Crooked (12 page)

Chooks Brouggy loped out of the dust and dazzle of the goods yard at Tempe, squinting past the usual litter of abandoned whitegoods, broken pool cues, and rusted-up razor-wire on battered tin spools. Under an advertising hoarding that read ‘Australian Pest Services Ltd. Drive Safely and Leave the Exterminating to Us', Johnny was waiting for him in the blue Valiant, but from where Chooks was standing, he might as well have been parked on the far side of the moon.

Johnny brought the Valiant skidding round. Chooks swung open the door. ‘Sweet Jesus …' he spluttered, clambering in.

Gravel sprayed the undersides of the car as Johnny shot out of the side street, missing a truckload of swaying bottles with barely an eyelash to spare.

Sweat broke from Chooks' skin. It was his third unsuccessful attempt at car theft that morning and he was feeling unnerved. A trickle of blood ran out his left nostril. ‘I didn't want to hurt the bloke. I've got nothing against him. I was just trying to nick his car when he slammed me with a shovel.'

‘There was two of them, was there?' said Johnny, glancing sideways.

‘Yeah, I had to take the shovel right back to him. Knocked out a tooth, maybe put him in the hospital.'

‘And the other bloke, the one with the tin drum?'

Chooks clutched a spotted handkerchief to his bleeding
nose. ‘He ought to have walked away. I was just trying to nick the car, not to harm him or nothing.'

Johnny was shaking with laughter. ‘Is that all? I thought you must've killed the poor bastard, at least.'

‘Hitting a bloke isn't bad enough?'

Johnny threw up his arms in exasperation, actually letting go of the wheel. ‘Listen to yourself. Just listen to yourself. It embarrasses me.'

‘I don't like violence. It's not in my nature.' Chooks' eyes fell to the floor. He started to brood.

‘Look, mate,' said Johnny, and gave Chooks a prod. ‘I reckon if it was your car, and the other bloke was doing the thieving, well, I reckon that he would've done the same thing.'

‘You reckon?' said Chooks, rousing himself.

‘Yeah, I reckon.'

They were chatting away amicably again when Johnny pulled the Valiant in to the side of the road, and got out.

‘Why are we stopping here?' said Chooks, scrambling out after him.

‘Well, first up I'm getting something to eat. Then I'm giving further consideration to buying a bucket.'

Chooks stopped still. ‘You can't mean it.'

‘What do you think?'

Johnny wandered on ahead, and Chooks had to scurry a bit to catch up. ‘But Glory doesn't like the idea, murdering Reilly with a bucket of petrol. I remember she was very vocal on the point.'

Johnny laughed, and Chooks stared at him, crestfallen. ‘Oh, I get it. You were having a go at me, right?'

They were standing outside Theo's Hot Chips and Hamburgers, inspecting the fly-spotted advertisements on the black tiled exterior. Johnny ordered four hamburgers and a bottle of Shelley's, then sat in a booth in the corner. Chooks slipped in on the opposite side. Johnny ate in silence then licked off his fingers.

‘I've made a great study of the plans, and developed a modus operandi that's guaranteed foolproof. But I need you to make a decision. Are you with me or what?'

‘I dunno,' said Chooks, truculent. ‘I reckon there's things you've got to tell me before I make up my mind.'

‘Like what?'

‘Well, like how do I know you've got the money to pay me if you're broke?'

‘I'll pay out the money the next day, provided it's a weekday.'

‘Yeah, but how?'

Johnny glanced around to make sure that nobody was close. ‘The thing is, I'm not going into this alone. Everything's on contract.'

‘Contract?' said Chooks, sounding doubtful.

‘Yeah, that means somebody else is paying expenses.'

‘Who?'

‘I can't tell you,' said Johnny, making Chooks scowl. ‘It's for your own protection.'

‘But how do I know these contract blokes have got any money?'

Johnny leaned into the table again. ‘Remember Tommy Bogle?'

‘Of course I remember Tommy. I worked with him at the Liverpool Club.'

