The Cross

By John S Rauseo

Kings Cross, Sydney Australia, 1948:
A town with a deep underbelly.
An ascending Boss of the Cross who’ll never stop.
An American private investigator who’ll unravel a city.

Jack Dallas, a private investigator from San Francisco is called out to Australia by a distraught family to investigate the death of a couple he once knew. Jack is hesitant to re-visit a place that will bring back troubling memories of the war. He fears his abilities are not what they used to be, but his instincts stir as he becomes further unsettled by the news of the deaths.

Jack arrives in town and begins his investigation only to be hit by obstacles and cultural nuances while struggling to get the answers he needs. As he continues to probe deeper into the case, Jack gradually uncovers a greater criminal plot.

When the name of a mysterious kingpin named the Boss of the Cross keeps surfacing, Jack senses he can link this underbelly player to the death of his friends, and other unsolved crimes in the Cross.

The Boss of the Cross hears of the American private investigator and becomes fearful the outsider will expose the true nature of his criminal activities. The Boss decides to deal with Jack for good.
Does Jack expose the real underbelly player once and for all? Will Jack survive the final battle with the Boss of the Cross? And will their deadly confrontation change Kings Cross forever?

Across a city’s bustling entertainment district full of nightclubs, hotels, and prostitution, to the country’s most famous Melbourne Cup horse race, John S Rauseo masterfully recreates the late 1940s in this twisting Australian crime thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John S Rauseo
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925786569

Book preview

Copyright

Prologue

Friday, 1 October, 1948

9.25 pm

Kings Cross – Sydney

A darkness enveloped the city by the harbour. The city nightscape was only cracked by yellow streetlights and vehicle headlights.

The sky was starless. The air warm and still. The evening storm had slowly moved out to sea.

Passing motor cars hurriedly wound through the metropolis. Scores of people mingled on a busy street footpath. Some chatted and laughed as they watched the city traffic drive by.

There was a palatable buzz around the city as the lemmings stepped out to a Friday night’s entertainment in the Cross.

The Ritz-Savoy was a grand old hotel uptown at the Cross. A large old neon sign, attached to its outside, shone like the breaking sun on an overcast day. The hotel stood in a district abundant with glitzy lights and fast action as cashed-up crowds looked for a good time. The stately Ritz-Savoy postured its grandeur on a lively street corner block. The hotel rose four-storeys high with each of its windows enclosed by an intricately designed wrought-iron balcony. Its roofline was framed to look like a crown.

Inside the Ritz-Savoy, Big Willy Maddox reclined lazily in a hotel armchair. He sat adjacent to the front foyer doors and faced the reception desk. Willy chewed gum as he read the latest Phantom comic book. He wore a sports jacket, expensive slacks and black leather tie-up shoes. The shoes were immaculately polished to a high-gloss sheen. It was a habit he’d acquired during his time in the army. His suits were all hand-made now and he took up a lot of cloth. Willy liked to keep his sandy hair just like a landing deck of an aircraft carrier, short back ‘n’ sides and flat on top. He was big – just like an aircraft carrier.

Willy looked at the wall clock above the reception desk. He scratched his head for a moment and thought. He knew he had Trixie in room 112. She had another twenty minutes. Lotta was in room 324 – she had forty, and Kitty had just now hooked up with a young, half-drunken sod.

Willy looked back at the wall clock.

It was nine-thirty.

Cherry Pie hadn’t shown herself yet.

It had been well over an hour.

Willy’s task was to keep an eye on the Girls. His job was to check out who picked them up and how long they were upstairs, and – more importantly ­– to make sure all the money was collected. If things ever got ugly and a customer didn’t pay, or if goods were damaged, he had instructions to bring the customer into line – physically. Willy had worked this routine for the past few weeks.

He also held the narcotics.

Willy peered up to the wall clock again and came to a decision. He gradually rose from his armchair, grabbed his hat and lumbered towards the staircase at the back of the reception desk. Thunder rumbled softly in the background as he ascended the stairs.

