Chopper Unchopped (117 page)

Stan got up and ran towards Grantley Dee, who was still singing. Stan screamed ‘Help, help.’ But as he reached Grantley Dee the blind singer pulled out a gun and shot him in the guts. As Stan lay on the beach holding his guts in, Terry Longfellow stood above him and opened his mouth and came down to feed on Stan’s open stomach …

STAN Gonzalas screamed and screamed. ‘Wake up Stan, wake up!’ Tommy Bandettis slapped and shook his friend awake. They were in Stan’s bedroom above the shoe shop.

‘It’s him, Tom, it’s him,’ Stan stuttered.

‘It’s who?’ asked Tommy.

‘It’s Longfellow,’ said Stan. ‘Terry bloody Longfellow.’

‘What about him?’ asked Tommy.

‘It’s him,’ said Stan. ‘He’s it, it’s him.’

‘What are ya on about, mate?’ asked Tommy.

Stan looked at his friend and said: ‘We are gonna have to kill Longfellow.’

Tommy said, ‘Why mate? What’s wrong?’

‘Longfellow is the fish. I’m gonna kill him,’ Stan said, shaking like a dog shitting razorblades. Then he started to cry. Tommy held him gently.

‘Okay, Stan. It’s okay, brother. Don’t cry. We’ll kill him, we’ll take care of it.’

DOC Evans sat in the garden shed of Bobby Falcon’s bayside home. Doc Evans was a Left-wing political heavyweight and a secret power behind Bobby Falcon. Although, on the face of it, the two men publically had little time for each other, because Bobby represented the Labor Party’s Right-wing faction. The fact was that Doc Evans was the puppet master, the string puller, and it served the movement and Doc Evans well to promote Bobby Falcon, the master of the oily smile and the undertaker’s handshake, to a position of power. Bobby’s power base was the Melbourne waterfront, a communist-controlled waterfront. Shanbuck was a commie, Texas Terry was anti-communist. The waterfront was controlled by Eddy Bullman, the secretary of the Waterside Workers Guild, and Texas Terry had his eye on Bullman’s seat. If Bullman went the same way as Shanbuck, Bobby Falcon’s power base could vanish. It was no secret that Longfellow was the power behind Lee’s closest rival, Topsy Carr, the state secretary of the National Federation of Australian Workers’ Union.

‘Christ. If Shanbuck could be blown away in a pub, so could Bullman,’ Doc Evans was explaining to Bobby Falcon in the garden shed. Evans was paranoid and liked to take people into public parks or backyards to talk. It was raining, so the garden shed would have to do.

‘Look Bob,’ said Evans. ‘Joey the Joker is Longfellow’s right hand man. He is also the power behind the pre-selection committee for the federal seat of …’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Bobby interrupted.

‘Shut up,’ said Evans. ‘Listen to me. Big Jim Starling, the MLA for the seat of Williamsville, is also on Joey’s team. There is a war going on in the movement and we have to win it. If we lose control of the waterfront we lose the whole union movement. It’s all follow the leader and the waterfront leads, and Longfellow now heads the most powerful and feared union on the docks. For Christ’s sake, he’s gotta go.’

Bobby Falcon nodded. ‘I’ve set the wheels into motion. I put the Royal Commission needle up his arse and turned him against his own men. He will either be pinched for murder or get killed. I’ve also got Longfellow under special branch surveillance.’

Evans looked surprised. ‘Special Branch, Bob. Shit, I didn’t know you had friends in that area. For God’s sake why do you think I talk to people in bloody garden sheds. The flaming special branch have me under surveillance.’

‘Don’t panic,’ said Bob, ‘I play ’em all like a fine violin.’

‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Bob. We’ll lose the next federal election, but I reckon this Vietnam bullshit could be a political winner. Give the junkie hippy peace freaks what they want. Who knows, Bobby? Maybe one day you might even end up in Parliament yourself. Ha ha.’

‘That’s my full intention,’ said Falcon, looking at him with a sly smile.

‘Yeah?’ said Evans. ‘If you lose control of your own power base you won’t get voted dog catcher, let alone into Parliament. Let’s face it, Bob. Your whole reputation is based on the fact that you can walk in and settle a strike when all others have failed. We all know that you’re the one who gives the quiet nod for the strikes in the first place. If you lose Eddy Bullman then who the hell is going to pay any attention to you? Bullman is your key. Sir Perry Parker and his newspapers won’t back you. If you lose Bullman, God, you’re the only man in the movement next to Godfrey Whitman who can get us past the winning post, and Whitman is a power mad closet commie.’ Falcon looked puzzled, but Doc said, ‘Bobby, you’re a commie, but Whitman is a Karl Marx nut case.’

