Chopper Unchopped (144 page)

“This might help,” he said.

“Thanks” said Pepper – and promptly drank the half bottle.

“Not for you, ya thick pig. For the lady.”

Busy reached into the sideboard again and took out a full bottle of scotch whisky and a glass and poured out a generous dose, then held Fran’s head up and put the glass to her smashed mouth.

She drank a gulp and coughed and spluttered.

“What animal did this?” asked Busy O’Brien, looking like thunder. “To belt a woman like this, it’s unforgivable.”

“I found her lying in Victoria Street in Abbotsford. Ya know who she is?” said Les Pepper.

Busy shook his head.

“That’s Fran Kinsella, Owen Lewis’s moll.”

“Well, well, well, well,” said Busy with a grin. “My darlin’ girl, I am glad to meet you.”

Busy turned to Les Pepper. “Go and fetch Doc Whitaker.”

Pepper protested. “At 4.30 in the morning, Busy, ya gotta be joking.”

Busy turned and snapped a right hand backward across Pepper’s face. “I said Get Doc Whitaker. Now go.”

Pepper turned and hurried down the hall and out the door.

ALL in all, 1933 wasn’t much of a year. The Depression still had a grip, and half the world had been starving since the Wall Street crash in 1929. Some nobody called Adolf Hitler had taken over as Chancellor of Germany, a fact that seemed to concern and fascinate politicians and newspaper men but bored everybody else.

Criminal activity that didn’t centre around Collingwood wasn’t worth a second mention and Taffy Westlock, head of Russell Street’s famed and feared Consorting Squad, was due to retire. He was 59, but still a physical giant, looking more like a young and healthy 45-year-old. He’d been a copper since the age of 22 and was a legend.

Taffy was slightly mad and insisted on riding a police issue pushbike everywhere he went. When the Consorting Squad, a 12-man crew, went on a raid they would pile into three police cars, then travel to the raid in convoy at 15 to 20 miles an hour with Det. Chief Inspector Westlock leading the charge on his bike. It was a sensational sight.

When in disgrace for breaking a gangster’s neck in a fist fight at Young and Jackson’s Hotel in 1920 he was transferred to Collingwood CIB. There he arrested Squizzy Taylor, Henry Stokes and Johnny Reeves for organising a two-up game and for urinating in a public place. After punching Reeves and Stokes to the footpath and footing Taylor up the pants he made the three men run in front of his push bike as he rode back to the Collingwood Police Station singing “I’m an Old Cowboy” at the top of his lungs.

Taylor, Reeves and Stokes were fined 10 bob each and Westlock was mysteriously transferred back to Russell Street. His three sons were all policemen, along with his four nephews. In fact, the Westlock and Kelly families had populated Russell Street to such an extent that lunch time in the Russell Street canteen looked like a family reunion.

The Westlocks were a big family. And Busy O’Brien happened to remember that one of the Westlock lads had married a Collingwood girl named Ruby Kinsella, an elder sister of Fran Kinsella. The brain of Johnny Reeves’ tactical adviser was ticking over.

EVAN and Billy Lewis were making their way out of the Grand Picture Theatre with two sisters from Collingwood, Tracey and Rhonda O’Connell. They had just been to see the movie
Public Enemy
, starring Jimmy Cagney.

“I loved the way Cagney pushed that grapefruit into Mae Clarke’s face,” said Billy with a laugh.

“I didn’t,” said Tracey.

“Ahh, what would you know,” said Evan. “I love the way they dump Cagney’s body on his mother’s doorstep.”

Billy smiled “Yeah, good trick for Johnny Reeves, hey Evan? Dump the rat on his old mother’s doorstep.”

“I think that’s shocking,” said Rhonda O’Connell.

Crime had been good to the Lewis boys. While the rest of the country went without, the only people who made money were politicians, criminals, publicans and bookmakers. And the odd policeman who knew a few of the former.

Evan opened the driver’s side door of his 1928 Hispano Suiza car and the two brothers and the two sisters get in.

“Let’s head for the Terminus Hotel,” said Billy.

“Good idea,” said Evan.

“It’s 9.30,” said Tracey. “The pubs are all shut.”

“Ha ha,” laughed Billy with a wink. “Not for the Lewis brothers, they’re not.”

Evan drove with Tracey at his side, running her right hand up and down his inner thigh and undoing his fly buttons with her left hand. She looked over into the back seat to see that her little sister Rhonda had a good head start with Billy Lewis.

