A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘I’m going to disembowel the whore in front of you, too. I’m going to make you eat her shit, Stanley. And her womb and her gizzards,’ the giant snarled. ‘Oh, yes, Stanley! Your death will come as a welcome gift to you.’

  They were ten feet from the rubbish tins. They stood locked together like lovers in the drizzling rain.

  ‘Come out, come out, whoever you are!’ Everard sang in a maniacal voice. The man behind the tins shook with fear. Everard’s voice dropped to a low snarl. ‘Come out now, or by Jesus I’ll shoot this man’s head off his shoulders and fill your vision with bullets!’

  Everard heard the man behind the rubbish tins begin to cry.

  ‘Well, now! A cry baby! Now who can that be! Is it you, Jimmy Fadden? Or is it you, Tommy Bromley? Which one of my loyal men could it be?’ Everard sneered. ‘Or maybe it’s the elusive Mr Scobie fucking Brereton?’

  The figure behind the rubbish tins whimpered.

  ‘Come out!’ Everard roared. ‘Come out and die like a man!’

  The figure slowly stood up and his face was revealed in the soft glow of a street lamp.

  George Everard stared at his son. Harold’s face was awash with tears and his revolver hung limply in his right hand. With his other, he was wiping the tears off his face like a small child.

  ‘No,’ George croaked. ‘No. Not you. Not you too, boy?’ The shock lasted only several seconds then quickly gave way to rage. ‘You traitorous whelp!’ Everard roared. ‘You … You ungrateful little …’

  ‘You touched my wife,’ Harold whispered.

  ‘… what?’

  ‘You bastard. You fucked Vera.’

  George’s mind went blank. His grip on Ames relaxed.

  Stan Ames drove his elbow into George’s stomach and in the same motion snatched the gun out of his hand.

  ‘You fucked my wife!’ Harold began to scream, pointing his gun shakily at his father. ‘You fucked my wife! You fucked Vera!’

  Ames raised the gun and shot George Everard in the chest. Four bullets finally knocked the giant over. The Prince of Darlinghurst lay on the footpath, his lifeblood running into the gutter.

  ‘You fucked Vera, Daddy! You fucked my wife!’ Harold sobbed as he knelt over George’s body. He put his gun under his father’s chin and whispered, ‘You fucked my wife, Daddy. You fucked Vera. Why?’

  George Everard looked up into the shattered face of his son. He tried to speak, but blood welled up from his punctured lungs and spilled from his mouth. ‘Boy … boy …’ was all he could utter. Oh, Jesus, he thought. Oh Jesus, help me speak. Help me speak to my son.

  ‘Vera, Daddy. You and Vera. I saw you doing it.’ Harold sobbed as he cocked the revolver.

  Tears welled into George Everard’s eyes as he heard the hammer of the gun cock into place.

  ‘I hate you, Daddy,’ he heard his son say, then a roar of light filled his head as Harold pulled the trigger and the bullet tore through his tongue and entered his brain.

  Harold dropped the gun by his dead father’s side and stood mesmerised, staring into his face.

  Ames broke him out of his trance. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Ames yelled as he ran for the car.

  Harold quickly recovered. He started running and the two men fled into the night.

  Detective Superintendent Stan Ames, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Branch, stepped out onto the balcony to a warm reception from Harold Everard.

  ‘Mate! Mate! It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too, Harold,’ Ames replied and walked over to the table. He picked up the remaining envelope and placed it in his pocket. ‘G’day, Jane.’

  ‘Hello, Stan,’ she said warmly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve been at sea for a couple of weeks. Great holiday.’

  ‘How did everything go?’ Harold joined Ames and Jane Smart at the table.

  Ames grinned. ‘Like clockwork.’

  ‘No mishaps?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Not one,’ replied Ames and winked at her.

  ‘Where’s the stuff?’ Everard whispered.

  ‘On board.’

  ‘Well, I want it off the boat and safely stored tonight!’

  ‘Okay, Harold!’ Ames held up a restraining hand. ‘Keep your shirt on. Do you mind if I have a drink first? How about you, Jane?’ He took the empty glass out of her hand, then headed off for the kitchen.

