~~~
A churning sea batters the Sydney coast. Salt spray drifts inland toward the city.
A sleek 1956 Chevrolet stands in front of a squat brick house. A sharp featured young man fidgets at the steering wheel. Nothing has changed since his last visit. A low brick fence, blue hydrangeas, line a neat path to the door, a trimmed hedge beneath bedroom windows.
He recalls the fear, the feel of the cold lead, the glimmer of the brass casing on the .303 bullet.
‘Too bloody big.’
He speaks aloud to no one, but the words calm jangled nerves.
‘I needed this .38. I’ll dump it when the job’s done, and nick another one.’
The windscreen wipers arc in time with the music as sheet lightning crackles static from the car-radio speaker.
‘Coppers are bastards. I hate ’em. Pay ’em off and they come back for more. Bugger them. I don’t give a stuff. A bet is a bet. That’s the way it goes. You play, you pay. Come on, come on. I can’t sit here for eternity.’
The man reaches for the glove box, pops the lock, tightens his fist around a grey pistol then feels and unfastens the safety latch. Clicks open the tumbler, spins the chamber and snaps it shut. A thin coating of oil mingles with sweat on his palm.
The porch light blinks.
Flip. Radio silent.
Flip. The wiper stops.
Click. Hammer cocked, but the windscreen mists.
‘Fuck.’
Flick. The wiper starts, but the motor screeches.
Mick Vaughan peers through the haze at the parked car then darts inside at the screech of the Chevy’s wiper motor.
Click. Dark porch.
‘Shit.’
Mick runs toward the car, pumping a shotgun.
The young man grabs the door handle.
Locked.
Grasps the car door lock, but oil and sweat makes his hand slip.
Wind the window handle. Bring the .38 to chest level.
The surf thunders.
Three shotgun slugs smash the window.
‘You silly little prick,’ Mick says, pulling at the car door latch, opening the smoking, blood-spattered vehicle.
The body falls onto the roadway.
Two men, guns drawn, run up behind Mick.
‘Ring the divvies, and get a blanket,’ Mick barks, ‘and tell the local cops to seal off the street.’
The quiet Coogee roadway fills with detectives and ambulances. TV cameramen and reporters push against blue police tape. Rain washes blood along the gutter. The reek of burnt flesh and nitrate mingle with the salt-misted air.
A young constable drapes an old coverlet over the corpse. Neighbours stand in doorways. Sirens wail. Mick walks back to the house. A detective colleague shouts, ‘Bumper’s arrived.’
‘Show him in.’
‘What’s this bloody mess Vaughan? It looks like Kings Cross on a Saturday night. Who’s the fucking snarler?’ The senior detective removes his pork-pie hat, and places it on the sideboard.
‘Walter Bugden. Murray Dwyer’s enforcer. Minor hood. His old man runs a Starting Price tote in Darlington. His dad is a good mate. We go back a while.’
The senior detective raises his eyebrows.
‘Bugden. Ex-Newtown junior?’
‘Yeah,’ Mick says.
‘Showed a lot of promise when he was kid. Did a bit of amateur boxing. Went a couple of rounds as a professional. I trained him. Had the makings of a tasty bantamweight, but dropped out of sight and eh,’ Mick sighs, ‘teamed up with our old mate.’
‘So why did he come around with a lead calling card, Mick? Old times or something more important?’ Mick grimaces at Bumper’s humour.
‘Misunderstanding over money.’
‘Sure,’ Bumper says.
‘So Murray Dwyer’s in this up to his neck right?’
‘Got it in one, Bumper,’ Mick says, pacing the room and peeping through the curtains at the mayhem.
‘It took a while for Murray to learn the ropes, but he’s got the gift now that’s for sure. Remember the barney he got into a few years ago with the sharpie in the blue suit, what’s his name?’
Bumper reaches for a pack of cigarettes. ‘The Fireman. A twerp from Queensland.’
‘The very same, Bumper. Frank Bugden and the Fireman skinned Murray on a mug’s bet at 100 to one. I was working on the Slasher case at the time when Murray came whinging for a favour. Funny thing is the race wasn’t fixed. Sheer bloody luck. Dwyer the idiot, staked the lot and the Fireman walked away laughing. Took him for every skerrick he owned. Dwyer’s luck changed when he met Dasher Doug Morgan. Know him?’
