“The fucking Westside. As far away from that place as I could get…” Booth watched Lescott stand up. “Now… How about that game of dominoes, eh? For old time’s sake?”
“Goodbye, Craig.”
Chapter 48
Religion played a big part of life for many who darkened Darlinghurst doorways in 1964. It stands to reason, I guess. When immorality is rife, and essentially a key aspect of life and commerce, there are going to be a lot of people looking to do just about whatever they can to stay in the good books of the big man upstairs. On top of those ne’er do wells, there were a good many folk who wouldn’t dream of a life in crime. Hard working, salt of the earth Sydneysiders, whose toil the country was built upon. They were good, honest, Christian folk who rarely missed a Sunday service. After all, a conman is only as good as his mark is gullible.
The decent folk of Darlinghurst would have their weekly bath and wear their best clothes of a Sunday. They’d drag their children to Sunday School while they would pray for the broken souls of the local villains. The Church got their claws into their victims young, and they kept a steely grasp upon them until their bodies were old, weak, and finally lifeless. Offering eternity at the end of a miserable life is a fucking clever business plan, and it’s one you can charge an arm and a leg for.
The church has thrived in Darlinghurst for as long as I can remember. Unlike much of Australia, it didn’t discriminate. It would rob any one of the area’s demographic groups. Aboriginals whose bloodline had walked that ground for tens of thousands of years, European Australians who could trace their roots back to the first fleet, Asian Australians whose families had come over during the gold rush, the Mediterraneans, and the Irish… Everybody had a debt to pay, and pay they did. The church brought them all under one roof to celebrate a bunch of highly questionable stories while the ever-filling collection plate was passed from impoverished hand to impoverished hand.
Detective Chief Inspector Alan Livingstone was a former bog-Irish bastard who’d managed to erase his family history and climb the social ladder in one fell swoop. He recognised religion played a large part in that. It helped him appear far more respectable than he really was. So, he was a regular at St John’s church.
He was fortunate, as unfortunates go. When, as a child, his drunk, layabout father had beaten his mother to death, he had been taken in by a wealthy family of much wealth and influence. An old money family who did their bit for the community by grabbing up one of the less damaged children from the orphanage and shoving a silver spoon in their mouth for betterment. They all did it. Mostly it lasted a couple of weeks until they tired of the grubby little wretches and handed them back to the state. Livingstone had bounced around townhouses and country mansions for a couple of years, absorbing everything he’d seen. Then one stuck. He polished his accent, extended his vocabulary, made careful efforts not to swear, and developed his mannerisms to imitate those born to the elite. Throw in a few carefully curated idiosyncrasies like pipe smoking and all of a sudden, the illegitimate son of a pisshead Irishman and streetwalking sweetheart from rural Queensland was a true blue-blooded member of the social elite.
St John’s church, Darlinghurst, seemed like the busiest place in the world that day. Bodies spilled from the pews into the aisle, the wings and even out the front door of the church. People who hadn’t turned up early enough or simply weren’t important enough to warrant a space were crammed into the churchyard and onto the street outside. Amongst the sea of faces who’d come to pay their respects to the late Ronnie Prince, was Alan Livingstone. There was no chance that he wouldn’t be seen there that day. He sat next to the Commissioner, both men wore stoic expressions upon their faces. It was a public relations exercise for the pair of them.
They’d never liked Prince; he’d made their professional lives hell, but he was Darlinghurst’s most famous, best loved son. This was a chance for them to be seen as men of the people. It was also a chance to keep their eye on the shifting criminal landscape. For Livingstone it was an opportunity to dip his hands in the pocket of whoever inherited the throne.
At the front of the church on top of a grandiose golden platform was a coffin, the likes of which you had never seen. It appeared Prince knew legacy can be all too fleeting. Though he was frugal in life, it looked like he had spent his entire fortune on a gold filigree detailed box to carry him across the Styx.
