Tommy gestured helplessly. ‘That’s all well and good for the medical profession, Doctor, but it’s of no use to me. I want to know what forms of treatment are available. I want my wife to get better,’ said Bromley as he sat down in front of the doctor’s desk.
‘Well,’ the doctor replied, ‘radiation treatment is sometimes successful, especially with lymphocytic leukemia, such as your wife is suffering.’ Doctor Miller doodled on a pad as he spoke, and Bromley suddenly felt a barely controllable urge to hit him. ‘There is also chemotherapy …’
‘What’s that?’ snapped Bromley, causing the doctor to start.
‘Well, it’s relatively new stuff, mind you.’
‘What is it?’ Bromley repeated his question.
‘It’s the introduction of drugs into the bloodstream to combat the disease.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Well … er … I wouldn’t recommend it just yet. It’s very new to Australian medicine. We don’t really know enough about it,’ said the doctor, ‘I’d prefer radiation treatment to start with. If we’re not successful and things get more desperate—’
Tommy motioned the doctor to stop. ‘Doctor, if my wife cannot be cured of this disease, how long will she live?’
‘Well, I … er, don’t like to predict …’
‘How long?’ Bromley interrupted grimly.
‘Anywhere from twelve months to ten years, Inspector.’ Miller sighed. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, but that’s the nature of leukemia.’
‘When will you begin the radiation therapy?’
‘I’ll get on to the Radiology Department at St Vincent’s Hospital this morning and arrange it. I’ll let you know tomorrow what those arrangements are,’ said Doctor Miller as he stood up to escort Bromley to the door.
‘Thanks, Doctor,’ said Bromley, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit abrupt, but I’m having trouble coming to grips with this business.’
‘That’s all right, Inspector Bromley. I know only too well how distressing it is.’ Dr Miller opened his office door. ‘I’ll speak with you tomorrow.’
Bromley walked up Macquarie Street in the heat of the morning. Sydney was enveloped in still, blue sky summer sunshine. January’s a shit of a month, he thought idly, then he chided himself. Josie had slipped from his mind for a few seconds and it made him feel guilty.
For once in Tom Bromley’s life, he found himself at a loss. His wife was seriously ill and he felt useless. He racked his brain, hoping a light would come on. Maybe something that hadn’t occurred to him, something he could do for her. Some simple idea that would solve the problem—but he knew he was fooling himself. Josie would suffer the disease of leukemia and he would have to sit by and watch.
It had been six months since the blood tests had revealed his wife’s illness. In that time he’d watched her grow weaker and weaker. Twice he’d arrived home and found her unconscious. Once lying in a pool of menstrual blood on the kitchen floor. She’d been hospitalised both times for several days and then allowed to go home.
Their lives had become a merry-go-round of specialists offices, laboratories, hospitals, radiology clinics and endless tests. It is wearing me down, he thought, and then immediately felt guilty again. God Almighty, she’s the one with the disease! I have to keep my chin up and be positive about it all for Josie’s sake! He stopped on the corner and sighed. For Josie’s sake! I have to be strong for her.
Tom Bromley crossed the road and entered Hyde Park. He walked slowly along a tree-lined path, his despair deepening.
At eight o’clock in the evening the January heat had diminished. It was a warm, balmy night by the time Stan Ames entered The Hero of Waterloo Hotel in Sydney’s Rocks district.
He immediately caught a look from the barman and raised his eyebrows in a question. The barman nodded and glanced towards a door leading out of the main bar to the toilets. Ames moved in the same direction.
Mickey Ryan couldn’t believe his eyes. How could it be possible? He had a lookout stationed outside the pub to warn him if the cops were in the vicinity. His stomach turned to water as he stared at the grinning face of Inspector Ames.
‘Hello, Mr Ames. Fancy seeing you here.’ Mickey gulped. His eyes searched for an escape, but there wasn’t one. Ames stood in the corridor between him and the door that led back into the bar.
‘Mickey Ryan, you sneaky little turd,’ growled Ames as he slowly walked towards Ryan. ‘I thought we had an arrangement.’
‘We do have, Mr Ames. We certainly do have.’ Mickey backed towards the toilet door. He felt it against his spine.
