A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘Done,’ said Ames.

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘It’s being laundered. Pat Morgan will receive it next week and put it through the Tip-Toe accounts.’

  Everard grinned. ‘Well done, boys.’ He took a deep breath and let it go. ‘Well, I suppose it’s about time for a little chat with Mr Gus Penzone.’

  Gus Penzone sat at the table in Interview Room No. 4, staring unblinkingly at the uniformed constable who was guarding him.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he said to the constable. ‘You. Shitkicker. What are you supposed to be doing—guarding me? Is that what you’re supposed to be doing?’ The young policeman ignored him. ‘Do you know who I am? Eh? I’m Gus Penzone! That’s who I am and you’re just a piece of shit!’

  The constable looked at him briefly then looked away again.

  ‘You piece of shit!’ Gus continued. ‘I’m a very important man in this town! Hasn’t anybody told you that?’

  The constable looked at Gus. ‘I was told you’re a drug dealer. That’s what I was told,’ he said.

  ‘What! What was that?’

  ‘I was told you poison kids with heroin.’ The constable grinned, then looked away.

  ‘You piece of shit! You fucking piece of—’

  ‘That will be all, constable. Leave us alone.’

  Penzone was interrupted by a voice of pure authority. He watched the man enter the room. Harold Everard. He knew this man, but had never dealt with him.

  Harold approached the table and sat down opposite Gus. He waited for the constable to close the door. ‘I thought you and I should have a little chat, Mr Penzone.’

  The Mafia boss drew himself up arrogantly. ‘Do you know who you’re dealing with here?’

  ‘Dealing with? Mr Penzone, you’re in no position to talk about dealing with anyone.’ Harold paused and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Penzone who shook his head. ‘Your life is forfeit to the Crown for the next thirty years. You know that. And I know that. So why don’t you stop behaving like a fool and listen to someone who might be in a position to save your dumb Italian neck.’

  Gus Penzone bristled like a cornered rat, but he was sensible enough to realise his predicament. ‘Go on,’ he spat.

  ‘I, that is we—the police department—’ Harold continued, ‘are fully aware that a man such as yourself, a prominent member of society, would not deal in dangerous drugs.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Penzone nodded, confused.

  ‘Please don’t interrupt!’ Harold stared into Penzone’s eyes for a moment before going on. ‘It is obvious to us that you’ve been set up. Probably by an irate business opponent.’

  ‘That’s fucking right!’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘However!’ Harold raised his voice a little and fondled his penis under the table. He was getting an erection. ‘The situation for you is not good.’

  ‘Fuck this! I want my lawyer!’ Penzone yelled.

  Harold gave him a moment to settle down. ‘It’s too late for that, Mr Penzone. It’s too late for anything.’ Harold’s voice became a menacing whisper. ‘I’ve tried to talk calmly to you—like one gentleman to another. But, I can see I’m wasting my time. So, I’ll tell you straight.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will you?’ Penzone sneered.

  ‘Yes, I fucking will!’ Harold roared. ‘You stupid dago cunt!’ Harold was in his element. He loved losing his temper within the safety of the interview rooms with a constable outside the door ready to burst in and save him if the suspect became violent. The rush of adrenalin he got when he screamed and ranted almost made him faint. He wished he’d worn a pair of Helen’s silk panties. Usually, when he knew he’d be interrogating someone, he’d sneak a pair of unwashed ones out of the laundry basket and wear them during the interview. He’d sniff deeply at the crotch, inhaling the odour of Helen’s urine before he put them on. The mere thought of the acrid smell of her piss, coupled with the feel of silk against his penis made his stomach churn with excitement.

  He fondled himself again. He was half-erect. The memory of that smell brought the madness into him. His eyes bulged as it coursed through his bloodstream.

  Penzone sat bolt upright in his chair. Jesus, he thought, this man’s a fucking maniac. He looked at the crazy fire in Harold’s eyes and finally decided he was out of his depth. Whatever this man wanted, he could have it.

