Chopper Unchopped (35 page)

HE was feared in the NSW and Victorian underworld for more than a decade. A good looking man with a cruel streak who would kill anyone if the price was right.

Christopher Dale Flannery, known to one and all as ‘Rentakill’, relished a reputation he earned after beating two separate murder charges.

Born in Brunswick in 1949, Flannery left school at 14. Ironically, his brother Ed chose the high road and ended up a successful barrister.

Chris, on the other hand, was a likeable young man until he was placed under pressure. Then he would respond with extreme violence. As a teenager he was sentenced to seven years for rape.

By the 1970s Flannery started to turn his naturally violent nature into profit. He taught himself the rudimentary elements of pathology — not to heal, but to hurt. He wanted to know exactly what bullets of different calibres would do when they entered the human body, and his interest wasn’t academic.

Once, when Flannery was arrested at Geelong, he said he was sick and was taken to the toilet. He grabbed a small pistol from his underpants — but was overpowered by police.

He was not a subtle man. As with most criminals, Flannery had his fair share of tattoos, including one across his stomach, the word ‘Lunchtime’, with an arrow pointing to his groin.

For some time Flannery was close to the one-legged private investigator, Tom Ericksen, a notorious figure in his own right.

In 1980 Flannery was charged with the murder of Melbourne businessman, Roger Wilson.

In what was, to then, the longest murder trial in Victoria’s history, it was alleged that Flannery and another man were paid $35,000 to kill Wilson. The Crown stated that the hitmen pretended to be detectives and flagged down Wilson’s green Porsche on the Princess Highway at Cranbourne.

The unsuspecting businessman was handcuffed and taken to a lonely spot to be killed. According to police the first shot failed to kill Wilson, who then made a desperate break in the darkness.

He then ran blindly until he hit a paddock fence where Flannery fired several shots into the body. Wilson’s body has never been found.

The Crown alleged that Flannery drove Wilson’s car to Tullamarine where he left it in the long-term car park to give the impression that Wilson had voluntarily staged his own disappearance.

Police were told that Flannery was berated by a woman for being ‘sloppy’ in the way he had killed Wilson.

A teenage girl, Debbie Boundy, was to have been a key witness in the trial. She disappeared in 1981 from the car park of a Melbourne hotel. She has not been seen since. It was alleged that she was lured from the pub with the promise of some marijuana, but was abducted and shot in the head.

Flannery was acquitted of the murder but his troubles were far from over. As he walked from the Supreme Court he was charged with the murder of Sydney massage parlor standover man Raymond Francis Locksley. After two trials he was found not guilty in Sydney in 1984. But it was a fateful move for Flannery, who decided to try his luck in Sydney. He was befriended by notorious Sydney crime boss, the so-called ‘colorful racing identity’ George Freeman, who used the imported Melbourne gunman as his personal muscle.

Soon after Flannery arrived in Sydney an underworld war broke out which cost at least eight lives. During this war, Melbourne criminal Alan David Williams was involved with Flannery in the plot to kill Sydney drug squad detective, Michael Drury, who was to give evidence against Williams.

Alan Williams was a major armed robber in Melbourne in the late 1960s but in the 1970s, like many others, he moved into drugs. He began to move vast amounts of amphetamines, marijuana and heroin. At one stage he had dealers working for him in St Kilda, Elwood. Fitzroy, Williamstown, Footscray and Coburg.

‘I was a giant in the trade,’ Williams recalled later. ‘I thought I was invincible and unpinchable.’ At first he was a dealer who didn‘t use. Eventually he began to smoke heroin and then to inject it. He was arrested after a drug deal involving NSW undercover detective, Michael Drury, outside the Old Melbourne Hotel in 1982.

He had been introduced to the undercover man by another figure in the drug world, Brian Carl Hansen.

Desperate to keep out of jail, Williams first tried unsuccessfully to bribe Drury — and then offered $100,000 to have him killed.

On June 6, 1984, Drury was shot as he stood in his Chatswood home. He survived.

Williams’ brother-in-law, Lindsay Simpson, was not so lucky. He was shot dead outside Williams’ home in September, 1984. It was a case of the wrong man. Dennis Bruce Allen, a vicious drug dealer, had ordered that Williams should he murdered. But the criminal he hired for the hit, Ray ‘the Red Rat’ Pollitt, shot Simpson by mistake.

