Scobie Brereton looked at the darkening sky. Ames was right. He knew it. If Everard was onto them, they’d all be locked up or dead by Monday morning. The mere thought of the giant policeman being so close to his operation sent a shiver through him. ‘I agree,’ he said and looked at Ames. ‘How will you go about it?’
‘Knocker’ll be easy, believe it or not. A phone call to Chinatown will take care of him.’
‘What about Everard?’
‘The Prince of Darlinghurst.’ Ames sighed deeply. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll take him on myself. If that happens, you’ll probably never see me again, but with a bit of luck it won’t be necessary.’ Light rain began to fall and Ames turned his face into it. ‘Yep, with a bit of luck, the old Prince of Darlo’ will be destroyed by the very thing he created.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Get out of town, Scobie. The newspaper headlines on Monday morning will tell you whether it’s safe to come back.’ He held out his hand, Scobie shook it and departed. Ames watched him go as the rain began to fall in earnest.
That Saturday night, while Harold drank himself into oblivion with Stan Ames in a series of nightclubs and brothels, Knocker Reid listened to the tinkle of wind chimes as he lay on a hard wooden surface, a red silk pillow supporting his head, waiting patiently for his dream to begin.
A tiny Chinese girl in a blue cheong saam dress knelt on her haunches next to his bed, watching him as her fingers nimbly tamped the opium into the bowl of the pipe lying across her lap.
Knocker was sure this girl was the one who catered to him under the Choy Siu table, but he knew better than to ask. She would merely smile at him and chatter in a strange mixture of English and Cantonese. Chinglish he called it. He smiled at her and she bowed her head politely.
Knocker liked the Chinese people. They were good, fun-loving souls. They loved money and food in that order and didn’t seem to care for much else. They were also industrious, hard-working people who laughed a lot and made the most of their lives.
His mind wandered casually over the events of the day. Taking Josie Bromley to the airport had been a bastard. She had a lot of guts. Not one whimper from the time she left the house to the time she went into Immigration. ‘Look after Tommy for me, Knocker,’ she’d said, ‘and make him believe I’ll come back. He needs to believe it.’ Then she’d kissed him goodbye, smiled bravely into his eyes and was gone. Yeah, he nodded to himself, Josie Bromley was a first-class act.
So was Stan Ames. If anyone could straighten out young Harold Everard, it was Stan. And he’d do it with a minimum of fuss. George would never know. That was good. Knocker had fought long and hard with his conscience before deciding to tell Stan and not go directly to the lad’s father. George Everard was a friend of long standing. Knocker smiled to himself. Sometimes it was better to leave your friends in the dark and save them unnecessary pain.
‘You chasee dragon now, Leed sing saang?’ the girl’s voice tinkled like the wind chimes hanging somewhere in the dimly lit room.
‘It’s Reid with an “r” Annie. And yes, I like chasee dragon now.’ He leant up on one elbow and watched her light the pipe. It glowed red and smoke drifted from it through the light from a kerosine lamp.
‘See. There is dragon,’ the girl pointed at the curls of smoke. ‘You chasee. You catchee dragon. You dream, is good,’ she said handing him the pipe. ‘You faan gau. Sleep. You dream. Tai foo mo, foo choh. See mama, see papa. You ho hei foon. You very happy.’
Knocker inhaled the drug and lay back down as it coursed through his system. The images began to form. He saw the grass on the hillside dotted with beautiful flowers. He walked slowly down towards the lake at the foot of the hill and waited. Before long a boat appeared. A small river canoe with soft silken pillows in it. He nestled himself among the silks and drifted on the still waters. Soon even the lake disappeared and he was drifting through soft clouds of mist. His father appeared, smiling, and his mother and sisters whispered words of love to him. Then his wife came towards him. She was carrying their son William. She cooed to the child. Knocker reached out his hand but she drifted by smiling sadly at him.
Knocker came back to semiconsciousness remembering the car accident that had taken his wife and child. His hand was extended towards the Chinese girl Annie. She smiled at him, then her head turned as someone in the distance called to her.
He watched her rise and go to the door. She talked softly for several minutes to an old Chinese man. He handed her a bowl and she returned to the bedside. She prepared another pipe for Knocker and he took it to his lips.
