Free Crooked by Camilla Nelson Page A

Palmer Street. Just a long line of tumbledown terrace houses that plumbers had long since abandoned, plastered with scabrous paintwork, leaky downpipes, and long, glittering expanses of damp. The door of each terrace was painted in bright pinks, mauves or reds, and under each fanlight stood somebody’s Jane or Mary, slouched against the doorframe, sprawled in an armchair flung haphazard across the stoop, or squatting on the doorstep, knees pointing to the stars. They flicked through comic books as they waited for passing trade. Soft music rasped out of a wireless and drifted about on swirls of pink light.
    Gus parked round the corner and walked back along the block. The air was sticky and warm, filled with the unmistakable aroma of industrial carbolic. He knocked on the door of the bald-faced stucco terrace where he knew Twiggy and another girl shared shifts round the clock, but the place was shut up.
    Gus climbed back into the unmarked, and scoured the waterside district for almost an hour. He tooled along tiny shadowed side streets, watching bright shifting shapes until the brightness faded altogether, and he breathed in the dank, fishy smell of the Harbour. He had almost given up hope, was telling himself that his mission was useless when, in a stark patch of waste down by the expressway, he saw two shadows churning under a broken street lamp.
    Gus pulled in to the side of the road and clambered out of the car. ‘Oi,’ he yelled. ‘Police.’
    A sailor whirled round and stared, panicky eyes catching the light.
    Gus sauntered forward. ‘Didn’t anybody tell you not to choose molls off the street?’
    The sailor blinked twice and stumbled backwards.
    Gus poked him in the ribs. ‘Well, go on …’ he said, then watched, grinning, as the sailor spluttered something, turned around and ran.
    Twiggy was standing alone under a blue cone of light. Her red sateen dress was rucked up over her thighs, her face turned away, staring into shadow. ‘What is it, copper, want your half of the take?’
    â€˜Come off it, Twiggy. You know who I am. You know I’m not on any weekly payroll.’
    â€˜I dunno a single copper who worked Darlinghurst vice for more than a month and didn’t take contributions.’
    â€˜Except me.’ Gus hoisted a rabbit-fur coat off a stack of used tyres and held it towards her.
    But Twiggy ignored him. She pulled out a powder compact and began dusting her nose. ‘Oh, what a laugh. Ha. Ha. I’m splitting my sides.’
    Gus put a hand on Twiggy’s shoulder. He spun her around. ‘Twiggy …’ he started, then stopped – the light spilling suddenly over her face showing him the gash on her cheek, covered in pink fibrous matter where she was daubing on make-up. ‘How did you get that?’
    â€˜I dunno,’ said Twiggy. ‘I really couldn’t say.’
    â€˜Did some hoon do that?’
    â€˜I dunno, and I reckon that I don’t have to answer.’
    Gus tried to be patient. ‘Just think for a minute. Maybe you should.’
    â€˜Yeah, so I can wind up in some forty-four gallon drum bobbing in the Harbour.’
    Gus tried, ‘Give me something. Maybe I can help.’
    But Twiggy only laughed. ‘Just how are you going to do that?’
    â€˜Well, I won’t arrest you, for starters,’ said Gus, playing tough. ‘Then I won’t put it out on the street that it was down to you I found out whatever I do.’
    Twiggy flared. ‘Okay, then. I’ll tell you something. Ducky was mad, but he wasn’t that mad. He knew how to handle himself.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜I seen him and I talked to him on the night of the shooting. He was off to see Reilly.’
    â€˜Dick Reilly?’ said Gus, his eyes rounding out in astonishment.
    â€˜Yeah, Reilly was helping him.’
    â€˜You’re sure about that?’
    â€˜Of course I’m sure. He was always doing stuff