  ‘It appears your information was spot-on, Jane.’ Harold smiled at her and raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘My information is always spot-on,’ she said coldly. ‘In fourteen years have I ever been wrong?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, no,’ he answered casually.

  Jane’s face hardened. ‘That boatload of heroin is worth a fortune, Harold. Don’t forget me when you divvy up the spoils. I’d be really pissed off. And you know what would happen then.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said Harold. The venom crept into his voice. ‘Don’t worry, Jane, I won’t forget you. How could I ever? You were my father’s great love.’

  Jane turned away in anger. ‘Shut up!’

  Harold smiled mirthlessly. ‘I was being sincere, my dear.’

  ‘You bloody hypocrite!’ she hissed.

  ‘My father died a hero’s death. Killed in the line of duty. And I have you to thank for that. Don’t I, my dear?’ Harold smiled again, put his drink on the table and walked away.

  Jane watched him go. The hatred and loathing she felt for Harold seethed inside her everytime she saw him, but they were bedfellows now, and Jane herself had made their bed, fourteen years ago.

  Jane was shocked when she learned that Stan Ames knew about George Everard’s affair with Vera. Ames had arrived at her flat on the Sunday evening and informed her that stupid bloody Harold had told him all about it the day after the Randwick Races.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she’d gasped. ‘Has he told George?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Ames had replied, ‘but he will.’

  ‘I didn’t think he’d have the guts. I should never have said anything!’

  ‘Harold’s out of his mind,’ said Ames matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure he’ll confront his father tomorrow morning at the office. Then the shit’ll hit the fan, Miss Smart.’ He looked at her with contempt. ‘Miss-Too-Fucking-Smart for your own good. You’re right—you should’ve kept your mouth shut.’

  ‘Oh, hell! George will kill me!’

  Ames nodded grimly. ‘You can have money on that. You’re as good as dead.’

  She threw up her hands in desperation. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Help me set him up,’ said Ames urgently. ‘For a talk,’ he added hastily. ‘If anyone can make him see sense it’s me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jane sat on the couch, pressing her knees into her chest. She couldn’t think straight. George was going to kill her.

  ‘I’m here for Harold’s sake as much as George’s. You’ve got to see him and sort it out.’ Ames sat next to her. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to anyone. I suggest you ring George and tell him to come here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. Tell him you’ve got to see him. Tell him someone’s threatened your life.’

  ‘He always knows when I’m lying.’ Jane started to cry.

  ‘If you’re crying he’ll believe you. Tell him to get here by ten. When he does I’ll calm him down and we’ll try to sort it all out. It’s more for the sake of the Everard family and the Thirty-Three Division than you. I don’t want to see bad blood between George and his son.’ He grasped her arm. ‘Call him, Jane.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He’ll kill me. I know he will.’

  Ames increased the pressure on her arm. ‘This is your only chance, Jane. You’ll never escape him. He’ll find you no matter where you run. You’re better off facing up to him.’ Ames picked up the phone receiver. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Call him. Go on, call George.’

  Jane turned and looked out over the harbour. She’d rattled herself thinking about
that night. She took a deep breath and forced her body to relax. It was a long time ago.

  ‘Here you go, Jane. Gin and tonic, lots of ice, right?’ Stan Ames handed her the drink and winked. She stared at him. What was it Harold had called him earlier, when they’d watched him arrive by boat? A cocky bastard? Yes, a cocky bastard. Well, he wasn’t very cocky the night George Everard got hold of him.

  Jane had watched it all through her front window. She’d realised what was going on the minute George got Ames out of the car. She’d already seen the other man behind the rubbish tins below her. They’d set up George and she’d been a part of it.

  George had won the battle easily. She was glad, even though it meant he’d get to her after he finished them off. He was ten times the measure of any man she’d ever known. He was a hero. Cops like that didn’t exist any more.

  She’d watched him manhandle Ames like a schoolboy and then force the other one to stand up. ‘Come out and die like a man,’ he’d roared. Then everything had gone wrong. Harold had stepped into the light from the street lamp.

  She’d watched it all. She’d watched George die.