Johnny put a finger to the side of his nose. Then, failing to get the desired result, he mouthed the name ‘Tommy' and winked.

‘Oh,' said Chooks. ‘Tommy.'

‘Look, mate,' said Johnny, rather heavily. ‘This is just between the two of us, right? I don't want you to go telling Glory or nothing.'

‘Why?' said Chooks, looking uneasy again. ‘Doesn't she like it?'

‘Nah, she doesn't like Tommy, that's all.'

Chooks thought this over for a minute. Then said, ‘How could Tommy get his hands on that sort of cash?'

‘It's not his money. He's just the in-between person. The behind-guy is a bloke that's staying anonymous.'

‘Oh,' said Chooks.

Johnny got up abruptly, and went to the cash register to pay for the feed. Chooks got up and followed him back to the car. ‘Look,' said Johnny. ‘The behind-guy, he's only having people killed that have killed other people. The way I see it, he's doing the town a service. Also, once Reilly's out of the way I'll be able to set up in Kings Cross again. I promise to make you my second-in-command.'

They were standing either side of the Valiant, staring at each other over the roof of the car. ‘I dunno,' said Chooks. ‘Marge might not like it.'

‘Yeah, Marge says, “Jump,” and there you go – boink, boink, boink. It just isn't natural.'

‘I reckon you ought to leave Marge out of this.'

‘But it still isn't natural,' Johnny insisted.

‘I said to leave Marge out of it,' Chooks repeated, getting hot under the collar. He climbed into the Valiant, folded his arms, and started brooding again.

Johnny pulled out into the traffic. He gave a right-hand signal, and passed through a set of red traffic lights. ‘I was watching him the other night,' he said, fixing his eyes off in the mid-distance.

‘Watching who?'

‘Reilly, of course. I can tell you, it makes a bloke wonder about the way this world works. Seeing him living high on the hog when there are some that don't get enough to feed their own kids.'

They were heading into Waterloo, when Johnny drew the Valiant up alongside a square of clipped grass with a wooden
seesaw and a merry-go-round. He climbed out of the Valiant and tossed Chooks the keys. ‘I've got an appointment with Tommy at three o'clock sharp. I'll meet you afterwards at the Enmore garage.'

‘How are you getting there?'

‘See that white Falcon?' said Johnny. He slammed the car door and set off along the footpath.

Chooks drove back to Enmore in the Valiant, and was tinkering with the engine in the failing brown sunlight when Johnny got back.

‘Oh, my God, Chooks. Oh, my God,' said Johnny, breathless. ‘All this time I've been scouting around after Reilly, Reilly's got this bloke out scouting for me.'

Chooks lifted his head.

‘He's put the catchers onto us, Chooks. You've got to help me out.

Chooks rubbed his nose with a grease-blackened forefinger. He scratched at his belly through a hole in his shirt. ‘Cripes,' he said.

‘Tommy told me that the bloke's name is Chubb and I've got to knock him off before he gets any further. I've found out the place where he is, but he's leaving there soon. I've got a gun, but I need some assistance.' When Chooks didn't say anything, Johnny stepped closer. ‘Haven't I always looked after you?'

‘I dunno. Maybe, I guess.'

‘If you don't help me out here, I'll have to ask Glory to drive.'

‘Glory can't drive. Glory couldn't drive a bloody scooter.'

‘Then you've got to help me out. Or else I'm a dead man. The dogs will lift up their heads and howl, they seen me coming.'

Chooks stood there completely paralysed for a second, but really didn't need to consider. He slammed down the bonnet,
tucked the shammy into his rear pocket, and hopped into the car. ‘Where to?' he said, kick-starting the engine.

Johnny climbed in on the passenger side and started yelling directions. They headed north over the Bridge before dropping down off the highway, hugging the road tight to the foreshore. Dusk fell swiftly, and then it was dark. The road turned moon-blue, the footpaths on either side glittering with constellations of garbage. Chooks ran the Valiant up to the end of Kurraba Road, and doused the engine.

