Crooked (23 page)

Twiggy shook her head. ‘Keep it, Charlie.'

Charlie cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate your saying that, but I'd like you to take the money anyway. Please. You'd be doing me a favour.'

‘I can see you don't want it, Charlie. But it's yours. Put it back in your pocket.'

Charlie made a bewildered gesture. ‘Take it for the baby, then. Is it Ducky's?'

Twiggy let out an actual laugh. ‘Oh God, that'd be right. Look, Charlie. I know it wasn't down to you what happened to Ducky, but you've got yourself mixed up with a terrible lot. If I was you, I'd be watching myself.'

Charlie put the envelope back into his pocket, marvelling at the change in her as he walked towards the car.

He found Gus dropped down on his haunches under a large sugar gum at the end of the track. His head was bowed, as if searching for something.

Charlie blurted out, ‘You don't think Johnny Warren killed Reilly, do you?'

‘Warren? I reckon he's guilty enough.'

‘But you're thinking there's somebody else, somebody behind him.'

‘It doesn't matter what I think.' Gus straightened up. ‘Just what I can prove.'

Charlie laughed. ‘Here was me thinking you coppers counted one, two, three, made up your minds who to pick, and worked up some evidence.'

‘Keeping you shonky lawyers in business is just part of the job.'

‘Pretty much,' said Charlie, and laughed again, albeit a fraction hysterically this time. He opened the car door, and lifted his foot to climb in.

‘I wouldn't do that.'

Charlie paused, foot mid-air, and put it back down. He walked back to the rear of the car and stared down at the place where Gus had been squatting. The tyres were blown out.

‘Come on,' said Gus, grinning boyishly now. ‘Let me give you a ride.'

Charlie and Gus drove awkwardly in silence. Charlie wound down the window and let the salt-breeze of the ocean blow over them, until the ocean disappeared and they entered an urban wasteland of factories and substations with curled wire fences and chained-metal gates. Charlie felt a surge of relief as the landscape around him started to change, and abandoned factories gave way to crystal-glazed buildings, then just as abruptly relief spiralled down into deep, guilty brooding. Sitting at the traffic lights on the corner of King Street, he finally gave in to an overwhelming compulsion and raised the subject himself.

‘I was there at the inquest this morning,' he started.

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I know this might have nothing to do with anything, but do you remember the woman who made the allegations in the Harry Giles case?'

‘Dolly Brennan. Yeah. Why?'

‘It was Dolly's evidence that weighed with the Coroner, and brought in the finding.' Gus said nothing to this, so Charlie plunged recklessly on. ‘The reason I'm mentioning it is, well, I'm almost sure that I've met Dolly before … with Reg Tanner at the Latin Quarter.' Gus glanced at him sharply, and Charlie was aware that he'd given up more than he ever intended. ‘They were really quite chummy.'

Gus drove in silence for almost a minute, his face in a constant state of agitation as if unable to fully resolve itself. Turning into King Street, he eased the Falcon to the side of the road. Charlie scrambled out. Gus grabbed him by the elbow. ‘It was Tanner who arranged for the pay-off in Melbourne, wasn't it?'

Charlie didn't say anything, but nodded his head. He watched the Falcon pull back into the afternoon traffic, then set off in the direction of the Hotel Australia.

The squad room was dark, except for the circle of light under which Tanner was sitting, between stacks of grey files. He was staring into the metal blades of a box fan, absorbed in his thoughts, when Gus stepped up to him, out of the dark.

‘I've got an informant who tells me you're crooked.'

Hastily Tanner began scribbling over the papers in front of him. He didn't look up. ‘Who's your informant?'

‘I can't tell you that.'

‘Christ almighty, I reckon you've got a whole lot of gall, coming in here, making accusations, and not giving me the name of the screwball that says so.' Gus struggled to speak out some word of defiance, but Tanner, as if sensing his weakness, spoke on in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Come on, lad. Why don't you tell me what's up?'

‘I heard McPherson arranged O'Connor's bail, then shot him. I also heard that coppers were involved.'

‘You mean you heard I was that copper.' Gus glanced up in surprise. Tanner said, ‘So who's this informant?'

‘I can't tell you,' said Gus, almost choking.

‘It was Twiggy, wasn't it?' Tanner eyed him narrowly. ‘Twiggy Lonragen. I dunno how you can take a thing she says seriously, not a single word, not for a minute.' Gus tried to give nothing away, but his face drained of colour. Tanner stuck his feet out on the speckled linoleum and stared down at the fan.
‘I've always had the highest regard for you as a detective. Especially as a detective –'

‘Don't say that,' said Gus, the unexpected words making his situation seem somehow more painful.

