Chopper Unchopped (139 page)

Three drunken Irishmen and a semi-clothed young miss who was in the full throes of a rampant exchange were promptly dragged from the rear booth by Bunny Malloy and Kerry and the holy man took their seats.

‘Right,’ declared Roy, as if he was Boutros Boutros Whatsisname at the United Nations, ‘let the fun begin.’

So while Lizzie Bennett and Marion Taylor tried to kill each other in a pool of green jelly, to the wild roars of the crowd, Kerry kept talking to the good Father.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear girl,’ said Father Harrigan with great compassion and understanding in all things. ‘Why, our Lord Himself mixed with killers, thieves, tax collectors and whores. Yes, my dear, whores. You have heard the story of Mary Magdalen. She bathed our Lord’s feet with the most expensive oils, then dried his feet with her own hair.’

Kerry was wide-eyed as the priest poured himself yet one more large whisky and continued his spiel. ‘Well, my child, Mary Magdalen was a whore just like you. So, you see, you have no reason for guilt or shame. Just confess your sins, come to mass and donate to the church and say a Hail Mary before bed and all will be well.’

The priest still had his hand around the girl’s back as if he didn’t even realise it, and Kerry without even thinking placed her hand on Father Harrigan’s left leg and squeezed in a show of affection.

‘You’re a really lovely old bloke, Father,’ she cooed. ‘I wish I had a real father just like you.’

The old priest smiled. ‘And if I had a daughter, my child, I’d want her to be just like you.’ He gave her a nice little squeeze with his hand.

‘Is it wrong for me to want to give a priest a kiss and a cuddle?’ asked Kerry.

The old Father thought about this. ‘Oh, I see no reason why not, my girl,’ and with that Kerry melted herself into Father Harrigan like marshmallow.

‘Do ya reckon that priest is okay in there with Kerry?’ asked Terry Maloney.

Roy was remembering old rumors about the good Father and Bonny Brown, but had previously dismissed them due to his Auntie Brigid’s anger at such nonsense. After a while the suspense was killing him. ‘Go over and stand on a chair and peek over the top of the booth,’ he said.

Terry Maloney walked over and, as instructed, found a stool and stood on it. He peered over the top of the darkened seating area. Then he came back.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘She’s sweet. They’re just sitting together.’

‘Well, in that case, we’ll join them,’ said Roy. ‘It’s a bit insane out here.’

The three men walked over to the private booth and said, ‘Mind if we join ya, Father?’

The Priest gave a weak and very strained smile and a nod of his head. He didn’t look well. He was flushed, red in the face and his right eye was sort of flickering.

‘Gee Father,’ said Arthur. ‘You don’t look too good.’

The three men slid into seats and poured themselves a drink. ‘Here Father,’ said Terry. ‘Have a drink.’

The priest took the glass with a shaky hand and put it to his mouth, and began dribbling whisky as he drank.

‘Shit, Father, you look like you’re gonna have a heart attack. Do you reckon we should call a doctor?’

Father Harrigan didn’t reply. Kerry sat in silence, blind drunk, with one hand holding her whisky glass and the other hidden under the table. You don’t have to be told. She had the old bloke unzipped and was slowly and with the skill of a snake charmer giving him a nice old workover.

Roy looked at the priest, then at Kerry, and a strange thought crossed his mind. Then both Arthur and Terry picked up on it. Kerry couldn’t contain herself. She put the glass to her lips to drink, then winked at Roy and gave a little giggle. Father Harrigan’s face looked like it was about to explode, and his eyes glazed over. For a moment Roy thought he was about to drop dead. Then Father Harrigan let out a groan like a man in great pain and began to jerk his shoulders and chest. Then he groaned and jerked again. Ripper Roy, Terry and Irish Arthur looked on in total amazement. Then the priest collapsed and tears welled up in his eyes and he hid his face in his hands and cried.

Kerry lifted her hand from under the table and moved away.

‘Let’s get away from the dog, boys,’ she said. ‘Bloody priests. I’ve been hearing that God loves a whore. Bullshit. Since I was old enough to do it, I’ve never met a bloody priest who didn’t want to do it to me. Has anyone got a hanky?’ Terry handed her a hanky and the girl wiped her hand. Ripper Roy and the boys were still in a state of shock.

