The Australian Provincial Police have never been known for subtlety. They are the brutal product of a brutal land. The city police departments are a bit more restrained but still need to deal with a country full of drunks, immigrants and a rising tide of drugs. When called on to act, they do so with all the necessary force.
Terry was giving a pimp a little talking to when the two constables approached him. It was not the money the man owed, that had been forthcoming, it was the way he treated his girls. It was personal. Terry should have known better but he was still way too young to be in the position he held and his past successes had made him cocky.
The pimp knew better than to press charges on the man who had just tuned him up. That would have ended badly for him. The constables would probably charge him with disorderly conduct, but they had no idea how disorderly he could be. They ran up on the scene expecting to restrain him and take him in and got a little more than they had bargained for.
The alley was dark and Terry was done giving his subject instruction. The two constables could not run silently but did manage to get to within a few feet of Terry before he saw them. The billy club was swinging toward his head but that was as close as it got. Terry ducked under the swing and launched himself head first at the constable’s midsection. If the man had been ready for it he might have tightened up but it would not have prevented the two cracked ribs he got. Needless to say he dropped like a stone. The second policeman caught Terry across the back with his club, but it was an awkward swing and did not have the requisite force behind it. Terry caught him with a backhand, also with little force behind it, but when the constable raised his club for another swing, he left himself open. Too fast for the man, Terry dropped to one knee and brought his fist up between the man’s legs. There was a sickening slapping sound and all the air went out of the constable’s lungs. The only sound in the alley, now, was the groaning and wheezing of two downed men and the retreating footsteps of a thoroughly chastened gentleman of leisure. Terry caught himself just in time to prevent putting a bullet into each of the downed officer’s brains. He shoved his revolvers back into their holsters and started moving. The first officer reached out for his ankle. Terry kicked him in the face and ran.
“That was stupid,” said Henry. “First of all, it’s not your job to protect the stupid, drug addict whores from their pimps. If they had seen you slapping him around they probably would have jumped you themselves. Whores need to be kept in line that way and they love their men for it.”
“They can’t do their jobs from a hospital bed. Besides, how can a woman give a blow job with a broken nose?”
“Tommy, it doesn’t matter. You are not in that business. Your business is to make sure they pay on time. I don’t care how they get the money or who they get it from. It doesn’t matter to me and it shouldn’t matter to you either.”
“Ok. I just don’t like to see men hurt women.”
“Get used to it and get over it. Now, the real problem is the patrol you hit. They will be looking all over the city for you. I assume they got a good enough look at you to identify you?”
“Probably. It was dark and I hit them pretty fast. I didn’t recognize them so I don’t think they knew me. They didn’t see what I was driving.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“I’m not. What do you think? I could turn myself in.”
“No, that would be stupid. I’ll send out some feelers. Stay out of that area for a while. We’ll see.”
“Ok. Has that manager of Coley’s paid up this week?”
“Don’t worry about him. Send Ralph over there at closing time with a cricket bat. He’ll pay.”
“I’d pay if Ralph showed up with a cricket bat,” Terry smiled.
“Somehow I don’t think so. Anyway, lay low for a while. I’m trying to get Jimmy to transfer a couple of men from Melbourne to give you a hand. You’re getting too well known on the street so you need to lay low. If they show up here, at the warehouse, I’ll tell them to fuck off but you’ll need to be more careful. You’re not in the bloody schoolyard any more. They put the tag on you and who knows what might happen.”
Terry pulled out a cigarette, thoughtfully tapping it on the desktop. He had seen what happened to men who fell out of favor. The fact that it had been his fault did not bother him and the thought almost made him smile, but he needed to hold a stern visage and did so. He had recounted what had happened to Randy Arganmajc in gory detail. The shock had worn off but he had felt the helplessness of being strapped to a chair in the mansion’s basement and he never wanted to feel that way again. He lit his cigarette and promised to take a less physical role and a more administrative one.
The money that was collected in Sydney never got pooled for long. It went into bank accounts on a daily basis. It did represent a lot of money but it was never in one place at one time. It could not be targeted. The monies that could be hit were the payments for drug shipments and the daily or weekly transports from the other areas. These were large enough to make it worthwhile, but there were too many people watching Terry for him to make a move. Gordon was incommunicado and Ginger required a week’s notice. Terry seldom got a week’s notice. The multiple losses that the organization had suffered within the past year had tightened up the communication chain a great deal. Nobody knew when a large load was coming in until it was almost there.
So Terry played his game and settled into his role as leader of enforcers. He never showed his feelings about it but he was becoming more and more uncomfortable. He saw the methods employed by his associates and also those used by the newcomers. The Russians were even more brutal and the Orientals, while more subtle, were terrible. The truth was that if the Australian underworld was destroyed it would stop nothing. The replacements were going to be worse.
Sitting in his apartment, half drunk on cheap gin, Terry made a decision.