Next to the coffin was a large framed mugshot of the late great. He had famously gone 35 years before his first arrest. He’d been committed to a life of crime since not long after he learned to walk but he’d always been a teflon type of character who had known how to avoid punishment. He’d been the architect of an ecosystem of bribery that surpassed anything before it. The mugshot displayed at the funeral had been taken back in the ‘30s when Prince had been arrested on corruption charges. The State Premier himself had exonerated Ronnie as a result of their close friendship.
“And now we’ll hear a few words from Ronald’s dear friend… George Watson.”
What a travesty. The man who had arranged the meeting between Prince and his maker was to be the man who eulogised him at his funeral. The hypocrisy was not lost on many in that room. A sea of heartbroken faces watched as Watson walked up towards the pulpit. As he walked, he heard whispering. Worse yet, he heard the sniggers and giggles of those just learning about Watson’s disastrous slideshow.
Watson, at very least, looked the part. He was morose, entirely like he was mourning the loss of a dear friend and mentor. Really, he was just inwardly lamenting the events of the day. The events that threatened to make him a pariah in the kingdom he had hoped to control.
“Thank you, father, and thank you all for coming today.” He paused, deep in thought. From the pulpit he looked out at the crowd and spotted the malevolent presence of those who had prevented his kingship. Zambrotta, Calyute, Mason, the bikers, and those damned crones Devine and Markle.
Closer to the front of the congregation, he spotted the likes of Livingstone. He and his peers were looking up at Watson like he was a mother pig, whose teat was there to be suckled upon. Clearly, they hadn’t yet heard.
“Where to begin with my good friend Ronnie… A man loved by so many. He gave so much, and requested so little in return. He was taken from us before his time…”
Moments later the hoi polloi were chased off from the churchyard so that those who had been inside could continue the solemn affair in the fresh air. Criminal enforcers had left the building as the service ended and they had cleared the grieving masses aggressively. It wasn’t a funeral. It was a twisted kind of meat market, where nearly all those who came, did so to pick the flesh of Prince’s recently departed carcass.
George stood with his back to the church wall looking out amongst the mourners, Lenny and Stan were at his flanks keeping a watchful eye out for any threats. A young woman dressed in black approached. She was beautiful and oh so sad. She had been Elsa Markle; a decade before Elsa Markle had stolen the hearts of men around Sydney. This was Mrs Ronnie Prince. A kind woman who had married a dangerous man for love, and had paid a heart-breaking price for it. “Thank you so much for the kind words. He’d have appreciated it.”
George took Ronnie’s wife’s hands in his own. Her misguided appreciation cut him to the bone. He was quite overcome. Earlier in the day his hard shell had been cracked wide open, the vulnerable little boy inside was exposed to the world. Involuntarily, he gasped as he tried and failed to fight back a flood of tears that hit him like a monsoon during the wet season. Mrs Ronnie brought him close for a tender embrace. Her sympathetic warmth both comforted him and amplified the contrition he felt. He hadn’t cried like that in decades.
It didn’t go unnoticed by those in the courtyard. His rivals witnessed his moment of weakness and looked on in disgust. “He was a great man.” Watson said as the full weight of his actions came down upon him.
“He was, wasn’t he?” Mrs Ronnie smiled at Watson thankfully. She had no idea of Watson’s h
ypocrisy.
The pair were interrupted when Alan Livingstone walked over and offered his hand to Watson. Then it came to his time to greet Mrs Ronnie, the slimy bastard gave her a lingering kiss upon the cheek. “Detective Chief Inspector Alan Livingstone, I knew Ronnie rather well.” He spoke with a polished syrupy voice. He didn’t know Ronnie well. Ronnie had placed Harris in Major Crimes, so he didn’t have to deal with the blood-sucking Chief Inspector. Mrs Ronnie was a good judge of character and harboured an instant dislike for the man. “If there’s ever anything I can do to help. Please call me. Anything… To make your situation a little more… Comfortable.”
