Chopper Unchopped (233 page)

They wanted to kill Jason at Mark’s gravesite on the anniversary of his death, but they couldn’t find it on time. These boys may have been well-armed but they were missing something in the brain box region.

Finally Carl worked out that if you want to set someone up, watch their family. Jason’s no different. He was keeping a low profile but he couldn’t resist slipping out to watch his kids play junior footy.

Carl sent his team there and they waited. Jason couldn’t resist wandering around like a mob boss, wearing dark glasses and shaking hands like he was Marlon Brando on a crash diet.

It was enough for the nutbag hit team to work out who he was.

The ex-armed robber was dropped off carrying three guns (as you would) and raced over to where Jason was sitting in a van and blew him away, and his little mate Pat Barbaro, too. Jason saw it coming and ducked but he had nowhere to hide. It was all over for him.

I feel really sorry for his kids who were there and saw their father and his mate die. But make no mistake, Jason was a violent gunman who copped his right whack.

When he died, some liked to say he had a heart of gold. That’s crap. He had a heart of stone, although he did throw the cash around a bit to big-note when he was cashed up. That’s drug money for you. It’s like Monopoly money.

The armed robber was supposed to get a fortune from Carl, but he ended up just getting $2500. The robber ended up rolling on Williams to Purana and that was the end for Fat Carl.

The lesson is: always be careful of the hired help and don’t shortchange gunmen.

Personally, my ambition is simply to outlive my enemies. I once said that if I got my picnic basket and sat quietly by the side of a river I would eventually see the bodies of all my enemies float by. This has happened to me. I have sat quietly by the side of the river of life and have seen the dead bodies of all my enemies drift by.

This is quite an achievement: to witness the death of every living true blue enemy I have on the face of the earth, meaning every enemy who was a true blue genuine threat against me.

The deaths of Mark and Jason Moran were the deaths of the last two remaining true threats against my life. The world is full of people who verbal off about killing Chopper Read – rar rar rar. Every nitwit and their pet dog is gonna do this, that or the other to me, but men with the guts to actually carry it out and do it are another matter altogether. Mark and Jason Moran were two men who had the ability to actually do it.

It’s funny but I saw Jason two weeks before he died. He was walking across Smith Street, Collingwood. He hesitated when he saw me. He had a look on his face of anger and fear. The anger of a man who wanted to kill me – and the fear of a man who wasn’t carrying a loaded gun. At the time, he looked at me and nodded. I replied with a big cheerful ‘How’s it going, Jason’ and he replied with a paranoid half-smile and a ‘How ya going, Chopper.’ I replied with, ‘Are you still gonna knock me. Jason?’

I was standing a good ten to twelve feet from him. ‘You’re not worth the bother Chopper,’ he replied with his typical rapier wit.

‘Don’t let fear stop you, mate,’ I said back with a smile and a laugh.

‘I’ve got no blue with you, Chop,’ said the man who vowed for years he’d guide me into a shallow grave.

‘You should get yourself a sense of humour,’ I advised him.

‘I’ve got one.’ he said back.

I told him, ‘Every time I see you I laugh.’

He gave me a half-hearted smile and asked me how Peter Bosustow was going. Bosustow worked with Mark ‘Jacko’ Jackson and myself with
The Wild Colonial Psychos
comedy show. Bosustow was a close family friend of Moran’s. I replied that Jason should ring Peter about getting work on the shows with us. Moran relaxed, sensing that if I had a gun on me, I wasn’t going to use it and leave him dead in the middle of Smith Street, Collingwood.

He knew the chances of my shooting him dead were very slim. He was quite right: I wasn’t carrying a gun and had I been, I wouldn’t have shot him in broad daylight in front of so many witnesses, anyway. Gone were those days. There was a time when I would have, but those days had long passed me by.

I chatted to him briefly about Bosustow and his mood and humour began to improve and mellow. While I spoke to him, I began to walk quietly towards him. What I knew about Moran was that without a gun in his hand, he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. The conversation ended with a handshake and he turned and walked away.

And I was left wondering what the hell the shifty bastard was doing in Collingwood in the first place.