‘Yeah,’ Bumper says. ‘A slash artist. Ran with Guido Culetti in Woolloomooloo back in the thirties. Razor scar across his cheek.’
Mick nods.
‘So Morgan and Dwyer set up a standover business in the Cross – you know the type of operation – tiny town hoons smacking working girls in the kidneys, but old lady luck smiles on Dwyer. Starts winning big on the gee gees then puts this young snarler Walter on the pay roll as his debt collector.
‘Dwyer and Morgan did not tell Frank Bugden about Walter joining up with them. Frank got commission from the original sting. He has no idea Murray was my snout in Golden Grove. He hates Dwyer. Still does, but for the life of me I never figured out why.’
‘Might be because Dwyer’s in the brotherhood,’ Bumper says, as he pours a double brandy.
‘You are joking! Are you telling me Murray Dwyer is one of us?’ Mick stares at Bumper.
‘Bet your life Mick. The sash my father wore.’
‘Well fuck me,’ Mick says.
‘Fuck you is right, Mick, because you just killed your best mate’s son.’
‘Him or me, Bumper.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bumper says, balancing his words with detached agreement before draining his glass.
‘No worries mate. I’ll have a word in Macquarie Street. Tell you what. Take a few weeks off down the South Coast. The bream will be on the bite once this bloody storm blows out. I’ll call you when the heat is off, but you might be posted over to the North Shore. Two bodies turned up in the Lane Cove National Park this morning, and we’ll need manpower.’ Bumper winks at Mick and bangs his glass on the table.
‘What happens to Frank Bugden?’
‘He’ll read it in the papers.’
‘Tough call,’ Mick says.
‘You’re not going to front him and tell him you shot his son. Stay away.’ Bumper glares at Mick then asks, ‘How much are you into Dwyer for?’
‘Four thousand.’
‘Can you cover it?’ Bumper raises an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, that’s what me and the boys were talking over before the kid showed up,’ Mick says.
‘Dead for four thousand quid eh? Hardly worth it. Anyway, three monkeys, Mick me old son. You know the drill. Hear no evil, see no evil, and I’ll talk with this evil lot.’
The senior detective retraces his steps along the hall, and walks out the door. A starburst of lights illuminates his face as a scrum of journalists fire hundreds of questions, each brushed aside by the Bumper.
‘Come to headquarters tomorrow morning for a full statement,’ he says, then walks toward a black Ford Fairlane. A blue illuminated crown with the word ‘Police’ atop the roof marks the Bumper as the crime scene’s top cop.
Two Coroner’s Office men dressed in rubber overalls roll Walter Bugden’s body onto a black plastic sheet, lift the zippered bag onto a stretcher, and slot it into the rear of a black van.
Police photographers film the scene.
A detective slips the .38 pistol into a plastic evidence bag. Journalists in raincoats question ambulance drivers. A fireman hoses the gutter, another spreads a bucketful of sand across gobs of blood on the grass. A tow truck driver hauls the Chevy onto the back of a lorry, and drives away behind a police car.
The street empties of flashing red and blue lights. Neighbours shut their doors. Frogs croak in the wet;
the surf pounds Wedding Cake Island.
Mick pours brandy and calls to his mates.
‘What about Dwyer?’ one of the men says.
‘He’ll keep,’ says Mick, but his hands shake so hard the brandy spills onto the carpet.
‘You know what that hoodlum’s biggest problem is?’ he asks no one in particular.
‘Me.’
‘I never miss. Never.’
‘That bastard Dwyer sent a boy to do a man’s job. Set him up. We knew there’d be heavies,’ but Mick’s voice quavers as his words trail into silence.
‘How were you to know Murray would send the kid? We’ll straighten him out later.’
‘No we won’t. Murray’s got the best protection going,’ Mick says, pouring another brandy, and peering out the window onto the dark street.
‘It’s going to be a long night,’ Mick says, ‘and for the first time in my life I’m going to get drunk.’