~~~
Chapter Thirteen: Longing for Home
Superintendent Theodore Barlow was not expected to be in his office on Saturdays. He blessed his long-suffering wife as he turned the key in the office lock. The truth was he missed the investigations and some of the grime of the streets had never washed off his skin. He wore a better grade of suit these days and drank a better grade of scotch, but he had always been fond of the physical process, not the political wrangling. The fact that he had made it up the ladder was much due to that long-suffering wife who had forced him to go to fund raisers he had no desire to attend, and dinners he had no appetite for.
There was an emptiness to the Town Hall on Saturdays that Barlow particularly enjoyed. There may have been some interns and clerks finishing up the week’s load but for the most part the building was deserted except for the new annex where the main police station was housed. The deserted corridors echoed and rang with his footsteps and gave him an almost nostalgic feeling. The air conditioning had been shut down in the main body of the building but Barlow’s office had its own unit.
Saturdays gave Superintendent Barlow a chance to reflect, to work on some of the high profile cases that were no longer really a part of his daily duties and to plan. He had ordered some files delivered to his desk the day before and was pleased to find that they had been delivered. The first file he cracked open on the morning of December 15 was labeled Henry Cuthbert.
Henry was suspected to be just what he was, a middle management mob figure. He had been arrested a couple of times and had spent time in prison for assault in the late eighties. He had never cooperated with the police and had gone back to his shady dealings after being released. There was a mug shot included in the file. It looked like just another mug shot to Barlow; just another scumbag looking sorry to have been caught. There were also some surveillance pictures in the file, black and white, grainy and worthless. His home town was listed as Molong. He had two brothers, one of them deceased, the other still living there. He drove a working man’s car and lived in a middle-class neighborhood. He had been noticed a couple of times lately.
He had been accused of leaving a bomb at the clubhouse of a golf course but there had been no bomb in the case. He had been one of the group of men involved in the debacle south of the city. Once again he had refused to cooperate and the constables were forced to release him.
The Inspectors were convinced that Henry Cuthbert was in charge of what would equate to gangster supervisors. He was seldom seen rubbing elbows with the street-level thugs but often observed meeting with those who did. These lower-level wise guys were not interesting to Barlow. He wanted to pick off those at the top. One of these men was Jimmy Cognac. He had come on the scene very recently, reportedly taking the place of Randy Arganmajc, who had disappeared. Jimmy Cognac came from the Melbourne Area where there had been a huge scandal recently. The constables in Melbourne had been raiding the evidence lockers and returning the evidence to the streets instead of getting it destroyed. Jimmy had been exempt from suspicion in this matter only because he never soiled his hands with such matters.
The Superintendent decided that Henry Cuthbert was to be the target and to get him, he would need to turn one of the man’s subordinates. There was a small pile of files for these men and he turned his attention to them now.
After examining some of the hard copy files, the superintendent went to his secretary’s desk and booted up her computer. It contained a duty roster for the weekend. He determined that Senior Sergeant Randolph Black was on duty both days. Barlow did not know Randolph well but he certainly had time to get acquainted. At first he thought he would call the man to his office, but then he realized that it would be more comfortable if he went to the Sergeant’s office.
“Sergeant. No, please, sit down. I’m not here for anything serious.”
Sergeant Black was unconvinced but he sat back down. “Yes, sir, Mr. Superintendent. Uh, what can I do for you?”
“You can relax and call me Ted.”
“Ok, Ted, what seems to be the trouble?”
“It is almost noon and I have a bottle of 12-year-old scotch that is not planning to get a day older.”
“But, I’m on duty, sir.”
“Then this is going to be a part of your duties today. Lock the door. You are in conference with the new Superintendent and cannot be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir!” Randolph Black was not used to this sort of treatment from his superiors and it was clear that this man had not started drinking yet. He only hoped he was not setting himself up for an enormous fall.
“Sergeant Black,” Barlow said after a bit of small talk and some scotch. “I have a need to get something on Henry Cuthbert. I need to get a witness against him. A credible witness.”
“We have been trying for years. I don’t think we are much closer now than before. See, Superintendent, they have created a culture of fear that keeps ‘em all clammed up. I’d have an easier time getting a red blenny to turn over.”
“Yes, I know, I’ve heard the stories. The torture… That’s it! The torturer. They’ve got some sick fuck who does the tortures for them, right?”
“Uh, yes, I suppose so.”
“Then he is the one we need to get a hold of. The bastards who do the really dirty work are often the easiest to turn. Find out who this bastard is. Give it a try. I’ll bet the very thing they use to scare others is a real pudding. I don’t care how you do it, I’m covering you on this one. As long as nobody ends up dead, you can use whatever means necessary.”
“Oy, there might be expenses involved in this.”
That was the sort of reaction Theodore Barlow wanted to hear. He knew he could trust this man to get the job done. He might very well break the back of the mob in Sydney if he went about it the right way.
