A Green Light: Book 3: The Kingdom

By Ray Mooney

A Green Light is a series of 3 books: THE KINGDOM OF CHILDREN, THE KINGDOM OF MEN and THE KINGDOM. Each explores the dramatic development of Australia’s most notorious hitman, Johnny Morgan, who could have been a normal upstanding citizen but chose to become a ruthless killer. These 3 books take our understanding of the criminal mind to a new level. They can be read in any order.

In Book 3, A GREEN LIGHT: THE KINGDOM crime writer, playwright and screenwriter, Ray Mooney, explores Johnny Morgan’s ambition to rise above his criminal status by becoming Australia’s number one hitman. His ambition is aimed at society but at the heart of his ruthlessness it is one woman who seeks to temper his brutality.

Prepared to do anything, Morgan gives himself a green light and takes us into the ‘real’ underworld where might is right, where corrupt cops, crims and drug dealers control the nightclubs, brothels and upper level crime, where his brutality upsets the ‘natural order’ and spins him out of control and into tomorrow’s horrific headlines.

A Green Light, Book 3, is the writing on the wall.

The story is based on the author’s personal experiences, and those of his close friend, Chris Flannery, aka Mr Rent-A-Kill, Australia’s infamous hitman, missing, believed murdered.

A Green Light, Book 3, is approximately 133,000 words.

The series has been developed from Mooney’s highly successful book, A Green Light, published by Penguin Australia in 1988, which became Penguin’s second biggest fiction seller for that year and established an industry of crime fiction within Australia.

Praise for Ray Mooney’s crime thriller A GREEN LIGHT.

Ray Mooney’s A Green Light, the most powerful crime fiction book I’ve ever read. – Alex Miller, dual Miles Franklin winner - Booktopiablog 2013

‘This is the most important and powerful book on crime ever written in Australia, if not anywhere.’ -- Barry Webster, Pulp Fiction, 3RRR.

‘Mooney’s handling of underworld dialogue is masterful...What we have in Johnny Morgan is an absorbing character study of one of the most unpleasant sides of modern-day society.’ -- Ian Freckleton, the Age.

‘A novel with the ferocious veracity of A GREEN LIGHT should make us all stop and think, and think again, about the patterns of power in our society’ -- Professor Stephen Knight, Sydney Morning Herald.

‘If the book stimulates one to think about crime, as it did for me, then it goes some of the way to meeting a higher goal. In the context of crime and prison literature I think A GREEN LIGHT is a valuable contribution.’ -- Michael Bersten, Lawyer, Legal Service Bulletin.

Dr Jocelynne Scutt wrote, ‘...for those of us who care about changing the mindless world of men, A Green Light is compulsory reading.’

About the author

Ray Mooney is an expert in crime, regarded by many as Australia’s best fiction crime writer.

He’s written more than 20 plays specialising in crime, numerous films scripts, including the cult film, Everynight Everynight, co-authored with director Alkinos Tsilimidos and nominated for an AFI writing award. The film received numerous awards throughout the world.

His non-fiction book, A Pack of Bloody Animals, about the Walsh Street murders, set the cat among the pigeons, with its sensational revelations within police and criminal cultures.

He taught creative writing at tertiary institutions for twenty years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Mooney
• Release date: Jan 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9780987593627

Ray Mooney

Ray has been a freelance writer and lecturer in creative writing for three decades, specialising in novels, plays, film scripts and non-fiction books. He’s one of a handful of writers with major success in each category.His plays have been produced throughout Australia. His novel, A Green Light, became Penguin’s second biggest fiction seller for 1988. His screenplay, Everynight Everynight, co-written with director Alkinos Tsilimidos, won awards throughout the world and his recently published non-fiction book, A Pack of Bloody Animals, sensationally revealed another side to the Walsh Street murders.Ray specialises in crime and social injustice. His articles have appeared in many national and local publications including The Age, The Sunday Age and The Crime Factory.As an educator Ray lectured in novel, playwriting, screenwriting and short story writing at Holmesglen Institute, Box Hill TAFE and the VCA Film and Television School.Recently he completely rewrote A Green Light, regarded by many as Australia’s best crime book, into three stand-alone eBooks.His latest non-fiction book, The Ethics of Evil, about H Division, Pentridge, is due for release as an eBook.

Book preview

A Green Light

Part Three

The Kingdom

By

Ray Mooney

Contents

Title

Contents

Copyright

The eighties.

Fucking good one!

Right Eye

The Fridge

Musical chairs

A typical night at The Fridge

After hours

Bark like a dog, Morgan!

The teddy bears’ picnic

The aftermath

We are at war

Your shout

How about a lift home?

Home is where the heart is

I’ve got nothing to say

I’ve just run over a dog

A moment of stupid dreams

Root your boot!

Petrol profiteers

Mick and the union

Petrol wars

A new breed of entrepreneur

Prophetic dreams

Unity in adversity

On the road again

Leader of the pack

The Rope

On the house

Pin-up boy of the month

Wilson

Guilty, your Worship

Freelancing

The House of Dreams

An all-the-way job

A minor partner

I didn’t knock him

Drop in for a chat

One in the shoulder

Payback time

You’re barred!