Williams later pleaded guilty to attempting to bribe Drury and conspiracy to murder. He was released in 1992 from Goulburn jail, vowing to give up drugs and crime.

Police subsequently discovered that Flannery had agreed to kill Drury for $100,000. He took a deposit of $50,000 and stalked the policeman to the Chatswood house and shot the policeman as he stood in his kitchen washing dishes.

Drury was shot twice at point blank range, but to the amazement of his colleagues and medical staff, he lived. Flannery told Williams not to bother sending the remaining $50,000 because Drury was not dead, and so the ‘contract’ was not fulfilled.

Flannery, who lived by the sword, was to die by it. It is believed that a group of major criminal figures decided that Flannery was a loose cannon who had to die. He disappeared on May 9, 1985. His body has never been found.

His wife, Kath, who was almost killed in an attempt on her husband, denied that he was a hitman, acknowledging only that he was ‘no sugar plum fairy.’

SO much has been written on Christopher Dale Flannery, ‘Mr Rentakill’, and I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. But really, the guy was a mental peanut with the physical courage of dishwater.

Flannery had an overblown reputation built on about 10 or 12 facts and 1000 fairy tales. In my expert opinion he was so far behind he couldn’t hear the band playing. He hated me, but the hatred was born out of pure fear.

Years ago he barricaded himself in his cell because the screw threatened to move him to cell two, side one, which just happened to be the cell next to mine. He accused the screws of trying to have him killed and demanded to see his lawyer.

The screws were only joking with him, the weak-gutted prick. But I’m glad the fag is dead.

This mental giant employed Amos, ‘the Witchdoctor’ Atkinson, proving the man was a tactical retard. He had a close working relationship with the late ‘Hopalong’ Tom Ericksen. He also worked for the late George Freeman as a strongarm man, debt collector and standover man.

There are many stories about what finally happened to the bag of wind so I will tell you how he left this world. A man I believe and trust but cannot name told me the real story on Flannery.

Tough Tom Domican was the man everyone thought knocked Flannery. It was well known the two of them hated each other, so when poor old Chris went on the missing list half the Sydney underworld were whispering Tommy’s name. Tom loved this. He was delighted to feed the rumors. He was not a man without an ego. In fact, he started to tell certain people that he had done the hit and had disposed of the body. But he confided to a couple of his good friends ‘I’m gonna look a nice stupe if that big prick turns up.’ There was no fear of that because Tommy Domican knew that Flannery was no more. But his big mouth got him in trouble and he ended up doing time over an attempt on Flannery’s life. I won’t comment whether he was guilty of that or not.

Now I will tell you what really happened to Rentakill. He forgot the golden rule: trust no-one, particularly if he is close to you. Flannery was hit from behind with a meat cleaver as he drove a car. The killer was a trusted ally.

I know the name of the man who did it but I will not betray him. The man who put him on the missing list is a Melbourne-based gentleman who has put enough people on the list over the past 20 years to be believed. I would believe him before I would believe anybody in Sydney.

As for Tommy Domican, a stretch in jail should teach the Irish numbskull to keep his mouth shut and stop bragging about things he didn’t do.

Flannery’s body was put through a tree shredder and his minced remains rest in Seymour, Victoria. End of story.

People don’t know it but there is very good mail that it was Flannery who killed Ray Chuck in the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court in 1979. And he would have killed Freeman if that mob hadn’t got him first. Domican was a bit player in a major production. He didn’t have a starring role.

ALAN David Williams was the man who paid Chris Flannery to put a bullet into the NSW undercover policeman, Mick Drury.

I knew Williams in B Division in 1975. He was a nothing then, and in my opinion has lost ground ever since. He had a running war with Dennis Allen for a while as they blued over who would control drugs in jail. Big deal. But I’ll say one thing, Williams was a cunning bastard, too bloody slippery for my liking. He was more like a fat-arsed used car salesman than a good crook. I disliked him at first sight and he knew it. He was not what I would describe as a brave man. He preferred to employ others to do his dirty work. He employed mental retards and top of the range idiots, mainly.

While it is commonly believed that Williams got Flannery to shoot Drury. I am one of the few who believe that Williams, for some unknown reason, said that to cover up the true facts and to protect a corrupt police officer. He had close links with a network of bent bobbies around the place.

