Crooked (13 page)

Reilly stuck Aileen in a taxi and made his way into town, absurdly conscious of an easy sort of confident calm he'd not felt in years. Strange how only last week he'd felt like he'd run out of dodges, as if the uncharted possibilities of his future were narrowing round him, but now it seemed Askin's Macquarie Street mob were prepared to do business. He could rebuild his company, penny by penny, sling by sling. He could afford to wait, could afford to bide his time. He was surprised to find himself grinning, and everything he saw, the angles of the buildings, the way their shadows fell simply and plausibly, without any distortion, blended into a happy impression of a world smiling back.

Reilly drove on, through a suburban twilight of orderly houses set back from the road, fronted by patches of green motor-mowed grass, untouched by litter. His thoughts turned to
his wife Lyla. He and Lyla, they'd been so damn young when they started. Reilly had always thought that if any marriage could survive the stresses of a criminal career, it should have been theirs. But he was always in the clubs and the bars, and the smoky backrooms, spending more time on making deals with the coppers than on the two of them together. Lyla was gone, and Reilly had to acknowledge it was pretty much his fault. His thoughts turned to Aileen, and suddenly the possibility of losing her stung him so hard he could barely breathe. Consumed by a sudden eagerness to set things to rights, it seemed forever down the length of black-glittering asphalt to Aileen's Double Bay flat.

But there were other shadows gathering on the horizon. Had Reilly been less distracted he might have noticed the powder-blue Valiant that had been following him about for the last couple of days. He might also have remembered that he hadn't heard a word from Ernie Chubb. But he was absentminded in his haste, not thinking what he ought to be thinking, and amazed and not a little afraid of the good things that lay ahead. He swung his Maserati into Aileen's Manning Road driveway, and turned off the ignition. His legs carried him up the front steps, lined two by two with glazed pots of japonica, into the bright white oblivion of the warm room inside.

Chooks had been yanked rudely from sleep earlier that morning by the peal of the telephone. He turned to see if Marge was awake, then threw off his blanket, groped underneath the bed for his tartan felt slippers and – not finding them – padded to the end of the hall, where he stared down at the telephone in a palsy of anxiety. Last week, Johnny had got an electrician from the PMG to come round and put the thing in, so he could ring and tell Chooks when it was time to come over. Consequently, whenever it rang, it scared Chooks to pieces.

Chooks picked up. ‘Hello?'

‘Pipe down, for Pete's sake,' said Johnny at the other end of the line. ‘I can hear you as good as if I was standing there next to you.'

‘Right-ho,' said Chooks, continuing in the same tone. ‘What's up?'

‘I've got a good feeling that we're on for tonight. I want you to come round to Enmore as early as possible.'

Out of the corner of his eye Chooks caught the soft flash of Marge's blue dressing gown and cranked up his voice to make sure she could hear him. ‘That's real good news, Johnny. I reckon I can get there as early as half past two.'

Johnny said, ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘Nooo.'

‘It's Marge, is it?'

Chooks stammered, ‘Okay then. Thanks, Johnny. Cheerio. See you then,' and hung up.

‘Who was it?' said Marge, standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Was that Johnny Warren?'

Chooks looked up at the flies gathered in the bowl of the light fitting, down at the stain on the rag cotton mat, at anything, because he couldn't look her in the face. Then he did. ‘He's asked me to help him drive a load of used washing machines up to Newcastle tonight.'

‘Well, I guess that's all right then,' said Marge.

Chooks didn't think so.

Over in Enmore, Glory had been up since well before dawn, making ingenious masks out of black nylon leotards, cutting holes for eyes, and fitting the tops snugly over the crown of Johnny's head. She had cleaned his rubber-soled shoes, mended his black socks, washed, ironed and folded three sets of black turtlenecks and trousers. They were simple things, ordinary everyday tasks. Glory performed them all in a daze, never once believing in the reality of their intentions. And once these chores were accomplished, and there were no more preparations to be made, she turned her mind to other things. The week's worth of washing, the chops in the freezer for tomorrow night's tea, the darning around the hemline of Kimberley's reach-me-down uniform (next week the holidays were over and Kimberley would be back at school)… all these thoughts, each worrying little detail growing more pressing, more intense, until they threatened to crush her completely. Ultimately, she was relieved to hear the doorbell echoing down the hall. She threw open the front door and found Chooks on the doorstep.

‘Oh, Chooks. You're a bit early.'

‘It was the bus,' Chooks replied meekly. ‘It came a bit quick.'

Glory tugged Chooks down the corridor into the kitchen. Outside the window the sun shone through mauve clouds of jacaranda. Kimberley was sprawled on the floor drawing with crayons, and Glory's mother was waving an electric hand iron over the laundry. ‘I reckon you know everybody,' said Glory, turning towards Chooks.

Glory's mother put the hand iron down on the dish rack. ‘Can I get you a feed?'

‘Just a cup of tea, thanks,' said Chooks, hanging his head shyly. He bent down and gave Kimberley a nudge, and soon he was crooking his elbows and flapping his arms like a chicken. ‘Boh, boh. Boh, boh,' he mouthed. ‘Boh, boh. Boh, boh.'

Kimberley laughed.

Glory got up abruptly. ‘I'm going upstairs,' she said, and walked out of the kitchen.

The door to the small attic bedroom stood slightly ajar. Glory pushed it wide open. Johnny was sitting on the bed with the Parker Hale in his lap. He peered down the muzzle of the gun, then levelled the barrel at the window and squeezed. The mechanism clicked over.

‘Was that my mate Chooks who just came in?'

Glory sat beside Johnny on the bed. ‘Yeah.'

