The Real Thing Read online

  Detective Henderson’s shorter, darker, almost bald offsider screwed up his face and shook his head. ‘It’s got me stuffed,’ he said. ‘I had a drink with the gaming squad blokes yesterday afternoon and they didn’t say anything about a raid. Especially not here. They put their heads in the 44 the other week and took away a couple of dozen stooges but that was only for an hour or so.’ The nuggety detective shook his head again. ‘Buggered if I know,’ he said.

  ‘You know Price,’ smiled Les Norton. ‘He could be up to any-bloody-thing.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong. Oh well.’ Detective Teague glanced up at his taller mate. ‘Anyway, I s’pose we’d better get going, and see if we can find Mr Black before his business associates do.’ He turned back to the two doormen. ‘Are you guys playing touch down Centennial Park tomorrow ‘arvo?’

  ‘No,’ replied Billy. ‘We’re having a game against the armed hold-up squad at Dunningham Park on Monday morning. You gonna come down and have a look? We’ll probably go over the Coogee Bay and have a beer after.’

  ‘Yeah, if we’re doing nothing we might come down,’ replied Detective Henderson, as they both started to make a move. ‘See you later anyway.’

  ‘Yeah righto. See you,’ chorused the two doormen.

  They watched in silence as the two detectives climbed into their Holden and moved slowly off down Kelly Street; each slightly lost in thought trying to figure out what their enigmatic boss, Price Galese, was up to this time.

  ‘I’d love to know what’s going on,’ said Les.

  ‘Well, we’ll know shortly,’ repied Billy, ‘here’s Price now.’ Norton looked up just as the casino owner’s shiny, beige, Rolls Royce glided majestically to a halt a few metres down from the entrance to the club.

  Eddie Salita got out first, quickly walked round and, after an instinctive glance up and down the street, opened the door for Price. As soon as the smiling casino owner stepped out and started walking towards them, Billy and Les were somewhat taken back by a rather unusual sight that immediately added more mystery to an already extraordinary night which had started by Price’s strange phone call earlier. Instead of being his customary, superbly dressed self, Price was wearing a T-shirt tucked into a pair of faded Levis and an old pair of white sneakers: draped loosely across his shoulders was an expensive, pale-blue, cashmere cardigan opened at the front. However, with his neat, silvery hair and tanned urbane looks he was still the natural epitome of class and style.

  ‘Hello boys, how’s things?’ he said, smiling broadly at the puzzled looks on Les and Billy’s faces.

  ‘Good. How’s y’self Price? G’day Eddie,’ chorused the two doormen.

  ‘Did you get that message earlier?’ asked Price.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Norton slowly. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh nothing much,’ grinned Price, rubbing his carefully manicured hands together gleefully. ‘But I’ll leave Eddie to tell you. I want to duck upstairs and have a quick word with George. Don’t forget. I want everyone, staff and all, out by twelve.’ He gave Norton a friendly punch on the arm and disappeared up the stairway.

  As soon as he was out of sight Billy turned to Eddie Salita.

  ‘Well what’s going on Eddie?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s the story?’ echoed Norton.

  ‘What’s the story?’ grinned Price’s number one hit man. ‘The story is, we’re burning the place down tonight. Price done his arse at the punt today and he needs the insurance. I’ve got the petrol in the boot of the Rolls.’

  ‘You’re what?’ the two astonished doormen almost shouted as one.

  ‘You heard,’ replied Eddie, with a casual movement of his hands.

  ‘Jesus, that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ said Billy, staring wide-eyed at Eddie.

  ‘Burning the joint down. Christ!’ Norton took his hands out of his pockets and put them on his hips. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed again.

  ‘Sometimes a man’s just gotta do what a man’s just gotta do,’ replied Eddie, glancing nonchalantly up at the open windows of the Kelly Club. The lazily drifting cigarette smoke and the faint sounds from inside floated out in their soft yellow light.