The O’Connell sisters worked in a brothel in Russell Street and had become famous locally for their oral expertise. Nine out of ten girls in Melbourne, including prostitutes, would run a mile screaming or report you to the police as a pervert for even suggesting such an outrageous act. There were brothels in Collingwood, Richmond and Fitzroy with girls willing to perform the unspeakable act but the Bennett, Phillips and O’Shaughnessy girls all worked for the Reeves crew and were off limits to the Lewis boys. The ill-will between the Reeves and Lewis camps was making the small Melbourne criminal world an even smaller place for the Lewis brothers.

“I hope Owen knows what he’s doing,” thought Evan as he drove along the empty street. He had to concentrate on driving as Tracey was sending him quietly insane. He could hear his brother in the back seat moaning like a wounded animal as Rhonda went to work on him. Evan felt a twinge of jealousy.

A 1931 Duesenberg convertible pulled out and drove up alongside. He didn’t notice it, but Tracey stopped what she was doing and crawled down low on the floor of the car. Evan heard Billy yell “What’s going on?” and he turned to see Rhonda hiding low on the floor of the car.

A horrible suspicion hit him just before the bullet did. He had time to look at two men in the convertible on his right for a split second, saw the muzzle flash, then his whole world went black, as they say in the pulps. A second shot rang out and there was a blizzard of broken glass and skin, teeth, blood and brain inside the car. Rhonda O’Connell took cover and screamed as Billy Lewis sprayed his mortal human remains all over her.

Tracey was also screaming, as Evan’s head had turned into human watermelon and was all over the place. The big car slowed and rolled along, a dead man at the wheel.

Tracey got back into the seat and steered the car to the edge of the road and put her foot on the pedals in a mad effort to stop the car, but to no avail. All this while she was trying to push Evan’s faceless dead body out of the way. It was little Rhonda who saved the day by yelling, “Handbrake, handbrake.” They saved the car and themselves, but nothing was going to save the Lewis brothers.

JOHNNY Reeves stood in the bar of the Leinster Arms. He was talking to Busy O’Brien and “Hacker Hill”, boss of the Lennox Street gang over in Richmond. The wars between Richmond and Collingwood had ended when Squizzy Taylor died, and apart from a few two-bob shootings and a couple of friendly bashings and gentle kickings, things were all very peaceful between the two crews.

“We can’t help bad luck, Hacker,” said Johnny. “I don’t care if he was your cousin, he lashed on a 50 quid debt and he got punished.”

“Yeah,” said Hacker Hill, “but to drag and dump a man for a fifty pound debt seems a bit much.”

“This is a bad time to owe 50 quid,” said Johnny. “Look, I’m sorry we killed ya cousin. I tell ya what, I’ll give you 25 quid, half of what ya cousin owed, as a fair compensation for his death,” he offered.

Hacker Hill looked at the 25 quid. The Lennox Street crew were streetfighters and gun-toting drunks and the whole lot of ’em would be lucky to see 10 bob a week if they all pooled their money. The 25 quid was a fortune.

“Ah well,” said Hacker Hill, as he dived on the money. “He wasn’t my favourite cousin, anyway.”

Regan Reeves, Padraic O’Shaughnessy and Eoin Featherstone, along with Butcher Maloney and Tommy Brown walked into the pub.

“Two down, one to go Johnny,” said Regan. “But I don’t think the O’Connell sisters will ever be the same again. Ha ha.”

“They were told to keep their heads down,” said Busy.

“Yes,” said Padraic, “but neither of them can drive a motor car. They nearly killed themselves trying to stop it.”

OWEN Lewis and his father had packed their bags and booked a train back to NSW. They were standing on the platform at Spencer Street railway station waiting for the Sydney train to leave at 9.30 am.

The short-lived Abbotsford uprising had fallen in a heap and old Pop Lewis didn’t want to lose his oldest son Owen in a mindless war with madmen over whore houses and two-up schools, regardless of money.

The two men were waiting for Fran Kinsella. Fran and Owen had patched things up, much to Owen’s surprise, and she had agreed to flee with him to Sydney. As he stood on the platform he thought of Fran. He knew he didn’t deserve such a loyal and loving girl. He also knew he had 3000 pounds in cash on him, and he resolved that the first thing he would do in Sydney would be to get poor Fran’s smashed teeth fixed. Poor girl, she was so good to him. Why did he have to hit her all the time. He felt deep shame at his past actions.