Willy made it up to the second landing and slowly looked at the door numbers. He found room 215. He stopped in front of it and listened, but heard no sound.

He knocked on the door and opened it. The room was cast in shadows. It felt heavy, gloomy. The window facing the street let in intermitted flashes of light from the neon sign outside.

Cherry, you know it’s— It was all he got out.

Flash.

Willy heard a sobbing noise.

He scanned to his right until his gaze stopped at the window. He looked down beneath it and saw a crouching figure – a naked figure.

Flash.

The man sat on the floor, shaking his hunkered head and rocking backwards and forwards, mumbling to himself, No…no…no… He turned to Willy with glazed eyes.

Flash.

Willy took a step towards the man, then stopped and looked across the room towards the bed. There he saw a sight that made him stagger back on his heels.

Flash.

There was a motionless body spread-eagled across the bed, face-up.

Flash.

It was Cherry Pie.

Her head hung over the bed edge. There were dark smudges around the top of her neck. Even in this light Willy could see Cherry’s face was blue. The rest of her body was as white as snow. Her eyes were wide open and bulged from their sockets.

One thought overwhelmed Willy’s mind as he struggled to comprehend the scene in front of him.

She was dead.

Flash.

Chapter One

I slowly slid back into consciousness.

Noise echoed into my head – then slowly faded away.

The inside of my skull spun like a roulette wheel while a thick pea-soup fog clouded my soggy mind. I gradually peeled open my eyes. I shook my head from side to side and swallowed a bitter taste in my mouth. The bottom of a sewer flashed through my brain.

Why am I here? I thought.

The words kept hitting me like a sledgehammer.

I slowly sat up and lifted the brim of my hat. I looked around my crowded cabin with portholes. I felt like a cheap imported sardine that was shoe-horned into a flying tin can. The tin can was a Douglas DC-6 flying bird called Discovery. Our final destination was the other side of the world. We’d been airborne for more than thirty-six hours over the past few days.

I’d left San Francisco on Thursday afternoon at midday and flew to my first stop, Honolulu, Hawaii, the first of three. I’d only been in a flying tin can a couple of times and I always hated the thought of flying. My first time was five years ago, during the war in 1943… a flight I’d never forget. The platoon flew from Port Moresby through the Owen Stanley Mountains, over the Kokoda pass to Dobodura, New Guinea. A few hours later, we went into combat for life and country against the Japs.

I sighed and shook my head again.

Coming back from the war hadn’t been easy for me, or my business. It was hard to adjust to a normal, civilian life. My only escape had been to live out of the bottom of a scotch bottle. Now, I was flying halfway to hell with a fear I’d be confronted by the memories of my war years. I was flying back to a town where these memories had a foothold – when life was different, and the world was a different place.

I realised we were getting close to our destination. A stewardess moved around the cabin to check all passengers were properly strapped into their seats. My seat was at the back of the forward cabin on the starboard side. Our bird was full. We had forty-eight passengers and eleven crew on board. The aisle in the middle of the tin can was narrow. Luckily for the busy stewardesses, they were all on the slender side.

People around me gripped their seat arm rests, as we all felt our flying bird start to descend. I looked out of my porthole window. Faded fingers of light stretched into the dusky sky as the sun started to dip below the visible horizon. The DC-6 broke through the layers of scattered clouds and I saw a sprawling city, slowly being enveloped by nightfall. It reminded me of the harbour city, San Francisco, on an early twilight evening.

The DC-6 lowered its nose and turned to head out to the sea harbour. People started to grip their arm rests a little tighter now. From my porthole the airport was to my right. There was a cluster of buildings positioned on the upper right side of the airfield.

We started a steep descent and the aircraft wobbled around like a staggering drunk. The aero-plane’s altitude dropped, and the pit of my stomach began to do flip-flops.

A moment later, the DC-6’s rear tyres hit the tarmac like a hammer as the cabin shook violently. I sunk back into my seat and closed my eyes. I felt relief, exhaustion and gratitude that I’d finally arrived.