‘I’m a whore,’ said Kerry. ‘But I’m not a liar or a false pretender, I’m not a hypocrite. He’s no priest. He’s just another mug who wants to get his prick pumped. I should have charged the two-faced dog, but like you say, Terry, you can’t take a penny off an Irishman on St Paddy’s day. Ha ha.’

With that, the big buxom girl walked away.

‘Ya know,’ said Roy. ‘I reckon she’s been stooging us all. She might be a bit dippy, but I’ve got a funny feeling young Kerry ain’t totally stupid.’

MURIEL Hill walked out of Pentridge. She had been in to visit Ray Chuckles. The Governor had allowed a special contact visit and Ray had made the most of it. One good thing about being built like a blow-up doll is that men think you’re stupid and this, if played right, can be a winning advantage.

In between a rather frantic session of being slipped on like a wet soapy sock when the screws weren’t looking, followed by Ray Chuckles’ scallywag idea of Muriel bending over the visit table while he pretended he was a Greek Orthodox Priest, he had told her he’d be facing Chief Stipendiary Magistrate Clancy Collins for committal proceedings in three days time.

The case was crap and Ray reckoned it wouldn’t get past the committal. Being rogered twice in the space of an hour while keeping both eyes out for the screws and both ears open for gossip was not Muriel’s idea of a good time, but people didn’t say no to Roy Reeves. If Ripper Roy told her to do the locomotion with the local Collingwood Boy Scout Troop or a herd of elephants her reply would be a big smile followed by ‘Okay Roy.’

People who said no to Roy Reeves may as well hit themselves in both eyeballs with a broken whisky bottle, because if they didn’t do it themselves someone else certainly would do it for ’em. When it came to business, Roy had respect, because he was hard but unfair.

Roy Reeves had noticed the way Raymond Chuckles had looked at Muriel Hill when he had come to ask for the machine guns and when Ray received Muriel’s letter while he was in jail, he never suspected for a moment that this hot-arse, gorgeous sex machine was part of some master plan. Muriel Hill was just a knob junkie from Richmond, one of the Lennox Street Hills, a family of criminals – solid, staunch and dumb. Just a slippery bit of mischievous nonsense, he thought.

While Raymond was in jail he thought he’d won the lottery when she first came in to see him. God, she was built like Babylon and did anything Ray asked her to. On one contact visit, Brian O’Flanagan was having his birthday two tables away so Ray sent Muriel to the toilet and about 90 seconds later Brian O’Flanagan walked into the toilet. It only took about five minutes and Brian was back at his table talking to his mother and friends and Muriel was back on Raymond’s knee. Muriel was a bicycle with a better than average face and a lavish body, but a moll was a moll and Ray Chuckles was not a sentimental person.

But that didn’t make him invincible. What he didn’t know was that the moll was also a mole.

It seemed to Ray that Muriel was in love with him and he just played her along. Hell, thought Ray, Muriel’s whole life was one big perverted unnatural act. She was there to be used, not loved. She ran on a diet of cash and KY Jelly, the bloody whore.

‘HE goes to court in three days time,’ said Muriel, looking a bit down. ‘What’s wrong, Princess?’ asked Roy.

Muriel was a bit frightened but spoke up. ‘Well, Mr Reeves, I’d rather not visit that bloke no more if it’s okay with you. I’m a good girl. I do like I’m told, but I’d just rather not.’

Ripper Roy patted Muriel on the head.

‘You’re a good kid. You done me a big favor, okay. You don’t need to visit him no more.’ Muriel smiled.

Ripper Roy picked up the phone and rang Victor Mack.

RAY Chuckles sat in the cells of the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court. Muriel had promised to visit him by 9 am. He had gone to some lengths to arrange the visit, but she hadn’t shown, and he was filthy on her. ‘Bloody molls,’ he said sourly. ‘Ya can’t trust ’em.’

Two policemen came to collect him. He had to face the legendary Clancy Collins on the bench. He was sure he’d beat the blue, because he had Steve Stratton representing him. The Crown had no case at all. Once he beat this crap he was home free, he thought to himself. He had just over a million dollars put away and he was heading for sun, sand and surf. To hell with bloody Melbourne and its never-ending wars. His whole crew was heading a long way north.