  Jane Smart had lived up to her name that night. At first she’d sat on the bedroom floor in the darkness and cried for George, then she’d gone downstairs and sobbed again over his lifeless body. Which was when she saw the gun lying next to him. Harold’s gun—the gun issued to him by the police department. The gun that could hang him. And Ames.

  She thought for a moment. Surely they’d come back for it? Ames wasn’t a careless man. As soon as he realised Harold had left it …

  She heard a car turn back into the street. She dived behind the rubbish tins and then crawled into the darkness under the stairs leading up to her front door.

  The car stopped and two men ran over to George’s body.

  ‘You stupid cunt!’ It was Ames. ‘Get the fucking gun and let’s get out of here.’

  ‘It’s gone!’ Harold was searching frantically around the body of his father. ‘It’s not where I dropped it!’

  ‘Get out of the fucking way!’ Ames snarled and pulled George Everard’s lifeless form several feet from where it lay. ‘It’s got to be here!’ he hissed as he searched the ground. Then he stood and looked up at Jane’s flat. ‘She’s got it!’

  ‘Who? You mean Jane?’

  ‘Who fucking else would have it?’ Ames rushed upstairs into the flat and Jane heard her furniture being smashed. A moment later he bounded back down the stairs. ‘She’s gone!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘How should I know, you idiot!’ Ames screamed. ‘But she’s gone! And she’s got your fucking gun!’

  ‘Shit! What’ll we do?’

  ‘We’ll get out of here for a start! Somebody must have heard the shots! There’ll be uniforms everywhere before long! We’ll find her tomorrow and get the bloody gun back, or we’ll both fucking hang!’

  They never found her. Jane had packed a bag and was out of Sydney by daybreak.

  A year later Jane returned to Sydney and struck a deal with Harold Everard and Stan Ames. The gun was in a safety deposit box in a bank with instructions that certain information was to be revealed in the event of her death. She had them by the balls and they knew it. So they became unwilling allies. And as the years went on, Jane Smart became the richest brothel-keeper in Sydney.

  ‘Thanks, Stan. Cheers,’ she said and sipped the gin he’d given her. ‘Here’s hoping the Mafia never find out we knocked off their drugs.’

  Stan Ames laughed. ‘There’s no danger of that, Jane,’ he whispered. ‘They already think somebody else did!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the world of the Mafia, retribution is swift. An eye for an eye. A kill for a kill. A hit for a hit. A matter of honour.

  There was no honour in the death of Tommy Aiello. The police found his body in a Kings Cross alleyway. His throat had been cut and his penis hacked off. Aiello had obviously thrashed about in the several seconds before death took him. Blood from his severed veins had sprayed the alley and fear had caused him to defecate. It was an undignified death and certainly bereft of any honour.

  Tommy’s death was the eleventh in as many weeks. The warring Mafia families of Sydney’s underworld had gone to ground and were systematically slaughtering each other.

  The Penzone family had started it all by seeking revenge on the Aiello family for the death of Luigi Penzone and his son Gino. The fact that the Penzones had lost thirty kilograms of heroin had added a certain amount of zeal to their efforts. The Aiello family, filled with justifiable rage, had retaliated. It was all a matter of honour.

  For three months the battle had raged, until both families were sick of attending funerals. The Aiello family held the upper hand at first. They killed the two senior brothers in the Penzone family and got a bonus when the head of the family, Enrico Penzone, dropped dead on hearing that his sons had been killed. Then the Penzone family got lucky. Tommy Aiello was the Godfather of his tribe—by far and away the most powerful and capable man in the Sydney underworld. The Penzones had caught him in a moment of weakness, leaving a family-owned brothel in Kings Cross. They’d cut his throat and delivered his penis to his wife by registered mail. Mortally wounded, the Aiello family had waved the white flag.

  The Penzone family became the most powerful force in the Australian underworld and the heir apparent, Guiseppe Penzone, inherited the title of ‘capo di tutti capi’. He also inherited the problem of thirty kilograms of missing heroin.

