Chopper Unchopped (228 page)

Charlie was quickly picking up the point. The Albanian had been on the phone with Monza personally. Hadn’t Hacker Harris gone to school in Thomastown with some of the young Monza boys? Who was pulling the strings? Not Conforte. Certainly not the Albanian. Blue Eyes did as he was told. Poppa Dardo was dead. Someone was still doing the thinking. Mumbles, yes, but he wouldn’t knowingly involve Hacker’s old crew and demand Charlie attend. Mumbles always thought Hacker was a nut case and wouldn’t have anything to do with him (or so the story went). But then again with Hacker what story could be believed?

His art was psychological warfare combined with combat strategy. You could shoot someone and not even know Harris had manipulated you into it. The old chess player had killed more people from his prison cell than anyone in Australia. Charlie had no way out. Harris worked on old loyalties and favours, not cash. He did you a favour today, but expected you to do one tomorrow.

Charlie knew that the demand that he attend at the home of Alfonse was Hacker’s payback for Charlie not backing him in 1987 against Cologne. Hacker had put it together meticulously. When it was done there would be so many in Melbourne to blame, but no one would be held accountable. ‘Capich,’ said Charlie to himself. At last he understood. He didn’t like it but he had to admire it.

‘All I want to do is live longer than my enemies.’
– Hacker Harris.

UP TO a 1000 people crowded into the old Gothic style Saint Mary’s Star of the Sea Catholic Church in West Melbourne for Big Al’s funeral. Crowds spilled into the gardens surrounding area of the Church.

The crowd waited patiently through Pavarotti’s
Nessun Dorma
before taking Communion. Queuing in line before the coffin bearing a photo of the man it contained, the image seemed like that of a saint. The song,
Ave Maria
, broke the silence.

One man stood in the background. Benito Monza had sent him from Sicily ‘to ensure the turd was flushed’. Next to him stood Joe La Borchia. The presence of these two men and the fact that Tony Capone didn’t even attend, along with the Muratore, Italiano, Agillette, Stromboli or De Inzabella clans, reinforced that the threats made at the grave about the plot already being dug for the man or men who had perpetrated the killing were hollow. Words made by foolish and emotional children. He may not have been in the Mafia, but this Calabrese had made sure his funeral was like that of a ‘Boss’. As Bobby Pantano sang
Ave Maria
, the police and media filmed the show. After all it was a major production. Dago funerals are like dago food. As Shakespeare said, ‘Much ado about nothing.’

Harris had successfully put a misinformation campaign in place some 12 months before the body of the deceased hitting the floor. This was one jigsaw the cops would never work out. None of the Italians at the funeral even wanted it analysed either. With Big Al gone there was room for everyone on the ladder to step up a rung. Detective Chief Inspector Rod Coleman spoke to Charlie Ford and Big Jim Reeves. ‘It’s no use us being drawn into speculation, boys. It’s all guesswork. Everyone blames Hacker Harris. He’s like fucking Ned Kelly. Each time a bloody horse goes missing, blame it on the Kelly gang.’

What about ‘Mumbles’?’ asked Rod ‘Nah,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s on our side. He swears he knew fuck all.’

‘What about Mad Charlie and the rest of Hacker’s old crew?’

‘Nah,’ replied Charlie Ford. ‘Foul slander and gossip. It was an Italian thing. No outsiders involved.’

‘Hmm!’ mused Rod. ‘I thought so.’

Charlie patted Rod on the back. ‘Fuck it mate. One more dead maggot. Don’t take it personally.’

Rod looked up. ‘Personally. Shit Charlie. I couldn’t give a damn. But if I could link Harris with it, we’d get that nut away forever.’

Charlie laughed. ‘Harris is worth his weight in bullets, Rod. Without a counter weight. A counter brilliance. The bloody dagos would run the lot. Shit, Banjo Paterson would turn in his grave.’

Rod walked away realising that on this investigation he was alone. Not even his fellow officers would lend a hand and to be fair, why should they? Only two criminals in Melbourne history had ever been given a ticket to ride an official police ‘blind eye’: Dennis Allan and Hacker Harris. Allan died from heart disease – which was a surprise to those who knew him as they thought he didn’t have one. Harris survived – his was made of stone. Bluestone. Ya got to have a bit of clout to get that and Harris got his from the armed robbers. Allan was only a second-string player protected by Brian Paul and his motley crew. Hacker had half the St Kilda Road complex backing him in the 1987 war. Rod knew he was up against it trying to solve this one.