  ‘Yeah, but burning the bloody place down,’ said Billy. ‘Shit.’ Norton didn’t say anything. He just stood staring incredulously at the po-faced hit man. He didn’t quite know what to think but he wouldn’t put anything past Price and Eddie once they got their heads together. Suddenly, Eddie threw back his head and roared laughing.

  ‘Fair dinkum,’ he chortled, ‘you two have got to be the biggest pair of Botany Bay mullets I’ve ever seen. You come in with your big gobs open every time. Have a go at your bloody faces. Burning the place down,’ he sniggered. ‘We’re not burning the fuckin’ joint down. We’re putting in a new roulette wheel.’

  When Eddie stopped laughing at the looks on their faces and the two chagrined but happy doormen finished pushing him all over the footpath he explained to them what was going on.

  The wheel inside was just about worn out, mainly from just being overworked. The green felt was starting to get a bit tatty and the bearings round the chrome spinner had worked so loose that at times it seemed to take forever for the little white ball to drop into one of the red or black slots. Actually, the whole thing hadn’t been quite the same since the night Norton demolished Iron-Bar Muljak and his mate on it. So Price decided to buy a new one and claim it as a business deduction through someone he knew high up in the taxation department.

  The one he’d ordered was made especially for him in St Nazaire, France by the finest craftsmen in Europe. It cost the best part of $150,000 and there were only two like it in the world; the other was in one of the big casinos in Monte Carlo. The problem was, that it wasn’t supposed to arrive in Australia for another three weeks, but due to a mix-up in the shipping it had been landed in Sydney on Friday and was now being held in bond. So rather than have an expensive and just about irreplaceable object like that lying around in storage, where it could get damaged or brought to the public’s attention if some crafty journalist with an eye for a good story got on to it, Price decided to put it straight into the Kelly Club.

  The only other problem was the wheel and its huge felt table were much too big to go up the stairs, so the front windows of the club were being taken out and somehow or other they were going to get it in there. And that was why Price wanted the place empty by twelve because at five past the carpenters and bricklayers would arrive to dismantle the old table and knock out the windows for when the new one arrived at seven the next morning.

  ‘So that’s the story boys,’ said Eddie. ‘And Price said he wants you both up here at seven tomorrow in case he needs you to help get it in.’

  Norton stepped out on to the footpath and tilted his head up towards the row of windows overlooking Kelly Street. The blue neon sign was at least three metres above their heads and the windows were a good four metres above that. ‘How’s he going to get the bloody thing up there?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Shit, if the new table’s anything like the old one it’ll weigh a bloody tonne.’

  ‘It’s bigger actually,’ grinned Eddie. ‘But we’ll get it in there — easy. You wait and see.’

  Billy stepped over and joined Les looking up at the windows. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said seriously. ‘You’re gonna need more than a block and bloody tackle to get the fuckin’ thing up there Eddie, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It’s all sweet,’ grinned Eddie, making excited little gestures with his hands. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’ll see in the morning.’

  ‘All right,’ shrugged Billy, ‘if you say so.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Eddie clapped his hands together and shaped up in front of Les as if he was going to fight him. ‘I’m going upstairs. It’s nearly eleven you may as well start getting them out in half an hour. I’ll see you up there.’ He flashed them a quick wink and vanished up the stairs.

  ‘So that’s what it was all about, eh? A new roulette wheel.’

 
‘Yeah.’ Billy smiled and gave his chin a bit of a thoughtful scratch. ‘I should have jerried what was going on. George mentioned it to me a few weeks ago but it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Knowing your mind Billy, that’d be about par for the course.’

  Billy ignored Norton’s remark and flashed him a devilish smile. ‘You know who bought the thing for Price, don’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean, bought it for him?’

  ‘Who went to France and ordered it, and took the money over.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jack Atkins.’

  Norton stared at Billy in slight disbelief. ‘Sir Jack Atkins the ex-premier? Are you fair dinkum?’

