Crooked Read Online Free Page B

conservative as you please.
    Browne, by contrast, wasn’t particularly interested in views, nor was he unduly concerned with the winning or losing, but in the game for its own sake. And so Charlie thought Reilly’s case might appeal to him.
    Browne was dressed in a grey chalk-stripe suit, white shirt and dark tie. His ears were puffed up like cauliflowers, his cheeks slightly flushed above the stubble, and his eyes squinted intermittently beneath round horn-rimmed goggles. He also whistled slightly when he breathed, from the burden of weight and the wastes of his cigar.
    â€˜He’s willing to rat out his Labor mates?’ said Browne, once Charlie unburdened himself.
    â€˜Oh, it’s more a matter of business, I think, than any road to Damascus.’
    â€˜Well then, I guess you’ve come to the right bloke.’ Browne grinned, sending his voice in a downward trajectory so that it travelled no further than the bar. ‘First up, I think you’ve got to understand that business kept its hands in its pockets, for the most part, the day Askin went out to campaign this last election. He wanted to do something for the rabble, the working man (the salt of the earth, the backbone of the country), drag his party somewhere the votes are, but the party doesn’t want to go. So money was tight throughout the election, with only the stalwarts like Frank Packer putting in. But Askin, he gets himself elected against the wildest expectations of many and he’s governing on a knife-edge, diverting the best part of his attention to the next round of votes. What are you drinking?’ he added.
    â€˜Whisky.’
    Browne snorted approvingly. ‘Only kind of poison that does the job right.’
    The bartender set down two glasses and poured in a finger of whisky. Charlie took a good pull. Browne downed his in a single gulp.
    â€˜Steady on,’ said Charlie.
    â€˜Why? I’m aiming for a wall-eyed hangover tonight.’
    Charlie lit a cigarette, before steering his friend back to the matter at hand.
    Browne went on, ‘Askin’s got his hands in the treasury tart-shop and things are looking up, but sometimes the taxpayer’s dollar isn’t enough. Or it’s just not the right sort of money that’s wanted.’
    â€˜And what sort is that?’
    Browne took a deep swallow from his second glass. ‘Chap in that kind of position … What he’s doing is collecting cash for the slush funds, the unofficial funds that help keep control of the Party.’
    A woman in fox furs sailed by.
    â€˜Of course, there’ll be something in it for you,’ said Charlie, with a prim tug to his tie.
    Browne laughed, ‘I dare say there will. And from Reilly I’m expecting double or nothing. But it’s not as grubby as you think,’ he added, striking a more serious pose. ‘Thing is, I never make any quid pro quo on the donations I get. I just say that, for a fee, I can get business in to see whoever it is in the government they’ve got a problem with. Take Reilly, for instance. I think you’ve got to let him know that it’s mostly just a matter of money. He’s got to put it in, and keep putting it in, until they come round to seeing him in a much brighter light.’
    Charlie stared about the shiny marble interior of the Long Bar. Underneath him, down the generous sweep of an exterior staircase, was Princes restaurant, over the road, the faded glory of Romanos, and to the rear of the lobby was the Wintergarden, with its solid blue walls and art deco stars on the ceiling. Together these institutions marked out the world in which the rarefied thing known as Sydney society gathered, and carried out its rituals in complete ignorance of the sufferings and wailings of the rackety metropolis rushing around it.
    â€˜What exactly can you do for me, Frank?’ said Charlie, taking the plunge.
    â€˜I can get you a pow-wow with the money boys, maybe