Collingwood isn’t an area non-Collingwood people come to visit much as a rule. He had a handshake like a wet fish – a warm, sweaty limp handshake, very unmanly and very insincere. Had he been carrying a handgun in spite of the daylight or the witnesses, I’m sure he would have pulled it out and shot me dead on the spot.

He was embarrassed at bumping into me, being weak enough to talk to me and being weak enough to shake my hand. He was the man who swore a death threat against me at the grave of the late Alphonse Gangitano.

My old man always said to me, ‘Never trust an Aussie who takes orders off a wog.’ Sure it was a racist thing to say, but the old man never wanted to be the Minister for Multiculturalism, and had made his feelings quite clear against the Japanese in World War 2.

Moran was one of these dinky-di Aussies who took orders off and money from Fat Al – and lived in fear of a dagger from him. And Alphonse was a fool for trusting such a weak-gutted thing as Jason Moran. Jason was at best a woman basher and a two-bob bully boy. He never fought anyone who could fight and never made a move against anyone who had real dash or guts.

However he was not only a coward but a sadist – which made him a dangerous mixture. He was a paranoid coward and a very egotistical sadist – which meant that with a loaded gun in his hand he would walk up to heaven’s gate and shoot Jesus Christ himself. His actions with a gun hid the fact that the bloke couldn’t fight to save himself – and was at best a gutless, woman-bashing, cowardly tip-rat. But as low as he was, Jason was the last living human being remaining who would have gunned me down in cold blood, had he been given half a chance. All in all, Carl, you did me a great favour.

Having said that, now the smoke has cleared Carl is just another wobbly-bottomed mummy’s boy who got too big for his boots. He has got a long time to think about things in jail. And when you’re alone in a cell, growing old, you spend a lot of time thinking about whether it was worth playing gangsters for a few months.

But why should I care? Carl ended up with 35 years and I ended up with my worst enemies out of the way. So who is the real winner in the underworld war? You be the judge, dear reader.

Shot in car park of the Cross Keys Hotel, Essendon North, on June 21, 2003

HE was sitting in the van with his good friend Jason. The gunman didn’t even know he was there. There are two lessons to be learned here. One, pick your friends carefully and two, if you see some bloke running at you with a balaclava and three guns, run like stink.

Shot dead in his car in Waverley Road, Chadstone, on July 21, 2003

HIS front was to fill vending machines at nightclubs with lollipops. His real job was selling drugs to clubbers. He was a part-time actor who was never going to make the big time after he fell out with Nik Radev. Nik once fire-bombed his car to indicate he wasn’t happy and what did Willie go and do? He went straight out and bought a soft-top convertible as a replacement. Go figure. He should have bought an armoured van or better yet, a ticket out of town.

He either had a hand in Nik’s demise or knew that Nik was about to be set up for the hit, but if he thought his problems were over when the Bulgarian got his, he was wrong. Even though he was a very good friend of Tony Mokbel’s, I suspect Carl Williams may have organised Willie’s hit. It was a two-man team. The van pulled up and that was it. Classic Williams. This is probably one that Carl got away with.

Charred body found dumped in a drain in West Sunshine on August 18, 2003

MALLIA was one of that western suburbs crew that wanted to be a gangster. Never learned one of the most important lessons in the business. If you want to kill someone, don’t announce it ahead of time.

Mallia was a mate of Nik Radev’s and after the big Bulgarian bit seven bullets with his brand new teeth, Mark started saying he would back up for the dead drug pusher. But you can’t start a war without any soldiers and Mallia was on his own. Seeing Carl organised Nik’s knock, he wasn’t going to wait for Mallia to get his act together, so he sent his crew around. I think the last face Mark saw was Andrew Veniamin’s.

It was too late to call for a time-out then.

They found the body on fire and stuffed down a drain.

Now that simply outrages the new-age Chopper. Think of what that does to the environment? Burning drug dealers must pay havoc with global warning. They should have buried him and placed a nice tree on top of him. We can’t let the Arctic caps melt. What would happen to all the polar bears? The ones that Bruno Grollo hasn’t got stuffed and stuck in his office, anyway.