The plane slowly taxied across the airfield and made its way to the airport buildings. The vibration in the cabin began to ease. Finally, the only thing I heard was the noise of people getting up from their seats. The chatter grew louder as they all moved towards the open front door of the cabin. I sighed and got up unsteadily.

I grabbed my coat and fumbled towards the front of the cabin like a dizzy moth. I paused at the open door of the aircraft and felt nausea flood my body, as a barrage of thoughts began to hit me – flashbacks of war and fighting, of Brodie and New Guinea, of Kings Cross and Sydney, as they stomped across my brain. I leaned to one side of the doorway and let the other passengers disembark.

I took a deep breath and focused on where I was.

Remember why you’re here – Brodie. You gotta find out why he died, I said to myself.

I straightened up and shook my head just as a stewardess asked if I was all right. I nodded and said I felt better.

I slowly descended the stairway to the tarmac. The other passengers and I meandered like sheep across the tarmac and up towards the arrival gate of the main building. It felt great to have some space around me for a change. It was also great to move on my own two legs, now I remembered how to walk again. All I wanted to do was to get out of this creased blue suit, take a bath and pass out in a comfortable bed. A bed that didn’t move…

*

Two weeks earlier

San Francisco

On a cool autumn morning, around ten, I sat in my downtown office. I flicked a playing card into my upturned hat at the end of the desk. I had just gulped down my third cup of coffee. I flicked another card towards the hat, but then I stopped with the cards and got up to stretch. I had piles of paperwork from my last case scattered all around my upturned hat. The focus for my work had also been scattered lately.

I slowly panned around my office. I knew I’d been out of touch for a while. I started to reflect on the cases I’d worked on in those good years – when I wasn’t so screwed up. Those late nights, early mornings, day after day, week after week, and year after year. My desk had seen some of the best cases anyone could have worked on in this city. I’d thought about all the scum I’d taken off the streets and how I’d got justice for the everyday Joe.

There’d been some tight jams, and merciless crooked deals; I’d even knocked heads with some very powerful people, but I’d always seemed to come out on top. I knew my business had slowed in the past few years, but things were on the up…they had to be. I told myself I had to stop this malaise and pull myself up by the boot straps.

I sat back at my desk when Val, my secretary, stormed in, waving a cablegram she’d just signed for in the front office.

Jack, you’re going to love this one!

I better, Val! The cards aren’t falling my way today. Now stop your flapping and give me the scoop. I resumed my card flipping.

Cablegram. It’s from Sydney, Australia. Listen to this Jack—

To Mister Jack Dallas STOP

My name is Janet Saunders STOP You may remember me as Carol’s sister STOP We met in 1943 STOP Jim and Carol have died in an unfortunate incident STOP On behalf of the Saunders family we would like to engage your services to come to Australia and look over the official investigation STOP We know you and Jim Brodie were friends during the war STOP Will cable you money and airfare if you confirm STOP

Australia, Jack – what do you think of that? asked Val. It’s a long way to send you a cablegram. Do you know a Janet Saunders from Sydney?

Suddenly, all the strings inside me broke.

I felt like someone had shot me right between the eyes with a gun. I blinked as scenes of people and places from another time, in another life five years ago, banged across my brain. Faces of Brodie…of Carol…of the Cross…of the war.

Jack? Do you know a Janet Saunders? Val asked again.

I looked up at her in a daze. Yeah, precious, and it’s a long story…

Val looked at me. She could see how my thoughts had engulfed my mind. She waited while I collected myself.

Val knew I’d changed since the war. She had worked as my office assistant since early ’41 and knew me better than most. I never went into details about my time in the war, and, fortunately, Val didn’t push it. She recognised I was in pain… the pain of what I’d seen, and what I’d done – the pain I felt behind my eyes. She knew I’d hidden it in a part of my brain that was buried away.

