Chopper Unchopped (50 page)

I have never really experienced the sort of ill-treatment in prison that’s even worth mentioning in the same breath as the mental hospitals I have been in.

Even though they wanted to keep me sedated I did have some run-ins with some of the staff during my stay there. One night, a group of the hoons decided to get into me and give me the big needle. Now I had already had all my medication and, not without good reason, I protested at these apes trying to use me as a pin cushion.

I was about to be given a giant touch up by this lot when a big, mean-looking patient, with the strength of 10 men, rushed in and came to the rescue. He made short work of the night shift staff and saved my neck. He ended up getting my needle for his efforts and some electric shock therapy the next day. There is quite a tale to be told about this fellow, but I have promised him I will be discreet.

What they did to him for putting his head in and backing me up just wasn’t nice, and I won’t forget him for the efforts and what he copped on my behalf. His name was Geoff and I still owe him.

Geoff is now a top knockabout. He went on to be a nightclub bouncer and then went to London and managed a rock band.

After that he went over to Ireland to manage a team of strippers. That turned into total chaos, with Geoff being arrested. He came back to Australia and played in various rock bands, putting his guitar over the heads of a few before he would play the gig. He is still involved in the scene, managing a few strippers. I have been to a few strip nights organised by Geoff, and let me tell you, they were all wild nights.

Geoff is not a crook, but he’s met them all. After he helped me out in the mental hospital, I was moved out of the lock-up ward and taken to an area where men and women patients were able to mix freely. I was 15 years old and quite advanced physically. I was well-educated in matters of violence, but still shy in matters of romance and sex. In fact, I never played funny buggers with a chick until I was 18 years old. So what I saw in the mixed ward was a shock to me. They all slept in separate areas, but they mixed freely in the day rooms and gardens, and wandered in and out of each other’s sleeping areas. The place was like a rabbit warren with all the maddies humping each other, raping each other and attacking each other. I am glad that my old dad rescued me from that place.

The worst thing I saw there was to watch a big male nurse tease a patient for no reason. The nurse would take the bloke’s hat, a Collingwood Football Club beanie. The poor chap was going insane. He kept crying, begging and pleading with the nurse for his beanie, but the staff member just kept laughing and saying: ‘Sorry, but it’s against the rules. Only North Melbourne beanies are allowed here’.

The nurse was having what he thought was a joke and the other patients were laughing. I was full of nut house drugs and couldn’t even get out of my chair, but I could see what was happening quite clearly.

The patient who was being teased began to bang his head hard against the wall. Once, twice, three times — until he split his skull open, and still the nurse would not return the beanie. The poor patient kept banging his head until there was blood everywhere. Then three male nurses came out and he got the big needle to calm him down.

They would give you this needle which would leave you a helpless and dribbling mess, shitting and pissing your pants, unable to move.

It was hell. Some of the staff would take sexual advantage of some of the female patients. Thank God all that rubbish has changed in our mental hospitals now. I am told things are much better now, and just as well, because it couldn’t be worse than it was.

THERE was one sad point when I got out of Melbourne’s Pentridge jail, way back on November 14, 1991. I was given parole just three days before my birthday and I had told a mate, Andrew Shadwick, that if I got out we would have a reunion drink on November 17, my birthday.

But ‘Shaddy’ died on that very day. I was shattered. I hadn’t seen him since 1987 when he, Mad Micky and me went to Bojangles Nightclub and nearly got in a gun battle with a group of would-be Mafia hoons.

Both Micky and Shaddy stayed staunch even when guns were drawn and I knew they were both real mates with a ton of guts.

Andrew was a fun-loving giant who could fight like a thrashing machine and a bloke who stayed solid as a rock in a police station, unlike so many other tough guys I could name. He had a heart of gold and fists of iron. You can’t replace a bloke like Shaddy. I had already arrived in Tassie and we were supposed to meet in Launceston.

Even though I was right there I didn’t go to the funeral. A wake was held at the Outlaws Motorcycle Gang club house and while I went to that, I didn’t go to the real funeral. I have been funny about funerals ever since me and Dave the Jew had that small ceremony at the Prahran Swimming Pool where we deposited the ashes of our great friend, Cowboy Johnny Harris.

While I have no problems in killing a guy, going to a friend’s funeral gives me the spooks. I think they are bad magic and something I would avoid at all cost. I know there were many who thought I was unfeeling not to go to Andy’s funeral, but I know Shaddy would understand. However, I will attend the funeral of an enemy at the drop of a coffin lid. In fact, I would buy a ticket from a scalper to attend Sid Collins’ service, or even to wave goodbye to his missing kidney.