  Billy nodded his head and smiled tightly. Billy was about to elaborate on this when a party of four regulars approached and smiled their customary greetings to the two popular doormen before entering the club. Their smiles faded somewhat when the boys told them that they’d be closing in about half an hour; they were all welcome to go up and have a quick flutter if they wanted to but they’d have to be out by twelve. The slightly surprised punters discussed this among themselves for a minute or two then decided to give it a miss and try their luck up at the 44 Club in William Street. They thanked the boys then headed for Bayswater Road to get a taxi. As they drew out of sight Norton turned back to Billy, his eyes slightly narrowed and all ears.

  ‘What were you going to say before, about Jack Atkins?’ he asked.

  By 11.55 they had everybody out of the club including the staff, who were all happy and laughing as they trooped down the stairs ready to celebrate their early mark with a night out on the tiles. They were laughing all the more after Price had given them $100 each to have a drink on him and celebrate the arrival of the new roulette wheel, and also celebrate the fact that Price’s newest horse Tango Prince had got up that afternoon at fifteen to one and Price had given all the rails bookies at Canterbury a dreadful shellacking. Like Norton said earlier: he was an old villain all right, but you couldn’t help liking him.

  Seeing as Price had suggested it might be an idea if they didn’t have any after-work drinks, as it might slow the builders down if they saw the boys hanging around sucking on cold tinnies or bourbons or whatever, they just stood round the old roulette table checking it out and talking quietly before Billy and Les went home.

  ‘What are you going to do with the old one Price?’ asked Billy.

  The casino owner smiled to himself for a second or two before he answered. ‘I’ll dismantle it and keep it over my place for a while. Then I might put it in a new casino I might, just might, be opening.’

  ‘A new one eh? Whereabouts?’

  ‘Up on the Central Coast Billy,’ replied Price, smiling as he ran his hand fondly across the faded green baize of the old table like he was patting an old faithful dog. ‘I’ve got the two top coppers on side up there and I might get one going in Gosford with a Greek who owns a pub up there.’

  At the mention of the Central Coast a ripple of laughter ran through the small group standing next to the table. All eyes turned to Norton

  ‘We might even give you a job up there,’ laughed George the casino manager. ‘You must be just about breaking your neck to get back up there and see your old girlfriend from Terrigal. What was her name. Sonia? Sarah?’

  ‘Sophia,’ growled Norton. He was about to tell George what he could do with the central coast when a raucous ‘Hello you big red-headed goose’ booming out from the top of the stairs heralded the arrival of the builders. Norton turned slowly round to see a big blonde head with a broken nose grinning at him from the other side of the room. It was one of his old football mates, Colin Jones.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ chuckled Norton, ‘don’t tell me they’ve got you doing this Jonesy. It’ll take a hundred years.’

  ‘Turn it up son,’ replied Colin. ‘You know our motto. For service and quality don’t make no bones: Just get on the blower and call Col Jones. And here I am. Any hour of the day or night.’

  ‘You’ve probably just been thrown out of a brothel,’ said Norton, shaking his head and laughing.

  Colin Jones was a stocky, square-jawed, good style of a bloke roughly the same size as Norton only with a little, whispy moustache under his flattened nose and much neater hair. Like Les he was a pretty hard man on the football field and one of the best front-on tacklers in the game. But also like Les, he didn’t get on too well with the Easts hierarchy, and seeing as he had a small building company making plenty of money Colin realised there were better things to do during winter than bash your head around on a football field and cop shit from club officials for your trouble — like drinking piss, smoking plenty of hot ones and chasing snow bunnies around Thredbo. So Colin brushed Easts not long after Les but they were still good mates and often had a drink together and a game of touch up at Waverley Oval or down Centennial Park.

  With a big grin on his rugged face Jonesy ambled across the room towards Les and the others. Behind him came several stocky building workers of all shapes and sizes, wearing mainly shorts and flannelette shirts minus the sleeves and carrying two huge, paint-spattered canvas tarpaulins. After saying hello to Price and the others he quickly introduced his team around. Colin then set them to work stacking up the furniture and tables and spreading out the two tarpaulins. Les and Billy figured that this would be as good a time as any to get going before they started getting in the road, so they said goodnight and told Price they’d see him up there first thing in the morning.