Val could see the floodgates open as waves of emotions washed over me. She waited until I sighed. I looked up at her and then told her about my time in Australia, and about Sergeant First Class James Mitchell Brodie.

I said everyone just called him Brodie. He was married to Carol, his Australian wife. Last time I’d seen Brodie was ’45. First time I saw him was early ’42. Brodie and our platoon came together to train and then fight the Japs while attached to the 163rd regiment of the 41st Infantry Division. Everyone went to Hell and back in the jungles of New Guinea and the Philippines.

I recounted how Brodie received injuries in New Guinea in early ’43 and was shipped back to Sydney. That’s when he met Carol. Carol was a twenty-year-old trainee nurse at the convalescence hospital. Brodie fell head over heels. The platoon didn’t see Brodie back until May. It was later that year that Brodie, the boys and I went to Sydney on R&R leave. That was when I’d met Carol and her sister, Janet.

I recounted how Carol was graceful, passionate and beautiful. A million-in-one gal, as Brodie used to say. It was something no one could argue with. After the war, in ’45, we were all shipped back to the States. Brodie got his discharge papers and, a month later, booked a one-way trip back to Sydney to marry Carol.

I stopped talking and stared vacantly, trying to recall the last time I’d heard from Brodie. I remembered it was a postcard from Australia – that was a couple of years ago. It said he and Carol were happily married. He’d found good work and Carol was a nurse at a big hospital. They were living in a small house, not too far from town. He hoped to get out of the city one day and buy some land. That was it.

Now Brodie’s dead, I said to myself. I couldn’t believe it.

As in the depths of many seas, my mind began to drown in those memories.

After I recounted my story to Val, my temples began to throb. I needed a drink ­– a big drink. I reached for my desk drawer.

Val told me to hold up. Hey Jack, wait a minute now. Why don’t you take a few weeks and go down there? You’ve been there before, right? Wouldn’t it be good to see the place again? What’d you say? she asked while I held a vacant look on my face.

Listen to me, Jack, your bank balance is slipping way into the red at the moment! Take the job. It’ll be like a working holiday. Hey, you might even have some money left over for me.

My head started to spin.

"Don’t worry about the cases here, if you get any! I can always stall them until you get back. What, you’ll only be gone for a few weeks anyway, won’t you? But if not, I’ll throw them over to Bernie, he won’t mind. Remember I worked for him while you were away in the war, and he’s done a few cases for you recently … when you were too indisposed."

Her tone was sarcastic. I knew she was referring to when I was too drunk for work.

I rubbed my hand across the back of my neck. The trip would be a chance to change this crash course I was on at the moment. I knew I needed a fresh start. I wanted to escape my past and be the real person I used to be – the person I knew I still could be.

I started to refocus and thought of Brodie again. My mind began to clear but I was bothered by an echo that went through my skull.

What Brodie went through – his life – the war – he had a chance at a new life but now…

My brain started yelling at me. How is Brodie dead?

Chapter Two

I passed through airport customs and collected my bag.

I made a beeline for the terminal exit doors and stepped outside into a cool, still, starless evening.

At least it doesn’t smell like gasoline, I thought.

I put my bag down and inhaled deeply through my nose. I found the smell of a moist sea breeze, just like in San Francisco. The three days of cabin air and airports had left my nose drier than a bucket of sand.

I looked up and closed my eyes. I took another full, deep breath and exhaled slowly. I opened my eyes and saw a lot of dolled-up stiffs walking around the airport boulevard. I looked down to check my watch. It said 3.50am. I moved it to my ear to see if it was still ticking. It was and realised I was still on West Coast time.

I looked around again and yawned. I spotted a taxi rank across from the terminal entrance. There were about ten cabs all in a line waiting for a pickup. I grabbed my bag and headed straight for the rank. The cabs were all a fire-engine red colour with cream-coloured roofs and black wheel guards. A gold sign on each front passenger door read: De-Luxe Red Cabs – We take PRIDE in your RIDE.