I’ve noticed with funerals that half the bastards who show up weren’t even close friends of the poor bugger in the box. Anyway, to me the last farewell is a private matter. I do not go to say goodbye to a friend in the company of a hundred strangers. It is how you treat a person in life that counts, not how many tears you shed after he is dead.

My mate, or should I say former mate, Amos ‘The Witch-Doctor’ Atkinson, wouldn’t even mention the name of a dead friend. He thought it was bad magic. It is the same with me.

I’VE mentioned before that when I was 15 or 16 years old I used to train at the gym of world champion boxing trainer Ambrose Palmer in West Melbourne. He was a wonderful old bloke and a good mate of my Uncle Eddy. He also got on well with my Dad, so I was looking forward to having Ambrose help me with my fistic style.

The gym had a great atmosphere. Boxers, sportsmen, crooks, scallywags, coppers, local politicians and TV personalities all called in at times. They all loved to watch the training and sparring and have a chat to Ambrose. It really was a big open house. Ambrose was not only the king of boxing trainers, but a living legend. He always had time for people, and was a soft touch for a sob story. He was always ready with a helping hand for anyone going through rough times.

Ambrose looked at me in the ring and said I fought like a kamikaze pilot, and I still don’t know if it was a compliment or an insult. All I ever did was charge in and throw punches at a hundred miles an hour, regardless of the damage that was inflicted on my young self.

Ambrose told me I would either kill someone or get myself killed in the ring. He told me it was a waste of time trying to teach me boxing, as I was a suicide merchant who wouldn’t listen to any advice. I had sparred over 20 times with men, all older and bigger than me, and I was proud to say I always managed to spill some of their blood in these battles. But Ambrose didn’t like my style, and after a sawn-off shotgun was found in my carry bag by some sticky beak, he asked me to leave. It wasn’t even my gun; I was just minding it for another bloke.

But in spite of the fact that my dreams of being the world’s first earless boxing champion were cruelly dashed, Ambrose and I always remained on friendly terms.

I saw him in Footscray in 1977 and we had a cup of tea together. He was a grand old man and a great Australian. He was also just a bloody good bloke, an honest knock-about who could deal with anyone from pickpockets to prime ministers. He cared about people and helped drag many out of the gutter. Many people who would have ended up as losers were helped by Ambrose and went on to live good, normal lives. If there really is a heaven, I am sure Ambrose is there now.

In 1987, the biggest and most powerful heroin dealer in Melbourne was a man I will call the White Ghost. He was from a wealthy Jewish family and lived in a luxury penthouse apartment in St Kilda. He drove an assortment of luxury cars and made no effort to conceal his wealth. He was always seen in the company of glamor ladies and had his money invested in illegal gambling houses in Carlton, massage parlors, restaurants, nightclubs, cafes and factories in the western suburbs. He also had a slice of a jewellery business.

The Ghost was a multi-millionaire, and thought to be untouchable. He was the subject of a federal-state police investigation that lasted years but didn’t produce any results. Many police and criminals believed he would never be caught.

One reason for his charmed life was that he was also a top police informer acting for some detectives in the Victoria Police. So while some police wanted him behind bars, others wanted him free to let him give up other crooks. It was very odd, but not an unusual set of circumstances. Police often let some good crooks run if they give them good mail.

I ran into a classic example of this in the Chevron nightclub in St Kilda. Mad Charlie had known the White Ghost for many years and they were not friends. The two of them met up that night and a wild argument started. They were screaming at each other at the top of their voices in another language.

I was never a great debater and I never liked the White Ghost at any rate. Besides, I was acting as a bodyguard for Mad Charlie, so I pulled out a five shot .32 calibre revolver and aimed it at the other bastard’s thick head.

I was about to pull the trigger when a plain clothes copper stepped in front of me and flashed his badge. It was the most amazing thing. He just said: ‘Put it away, Chopper’.

The police weren’t with the Ghost. They were watching him, but his watchers had become his bodyguards. Any move against him was a move against their investigation so, like it or not, they turned into his unpaid bodyguards.

I was not arrested. I was simply asked not to shoot the prick, and being the well-mannered chap I am, I put the gun away. But it made me wonder about things. In order to investigate him and try to arrest him, they save his life – and thank God they did, as they saved me from a life sentence. They weren’t going to let me shoot him, but neither were they going to arrest me for attempting to shoot him.

The White Ghost has been a powerful underworld identity as well as a police informer. But his money and his connections won’t keep him alive for ever. One day he will run out of people to sell down the drain … and when that day comes, he will be found in one.

