Crooked (20 page)

Gus sat on the edge of his desk talking to Agostini, who was pacing the room in tight star-shaped patterns, socking a fist into the palm of his hand. They both looked up as Tanner walked in. He headed straight for his office, then backed up a few paces.

‘Rum-looking bastard left this for you,' he said, extracting an envelope from his outside coat pocket.

Gus sprang eagerly forward and examined the note. Agostini clattered anxiously over.

‘Is the bloke still here?'

‘Out like a shot, I'm told.' Tanner eyed Gus and frowned. ‘Maybe you ought to tell me what this is about?

Gus waved the letter. ‘I reckon this is from an informant who rang me this morning. He says he can finger the gunman in the Dick Reilly case.'

‘Another bloody comedian?'

Gus gave a prim tug to his spectacles. ‘His information was pretty good, I reckon. He knew the make and calibre of the guns, and the style of the shooting. He says he can give us the actual weapons.'

‘Does this bloke have a name?'

‘He wouldn't say. He rang up this morning and says he'll ring back in five, but then he gets scared.'

‘Well, I reckon you've got to do a lot better than that. Because this case is closed. On Allan's instructions.'

Gus said, ‘He mentioned the name “Johnny”. I reckon he might have meant this bloke Johnny Warren, who was mentioned in the books –'

‘Warren never done it, Warren is an idiot.'

Gus wasn't so easily put off. ‘I read in the crime sheets that Warren is dead. It could be that's why this bloke's stepping forward –'

‘Okay,' said Tanner, making it clear that it wasn't okay at all. ‘I want you to get this informant's name and bring it to me. It's down to me whether it goes any further. Is that understood?'

‘One more thing,' said Gus. ‘It could've been this bloke was in on it –'

‘What did you say?'

‘I said I reckon the bloke might've been in on the shooting.' Gus coloured slightly, but went boldly on. ‘He says in the letter he wants the pardon as well as the money. He was very particular about it. He won't give us a name without an official guarantee.'

‘The bugger he won't.'

Tanner grabbed hold of the letter and read it through twice, then walked out the door without saying a word.

Tanner found Allan at the Commercial Travellers' Club, where he was banging the political drum on the Premier's behalf. Tanner grabbed him by the elbow and steered him between tables of wood-grained plastic laminate, past palm fronds, cigar smoke and walls covered in men's photographs, into an anteroom, where he was careful to drop the door-latch behind him.

‘I've got a few things that need talking about.'

‘Sure,' said Allan, grinning pleasantly. ‘But first up I want you to tell me about the gaming clubs. I take it you had a word with those blokes?'

‘Yeah, I did it on Thursday.'

‘Yesterday?'

‘No, the one before that.'

Allan waved at a chair, but Tanner declined the invitation. He stationed himself between the door and the table. ‘I met with those blokes down at South Sydney Juniors, only it turns out that there's a problem. McPherson is telling me that things aren't going as smoothly as we would've liked in the last couple of months, with everybody in a quandary whether to stay open or shut. Some are staying open, but with the lights off. Others are staying shut. McPherson says, “Everybody's paying me, and getting no protection.”'

‘McPherson, he's an all-right sort of bloke?' said Allan.

‘He's okay as far as crooks go.'

‘But you like him, don't you?'

‘I wouldn't trust him with his own mother.'

‘But sometimes we need to deal with people we don't like. We're not working in an antiseptic environment.'

‘No, we're not.'

‘So why don't you tell me what you said to the bloke?'

‘I told him, “There's no protection at the moment and you've got to be careful.” McPherson says to me, “Careful? For what I'm paying?” So I say, “Yeah, but there's nothing to worry about. We're not doing anything. Just giving publicity to the fact that we're doing things.” I tell him, “Soon as the state election's out of the way, I reckon you'll find there's a certain relaxation in the clampdown.”'

‘So they've agreed?'

‘I had to talk them into it. I said, “I reckon we've always had a good understanding in this town, we've always worked well together and always gotten on.” McPherson says, “Nobody's complaining about the old system, just about the raids, and also getting stood over for additional sums.” So I say, “The new system will be more organised than anything in the past. Pigeye will be
the collect boy. The fees will have to go up, but I reckon the sum to be reasonable on account of the murders and so on.”'

Allan was making a show of inspecting the silver-framed photographs on the mantelpiece and, hanging above them, a portrait of the young Queen. ‘And what did he say to that?'

‘He jots down some numbers and says, “I reckon nobody will be having any problems with that. But they'll want to have a definite date when things can reopen.” So I say to him, “Allan's got to talk to Askin about this.” Overall, I think he was pretty impressed.'

‘Good,' said Allan.

‘Not quite.' Tanner wiped the too-wide boyish grin off his face. ‘There's been a turn in the investigation.'

‘What investigation?'

‘The Dick Reilly case.'

‘I thought the matter was closed. Sleeping dogs and all that –'

‘Well, it's not a sleeping dog anymore, because there's some clown coming forward to claim the reward.'

‘If he's trying it on … well, surely you can put an end to that?'

