Underbelly (30 page)

Roger Rogerson: cocky, courageous and corrupt. Dangerous with a gun and in the witness box.
RUSSELL McPHEDRAN: FAIRFAX

Dead beautiful: Sallie-Anne Huckstepp went to the Cross just before she was drugged, choked and drowned.
FAIRFAX

Making a point: an unrepentant Rogerson answers his critics. Lucky he didn't have a gun.
RICK STEVENS: FAIRFAX

Fred Cook: big scorer on and off the ground; looked after bent cops as if his life depended on it. It probably did.
COURTESY FRED COOK

Christopher Dale Flannery: when a Sydney police hit squad came south to get him, they missed. But his luck didn't hold.
SLY INK ARCHIVES

Mr Sin a.k.a. Abraham Gilbert Saffron: died after trying to sue the authors. Was it natural causes … or the long-term effects of unnatural acts?
SLY INK ARCHIVES

David McMillan: escaped from the ‘Bangkok Hilton' with a brolly and a balsawood pistol.
COURTESY DAVID McMILLAN

The silver fox: legendary criminal lawyer Chris Murphy taking care of business.
DEAN SEWELL: FAIRFAX

In the Saffron years where there was smoke there was fire and where there was fire there was Abe.

 

PLENTY of pretenders have fought and plotted to be King of the Cross, but Abe Saffron stayed on the throne longer than all of them.

By the end of the 1980s, the old reptile had made so much money he could fake going legit and pass himself off as the prosperous entrepreneur and philanthropist he'd always claimed to be. As if no one knew he had enough hookers and dodgy clubs to service the entire US Navy if it had sailed through the Heads one day.

No matter what the racket, if it was illegal and mugs would pay over the odds for it then Abe peddled it: from sex and porn to sly grog and drugs. He was up to his elbows in companies with shares in other companies that controlled so many bent businesses probably only he knew exactly
what he did and didn't control – a puppet master jerking the strings of a heap of patsies and proxies.

Certainly no one in authority seemed to want to know more about Abe than Abe was willing to share. Between bribery and blackmail of police, public servants, politicians and the odd wayward judge – Abe's brothels and clubs catered for sexual fetishes and had hidden cameras and oneway mirrors – he had authority exactly where he wanted it. That is, doing him favours and harassing his business competition.

After decades of collecting the wages of sin around Sydney (and Adelaide and Perth) he could afford to stand back a little. There was still plenty of money to be milked from the Cross, from the oldest profession and its near relatives.

The only thing that had changed since he'd got his start after the war were the faces on the street. They came and went, the mugs and those who preyed on them, but Abe endured, seemingly above it all. A protected species.

In 2004 the Sydney City Council installed 115 brass plaques in the footpaths of Kings Cross to mark the characters that have played a part in its raffish history. There were to have been 116 plaques but the one dedicated to Saffron was shelved ostensibly because the old man's lawyers threatened legal action on grounds that the plaque inscription was defamatory. This was a pity because the terse lines were a masterpiece of understatement – and absolutely true:

Abe Saffron. Publican and nightclub owner from 1946. Convictions and court appearances from 1938. Friends in high places.

Even after Saffron died in 2006, the authorities were nervous about green-lighting the plaque. The problem, as ever, was the friends in high places. Connections of one ex-Premier and a former Prime Minister were thought to be sensitive about the implication.

In death, Saffron still had a hold. In life, he could get away with nearly anything he liked. And what he liked was taking advantage of other people.

THE young businessman on the make had already earned a reputation as a tough negotiator. He had started with one pub, was on his way to building a national hotel network and was keen to stake a bigger claim in the lucrative Sydney market.

He already owned four-star and three-star hotels in Kings Cross and had signed a contract to buy a tired-looking two-star accommodation lodge in the same area.

His reasoning was simple. It was a matter of arithmetic and economies of scale: televisions, jugs, toasters and linen would be handed down from the top-end hotels to the cheaper ones as the room rates and residents' expectations dropped. Less waste meant more profit, a formula he would follow for the next four decades.

The deal was done and he paid a deposit on the $2million contract. But three days before settlement, he received a call. It was the hotel vendor in Sydney, asking for a meeting to discuss the deal. He was polite but insistent.

The young businessman was blunt. There was no need for a meeting, he said: the bank cheque would be in the mail.

But the man with the charming voice kept insisting and an appointment was set: they would meet in a Sydney office the day before settlement.

When the man-on-the-make walked in, sitting behind an expensive desk was a small, dapper older man. And standing behind him was a bodyguard – only about 175 centimetres tall but built like a bodybuilder.

During the meeting the muscle man stood silently with his arms folded, glaring at the visitor. Subtlety was not his strong suit. Neither was the English language. Grunting was his go.

The older man began gently: ‘Mr (name deleted), I am grateful for your time and I must apologise, as there has been a terrible mistake. The price for the hotel has been listed as $2 million when it should be $2.25 million.'

The younger man had already done many deals and understood a last minute try-on. ‘A deal is a deal,' he said quietly. ‘I will settle tomorrow as agreed.'

The older man responded. ‘I mustn't have made myself clear: the price is $2.25 million.'

The younger man was getting restless, wondering how he could end the conversation and leave the building without offending the vendor or his bodyguard. ‘It's $2 million and I'll settle as agreed,' he said.

The Sydney man pressed on relentlessly.

‘Mister, I have done my homework on you and I know you are smart and I know you have a big future so it would be a tragedy if something went wrong.'

He paused then added: ‘What if there was a fire? What if one of your hotels burnt down? Or more than one?
People could be hurt, businesses closed, insurance premiums could go through the roof. It would be a tragedy,' he said, shaking his head.

The young man looked down and on the desk he saw a name plaque – Abraham Saffron. Then it dawned on him. This was the Abe Saffron – known as ‘Mr Sin' and ‘The Boss of The Cross'. Suddenly, he saw that Saffron's offer was too good to refuse.

When the contract with the inflated price was pushed towards him he signed, stood up and walked out.

That was how Saffron did business: quietly and politely but with an unspoken threat.

Saffron could never have enough money and took shortcuts to make it. Making threats, exerting charm and extorting secret commissions were a way of life for him. And one of his main weapons was the threat of fire: what cynical and sometimes racist police privately called ‘Jewish lightning'.