  ‘There are people in this city, far more powerful people than you’ll ever be. And they’re sick of you. They’re sick of your stupid fucking family bullshit as well.’ Harold butted his cigarette on the floor, then smiled evilly at Penzone. ‘At first they wanted to kill you, but I told them not to bother. I simply told them to set one family against the other and you’d all kill yourselves. And you did, didn’t you, Gus? You’re all so fucking predictable, it’s pathetic!’ Harold lowered his voice again. ‘And now you’re the new boss. Guiseppe Penzone, the fucking Godfather,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll last ten minutes as the capo, Gus. You have neither the brains nor the temperament to run the Mafia, but I’m sure, deep down, you know that.’

  Gus Penzone stared at the wall. He felt defeated. Everard was right. He’d only ever been a gunman. A highly paid killer. He’d never given an order in his life. He just carried them out. And now, through no fault of his own, he was the bloody Godfather—a position he’d inherited because all of his relatives, who were much better suited to the job, had been killed.

  ‘Imagine, Gus,’ Everard murmured, ‘if you had the smartest and most powerful people in the country on hand to advise you and help you run your business. You’d have all the right information at the right time. You’d become renowned at making the right decisions. Your associates would be astounded by your business acumen.’ Harold leaned forward, eyes blazing with intensity. ‘Everyone would say: Gus Penzone, he’s a fucking genius. And imagine, when somebody tries to usurp your crown—and that will happen Gus, won’t it?—your silent friends will simply step in and take care of the problem. Life would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?’

  Gus stared at the floor. ‘Do I get to know who these silent friends are?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Gus,’ said Harold apologetically. ‘I’d be their intermediary. That is to say, I’d be the deliverer of messages. Whatever I said would be done without question.’

  Gus Penzone could only nod. It was all too complicated for him. He was a loser when it came to any form of politics. But his criminal instinct was telling him that the offer being made was unbeatable. He knew he’d never hold on to power inside the families. He wasn’t smart enough. But with the help of his silent friends, his world took on a new meaning. He could be kingpin until he died and no one inside his organisation would be any the wiser. Gus Penzone had no alternative but to capitulate.

  He sighed resignedly. ‘What about this charge I’m on? This heroin bullshit.’

  Harold sat back and relaxed. It had all been too easy. He was on the verge of ejaculating. ‘I’m sure that when the alleged heroin is tested by our chemists, it will turn out to be self-raising flour. Somebody will have played a practical joke on you. The police department will apologise profusely and you’ll make a magnanimous statement to the press, saying that you’re sure the police were only doing their job. They’re a fine body of honest, hard-working men. No hard feelings, etcetera.’ Harold looked at Gus. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Penzone looked at the madman opposite him and nodded.

  ‘One more thing, Gus.’ Harold felt his erection subsiding. ‘This agreement between you and your silent friends. It will last a lifetime. Your lifetime.’

  Stan Ames stood on the balcony of his magnificent apartment, looking south over Bondi Beach from the point known as Ben Buckler. In the twilight the beach was at its best. He never tired of it. Lights twinkled along Campbell Parade and the promenade, where young lovers strolled alongside elderly couples who recalled being like them decades before. Stan liked looking at couples and families—it made him feel good. The innocent citizens of S
ydney. His responsibility. The people he’d sworn to serve and protect, without fear or favour, malice or ill-will.

  He’d come a long way from Broken Hill. Since the day Scobie Brereton had taken him under his wing, as a young constable all those years ago, and Stan had seized the opportunity with both hands. As Scobie’s power had grown, so had Stan’s. Until between them they had the most powerful operation in Sydney. Scobie was the brains. He controlled the money. Stan merely enforced the rules. That is, until Harold Everard entered his life.

  Stan had made a mistake in his initial judgement of Harold. He’d thought him a wimp. But Harold had proved to be a psychotic who killed his own father and swept ruthlessly to the top of the police hierarchy. Stan could see that nothing would stop Harold, so he changed his allegiance without a second thought.

  Harold’s big break had been at the expense of his father’s life. Scobie’s political pull had seen Harold promoted overnight, from sergeant to Superintendent in Charge of Thirty-Three Division. It was an unheard-of promotion, but Scobie had pulled it off. And then the good old days began in earnest.