ROBERT Lochrie has been a tried and true friend since our teenage years together. A former pro boxer and nightclub bouncer, he’s a bloke who gets into a bit of trouble now and again, rather than what I’d call a criminal. He was as loyal a friend and ally as I have ever had, and as a back up in any type of fight, he was the best. I could ask for no-one as solid as Loxy in matters of violence.

He backed me up over the years and his violence was matched by his closed mouth if matters ended up in a police station. He saved my neck numerous times by flying into fights when I was outnumbered.

It is a pity that most of the best stories about Loxy must remain untold as it would place him in legal hot water. All I can say is that not all the blokes that Loxy and I had to deal with made it to the hospital. Bobby always liked to finish a fight with one for the road — a running jump, with both feet ending up on the head or neck of the fallen enemy. From experience, let me tell you that it is a bloody dangerous weapon used in hotel carparks.

I’ve seen this guy cut his way through a crowded bar with a broken beer bottle to get to my side when the odds were against me, thus saving my neck.

Loxy is a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving guy who happens to be a bit of a nutter. He would follow The Chopper to the grave, and on several occasions, almost did. To him it was all fun.

I once saw him head-butt a local smartarse by smashing through the side window of the other bloke’s car. Picture it, an EH Holden, all doors locked and the windows wound up tight, with some ratbag at the wheel making rude gestures towards my good self and Loxy. Robert went over and was most frustrated to find the doors locked, with this ratbag indicating to me and Loxy, with hand and mouth gestures, some sort of unspeakable sexual act.

What he got for his trouble was Loxy’s head crashing through the window and into his own. He was then pulled out through the window and kicked in the head and neck until he lay there like a used dish rag.

Me and Loxy went into the pub where we remained for two or three hours and the smart arse was still lying by his car. We didn’t know whether to call an ambulance or Windscreens O’Brien.

ONE of the more interesting visitors I’ve had in Risdon was the girl who liked my first book so much she had the image of the cover tattooed on her shoulder.

Her name is Karen and she is a little honey with an obvious artistic touch. She arrived wearing or, should I say, almost wearing, a very tight little dress. I must say she is a little glamor pussy.

She told me she has only read two books in her life, Chopper One and Chopper Two. Well, surely that is enough higher learning for anyone. After reading my literary efforts, her cultural cup runneth over.

Karen showed me her tattoo while standing on the seat provided for visitors. I must say I wasn’t expecting a strip show, but it was done in the nicest possible taste.

Little Karen, also known as ‘The White Dove’, hitchhikes down to Risdon from Launceston to see me on a regular basis. I can tell you I am most concerned for her well-being, as she does not rug up warmly for the trip. Whenever I see her she seems to wearing less and less.

Now, one day she was standing on the Midlands Highway with her thumb and her chest out and two cars stopped and the two drivers wanted to punch on to see who could give her the lift. Karen wisely ran off and was rescued by a lady driver who turned out to be a very religious woman who insisted on giving Karen a stern lecture about wearing suggestive clothing and accepting rides from strange men.

Karen didn’t have the heart to tell the woman that she was on her way to an all-male jail, and not a prayer meeting. The woman insisted that the two of them share a little prayer in the car to save the White Dove’s soul.

The say travel broadens the mind. I like Karen. She hitchhikes down here rain, hail or shine wearing just enough to avoid arrest. She makes me laugh with her wonderful stories about what she gets up to. She was once called for jury duty, and didn’t want to fulfil her community service, so she went to court half drunk and wearing a pair of short shorts and a tee shirt which read: ‘I’m a virgin, this is a very old tee shirt.’ The funny thing was that it was a rape case – and she got picked. Once on the jury, of course, Karen took her duty seriously. Launceston is a very small town. She knew the so-called victim and was very unimpressed with the Crown case.

The White Dove is very public spirited like that, always trying to help out. In fact, after showing me her tattoo she made me an offer which was hard to refuse – although I’m not sure when I can take her up on it. She wants to be my driver when I get out of jail.

Considering that my last driver, Trent Anthony, got $500 a week and I paid for all food and drinks, who wouldn’t want the job? Karen promised me if she got the job, she wouldn’t verbal me in a police station, wouldn’t give Crown evidence against me … and she was at pains to point out that there may be other fringe benefits for me in the deal that Trent Anthony would never have dreamed of, or at least I hope he didn’t.

As she wiggled away from the visiting area, I thought about how all the good offers happen to me when I am on the inside. I thought about the offer. I can hardly say: ‘Karen, you’re hired’.