‘Papa-san have special gift for you. He say you dai yat ho. Number one customer. He give you lychee. Is good. Sweet. You smoke pipe and taste beautiful fruit.’ She reached into the bowl and offered him a peeled lychee. ‘Is dream fruit. It make you dream sweet.’
Knocker exhaled the opium smoke from his lungs and took the lychee. He put it into his mouth and bit down hard to make the juice squirt around his palate. He heard glass shatter as his teeth broke the capsule of hydrocyanic acid concealed in the fruit. Death shot into his respiratory system. Briefly he smelt the pungent odour of bitter almonds. He knew in that instant he’d been murdered, but he didn’t care. He saw his wife and child return from the mist. He enfolded them in his arms and disappeared into blackness.
On Sunday morning at eleven o’clock, four men sat in total silence in a locked car smash repair garage in Surry Hills. They’d been that way for five minutes.
‘Is anyone going to say anything?’ Stan Ames slid off the bonnet of a car and looked questioningly at Jim Fadden and Tom Bromley. They in turn looked at him. They both knew what had to be said and they both knew what had to be done, but justifying it in their own minds would take a little longer.
Harold Everard lit a cigarette and turned to the others. ‘I’ll say it first, if you like,’ he sniffed. His eyes were red raw as if he’d been crying. ‘After all, I’m his eldest son, aren’t I?’
Ames leant over the bonnet of another car he’d been casually inspecting. ‘What would you like to say, Harold?’
‘I say we kill the fucking cunt! As soon as possible! Today, in fact!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Tom Bromley shot to his feet. ‘You’re his fucking son! How can you say that?’
‘He’s right.’ Jim Fadden was staring at the concrete floor beneath his feet. He didn’t look up.
Bromley moved his gaze to Fadden. ‘You too, Jimmy?’
‘It’s him or us.’ Fadden still refused to look up.
‘This is bullshit!’ Bromley raised his hands, palms upward, then pointed an accusing finger at Ames. ‘You started all this, you bastard!’
‘I didn’t start anything!’ Ames snapped. ‘You’re all grown men. You knew what you were doing, so don’t start pointing fingers at me!’ He advanced until he was face to face with Bromley. ‘The fact is, Tommy boy, we’ve got to silence George or we’ll all be in Long Bay by tomorrow! Long Bay Gaol, Tommy!’ Ames paused momentarily and stared Bromley in the eye. ‘Do you know what will happen to us in Long Bay Gaol? Well, do you?’ He turned to the others for support. ‘We’re cops! Or have you forgotten that? We’ll last ten fucking minutes in Long Bay. We’ll be dead meat before they shut the fucking gate!’
Bromley shook his head. ‘George said this would happen.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ames turned back to face him.
‘That day we first formed Thirty-Three. Remember George gave us five quid? There was me and you. And you, Jimmy. And Knocker, remember? He told us to go and get pissed together. You three went outside and he called me back to him.’
‘What did he say?’ said Fadden.
‘He said some day the squad would turn crooked on him. He said that would be the day we’d all go to hell in a handcart.’
Harold jumped up. ‘Well, he’s the one that’s going to hell!’
Fadden looked at him, appalled. ‘He’s your fucking father, Harold!’
&nbs
p; Harold turned away as the tears welled in his eyes. He remembered several hours before when he’d arrived home after being out all night with Stan Ames. They’d finished up in a brothel in Surry Hills and he’d vomited over a whore.
Harold had entered his house prepared for a fight with Vera, but she wasn’t at home. His son Shayne and daughter Penelope were in the backyard playing in the sandpit.
‘Hey, Dad!’ Shayne had yelled. ‘My bike’s broken. It’s got a flat tyre. Can you help me fix it?’
‘Not now, son,’ he’d replied. ‘Where’s your Mum?’
‘She’s gone to grandpa’s house with some flowers.’
Harold remembered the conversation with Jane Smart. ‘Sunday mornings, Harold. She takes flowers to him and fucks him. If you don’t believe me, follow her.’ Those had been her words.
‘Daddy, come and play.’ It was his daughter.
