‘What’s this got to do with Lou Williams?’
‘I’ll get to that in a minute,’ said Brereton. ‘Firstly, I want to remind you all of a few things.’ He turned his gaze upon Pat Morgan, ‘Pat, this doesn’t really concern you, but I want you to hear it, because it will from now on.’ He leant forward and dropped his voice. ‘Over the last twenty years I’ve made a number of private investments with union funds. I did it with your consent. I approached all of you and you all agreed, so let’s cut the bullshit. Now is the time to capitalise on those investments.’
‘I think this has gone far enough,’ said one of the men and rose from his seat.
‘Sit down!’ Brereton snapped. ‘Sit down right this minute!’
The man sat and stared at the green felt table top.
Brereton stared at him for several seconds and continued. ‘You bastards have been taking money from me hand over fist for a lot of years and never once did you question where it came from. Well, now I’m going to tell you.’ He stared around the table at them. ‘We’re rich, boys. Bloody rich! We own property in Sydney and Melbourne. Not just a house or two, oh no! We own three hotels, six blocks of flats, two restaurants, several laundries, a fleet of trucks, and a construction company.’
‘Good God Almighty!’ It was the same man. He looked at Scobie with incredulity.
‘Shut up, you hypocrite! And don’t look at me like that. Hundreds of pounds have found their way into your pockets every year! Where did you think I got it? From the fucking tooth fairy?’
‘I didn’t know it had gone that far,’ the man whispered.
‘Well, it has!’ said Scobie, unwrapping a cigar. ‘Let me ask you something … Have you ever heard of Tip-Toe Investments?’
The men shook their heads. ‘No,’ said one of them. ‘Why?’
‘They’re a group of businessmen, for want of a better word. Nobody knows who they are, but they control part of the Sydney business world with money and occasionally standover tactics.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked the man who’d tried to leave.
‘Because you’re one of them!’ roared Scobie.
Silence hung in the air like death. Several of the men got up and helped themselves to drinks, but not one word was spoken.
Scobie Brereton let it sink in. He lit the cigar and puffed away on it as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked at Pat Morgan and winked. ‘Sit down, boys and let’s get on with the business at hand.’
They all sat down and he told them their futures. They could stay as they were in Broken Hill. Their lives need not change—they’d just get richer and richer. Or they could extricate themselves from it once and for all.
‘How is that possible?’ It was the nervous man again.
Scobie’s moment of truth had arrived. He reached down to a satchel near his feet and withdrew a sheaf of papers. ‘There’s quite a few papers to sign, but if you want to get out, now’s the time to do it—because when we leave this room, we’ll be different men.’ He placed a set of papers in front of each of the men, except for Pat Morgan.
The three men stared at their papers, then slowly, one after the other, they signed.
Silence reigned as Scobie collected the papers and returned them to the satchel. ‘You’re all miners again.’
‘I’m not.’ Pat Morgan looked at Scobie Brereton.
‘No, Pat. You’re going to be the new member of parliament for the West. You’re going to go to Sydney and live in a big flash house and work for me. Isn’t he, boys?’
Two days later, Pat Morgan was nominated as the Labor Party candidate in the forthcoming State Government elections. That same night, March the 7th, 1960, three men were killed when a car exploded in South Broken Hill. They had all been members of the Barrier Industrial Council.
The Criterion Club in Sydney was a hell of a place to be on a Saturday night. Especially if you had money.
Stephen O’Donnell had money. Lots of money. Six hundred quid in crisp five and ten pound notes. He could feel them in his coat pocket, next to his heart. He leant on the bar in the Criterion Club and swigged down the last of his scotch. He looked around the room at the faces of the young and wealthy. Glasses tinkled and laughter could be heard from various gaming tables around the room. He smiled. Sydney’s a hell of a town, he thought.
This was Stephen’s fifth visit to the club. He’d been introduced by a member two weeks before and had made a home of the place since. He’d lost money heavily the first night, but had eased off on the following visits and tonight he’d cleaned up. Or so everybody thought.