For a start, he felt he was the only man not in on the joke. The fucking Calabrians told lies and the Sicilians wouldn’t tell you anything at all. Then you had Harris spreading total flapdoodle from one end of town to another from a prison cell. The entire thing was impossible.

Outside the church the BMWs and Mercedes circled like sharks. A black Cadillac hearse stood at the ready festooned with wreaths. Old Italian men with young blondes on their arms, tough thugs and muscled brutes all wearing slip-ons, sunglasses and gold jewellery stood together that day. But not out of friendship.

Melbourne is a cross between America’s New York and London’s East End. It is an Australian criminal city like no other in the country. Everyone loves a funeral. Except Harris who never attended funerals or left death notices unless some smart arse put one in for him using his name.

‘Look at this shower of shit,’ said La Borchia to Monza. ‘He lived like a fucking movie and now he wants to die like one. It’s a wonder they don’t sell popcorn in the church. That’s all Al was. A popcorn gangster.’

Monza smiled. ‘Hear the angry talk?’ whispered Monza. ‘They want to kill everyone. If they fire one shot in return, you can fuck me, Joe. Look at these weak mice. If the television cameras weren’t across the road, half these dogs wouldn’t be here.’

‘That’s Melbourne,’ said Joe. They love tradition. The big occasions – Anzac Day, the Grand Final, the Melbourne Cup and a pretend gangster’s funeral.

‘Crocodile tears, most of the time.’ Monza nodded. ‘Counting me, Joe, there are only seven Sicilians at the whole funeral and six of them are shop keepers. So much for Mister fucking Mafia.’

Joe couldn’t control his laughter so he put his hands over his face and pretended to cry. This caused some in the gathering to turn their heads but Monza’s hard face made them turn away just as quickly.

As the congregation filed out of the church, an old Italian walked up to Joe. ‘Why, Joe? Why they do this? Poor Alfonse, his wife, his daughters. I knew his father. He was a good man. Alfonse not Mafia. I know him since he “bambino”.’

Joe looked at the old man and then at Monza. With a wink he replied, ‘Maybe Jesus wanted him for a sunbeam.’

‘Mark Brandon Read is
clearly a suitable case for treatment.’
– Vanessa Thorpe,
Observer
(UK)

‘He has never pretended
to be Robin Hood.’
– Patrick Barkham,
The Guardian
(UK)

‘An entertaining nutcase.’
–
The Sunday Times

‘Chopper is nothing if not fearless.’
–
New York Times

‘Mark Chopper Read, a living legend
… he’s vicious, he’s a brute.’
– Elmore Leonard, world-acclaimed crime novelist

‘Read is a publicity stunt on hairy legs.’
– John Anderson,
Newsday
(US)

‘Ultimately Chopper is a sad case.’
– John Clark,
LA Times

‘Ecrits en prison, les livres de Chopper sont
devenus des best-sellers.’
–
FHM
(France)

‘Here’s the really scary part: Chopper is fact,
not fiction, and he’s still alive.’
– Anthony Lane,
New Yorker

The tale of a brute and a braggart.’
–
The New Yorker

‘An Australian folk hero.’
–
New York Times

The smart money said Chopper Read would be first to go in any underworld war but the smart money was wrong. He vowed to outlive his enemies and write their epitaphs and he did – predicting who would be killed long before the assassins’ guns were loaded.

Only Read would live to tell the tale. This is it … but that’s not all. He also revisits some classic Chopper lines.

WHAT a shock to see Eagles player Ben Cousins flattened by his drug problem. For years I have known he and a few of his mates were hanging around some pretty well-known drug dealers in Perth. No-one told them that when you lay down with drug dealers you wake up in a police cell – or a drug clinic.

Cousins thought these blokes were his friends. A drug dealer a friend? Do me a favour. It makes as much sense as keeping a scorpion as a pet.

Drug dealers are like everyone else. They love to be around famous people so they go out of their way to link up with actors, TV types and footy players.

You want the flash car, the blonde girlfriend with plastic tits and the footy player mates. Then in Australia, you’ve made it.

Now a kid like Cousins was probably given his drugs cheap to begin with, but then they said he was spending $3000 a week on drugs. Now that’s a lot of money. Where were his friends then? The Mr Big in WA is an old Melbourne boy. With one phone call he could have told the rest of his crew, ‘No more drugs for Ben.’

But he didn’t. Some friend.

