Chopper Unchopped (138 page)

Ray Chuckles tooted his horn, then wound his window down.

‘C’mon, you rug rats, move ya selves,’ he yelled.

‘Who are youse talkin’ to?’ yelled a skinny little kid who stood knee high to a grasshopper.

‘You, ya little bastard,’ growled Ray Chuckles. ‘Move ya selves out of the way or I’ll run over the lot of you.’

The kid picked up a rock and hurled it at the car. It smashed the side window and hit Veggie McNamara in the face, where he was sitting in the back seat. ‘You little turd!’ yelled Veggie.

Ray Chuckles got out of the car and so did Marco Montric and Veggie. Next thing, about 30 kids aged from five years old to twelve armed themselves with rocks, stones, broken bottles, fence palings and cricket bats surrounded them. The little kid, who didn’t seem to be any more than six or seven, seemed to be boss.

‘Go on,’ yelled the little kid, ‘make a move, dogs, and we’ll kick ten shades of shit out of ya.’

Ray Chuckles laughed and said, ‘Where’s your mother, you little bastard? You need a foot up the arse. I’m goin to tell ya mum on you.’ The little kid spat on the ground. ‘Yeah, that would be right. Dob me in, ya dog. All you buggers from Footscray are give ups.’

Ray was puzzled at this Footscray remark, then realised there was a Bulldogs football sticker on the back window of the car. The reason for that was, it was Jockey Smith’s car. He barracked for Footscray.

A girl came up and took the little kid by the hand and said, ‘Come on Micky, let’s go.’

‘Nah,’ said the little kid, ‘if these dogs want to start, let’s rip it in to ’em. Let ’em have it!’ Broken bottles, rocks, and fence palings rained down on the car and the three men.

Ray Chuckles, Marco Montric and Veggie McNamara jumped back in and took off, but not before every window in the car was broken.

‘I hope we make a big heap of dough out of this job,’ Ray Chuckles muttered.

‘Why’s that?’ said Veggie amazed at what had happened.

‘Because,’ said Ray, ‘people with big heaps of money don’t have to drive through bloody Collingwood. That’s why.’

IT was 1979, the year Hyperno won the Cup. But at the Caballero Night Club, other interests were on the agenda.

Terry Maloney, Edgar Duffy and Phil Scanlan sat at the bar talking to a new girl who was working at the club as a dancer. She was a big blonde named Kerry Griffin.

‘Ya see, Kerry,’ said Terry Maloney, who was a talker. ‘It’s like this. The 17th of March, St Patrick’s Day, isn’t to celebrate St Patrick’s birthday the way everyone thinks. The 17th of March is the day St Patrick died.’

‘Oh,’ said Kerry, fascinated with the history of the saints according to Terry the Collingwood hoodlum. At least, if she wasn’t fascinated, she was doing a bloody good job of pretending she was.

‘Now,’ said Terry, ‘you’re Bonny Brown’s niece, aren’t ya?’

‘Yes,’ said Kerry.

‘Well then, the Browns are related to the Callaghans and the Gradys, and the Gradys are related to the Bradys, and the Bradys are related to the Reeves, and the Reeves are related to the O’Shaughnessys. For God’s sake, my dear girl, you’re a blood relative to St Patrick himself.’

Terry Maloney held his arms wide open and said, ‘Cead mile failte.’

Kerry Griffin was puzzled.

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘It’s Gaelic,’ said Terry. ‘It means “a hundred thousand welcomes” – and now you say “Cead mile failte” back to me and give me a big cuddle.’

Kerry Griffin said the ancient words and fell into Big Terry Maloney’s arms. Then she kissed him and walked away as happy as Larry.

‘God,’ said Edgar Duffy under his breath, ‘where the hell did you find her? And where did you get the gift of the gab? I don’t reckon you kissed the Blarney stone – you took a bite out of the bastard.’

Edgar shook his head in admiration at Big Terry’s form in the talking department.

Roy Reeves sat at the other end of the club at his private table. It was a quiet afternoon. The club was closed all except for a handful of live-in strippers and a dozen or so members of his crew, along with a few invited guests come to talk business.

Ripper Roy smiled as he overheard Terry’s verbal nonsense to the tits and legs stripper, but at the same time he was trying to pay attention to what Victor ‘Vicky’ Mack was saying to him. Victor was talking nineteen to the dozen. He was excited about something, and that something was Ray Chuckles.

‘Mate, I’ve spoken to Geoff Twain and Brian McCormack, and they all agree. George McKeon, Eugene Carroll, Lou McMahon, Donny McIntyre, Frank Lonigan, Terry Scanlan, Bobby Fitzpatrick, Pop Kennedy, Liam O’Day, the whole friggin’ crew. Micky Burke, Larry McDougal, Jamie O’Callaghan. They all agree. Ray Chuckles has gone too far.

