Crooked (18 page)

December 1967

Johnny left the apartment at Brighton-Le-Sands and made his way into town, where he lay in the back seat of the Valiant, smoking. He and Glory had been going hammer and tongs for weeks, ever since those coppers turned up at their door. After a long afternoon spent arguing about nothing, he was restless and unable to sleep. He'd decided to keep watch on some premises in Oxford Street that he suspected were being turned into a club, but so far nobody of any interest had walked in or out of the building. Outside, the night was steaming. Neon signs blinked down at him. ‘Money Lent … Used Tyres All Sizes … We Make False Teeth.'

Johnny's spectacular crime hadn't brought him the success he'd expected. It seemed to have driven him and Glory apart, not brought them together. Johnny couldn't find criminal employment of any description, couldn't get a backer or the capital to start up a club. Reilly was gone, and with him the fear that clouded Johnny's mind receded, but nothing was any clearer. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was sure there were sinister reasons behind the stuff that was happening. There was something going on. Increasingly, he'd taken to sitting outside crooks' houses and watching their to-ings and fro-ings for hours on end. He had particularly taken to following Lennie McPherson around, and also set watch on his old partner, Moylan (and
once or twice Chooks), not to mention the coppers who'd sworn out the warrants on the Liverpool club. He felt as if he was holding all the pieces of a puzzle but couldn't fit them together.

It didn't take long to run out to Chooks' house. Johnny eased the Valiant onto the gravel shoulder of the road and got out. He picked his way through the dew-damp hydrangeas and covered the last half hundred yards almost on tippy-toe. The house was dark. One window was open. Johnny spat on his fingers and hauled himself up, peering into Chooks' room where it was murky as twilight.

‘Oi,' he whispered hoarsely, shaking the smaller of two mounds in the bed.

Chooks started up with a yelp.

‘What did you reckon you were doing?' said Chooks, when they were comfortably ensconced in the kitchen three minutes later. Chooks was only half awake, and sleep was still gumming his eyelids. He yawned, and scratched his ribs dreamily through a hole in his striped flannel pyjamas. ‘Sneaking up on a bloke like you was some kind of criminal.'

Johnny was irritated. ‘What's wrong? I reckon I'd do the same for you. Give a bloke a bit of grub who's spent the whole night in the shithouse.'

Chooks shook his head. ‘Just gave me the jumps, is all.'

‘Well, get over it. It's like you've got worms.'

Chooks stuck the kettle on. Johnny sat down at the table. He opened the sugar pot and ladled three spoonfuls into his cup. ‘I've got great news for you, Chooks. I've got huge plans in train to make back the five hundred I owe you over the Reilly job –'

‘That would be handy.'

‘I'm also prepared to guarantee you a wage from the
baccarat club when it opens, so long as you help me out with shooting McPherson.'

‘Jee-suss,' said Chooks, burning himself on the gas. ‘I thought you were over that?'

‘Over it?' said Johnny, aghast. ‘This shooting has created the greatest sensation in the whole history of Sydney –'

‘Yeah,' said Chooks, sitting opposite. ‘Where have I heard that before?'

‘It's just about finishing what we already started. I'm putting a list together. McPherson, maybe Moylan as well, and also them coppers that swore out the warrants on the Liverpool club.'

Chooks spluttered, ‘What do you want to do that for? Knocking off blokes in the bloody police force. Hell.'

‘Well, maybe not the blokes on the police force then, but when I get another chance at McPherson I'll give you a call. You can bring the guns down, and I'll go ahead with the actual shooting.'

Chooks frowned. ‘I thought you'd disposed of them guns?'

‘Yeah, I dug a big hole and buried them out there.' Johnny pointed at the yard beyond the kitchen window.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' said Chooks, crossing himself. ‘What if the coppers come here and dig the lot up?'

‘Who'd want to dig a hole in your filthy backyard?'

‘Pipe down, for Pete's sake. Marge and the kids are asleep.' Chooks stared angrily down at the table. ‘Are you and Glory at loggerheads again?'

‘I dunno,' said Johnny, suddenly glum. ‘I dunno what's been happening to us.'

‘Well, I'm sure it will sort itself. Unless –' Chooks' voice trailed off.

‘Unless what?'

Chooks frowned, ‘Do you reckon she could be seeing somebody?'

Johnny grabbed Chooks by the front of his pyjamas. ‘What did you hear?'

‘Nothing,' Chooks hedged, then started pedalling backwards. ‘I dunno anything. Cross me heart.' Johnny let go and Chooks, still gasping, said, ‘Well, if you're bent on going after McPherson I'd strongly advise you to dumdum the bullets. That way you'll get a splat wound, the same as a soft-nose bullet, and the coppers will be unable to trace any of the weaponry.'

‘You reckon?' said Johnny, almost cheerful.

‘Christ, yeah,' said Chooks. ‘I'll show you myself.'