Crime czar ha, ha

A dissatisfied customer

A day out

Charged with murder

Bail application

Five million good reasons

Silent partners

The sentinel bird

Bushytail

The Actress and the Mercenary

You’re on the up and up, son

A proper education

Advantages of a good education

If the shoe fits

Putrefaction

Twenty big ones

A hypothetical favour

Another favour

Coroner’s court

Going in hard

Munroe in the witness box

Freedom

Sorry, mate

A morning at the beach

Another job

Whose shout?

Miss Reynolds

Chop suey

A word of advice

Doing the rounds

French Louie’s strip joint

The Tongs

It wasn’t me

Movement in the kingdom

What’s up?

Don't you realise who you're talking to?

Champion of the world

The big question

Regicide

Minor surgery

Where is she?

The year of the assassin

We are at war

Gedday, Rat

Chinatown

I hate you!

Sweet dreams

A little birdie told me

An order from the king

The world’s greatest hit

Red meat for the beast

Copyright © 2016 by Ray Mooney.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in Australia by Wilde Mooney.

First Printing, 2015.

ISBN 978-0-9875936-2-7

The main category of this book: 1. Crime.

Other categories: 2. Assassins. 3. Police corruption. 4. Nightclub culture.

5. Prostitution. 6. Crime Czars. 7. True crime. 8. Speed tracks. 9. Illegal drugs.10 Bouncers.

Editor: Lois Jessop.

Production: AWM Agency.

Dedicated to:

Julie Van Kesteren, Teena Ross and Sallyanne Mooney.

Acknowledgments:

To Julie Watts, editor of the original book, A Green Light, published in 1988, but now completely rewritten. To Brian Johns and Bruce Sims from Penguin Books Australia. To Alex Miller, Alkinos Tsilimidos, Wilde Mooney, Autumn Mooney and AB Bishop for their creative support and encouragement.

The eighties.

Morgan’s 1962 Ford Thunderbird was illegally parked near traffic lights. Blinding sun increased annoyance of motorists forced to deviate into on-coming traffic. Had Morgan’s 8-banger not been spray-painted white with orange trim, implying it was an emergency vehicle, more motorists might have tooted disapproval. Parliamentarians were incessantly complaining about unscrupulous drivers painting their cars and tow trucks to imitate ambulances.

He calmly swigged from a can of Fosters while evaluating police emergency calls over his bear-cat radio and scrutinised the city with its high-rise and twilight neon haze. One day it would all be his. Of that he was certain.

Amber changed to red. A Volvo swerved widely avoiding Morgan’s car then ran the lights. Opposing traffic braked sharply. The conceited Volvo driver thumbed stunned motorists left hesitant at the lights. His female passenger in cherry-red dress giggled. Good one! thought Morgan; exactly what he’d been waiting for. Happy hour for hoons! He imagined a naked Miss Cherry-red giving him the come-on. That illusion was swallowed in a gulp a minute later when he realised approaching traffic diminishing.

‘Accident...two-car collision…corner Smith and Bank…ambulance required…’

Thrusting the can between his legs Morgan screeched off straight through the red lights and disregarded vehicles forced to brake. Horns blasted. Morgan deviated as a tow truck also painted white with orange trim passed him causing him to spray his beer.

'Fuck you, Spooks!' he screamed at the urban-Aboriginal driver.

Morgan accelerated, levitating over train tracks before tail-gaiting the tow truck. He didn't have time to savour looks of incredulity as he skidded to a halt and illegally parked on the footpath opposite the two-car accident. Spooks executed a screeching U-turn, sending bystanders sprawling. A competitor tow truck materialized. Speed was of the essence; first in, best dressed. Spooks, in navy-blue overalls, jumped from his tow truck. Morgan rapidly followed.

The Volvo had dovetailed into an early sixties’ rust-bucket and was a write-off. Miss Cherry-red was unconscious on the ground, her dress immodestly scrunched to the waist. She wouldn’t be cackling in that outfit again. The driver remained squashed between steering wheel and crumpled door.

Spooks ignored the screaming occupants of the rust bucket and pushed through distressed bystanders to the driver of the Volvo. Morgan shadowed him.

'Back, please…Get back,' Spooks ordered bystanders.

They obliged. Spooks shook the injured driver as Morgan sussed the competitor tow truck driver.

'This your car, mate?' Spooks queried the Volvo driver.

Unable to answer, the Volvo driver grimaced in pain.

'I don't think he should be moved,' complained a bystander unsettled by Spook’s insensitivity.

'Looks like his back could be broken,' offered another.

'His neck it is,' added the first, intentionally glaring at Spooks.

Morgan turned to the bystanders and spoke as would a parent to a concerned child.

'It's alright, he's a paramedic.'

The bystanders quietened, realising Morgan was assisting a medical man.

A police van parked behind Morgan's car. Two police officers directed traffic to allow an ambulance access. The tow truck driver was coaxing Miss Cherry-red, now regaining consciousness, to sign a form. He was obviously new in the towing game because he should’ve respected the Towie’s protocol: that Spooks being first to the scene had priority. This would’ve relegated Newbie to the rust bucket. But a damaged Volvo was a bigger earn than a potentially uninsured slammer.

‘The towing won’t cost you anything,’ Newbie rapidly explained to the insentient Miss Cherry-red, ‘as long as you get the repairs done in my garage. Our admin costs are virtually nil and we’ll only charge a minimum two days storage, no matter how long it’s there.’

As Newbie finished his spiel he pushed a pen into Miss Cherry-red’s wobbly hand.

