Chopper Unchopped (158 page)

A wave of boos went out at the mention of the name Van Gogh.

“Okay, settle down. This bloke was born in Mont Park Mental Hospital while his mother was a patient. He is the grandson of Hector Van Gogh, famed monster of long ago, the son of Ringo Van Gogh, the nut, who got put away in J Ward at Ararat Mental Hospital for plotting to kill Prince Charles during his visit in 1983. He is the first cousin of the late Duncan Rinaldo Van Gogh, nicknamed Little Cisco …”

Boos interrupted him.

“… and nephew of the late Mad Micky Van Gogh,” continued Westlock, a little bit exasperated. “So you can see he has the credentials. He is also related through second and third cousins to half of Collingwood. The Reeves have been backed by the Van Goghs for the last three or four generations.

“This particular specimen of Van Gogh is a psychopath and a pain freak masochist. He loves pain. Note the missing ears. He cut them off and ate them. Yes, yes, I know. Missing ears in Melbourne is no big deal, but even Princess Chopper her good self never ate the bastards afterwards.

“This bloke is a speed junkie, a sexual deviate and a cold blooded stone killer, and those are just his hobbies. He knocked off Bunny Maloy and Geoff Twane, for a start. He is moving bulk white rat heroin, too, thanks again to our old mate Tuyen Tran Truong, and he is moments away from his first million. He likes vampire movies and, from one report, screwing dead bodies, although we have no evidence of that.

“His mother kept him locked in a large steel sea chest as a child, naked, and whipped him with an electric cord, so much so that he ended up loving it and now is dysfunctional without pain. His only redeeming feature is that he has a deep knowledge of horses.”

The crowd of police turned and looked at Westlock as if he was the one who was mad, not Hector.

“Well,” said Westlock, a little defensively. “I find it quite impressive, anyway, that the bloke has some culture. Anyway, gentlemen, this is the interesting bit. Last week Penny McMahon met her old boyfriend Fritz Bartoolan at the Village Belle Hotel in Barkly Street, St Kilda, and handed him one bag. We believe it contained cash and, as you can see, he handed her another bag. We believe it contained pure speed. Ah yes, another moment of laughter coming up, gentleman, as Fritz gives her a quiet one up the clacker down that alleyway for old times sake. Very romantic. And now off she goes with the bag on her bike.

“Now, a flashback to good old sun, surf and sand at Laguna Quays resort marina and that lovely big white yacht.”

“Yeah!” yells one of the NCA men to more cheers.

“And here,” continued Westlock, “we have Coco Joeliene on the deck yet again sitting under the sunshade canopy, fully hipped and breasted, as you can see, wearing just enough so as not to get herself arrested. Not that we could arrest her, anyway. There is Neville and Normie and Ronnie and look who comes aboard. Yes, it’s good old Fritz Bartoolan. Handshakes all round and a little kiss on the hand for Lady Coco.”

“Do we have audio?” yelled Henry McCarty.

“No,” said Westlock. “The yacht is swept from top to bottom for bugs each day at a grand a time.”

“Shit,” said Doc Holliday, “that’s not very sporting of them, is it?”

Westlock ploughed on. “As you can now see Bartoolan is giving the Reeves Boys and Coco a nice new Omega Seamaster Wrist Watch, just like the one Fritz has himself. And Hector, and Penny, and Sonia.”

“And, I may add,” yelled Chief Inspector Clay Allison, “Doc Holliday.”

A roar of laughter went up.

“Yes, Doc,” said Westlock. “You’re gonna have to hand that in. Amy Jo was a good kid, but that watch is a sore point.”

“Stick it up ya arse,” yelled Doc, not wanting to part with Amy Jo’s gift to him.

“Anyway, gentlemen, that’s it. We must thank our friends from the ABCI for the video tapes,” said Westlock.

“So, why does all this concern us? Diplomatic passports, international drug dealers, a dead arms dealer, Chinese triads, white rat gang leaders, shadowy men from Foreign Affairs, former strippers turned ladies and a merchant millionaire banker’s wife.

“It’s all million dollar Harold Robbins fairytale crime on a scale we don’t generally have to cope with. Our part is the Reeves and Van Goghs end of it. We know these arseholes better than anyone.

“The ABCI believe that a multi-million dollar heroin deal, funded by Lady Joeliene Kidd to the tune of four million in cash. This is to pay for pure product from Thailand in partnership with Lim Fo Foy handling the Thailand and Bangkok airport end, and Tuyen Tran Truong handling distribution this end.