He’d moved from table to table, playing cautiously and taking his winnings whenever he got in front of the dealer. After several hours he had flashed a sizeable wad of notes at the bar, causing the barman to congratulate him. Several beautiful women had approached and inveigled drinks from him and the gambling floor manager had offered him safe conduct to his home if he required it.
‘Just ask the bouncer on the door when you leave. He’ll arrange it for you,’ the manager had said. ‘You’ve had a good night, by the looks of it, but there’s no telling who might have seen you win it. We don’t like to think of our guests being robbed.’
Stephen O’Donnell looked at his watch. It was one o’clock precisely—time to leave. He walked towards the exit door and sized up the bouncer. ‘Your manager,’ he said as he pulled the six hundred from his pocket, ‘said you’d arrange safe conduct for me?’
The bouncer cast his beady eyes over the wad of notes. ‘No worries, mate. Wait right here and I’ll get my offsider.’
O’Donnell watched the man enter an office door marked ‘Private’. Then he turned back to the exit door now left unattended. He slipped back the two retaining bolts and undid the lock. The door opened and there stood Inspector Knocker Reid.
‘Good boy, O’Donnell. Right on time. We’ll make a copper out of you yet,’ said Reid as he burst into the Criterion Club. ‘Thirty-Three Division,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, holding aloft his police warrant card, ‘you’re all fucking nicked.’
Men from Thirty-Three rushed in behind him and sealed off all the other doors. Women screamed and men were flattened as they tried to escape.
Thomas Bromley pushed open the doorway marked ‘Private’. The bouncer rushed at him. Bromley ducked under the swipe of his huge paw and punched the man flush on the chin. The man dropped to the floor, out cold. Another bouncer began to move. But he was stopped by a big man sitting behind the desk counting money.
‘Don’t bother,’ the big man said.
‘Joseph Augustus Bellarino, I’m Inspector Thomas Bromley of the New South Wales Police, Thirty-Three Division. You’re under arrest for conducting a house for the purposes of illegal gaming. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish—’
‘Cut the bullshit, Bromley.’ The big man raised his arm. ‘My lawyer will have your arse for this.’
Bromley smiled. ‘I doubt that, Joe. We arrested him an hour ago.’
‘You what?’
‘My boss George Everard is having a chat with him right this minute. He’s been offered immunity to prosecution and if I know George, he’ll have your lawyer singing like a bird by now.’
Bellarino’s eyes narrowed and he waved his arm over the sea of money on his desk. ‘It’s all yours, Inspector. I won’t see a thing, you know what I mean?’
At that moment Knocker Reid entered the room. ‘Did I hear correctly, Tom? Did Mr Bellarino offer you a pecuniary advantage?’
‘He certainly did, Inspector Reid,’ said Tom.
‘That’s a crime, isn’t it?’ Knocker walked over to the desk. ‘Hello, Joe. You fat piece of shit’ he spat, and punched Bellarino in the face. ‘The high life is over, Joe. You’re on the outer. Your lawyer is squealing his arse off so he won’t be disbarred and when we’re finished here, we’re gonna arrest your pet copper.’
‘I don’t know what y
ou’re talking about, Reid,’ said Joe Bellarino as he wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve, ‘I haven’t got a pet copper.’
‘You’re right about that, Joe,’ said Bromley as he started collecting the cash from the table. ‘We’ve got him now.’
Bellarino leaned back in his office chair and held up his hands. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘what do you want? How do I get out of this?’
Knocker sat on the edge of the desk. ‘You used to be the boss, Joe. What happened?’ He picked up a bundle of cash and flicked through it. ‘Somebody moved in on you and now you’re just a messenger boy—the hired help, so to speak. You tell us who that someone is and we’ll see what we can do for you.’
Bellarino looked straight at Reid. ‘All the money on the table wouldn’t buy you that information, Knocker. I’d be dead by Monday morning.’