‘Shouldn’t touch her, mate,’ advised Morgan patronisingly, ‘until the medics check her.’

Newbie ignored Morgan. An ambulance attendant on the other side of the Volvo screamed at Spooks, now shaking the Volvo driver.

‘Get away! He's not to be moved,' the attendant demanded.

‘Good one,’ Morgan heard Newbie exclaim.

Bewildered bystanders watched Spooks back away and indicate to Morgan that Newbie could be a problem. Taking his cue from Spooks, Morgan intentionally backed into a copper directing traffic.

'Can't you look what you’re doing?’ complained Morgan. ‘A bloke's trying to do a bloody job!'

'Who're you with?' screamed the copper, angrily turning on Morgan.

'Just do your job and we'll do ours!' spat Morgan.

The copper seized Morgan by the collar.

‘I asked you a question!'

Morgan aggressively wrenched away.

'Don't put that shit on me!'

A police sergeant scurried over.

'Who're you with?'

'Him,' said Morgan, pointing to Newbie now securing Miss Cherry-red’s signature.

The sergeant thrust Morgan aside, raced to Newbie.

'You!' bellowed the sergeant.

'What?' answered Newbie.

'On your way!'

'What!'

'You heard!'

'Now come on…'

'Get that,' he barked, pointing to Newbie’s tow truck, 'and yourself outa here!'

'Now just a minute!'

'Now!'

'What about me job?'

The sergeant removed his notebook.

'You've got five seconds. Or you’re booked for obstructing. Both of you.'

'Both?' exclaimed Newbie.

'Carn, mate,' said Morgan to the bewildered Newbie. 'There'll be plenty more tonight.'

Morgan ambled to his car.

'Who the fuck are you?' queried the confused Newbie.

Morgan winked back at the disbelieving Newbie and casually walked away wiping beer from the crutch of his navy-blue overalls.

I am the one, mate. The one and only. That’s who.

Spooks slipped an ambulance attendant twenty dollars.

'Ten seconds?' Spooks whispered to the ambulance attendant.

'Ar…Keith…give's a hand here, for a sec?' demanded the ambulance attendant to his assistant as he pocketed twenty.

Spooks shook the injured Volvo driver.

'What's your name? Carn, your name?'

The Volvo driver was unable to answer. The sergeant strode over.

'Hey, Cinders?'

Spooks ignored him, although he knew the sergeant was talking to him.

'That your truck, Jackie?'

Spooks's truck was preventing the ambulance getting close to the Volvo. He erupted into his Aboriginal lingo routine.

'Dunno oneo, Boss, unono onu…'

'Speak bloody English, bugger ya!'

'Uner oneo…'

'Look, is it your truck, or isn't it?'

'Uneo oneo…'

'Forget it, imbecile!' mumbled the sergeant, focusing on the ambulance.

The sergeant directed the ambulance another way. As Miss Cherry-red was assisted into the ambulance, Spooks checked the Volvo driver's wallet.

'Sign here…Mr Collins.'

Having forced the Volvo driver's hand to sign, Spooks then secured the Volvo to his tow truck as attendants freed the other driver from the rust-bucket.

Fucking good one!

When they opened the prison gates and Morgan was released penniless, there was no one to greet him. It had been his decision to cut himself off from the outside world early into his sentence. With remissions and parole he could’ve been paroled four years earlier, but he was Morgan the troublemaker, a dedicated Boobhead responsible for an inquiry into prison brutality. Although the inquiry had been a whitewash authorities extracted more than their pound of flesh by denying Morgan early release. But now he was rapt because he was beholden to no one. He slowly counted to twelve.

One…two…three…

‘Don’t look back at those gates,’ crims advised.

Looking back meant you were destined to return because you hadn’t learned your lesson. But after twelve years he wanted to see those solemn walls and sentinel towers; he wanted to see them from the other side. He wanted to imprint upon his mind a constant reminder of the world he was leaving, a world of confrontation, violence and inhumanity, a world least loved and least understood of all worlds.

So he turned defiantly gazing at the daunting four-sided clock tower whose time had been so regular he could’ve relied upon it to boil an egg, not that he’d seen a boiled egg inside. He sneered at the imposing gates, the symbol of punishment, the massive walls incongruously topped with barbed wire – the ornery nature of barbed wire – as his Uncle Laurie was so fond of saying.

Up yours!

He sneered at the immaculately kept flower beds outside the main gates.

‘It can’t be that bad inside. Look at all the flowers,’ he imagined the good citizens reasoning.

He glanced again at the clock-face whose hands appeared stuck on 9.30 am in mockery of Dylan’s classic song, "The Times They Are a’Changing".

But have they really changed? The Beatles might have come and gone, and Vietnam, everything’s metric and decimal whatever, but people still have two arms and two legs. I’m still the same as them.

He remembered Egghead standing in the A Division circle, screaming at screws, ‘In the kingdom of my dreams I have nothing I have everything – with apologies to Sodo.’

But Morgan knew he’d be starting from the back of the queue.

In my kingdom I have nothing I have everything.

A Courier Services car arrived as the minute-hand jumped to 9.31. A whipper-snipper of a lad leapt out and approached Morgan, the only person outside the prison.

‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Who’re you?’ demanded Morgan.

‘I’ve a delivery but I need a name.’

‘Could be a fucken bomb!’

‘Then we’re both in trouble,’ laughed Whipper-snipper.

‘Morgan.’