“The deal is being held up due to the fact that the lovely lady Joeliene won’t move until Ronnie Reeves travels to Melbourne and with a .45 calibre handgun in one hand and his new diplomatic passport in the other kills the man who shot his numb nut brother Archie, namely me. Then he intends to even up the Collingwood score and kill Hector Van Gogh and Penny McMahon and Sonia Vonchek.

“It’s clear that Tuyen Tran Truong is on Coco’s side and plans to betray Hector but the Fritz Bartoolan thing is a puzzle. Is Penny using him against them as a spy for Hector or are they using Fritz as a spy against Hector? Lady Joeliene’s yacht leaves in two days time. We believe Ronnie Reeves will remain. So, gentlemen, that’s it. Any questions? Any ideas?”

“Yeah,” said one of the NCA men with a sly grin on his shifty face. “How much do ya reckon Ronnie and Coco will pay for your head, Graeme?”

There were roars of laughter at this one.

“Ever had someone take a shot at ya, sport?” snarled Westlock, staring at the NCA man as if he was a piece of dogshit he’d just found on his shoe.

“No,” said the young copper in a small voice.

“Then keep ya mouth shut, you smartarse young pup,” said Westlock through gritted teeth. An ominous silence dropped over the room. “Shooting coppers isn’t a joke, and if anyone thinks it is they’re in the wrong line of work.”

“Sorry, Mr Westlock,” said the young NCA man. Very meekly indeed.

PENNY McMahon got off her motor bike and walked over to the laneway just off Barkly Street. It was night time. Fritz Bartoolan was leaning against the wall, waiting.

“You’re late, ya slut,” he snarled. He was no diplomat.

“Sorry, Fritz,” she answered evenly.

“Is it all set up?”

“Yeah,” said Penny. “He’ll be in the main bar of the Rising Sun in Raglan Street, South Melbourne, tomorrow from 1 pm until 2 pm. He has to meet the white rat.”

“Well good. Ya see, ya can do something right after all, can’t ya, slut?”

Penny felt a tremor of hate rush through her. Fritz stepped back to the side into the darkened alleyway. “Get over here, slut,” he ordered.

She couldn’t see him clearly, only his shadow. But she heard the familiar sound of the fly zipper on his jeans being pulled down.

“On ya knees, pig,” growled Fritz. Penny obeyed, but while she took hold of the swollen meat with her left hand, under the cover of darkness she used her right hand to take out the .22 magnum automatic pistol Hector had given her. It had been cocked before she’d arrived. So had Fritz. Penny sank to her knees. The big bikie grabbed her head like a football and forced himself into her marshmellow mouth. As she performed the task like the seasoned professional she’d become, she wrapped her right arm around Fritz’s right leg and aimed the barrel up into his rectum. Dead centre.

“What the hell’s that,” he said. With that she pulled the trigger three times quickly, then sprang backward and landed on her arse on the cold cobbled stones of the alleyway. The big man screamed like a dying wild pig, and she saw his shadow slump. She aimed the gun into the shadow. She pulled the trigger three more times.

As the late, great Janis Joplin put it, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

PENNY had been telling Fritz the truth, up to a point, right up until she shot him. Truyen Tran Truong had indeed arranged to meet Hector Van Gogh in the bar of the Rising Sun Hotel in Raglan Street at 1 pm. Naturally being a curly customer when it came to the ancient eastern art of the double cross, he had arranged for the Reeves to walk through the door at 1.30 pm as well, as a little surprise for Hecky. But there’s one thing better than the double cross, and that’s the triple cross. The flaw in the cunning Vietnamese’s plan was that Fritz Bartoolan had spilled his guts to Penny with his tongue before she spilled them with the magnum.

Fritz made the fatal mistake of trusting a woman he thought he had mental and emotional power over. Like all men Fritz thought that Penny loved him because she had sex with him again. He believed she was addicted to his animal charm, but the only attraction was her desire to kill him. Each time he’d screwed her over the past few weeks she climaxed violently in the certain knowledge that soon she would kill him. With each act of animal lust between them he confided in her more and more.

So it was that Hector The Cannibal knew the real deal when Truyen Tran Truong walked in the hotel door at 1 pm. Which explains why the rat was dead from a fatal overdose of sawn-off shotgun before the pub door had shut behind him. Amazingly, not one of the dockies or other honest folk drinking there at the time saw a thing. Of course, it is a widely held theory in some circles that the noise of a shotgun at close range in a confined space can affect people’s memories and eyesight, as well as making their ears ring.