Shot during a late-night meeting with a friend in a paddock in Tarneit on September 9, 2003

ANOTHER drug dealer shot dead. Who cares? Natural causes if you ask me. And more proof that you have to watch your friends more than your enemies.

Shot outside his home in Joy Street, South Yarra, on October 25, 2003

NOW Carl Williams was really naughty with this one. Mick Marshall was just another citizen happy to sell drugs to kids so he could live the type of life he thought would suit him. His front was to sell hotdogs outside nightclubs. This put him in the perfect position to sell pills to eager young punters.

No-one knew much about Marshall. He lived in a posh house in South Yarra, but no-one seemed to wonder how selling hotdogs and a few rolls would put him on easy street.

Tony Mokbel had a bee in his Lebanese bonnet. He was convinced Marshall had knocked his mate Willie Thompson and he went to Carl to square up. He was prepared to pay $300,000 to knock Marshall. The trouble was that Carl was the one who had Thompson bowled over, so this was perfect for Fatty Williams. He’d get $300,000 and Tony would never know he was the one who had ordered Willie’s shooting.

Williams gave the job to the team that had killed Jason.

While the boys had dash, they weren’t blessed with too many brains. Any drug-filled idiot can pull a trigger, but the stone-killer is the one who can work out the odds and knows when to walk away.

These lads thought they had a clean car to pull the job, but the Purana Jacks had got there first. The driver saw the brake light was on, checked the motor and found a police tracker.

Now what would you do? Push on or pull out. You would pull out, right? You would know the police were on to you. But these two Mensa rejects decided to go on and kill Marshall, anyway. Of course, the coppers were listening and after the hit team left the hotdog man stone cold, they were gobbled up by the Special Operations Group.

Tony Mokbel only had to pay the $50,000 deposit. Carl was later convicted on this one, and no wonder. Serves him right for hiring retards.

Shot dead outside his Kew home on December 13, 2003

THE Munster should have been a winner. He was a top punter, but he forgot the most important rule. Quit while you are ahead. (Or in his case while he still had one).

He made a fortune as Australia’s top safe-breaker. He could open a bank safe as easily as a tin of sardines.

He was one of the smart ones who kept a low profile. While every Victorian detective with a brain knew his name, he wasn’t known to the general public. He loved the horses and a good feed and so, naturally, he was often seen eating at good restaurants with jockeys. Funny how good his inside mail was. It was one reason just about everyone liked the Munster, even some old-style coppers.

But in his younger days the Munster showed a bit of form away from the racetrack. He led a crew called the magnetic drill gang and I know he pulled a job worth almost $2million in NSW and a big gold haul in Queensland.

Banks around Australia had to change their safes because they were frightened the Munster would come calling with his drills.

He pulled a few big burgs and rolled over Lindsay Fox’s joint. When police raided the Munster, they found Mrs Fox’s unique pendant in a coat pocket. Kinniburgh beat the blister and as I have often said, ‘Thank God for juries’.

He was once charged in Sydney and Melbourne coppers went up to give evidence. He beat the charges and when they came back the coppers were down the back drinking beer and he was on the same plane, but up the front – and drinking champagne.

He used to play the mobster on his trips to Las Vegas, but in Melbourne he just lived quietly in a house in Kew and put his kids through private school. People there must have thought he was a bank manager and they weren’t too far wrong. He had a few, including one in Sydney, in his pocket.

I don’t know whether he missed the cut and thrust of bank jobs, had a brain fade or because of a midlife crisis but he started hanging out with Fat Al and that crew. That meant he was always going to end up in the headlines and all his hard work to keep in the background would be stuffed.

He was close to Lewis Moran and that meant he sometimes ran with Mark and Jason Moran. He would have been better off putting on a pair of Speedos and swimming with killer whales. It was always going to end badly. Alphonse’s murder put him in prime time.

He got banned from the track and the casino, so some of his biggest interests went out the window. He used to spend most of his nights down the pub looking as sour as a bloke who’d missed the fourth leg of the quaddie.