I would believe very little of what came out of the mouth of Williams. He is a game player and a deal maker who operated in a world of shadows, police spies and double agents.

BRIAN Carl Hansen was a Mr Big in the drug world. He was a friend of Alan David Williams. Hansen was the man who told the undercover NSW drug squad detective, Michael Drury, that if he was a copper that he was a ‘bloody dead man.’

But for all his wealth and alleged underworld power, Brian was a very frightened man. Typical of the modern drug gangster, he was without power once drugs were removed from his hands.

I personally didn’t mind him as I found him no threat at all.

A guy called Tony, who was involved in the Great Bookie Robbery, introduced me to Brian. He was very nice to me … but then again, death is always treated with respect. People like Brian being nice to me was not a sign of friendship, just of fear. Your old granny would get over him in a fight.

I wouldn’t wear any of the bums on a brooch.

FLANNERY shot and killed five times more men after his death than he ever did when he was alive and well.

In matters relating to who shot who in the drug world, especially where police, honest and otherwise, are concerned, one is left with one question. What is the truth? I personally doubt that the truth has ever been told.

As far as Flannery was concerned it was a case of ‘Rentafool’, not ‘Rentakill.’ But I shouldn’t be so hard on the dead, so here is my personal tribute to the man …

ANYBODY who thinks there is no such thing as white slavery in Australia ought to meet a guy I will call ‘Milo.’ Then again, perhaps they shouldn’t. He’s not the sort of bloke you’d want to take home to mum . . . especially if you’ve got a sister.

Milo is an Albanian but he speaks Italian and uses an Italian name. He can’t spell Ovaltine. He has no police record, but he’s a top operator in the flesh for sale racket.

He runs a string of very physically beautiful callgirls. These are whores but they don’t look like hookers. They are the silk department in the oldest profession. The catch is that they are slaves to Milo because he keeps them all drug-addicted . . . and he sells them like cattle when he’s finished with them.

The key to Milo’s success is that he oversees his girls’ daily drug use like a concerned doctor. He sees to it that they get vitamin injections, B12, C and E. They are kept on a program to promote physical well being: aerobics, dance classes, swimming and sun bathing. I have seen some of them and they are real glamor girls. They all look as though they are from rich families and expensive private schools.

As a cover for his caper Milo runs a small legitimate modelling agency. But the real bucks come from the top of the range escort market. Each of his girls are on heroin and totally enslaved, although they seem to like their lives. But what they don’t realise until it’s too late is that the only way home for them is an overdose.

Milo has a few lucrative earners on the side — spin-offs from his main line of business, you might say. Because he supplies escort girls to the rich and famous, he does a nice line in blackmail. He would be making at least $1 million a year out of his beautiful but smacked-out flock of females. And I doubt, somehow, that he pays much tax.

I have met some of his girls. Heroin and bent sex is their life. Take away the needle and they would rather be dead.

Milo sends Australian girls to Asia, Bangkok and Japan and so on. After he is finished with them he sells them and they don’t even know it. It is a slave trade, but as long as they are given heroin, they don’t seem to realise they are being hawked like sides of beef.

The power heroin seems to have over women is greater than the physical effect on males. Of that I am sure.

THE only area of criminal activity where you still find a lot of real hard, tough bastards, the real head-banging stone killers, is in the world of the criminal arms dealer.

This is a section of the underworld that I pride myself on knowing well, although not many do. But under no circumstances will I go into great detail about the people in it. It would not be healthy.

I am talking about para-military style criminals. The men of this world are 1000 miles Right of Adolf Hitler. Few of them ever end up in jail. They deal in guns and they have a select group of buyers. If it is on the market they can get it — at a price — from anywhere in the world.

A gun dealer can make a major drug dealer look very tame. The heavyweights of the drug trade are girl guides compared to the arms dealer.

I have seen a man shot because he arrived at a gun sale and questioned the impact hitting power of a 9mm Glock Special. He was simply shot in the leg by way of example. He was then forced to pay for the gun, and his friends then carried him to his car.

Lesson: don’t ever question the impact of a gun at a criminal arms deal. Not unless you have tin legs, anyway.

A criminal arms deal is no place for a two-bob tough guy. This is my world, and I know the men involved.