Quaint, I thought, as I lumbered up to the first red vehicle in the rank. I opened the back door, threw my bag and crumpled overcoat inside, and flopped onto the seat. As I searched for my wallet, I said, Hey pal – Kings Cross, you know how to get there, right? Fire up this chariot and step on it? What do you say, bud?

The driver slowly turned around. Well, hello to you, Yank! But before we get moving, let me give you a little hint, sunshine. You ain’t going to be calling me bud or pal, you hear! She frowned. I am an all-Aussie girl!

She raised two fingers to the tip of her cap and saluted in my direction. With a nod and a toss of her head, the driver clashed the cab into first gear, slipped the clutch and drove off for my destination.

I did a double take.

Well, hello there! My apologies for the misunderstanding, Angel. I hadn’t realised you gals still drove cabs around here. The war’s over, you know?

Ha, ha, ha…thanks for the heads up, Yank, she responded with a sardonic look on her face. Then, without missing a beat, she said, I drove you septic tanks during the war. Some had tickets on themselves, others tried to get fresh but most kept it above board, ‘cause I always knew how to look after my own.

I pushed my hat up and gave her a long, cool look. My driver wore a visored dark green cap that sat on her head, tilted to one side. She was dressed in a khaki-coloured uniform, white shirt and tie. Her hair was black and tied into a tight bun. She had white translucent skin, hazel eyes, great lips and teeth that looked like pearls dropped in a rose.

Yeah, and I bet you can look after your own! I whistled. Listen, if you drove me, I would’ve remembered an attractive gal like yourself, but what’s with the septic tanks?

Rhyming slang. ‘Septic tank – Yank.’ You never hear that one during the war, cowboy? she said as she changed into third gear.

Can’t say I did, ma’am.

Say Yank, listen up, let’s just keep it at Sam for now, shall we. No ma’am, no pal, no anything – just Sam. But I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind being called Angel! I reckon I like that.

I raised my hand to acknowledge and slowly checked I had everything with me.

It looks like a ripper night tonight, she said as she peered at the horizon. So take a load off, Yank. It’s going be an all right ride into town. You just sit back there, take it easy and relax, mate.

I glanced down to my wristwatch, then yawned and shook my head. I searched for a cigarette through the pockets of my jacket.

Hey Angel, mind if I smoke?

Light up your durry, Yank, no problems.

I gave her a second look and figured she meant it was okay.

Say Sam, do you have the time on this side of the world? Oh, and what day’s it today?

I put my wristwatch to my ear to make sure it was still working.

Oh yeah, you’re probably still on your Yankee time, hey? I also reckon you’ve been in that suit for a week. Sam chuckled. It’s eight on the nose, Saturday night, October twenty-third.

Thanks, I said, as I reset my wristwatch. So tell me really, why are you still driving a cab nowadays – so long after the war?

Why am I driving a cab? Because I love it! I started driving cabs around 1942 while our boys were fighting in the big war. There was a shortage of able-bodied boys around town, so us gals had to pick up the slack and tackle a lot of bloke jobs. You know, like working in factories, working the farms, and even driving cabs.

I nodded and listened.

Incidentally, Yank, I need to inform you that you have the pleasure of knowing the best driver in this town. Anywhere you need to go – you can bank on me, twenty-four-seven. That’s no lie!

I bet I can, Angel – thanks, I think? Huh, twenty-four-seven?

You’ve to get with the program while you’re here, Yank. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Got it?

Oh yeah, got it.

I sat up and leaned my elbow over the front seat. By the way, let’s get the formal introductions in while I’m half awake. The name’s Jack – Jack Dallas. Born and bred in the city by the bay, San Francisco. I’m in insurance sales and a long way from home. I’m in town to catch up with some friends. So what’s your real name, Sam?

Well, Mister Dallas the Yank, everybody just calls me Sam. The name I was given was Samantha Taylor. Born and bred in the city by the harbour – Sydney, so you’re in my town now, Jack!

I grinned at the sassy woman in the front seat.