The bouncer was standing quietly near the window. Tom Bromley motioned for him to pick up his semiconscious mate and leave the room. When they’d gone, Bromley leaned in over Bellarino’s shoulder and whispered, ‘We’ll protect you, Joe.’
Joseph Bellarino laughed out loud. ‘Put the cuffs on me, boys,’ he said, standing up with his wrists held out, ‘and let’s get on with it. Anything’s better than dying young.’
Bromley secured the man’s wrists with handcuffs. ‘You’re in a lot of shit, Joe. Co-operating with us would help.’
Bellarino grinned defiantly. ‘My lawyer knows fuck all and, as for Geoff Brookes, it’s simply his word against mine.’
‘Geoff Brookes from the Consorting Squad?’ said Knocker Reid and winked at Bromley.
‘Yeah, Detective Brookes. You said you’re gonna arrest him when you leave here.’
Knocker laughed. ‘We bloody well will too, now we know who he is.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re a dumb cunt, Joe, did you know that?’
Bellarino looked at the two police officers who were doubled up with laughter. ‘You bastards!’
Superintendent George Everard stood in Castlereagh Street in the late April rain and watched the aftermath of the raid on the Criterion Club. Four paddywagons were being loaded with young men in evening suits and pretty women protesting their innocence. He pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears to ward off the cold southerly wind and watched Bromley and Reid escort Joe Bellarino to a waiting police car. Bellarino got into the car, which drove off to Central Station, and the two inspectors joined Everard.
‘G’day, boss.’
‘It went well by the looks of it, Tom?’
‘Young O’Donnell did a good job.’
‘He’s got the makings of a good cop,’ said Knocker. ‘They had no idea we were coming.’
‘What did you find out?’ asked Everard.
Knocker Reid grinned. ‘Geoff Brookes from Consorting is in Bellarino’s pocket.’
Everard lifted his hat and smoothed his bald head. ‘That’s a bonus, but he’s only another small fry. Did he say who’s behind it all?’
‘No way, sir. Whoever it is has got everybody frightened. Bellarino’s terrified.’
‘What about books? Company records?’
‘We’ve got them,’ chimed in Bromley, ‘but they’ll tell us nothing. It’ll be another paper chase with nothing to show for it at the end. Whoever’s running this business has got a lot of power, boss.’
‘Well, fuck ’em!’ Everard snorted, ‘We’ve got a lot of power too and they’ll find that out soon enough.’
Knocker Reid lit a cigarette. ‘How’d you go with the lawyer?’
‘Same as Bellarino. He won’t say a word. Well, nothing we didn’t know already.’
‘Excuse me, Inspector Reid?’ It was Constable Stephen O’Donnell.
‘What is it?’
‘Who do I give this back to, sir?’ he asked taking the six hundred pounds out of his pocket.
‘Oh keep it,’ said George Everard, ‘it’s a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work.’
O’Donnell’s eyes bulged. ‘Y-yes sir! Thank you, sir!’ he said, and turned to walk away.
‘O’Donnell! You stupid boy!’ roared Everard. ‘I was joking. Give the bloody stuff to Inspector Reid!’
‘Y-yes sir!’ the constable stuttered and handed Reid the money.
Everard pointed a menacing finger at the young cop. ‘Large sums of money and policemen don’t mix.’
‘Yes sir! I mean no sir!’ The constable looked mortified.
The three senior policemen were grinning at him.
‘You did a good job tonight, son,’ said Everard seriously. ‘I’ll make sure it’s entered into your Record of Service. Now get on with your duties.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ O’Donnell turned and hurried away.
‘He’s a good kid, boss,’ said Bromley.
‘All our boys are good boys, Tom. That’s what makes us special. And we’re honest cops. That’s why we’ll win. As long as we’re honest no one can touch us. Now, you say Brookes from Consorting is bent?’
‘Looks like it.’ It was Knocker Reid. ‘Bellarino let it slip. I’d say it’s accurate.’ He paused and shuffled his feet on the cold street. ‘We don’t have to do him, do we?’
‘What are you saying, Knocker?’