‘Sign here.’

Morgan signed Johnny Morgan for the second time that morning. Whipper-snipper handed him a Manila envelope then disappeared faster than he’d arrived. Inside was a banker’s cheque for five thousand dollars: just the cheque, no explanation or hint of the benefactor.

‘Fucking good one!’

He had no idea who sent it and he certainly didn’t sneer at their generosity.

Fuck the queues!

He walk to a tram stop two blocks away.

‘You take a cheque?’ Morgan asked the middle-aged female conductor.

She smiled, indicating the ride was on her.

What about taking me home for a quickie? he wanted to suggest.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked.

She nodded. That was the first thing he’d do, get himself some new threads. The times they are a’changing, he silently sang.

Right Eye.

Spooks and Morgan drove single file into an enormous corrugated iron warehouse converted into a panel beating factory. Originally the warehouse had been a specialised automotive workshop where antique wooden bucks served as stamping moulds for custom built cars for the wealthy. Now the bucks were memorabilia displayed in dusty alcoves. In the age of putty filler, fibreglass and mass-produced components, the bucks were fleeting reminders of a family business built upon vehicle assembly and restoration. For this industry, times had certainly changed. Night-shift mechanics were already working on damaged cars.

Morgan drained his can, jumped from the car.

'Uneo oneo a bosso ten a seckoneer?’ he said, imitating Spooks for the benefit of workers gigging at the Volvo.

Spooks removed tools from the Volvo boot. In the back seat Morgan saw an unopened carton of Benson and Hedges. He threw them to Spooks who erupted into his rock-n-roll version of a soft-shoe shuffle. Morgan loved the way Spooks could switch from one reality to another, defying prediction.

‘Astral travelling, mate,’ Spooks explained. ‘You white fellas should give it a go.’

'Dunno oneo, Boss, unono onu…' mimicked Morgan.

Workers helped themselves to tools while Spooks smashed the Volvo’s undamaged tail lights. Upping the ante, as they called it, was accepted practice in the panel beating industry.

Another driver took Spook’s tow truck out. Hydraulic emerged from his dimly-lit office. His great grandad built the workshop but when franchising threatened the panel beating industry it was Hydraulic who introduced tow trucks or dollies as he called them. And when franchising created a glut in the tow truck market, Hydraulic proved to be a step ahead of his competition through his ‘innovative strategies’, like hiring Morgan who’d walked in off the street and wanted to drive a tow truck. But there were no vacancies. Working as a Towie’s monkey never occurred to Morgan until Hydraulic suggested giving it a try.

Hydraulic, his hard face etched with grease lines, was accompanied by an obese middle-aged man with a distinctive right-eye twitch. Morgan thought they made an unlikely couple as Right Eye gave the impression he wouldn't have known what hard work was. Hydraulic photographed the damaged Volvo with his new fandangled Polaroid camera, then stuck the instant photo on a noticeboard along with other photos.

'Who's that with Hydraulic?' Morgan asked panel beaters.

'Dunno.'

'Looks heavy.'

They laughed at Morgan's pun.

'You met Johnny Morgan?' Hydraulic asked Right Eye.

'Can't say I have,' replied Right Eye deliberately looking away.

Morgan knew Right Eye had been watching him.

'Johnny, this here's Alan Merrick.'

Right Eye held out his hand. Morgan squeezed hard, but Right Eye refrained from showing pain.

Alan Merrick? I know that name.

'Come in and have a drink,' Hydraulic offered Morgan.

'Sure…ar, you met Spooks?' Morgan asked Right Eye. Morgan hated the way some people pretended Spooks was invisible.

'Can't say as I have,' said Spooks getting in first.

Morgan thought Right Eye’s voice was surprisingly high pitched for his overweight stature. Right Eye shook Spooks' hand. Morgan smiled as he watched Spooks squirm and pull his hand away. He knew Right Eye was out to impress.

'Spooks? I like that name. Where'd you get it? Off the elders?' laughed Right Eye.

'Na,' said Spooks, eyeing the gold crucifix around Right Eye's neck. 'Father Michael from the Boys’ Home.'

Morgan hated small talk: the state of the weather or what’s the best car to drive. But that’s what they spoke about. Morgan noticed there was something about the way Right Eye listened to everything he said that aroused his suspicion he was being appraised.

Spooks could hold his own in any company, however, they purposely ignored the Aborigine and it irritated Morgan. He finished his third can for the day and grabbed a racing guide from the table.

'What've you got in this?' Morgan asked Spooks.

'Fuck all,' laughed Spooks.

'Never heard of it,' joked Hydraulic.

'I have,' said Right Eye. 'It's by Gang Bang out of They're A Weird Mob.'

Spooks laughed and performed his quick soft-shoe which was interpreted by Hydraulic that Spooks was pissed.

'Who've you got, Johnny?' asked Right Eye.

‘Don’t bet on the dish lickers,’ quipped Morgan.

‘Why not?’ inquired Right Eye.

Morgan shrugged. He wasn’t interested in explaining to someone he’d just met that while he loved punting he hated giving his hard-earned money to bookies. In the nick, bookies were half-pye screws allowed to operate only if they kept authorities informed of the goings-on. Plus, he knew from his old man’s association with greyhounds how corrupt the scene was; if you weren’t in the know you were just another mug punter.

‘Black Magic,’ declared Spooks.

Morgan shook his head.