Johnny hadn't come home the previous night, and Glory spent the next morning trying not to think about things. But, now and again, when thought was unavoidable, she began to consider that she'd been treating Johnny unfairly since the coppers came round – that what should've been a time for standing together, back to back against the rest of the world, had become a moment of division. That she'd been angry when she ought to have been tender and careful. That she had been wrong, and would be certain to tell Johnny the minute he was back. Gradually the hands of the kitchen clock inched up to twelve, and there was a knock at the door. Thinking it Johnny, Glory flew down the hall and threw the door open, only to find Moylan standing on the doorstep, dressed in a bright Malay shirt, his face brick-red and glistening under a Panama hat.

Glory hadn't seen him for almost six months.

He whipped off his dark glasses. ‘Hello, you beautiful thing.'

‘Why, Mick,' said Glory, showing him into the lounge.

Moylan laughed, and watched Glory mix drinks. Then, stretching his arms along the sofa, glass in hand, with the ice tinkling in it, he casually dropped in, ‘Nice place you've got here. Johnny must be knocking some berries off the bush.'

‘We're getting along.'

‘Uh-huh. What are you doing for money?'

Glory's face clouded. ‘What's with all the questions?'

‘Hey, this is the Mickster you're talking to.' Moylan humped over the coffee table, and stared down at his glass. When he looked up, he was frowning. ‘Where's Johnny?'

‘I dunno, but I reckon he'll be back.'

‘So that's what it is. You're as nervous as a cat. Thought something was wrong. Don't worry about Johnny. He'll come half-drunk and swaying through that door any minute. Meantime, the Mickster is here to keep you company.'

Glory smiled and sat down beside him, and soon fell to wondering if she could talk Moylan into staking Johnny in a new gambling venture. Determined to put the matter to him, she was leaning towards him with a conspiratorial air, when the door swung open and Johnny walked in.

‘Oi,' he said, looking ghastly, and taking in the scene.

‘Johnny, my mate,' said Moylan, arms stretched wide.

‘What are you doing?'

Moylan shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I just thought I'd stop by, check up on the two of you. But if you don't want me here, I guess I'll be pushing along.'

Glory led Moylan out into the hall, throwing an angry glance in Johnny's direction.

‘No worries,' said Moylan. He dropped another wet kiss on her cheek.

Johnny poked him in the ribs. ‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm saying goodbye.'

‘No, you were not.'

Johnny pushed Moylan's back to the wall, elbow to his chest.

‘What's wrong with you, Johnny?' Glory tugged Johnny's sleeve. ‘I'm sorry, Mick. I think you better go.'

‘Yeah,' said Johnny. He kicked Moylan out, slammed the door, opened it again and yelled a bit more.

Glory stormed down the hallway into the kitchen and
started running the taps, then went back into the living room, picking up glasses. Johnny followed her around, talking non-stop.

‘Tell me, what was that about?'

‘What about?'

‘That thing that I seen.' Johnny took a glass out of Glory's hand and set it back down on the table.

Glory picked up the glass, defiantly. ‘I dunno what you're saying.'

‘I'm saying what's this thing between you and Mick Moylan?'

‘Thing?'

‘Yeah, I've been told things.'

‘What things?'

‘Things Chooks told me,' said Johnny. ‘Anyway, I was told it.'

‘Yeah, you was told it by Chooks,' said Glory in disbelief. ‘I dunno what's got into you, Johnny Warren, acting like you weren't born with a full set of brains. I reckon you ought to leave.' Glory hadn't meant to say any such thing, but almost against her own will she found herself taking a more belligerent attitude. ‘Get out of here, Johnny.'

‘But Glory. What's wrong?'

Johnny's face broke, he spun on his heel and walked out the door. He crossed a clipped square of glass, ducked under the Hills Hoist, climbed into the Valiant, and disappeared down the asphalt.

Mick Moylan was feeling pretty good about things as he parked his white Sunbeam Rapier on the corner of Oxford Street, and got out. The sky was bright. The wind blew in fitful gusts. He walked through a brass-shuttered doorway and up the back stairs. Workmen were painting the hallway, and they had to
move their ladders to let Moylan through. The top floor was almost finished and the crystal chandelier he'd bought in the backstreets of Saigon was being hauled up. He couldn't wait for opening night, when the hurly-burly began.

Tommy Bogle was loitering under an archway, pitching pennies at the wall.

‘Careful,' said Moylan. ‘That wallpaper cost more per yard then you earn in a week.'

Tommy tucked the coins into his petrol-smudged trousers.

‘I thought you were working days at the garage.'

‘Actually, I'm more of a nightshift kind of bloke,' said Tommy. ‘Anyway, Len told me to drop by and say he couldn't make it.'

‘Pity. I saw Johnny Warren this morning.'

‘Got a few roos loose in his top paddock, I reckon.'

‘He's just disappointed that things didn't turn out. I thought we might throw him a bit of business, set everything square.'

‘I reckon Len's got his own ideas about that.'