Johnny pulled a brown rexine suitcase out from under the back seat, and flicked open the locks. He brought out a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses, attached to a large plastic nose and fake black moustache. Wonder, then amusement passed over Chooks' face. ‘Oh, my God,' he said, clutching his belly. ‘You're not shooting the bloke in that get-up?'

Johnny swore through clenched teeth. He pulled his Parker Hale safari rifle from under the seat and climbed out of the car. Chooks scrambled out after him, and stood at his elbow. The street was lined with a ridge of grey trees. Behind them, flat buildings shimmered like plum-coloured fuzzy felts pressed against the sky.

Johnny said, ‘Stay here, keep the engine turning over until I get back.' He put on his disguise and walked off a few paces.

Chooks called after him. ‘Chin up.'

Johnny grinned and saluted, waving the shotgun. Then, doubling over, he disappeared up a short garden path into the darkness.

Waiting in the Valiant half an hour later, Chooks heard the phut, phut, phut of three shots going home. His mind flashed on a picture of Chubb coming down the steps of his house and collapsing to his knees in a hail of gunfire. Lifting his head, Chooks stared out through the windscreen until he saw Johnny
come blundering down the mouth of the road. Chooks' teeth were chattering, but he managed to engage the gear. Johnny ripped off his moustache and false glasses. He fell on Chooks' neck, crying like a baby.

Having set himself down at the Gates of Sydney Society, Charlie adroitly got to work picking its locks and slipping inside, and did so with remarkable ease. He was blessed with a certain skill in pleasing, of dropping soft words into the right person's ear. He knew how to make merry in the right sort of company, but also how to assume the appearance of being steady, or at least of not being too impatient or rollicking, and liable to go off.

Although he was prone to an occasional pang of self-doubt about the shadier side of his arrangements, he generally crammed all such thoughts to the back of his mind, telling himself that nobody wished to employ the services of an overly honest lawyer, being afraid such a lawyer might not be so well up on other people's tricks. As he swung his new Mustang through the gates of the Royal Randwick Racecourse, everything about him was sunny. He contemplated with great satisfaction the Rollses and Bentleys fanned out around him. Caressing his coat pocket, which contained the ticket that would see him scale the heights of the Jockey Club Committee Room (where the air was rarefied and increasingly thin), he drifted along through the crowd.

The field was swarming with odd characters. Sailors on shore leave, with batik-patterned shirts hanging out around their trousers, country yokels in moleskins and dusty Akubras, shop clerks on half-holidays, red-faced in white seersucker under Panama hats.

Charlie edged his way past a track tout in a muddy brown dustcoat, climbed the stairs of a wooden grandstand, and took a seat beside the balcony. Lifting his binoculars, he spied the grass track, with its rows of white fence posts and carefully watered flowerbeds. He caught a bright burst of silks as the horses shot out from the barrier, and went round the track to the yammer of the race call. He was swept to his feet with the long throaty roar of the crowd as the horses came thundering over the finish line, the noise shutting off suddenly to be replaced by a rustle of paper as the losers tossed up their tickets, and the winners turned back to their race forms to place their next bet.

‘Well, now you're trying out Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition, how do you like it?' said Frank Browne, who had buttonholed the labor leader, Jack Renshaw, in a shady corner of the grandstand.

‘We're getting along,' said Renshaw. ‘Enough to give Askin a run for his money. And you, are you also feeling happy with the Premier's performance?'

‘I should say I'm delighted,' said Browne, grinning wide. ‘The main thing is that he lets us small business folk get on with our stuff, and he can bring out the vote in sufficient quantity to keep you other fellows out.'

Renshaw spoke on with perfect coolness. ‘I warrant he's full of cheap tricks and windy words, but it seems that his only real achievement will be making it through to the end of his term without accomplishing a thing.'

‘Ah, yes, but a period of quiet consolidation can be a thing in itself.'