‘Who’d you pick?’ asked Spooks.

'No one,' replied Morgan, but added. 'Maybe Fly Boy.'

'The favourite?' said Right Eye in a tone implying Morgan took the easy way out but also letting Morgan know Right Eye was well informed.

'Is it?'

'Should be,' declared Right Eye knowingly.

The meaningless conversation further annoyed Morgan.

'And what d'you do?' he asked Right Eye.

'Bit of this, bit of that,' teased Right Eye.

'Alan's a security agent, with his own firm,' offered Hydraulic.

Morgan sensed Hydraulic was purposefully singing the praises of Right Eye.

Of course. Knew I'd heard of the bastard!

He noticed Right Eye studying his reaction.

‘You're an ex-copper, aren't you?' accused Morgan.

'They drummed him outa the force,' said Hydraulic almost apologetically.

'What for, bashing crims?' challenged Morgan.

'One of the reasons,' admitted Right Eye.

At least you’re honest.

'The coppers hate him, Johnny.'

'Hah!'

'True. Isn't that right, Alan?' declared Hydraulic.

'You could say that.'

'No difference between a security agent and a jack,' spat Morgan.

'Course there is,' snapped Hydraulic.

'Fucking crap!'

'Settle down, Johnny. You've gotta bloody settle down. I've been telling him for weeks to slow down, haven't I, Spooks?'

'Uneo oneo…'

'You'll never get anywhere snapping at everyone.'

‘Slow down and you give everyone a chance to catch up,' quipped Morgan.

'Bullshit!’ snapped Hydraulic.

Morgan hadn’t intended on drinking another can. Fuck you, Hydraulic! He opened another.

'Johnny might have something there,' added Right Eye. 'Depends what type of race you’re in. No good pacing yourself for a sprint.'

Right Eye opened his wallet then plonked two fifties on the table.

‘A hundred says Fly Boy loses,’ he challenged, one eye staring directly at Morgan.

‘I don’t bet,’ declared Morgan.

‘It’s not a bet. Fly Boy wins, Spooks is a hundred richer.’

Spooks went to grab the money, winked, and pulled his hand away.

‘And if it loses?’ queried Morgan.

Right Eye turned to Hydraulic who was tuning the radio.

‘Got an envelope?’

Hydraulic gave Right Eye an envelope. Right Eye wrote on the inside, sealed the envelope and pushed it towards Morgan who left it on the table. They listened to the dog race. Spooks cheered Fly Boy home. Right Eye remained impassive. Spooks grinned and picked up the hundred then held out fifty for Morgan to take. Morgan shook his head. Spooks returned all the money to the table.

‘Take it,’ Right Eye said to Spooks who reluctantly pocketed it.

'Told you,' Morgan said to Hydraulic.

'Anyone can pick a winner when they've got nothing on it,' muttered Hydraulic.

'What type of race you in, Johnny?'

Morgan looked at Right Eye. It was the wrong question for an ex-copper to ask an ex-crim unless there was an ulterior motive. Morgan didn't answer.

'He's in every damn race!'

Morgan didn't react to Hydraulic.

'Aren't you, son? Nightclubs, motor car racing…'

Right Eye raised his left eyebrow, inviting Morgan to respond.

'Bit of this, bit of that,' quipped Morgan.

Right Eye smiled.

'Probably a good idea anyway,' said Hydraulic, opening another can. 'Reckon you've seen your best days as a squinter here. Wouldn't you say, Spooks?’

Spooks refused to be drawn in.

‘Sooner or later coppers and other drivers get to know you and that's it. You'd've known that, Johnny.'

Morgan knew it but didn't like the way Hydraulic put it. He suspected it was the beer talking. But Hydraulic had been one of the few people prepared to give him a go; it was a bridge he didn't want to burn.

'And it'd be no good putting you in a truck,' Hydraulic continued. 'You’re too hot headed!'

Spooks snickered to warn Morgan not to fall in.

'In this business you've gotta learn to control your temper, not snap every time someone offers advice,' added Hydraulic.

‘You’d know!’ said Morgan standing and dismissing Hydraulic by turning to Spooks. 'Why don't you bring Karen to the club tonight, Spooks?'

'Dunno, mate.'

'I can get you in and I'll get the best table for you.'

'I'll see.'

'I've gotta get going. See you,' said Morgan solemnly.

'Where you off to?' asked Right Eye.

None of your fucking business!

'Another race,' added Hydraulic dismissively.

‘Might see you later then,’ said Spooks attempting to calm a potentially volatile situation.

Morgan glared at Hydraulic, noticed the envelope on the table but deliberately ignored it.

Ganger, old mate, you’d be proud of what you taught me.

He remembered his old mate from the nick and his advice about not opening envelopes if you were looking for easy solutions. He breathed deeply, smiled at Right Eye and spoke calmly.

'I work on the door at The Fridge.'

'What time d'you start?' asked Right Eye.

'Ten, ten thirty. Why?' he answered purposefully trying to give the impression he started work when it suited him.

'Can you give us a lift? I live near there.'

Morgan hadn’t expected that.

'Ar…yeah, okay…' he said turning to Spooks. 'Eleven o'clock, with Karen?'

'Fall down black fellow…jump up white fella ha, ha, ha…' chortled Spooks as they left.

‘Hey!’ shouted Hydraulic. ‘Aren’t you going to open the envelope, see what you might’ve lost?’