The last thing you expect as the recently widowed wife of a well-respected, and widely feared criminal figure is to be propositioned at the church on the day of their funeral. Then again, anyone who knew Alan Livingstone would have considered it more than likely. If he could use up what goodness was left in her heart for his own sordid purposes, he’d have put one over Ronnie Prince, something he could never have done in life.
Livingstone waited as though she would request his presence in her bed in front of the crowd; the request never came. “If you don’t mind, I need to go talk to everyone.”
“Of course. You take care now… Remember… Anything at all.” He watched as she walked off. If he’d appeared lecherous to her face, he looked downright dastardly when she turned her back. He leered over her shape as she walked off into the crowd to shake hands and receive condolences. “Tell you what George… I’d jump into a wooden box if I got to sleep next to her for a night or two first.”
“Have some fucking decency man.” This, coming from Watson, would have been hilarious on any other day.
“I married too young. I didn’t realise she’d age the way she did. She’s all wrinkly elbows and knobbly knees nowadays. But I bet the recently widowed Mrs Prince could suck Sydney harbour dry.” Livingstone took one last lingering glance at the widow before discreetly shifting himself in his trousers. “I want to discuss the arrangement I had with Ronnie.” Livingstone openly spoke where anyone could hear him, he had no shame and no fear of reprisal.
“Show some decorum, Alan.”
“Tell it to the Universe, my friend. Life waits for no man. Nor do bills. With you looking to take over Ronnie’s interests, you’ll be taking over his… Arrangements.” Livingstone was anything but a straight talker, you got more sense from the average squirming politician than him.
“His arrangements?”
“The friendship of Darlinghurst Road doesn’t come for free.” Livingstone straightened his tie and ensured the cuffs of his crisp white shirt protruded from the edge of his jacket sleeves; he was a poser.
“Or cheap… No doubt.”
Chapter 49
Harris had witnessed urban decay in pre and post-war Manchester. He’d watched as areas of Sydney had boomed and busted just as quickly as they’d been built as a result of shoddy construction standards. What he’d never seen was the strange phenomenon of urban decay in an area that was anything but urban. Buildings were more spread out in Alice Springs; space was the only luxury the inhabitants were afforded. It was clear, however, that like any place that experienced sudden growth and an influx of money… Poverty had soon followed.
Cheap, prefabricated weatherboard houses had been built en masse, using substandard materials. They’d presumably been put in for those who moved out that way to work on the cattle stations. Instead of being looked after, they had simply been left behind to rot as the town had expanded. The middle class had left the area first, taking with them their businesses. The next domino to fall was that of the working class. What was left, by 1964, was an underclass of people who lived on the outside of the system. They didn’t work, they didn’t pay taxes. It was much like Darlinghurst; only organised crime was replaced here by disorganised crime.
“I didn’t realise there were predominantly Aboriginal communities this close to town.” Lescott directed his comment at Charlie who grunted in reply, he tried to keep his mind on driving and not on the impoverished area they were cruising through.
“Some of the more modern-minded mobs live in town. Mowan never wanted that for us, he kept us away from it. Never liked me coming into town so much. Said this place killed what was good inside us. Too much temptation for things we don’t need. He called these people lost souls.” Charlie looked out the car and witnessed a man pulling what looked like his wife down the street by her hair.
At this point, Harris understood a little better why Women had expressed concern at the direction Charlie’s life had been headed. These people had fallen into the trap of modern life and they had neither the ability nor the desire to deal with its pitfalls. Charlie, given his history of drinking and petty crime, was a bad decision or two away from life here.
Charlie rubbed his tongue over his teeth as he angrily watched the man beating his wife. She, it seemed, was no slouch in the fighting stakes. She got to her feet and lamped him ferociously.
The dark doo-wop stylings of the Coasters filled the car, as it did it seemed to frame the part of the country they were travelling through. Every note the brass and string instruments hit sent chills down the men’s spines. Carl Gardner’s anguished vocals might as well have cried out to them, “Leave this place.”