Veggie McNamara had his girlfriend living in Spain already, in a rented villa. A million bucks in Spain was like ten million in Aussie land. He had the dim sim factory and the restaurant in Brunswick and the massage parlor in Fitzroy. He had the car yard in Footscray and the block of flats in Richmond. He had a half share of the pub in Coburg and $75,000 worth of shares in BHP. He had a solicitor managing the whole shooting match for him and monthly cheques would be sent to him anywhere in the world. He also had hard cash in various bank accounts and building societies, and some on hand as well. He could walk away – or keep fighting mindless wars and power struggles. The smart thing was to hit the toe and never come back.

AS the two coppers walked Ray Chuckles through the court corridors he noticed neither of them had guns. Nah, he thought, I’m not falling for that … being shot by police who are carrying guns while escaping from police who don’t have guns. Anyway, why bother? He would beat the murder blue over Les Kane. He’d won.

As he walked along he noticed that the cop on his left was sort of humming and singing a tune to himself. Ray thought he recognised it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

The young copper answered, ‘It’s an old Bill Monroe tune.’

‘Shit yeah,’ said Ray. ‘Bill Monroe. That’s it. I know a bloke who’s always whistling or singing that tune. What’s it called again?’

‘I forget,’ said the young copper, and the three of them walked along in silence until Ray Chuckles started to hum the old tune, all the time wondering what the name of the song was, and marvelling that it really was a very small world indeed.

Victor ‘Vicky’ Mack sat on a bench in a crowded corridor outside Clancy Collins’s court room, upstairs in the old Magistrates’ Court opposite Russell Street police station. People were milling about. There were a lot of tits and legs. A whore in a micro mini-skirt and high heels was sitting next to Vicky trying to make conversation.

‘I told the bastard to just leave me alone,’ she said. ‘My life is my life, but would he listen? No way. If I want to go out and have a good time I bloody well will.’

She lit up her tenth smoke for the morning and offered Vicky one. She noticed he was wearing a wig. At least it didn’t look like his own hair. It was long and not the same color as his eyebrows. He was probably trying to pull a shifty in court, she thought. Good luck to him.

She wouldn’t shut up. ‘Anyway, I said to him, “It’s not my fault if your mates keep putting the hard word on me”.’ She crossed a pair of legs and the micro mini ran up to reveal nearly all she had, but Vicky Mack was looking down the corridor.

‘I said to him, “Just cos I’m your bloody wife don’t mean ya own me,” and it’s not my fault his brother and his best mate got me pissed at Leo’s party. What am I meant to do? Now he’s calling me a slut and a moll and his dad is calling me a moll. Ha ha, that’s rich. That dirty old bastard. I could tell the court a few things about him, but I won’t.’

Vicky Mack saw two police escorting Raymond Chuckles down the corridor about thirty feet away through the crowd. The long-legged lady with the big mouth was crossing her legs the other way around now, with every man in a ten yard radius casting wide eyes in her direction

All except for Vicky Mack. He quietly stood up and walked down the hall. As he walked he could hear the dragon with the long legs bellow out some more personal detail about her domestic troubles. ‘His mum’s just a drunk and both his bloody sisters are junkies and they call me a moll, if you don’t mind. He should tell his dirty old Dad and his prick of a brother to stop trying to root me before he points the finger.’

AS Ray Chuckles walked up the stairs from the courtyard with the two cops, he was in daydream land.

‘What’s the name of this bloody tune? Jesus that’s annoying. Ripper Roy’s favorite song. God what is it?’

As Ray Chuckles and his two young police escorts walked toward Vicky Mack, Ray scratched his nose with his handcuffs – and remembered. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said to the police escort. “I Can Hear a Sweet Voice Calling.” That’s the name of that tune.’

At this point Vicky Mack pulled out his .38 handgun. ‘Hey Caballero!’ he yelled. ‘Cop this.’ Ray Chuckles’s eyes shot towards Victor Mack as the gun went off. It’s true what they say: You never hear the shot that kills you. Ray never heard the sound. All that was inside his head as he fell was the song he’d been humming.

As he hit the floor, he could sense the panic around him but he felt numb. Everything was soft. He could hear everything but see and feel nothing. Everything was dark, but he could still hear. ‘He’s got a gun!’ he heard some woman scream.

People were running all around him. He could hear them, standing over him, yelling for help. Then the old song came back and all else faded.

‘I can hear a sweet voice calling.’

Ray Chuckles smiled and drifted away. He was dead on arrival at St Vincent’s.

‘Ya never hear the shot that kills ya.’

– Ray Chuckles, 1979.