  The money was in a rubbish bin. Nineteen thousand quid in used bank notes, the combined profits from six gambling raids. Stan lifted the lid periodically to gaze at the cash as the whore astride him groaned ecstatically.

  Across the room Jimmy Fadden swigged out of a bottle of vodka as he stuffed five pound notes into another woman’s vagina.

  Harold Everard giggled like a drunken schoolgirl as he watched their antics. ‘Stick it up her arse, Stan!’ he screamed. ‘Stick it up her ring, mate!’

  ‘I’m not having that,’ the girl said, recovering rather too quickly from her sexual delirium. ‘I don’t do that.’

  Harold crawled over to her and waved a handful of money in her face. ‘I’ll give you a hundred quid, to watch Stan’s cock go up your arse,’ he whispered as he stuffed money into her bra.

  ‘Make it two hundred,’ she said in a very businesslike tone.

  ‘You’re on,’ Harold whispered as he positioned himself between Stan’s legs.

  The whore repositioned herself slightly and Stan felt his penis enter her rectum as she eased down over him.

  ‘Move up and down. I want to watch it go in and out,’ Harold muttered. ‘I want to watch your arse get fucked.’

  Stan snarled and pushed the girl off him. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers!’ She fell to one side and he stood up.

  ‘Come on, Stan,’ Harold laughed. ‘Don’t spoil the fun.’

  The girl looked teasingly at Harold. ‘It’s a pity you can’t get it up, lovey,’ she said, ‘or you could do it to me yourself.’

  Harold moved with the speed of a cobra. ‘Shut your fucking filthy mouth, slut!’ he roared and punched the girl in the side of the head. Then he smashed a vodka bottle against the wall and went for her throat.

  Stan threw himself between Harold and the girl and managed to divert the thrust of the bottle. He pushed Harold onto the settee and held him by the throat. ‘Stop it, Harold! Get a hold of yourself!’

  Harold relaxed and inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes tightly shut. Then he looked up at Stan, smiled and patted his face. ‘Quite right, Stanley!’ he said quietly. ‘Quite right, mate.’

  Stan let him go and stood up. ‘Jesus, Harold, you could have killed her,’ he said looking at the young woman, who was huddled, terrified, on the end of the settee.

  Harold rose and adjusted his clothing. ‘Give her however much she thinks the experience was worth and offer my apologies,’ he said flatly and left.

  Jesus. Stan shuddered at the memory. They’d been wild times, the old days.

  A new era had begun when Harold took command. Tip-Toe Investments grew stronger and stronger as the corrupt cops of Thirty-Three Division infiltrated the criminal world of Sydney and made it their own.

  The only hiccup had been the clash of wills between Harold and Scobie. Stan had watched it brewing for a year or more and it exploded in 1967. Scobie had started running scared. He thought Tip-Toe was expanding too rapidly and had finally voiced his opinion on a Thursday night in the Travellers’ Club. The conversation had turned nasty and Harold had walked out.

  Two nights later Harold had visited Stan and given him an ultimatum. Scobie had to go. Stan had agreed. After five years of watching Harold’s megalomania develop, he wasn’t going to argue with him. Harold had offered Stan the Superintendent’s position in charge of Thirty-Three as soon as Harold was promoted, which was only a matter of time. It was an offer too good to refuse. ‘Besides,’ Harold laughed. ‘Scobie is dying of silicosis anyway, we’ll be doing him a favour.’

  He looked at his watch. Five to seven. Her Rolls Royce would be here any minute. He went into the bedroom and donned his dinner jacket, then straightened his bowtie. He checked his image in the full length mirror. He looked good.

  At fifty-one, with twenty-nine years of police service behind him, Stan Ames firmly believed he had it all. He was a Superintendent with his own Division, Number Thirty-Three. He had more money than he would ever need and access to plenty more if ever it became necessary. He was still a good-looking man, he thought, as he admired himself. Six feet tall, with natural brown hair and not an ounce of fat on his body. He took a gold cigarette case from his pocket and offered one to his mirror image, then produced his most magnetic smile. ‘Still looking good, Stan,’ he said aloud, and turned sideways to admire his flat stomach.

