Underbelly (33 page)

The last words should be left to his son, Alan. ‘My family could have been one of the great Australian business dynasties but, instead, my father was obsessed with greed and the dark side. Instead of using his brilliant talent for business to expand a legitimate empire he chose illegal activities, corruption and vice, combined with his own sinful needs. He was a man with no moral character who wanted everything for himself and anything he gave always came with consequences. I stood up to him and he repaid me by ignoring Jewish custom and giving the majority of his wealth to his long-time mistress and illegitimate daughter.'

He had spent more time in jail than police who trafficked drugs, took bribes, stole money, assaulted the public and ‘fitted up' suspects with crimes they didn't commit.

 

GAMBLING boss Bruce Galea knew where he was going – so he came prepared. He brought his toothbrush.

It was a silent signal that he would be exactly that in the witness box – silent. There's nothing quite like bringing personal toiletries to court to show you are prepared to go to jail for contempt rather than answer questions. In Galea's case, some zingers from the Royal Commissioner about personal matters such as paying bribes to police and running illegal casinos.

Sharp punters are students of form and breeding and they were not surprised by Galea's reticence. They had him
odds on to go to jail rather than reveal all he knew about decades as the Mr Big of Sydney gambling and the money he outlaid to stay in business.

And that is exactly how it turned out. Toothbrush in his pocket and tongue in cheek, he was stoic about what would happen – and what wouldn't happen.

‘I won't be answering questions. I know you have to do what you have to do, but I have to do what I have to do,' he told Royal Commissioner Wood. ‘We are only wasting time.'

Galea's forecast of his fate was as accurate as Supreme Court Judge David Hunt was astray in his predictions. Justice Hunt, the next judge to hear Galea's case after he was passed on by Commissioner Wood, said he could think of no better way to convince him to give evidence than sending him to jail.

‘Coercive action against him (Galea) will eventually produce the information sought by the commissioner' and ‘these are the only means by which such a result may be obtained,' Judge Hunt said.

The judge should have read the form guide on the Galea family before making his judgment. Had he been a punter, Judge Hunt would have been tearing up his losing ticket and hitch-hiking home.

Galea stayed silent in jail for more than two years until he was finally released when the Commission rose. At no stage did he ever consider asking to get out in exchange for telling what he knew about police corruption. At 58, he was of the old school and did not talk out of turn.

Galea's knowledge would have been considerable had it been exposed to the Royal Commission. It would have
been detailed, accurate and drawn from personal experience – and from history handed down to him.

He was part of a royal family of colourful characters involved in Sydney's illegal gambling and an empathetic public loved them all, especially the family patriarch Perce, the Prince.

Perce Galea was a living legend who rose from a tough Sydney inner-suburb to bet in huge amounts, own champion racehorses, operate illegal casinos and pay whoever needed to be paid all the way up to the then New South Wales Premier Robert Askin to ensure his gambling halls stayed open and protected. He allegedly paid Askin an estimated $100,000 a year for protection, which was staggering money in those days. It sums up Sydney corruption – paying off the highest office in the state to turn a blind eye to illegal gaming and corruption.

Perce got his kick ahead while working as a young milk-man. A two pints a day man on Perce's round, Rodney Dangar, tipped his horse Peter Pan in the 1934 Melbourne Cup. Perce threw ten pounds on it at 14-1 and picked up the sizeable amount of 150 pounds. Good cars and bad blocks of land changed hands for that sort of money in the Depression.

Perce went on to become a licensed bookmaker at the races but it was as an illegal SP bookmaker that he achieved his fortune.

Seizing the opportunity in the 1940s to create illegal gambling casinos, he did it all with style. His venues were plush, expensively decorated, sophisticated, stylish and offered patrons free drinks carried on trays by beautiful women in ball gowns.

His clubs drew what would now be called the ‘A list'. On any given night you could find the movers and shakers of almost any section of society, including Premier Askin, the story goes, rubbing shoulders with anyone from politicians to sporting champions, managing directors to tycoons.