The bulk of the men involved in this world are not really part of the criminal culture. They stand in a world of their own, many of them ex-army, so Right-wing they make neo-Nazis like poor old Dane Sweetman look like a gay Commie.

One of the biggest arms dealers about is a war veteran known as Agent Orange. He is dying of cancer so he won’t mind a little mention. At any rate, he owes me money so bugger him.

These men deal with the hard men of the underworld. Very little of the real good stuff ever finds its way down to the run of the mill crim.

YOU pick up a newspaper or you go to the movies and you see a million stories about the mafia. But really, in Australia, we should be far more concerned about some of our Asian friends than the boys in the black shirts and the wrap-around sunglasses.

The Vietnamese will be the next great crime wave we face in this country. There are only a few down here in Risdon jail, but in Pentridge they are growing in numbers and are already trying to get a big slice of the action.

Physically, the Vietnamese have lost every major battle they have tried to fight inside Pentridge, but they simply never forgive and forget. They re-arm and they wait their chance to attack again and again.

The king pin of the ‘slopes’ in jail is a man who goes by the nickname ‘Small One.’ This is because he is the baby son, the fifth child in the family. ‘Small One’ has gained absolute power over all Vietnamese prisoners and crews inside Pentridge.

The biggest Vietnamese crime gang in Australia is Su Doan 18, the equivalent to the Chinese 14K. And ‘Small One’ is a leader in the gang whose influence is growing both inside and outside jail.

So far the Vietnamese have no real access to fire power, and the mainstream crims have made sure that they don’t get too many guns. They have got where they have with knives, cleavers and a love of blood. However, it is as sure as eggs that they will get the weapons. Drug power and money will bring the influence and buy the hardware.

Another strong man and growing leader in the Su Doan 18 is the man they call ‘The Monkey.’ I befriended him in jail and helped arm him and his bodyguard, ‘The Tiger.’ Both these men are known in their world as ‘Sat Thu’ or gunmen.

This all sounds like nonsense but the Vietnamese crime world is very serious. I see them almost as little children trying to find their way as they grow bigger and stronger. They have already learned the power and money that comes from heroin. I have told ‘The Monkey’ that there are other ways to make it in the crime world without dealing in the powders. He is a good listener and learner. I have told him that my methods can also bring power. So remember the name of ‘The Monkey’ because he will become a low-profile, but much feared headhunter within the Vietnamese crime world. While the ‘Small One’ is the rising star in Asian crime, I think he will not live long.

Australian crime figures laugh at these little men, but they are too stupid to see that they will eventually lose their power to them. They will gain fearful power within 10 years, I have no doubt about that at all.

The Su Doan 18 is also known as the 18 Division. It has about 200 members and is growing fast. It is based in Springvale, Richmond and Footscray and has a branch at Cabramatta in Sydney.

The gang began by running protection rackets against Vietnamese shopkeepers but is now also heavily involved in prostitution, heroin, blackmail and general standover tactics. They will never stop and if the authorities don’t move soon, they will become a major evil influence in Australia.

It could be worse. While the slopes are making a quid at least I can pick up some walking-around money playing Russian Roulette with them. They love gambling almost as much as they love blood, and they throw down plenty of dough to see The Chopper take a chance on blowing his brains out.

WITH all that has been written about ethnic crime it never ceases to amaze me that the so-called experts have steered away from groups who really do have a large slice of the action. The mafia in Australia has a fearsome reputation for violence and ruthlessness. It is high time this was exposed as a myth.

In mother Italy they may be strong, blowing up police, politicians and judges all over the place, but their poor gelled-up Australian cousins couldn’t knock the froth of a cappuccino in a street cafe.

The police and the press watch television and read books and think the same thing must be happening here as has happened in America and Italy. When you talk of real blood and guts violence in Australia you will note the names of those involved: Flannery, the Kanes, Taylor, Twist, Bradshaw, Turner, Freeman, Smith, Cox, Minogue (Craig, not Kylie) and, of course, the old Chop Chop himself. You could toss in a few Jewish names as well, just for spice, but you will notice that there are no wogs amongst them.

The Dagoes may hit the headlines, but they don’t hit much else.

In the invisible empire that is called the Australian underworld the Italians count for nothing. They hold financial power and drug power, but they are not feared by anybody except Italian shopkeepers, market gardeners and grandmothers.