Sonia Vonchek had always found karate a wonderful exercise and physical discipline. Pound for pound, against people of her own height and weight she would fight anyone and feel confident. But, to be on the safe side, she kept some artillery handy in case some visitors to her academy didn’t feel like playing by the rules.

In fact, when Neville and Normie Reeves came through the door of the karate school hiding handguns behind their backs and calling for Hector, Sonia happened to greet them from the staircase with a 9mm Stirling SMG with a 30-shot side clip. She was like something out of
The Avengers
.

Neville’s guns sprayed the ceiling and walls as the submachine gun cut him in half. Normie fired three shots into the floor because he suddenly lost interest in raising his arms when a dozen slugs ripped into his neck and chest. All the while a class of twenty schoolgirls aged from seven to twelve stood silently by, watching their instructor show them what a little Irish karate could do when the need arose.

When Sonia walked down and stood over the fallen bodies of Neville and Normie the students came out and stood with her.

“No one hit?” asked Sonia.

Twenty little girls all shook their heads. Little Jilly Armstrong, a cheeky nine-year-old, held up her fist and shook it with pride. “We got the technology, hey Miss Vonchek?”

Sonia smiled and patted her on the head. “That’s right, Jilly. We got the technology. Ha ha.”

RONNIE Reeves had his Uncle Roy’s blood in him, so he chose an old Dan Wesson double-action .44 revolver. Hector Van Gogh had his uncle Micky’s blood, so he chose two M 26 hand grenades and a .45 calibre automatic handgun just in case. Neither man would run, so Penny drove Hector to Smith Street, Collingwood, and on Hector’s orders she drove away. She was crying.

Hector walked the streets and searched the pubs. He could feel the eyes stabbing into him and the whispers of “dog” and “traitor” when he walked into hotels, but nobody said anything to his face. After all, whatever they now thought of him in Collingwood, no-one was silly enough to think he was a coward.

Hector combed Collingwood for hours until he came to the Leinster Arms Hotel in Gold Street. He went in and ordered a drink, then he heard his name.

“Hector, Hector, outside.”

Hector turned and walked out. Standing on the other side of the street was Ronnie Reeves.

“Ya know, Hecky,” said Ronnie, “our families have been friends for a hundred years and this will be only the second time this century that one of us has to kill the other.”

“The second time?” said Hector, puzzled.

“Yeah,” said Ronnie, “in 1939, I think it was, your grand dad murdered my great Uncle Kalan.”

“Bullshit,” said Hector. “Wild Bill Holliday did that. Everyone knows that. Any rate, if you’re so bloody smart, what was the name of Elvis Presley’s horse?”

The question threw Ronnie. He hesitated, in spite of himself, and automatically began to think of an answer. Bad move. It was the split second Hector needed. He pulled out his gold cup .45 calibre auto and punched seven shots into Ronnie’s chest, guts and face from a distance of twenty feet. As Ronnie fell to his knees he drew his gun, but it might as well have been a toothbrush. He didn’t have the strength to lift it.

“Ha ha,” laughed Hector. “Ya didn’t know the answer to that one, did ya Ronnie?”

ONE month later. The faint sound of singing in an unmarked police car. “I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grande and I come to town just to hear the band and I know all the songs that the cowboys know, ’bout the big corral where the doggies go, cause I learned them all on the radio, Yippy I O, I’m an old cowboy …”

“Here he comes,” hissed Doc. “Don’t hurt the girl. We don’t want to be gunning down no girls.”

Hector Van Gogh and Penny McMahon walked together down the Esplanade hand in hand, both carrying shopping bags. They had been out for a Saturday morning stroll to Fitzroy Street.

“Let’s go,” said Westlock. Three car loads of armed robbery squad members hit the footpath.

“Let him try it first. Don’t shoot unless he goes for his gun,” ordered Westlock. He was of the old school. With that he, Doc Holliday, Charlie Ford, Pete Younger, Henry McCarty, Paul Clanton, Roy Dalton, Clay Allison, Ben Masterson and Frank James walked across the Esplanade. As they got to about thirty feet away Hector looked up and, in a flash, pushed Penny McMahon clear and pulled a magnum .44 revolver out of a shoulder holster from under his left arm and a .38 automatic from his belt.

This time the armed robbers had left their play too late. Three of Hector’s slugs hit home before the cops could return fire. Ray Dolton fell down dead with two slugs from a .44 in his chest, and Paul Clanton was wounded with a .38 slug in his guts.