‘He’s a cop, boss. Like us.’
Everard frowned. ‘Not any more he’s not. He’s a crook and I want to know what he knows.’
Tom Bromley cleared his throat. ‘If he squeals, can we do a deal with him? He’s got a wife and kids. I mean it’s not fair on them, is it?’
‘Get to the point, Tom.’
‘We look after our own, sir,’ Bromley said quietly.
Everard looked at them both for a long time. The air was full of memories of a warm spring night in the backyard of a church in 1956. Eventually he spoke and his voice softened. ‘Fair enough. We look after our own.’ He wiped the rain water from the brim of his hat and then held Bromley’s eyes with an icy stare. ‘But you tell him this from me. He tells it all and then he resigns. No ifs or buts. And if it turns out that he lied or held anything back, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And listen very carefully at what he has to say. Without knowing it, he might have valuable information. It’s Saturday night. He’ll know by tomorrow morning that he’s been dropped in the shit. Let him sweat until Monday afternoon, then pick him up at his station in front of his workmates. I want everything he knows on my desk by Tuesday morning.’
Knocker nodded. ‘It’ll be there.’
‘Good! Now let’s get out of this bloody rain.’
Vera Everard lay in her bed staring at the moulded Federation ceiling. She knew every inch of it by heart. The little creeping vines that ran along the length of raised plaster and met each other at the corners, where they entwined with a rose; the centre of the ceiling with its beautiful rosette of flowers and birds and sunflower centrepiece which surrounded the light fitting. She loved the ceiling. She heard the refrigerator door slam. That would be Shayne, her eight year old, getting the cereal and milk for himself and his sister Penelope.
‘Harold, it’s the children.’
‘Just another minute, darling,’ said her husband and quickened his movements.
She hated having sex, but knew it was part of her place in life to submit to her husband’s sexual desires. She just wished he’d get it over with.
She’d awoken at six-thirty and had gone to the bathroom and lubricated her vagina with petroleum jelly, as she always did on a Sunday. Then she’d checked on the kids and, satisfied they were still asleep, had gone back to bed and waited for Harold to mount her. He always feigned sleep while he fumbled with his penis to get it erect. Finally he had turned and entered her.
At last she felt him ejaculate inside her and pull away to lie on his back. She got up immediately and headed for the bathroom, yelling for the children to be careful with the crockery.
Harold Everard lay in bed, thinking what a lucky man he was. Vera never refused him. Every Sunday
morning he took her. Well, except when it was that time of the month. He’d press his chest against her tits and push into her and have her. And she was always slippery and ready for him. He smiled as he heard his son turn on the television and tell his sister not to spill food on the lounge room carpet. Life’s good, he thought and rolled over to enjoy his Sunday lie-in.
He was dozing when Vera entered the bedroom.
‘Come on, Harry, up you get, it’s nearly nine o’clock. You promised to borrow your father’s Victa and mow the lawns. We’ll be late for eleven o’clock Mass if you don’t get a wriggle on.’
‘Yes dear,’ he muttered, watching her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She was wearing an apricot-coloured silk petticoat. It excited him. It showed off her breasts and flat stomach and long legs to perfection. He watched her bend over and flick efficiently through pairs of panties, finally making her selection. She stepped into them and drew them up over her thighs and he caught a brief glimpse of her pubic hair.
‘Come on, Harry, get up!’
He muttered sleepily then pulled back the bedclothes and stood up to stretch.
He’s putting on weight, she thought. Two years as a sergeant on the Commissioner’s staff had not done his physique any good. He’s getting a fat stomach. Good God, his father’s in better condition and he’s fifty-six. For a moment she couldn’t remember Harold’s age. Thirty-one? Yes, thirty-one. Of course, she thought, he’s one year older than me. God, I’ll be thirty soon. Her life rushed through her mind. Childhood, school, Harold, marriage, two kids. Had it all really happened? She still felt like an eighteen-year-old girl waiting for something, but she didn’t know what.
A Necessary Evil Page 8