Security was assured by the heavyset men with broken noses discreetly positioned to interrupt troublemaking before it started. Big winners at the table were allowed to leave safely with a bodyguard to ensure they got to their car. Privacy from police was also guaranteed.

One night, a man in a dinner suit asked Perce in between bets how he could be so sure police would not raid the place.

‘Why don't you ask those two police superintendants over there playing baccarat?' Perce replied.

He won the hearts of the racegoers and punters with his public affection for his great horse Eskimo Prince, which won the Golden Slipper in 1964 and dominated the two-year-old events. Perce won a fortune on that result alone and threw a wad of bank notes to the crowd to celebrate with him, earning the enduring nickname the ‘Prince of Punters'.

Apart from being one of the most flamboyant punters Australia has ever known, he was also a pillar of the Catholic Church, a philanthropist and a fixture in society circles. One of his proudest moments was when he was photographed in a tuxedo at a charity function with then Prime Minister Sir Robert Menzies and the Catholic Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal Norman Gilroy. He compared with Melbourne's notorious John Wren – a generation earlier –
with his mixture of religion, generosity and efficiently run illegal gambling activities.

One Galea story centred on the late media mogul Kerry Packer's younger days and his growing fondness for the punt despite a lack of knowledge and the financial resources to cope.

Sydney Morning Herald
racing writer Max Presnell recalls that Packer was in the hole for around $10,000 and Perce was appointed as mediator between SP bookmakers and the Packer family. Galea had not risen to the top in the illegal activities caper without facing some tense moments with intimidating characters but he spoke in awe afterwards of his encounter with Kerry's father, Sir Frank Packer.

‘What do you want, Galea?' Sir Frank had growled across a desk.

‘Kerry owes ten grand to some hard and dangerous men, Sir Frank, and I suggest you pay,' Galea said.

Sir Frank then opened a drawer in his desk, took out a large book and wrote a cheque.

‘I suggest you tell all parties concerned that they never let him on (for a bet) again, otherwise I will close them down and you'll find out what hard and dangerous men are all about,' Sir Frank said.

Years later Galea admitted: ‘Unfortunately, we did (let him on)' as Kerry, freed from restraint after his father's death, cut loose with massive bets.

Unlike so many high-profile punters, and with the cash flow from his casino, Galea did not die broke and left a sizeable legacy for his well-liked sons Bruce and Clive. Clive graduated as a respected and respectable solicitor and became a prominent sporting media figure in later years.

Perce knew the value of well-placed sympathisers and paid handsomely to ensure his baccarat and roulette wheels kept turning behind closed doors. Bruce was said to be equally understanding about the need to pay for protection. This might be why he was regularly referred to as Sydney's ‘king' of illegal gaming. A witness at an Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC) hearing said he was the biggest illegal gambling operator in New South Wales.

And a corrupt police witness admitted tipping off Bruce Galea's Chinatown gambling house about an impending raid. So it made for a tense appearance when he fronted the Royal Commission on 27 July 1995, to face questions.

Registered with the Australian Taxation Office as a professional gambler, Galea had police, whose co-operation he had bought with hard cash, trembling at the thought of the evidence he could give if he chose.

Former Liberal leader of the Opposition and eventual New South Wales premier Nick Greiner was replying to a push from Labor sports Minister Michael Cleary, a triple Australian representative in rugby union, rugby league and athletics, for a legal casino to be built, when he raised Bruce Galea's name.

‘The honourable member for Coogee (Cleary) is an expert on casinos because his good mate Bruce Galea used to run and protect illegal casinos right round the city,' Greiner said in Parliament.

But, try as they might, official inquiries could not make Galea reveal his secrets. While police had postured in the public eye, stating their innocence before running off to roll over to the Royal Commission, Galea was like an
oyster. He had already refused to answer questions at a closed hearing about whether he ran illegal gambling casinos and whether he had paid corrupt police. This was his last chance to escape jail.