Barlow took another drink and thought about the Prime Minister’s robes.
Evan (Saxon) McCormick was by no means sophisticated. As the president of the largest motorcycle gang in Australia, he was not expected to be sophisticated. He was, however, diplomatic. He had no formal education but he was well read in practical application and leadership theory.
It was almost as difficult to get a conference with Evan McCormick as with the Troy brothers or the Prime Minister and for similar reasons. There were a lot of men who would have liked to see Evan dead. Most of the rival gangs would have been glad to see him expire because he was the glue that held the Dark Knights together.
The makeup of the Dark Knights Motorcycle Club loosely followed military tradition, with a president, a general, majors, a Sergeant-at-Arms and recruits. They were all elected positions, however, so nobody had lifetime rights to any title.
The Sydney headquarters was behind the bar. The whole complex was labeled “Choppers” including the tavern, meeting hall, repair barn. The Motorcycle Supermarket was a couple of miles down the road. Evan owned that as well. A bikie could get anything from boots and a belt to a crank for a pan head. That was just the legal side of the business. Sex and drugs were epidemic and guns were ubiquitous. The whiskey flowed like wine and the bandages were in ready supply. Evan made a show of joining the party from time to time but more often he watched the crowd. He knew with a certainty that the bikies were kept in line with bread and circuses. As long as the party lasted, they were on his side.
The money that flowed through his hands was used well. He had no need for drugs but used them if they were free. He drank but did not need the drink. He used women when they wanted him but turned down as much as he accepted. Moderation was not a subject that bikies considered but it made him a leader among them. And it made him a very powerful man who paid his tribute to the Troy brothers regularly. He knew who could shut them down with a phone call. He knew there were judges that would look one way or another depending on the brothers’ direction. He knew the police would let him be, or come crashing down around his ears like a falling tree, depending on what the brothers said.
The bike club and the organized crime syndicate were separate entities entirely except when interests crossed paths. The bikies manufactured and sold crank, a powerful and heavily addictive form of amphetamine. They also used it heavily. A little bit of good crank would keep you up for two or three days. You could travel cross country non-stop like the legendary truck drivers, or drink all night and still walk a straight line in the morning. The down side was that the lack of sleep unbalanced a man’s mind and he would be irrational in no time.
The Troy brothers did not want much to do with the bikies and their wild life. Once in a while they would sacrifice one of the gangs to the court system so the police could say they had scored a major bust and were winning. They had never sacrificed the Dark Knights and never would as long as Evan McCormick was in charge. He paid his tribute and he kept order. He even kept order among the ‘one percenters,’ that rare breed of man capable of anything at any time. He did not bind them too tightly, however, men such as that could not be restrained except by armed guards and steel bars.
Despite their reputation, the Dark Knights, under McCormick’s rule, was pretty low-key. They made good money from some of their operations but many of them squandered it. Living for the day has always been bikie philosophy; eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die. They needed to cut loose from time to time but they did so at the bike rallies outside the city. The rallies were huge events, open to anyone with the spine to attend. Booze, broads and bands kept the parties hopping. The events were held in a neutral zone where no guns were allowed. It was common to have a man or two stabbed during the rally, but nobody had yet been shot.
A rally was the one place a man could get a conference with the president of the Dark Knights. One needed to come in disarmed or be disarmed by the bikies, but it was a small concession to be made.
Initially, McCormick refused to speak with Terry Kingston alone. Terry, in turn, refused to speak with so many people listening in. McCormick told him there was nothing to discuss in that event, but that he was free to hang out and party as long as he wanted. Terry did wait for a while, drinking beer and smoking. He listened to the men around him but
said little. While Terry waited, the President of the Dark Knights was getting some research done on Thompson Barber, as Terry was known to everyone in the Sydney area. Laptop computers and wireless signals were not what would have been expected, stumbling upon this group, but they had both. Evan McCormick may not have been sophisticated but he was sharp and cautious.
“Well then, Mr. Barber, what is it that is so important that you must speak to me without my generals?” The tent they sat in was not soundproof but the band was loud and the two were sitting close.
“Mr. McCor…”
“Tsst. Call me Saxon. That is my name.”
“Saxon then. What I am seeing is a man who knows how to run men giving tribute to men who know nothing about it.”
“Make your pitch.”
“I think it would be mutually beneficial for us to form an alliance. Together we could create a dynasty that would incorporate all the various vices man is so eager to pay for. You and I could thrive like foxes if we played our cards right.”
“What the fuck are you talking about and why? I already thrive like a fox and have no idea what you are selling. I’ll call you if I need a vacuum cleaner.”
Terry was unscathed by Saxon’s comment. “I am somewhat reticent about speaking in this venue. I don’t know who is listening. I don’t know the men around you. I only deal with men who possess a certain quality and quantity of honor. Are you indeed such a man or have I misread you?”
Honorable Assassin Page 23