  ‘What do you mean, they haven’t got it!’ roared Gus Penzone. He stood on the front steps of the heavily fortified Penzone mansion in Vaucluse, waiting for his limousine to arrive. Penzone was a big, ugly man in his late forties, with a livid white scar running from his left ear to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Just what I said,’ replied his recently promoted lieutenant, Joey Bastini. ‘They ain’t got it, boss.’

  ‘How many more of those fucking Aiellos do we have to kill?’ he ranted. ‘Don’t they know that until that shit is returned the war between our families will never be over?’

  ‘I’m only repeating what was told to me’ Joey Bastini said nervously. ‘They ain’t got the fucking heroin, and they never had the fucking heroin.’ Joey raised his hands defensively, ‘Jimmy Aiello’s very own words. Honest to God, boss.’

  ‘Then where the fucking hell is it?’ exploded Penzone.

  The limousine pulled up in front of the house and Joey opened the door for his boss. ‘I’ll find it, Gus. Don’t worry. I’ll find it for you.’ He closed the limo door and went around to the opposite side. ‘I’m inclined to believe Jimmy,’ he said as he got into the back seat alongside Gus.

  ‘Jimmy Aiello is an arsehole!’ Gus Penzone snapped as the front gates of the mansion opened electronically and the limousine moved out into the street. ‘And did you find out what went on with the fucking guard dogs barking last night?’

  Joey shrugged. ‘We checked the grounds thoroughly. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of intruders. Nothing. I think the fucking dogs may be stupid.’

  Gus was about to answer when the driver jammed on the brakes. ‘What in fucking hell—’

  Police cars screeched to a halt in front and behind the limousine. Cops poured out of the cars and out of a nearby laneway. They surrounded the limousine, guns pointed. Gus’s door was thrown open. He stared into the face of Stan Ames, boss of Thirty-Three Division, the cop he detested most of all.

  ‘Get out of the car Penzone,’ ordered Ames, ‘and put your hands on the roof.’

  Gus did as he was told and found himself staring across the roof at his equally startled lieutenant, who had been similarly treated.

  ‘What’s all this bullshit about, Ames?’ Gus snarled.

  Stan Ames already had the keys to the limousine in his hand. He moved to the rear of the car and opened the boot. ‘Well, well, well. How do you explain this Gus?’

  ‘Explain what?’ said Penzone and looked into the boot.
His face lost all expression as he stared at the plastic bags of heroin lying in the trunk. His mind raced. He’d been set up. But by whom? He looked up at Stan Ames. ‘I want my lawyer,’ was all he could utter.

  ‘You can say that again!’ Ames roared with laughter. The other cops joined in. And the two who laughed loudest were Detective Sergeants Derek Schumacher and Ian Spencer.

  Harold Everard marched down the corridor towards the interview rooms at Central Police Headquarters. Several uniformed constables sprang to attention as he passed them. He entered a small tearoom and found Stan Ames, Derek Schumacher and Ian Spencer chuckling over a drink.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Spencer waved his hand at the teapot. ‘Fancy a hot cuppa?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Everard shook his head. ‘Judging by your laughter, things must be going well.’

  ‘Penzone’s squealing like a stuck pig,’ said Schumacher. ‘He’s fucked and he knows it.’

  ‘Has he admitted anything?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Spencer replied. ‘He’s too smart for that. He keeps repeating that he’s been set up, that we’re all cunts and he wants to speak to his lawyer.’

  Everard turned to Ames. ‘Have you spoken to him, Stan?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d leave that to you.’

  ‘Is he ready for it?’

  ‘Ready as he’ll ever be. We’ve got him by the balls. It’s a spread misere and he knows it.’

  Everard turned and closed the tearoom door. ‘How much heroin did you put in his car?’

  ‘Ten kilograms.’ It was Schumacher who answered. ‘We did it last night.’

  ‘You’d have pissed yourself laughing, sir,’ Spencer chimed in. ‘We put chemical mace on some meat and the guard dogs went crazy. Then Derek threw a live rabbit over the fence.’ Spencer began to chuckle. ‘All hell broke loose. It sounded like World War Three. They locked the dogs up, then we planted the shit in the boot of the limo and took off. It was a cake walk.’

  ‘Good work.’ Everard turned again to Ames. ‘Did you sell the rest of the drugs?’