Morgan didn’t answer. You open it, cunt! Hydraulic couldn’t help himself. He ripped the envelope and yelled to Morgan as he read it.

‘If I win, you can drive me home.’

So, there’s more to you than meets the eye. Let’s see what you have in store for me.

‘Even when you lose you win,’ reasoned Right Eye. ‘That’s my motto.’

On the way to his car Morgan felt uneasy in Right Eye's presence. He walked faster than normal and noticed a slight limp in Right Eye’s left leg.

‘Gout,’ explained Right Eye. ‘The king’s disease. My quack said to lose weight, give up the grog, stop smoking, no more red meat and give seafood away. I told him to chop my big toe off. So he fucking did. Now I’ve only got gout in four toes!’

Morgan laughed and indicated for Right Eye to get in the car.

'What's Hydraulic pay you?' inquired Right Eye.

'Fifty.'

'A car?'

'A night.'

'Hmmm. What d'you do at The Fridge?'

'Work on the door.'

'Bouncer?'

'Yeah.'

'Security, in other words?'

'Hah.'

'That's what we call it.'

‘Look, mate. I don't lock people up. There's a difference.'

Right Eye asked Morgan to stop at a pub while he bought some cans. Morgan stayed in the car. Right Eye had hit a nerve. Bouncers were would-be coppers no matter how you dressed them up. Before he hit the nick, bouncers were despised because most were coppers moonlighting. And those who weren’t acted as if they were. Inside, no one admitted to being a bouncer. It was akin to being a debt collector or a hoon. But police admin outlawed police moonlighting and the entertainment industry turned to martial art clubs, boxers and wrestlers for protection. In the wink of an eye bouncers became legitimate. When Morgan applied for a job as a bouncer he avoided pondering the ethics of his application. To him it was a stepping stone to bigger things, similar to lawyers who worked as prosecutors before becoming judges, or accountants who owned sex shops. If Morgan wanted his own nightclub he had to forget so-called ethics and work his way up.

'Here,' said Right Eye opening a can for Morgan and placing the remainder on the back seat.

Morgan drank deep.

‘You’re not having one?’ he asked Right Eye.

'They tell me you're on the move.'

Morgan didn't answer. He was annoyed at Right Eye assuming the right to become personal.

'On the lookout,' continued Right Eye.

'I just wanta make a quid.'

'That you've done everything except advertise in the papers.'

Morgan laughed at Right Eye's frankness. But it was true. He wanted it all and he'd let everyone know.

'I've gotta call in and see a bloke in High Street. Not far,' said Right Eye casually.

They stopped outside a private house that seemed unoccupied. The front area had been converted to a car wrecker's yard. Two large trucks were secured behind a Cyclone-wire security fence surrounding the entire premises. A tattooed-truckie in sleeveless overalls was locking up. He looked as if he could handle himself.

'I've come for the Kenworth,' Right Eye said to the robust truckie.

‘You’re not gettin' it. Now piss off!' snarled the truckie.

Morgan resisted an urge to explain that he wasn't Right Eye's offsider.

'I've got a court order.'

'Stiff.'

‘I'm just trying to save you trouble, son.'

'You're not trying to save me anything. I told you blokes I'd catch up on the payments. Now I'm about to lock up, so if you don't mind.'

'That it over there?' asked Right Eye pointing to a new Kenworth wedged behind the second truck.

'Sure is,' smiled the truckie. 'I'd say you'd have a bitta trouble repossessing it, wouldn't you?'

Morgan looked at the high Cyclone-wire fence and agreed with the truckie.

'Now you've got five seconds before I let the dogs inta the yard.'

Right Eye lunged towards the truckie, breasting him.

'Don't ever make the mistake of threatening me, son.'

Morgan saw the look of fear in the truckie's eyes.

'Look, Mister, I don't want any trouble with you or anyone. I said I'd meet those payments and I will.'

'You sort that out with your company. My job's to get that truck and I'm gonna get it.'

Right Eye stepped back. Morgan watched the rigidity drain from the truckie's face.

‘Standing over me won't get you anywhere.'

'No one's standing over you, son.'

'Just get out! And I'll tell you one thing. Next time they send someone round to stand over me I'll smash the truck to ratshit and tell the insurance company you fucking did it. See how much they pay you then!'

Morgan could see the truckie was about to release the Alsatians. Right Eye drew a gun from his coat and pointed it at the dogs.

'It'll be the last time you ever use them, son.'

The truckie froze. Morgan and Right Eye walked from the yard. There was no limp in Right Eye’s stride.

In the car Morgan observed Right Eye's hand was steady as he handed him a can and the twitch had momentarily vanished. Morgan wondered if Right Eye had just auditioned for him.

'What's a truck like that worth?' asked Morgan.

'Why?'

'Just wondering.'

'Probably a hundred grand.'

'What, just for a truck?'

'Insurance company pays me five if I get it for them.'

'Five hundred?'

'Ha ha ha…Son, I've gotta live. Five grand.'

'Just to repossess a truck?'

'There's a bit of danger money in that, you know.'

'How you gonna get it?'

'I'm not.'

'How come?'

'Not worth it.'

'What, for five grand?'

'Son, it's irretrievable. Different if it was out on the street. But he's got it locked away like Fort Knox.'

'What about the court order?'

'Son, if there was a court order the company wouldn't need me, would it?'

'Hmmm, so what're you gonna do?'