‘I thought we’d decided you’d confine your nefarious activities to Surry Hills, Mickey.’ Ames grabbed him by the tie and twisted his fist, then he pushed Mickey through the toilet door. ‘By the way, your little cockatoo,’ said Ames, referring to Mickey’s lookout, ‘has a dental problem. His front teeth are broken off at the gum.’
Ames inspected his right knuckles. They were bleeding slightly so he put them under the tap and washed them. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the water. Then he turned towards Mickey and his face lost all expression. ‘Do you think you’re smarter than me, Mickey?’
‘Please, Mr Ames.’ Mickey’s knees were shaking. ‘I wasn’t keeping a book, I promise. I wouldn’t do it. Not around here.’
‘Empty your pockets into the sink.’
‘Please, I haven’t—’
‘Empty your pockets!’ Ames snapped.
Mickey moved slowly to the sink. He knew he was a goner. Ames had caught him a year ago, running an illegal SP book. Since then he’d been warned only to operate in a certain area and he’d had to pay for the privilege. Now he’d been caught out.
‘Hurry up,’ Ames barked. ‘I haven’t got all night!’
Mickey emptied his pockets. Nearly two hundred quid in bank notes and his pocket book containing a ledger of all the bets he’d taken that evening in the Hero of Waterloo.
‘Well, well, well! Who’s been a naughty boy?’ said Ames and pocketed the money. He picked up the pocket book and threw it at Mickey. ‘You’ll need this when you get to Melbourne.’
‘Melbourne? I’m not going to Melbourne.’
‘Yes you are, Mickey. When the men in the bar find out you don’t have the money to cover their bets, they’ll kill you. Besides,’ he snarled, stabbing a finger repeatedly into Ryan’s chest, ‘you are no longer welcome in Sydney. You have betrayed my trust in you. I allowed you to run an illegal starting price bookmaking operation, but only in Surry Hills.’
‘I won’t do it again, Mr Ames, I prom—’
Ames hit Mickey in the mouth and he dropped to the floor. Then Ames’ foot hit his temple and everything went black.
Ames kicked Mickey in the stomach and turned to inspect the other items in the sink. A comb, a dirty handkerchief, a box of matches and some cigarette papers. It was the box of matches that caught his eye. Something was written on it. He picked it up and smiled as he read a name and a phone number he recognised.
Pat Morgan stood on the wharf and dragged on his cigarette. He exhaled and flicked the butt out over the dark water. He watched its glowing arc until it disappeared, then he turned and looked up at the office windows of the warehouse. He saw Scobie’s shadow on the glass and it made him shiver.
He walked along the wharf towards the street. It was a hot night. He took his suit coat off and slung it over his shoulder, then he loosened his tie and began to reflect on the evening’s meeting.
Scobie Brereton had called the meeting in the warehouse and Pat had had no choice but to attend. He had intended to go out with his current girlfriend, a journalist with the Sydney Morning Herald and a very sexy woman, but when Scobie had called, his night had been ruined.
They’d been an odd mix of people at the meeting. Two union officials, a bloke from the Harbour Authority, a Customs official and two blokes from one of Scobie’s numerous business enterprises. Pat had never realised the size or scope
of Scobie’s domain until recently. He was into everything. Most of it seemed to be legitimate to Pat, at least on the surface, but he knew only too well that that was not the case.
Pat Morgan was worried as he headed off towards the street. He moved to the far side of the wharf as a figure came from the street and passed him. He turned and watched the man enter the warehouse, then he hurried on towards the city, hoping it was not too late to salvage something from the night. Maybe he could ring his journalist girlfriend.
‘Stan?’ said Scobie Brereton as he peered into the gloom of the warehouse.
‘Yeah, it’s me, Scobe.’ Stan Ames moved into the light and smiled at the little man.
‘You certainly know how to sneak up on a man.’
‘That’s my job mate, remember, I’m a policeman.’
The two men laughed and shook hands over Scobie’s desk.
‘Sit yourself down, Stanley my lad, and have a drink.’ Scobie poured beer from an open bottle in to a glass and handed it to Ames. ‘Cheers,’ he said and they clinked glasses.