EVERYBODY has to believe in something. Earl Teagarden believed he would sit on the back steps of his home in Peel Street, North Melbourne, and pass the time. As usual, he was playing with his Jack Russell terrier, Pig.

Mind you, to call Pig a pure bred Jack Russell would be a slight exaggeration, as his mother was bull terrier-Staffordshire terrier cross. But Pig's dad was a prize-winning Jack Russell show dog, all right. The result of this cross breeding was a short, thickset little animal with a head on it like a sledge hammer with teeth.

Pig moved as frantically as a speed junkie who had to be some place in a hurry and didn't know which way to turn. The dog darted up, then down, side-stepped to the right, then to the left. Back and forth, to and fro, he went.

Just to make life interesting Earl would occasionally toss a slice of hot Italian salami into the air and Pig would hurl himself up, three feet off the ground and into the air. His jaws would snap shut on the hot, tasty tidbit.

‘You're a bloody dago, Pig,' Earl said one day after watching Pig do his salami trick for the hundredth time. ‘You love that bloody wog sausage, hey boy?'

Pig licked his lips, showing off about a yard of pink, slobbery tongue and darted about, then stopped still and readied himself for another leap in the air to catch another slice of hot salami.

Then they were interrupted. ‘Oi!' yelled Evil Hadley.

Earl Teagarden looked up to see his next door neighbor, whose real name was Nigel Hadley, pop his head up over the back fence.

‘How's it going, Evil?' Earl inquired politely. ‘What's new?'

‘What's new?' said Evil Hadley. ‘I'll tell you what's new, all right. John Harding just shot himself.'

‘What?' exclaimed Earl in surprise and disbelief. ‘Not Detective Inspector John Harding, the copper?'

‘Yeah,' said Evil. ‘It just come on the radio. Put a gun in his mouth some time last night.'

‘Hey, Earl,' said Evil. ‘Wasn't he one of Westlock's henchmen.'

Earl Teagarden cut another slice of salami and tossed it high into the air and Pig jumped for it and missed, landed, then spun about like a top trying to locate the fallen slice of meat.

‘Yeah,' said Earl looking intently at Pig as he pounced on the slice of salami. ‘He was one of 'em. He was the one who drove the car when Rocky Roy Wilson blew Marc Michieletto off the motor bike after he did the bank in Footscray.'

‘Rocky Ray Wilson transferred out of the armed robbers after the Michieletto shooting. The armed robbers are falling apart,' said Evil Hadley.

‘Shit, half of 'em are up on shooting charges, murder blues, suspended from duty or putting guns in their mouths. You know the Victoria Police motto is only three words … bang, bang, bang.'

Earl Teagarden sneered. ‘Graeme Westlock and Doc Holliday are still safe and secure. The rest of the police can go down the brasco. Westlock and Holliday are the ones that count.'

‘Yeah,' said Evil Hadley as he climbed over the fence. With only one good leg it wasn't easy.

‘When are you getting ya new leg?' asked Earl.

Evil hit the ground with a thud, and he winced as his ill-fitting false leg sent a shockwave of pain up into his knee cap.

The police, led by the famed Detective Sergeant John ‘Doc' Holliday, well-known friend and right hand man to police legend Detective Chief Superintendent Graeme Westlock, had raided Evil Hadley's Peel Street home two years before, looking for an underworld figure called Gary Armagh. They didn't find Gary Armagh, but they found Evil Hadley's right leg. In fact, they put a shotgun blast into it for good measure, claiming Evil had pulled a gun on them. Which he had, but later denied, naturally.

The police, led by Westlock, shot and killed Gary Armagh two weeks later – exactly a year to the day after Westlock and Holliday had shot Jimmy Jetson to death. Jetson had been the head of the crew Armagh ran with.

‘Shit,' said Evil under his breath as he held the top of his stumpy leg. ‘Shit that hurts.'

‘Don't worry,' said Earl with a smile, ‘time heals everything, Evil.'

Hadley hobbled over and sat down on top of an upturned five gallon drum near the back door, then pulled out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco.

‘Not everything, Earl,' said Evil. ‘Time doesn't heal everything.' He tapped his false leg with the pipe. ‘I don't notice this growing back.'

Pig began to growl, then let out a yap as the front door knocker crashed several times against the wood.

‘Hang on, Evil,' said Earl. ‘I'll go and see who that is.'