  The doorbell rang and his expression hardened. He went through to the hallway and opened the door to a liveried chauffeur.

  ‘Good evening, Superintendent.’ The man’s voice purred like the engine of the expensive car he drove. ‘Miss Smart is downstairs in the car, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Francis. I’ll be down in a moment.’

  The chauffeur returned to the car and Stan picked up his wallet and keys from the telephone table in the hallway.

  He hated being picked up like this. Whenever he accompanied Jane Smart anywhere, she insisted on picking him up in her bloody Roller. It made him feel like a gigolo. Not that he was her gigolo. God knows he’d tried hard enough to bed her, but he’d never once made it to first base. She’d been a closed shop to him for as long as he’d known her. Even in the early days when she’d been George Everard’s girlfriend and a working prostitute, he’d never gotten near her. She’d always fob him off with a cute smile and a demure shake of her head.

  Since George’s death—he hated even thinking of that night—she’d had both him and Harold over a barrel. She had the fucking murder weapon and she held it over their heads like a guillotine. They’d helped her set up her first brothel and she’d gone from strength to strength. She was as rich as Croesus and lived a life of absolute luxury.

  Jane had paid her way, though. She’d become the best informant any cop could ever want. As madam of the most expensive brothels in Sydney, there wasn’t much that went on without Jane hearing of it. Her beautiful whores were privy to everything from state secrets to Mafia plots. That was how they’d known of the Penzone family’s intention to import heroin into Northern Queensland. Mind you, Stan and Harold always paid through the nose for her information. Jane got twenty percent of the take.

  There had never been any man in her life that he knew of. Sure she’d had men, he didn’t doubt that, but deep down Stan was convinced Jane was a lesbian. She probably had young girls. Christ only knew she was in the right business to satisfy any sexual proclivity she might harbour.

  She lived alone in a beautiful mansion in Potts Point and was a highly soughtafter socialite. Wealth had bought her respectability. Over the years, Stan had become the man on her arm. He was single and commanded respect in his own right.

  Tonight they were going to a State reception for the Governor of Hong Kong, being held at the residence of the Governor of New South Wales. Another tedious night of glass clinking and murmured conversation. Stan hated such nights, but accompanying Jane Smart had its rewards. At the end of the evening h
e’d demand—and she’d supply—one of her top girls. And the girl would do anything he wanted her to.

  Harold Everard beamed as he shook hands with the Governor of Hong Kong and introduced Helen Gorman to the other dignitaries in the foyer of Government House. He loved affairs of state, whether they were official, clandestine, or otherwise. As he bowed ever so slightly to the Governor’s wife, he spotted Stan Ames out of the corner of one eye.

  He walked across the room. ‘Good evening, Superintendent Ames,’ he said extending his hand.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Ames replied as they shook hands.

  ‘And Miss Smart, how lovely to see you.’ Harold’s smile held no warmth. ‘You know Miss Gorman?’ In the same breath he hissed, ‘Helen, get me a fucking drink before I pass out.’

  ‘Will you excuse me, gentlemen?’ Jane disengaged her arm from Ames’. ‘There are several people I must say hello to.’ She sailed away without waiting for an answer.

  Jane felt the eyes of men and women alike follow her progress across the room. At thirty-eight years of age, her devastating beauty and her notorious occupation never failed to set tongues wagging.

  She’d been to so many of these receptions she’d lost count. They were always the same—the same food, the same drinks, the same tired old faces. She smiled and waved to various people she recognised. Thomas MacIntyre, the Commissioner of Police. Geoffrey Pickett, the Head of the Reserve Bank. The Lord Mayor. She knew them all. They’d all been serviced by her girls at one time or another. She shared secrets with them all and they were eternally grateful that she kept those secrets so well.

  She was bored and was wondering what time it would be polite to leave when she saw a face across the room. It took her breath away. Blood suffused her cheeks and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

  Jane headed for the ladies’ powder room. On her way she bumped into John Birmingham. His face leered before her momentarily, but she pushed past him. She finally made it to a toilet cubicle and sat on the bowl, her chest heaving.