‘To the success of Tip-Toe Investments,’ said Ames.
Scobie laughed. ‘You’ve got no worries on that score, mate. We’re killing ’em.’
Ames grinned. ‘You mean I’m killing them.’
Scobie laughed even louder. ‘Too fucking right you are! The Brookes thing was the smartest move we ever made. It frightened the living be-Jesus out of a lot of people. It shut Joey Bellarino and company up like clams and it’s all thanks to you.’
Stan Ames smiled and sipped his beer. ‘The girl’s back in town. I know where she is.’
‘Jane Smart?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Is she gonna cause a problem?’
‘No.’ Ames shook his head. ‘There’s no need to hit her. She saw nothing.’
Scobie stood up and walked to the window. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. I got it straight from Everard.’
‘Ah, yes! Mr Everard.’ Scobie came back to his chair and sat down, ‘And Thirty-Three Division. How are things in that area? Coming along okay?’
‘Yeah. Fadden took the money from the whorehouse.’
‘Good, good. So, Fadden’s on the take, eh?’
‘Since Christmas he’s taken more. It gets easier every time.’
Scobie leaned back in his chair. ‘What about the others?’
Ames got up and began to pace slowly around the desk. ‘Several of the younger constables are into it, but the fish we need are Knocker Reid and Tom Bromley.’ He stopped pacing and looked at Scobie.
‘Well,’ said Scobie, ‘go on.’
‘Knocker won’t take a bribe in a fit.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘I’m telling you straight, he won’t,’ said Ames and looked out of the window. ‘He’s like Everard, a fucking dinosaur. He can shoot three kids stone motherless fucking dead and think nothing of it, but if anyone offered him money, he’d go berserk.’ Ames turned back to Scobie. ‘That’s the way those old coppers are and Knocker’s one of the old school.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Leave him until last. If we turn enough of the others we may not even have to approach him.’
‘What about Bromley?’ Scobie rustled papers together and put them into his briefcase.
‘I’d say he’s the same as Knocker. No, he’s worse—he’s an idealist.’
‘Rubbish. There’s no such thing as an incorruptible idealist. They only exist in the Bible. Every man’s got his price.’ Scobie placed his briefcase on the floor. ‘Or a skeleton in his closet.’
‘Yeah,’ Ames moved back to the desk and sat down, ‘that’s where we might have him.’
‘How?’ Scobie leaned forward over the desk.
‘His wife’s got leukemia.’ Ames sipped his beer. ‘It’s gonna cost a fortune just to keep her alive. You know, twenty-four-hour nursing, special diets, doctors’ bills, treatment.’
‘You’ve got him!’ Scobie laughed, then broke into a racking cough, a legacy from the mines of Broken Hill.
‘I’d still be very wary about asking him. I’d have to wait for the right time—I mean the exact psychological moment to make the offer. When he’s at his weakest.’ Ames looked up and smiled. ‘But that moment will arrive. It’s inevitable.’
Scobie got up and leaned over his desk. ‘Have another beer, mate,’ he said and refilled Ames’ glass, ‘It sounds like you’re on top of it all.’
‘Cheers.’ Ames sipped the liquid. ‘My only real worry is Everard himself. If he got wind of this, he’d be uncontrollable. He’d go through the lot of us like a fire in a mineshaft.’
‘Pride will be Everard’s downfall,’ said Scobie, back in his chair. ‘You mark my words. George Everard will never believe that his men are bent. His bloody arrogance won’t let him.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am,’ he said with unflinching confidence. ‘Now tell me about his son.’
‘Harold!’ Ames snorted. ‘Don’t you worry about Harold. He’s nothing like his old man.’
‘How long’s he been at Thirty-Three?’
‘A month. He transferred over Christmas.’ Ames sat up in his chair and leaned an elbow on the desk. ‘It surprised me that his old man transferred him into Thirty-Three at all. He’s hardly a chip off the old block.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s fat and he’s fucking useless.’
‘Fair dinkum?’
Ames laughed humourlessly. ‘In the job, he’s what we call a Gurkha. It means he takes no prisoners. Harold’s gutless. Mind you, he could be a dangerous bastard. He’s as cunning as a shithouse rat.’ Ames paused and lit a cigarette. ‘Harold’s the sort of cop who’ll get to the top without getting his hands dirty.’