Johnny was all business. He put the Parker Hale back in its holster, pulled a duffel bag out from under the bed and laid it on the floor beside the rifle. He got the double-barrel shotgun out from under the dressing table. Broke it down, oiled it, checked the hammer and put it back together again. He stowed the guns and the tackle in the duffel bag, together with three walkie-talkies and a pile of black clothing. He was binding the bag together with a bit of nylon cord when the cord broke in half.

‘It doesn't matter, Johnny.' Glory put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Everything's going to be all right.'

Downstairs, Johnny dumped the duffel bag down at the door. ‘Chooks. How are you, mate?'

Chooks clambered up in alarm.

‘Loosen up, mate,' said Johnny. ‘You look tense.'

‘I'm not tense.'

‘Well, you look tense.'

‘Well, I don't feel it,' said Chooks, a small flush of annoyance spreading over his cheeks. Johnny threw his arms wide as if to give Chooks a hug, then tightened to a half headlock and swung Chooks around. Chooks laughed, ‘Cut it out, Johnny.'

He extracted himself from the headlock, but wasn't fast enough. Johnny cuffed him one before Chooks got away. Chooks retaliated and gave Johnny a shove. Johnny blundered backwards, causing the coffeepot on the draining board to topple and smash.

‘Sorry,' said Johnny. ‘I guess we'll be off then.'

Glory had gone over the crime many times in her mind, each time believing she would be terribly afraid, but now the moment was near she found the seconds ticking by in a mechanical fashion, pulling her along. They climbed into the blue Valiant and drove to the garage where the stolen white Falcon was hidden. Chooks got out, started up the stolen car, and they drove in two separate vehicles, meeting in the car park at South Sydney Juniors. Johnny went in through the front doors of the club, signed the admission book and waited for Chooks, who also signed the book, then continued on down the hall, out the emergency exit near the rear of the Gents. They got into the stolen white Falcon, and this time Glory drove.

Moving through the early evening traffic, Glory found herself searching for familiar things. The cream-coloured whitegoods in the window of the plumbing and electrical supply store, the advertising billboard featuring a tropical island destination saying ‘Fly TAA', the pitched roofs of the railway workshops. On Anzac Parade a yellow Water Board truck was blocking one half
of the street. Glory brought the Falcon to a halt, then continued towards the Oxford Street corner. Here, a handful of cars had slammed into each other, with three police cars angled to the curb around the scene of the accident. Several young men wearing purple-flowered shirts and white winklepickers were spread-eagled against the fence, with coppers running batons over their legs.

Once the coppers were safely behind them, Johnny took his black turtleneck out of the duffel bag and put it on. He slipped on his rubber-soled shoes, and crammed the black cotton gloves into his pocket. He took out the extra black mask and gave it to Chooks, who was sitting on the back seat beside him. On the ledge between them a battered wooden wireless was playing.

‘Can you turn off the bloody squawk box?'

‘It stops me from getting the collywobbles,' stammered Chooks.

Johnny took out the double-barrel shotgun. He nudged the muzzle up against Chooks' leg. ‘I'll give you the collywobbles.'

Chooks was so startled he banged his head on the roof of the car. ‘Jee-suss,' he spluttered. ‘Jee-suss.' Gasping, he grabbed hold of the gun and pushed it away. ‘What did you do that for?'

‘Ought to have seen your face,' said Johnny, between bursts of laughter.

‘Yeah, and what if the bloody thing went off. What then?'

‘Reckon I'd let something like that happen?'

‘I dunno,' whispered Chooks. ‘I reckon maybe you're nuts.'

Glory sat motionless in the front seat. ‘Stop it. Just stop it, the both of you.'

Johnny's face fell. ‘Sorry.'

‘Yeah, well,' said Chooks, and gave out a spooky laugh.

Glory gave a right-hand signal and eased the Falcon back into the traffic, following the lines of the road down to Double Bay. She swung right into Manning Road and stopped.

The sky was bright indigo, and reflected cloud-light illuminated the streetscape. The building in front of them rode high above the footpath, fronted by a generous portico. On the footpath below, Reilly's Maserati was angled to the curb, sleek and grey, gleaming in the ghost-light.

Johnny climbed nimbly out of the Valiant and looked around.

He had laid his plans carefully, down to the last detail, leaving no space for doubt, not a single deviation, but now that the moment was here he found himself filled with a clamour of unresolved questions. He had pictured himself standing behind the stonewall that ran along the south end of the boundary, taking his shot down the side of the building. But Reilly's car was wedged in an uncomfortable position. One look told Johnny there was a telephone pole directly blocking his line of fire.

He looked again. Just down from the entrance a hedge of variegated abelia was growing around the base of a plane tree, the first in a long straggling line that stretched down the block. The tree looked easy to climb and the shrubs around it would provide more than enough cover. The angle made the shot awkward, but the quickness of his solution made Johnny elated. He pushed aside all thought of failure and concentrated on the means.

‘Right-ho, you lot,' he said, turning back to the car.

Chooks got out first. He was dressed in his black mask and gloves, but clutching his arms to his belly.

‘What's up?' said Johnny. ‘Don't tell me you're not going through with it?'

Chooks stared at Johnny soulfully. ‘I promised I'd stick to you, didn't I?'

‘Good on you.'

Chooks picked up his gun and staggered away to the gate over the road, where he took up his position.

Johnny watched Chooks go, then turned to face Glory, who was staring at him through the open car door. They stood there, matching each other's reactions, reluctant to make the next move. Finally Glory broke the spell. Johnny clung to her briefly before he jerked himself away. He picked up the Parker Hale and the double-barrel shotgun, and moved away through shadows, secreting the rifle under the hedge. He climbed the tree and wedged himself tight between the branches, easing the muzzle of the shotgun over the bough. He stilled his head, and stared into the unquiet darkness, waiting for Chooks to respond.