'Leave it.'

'Why?'

‘I get three of them a week. If I pull one off, I'm sitting pretty.'

It dawned on Morgan that he was being handed another envelope.

I’m game.

'What's it worth if I get it for you?'

Right Eye took a swig from Morgan’s can and shook his head.

'I mean it,' asserted Morgan.

'Not worth the trouble. You'll only bring the law down and the company won't pay.'

'If I get it without involving the law, what's it worth?'

'Two.'

'Two grand!'

Right Eye nodded.

'Come on. You said it's worth five.'

'A bloke's gotta live.'

'Two and a half?'

Right Eye nodded.

'Where d'you want it delivered?'

Right Eye wrote an address and put it in the glove box.

'If you come undone, I don't know you.'

Morgan wanted to say, you don’t know me anyway, but thought better of it.

'Drop in at The Fridge tomorrow night. Might even get you in for nothing, though if anyone asks, I don't fucking know you.'

Right Eye laughed. Sometimes Morgan felt he was standing still while the world passed by. The fifty bucks a night he’d got from Hydraulic was okay, but he was sick of playing the squinter. If it hadn't been for Spooks he would've given the tow trucks a miss long ago.

People said Right Eye had done terrible things, and there were plenty in the nick to verify that. But if there was an extra quid to be had from Right Eye it was the break he'd been looking for. Morgan saw no value in being a pessimist or an optimist. In this kingdom, you had to be a realist.

The Fridge

Fatman said people invent fears to keep their lives exciting. So you tell yourself the guy staring at you wants to have a go at you, or the coppers are there because they’re going to bust you. These fears generate other fears; then it's not just the copper, but his mates. And his mates just happen to be would-be crims. Trouble is, in the unsavoury milieu of the low life, many of the fears prove to be warranted, so there's a tension that's perpetuated and the rub is that you grow to like the rush the tension gives you.

It's around the edges of this milieu that tension is severest, that players want the best of both worlds. It's exciting to mix with crims and prostitutes on the one hand, and executives and professionals on the other. That's why people go to The Fridge.

Fatman was different from most nightclub owners. He didn't care for appearance or pretension. If they didn't like him, too bad. They called him Fatman not just because he was obese but because he had the volatility of an atom bomb and you didn't know the depth of his destructive capabilities. He was the boss and that gave him plenty of leeway to operate on the principle that the more depravity and debauchery you offered, the more competitive you were. So he let pros in free and gave them a spoil. His floor shows were a step ahead of the vice squad; the music was disco and word of mouth hailed The Fridge as the best nightclub in town. It was also the hardest to control, with a reputation of being a blood house. But that didn't deter customers.

When Morgan heard The Fridge was looking for a new bouncer he went straight to the front of the queue.

‘Where’s the owner?’ he asked, ignoring the haystack guarding a dimly lit door.

‘Who’s asking?’ inquired the door bitch dressed like every crim’s fantasy.

Her off-sider, The Lamp Post, looked seven feet tall. He kept his eyes glued on the snaking queue for any indication of trouble. Morgan was skeptical of bouncers’ so-called ability to suss out troublemakers. What, are they ESP experts or something?

‘You can call me Johnny,’ he replied to the Door Bitch but his eyes focused on the haystack, who he assumed was the man.

‘Johnny, why don’t you wait at the back of the queue like everyone else?’ she said nicely.

‘Because there’re too many people already there,’ replied Morgan cheekily.

She’d never heard that one before. Fatman stepped from the doorway.

‘Tell me…Johnny, why should I hire you?’

Morgan was impressed by Fatman’s astuteness.

‘With me on the door, I’ll stop the fairdinkum fights, which means more people in, which means more profits.’

Fatman smiled at Morgan’s confidence who looked up at The Lamp Post, implying he already had someone who could do that.

‘And how would you stop fights?’

Morgan moved close to Fatman.

‘You think I’m applying because I’m a pussy?’

Morgan knew that unnerved Fatman.

‘Tell me more.’

‘I’ll create an attitude where everyone wants to be a good guy then people come here because they don’t want to fight. Pretty soon there’ll be no fights.’

‘And you’ll be out of a job.’

Morgan laughed.

‘No, then I’ll hire you to run my club.’

Fatman glanced at The Lamp Post for his approval. The Lamp Post didn’t move a muscle which was his way of saying yes. Morgan was hired, given a maroon dinner jacket and ordered to do whatever The Lamp Post told him. Morgan thanked The Lamp Post who introduced Susie the Door Bitch, whose job was to accept or reject patrons. For the next hour Morgan watched Susie who would’ve been at home in a fruit shop determining which fruit to bin or display in the window. She subtly indicated to The Lamp Post if she considered someone a problem. When The Lamp Post blocked their path most accepted their fate. Morgan knew they submitted because of Lamp Post’s imposing size. He wondered how The Lamppost would handle someone with a heap of dash like himself.

During a lull Morgan asked The Lamp Post why he’d given him the okay. The Lamp Post looked down at Morgan and just grinned.

‘I might be a dud in a fight,’ declared Morgan.

‘You’re no dud, son.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You’ve got dangerous eyes. Fearsome eyes, they can handle themselves to a degree. Moody eyes are a pain in the arse. But dangerous eyes are explosive. That’s the type of eyes I want alongside me.’

Morgan smiled and looked at the ground.