Scobie grinned. ‘If we could get him on our side …’
‘Ha!’ Ames scoffed. ‘We’ve got no problems there. I’ve got a funny feeling about young Harold.’
Scobie got up and moved into a darkened corner of the office. ‘Jesus, Stan, when we get Thirty-Three in our pocket, the world’s our oyster.’ He came back into the light with his hat and suit coat. ‘There’s more money in gambling than any other business in this city,’ he said, putting on the coat. ‘We’ll make a fortune.’
Ames stood up. ‘And it’s all black money.’
‘Exactly! We’ll launder it through our legitimate enterprises and spend it to our hearts’ content.’ Scobie began to laugh, but again it turned to a hacking cough which lasted a full minute.
‘Jesus, Scobie, when was the last time you saw a doctor?’
‘Fuck the doctors! There’s nothing they can do for me.’ He wiped spittle from his chin onto his sleeve. ‘It’s silicosis. It’ll kill me in the finish, but don’t worry—you’ll inherit Tip-Toe.’
Ames looked surprised. ‘What about Pat Morgan?’
‘Let him think he’s the boss. He’s as weak as piss. You’ll handle him like a glove puppet.’
The two men grinned at each other.
‘Come on,’ Scobie put on his hat. ‘Let’s go and tie one on. Somewhere private. We’ve got to keep a low profile.’
George Everard slowed his efforts. He looked at her face as she lay beneath him. She was transported somewhere beyond his reach. He pushed into her again and she whimpered. George thrust into her harder and increased his tempo. Her body responded and she began to gasp for breath, then suddenly her eyes opened and she stared at him. He read, as he always did, that first look of bewilderment, then shock, then finally something like disbelief as her orgasm approached. She reached up to him and drew him down onto her and squeezed him with all of her strength as she climaxed, bucking and moaning.
Everard withdrew from her and fell onto his back. They both lay panting for breath. Finally she moved over next to him and tried to snuggle into the crook of his arm.
George pushed her away and sat up on the edge of the bed. He inhaled deeply until his breathing subsided.
S
he stretched out an arm to stroke his back. ‘I know what you’re going to say, George, and I don’t care.’
‘We’ve got to stop this, Vera!’
Vera Everard stared at the ceiling. ‘I can’t. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Jesus, girl, it’s—’
‘I can’t!’ she repeated passionately. ‘You’re the only man who’s ever done this to me. It’s never happened before. All those years. Harold on top of me, pushing inside me. Pretending I enjoyed it. I never knew I could. But now I know. And it’s you who’s taught me, George. It’s you.’
He put his head in his hands. ‘I’m your father-in-law, God damn it!’
‘I don’t care!’ Vera got to her knees and put her arms around him from behind. ‘I have gone through this in my mind until I thought I’d go mad,’ she said, kissing his cheek.
‘I’m the grandfather of your children!’ he hissed.
‘Don’t. Please don’t,’ she began to cry. ‘I’m a good mother, I’m a good wife and I’m a good person. I’ve always done what was right. All my life I’ve been good! Do you understand?’
George’s mind went back to that first Sunday morning she’d come to him. She’d stood in the kitchen with an armful of freshly picked flowers. Neither of them had spoken. Finally Vera had begun to tremble.
‘I … I … saw you … with that girl’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ he replied.
Vera looked at him with tears in her eyes and the flowers fell from her arms. She placed her hands over her face. ‘Please,’ she’d sobbed. ‘Please, help me. I don’t know what to do.’ George picked her up in his arms and took her to his bed.
That had been six months before and she’d come to him most Sunday mornings since. Always on the pretext of bringing fresh flowers to his house.
‘I’ve never known passion,’ she said. George’s eyes met hers. She knelt and touched his face. ‘I’m married and I’ll stay married and I’ll be a good wife, but I never knew feelings like this existed. I’ve never known them with Harold and I never will. I’m condemned, don’t you see that? Let me have these Sunday mornings. Give me something to remember. I know it has to end some time, but not yet! Not now!’
A Necessary Evil Page 14