  Walking up to their cars at that hour of the night the boys naturally enough felt a bit strange. Usually when they finished work the Cross was starting to slow down a bit, instead there were cars and people everywhere running around like rats in a neon sewer.

  ‘You feel like a cup of coffee or something on the way home?’ suggested Norton, as they got to their cars.

  ‘No, not really mate,’ replied Billy. ‘We got to get up first thing. Besides, seeing it’s still early I might even give the missus a tap on the shoulder when I get into bed,’ he added with a wink.

  ‘Half you luck,’ chuckled Les. ‘Hey, you still want to go for a run when we finish?’

  ‘Oh yeah, for sure. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  They got into their cars and headed for home.

  The table lamp was still on and there was an empty bottle of Dom Perignon on the coffee table in the lounge-room, plus a handbag and a pair of women’s shoes when Norton arrived home. Soft music was coming from Warren’s slightly open, bedroom door accompanied by a lot of moaning and groaning and the odd muffled scream of ecstasy. Between that and what Billy had said earlier about tapping his wife on the shoulder Norton was almost tempted to make a late night phone call. Instead he had a mug of Ovaltine, listened to the kitchen radio for a while and went to bed.

  Sunday morning was a typical, early autumn day that helps to make Sydney the peach of a town it is: sunny, mild, scarcely a cloud in the sky and the barest nor’-wester whispering across the city which would turn nor’-east in the late afternoon to welcome the few tufts of pinky, grey clouds that gather over the ocean as the sun goes down.

  Norton was up about 6.15 and had a quick cup of coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich watching the sparrows bobbing around on the dewy grass in his backyard. The handbag and shoes were still in the lounge-room so Norton had a quick peek through Warren’s still slightly open bedroom door to see if there was any early morning action: but it was all quiet on the Western front. With a bit of an envious chuckle he closed the front door quietly and went out to his car.

  It might have been quiet in Cox Avenue, Bondi but when Les pulled up behind Billy’s Holden station wagon in Bayswater Road, Kelly Street was a hive of activity.

  A row of yellow, diagonal-striped council barricades, manned by several beefy council workers in overalls blocked off either end of Kelly Street, and next to these were positioned two police patrol wagons with several uniformed policemen leaning against them sipping coffee out of paper cups. A coupl
e of street cleaners with their brooms and bins on wheels like little chariots had propped there too, and the local garbage-truck was parked up on the footpath outside the hotel on the corner with the garbos milling around in their beanies and football jumpers.

  Norton locked his car and strode across the road and, after nodding his head to a couple of young local coppers he knew, walked up to where Colin Jones and his crew were sitting in the sun on the footpath outside the Kelly Club, sipping coffee and eating steak sandwiches from a stack in a cardboard carton. They were all covered in dust and plaster and above them was a huge gap where the windows of the casino had been.

  ‘Hello Jonesy,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s it goin’ mate?’

  ‘Good as gold,’ replied Colin. ‘We’re nearly an hour in front. You want a steak sanger?’ He nodded towards the cardboard carton.

  ‘I might have one later,’ said Les. ‘Price upstairs?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll just duck up and see what’s goin’ on. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Inside the casino there was surprisingly little mess. The old roulette table was nowhere to be seen and Billy was standing on the tarpaulin next to two large industrial vacuum cleaners inspecting where the row of bay windows had been. He turned round at the sound of Norton’s footsteps.

  ‘G’day Les.’

  ‘Hello Billy. What’s doin’?’

  Through the open office door Norton could see the others sitting around a huge pot of tea eating toast and reading the Sunday papers. They were all laughing about something. Norton walked in and smiled hello, noticing Price and Eddie were as fresh as daisies whereas George’s eyes were a little puffy and bloodshot.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ said Price, handing Norton the Sunday Telegraph open at the sporting section. There were two photos of a beaming Price. One leading Tango Prince into the winner’s enclosure with Ron Quigley on top and another of him collecting an enormous stack of money from Sydney’s biggest rails bookmaker Bill Waterman. Waterman was trying his best to smile for the camera but his face looked like a kilo of rotten tripe.