‘Not now, honey,’ he’d said and began walking the several hundred yards to his father’s house. His stomach was churning. He’d walked across his father’s front lawn and had heard them in the lounge room. One glance through the window had been enough. Vera had been on her knees in front of George begging him to take her. She’d taken out his cock and was crying and slobbering over it. Finally his father had picked her up and lowered her onto his erect penis and she’d clung to him, her head flung back in ecstasy.
Harold managed to control himself until he reached his own front yard. That’s where Stan Ames had found him, hyperventilating on his hands and knees.
They’d driven around Sydney for several hours until Harold had calmed down. Stan had told him that his father was onto them, then driven him to the garage for the meeting with Bromley and Fadden.
‘He’s not my father! He’s a fucking animal!’ Harold shouted at the ceiling.
‘What in Christ’s name’s the matter with him?’ said Bromley.
Ames lit a cigarette and moved in for the kill. ‘Never mind. The fact is, we’ve got a problem that won’t go away. We are, quite simply, crooked cops. George knows it. It’s him or us. Now do you all want to go to gaol, or do we hit him?’
Bromley began to shake. ‘Oh Jesus, I don’t want any part of this.’
‘That’s too fucking bad, Tom! Because you’re in it up to your neck. Face the facts! You’ve got one choice! Gaol or Josie.’ He turned on Fadden next. ‘And you, Jimmy. Gaol or George. What’s it going to be?’ Nobody said a word. Ames let the silence hang in the air for several moments. ‘Right. We’re decided.’ He raised his clenched right fist. It contained four match-heads. ‘Let’s stop beating around the bush. We know what’s got to be done, so let’s draw straws to see who does it.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Fadden as the four men stared at the match-heads.
‘He’s your father. You draw first.’ Ames offered his fist to Harold.
Harold stared at the matches. They seemed to grow larger as he looked at them. Finally he threw away his cigarette and walked towards Ames. He reached out his hand and slowly drew a match. It was the short one. He stared at it, mesmerised, then showed it to the others.
‘Right. Harold’s the one to do it. Do we all agree?’ Silence. ‘Do we all agree?’ The other two nodded.
‘Me,’ Harold whispered and stared at the short match.
‘Tonight,’ said Ames. ‘I’ve set him up already.’ The others remained silent. Ames walked over to the rubbish bin in the corner of the garage and surreptitiously dropped the other three matches into it. They were all short.
BOOK TWO
CROSS-EXAMINATION
CHAPTER TEN
The best things in life are free
But you can keep them for the birds and bees
Give me money, that’s what I want
That’s what I want oh yeah
That’s what I want.
John Lennon
North Queensland. 1975
The barmaid at the Glen Ayr Hotel was not used to seeing strangers. The only people who came into the pub in the tiny township of Wagero on the far North Queensland coast were locals looking for a cold beer. The two men drinking at the bar were not locals. They talked funny—that was how she knew they were southerners from below the border in New South Wales. And their clothes were weird too. She’d never seen men in clothes like that, except on the TV. Local men all wore shorts and singlets—the weather saw to that. These two reeked of money. Mining men, was her guess, from one of the big exploration companies.
They’d arrived that morning and booked into the pub. Said they’d be staying one night. She’d shot upstairs and aired out the rooms. It had been a while since anyone’d booked in. They’d paid the money up front in cash and never batted an eyelid when she’d almost doubled the price of accommodation. And why not? They had plenty, by the looks of them. Strange thing was though, they never had any luggage. Not even a toothbrush.
They’d disappeared during the afternoon. Went off somewhere up the North Road, which followed the coastline to Curley’s Inlet and had returned about five o’clock. They’d had a meal in the dining room and were now ensconced in the bar.
‘You blokes from down south?’ she asked.
‘Sort of.’ It was the taller of the two men who replied. She noticed his hands as he picked up his drink. They were big, powerful hands, the sort of hands you’d see in the movies around somebody’s throat. And there was a look in his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. A hard look, like in the eyes of an eagle or hawk. He’d be a dangerous bugger, she thought. And his mate wasn’t much better—he had the look of a feral cat. Mining men, my arse, she told herself. Still, she’d be off-duty in an hour and probably wouldn’t see them again.