Tanner kept staring down at the fan, ‘It could be that my high regard has sometimes given rise to unreasonable expectations, but you can't blame me for trying. I'm not standing aside, watching somebody I recognise as an excellent copper flush his job down the toilet, because that's what's happening here, make no mistake.'

‘How could you let him off like that?'

‘Who?'

‘McPherson. Why are you protecting him?'

‘Because McPherson's an informant of mine. Every single case I ever did, every single thing I ever asked …'

‘You let him shoot O'Connor because he's a fizgig?'

Tanner rubbed his face, then rubbed his head and scalp all over. ‘There's an underworld in this city brimming with spivs, hoons and standover men. Sydney is a savage place and we've got to contain that, keep the violence off the streets. I guess sometimes the way we do that is not very pretty. I've loaded up suspects, I've beaten informants into submission, I've made deals with crooks, I've run thieves to catch murderers and I've gunned down criminal scum in the street when I knew the case against them to be finally hopeless.'

Gus fought hard to control himself. A dimness grew before his eyes. His legs felt unsteady. He walked to the door without saying a word.

Tanner called after him, ‘Anybody shoots O'Connor – as far as I'm concerned, they're doing us a favour.'

Gus swung round, punched at the door frame. ‘No, they're not. They're
not
.'

Gus blundered his way out through the garbage-strewn courtyard, thinking about the things that he ought to have said,
but didn't. The stuff about how he didn't want to be a copper anymore, if that's what it meant. He'd thought being a copper was about being special … but there was nothing very special about this. He stopped on the footpath with arms outstretched, and breathed in the air that was waxy and blurry with stars. He experienced a moment of clear emptiness. He couldn't bury this stuff any deeper. Couldn't hide it. Didn't want to.

Gus angled the unmarked hard to the curb at Palmer Street and clambered out. Up and down the footpath molls in their night attire were beckoning from doorways under the green light of Japanese rice-paper lanterns. Seamen and beggars were also standing about, US soldiers out of uniform, and a shambling old bloke conducting long mumbling conversations with God. Gus walked down the rise past doors like display cases, his feet carrying him in the direction of Dolly Brennan's brothel, the one allegedly co-owned by his old partner, Harry, and shut down by Tanner in the wake of the inquiry. The door opened up after his third or fourth knock. Dolly tried to close it again, but seemed to change her mind.

Gus said, ‘Twiggy sent me.'

‘I guess if Twiggy sent you –' said Dolly.

‘Twiggy sent me.'

‘Well, I guess that's all right.'

Gus stepped through the door and sat down on the nearest seat. He took in the zebra-striped sofa, the dolphin-shaped vases screwed to the walls, the armchairs of washable plastic upholstery in pinks and umbers, and it all came flooding back. The raids they conducted under Harry's direction, the way they made it clear to the owners and proprietors, through various methods, that the brothels had to go. He looked blankly at Dolly and said, ‘Tell me about Harry.'

Dolly wasn't exactly surprised by the question, but took a
few seconds before making an answer. ‘Yeah, I guess you might say that it all started with Harry, when Harry got it into his head to drive the girls out. “Harry,” I said to him. “They're just a bunch of girls trying to get along. I wouldn't wish it on them, but they got to make a living somehow. Why is it always the women that are taking the knock?” But Harry wouldn't hear me. He says, “It's not up to me to decide.” It was like all the years we were friends went for nothing.'

Dolly lit a cigarette before going on. ‘I knew there was this other mob I could go and see, blokes with the wherewithal to fix things. I thought they'd be reasonable. They knew I had problems –'

Gus didn't say anything. He just let her speak, and Dolly kept talking, telling the story at her own easy pace.

‘It was around this time that a good friend of mine started buying up the houses. Harry, he's chasing everybody around, and my friend Joe Borg's buying up the empties, quiet-like, one at a time, almost as quickly as Harry can close them. I tell you, there were times I almost split my sides laughing. I guess there are hard things that are said about Joe, but he always looks after his girls, and takes a real pride in the places they work. He's always coming round with his hammer and saw, tinkering with downpipes, making sure the girls don't get roughed up by the difficult customers. He's been doing real well for himself, and that's why there's grief.'

‘Let's stick to Harry,' said Gus, bringing her back.

‘Yeah, Harry,' said Dolly in a tired, desperate way, then burst out, ‘Oh God, it was me set Harry up, me all along. But the things that I said … I never thought that they'd actually harm him. He only had to listen to reason.' Gus thought how Harry had lost everything he cared about. First his badge, then his wife and the kids. He thought about the shame that had been heaped on him, and his feelings must have showed because Dolly said, ‘Stop looking at me. Stop it. Just stop.'