“Here she comes,” said Pop Lewis, and Owen turned to see the lovely Fran clip clipping her way down the platform in her high heels. She had a Hollywood show girl movie star look and walk. What had he ever done to deserve such a beautiful woman? He promised himself that he would never hit her again. As she got closer she reached into her brown leather handbag. She was wearing white cotton gloves and a brown and white suit with white high heels and matching hat.

Owen smiled. She’d forgotten her ticket. She looked so cute as she rummaged in her handbag with a slightly puzzled look on her cute face. Her busted nose and blackened eyes under her dark glasses and her swollen top lip didn’t hide her natural beauty. I’m sorry, baby, thought Owen. I won’t ever hit you again. As she got about six feet away Fran found what she was looking for.

It was a dainty silver-coloured Colt .32 calibre single action revolver. She aimed it at Owen’s chest. Owen was shocked, but managed to laugh. “What’s this darlin’, a joke?” he croaked.

Fran didn’t answer. She pulled the hammer back and pulled the trigger. She did this three times, sending three dum dum slugs into his chest. Owen held his heart and stumbled to his knees.

“Why Fran, why?”

Then she turned the gun on Pop Lewis and said “Sorry Pop” and put the remaining two shots from the five-shot revolver into his chest and neck. She then turned and walked away. As she got about 50 feet from the fallen men Busy O’Brien hurriedly joined her and threw a lady’s overcoat around her shoulders and took the gun from her, like the gent he was.

People milling about on the platform gathered about the two fallen men while Busy O’Brien and Fran Kinsella quietly left the station.

IT was 1936. Three years had passed since the trouble with the Lewis brothers, and the Collingwood crew had grown in size and power. McCall controlled all of Abbotsford, Albert Phillips took charge of Victoria Park and Clifton Hill was shared by the Peppers and the Bennetts, all under the watchful eye of Johnny Reeves.

There was only one small section of Collingwood the Reeves Gang stayed out of. That was the darkest part of the horrific Collingwood slums, from Collingwood Lane to Blood Street. The Van Gogh Brothers had that and who else would want it? Shilling a time whores and killers who would cut your head off to pinch your boots. Apart from those who were born and bred in this part of town no-one, not even the police, dared enter it.

Tough men had vanished in this part of Collingwood and were never seen or heard of ever again. Rumours of dead men being cut up, cooked and eaten by starving families were not totally dismissed as the squalor and filth and human degradation had to be seen to be believed. The slums of Richmond and Fitzroy weren’t flash by most standards, but compared with Collingwood the poor of Richmond and Fitzroy were considered well-off posh bastards.

Horror stories of the brothers with the strange Dutch name of the famous painter were also legend. They were rarely, if ever, seen outside their own one quarter square mile of Collingwood territory, so when Johnny Reeves was at last introduced to Milton Van Gogh by Macka McCall, Johnny was extra polite.

Milton Van Gogh was a man of average height and as skinny as a rake, with a wild insane pair of eyes. It was clear at first sight that Van Gogh was as mad as a cut snake. He was filthy dirty, wearing clothes that should have been burnt, bar a pair of brand spanking new boots. Reeves looked at the old clothes and new boots and wondered who Van Gogh had killed to get them. But he didn’t ask. It wasn’t manners.

“How ya goin?” Johnny said as he held out his hand. That was manners.

Milton Van Gogh took the hand and Johnny Reeves felt a power and strength in the handshake that betrayed a hidden force that the skinny man didn’t show on the outside.

“I’ve heard ya name but never met ya,” said Johnny pleasantly.

“Likewise,” said Milton. He seemed to be a man of few words.

“What can I do for ya?” asked Johnny.

Milton Van Gogh looked shyly down and shuffled his new boots.

“My brothers have done something silly,” he muttered. “I think we might need a bit of help.”

“Oh,” said Johnny. “And what have they been up to?”

Van Gogh looked at him and said, “You’d best come and see for y’self.”

Reeves shuddered. It was 7.30 at night and from what Van Gogh had just said it sounded like a trip to the black section of Collingwood. At night it was pitch black. There were no street lights. Some of the slum houses had the electricity connected, but no-one paid the electric bill so no-one had any lights other than candles.

A man could lie dead in the streets for a week and all they would do in that part of town would be to take the boots and clothes of the body and leave the remains for the cats and stray dogs to eat.

“It’s a bit late at night for a visit,” said Johnny half-heartedly. “Maybe tomorrow.”