But a Consorting Squad detective sergeant called John Swan, terrified of the consequences if he didn't, lost his nerve and broke ranks. He told the inquiry he regularly picked up $400 a week from Galea to distribute to other corrupt police. He named Galea as a bagman who not only paid bribes to protect his own operation but collected money from other casino operators for police.

Galea, sticking to his own rules, was pragmatic about the inevitable. As well as bringing his toothbrush to court he had also leased out his home and stored his furniture.

‘He knew what was coming,' his brother Clive said later. ‘He was never going to give anyone up. He never has. Why should he start now?'

Bruce said from the moment he got into the witness box that he would not be answering questions and urged Commissioner Wood to act swiftly to save everyone's time.

‘Before we go any further, I'm not going to say anything further at all,' Bruce said in reply to a counsel for the Commission. ‘Let's get out of here.

‘I'm not running away from anything,' he told Justice Wood. ‘I have respect for you. I have respect for this hearing and the Government that put the hearing in place. There's no disrespect for you or this Commission, but I won't be answering any questions today because I'm not in the mood to answer questions. Perhaps when I come back in twenty years. It's just not a go today.'

Commissioner Wood sent Galea to the Supreme Court where Judge Hunt sent him to jail.

Ironically, being jailed gave Galea a Ned Kelly image with the public. A lot of people liked the staunchness so lacking in so many of the bent police who squealed like stuck pigs when sprung with their snouts in the trough.

Maybe Galea had learnt his lesson from a previous appearance before a judiciary committee – ICAC in 1993. The hearing was told Galea had run a gambling club at Kings Cross known as the 77 Club. Later it would transfer to 31 Dixon Street in Chinatown.

Galea told ICAC it was a mah-jong and bridge centre and nothing illegal had ever taken place there. Asked how he was able to make a profit if all the games being played were legal and there was no percentage payment to him for expenses, Galea delighted the public galleries with his answer.

‘I make my money from selling sandwiches for $7 and coffee for $5,' he said. ‘And I charge people who bring food in from elsewhere.'

There was a pause. Then the Commissioner said: ‘I simply do not believe you.'

Galea estimated that the Gaming Squad had visited his place 200 to 300 times for little result. The club had a classic illegal casino lay-out that gave gamblers ample protection from police raids by using lookouts – and being set up to get rid of gambling equipment swiftly.

Even the Commissioner was grudgingly complimentary about the security of the organisation, if not its activities.

‘The general appearance was of premises which had been carefully arranged so that if police officers sought
entry, there would be adequate opportunity to warn those engaged in illegal activity who could then remove various implements and monies giving the premises the appearance of lawful activity when the police entered the gambling room,' the Commissioner said.

Having the club on the third floor and accessible only by stairs made it more secure. So did half a dozen strategically-placed ‘cockatoos' on nearby roofs and in the street. They were experts who could smell a raid before it happened. Especially if a rogue cop had warned them earlier.

The impact of any police raid would be considerably lessened by the approaching officers being spotted early; having to burst through the doors and climb three flights of stairs before breaking through a locked door. Behind which they would usually find people sitting around drinking coffee and playing bridge, chess or other legal games.

Visits to illegal casinos were almost a rite of passage for young males in Sydney from the 1960s to 1980s until gambling in legal casinos and licensed clubs made them obsolete. Two up was especially popular at illegal casinos and specialist two up schools that were well-known and equally well-protected.

One night a man came in to a game with his dog and, although this was frowned on, it was tolerated because the punter was a regular and was trying to end a brutal losing streak. For once, he had a good run and mid-way through the night was betting the maximum $1000 on every throw. Rolling in cash, he tried to get on for more and couldn't, so he bet his $1000 limit – and then bet another $1000.

‘You can't do that,' said the boss of the game.

‘It's not for me – it's the dog's bet,' came the reply.

Reluctantly, the boss allowed the bet and to his chagrin the punter and his dog both won.