As always, the old Doc was getting carried away.

‘Look,’ said Falcon, ‘I’ll fix Longfellow. We can either kill him or get him pinched on murder.’

Doc Evans held his hand up. ‘Don’t tell me the dirty details. Just get it done. Longfellow and his lot can upset a fine political balance that has taken several generations to establish.’

Doc Evans got up and walked out. Bobby Falcon stood at the open door of his garden shed. His union career, his future political career, rested on the destruction of some waterfront gangster.

Only in Australia could political careers be decided on the alcoholic whims of gun-toting gangland thugs who stagger from the pub to union meetings on the waterfront with half a dozen stubbies under one arm and a ‘Sporting Globe’ in the other. ‘How bloody insane. How the hell can my union and political career be held to ransom by some petty dockies’ war in Port Melbourne?’ thought Falcon to himself. Evans was right. These old gunnies controlled pre-selection committees. They controlled unions, they controlled the Left-wing and commie vote. Some even controlled the Right-wing vote. ‘One day,’ thought Falcon, ‘I will destroy the union movement on the waterfront. I will destroy through the commies, the Left wing, the whole labour movement. I will cut its balls off and lead it round by the dick.’

But first he had to get rid of Longfellow.

EDDY Bullman’s birthday party was to be held at flash reception rooms in South Yarra. It was to be a political and union ‘Who’s Who.’ Any birthday of a top union boss was a good excuse for a get-together so everyone could piss in everyone else’s pocket. They’d all been invited: Doc Evans, Bobby Lee, Terry Longfellow, Joey Beazley, Tricker Farthing, Godfrey Whitman, Sir Perry Parker, Topsy Carr, and Big Jim Starling.

Texas Terry checked the guest list and nodded at the names he knew. Then he came to names he didn’t know, but knew of. Reg Willingsworth, the Commissioner of Police, was one.

‘Shit,’ muttered Longfellow.

‘What’s up?’ asked Joe Beazley.

Longfellow read on. Sir Samuel Colt, the Premier; Sir Norbert Norris, state secretary of the Liberal Party; Sir Roland Ringfellow, chairman of the Stock Exchange; Sir Bob Buckmaster, head of the RSL; Sir Gilbert Gowan, head of the Reserve Bank; Red Rag Robbie Roylance, general secretary of the Australian Communist Party; Sir Richard Green, of the Catholic Businessman’s Federation. There was a smattering of racing, football and boxing identities, TV personalities, newspaper men, a collection of Toorak and South Yarra socialites, union middle men and knockabouts and the general political and union hacks that get blanket invitations to any birthday party.

Suddenly, Texas Terry roared with laughter. ‘I’ve heard it all now. Ha ha ha.’

‘What’s up?’ said Joey Beazley. ‘Let me in on the joke.’

‘Get this,’ said Terry. ‘This must be a misprint. Sir Lewis Linkletter, National General Secretary of the Australian Footwear Association.

Since when has the friggin’ footwear association had anything to do with anything, for God’s sake. Whoever drew this guest list up was drunk.’

Meanwhile, Tiger Tommy Bandettis walked into the lounge room above the shoe shop with the mail.

‘Any letters for me?’ said Stan.

‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘But there is a letter addressed to both of us.’

‘What is it?’

Tommy opened the envelope and looked at the letter and went quiet. Stan got up and looked at it.

‘Shit,’ said Gonzalas. ‘It’s a freaking birthday list, Eddy Bullman’s birthday list.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tiger Tommy. ‘I’ve always known it.’

‘What’s that?’ said Stan.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Tommy, ‘can’t you see it. Sir Lewis Linkletter, I always knew it, the bastards are plotting with the Australian Footwear Association. It’s a Catholic commie CIA plot to take over the Aussie footwear industry.’

‘And look who else will be there,’ said Stan. ‘Terry Longfellow. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Tommy nodded, ‘Yeah, let’s kill ’em all, kill the bloody lot of ’em.’

BOBBY Falcon sat in the office of Detective Chief Superintendent Cliff Corris, head of Special Branch.

‘Did ya get the guest list sent to the shoe shop?’ asked Falcon.

‘Yeah, those two nut cases are coming in quite useful,’ said Corris.

‘How did you get Linkletter to even agree to come?’ asked Lee. Corris smiled and tapped his finger against his nose. Bobby Falcon ignored this and continued.

‘Do you really believe that we can get Bandettis and Gonzales to kill everyone at this party?’