Renshaw scowled. ‘Well, I'm glad you reckon you got your money's worth then, but don't be so confident he can go on like he does. Nobody gets re-elected for doing nothing. I reckon you'll find Joe Public sees through him. Who's he?' Renshaw added, pointing at Charlie.

‘He's one of those tricky lawyers. Makes a fortune sorting out messes for the rich and the infamous,' said Browne, stretching the truth.

‘Never heard of him,' said Renshaw.

‘Well, if you haven't already, I reckon you soon will. I wouldn't be surprised if he stands for a seat on Bob Askin's ticket next time around. He's a smart sort of fellow, knows how to cock his tail and crow before company. I wouldn't be surprised if he makes a name for himself.'

‘One of Askin's mob,' said Renshaw, disdainful. Rising, he moved off through the crowd.

Premier Askin came puffing up the stairs a few moments later. He hadn't been anywhere near the Committee Room all morning and as he walked in, the local dignitaries started primping themselves, edging their way towards the action. Charlie waited several minutes for the motley assembly to thin before moving forward. Askin, who fancied himself a great tipster, was discussing the finer points of Frank Packer's horse, and Charlie, who'd been loudly proclaiming the merits of a rival grey mare, found himself singled out.

‘You again!' said Askin, pointing a finger, before turning back to the crowd. ‘Last week, Charlie here gives me a lead-lined ten-stone ten-pound handicap at twenty to one. I really thought the bloke must of been having a lend of me … then whoosh! In it comes, charging down the straight on two-and-a-half lengths.'

Charlie basked modestly in the glow of Askin's favour. He ventured another tip. But Askin cut him off.

‘I wasn't asking for any suggestions. I guarantee you were lucky that time, but this race I'm onto a sure-fire proposition. Leastways, Frank Packer is a sure-fire proposition even if his old gelding falls in a heap.'

Everybody tittered dutifully, if a little uncomfortably. Packer was standing some distance not too far off. But Askin, who
already had a couple of whisky-and-waters inside him, was too high to notice.

‘Well, here's my own rival, Jack Renshaw,' he said, turning around sharply, and beckoning Renshaw towards him. ‘Why don't you ask him about Frank Packer's chances?'

‘What? I'm sorry –' said Renshaw, taken aback.

‘There you go, Charlie,' said Askin, with a wink. ‘You heard the man. I don't think we could find any greater authority on the subject of horseflesh than Renshaw. I guess that means you'll be putting your money where my mouth is.'

‘Of course,' said Charlie, sketching a comical bow.

‘Spoken like a true minister of the Crown!' said Askin, making everybody laugh. ‘With opinions like those you're a guaranteed high flyer in anybody's Cabinet.' Giving Renshaw a nudge, he added, ‘See, that's how you pull them into line,' before swinging round on his heel and lumbering back down the stairs.

Charlie left soon afterwards, striking out across the paddock, craning his neck for a sight of Dick Reilly, who was meeting him under the clock tower as the hands swept towards one. Reilly was all got up in his gangster togs, comprising a body-clinching suit with a shiny silver tie. He was lifting his fedora to an awkward assortment of customers, most of them track touts or bookmakers who probably worked under his auspices. Greeting each other, Charlie and Reilly proceeded in the direction of the saddling enclosure, where Askin was copping an eyeful of the horses.

Inside the walking ring, trainers and grooms, dressed in crushed caps and corduroys, were moseying about, waxing loudly about their chances, swatting at stray swarms of blowflies. The scent of manure lay heavily on the air. Askin was standing alongside a nut-coloured gelding. A groom threw a saddle and number-cloth over its back, the strapper hanging hard on both
reins, as the horse ground ferociously against the bit and pawed at the dirt. Askin turned just as the gelding threw its head in the air, whinnying, and knocked off his hat. Leaning on a nearby fence post, Reilly let out a laugh, and Askin, edging away from the gelding, made a few steps towards him.

‘Charlie here says we've got something to talk about,' said Askin, taking Reilly by the elbow and pulling him along.

‘Just a few problems with some betting establishments in which I have an interest,' said Reilly, treading carefully.

