The Rogers Dossier
He shuffled through the door of my office looking like something the cat had dragged in. But even the mangiest of felines would have been reluctant to have anything to do with my old friend Jimbo. We had known each other since we were kids at kindergarten and then primary school, but had maintained very little contact as adults. Jimbo liked to call himself an investigative journalist. And he was, if you could call someone who hosted a popular true-crime podcast a “journalist”. To be fair, he had broken the occasional big story, which was why I had reached out to him now.
I looked him up and down and was reminded of the old saying “he has a good head for radio”. I decided that it was a description which fitted Jimbo to a tee. “What have you got for me, Swifty?” Jimbo had never been big on meaningless pleasantries. It was a characteristic that I liked. He hadn’t commented on the bruises that I was still displaying like duffle-coat badges, but he had noticed them alright.
I wrenched open the big bottom drawer of my desk, and from right next to a half-empty bottle of Jameson I retrieved a folder full of papers, files, and photographs. It weighed heavy in my hands and even heavier on my mind. “Let’s just call this the Mick Rogers dossier,” I said, as I heaved the folder onto my desk where it landed with a thud. Instinctively, I glanced out through the dirty curtains and surveyed the quiet street below. Satisfied, I turned to Jimbo and gave him the scantest of details. “A friend gave me all this. Dodgy deals, bribery, extortion, intimidation, favours, secrets, immigration scams, export rorts. Originally, Rogers ran abattoirs. But he branched out. Plenty of names named, stretching all the way from western New South Wales to Sydney and Canberra. And beyond.” The man collected scandals the way other men collected speeding fines. Dredging it all up yet again had me considering the hidden bottle of Jameson, which I optimistically concluded was very much half-full.
Jimbo lit up a durry, exhaled, and surveyed me through the cigarette haze. “He roughed you up and now you want a little revenge?” I thought of Isabella Harris, safely ensconced with friends somewhere near Cottesloe Beach. Then I considered his question before responding. “There is a little more to it than that, Jimbo. Let’s just say that Rogers is a crook, and he and I do not see eye to eye. He deserves what is coming to him. And more besides.” Jimbo didn’t smile. I supposed that maybe, for all his success, immersing himself in bad news and the worst of human nature had robbed him of the ability to be light-hearted. “Jimbo, there is enough material in there for you to produce a podcast every week until Christmas.”
“You do know that he will come after whoever publishes this? And whomever he thinks gave that person the information…” His words hung in the air, mingling with the smoke from his cigarette. “I have nothing to lose, Jimbo. We will just have to hope that the authorities act before Mick Rogers does.” I slid the dossier toward him. Curiosity had triumphed over reluctance, and he opened it with a flourish. Page by page, the colour drained slowly from his face. “Good God. This is dynamite, Swifty. I’m not so sure about all this.” It seemed that reluctance was staging a comeback. Outside the window, rain had begun falling. Somewhere to the west, a clap of thunder sounded off like a distant artillery shell.
“Look, Jimbo. Somewhere in Sydney, Mick Rogers is running around still thinking that his secrets belong to only him. He is a loose cannon, and he needs to be brought down. I just assumed that you might be the person to assist me in doing that. If not, that is ok. I will look for someone else. But I am giving you the first bite of the cherry.” As a speech, it was hardly Churchill talking about “fighting them on the beaches”, but at this stage of proceedings it was all that I had. I lifted an eyebrow and looked at Jimbo, and waited for an answer.
For the first time that morning, Jimbo smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a man who was standing on the edge of a cliff, and deciding whether or not he should dive into the alluring but dangerous blue water that swirled far below. He sat silently for what seemed like minutes before he picked up the folder and placed it under his arm as delicately as if it were a bomb in need of defusing. It seemed that Jimbo had made the decision to jump after all. I prayed that the hidden currents were not strong enough to sweep him – and me – away.
You can read more from Smokie HERE
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Always North.
You had me at ‘bruises like duffle-coat badges’ Smokie. Another fine instalment. Cheers