be at six o’clock Mass. She never missed it. Regular as fucking clockwork, she was. No doubt about her.
He entered the kitchen and saw the note. He didn’t bother reading it. He knew it by heart. It was always the same when he worked day shift. Your dinner’s in the oven. I’ve gone to Mass. Don’t forget to feed Dotty and Clarence.
George Everard sat at the table and ate. I’m only fifty-two, he thought, why do I feel like a bloody old-age pensioner?
The kitchen clock ticked on the wall. He looked about him. It was spotless. No mess, no stains, everything clean and tidy and ordered. And dead.
He heard the front door open. ‘Are you home, Mr Everard?’
Mr Everard! Shit! Thirty years he’d been married to the woman and for the last twenty of them she’d been calling him Mr Everard. ‘I’m in the kitchen, Maude.’
‘Well, saints be praised for that.’ She walked in the kitchen and took off her hat and coat. ‘At least you’re not out drinking in the garage.’ She patted him on the shoulder and went to the back door. She opened it and called into the night. ‘Here kitty-kitty. Here kitty-kitty. George, you didn’t forget to feed Dotty and Clarence, did you?’
‘I’ve only been home a few minutes; besides, you’re early.’
‘I know. Harold and Vera were at the church to see about getting baby Penelope christened and they gave me a lift home.’
A Necessary Evil Page 3