‘But anyone can throw a punch. Let’s see how good you are at preventing trouble. That’s the mark of a good bouncer,’ added The Lamppost.

Morgan grinned through his eyes.

Susie indicated two drunks in suits staggering towards the club. The Lamp Post stepped back allowing Morgan to handle them. He’d creamed his audition, now for the real deal. Two prostitutes in micro minis arrived before the suits. Susie gestured them in. Both acknowledged The Lamp Post and patted Fatman’s stomach as they passed him in the doorway. Morgan stepped in front of the drunks.

‘Sorry, gents, not tonight,’ he said extra politely.

‘How come?’

‘We’re regulars. Ask the owner,’ said the other arrogantly.

Morgan turned to Susie for confirmation.

‘We’re full,’ she mouthed to Morgan.

‘You’re full,’ declared Morgan.

‘Shit! Fucken shit!’

‘We’re full,’ confirmed Susie.

‘Make up your fucken mind!’ cried the first drunk.

‘What about those sluts you just let in?’ said the other.

‘They’re the boss’s daughters,’ quipped Morgan.

Morgan was sure he heard The Lamp Post snigger.

‘Like fucking hell!’

‘You’ve had too much to drink, okay?’ said Morgan getting angry.

The first drunk put an arm round Morgan’s shoulder and took him aside.

‘Look, mate, we just wanta good time, okay?’

He pushed fifty bucks in Morgan’s top pocket. Morgan palmed the fifty then immediately returned it to the drunk. The other drunk staggered over, chested Morgan.

‘Don’t touch my mate!’

Morgan nearly head butted the drunk but instead put his face on his.

‘Pardon?’ asked Morgan.

The drunk recognised the danger and backed away. His mate grabbed his arm.

‘Carn, let’s go to a decent place.’

They staggered off. Then one sharply turned.

‘I’ll be fucken seeing you!’ he screamed at Morgan.

‘You bring the Vaseline, love,’ laughed Morgan.

‘Fucken cowards!’ screamed the other.

‘Best to respond immediately,’ Susie said to Morgan. ‘Don’t let them get the upper hand.’

She looked at The Lamp Post implying maybe Morgan wasn’t up to the job.

‘Smash them, you mean?’ snapped Morgan.

She didn’t respond. Morgan looked at The Lamp Post.

‘I thought that’s what you didn’t want.’

The Lamp Post laughed and so did Susie. Then he got it.

‘Bastards,’ laughed Morgan.

‘You did a real good job, Johnny,’ she whispered.

‘Keep my fucken family outa it,’ bellowed Fatman going inside.

‘Don’t worry,’ said The Lamp Post joking. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

Within a week Morgan definitely had the hang of it. When a blue started inside he kinged the troublemaker and threw everyone involved outside. If anyone wanted to back-up he accommodated them. He had the ability to summon his beast by turning his anger inward. And when the beast emerged there was no stopping him. It didn’t prevent fights but it certainly reduced them. Patrons quickly realised Morgan was the most ferocious bouncer around; exactly how he wanted it. And The Lamp Post knew he’d made the right decision. Even Susie smiled when he winked at her.

What fascinated Morgan was the number of coppers who liked associating with knockabouts. It was more than being able to big-note or take a gig at the riff-raff; coppers actually enjoyed the company of knockabouts and went out of their way to make themselves known. Fatman said it was because there was little difference between crims and coppers and everyone liked a good time.

'How come crims don't go to functions the pigs hold?' asked Morgan.

'Like I said, everyone wants a good time.'

Fatman and Morgan were at ease in each other's company. Morgan was a natural in the nightclub scene; thirty-two, ambitious and willing. It wasn’t long before Fatman made a crucial decision.

'I'm taking you off the door and putting you permanently inside,' he said.

Morgan was rapt. Everything was on the up and up now.

'Does that mean I get to act like an owner?'

'It means you put a muzzle on that temper.'

Morgan showed annoyance by looking away. But he didn’t know if Fatman was genuinely serious.

'Someone's gotta educate you, Johnny. Come into the office.'

They entered a small room overlooking the main room, via a two-way mirror.

'Sit down, Johnny.'

Fatman opened two sets of books which he wrote in as he spoke. Morgan realised Fatman was purposely making him aware he skimmed off the top, something Morgan had suspected.

'See the pickle leaning on the bar, brown leather jacket?'

'The bloke from Sydney?'

'Tex, he calls himself. You know him?'

'Introduced himself. One of your partners or something.'

Fatman scoffed.

'I want you to keep a close check on him.'

'How d'you mean?'

‘He's not a partner. This joint's owned by different shareholders. Some from outa town.'

Morgan knew outa town meant Sydney and that there was an on-going feud between Melbourne and Sydney heavies. Fatman lowered his voice, an indication for Morgan to listen carefully.

'He's a friend…of one of them…and they've got it into their fucking heads… Let’s just say they're would-be accountants, always looking for more than there is.'

Morgan laughed to let Fatman know he knew what he was talking about.

'So just keep an eye on him.'

'Want me to give it to him?'

'Don't underestimate him, mate, he's no slug.'

'Ha, ha, ha…'

'Mate, I've seen you at your best and I've seen him heaps. Don't underestimate him.'

'You've never seen me at my best.'

Fatman ignored Morgan’s self-serving remark.

‘There's one other thing. I'm upping your take to three hundred a week. Now that's between you and me.'

'How come?'

'Fucked if I know, but if