No, the Australian criminal world does not shake in fear at the thought of the Italian mafia. But there is an ethnic crime group in Melbourne which truly does hold the power of life and death in the underworld . . . The Albanians. To be precise, a small group within the Albanian community which can strike terror into the hearts of most crims.

When it comes to death and violence this group is beyond compare. For sheer guts and love of blood, they are the tops. They have 1000 per cent attitude towards family honor and revenge. There is no question that they have a siege mentality towards the outside world. It is interesting to note that the Russian KGB used the Albanians as hit men and assassins.

I can say that in my time in Melbourne, the greatest friendship and loyalty I was shown came from this small and feared group. Two of my greatest and most trusted friends were Albanians.

No, it would be wrong of me to suggest that these two fine men had any connection with crime or criminals. They were just tough and honorable gentlemen who were well known and highly respected within the Albanian community.

One man is Neville Darbovski, who I simply called ‘Neville the Albanian.’ He was one of the bloodiest and gutsiest street fighters it has been my pleasure to know.

One of the toughest and hardest men I have known, however, was his father, Norm, a publican. He was seen as a father figure by many members of the Albanian communtity.

His loyalty and kindess to me in 1987 was given without question. I love him like my own father, and he is still in my heart.

I used to go with him to clubs in Lygon Street. It was the first time I ever saw so-called hard men kiss another man’s hand and cheek. I felt like I was an extra in a Marlon Brando movie.

Norm was kind and gentle and he was always there to give advice — or money, if it was needed — to friends in need. However, I always had the feeling that if you crossed Norm, you were entering a world where suicide would be the kindest and most humane advice.

I must state that Norm and Neville were hard men but were not involved with Albanian criminals. I was happy to know that when I was out and about in Melbourne in 1987, when there were many big-mouth criminals who wanted me dead, that I had the backing of two such rock-solid types.

They showed me more guts and loyalty that I had seen in a long time. I was always able to go to the Builders Arms Hotel in Fitzroy knowing I could have a drink, a meal or even a sleep in total safety. There were many men who were frightened of Chopper Read. There were more who shook with fear at the thought of upsetting or crossing old Norm and his family, God bless them.

I mention them here as a sign of my deep respect and gratitude for the loyalty they have shown me. I have no doubt that if I had not known them in 1987, I would have been killed. They stood between me and the grave in those days and I cannot forget them.

They taught me that honest men can be hard men.

FOR some years now many and various motorcycle gangs have controlled the amphetamines, or speed, market in Australia. While they no longer have a monopoly, they are the biggest participants in the huge industry.

The bikies have cornered the market in relation to production, bringing them wealth far beyond most people’s estimates. The wealth and drug power they have acquired has made them big players in the underworld.

But the rub is that these men are not cradle-to-the-grave criminals and when the shit hits the fan, the vast bulk of these so-called motorbike tough guys run for the cover of police protection. Or worse, they turn Crown witness.

There would only be a very small percentage of the members of the various clubs who could be called real tough guys. Many of the bikies are non-criminals involved in crime and this, in my opinion, is very dangerous. It is like non-medical people involving themselves in operations.

You are dealing with men who will holler copper at the first hint of trouble. I have some good friends in the bike world, but even they admit that they have a great deal of trouble with some patch-wearing members from some of the clubs.

Much of the inter-gang violence and distrust comes down to the fact that half of them spill their guts whenever they get into a police station. This results in great unrest and bloodshed between them.

I personally think that most of them have fallen off their Harleys onto their heads too often. I don’t pretend to understand the political intrigue or the thinking involved, but I do know that they have great power and wealth through their involvement in drugs.

This means that they are rich, violent and weak. A senior policeman once told me that he hadn’t met a bikie who wasn’t prepared to talk inside a police station as long as his name was kept quiet. They are dangerous, venomous and amateurish.

Of course, there is a handful of strong men in the bike world. They know who they are and so do I. As for the rest, I piss on them. They are like overgrown boy scouts with bad attitudes. They like to run around in uniforms with patches on their back. Obviously, they should all have gone to Scotch College to get it out of their systems. You would think they would grow up.

I suppose I shouldn’t try to analyse these boys. In the end, when all the talk and politics is over, a gun in the mouth is the only answer.