I like to be around famous people too. I have pictures of me with people like Jimmy Barnes, and he is a top bloke. Nowadays I am a retired crook and can’t get people into trouble. If I saw Eddie McGuire in the street now, I’d go over and say hello. Whereas when I was up and about, I wouldn’t bother him because it could cause embarrassment for him. But the Perth crew hung onto those footy players like they were the Royal Family and no-one over there did a thing.

The police tipped off the footy club that they were going down the wrong track and what did it do?

Sweet fuck-all.

I reckon footy clubs should each have an old copper on staff. Someone like Brian ‘The Skull’ Murphy could be there in the background just watching what was going on and moving the wrong types out the door.

Footy coaches might know a bit about the game, but they don’t know much else. When they told Ben to go out and get the pill, they didn’t know he would take them literally.

There have been some footy players who have crossed over to the dark side.

There was one famous one who was the heavy for a drug crew, though I suspect if it had got real nasty he would have headed to the interchange bench quick smart in case he got his head knocked off by the even heavier guys. If you catch my drift.

There was another player who did a good line in taking his mates’ golf clubs to the pawnbroker so he could fund his gambling habits and another who moved a fair bit of counterfeit money.

Just as well, he wasn’t much of a ruckman and played most of his time away from the big league.

I think one of the things that made me turn into a crook was that there wasn’t a war for me and I always wanted to be a soldier.

Once I went down my track, I always wanted to be the best and most famous. I knew they would remember me, Squizzy Taylor and Ned Kelly. Blokes like Alphonse were always only going to be footnotes in the history of crime.

I will always be remembered but being recognised has its down side. Most people are really nice and polite but some people are quite rude. They stuff something in front of you and say, ‘Sign this.’

I have always thought it should be legal to shoot maybe every tenth autograph hunter so the others will queue up politely and remember to say, ‘Thank you’. But then again, I’m old-fashioned.

I was in the outback once when an Aboriginal boy asked for an autograph. I signed my name and he gave it back saying, ‘No – use your real name – Eric Bana.’ So I signed it ‘Eric Bana’. Stuff it, why not? I gave him his start and he has never even bothered to invite Margaret and me to Hollywood. Not even once, so bugger him. Then again, my passport might set off a few alarms at the LA airport, so maybe it doesn’t matter too much, Eric.

The truth is I wasn’t much of a crook: because, when you look at it, I spent more than twenty years in jail. Wasted the best years of my life.

I was tough, mad and violent, but the best crooks these days go to work with a pen and a computer, not with iron bars and guns.

Some blokes seem to run the underworld when they get others to do their dirty work. The real tough men are assigned to be foot soldiers. I’m glad I’m well out of it.

So I’ve ended up now with a few books, some paintings, a film made about me, no ears and a crook liver.

Maybe I should have been a bank clerk and worn a cardigan rather than a bullet-proof jacket.

The funny thing is in the world of crime I was a master strategist and tactician. I knew the moves of my opponents and could ambush them at will.

But in the world of ‘honest’ business, I have been constantly betrayed. When Jimmy Loughnan attacked me from behind in Pentridge, I blamed myself, as I should have seen it coming. But on the outside, there is no warning.

The snakes wear designer suits and the hyenas have cosmetically enhanced designer white teeth. So many people have come to me with schemes where ‘we’ will get rich. I didn’t know that in the business world ‘we’ means ‘they’.

There are crooks who would give you their word and that was always enough. But in the business world, people lie and cheat and then go home to a roast dinner without a moment’s thought.

Are they crazy? Here is me, a self-declared killer, a no-eared psychopath with a short attention span and they turn up saying, ‘Look, Chopper – we’re sorry but that money we promised you hasn’t come through – but let’s do lunch. I’ll get my people to talk to your people.’

It is at moments like those I think of ringing some of my people – people like Dave the Jew or Amos Atkinson and suggest we do one more job for old time’s sake.

But I have sworn that I am retired and if the snakes want to slither around with forked tongues, what am I to do but cop it?

I am bankrupt. I owe money. My health is rooted.

For years in H Division, more than thirty of us had to share the same razor when we shaved. Now all of us have hepatitis. And no-one gives a stuff. Fair enough, too. We did the crimes and got locked up for what we did. No point whining about it now.

But there is one thing I do know. I promised to outlive my enemies and now they are all dead and gone.

Bye-bye Dennis Allen, you drug-dealing wombat, Toodleoo Jason, Mark and Lewis Moran – the clan with big mouths and long pockets. Ciao Alphonse, the Plastic Godfather, and see ya Sid Collins.

I was the one voted most likely to die. But I’m still here after all these years, boxing on, still pleading not guilty.

The last man standing.