As it turned out, they left before her knock-off time of ten o’clock. She was talking with a couple of local fishermen at the other end of the bar when she saw their car drive off up the North Road again. ‘Who are those two?’ said one of the fishermen.
‘I don’t know. Southerners. If I don’t see them again it’ll be too soon.’ She took a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and wiped the sweat from her neck and throat. A rain storm had been gathering all day in the East. She wished to Christ it’d break and ease the bloody heat.
The storm broke at eleven o’clock over Curley’s Inlet. The rain poured down as a small fishing vessel eased alongside the old jetty. A deckhand made fast the fore and aft ropes as the skipper killed the engine and came out of the cabin. He peered through the rain at the darkened inlet.
Luigi Penzone was not your average fishing boat skipper. He owned several nightclubs in the city of Brisbane and he was connected by blood to several well-known Italian families in the Griffith area of New South Wales. Luigi Penzone was a mafioso.
He climbed onto the jetty and shielded his eyes from the rain. ‘Hey, Gino,’ he called to his deckhand, ‘bring me a friggin’ torch.’
Young Gino Penzone joined his father and handed him a large waterproof flashlight. Luigi flashed it several times towards the shore. Car lights flashed in reply.
‘It’s okay,’ said Luigi and heaved a sigh of relief, ‘they’re here as arranged. Get ready to offload the friggin’ stuff.’
Gino leapt back onto the vessel as a tall man walked onto the jetty. The boy went into the wheelhouse and turned on a work light which lit up the central deck area of the boat. He moved back out to join his father and heard him growl.
‘Hey, you’re not Tony! Where the fuck’s Tony? What’s goin’ on?’ Luigi Penzone snarled and jumped onto the deck of the vessel. He grabbed a boathook as two bullets hit him in the head and throat. He crashed to the deck in front of his son.
Gino was quick. He dived overboard and sank into the black waters. Several bullets followed him, buzzing past his face. He surfaced thirty yards from the boat in the darkness. He knew his father was dead, but he hesitated for a second, hoping it wasn’t true. The muzzle flashes from a pistol drove him back underwater and he struck out for the shore on the other end of the inlet.
Fifteen minut
es of swimming and Gino waded ashore in the darkness. The shock finally hit him and he sank sobbing into the sand. They would pay for this, the bastards! Whoever they were they would pay. He stood up and a flashlight blinded him. Five .38 calibre bullets hit him in the face and chest. Enormous energy picked him up and threw him backwards into the sea. He looked up through several feet of water at the grinning, distorted face of his killer, then he died.
The two killers stood on the deck of the fishing boat looking at the bodies of their victims. They floated in the well of the boat, face down.
‘I’ll dump them out at sea as planned. The sharks’ll take care of their carcasses.’ It was Derek Schumacher, the taller of the two who spoke as he pulled on waterproof clothing. ‘You get back to the pub in Wagero and make it look like our rooms have been slept in, then head south before daylight.’
‘Will you be all right in this weather? Driving the boat, I mean.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Spencer,’ he said casually. ‘I spent ten years in the navy. Handling this little fishing boat’ll be a piece of piss.’
‘But what about this storm?’ replied Ian Spencer, still concerned.
‘It ain’t a storm,’ he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. ‘It’s just heavy rain—besides, I’ve only got to go four miles out to sea to the rendezvous position.’
‘But how’ll you find them?’
‘They’ll find me, stupid. They’ve got a fucking radar!’
‘Oh, yeah. Of course.’ Spencer laughed nervously. ‘Jeez, I wish I was going with you. I could do with a week’s cruise from here to Sydney.’
Schumacher shrugged. ‘You’ve got your job and I’ve got mine. Why don’t we get on with them?’
‘All right! Keep your shirt on. I just wish I had your job, that’s all.’
‘All you’ve got to do is meet an aeroplane and get back to Sydney without bringing any attention to yourself,’ Derek Schumacher yelled through the rain. ‘I’ve got to unload thirty kilograms of fucking heroin in a torrential downpour at sea, and then pull the sea cocks and sink this fucking boat!’
A Necessary Evil Page 18