‘Les Kane is dead, which is fair enough, and no skin off anyone’s nose, but Chuckles has lashed a lot of people. He stamped a lot of people for a lot of upfront cash, guns and goodies so he could pull the bookie raid. Now he’s six million bucks the richer and not a penny repaid. We know he got the machine guns from you. He’s using his legal problems and his war with the Kanes as an excuse not to repay debts. I’m tellin’ ya, Roy, he’s gotta go. Jesus, this bloody war he started with the Kanes has pulled both our crews into it and not a penny for either of us.’

Ripper Roy sat in silence for a few seconds after Vicky Mack’s outburst. Then he spoke quietly. ‘You’ve done a deal with Brian Kane, haven’t ya Vicky?’

‘So what if I have,’ said Vicky Mack, on the back foot all of a sudden.

‘Well, why come to see me?’ asked Roy. ‘Okay, so Chuckles lashed on the machine guns. Big deal, I got plenty more. Why come to me about Chuckles?’

Vicky Mack took a big swallow on his large glass of Glen Heather scotch. ‘We want your blessing, Roy. We know Chuckles was close to Tex Lawson, and Lawson is part of your crew.’

Roy broke in, ‘We are all Aussies together, all Irishmen. We shouldn’t be killing each other.’ ‘But we have been for years,’ said Vicky Mack.

‘Yeah,’ said Roy, ‘and while we kill each other the bloody dagos sit back and grow stronger and richer.’

‘I know,’ replied Vicky Mack. ‘But what do ya do, Roy? Do we have ya blessing, because none of the crew will agree to move without your final nod.’

‘And what about Brian?’ said Ripper Roy.

‘Ha ha, that’s the good part,’ said Vicky Mack. ‘Ray Chuckles’ own crew will kill him after we kill Chuckles.’

Roy smiled. ‘Everyone dies and six million just vanishes. Hey, yeah, only the Irish would consider that to be a fabulous plan of attack.’

Ripper Roy shook his head in his own comic self disgust.

‘Ha ha. Yeah, to hell with it, piss on ’em all. Why not kill him?’ said Roy. ‘But let Chuckles know it came from me, hey Vicky.’

‘And how will I do that, Roy?’

‘Yell out, “Hey Raymond, Roy Reeves said to say hello” in front of plenty of witnesses.’

Then Ripper Roy bent forward and whispered in to Vicky Mack’s ear. Victor Mack smiled and said, ‘Okay, Roy, I’ll do that. Ya got yaself a deal.’

ON St Patrick’s Day the Caballero Night Club was a wondrous sight to behold. Edgar Duffy and Phil Scanlan and young Megan O’Shaughnessy had spent all night decking the club out for the big day. The full membership of the Collingwood branch of the friends of Sinn Fein were due to attend and the Collingwood chapter of the Fenian Brigade were also coming along with the Sons of St Patrick. Just to make sure every street fighter and gunman in Collingwood was there, every member of Ripper Roy’s gang and his extended family and the relatives of his gang members were also on the invite list.

A big Irish flag with the Golden Harp of Tara on it hung from the ceiling. The green, white and orange flag of Ireland also hung down. A giant golden harp of Erin stood at the end of the bar and a seven-man Irish band was all set up. The only non-Irish thing in the place was a giant Collingwood Football Club flag, a big white affair with a magpie in the middle.

The club was filling up with people. By 10 am green beer and Jamieson’s Irish whisky was being served as if it would go off if it got warm. Liam Lynch and Bunny Malloy took care of club security, with the aid of two concealed AK47 assault rifles. Because Father Harrigan was coming, the club strippers were not allowed to perform, which didn’t please a lot of the men, but Kerry Griffin, Muriel Hill and Megan O’Shaughnessy were all set to jump into their green stiletto high heels and green high-cut bikini bottoms, with little green shamrocks stuck to their nipples, the moment the Reverend Father had drunk his fill and passed out or pissed off.

Arthur Featherstone had also arranged a jelly wrestling contest – using lime jelly, naturally – between Lizzie Bennett and Marion Taylor, a couple of voluptuous harlots of low moral rectitude from Wellington Street, Collingwood. So getting the good Father drunk and in a cab and back to the Sailor’s Mission was the first plan of attack.

Nearly every prostitute in Collingwood, Abbotsford, Victoria Park and Clifton Hill had decided to come, and in spite of Father Harrigan’s attendance, it was damn hard to prevent hanky panky. Human nature, green beer and Irish whisky being what it is.

As the booze flowed, the general conduct grew a little lax and some of the ladies and the more drunken gentlemen were getting a bit disorderly.