‘You destroyed him,' said Gus.

‘Harry didn't give me any choice.'

‘But you destroyed him.'

‘I didn't mean it,' said Dolly, staring down at her hands. Then she added tonelessly, without any expression, ‘Yeah, well, and now they're going to destroy me.'

Gus watched Dolly's cigarette burn up between her fingers, untouched. ‘Did McPherson shoot O'Connor?'

‘I dunno who shot Ducky. Just what I had to say. But they were back here again in less than a month. Every other week they're sending some bloke around, trying to throw a scare into somebody or other.'

‘This other mob. Who are they?'

‘They're greedy and scary, that's what they are.'

‘But who are they?' Gus urged.

But the harder he pushed, the harder it got. Eventually he got up. ‘Tell me, was Harry on the joke?'

Dolly appeared to consider the matter for several seconds. ‘Harry wasn't a straight shooter, but he wasn't that crooked. I reckon he didn't understand what was going on around him. He didn't know what hit him even when it did.'

Gus slipped quietly out of Palmer Street, and turned his feet in the direction of the Harbour. There was somebody else he had to see, somebody he was certain could tie things together. He scaled some fence palings, swung left down an alley. Above him was the sign saying ‘Bogle Bros Auto Electric'. He walked straight between the petrol pumps and up to the counter. Tommy grinned at Gus, and tugged at his crotch. He tossed a bunch of used dockets up into the air, then turned round and ran – a shower of white squares fluttering in a spiral behind him.

Gus jumped the counter and tore through the packing crates, sending gas canisters flying. He lunged at the door to the
garbage room as a great pile of empty drums came tumbling down.

‘Come out, Tommy! Don't be a dog!'

There was silence. Gus heard the rear door bang shut, followed by the sound of a motorbike revving out in the alley. He stumbled into the back lane, and grabbed Tommy by the scruff of his leathers. His blue Kawasaki shot out between his legs and spun to the ground. Gus hauled him up, slammed him back into the brickwork.

‘There's a whole pile of shit against you.'

‘That's all you've got? You've got nothing.'

‘I guess, then, you'll get slammed up for nothing.'

Gus threw a clenched fist into Tommy's ribcage, sending him back against several stacked crates of garbage. Tommy cowered among the soup cans and lettuce leaves, his eyeballs lying back in their sockets, watchful and flickering.

‘I've been belted before this.'

‘Is that a fact?'

Gus pulled out his service revolver and popped open the cylinder, showing the full round of bullets inside. He closed it, stuck the gun to Tommy's face.

‘You wouldn't dare,' said Tommy.

Gus pushed the gun a little closer. ‘I know you gave Warren the contract on Reilly and I want you to tell me who was doing the asking.'

Gus cocked the revolver and Tommy started to squeal. ‘I got orders to give Reilly the bag-o-lime funeral. I reckoned I was a little too well known to do it myself, so I thought, Johnny Warren. He hates Reilly's guts. So I went out to Liverpool and talked to Johnny about it. Only it don't take much talking. Johnny, he's so mad at Reilly that he doesn't think much about who's doing the asking.'

‘Ernie Chubb?'

‘Reilly got suspicious and sicked Ernie onto me – so I told
Johnny that Chubb was onto him, and he went out and shot him.'

‘What happened to Warren?'

‘He got what was coming.'

‘What happened to Warren?'

‘Johnny saw me at a meeting along with some others down at South Sydney Juniors. He'd been talking up all this underworld takeover bulls, and acting peculiar. I guess everybody decided it'd be safer to whack him. Unfortunately, his missus also got knocked in the process.'

‘Who put you up to it?'

‘I dunno.'

Gus raised the gun and swiped Tommy with the butt.

‘There was no call for that. I answered you nicely,' said Tommy.

‘Who are they?'

‘Please. You dunno what they're like.'

‘Is it McPherson?'

Tommy said nothing.

‘Who then?'

‘These blokes, they're worse than McPherson.'

‘I can protect you.'

‘Sure.'

‘The police can protect you.'

Tommy burst into a peel of hysterical laughter. ‘Like they looked after Twiggy?'

‘What about Twiggy?'

Tommy said nothing.

‘What about Twiggy?'

Gus fired the gun an inch off Tommy's temple. It gave a small orange spurt and a cloud of blue cordite floated up through the air. Tommy's cheek was grazed, his hair was singed black where the gunpowder burned through. He blinked, spat out a tooth. ‘I reckon you better go and see
Twiggy again. Then maybe you'll understand what I'm saying.'