‘No, I can't, because the clown has the guns. I have to go through the motions or it'll look a bit strange. Anyway, you put the reward out.'

‘But I didn't expect anybody to come forward or anything,' said Allan, defensive. ‘Anyway, this informant bloke. Who is he?'

‘He didn't give a name. He rang up and spoke to young Finlay.'

Allan screwed up his face. ‘I thought the boy was onside.'

‘There are levels to this thing that not everybody's aware of.'

‘Do you trust him?'

‘I chose him.'

‘Well, you don't have anything to worry about then.'

‘I can pull my own people into line,' Tanner responded
heavily. ‘But this informant, he wants the reward and the pardon, and he's put that in writing. He says that he wants an official guarantee.'

‘Well, we can't go around giving guarantees to just anybody. Let me have a word to the boy. Make sure he's running straight.'

‘I dunno about that.'

But Allan insisted.

Fifteen minutes later they were back at police headquarters in Phillip Street and Gus was brought in. He stood straight on the carpet, hands at his back, spectacles gleaming.

Allan started, ‘Tanner here informs me that some rum bloke's been ringing you about the Reilly case.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Gus, and though the explanation he gave was remarkably brief, it was obvious before he got to the end of his first sentence that Allan was waiting for him to finish.

‘Well, let's have it,' said Allan, and stuck out his hand.

‘Sir?'

‘Show me the letter.'

Gus glanced at Tanner. Tanner shifted his tie and pulled the note out of his inside coat pocket. ‘Here.'

Allan held the letter out at arm's length and squinted, as if it might spit at him. He read it through twice, then tore it cross-ways and dropped it in the wastepaper basket under his desk. ‘Well, that's solved then. Now there's no letter and no guarantee. Just wring everything you can out of the smart bastard and charge him with something.'

Gus made some sort of ordinary answer to Allan's extraordinary demand. After a few minutes he was sent on his way.

Tanner stayed on. ‘With due respect, I don't think you're taking the right tack on this.'

‘Why? Is there something you haven't told me? Because if anything comes back at us –'

‘Yeah, I know. I'll deal with it.'

Chooks crouched under the rain-dripping trees in the back yard of his cottage in Greystanes, and took to the fence with hammer and pliers. He knocked a nail into the fowl house, hosed out the feed bucket, and padlocked the gate. Meanwhile, the rain came clattering down on everything, rattling on the tin roof like gravel – and through the rain came fingers of mist, like accusing ghosts, poking at him.

Chooks had been brain-boxed with horror at the manner of Johnny's going, but when Marge raised the concept of going to the coppers and making a fresh start, he'd felt obliged, at the very least, to give the matter some thought. He'd had a bit of a rough trot since Johnny departed, and there hadn't been many spare quids coming his way. He'd got a job as a shop clerk at O'Hallighan's Sports Store at Marge's insistence, but forty bucks a week went nowhere when the rent was taken out. Once again, he'd looked to the ponies to set matters straight, but being an out-and-out racing sort of bloke he'd always preferred good odds to a sure thing. His racetrack investments had taken a terrible tumble. He was dreadfully exposed (bone-thin and naked before his Bookie & Maker), a fact of which Marge was still unaware.

Chooks sat down in the kitchen and poured out a second cup of strong tea and a glass of warm milk before he got down to business. ‘I can't go through with it, Marge,' he said, surprising
even himself. ‘I'd do anything for you, but don't ask me to do this. I don't think I can.'

‘Well, I reckon that you don't have a choice,' said Marge.

‘But Johnny was a mate. I don't want to do anything that could cast him in a bad light.'

‘I can't for the life of me think of a worse light than killing the whole of his family –'

Chooks shrivelled up. He still blamed himself for letting Johnny go the night they spent drinking down at South Sydney Juniors. He'd gone out and searched for the bloke, and didn't get home until quarter to three, then spent the rest of the night in the shithouse, owing to Marge's not approving of his drinking on week nights. It was well after two the next afternoon when he climbed out of bed. Finding the house empty, he had slipped out for the paper. The headlines glared ominously at him before he even picked it up, ‘Come Quickly, Mummy's Shot'. Chooks didn't believe it. Deep in his guts, he didn't think Johnny was capable.

‘I don't reckon he did it,' said Chooks, staring tearfully down at his glass. ‘I loved the man. He was the best mate I ever had.'

‘He was the unmaking of you, Chooks. Everybody said so. He didn't give you your wages when the Liverpool club collapsed, then you helped him out in this business and he didn't pay you for that either. Bugger him.'

Chooks looked up, startled. He'd never known his wife Marge to swear. ‘But it's a low thing you're asking me to do. Shelfing a mate.'

‘There's nothing wrong with shelfing a mate who's already dead.'

‘I dunno about that,' said Chooks, uncertain. ‘Besides, the coppers dunno it's me. There's nothing to tie me to the actual crime.'

‘My God, Chooks,' said Marge, getting up from the table. She put the tea things in the sink. ‘You're not thinking straight. It's Reilly's mates, not the coppers, you've got to be worried about.'