‘I’m back in the saddle again!’ cried Seamus O’Brien, as he proceeded to put the ferret through the fairy hoop with a drunken middle-aged lady who looked like the local school teacher. Seamus was at least 60 years of age, and the lady he was tooling at the far end of the club was no spring chicken, she wasn’t even a spring roll.

‘Drag that drunken pair of idiots into the street,’ ordered Ripper Roy.

‘Sorry Father,’ said Roy, as he stood at the bar with the old priest. Arthur Featherstone and Terry Maloney and young Kerry Griffin stood with him. All had large glasses of Irish whisky in their hands.

‘So you are a Catholic, my girl,’ said Father Harrigan.

‘Oh yes,’ said Kerry Griffin, ‘I went to St. Monica’s.’

‘Ahh, good,’ said Father Harrigan.

Kerry had on her virginal butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth face, in spite of the fact her green ‘Give Ireland back to the Irish’ T-shirt did little to conceal her tits. She was wearing a faded pair of denim jeans so tight they looked like they had been painted on. It was true to say that poor Kerry was built like a porno queen, and even fully clothed in jeans, runners and T-shirt she was hardly the sort of girl you’d expect to see talking to an aged priest.

About 20 feet away Roy noticed an unconscious man with a large piece of cutlery stuck in his face, which was covered in blood. He whispered to one of his men to remove the gentleman in question, and ordered the band to play. Irish jigs broke out all over the club.

The place was now in full swing and packed full of Irish drunks and ladies being molested by Irish drunks. The various fist fights that broke out got little attention due to the music and dancing. Then, at midday, the club was called to order by Arthur Featherstone so the ‘Amran na Bfiann’, the Irish national anthem, could be sung by the members of the Sons of St Patrick. A soldier’s song, sung in Gaelic. When that ended Terry Maloney jumped onto the bar and yelled in Gaelic ‘Dia’s muire agus padraig dhuit,’ which translated means ‘God and Mary and Patrick be with you.’ And with that, the celebrations continued on.

Mick Sheehan and Sean Danaher pulled out handguns and fired shots into the ceiling and were promptly attacked for misconduct by Bunny Malloy and Liam Lynch, much to the amusement of Father Harrigan, who was taken up in what appeared to be deep religious and political conversation with Kerry Griffin.

The big white-haired old Irish priest looked like Boris Karloff, the old horror movie actor, as he stood next to Kerry at the bar bending his head down to hear what she was saying. As she chattered into his cauliflower ear, he rested his right hand on the small of the girl’s back so as to push her that little bit closer. The music was a touch loud, and he had trouble hearing her, of course.

Kerry was quite taken with the old fellow, and was overwhelmed that he should spend his time talking to her and listening to her. Her big tits strained against her T-shirt, and as she spoke into his ear she couldn’t help but press herself against the grand old man. However, being a gentleman at all times, and a man of the cloth, the priest gave Kerry no sign that he either noticed or minded.

Meanwhile, Arthur Featherstone, Terry Maloney and Johnny Go Go had moved over to Roy Reeves’s private table. Mad Lizzie Bennett was eager to get the jelly wrestling underway, as the winner would collect $500 and a dozen bottles of whisky. The loser would collect $250 and half a dozen bottles of whisky. The luckiest spectator collected either the winner or the loser, according to taste.

‘Mudguts’ McNally was already dragging the children’s swimming pool full of green jelly out on to the dance floor. Both girls had their green high cut bikinis on, ready for action.

‘C’mon Roy,’ said Lizzie, anxious to get into action. ‘Piss on the priest – the dirty old bastard’s got a hand full of Kerry’s arse, who’s he to complain?’

Roy looked over through the crowd and sure enough it looked as if Kerry was standing rather close to the old fellow as they talked, but he couldn’t see any hands on bums.

‘Nah,’ said Roy. ‘We’ll recite the pledge first, then I’ll get Kerry to pull the Father’s coat and get him out of the way.’

The pledge for them was the Collingwood version of the old Irish pledge of allegiance. Roy called for order and the whole mob stood and faced the Collingwood Football Club flag, and the room broke out with nearly 400 voices swearing the pledge to Collingwood.

‘We are willing to fight for the club that we love, be the chances great or small;

‘We are willing to die for the Collingwood Club, be the chances nothing at all.’

Then a massive cheer went up and the band played the Irish national anthem again.

Roy went over and spoke to the priest and Kerry and the two walked away with a full bottle of Irish whisky and two glasses, and Kerry seemed to be leading Father Harrigan in the direction of a booth table at the left hand side of the stage. This would face the good Father away from the jelly wrestling and give the Father and Kerry greater privacy for the conversation they were involved in.