JERRY ‘Pancho' Moran stood on Earl's doorstep. He wasn't alone. He had a large bottle of Earl's favorite drop with him, a clear brown fluid called Hankey Bannister Scotch Whisky.

Pancho was an up-and-coming street fighter and gunman from Grosvenor Street, St Kilda. He was not an overly popular figure in the criminal world, as his cosy relationship with the Italians was well known. He was, in fact, widely considered too shrewd for his own good. Pancho lived with the sister of a notorious Italian crime boss. Her name was Angela Dellacroce. Her big brother, Gaetano, controlled heroin sales throughout the western suburbs and was the power behind the throne of one Ivan Markovich, known throughout the Melbourne underworld as ‘Doctor Chicago'. Pancho's only saving grace in the eyes of the old Aussie crooks was that he was best mates with young Cisco Van Gogh.

Earl Teagarden opened the front door with his left hand. His right hand was behind his back. In it was a small sawn-off double barrel .410 shotgun. A very useful weapon for snakes, particularly the two-legged variety – which there were more of, around North Melbourne.

‘How's it going, Pancho?' said Earl.

‘Okay,' said Pancho. ‘Can I talk to ya please, Earl? It's important.' He held out the bottle of Hankey Bannister. Earl took it with his left hand as Pancho stepped into the hallway. It was then the visitor noticed the sawn-off shot gun with both the hammers pulled back in his host's right hand. It wasn't the sort of reception advised in Emily Post's book of etiquette, but Pancho understood a different set of manners. And he wasn't about to put any holes in them while the little .410 was looking his way.

‘No trouble, Earl,' he said pleasantly. ‘I just want to talk.'

‘Okay kid,' said Earl. ‘Out in the backyard. Evil is out there. Go through.' He indicated the way by waving the barrel of the cut-down shotgun.

As Pancho Moran walked on ahead of him Earl Teagarden thought to himself, ‘What does this shifty rat want? This speed junkie little turd has got more twists and turns than a Simpson washing machine.'

You could say that Earl didn't really trust Pancho – even if he was Cisco Van Gogh's best mate.

Pancho pulled up a large wooden box from the various piles of rubbish in Earl's backyard, and sat down. He looked out of place, dressed in his Armani suit, sitting on an old wooden box in Earl's shit pile of a backyard.

Earl handed his visitors a glass and poured each man a full glass of whisky, then poured himself an equally big drop. Teagarden was no teetotaller, that was for sure.

‘Okay, Pancho,' he said. ‘What is it?'

Pancho looked at Evil Hadley and hesitated.

‘It's okay,' said Earl. ‘I trust Evil.'

‘Well,' said Pancho. ‘It's about Little Cisco. He's planning to knock Graeme Westlock and Doc Holliday.'

ANGELA Dellacroce and Sherrie Gangitano stood at the bar of the Gym Bar nightclub in King Street, Melbourne. The two girls had just been turfed out of the Casino for glassing a Vietnamese lady in the face during a heated argument at the roulette table. This was not considered good manners by the management. Only the bouncers in some shifty joints were allowed to get away with maiming punters – and they never used broken glasses. It didn't look good on the security film.

The two girls were in fine form. They were dressed to kill – showing as much leg, arse and tit as was legally allowed in a public place – and roaring drunk to go with it. Sherrie stood with a large glass of Bundaberg rum in one hand. The other hand was up her tight black skirt and down her high-cut black panties, giving her bum a good scratch. She was a toff, our Sherrie.

‘Jeez, I gotta itchy arse,' she complained, raking her long red painted fingernails over the hard to get at spot.

‘I reckon I know what you need,' said Angela with a grin.

‘Yeah, and I'm just the bloke to give it to her,' said Jungle Jim Zoocos. Jungle Jim, known as Jimmy the Greek for short, was part of Doctor Chicago's crew, and lived just three houses down from Sherrie Gangitano in Castle Street, Jolimont. Jimmy Zoocos was a tall, thick-set, good-looking knockabout with a big smile and a winning way with the ladies.

Sherrie Gangitano gave Jimmy the glad eye and pulled her hand out of her knickers and wrapped it around Jimmy's neck.

‘Hi ya, Jimmy,' she purred.

Not one to waste time, he began to rub her arse up and down.

‘Let me know when I've hit the right spot, baby?' he said.