‘So Charlie says. In fact, Charlie's told me you're a bit of a bastard. But I reckon maybe you're not such a bad bloke.'

‘Kind of you to say that,' said Reilly with a grin.

Askin swatted a bluebottle off his face. ‘I used to run SP myself, back in my army days. Kept book for the whole mucking battalion, out in the Pacific, with the Japs raging round us. Only bit of fun we ever had, it was. Rigging up the radio, relaying the racecall over the broadcast. Being an enterprising sort of bloke, I made a few bucks and a couple of killings. I had the foresight to slip the quartermaster a pony, so when they shipped in the newsreel on Cup Day, I'd get myself a sneak preview before framing the odds.'

‘Fair dinkum?' said Reilly, thoroughly disarmed by this confession.

Askin executed a funny little vaudeville step. ‘Mind, I'm only spinning you a yarn,' he said, and slapped Reilly on the shoulder.

Then, turning abruptly, Askin set off across the grass, so Reilly and Charlie were hard-pressed to keep up. He came to a halt outside the Steward's Room, standing by the door, as jockeys in bright-coloured silks, like bunches of tropical birds, entered and exited, lugging their saddles back and forth to the weigh-in.

Charlie, thinking it only prudent to give them the room to say what they would, tipped his hat and departed. Stepping out from the shade of the grandstands, he immediately felt the heat.
Sunlight blinded him momentarily as he vaulted over the white picket railing and walked across the grass, where he was struck by the sight of Reilly's moll, Aileen Glynn, ambling along a small patch of concrete to the end of the green. Aileen smiled at him warmly, advancing upon him with the light dripping through the daisy cut-outs in the brim of her hat. Charlie beamed back recognition, and they immediately fell to talking. After a while, Reilly also stepped out of the crowd, moving towards them.

‘Not now, Dick,' Aileen said, grabbing Charlie by the sleeve of his coat. ‘Charlie's offered to take me home and I've told him I'm going.'

Charlie, who had done no such thing, perceived he had landed himself in the middle of something. ‘I'm afraid I won't be leaving for quite some time,' he said. ‘Maybe I could fetch you a taxi?'

Reilly intervened. ‘Thanks, Charlie,' he said, grabbing his hand. ‘I really appreciate the thing that you've done. But right now I'd be grateful if you could leave us alone?'

Charlie made to leave. But Aileen stopped him.

‘He's not going.'

Reilly flushed under his shirt collar. ‘What do you reckon you're up to? Think you can play me like one of them mugs?'

‘I'm leaving you,' said Aileen.

‘Not again?' said Reilly, contriving astonishment.

‘I am, though,' insisted Aileen, with a little more conviction. ‘Do you reckon I wouldn't dare?'

Reilly laughed, and Aileen burst into tears. Charlie, who wasn't terribly anxious to have a run-in with anybody, stammered, ‘Well, I guess I'll be off then.'

He vaulted back over the railing, traversing the lawn until he was free. It was after the sixth race and the crowd was shaking out. Some with money wads bulging out of their trousers, others raking through piles of used betting slips, searching for the illusory ticket that might set them straight. Charlie made his way
back towards the home stretch, the finish line, and the winner's circle. Just off from the track, a band started up, with sun glittering on cymbals and batons. Askin was standing on a small stage covered in red and white bunting, pinning a tri-colour medal on Frank Packer's chest, before shaking hands with the jockey and congratulating the horse.

Many thoughts passed through Charlie's mind about the day's dealings. Things once puzzling to him in political life presented themselves differently now that he had opened his eyes to the way the world worked. Now that Reilly's matter had been favourably resolved, his mind began branching in all sorts of directions. Imagining how he, Charlie Gillespie, a boy from the slums, a connoisseur of urban blight, might at last take his place in one of the shiny glass skyscrapers that housed the affluent class. With this in mind, Charlie immediately began roaming the crowd, striving to find yet another five minutes of Premier Bob Askin's company.