Moylan registered the note of menace. He wondered if he'd ever have the fortitude to stand up to McPherson. He decided he didn't. ‘Let's leave it to Len then.' He edged past Tommy and went down the hall. ‘I'm getting myself a drink.'

‘Len said to meet him at South Sydney Juniors tonight.'

Moylan swung around. ‘Does that bloke ever sleep?'

‘He told me to tell you.'

‘Fine. Okay. Only I was hoping for a better class of company tonight.'

Johnny shambled down the side of Chooks' house late that afternoon, passed mounds of used tyres overgrown with nasturtiums and bits of flattened tin. Chooks was sitting on the bottom rung of the back steps, swigging from a pint bottle of milk. He screwed
up his eyes against the last rays of sunshine. ‘Crikey, Johnny, you're back pretty quick.'

‘We've got to dig up the weapons and get rid of them, Chooks.'

Chooks clattered down the steps, got down on all fours, grabbed a couple of shovels from under the house and set out after Johnny, heading for the paddock that abutted the back fence. Johnny stuck his shovel in the ground and flipped over a black clod of turf. Chooks paused for a minute, foot propped thoughtfully on the ridge of his spade. ‘Hold on a minute, mate. I reckon you ought to tell me what's up.'

‘Moylan is trying to turn Glory against me.'

‘Glory would never go against you.'

‘I reckon I didn't know this woman, Chooks. She was purple as hell.'

Chooks pulled at his earlobe. ‘Marge is always going at me, but I never took any notice. Just let her alone for a bit and things will come right.'

‘Yeah, but I reckon that Moylan bloke would stoop to anything. He might try and put me in.'

Chooks shrugged, ‘Well, I guess we ought to get cracking then. In any case, I'll be thankful to get the guns out of my garden.'

Chooks dug a deep hole, six feet wide, three feet across, then struck something solid. Johnny jumped down into the ditch, extracted a green plastic packet tied up with string, and gave it to Chooks. Chooks took an army knife out of his pocket and cut through the knots. Out tumbled two shotguns and six boxes of bullets.

‘I reckon we ought to throw them over the Gap,' said Chooks, after they'd dumped the guns on the back seat of the Valiant and driven off.

‘Christ, no, you dopey bastard. People are jumping off that thing all the time, and divers are always going in to gather up
the corpses. I reckon they'd pull out them guns in less than a week.'

‘I was only trying to help,' said Chooks, suddenly glum.

It was almost dark when they approached the bridge over the Georges River at Milperra. Johnny yanked the steering wheel round and swung the car off the road. He got out and immediately started checking the ground along the edge of the water.

Chooks ran after him. ‘Why are we stopping here?'

Just then a cloud seemed to slide off the moon and pour light on Johnny's face, with startling effect. ‘Did you bring the axe?'

‘Maybe I did,' said Chooks, feeling unaccountably as if the axe was for him. ‘What do you want it for?'

Johnny pointed a finger at the water. Lights from the nearby bridge picked out strange objects in the darkness. Here, a rotten stump in the mud. There, a fallen-down jetty with a dinghy tied up to a pole. There were also large patches of blackness with no light at all.

‘I'll break up the guns with the axe,' said Johnny. ‘You drive the Valiant out over the bridge and I'll toss them in the river.'

Chooks felt a surge of relief. He did as Johnny said, and several minutes later they were driving out along the bridge. Halfway across, Johnny got out of the car and swung under the railing onto the furthermost ledge. Clutching an iron cable in one hand, he stretched as far as he could and let the guns drop. Chooks heard a long silence, followed by a series of soft muffled sounds as stock, barrel and cartridge were swallowed up in the blackness.

‘Whacko,' he yelled, as Johnny clambered in. ‘Why don't you stay at our place tonight? We could sit on the veranda and crack open a couple –'

‘No offence, mate. But I've got my hands full. Maybe we could stop off at South Sydney Juniors.'

‘Marge always gets angry if I drink on a weeknight,' Chooks stammered. But Johnny didn't respond. Chooks said, ‘Well, I guess we could stop off for a few.'

Chooks drew the Valiant into the lot behind South Sydney Juniors. Johnny went straight up to the bar, ordered a round and drank his right off. Chooks took a long pull from his glass, and glanced at Johnny sideways.

‘Cheers,' said Johnny, and ordered another round.

Chooks took a dubious slurp from his fresh glass of beer, and put it down beside his half-empty old glass on the counter. Johnny seemed distracted. He started conversations and failed to finish. He kept ordering drinks, buying one for Chooks, one for himself, and emptying Chooks' glass as well. Chooks felt the urge to intervene, but seeing his friend caught in the grip of an emotion that was much larger than he was, decided it was prudent to stay quiet.

‘There's something else.' Johnny drained off another pint. ‘I reckon there's coppers at the bottom of this.'

Chooks said, ‘I reckon you're making too much of it.'

Johnny confided, ‘Tomorrow I'm getting another gun.'

‘I don't reckon you ought to be getting any guns. I reckon you don't understand what you're saying.'

‘I've got feelings, don't I?'