Then everything went black for Jimmy the Greek. All he could hear was the screaming of Sherrie and Angela as he fell to the floor with a pool cue buried in his skull.

This was no accident. It was a classic sneak go from some very sneaky customers from Footscray – two blokes called Boe Duc No and Ronny Kee, supported by at least ten of their gang from Footscray. They were ripping into Jimmy and the two women like a re-run of the Vietnam war, bar the napalm.

A broken beer glass tore Sherrie's face open from her top lip to her left ear, and Angela was stabbed in the face and neck with knives from several different directions. A meat cleaver smacked across the base of Jimmy's spine, and everything from the waist down went numb. Then, as fast as the Vietnamese attack squad hit, it vanished.

The club bouncers seemed to appear about ten seconds after the Vietnamese had left, but it was all a bit too late. Funny about that.

The war between the Footscray 5T gang and Doctor Chicago had begun. The ‘White Rat Mafia', as the Footscray Vietnamese crime gang was comically nicknamed, was 200 strong. The war between the gooks, the wogs and the Aussies had been on the boil since the murders of Con Tu Vu and Boe Cop Nam.

Italians were real good at making money, and the newspapers described the Italian criminal drug lords and money men as ‘Mister Bigs'. This was the common outsider's point of view, from the outside looking in. The reasoning was that the crooks with all the cash must be on top – and the top crooks in charge of the crooks with all the cash must be the Mister Bigs. But, as the song says, it ain't necessarily so.

Within the criminal world, everyone knew that cash was only fairy floss. Because when the shit hit the fan and the shooting started, all the money in all the world couldn't do anyone much good at all.

GAETANO Dellacroce had a problem. Doctor Chicago had a crew of 60 heroin dealers who had all scattered for cover as soon as the Vietnamese hit Jimmy Zoocos. Dellacroce's whole multimillion dollar drug empire was geared for money, not war.

Of course, death and violence was dealt out to the weak scum who owed money and who broke the rules, but this was schoolyard bully stuff. Break a leg here, hand out a pistol whipping there, set up the odd hot shot as a lesson to the other junkies not to push their luck with the man. But the Dellacroce crew grew and grew using cash and connections and agreements, not guns. Violence against mice was just by way of public relations. Agreements with police, connections with other criminal crews and gangs was their stock in trade. Agreement, cash and considerations. It was, after all, a business. What it was not was a blood and guts crew geared for war, when the Irish nutters called the dago heroin dealers ‘powder pussies'.

Here was a multi-million dollar empire, based on white powder, held together with bluff and bullshit. What the media didn't know was that any crew of nutters with the arse out of their pants and a few sawn-off shotguns and a heap of dash could gut any multi-million dollar drug empire in two or three nights with two or three dead bodies. The richer a crook gets the more he has to lose and the more he has to lose the less he will be inclined to risk it with serious gunplay. No drug empire can survive a blood war without coming out of it crippled, and there was no way in the world Dellacroce would win against the Vietnamese.

There was only one crew of psychos in Melbourne whose taste for sheer bloodshed outshone the Viets. Gaetano Dellacroce picked up the phone and rang his friend Pancho Moran.

DETECTIVE Chief Superintendent Graeme Westlock sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked police car. Doc Holliday was at the wheel.

‘Watch the bloody road Doc,' Westlock growled. ‘You nearly side-swiped that bloody taxi, ya cranky mad bastard.'

‘Sorry, Graeme' said Doc.

The police radio was turned off. Doc was listening to his cassette player. Carrying a ghetto blaster in a police car was not quite within police standing orders but, as Doc was fond of asking Westlock, what's the bloody use of being a bloody Detective Chief Superintendent if you couldn't toss the police standing bloody orders out the bloody window? Perfectly correct, Westlock agreed. Which was why he was also sucking on a cold can of beer as the cop car sped through a lazy Sunday afternoon's traffic with a gospel singer called Mathalia Jackson blasting her lungs out on Doc Holliday's tape deck.

‘Great afternoon for a quiet drive, hey Graeme?' said Doc.

Westlock tossed an empty can out the window and reached over and grabbed another one out of an esky on the back seat. They were off to Charlie Ford's place to have a BBQ and raise a glass or two to the memory of their late comrade John Harding. ‘All the boys will be at Charlie's place, won't they?' asked Doc. ‘Yeah,' said Westlock. ‘I got young Frank to ring around and rally the troops.'