‘Why not?’ said Corris. ‘We stooged British Intelligence into killing Harold Holt, didn’t we?’

‘Did you?’ exclaimed Falcon. He couldn’t hide his surprise.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Corris. ‘I thought you knew that. Yes, he got drunk at a function one night and started muttering about Australia becoming a Republic in 20 to 30 years time and a Bill of Rights for the people, waving good bye to the Queen, wild stuff like that.’ Bobby Falcon laughed. ‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘it will never happen. Republic maybe, but no Parliament would ever allow the Australian people to have a Bill of Rights. That would be handing over too much power to the people.’

‘Yeah,’ said Corris, ‘but he was talking about it. Then there was the Kennedy thing.’

Bobby Falcon looked in horror. ‘What do you mean the Kennedy thing?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know British Intelligence killed Kennedy. Holt was threatening to expose MI6 and their links with the masonic lodge and their plots to kill world leaders.’

Bobby Falcon had suspected for some time that Corris was as nutty as a fruit cake, but this conversation was total madness. Then he took a gamble and lent forward and whispered, ‘C’mon, Cliff. Tell us, just between you and me, how did you stooge British Intelligence into killing Harold Holt?’

‘Ah,’ said Corris. ‘Need to know, old fellow, need to know.’

‘Okay,’ said Falcon, ‘only asking.’ But he couldn’t help going on with it. ‘You’re telling me British Intelligence killed Kennedy, and Holt knew about it?’

‘Of course,’ said Corris smoothly. ‘LBJ got pissed as a parrot at the Lodge when he was here, and confessed the whole thing. We had the joint bugged, naturally.’

Falcon was amazed. The Victoria Police Special Branch had the Prime Minister’s Lodge bugged.

‘And why not?’ asked Corris, reading his thoughts. ‘We have bugs in places you wouldn’t believe.’

Falcon asked, ‘Holt was going to spill the beans?’

‘Yep,’ said Corris. ‘He had to go.’

‘What about Oswald?’ asked Falcon.

‘Oh,’ said Corris. ‘Bit of a mystery that. We believe he worked for the American Footwear Industry.’

At this point Bobby Falcon suddenly suspected he was sitting in the presence of a seriously ill individual.

FALCON ordered the driver to take him home. Corris was a total madman, he thought. He had to get to a public phone box and warn Godfrey Whitman about Eddy Bullman’s birthday party.

He got his driver to pull up outside a St Kilda pub and went inside to have a quiet drink and a quiet think and a quiet phone call. He rang Whitman and advised him not to attend the party.

‘Why not, comrade?’ asked Whitman in his courtly way.

‘Because it will be under special branch surveillance,’ said Falcon.

‘Oh well, thank you, comrade,’ said Whitman.

‘Hey,’ said Falcon. ‘Before you go, can I ask a silly question? Well, two questions, really.’

‘Of course, my boy’ said Whitman.

‘Who killed Harold Holt?’ asked Falcon.

Whitman laughed. ‘British Intelligence, my boy. British Intelligence.’

Bobby Falcon was amazed. ‘Listen, Godfrey. Who killed Kennedy?’

Whitman paused. ‘Well, my boy. I have it on the highest authority that British Intelligence got rid of him also. However, I personally think there is, or was, more to it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bobby Lee.

‘Well,’ said Whitman, ‘let me put it this way. The American Footwear Industry is a very, very powerful body of men. You know, of course, that Lee Harvey Oswald was once a member of the American Footwear Industry.’

Falcon couldn’t believe his ears. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh yes, dear boy. Oswald worked in a shoe shop. At least, he was once a shoe salesman.’

Bobby Falcon said goodbye and hung up. Bloody hell, had everybody gone mad? He walked out of the pub and got back into his car. It was the first time the driver had taken him home sober in a month.

SIR Lewis Linkletter, the head of the Australian Footwear Association, sat in the association’s headquarters in Collins Street, Melbourne. He was chatting to three American gentlemen and one Englishman. The Americans represented the International Federation of United Shoe Salesmen. The Englishman represented the Royal Footwear Guild.

‘My dear brothers, our spies tell us of a plot and we are here today to discuss plots. For every plot there is a counter plot.’

One of the Americans spoke.

‘Sir Lewis, we gotta tell ya, the folks back home ain’t happy, that goddam Bobby Falcon, Whitman and Evans, we gotta do something. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the greatest friend the footwear industry has in Australia today and he has a plan that I think will solve all our worries.’

Sir Lewis Linkletter stood up and said, ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Detective Chief Superintendent Cliff Corris of the Victorian Police Special Branch.’