You sure are a lively one, ain’t you, Angel.

Sam gave me a sideward glance.

Heading to Kings Cross, hey Jack? The Cross does have a reputation; you know?

No, nothing like that, I’m just familiar with the place, that’s all. I stayed there during the war. It’s central to everything I need.

I looked at her eyes in her rear-view mirror as she drove.

Say Sam, can you recommend a hotel while I’m in town, not too steep on the pocket? The Cross has probably changed a lot in the past few years.

I looked out of my window to view the city skyline in the distance.

Sure thing. There’s a hotel named the Oxford. It’s small – homey like, and off the main strip in the Cross. Oh, and it’s easy on the pocket. You just tell ‘em I sent you, and they’ll give you mate’s rates. They’ll set you right. Believe me, Jack – straight up – on the level.

Mate’s rates, huh? I’ll take your word for it, Angel. Thanks.

Okay, the Oxford it is.

Sam changed gear, looked side to side through her windshield, then back at her rear-view mirror.

So Jack, when were you last in town? Where were you stationed during the war? You must’ve seen some action, right?

"Well, I first lay eyes on this town in April of ’42. We cruised through the entrance of Sydney harbour on a ship called the Queen Elizabeth. We’d left Frisco a couple of weeks earlier. The Queen was fourteen decks high and a thousand feet long. We had ten thousand boys on board that little boat. I remember the harbour was full of vessels that day with a flotilla of troop ships, destroyers, and cruisers all about."

Sam whistled through her teeth.

I continued. We unloaded and took a locomotive down to Seymour in Victoria. A couple of months later, they sent us up to Rockhampton to drill and train for the jungle warfare we were to face in New Guinea.

You saw action in New Guinea? Sam appeared enchanted as her eyes widened.

Yeah. We departed Australia on January first, 1943, for the defence of Port Moresby, New Guinea.

I bet you can tell some stories of that time, hey.

I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. I continued to look out my side window as we travelled through the suburbs in silence for a while.

So how long are you staying in our fair city, Jack?

Well, it depends on business.

I looked back at her eyes reflected through the rear-vision mirror.

Sam turned her head slightly and looked at me while she drove. You’re not an insurance guy. You don’t look like the type. She went back to the traffic in front of her.

I grinned.

Is that right, Samantha Taylor? So, what type do you reckon I am?

She pulled up to a set of traffic lights and spun around to face me.

Let me see. So you were in the big war. You were probably drafted – you wouldn’t have volunteered. You don’t look the volunteering type.

I smirked at that.

You’re probably thirty-six, maybe thirty-seven. You weigh around 180 pounds – no, I reckon, 175 and you’re possibly just on six foot. You’ve seen and done things you don’t want to talk about. You probably drink, obviously smoke, and are married…no, I reckon you were married, but no kids. She paused, then continued. Hell, I reckon you’re a cop. I can smell a cop a mile away – no matter what country they’re from. I also figure you’ve dealt with some real suspect people, right, Jack?

Why do you say that? I asked as my curiosity heightened.

I can see it in your face, but it’s mainly around your eyes.

It might just be the lack of sleep. I shrugged.

Nah, I reckon you’ve seen some bad shit!

She turned back to the traffic and gave me a quick glance through her rear-vision mirror.

I smirked to myself in the back seat. My head had started to lighten up.

Allow me to respond in kind, if I may.

Oh yeah, please do, Yank!

Let me see…so you’re twenty-eight, probably closer to thirty, not married – no, never married. You can hold your own, you think on your feet and you tell it like it is. You’ve got a keen eye for detail and probably read detective stories for a hobby. I noticed the pulp fiction mags on your front seat.

She grinned.

People interest you but you don’t take anybody’s shit, and you would certainly give as good as you get. You love the city and you know the streets of this town…’cause, as you said, you’ve been driving cabs for a while.

Sam nodded her head.

"I’m guessing you weigh 120, have a 32C cup and a pair of hips that are probably not too bad on the