“Bruzzas,” Charlie broke the tension from his spot behind the wheel. “Did you say we were looking for a red door…”
There it was, on the right-hand side of the road, just ahead. A large sprawling bungalow of dark grey weatherboard. Whatever paint or wash had once covered the boards had long since peeled off and left dark, rotting wood at the mercy of the elements. The garden was a disgrace. It would take most large families a lifetime to make the mess that was present on the front lawn, it was a maze of metallic, and septic rubbish.
The car pulled up outside the house and the three men looked over at it for a moment. On one of the shittiest streets, in one of the shittiest areas of Australia; this house stood out as squalid. Without speaking they left the car and stood on the pavement. Before they could discuss their best course of action, their presence had been well noted. A pair of teenage girls came over in an attempt to solicit them. The three men felt uneasy at the prospect of being spotted talking to teenage prostitutes. It sent the wrong message. Once Harris had politely, but firmly, chased them off, the men were approached by a middle-aged man who begged for change to buy food. He looked ill. If Charlie was slim, this man was positively skeletal. Lescott fished into his pocket for coppers and handed them over. “Charlie, I need you to get in the car and drive around the block.”
“I need to come in.” Charlie protested.
“I’m not leaving the car out here. It’ll be a burning wreck within five minutes.” Lescott responded decisively, he wasn’t about to budge. Charlie looked at Harris like he was the weak link, Harris simply shrugged. “There’s nothing good waiting for us in there.”
“What is in there?” Charlie asked, Lescott hadn’t fully explained the situation to either man.
“Nothing in particular… We’re just taking a look around.” Lescott answered conclusively.
Charlie ceased his protestations and hesitantly jumped back into the car before pulling away.
“What is in there?” Harris repeated the question as they walked through the overgrown garden.
“Last known address of some sicko exiled from Melbourne. He could be here. He could be long gone by now. I don’t know.”
“Dangerous?”
Lescott shrugged as he stepped through burned-out furniture littering the ground. There were signs of fire damage everywhere. They were in the right place. Lescott peered through the grimy lace curtains and into the darkness that lay behind inside. If he was looking for life back there, it was the last thing he would find.
Harris pulled his gun from inside his belt. Lescott followed suit. They took one last look at the street and saw a crowd was gathering. The detectives were not welcome in this part. The baying mob might as
well have been carrying torches and pitchforks.
Harris pushed his shoulder against the poorly manufactured door and it flung off its hinges. The men looked into the murky darkness for a brief moment. Lescott gestured for Harris to move through the front of the house, while he would go around the side and take the back.
Harris nodded and entered the darkness. Lescott watched him disappear before he moved along the front wall of the house. At the side of the building he found a sheltered carport that ran along the depth of the building. Sitting there was a burned-out car. Wooden planks and strips of scrap metal were scattered all around. It looked like the kit room the Painter and Dockers Union turned to when renegotiating with their middle-class management counterparts.
Harris stepped carefully on rotting floorboard after rotting floorboard. They creaked and groaned under his weight. He knew that he was one heavy step from a heavy fall into the space that lay beneath the house. Given the dire state of the place, the last thing he wanted to do was fall into its decaying underbelly.
With each step, it seemed he disturbed another rat or mouse from its hiding place. It was no wonder the place was infested. Dirty plates and half-eaten scraps were strewn all over. Harris inspected what looked like an old sausage roll. Even the maggots and mould had abandoned it by this point. It was blackened and quite lifeless.
Hand-rolled cigarette tips had been wantonly discarded and burn marks were on every surface. The god-awful decorative wallpaper was peeling away from the walls as heat melted the glue holding it in place. In more than one place, Harris noticed sprays of blood across the walls and floor. Harris recognised it as arterial spray.
Lescott carefully placed his fingers under the roller door that covered the garage. He pulled up, gently at first to ensure his fingers didn’t get caught out by a nasty surprise on the underside. Thankfully, it took little effort to move the door up. The mechanism was old and rusty, so it made a racket as it slid up its loose brackets.
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 39