Karen is a looker and has heaps of dash, but at the moment she has a small problem – she hasn’t got a licence. She may be able to drive most males into a frenzy, but she can’t drive anything with an engine. She is already taking driving lessons, and has told me she has already had to sit one stiff oral exam which she passed with flying colors. On the strength of that, I am most keen for her to audition for the job.

At the moment she can’t back out of the driveway without hitting the letterbox, but she is so enthusiastic I am sure she will get there in the end.

The trouble is that she was getting lessons from some lovesick teenager, who insisted on trying to run his hand up her leg while she was concentrating on driving. He did it once too often while she was going around a corner at a fair rate of knots. She spun the car, hit the gutter and broke the axle. Serves the young pimply git right for being too horny for his own good.

Karen is a good sort who loves the greyhounds, going shooting and having a drink. She can outdrink most men I know. But she has done a few things which make me wonder if all is well in the brain box department.

She had two dogs, her own pets, and her landlord told her to get rid of them. But instead of taking them to the pound she shot them both in the head, and dumped them in the blackberry bushes.

One of the dogs wasn’t dead, and came back with the slug in its head. It was moaning and she didn’t have the heart to shoot it again, so she put sleeping pills in its food. That didn’t work, so she finally did shoot it again. But it still wouldn’t lie down, so she let it have it with the axe and then buried the body.

Somehow, I don’t think I want to get on the wrong side of this one.

She writes to me every day. When she was a kid, she used to bathe in the South Esk River every day. Now, while that river is fine for tossing the odd gun or body into, it is too bloody cold for swimming or washing. But it was fine for tough little Karen.

She got the tattoo of the Chopper book cover put on her shoulder, and many a big brave buck in Launceston likes to make smart-arsed comments about it.

Why do these pricks like to say things to a little girl that they would never dream of saying to me? They are weak-gutted mice. The world is full of men who are ready and willing to fight women. They need to be taken to a public toilet and be flushed regularly.

In a world of false pretenders and traitors, I have learned to value friendship and loyalty. Karen has those qualities and more. She is more solid than most of the men I know. If she wants to stand on some ratbag’s lawn and throw stubbies through his window, then good luck to her. But that, as they say in the classics, is another story.

I am not the only one who finds Karen an attractive item. An old mate, Tony Boros, has given me no peace since he saw her photo in the second book. He was desperate to meet her and offered me a greyhound for her address.

The deal is simple. Karen’s full name, address and phone number for the ownership papers for one of his greyhounds.

The greyhound gets put in my name and the papers get lodged in Anita’s safe. Tony agreed to keep training the dishlicker while I am inside.

I sent someone around to check the dog out and it turned out to be a bloody beauty. So, without bothering to inform the White Dove, I did the deal. Just let’s say I like to play Cupid occasionally.

Anyway, that’s how I got to own a greyhound. I got a visit from Karen a few days later, asking me who the hell Tony Boros was. It seems he lobbed on her door step, sporting a big bunch of flowers and shifty smile. Karen then went on to ask me if I knew anything about a greyhound.

Lucky for me the White Dove has a sense of humor, as not many young ladies would be able to appreciate the comedy involved. I am lucky indeed to have the friendship of such a broadminded lass.

Tony also sent me a photo taken outside Hollywood’s famous Chinese Theatre. It seems that Humphrey Bogart and me think alike about some things. ‘Sid, may you never die till I kill you’ signed Humphrey Bogart, August 21, 1946.

I share the sentiment, that’s for sure.

As for the White Dove and the greyhound? Well, I guess that blows hell out of my chances of joining the ranks of the sensitive new age guys. Bugger it, who cares? Chicks are beautiful and I would die for them but they are a penny a truckload and a good young greyhound is bloody hard to get hold of.

I mean, let’s get things in their right perspective. OK, so I’m not a romantic. But then again, Romeo never owned a greyhound. Ha, ha.

Which brings me back to the romance of Tony and Karen. It was Monday, August 9, when Tony’s dreams were to come true. I had the papers for the greyhound and he had my permission to take Karen out for the night of their lives. It was to be the night of passion with the Hillbilly Princess, an evening of romance with the sort of girl a greyhound trainer fantasises about.

When he arrived at the door to pick her up to take her to the Launceston casino, he found that Karen’s ex-husband and his mates were in attendance. When Tony walked into the lounge room he said it was like a scene out of the movie
Deliverance.
The only thing missing was the duelling banjos in the background.

There was some wild-looking mountain man chopping wood for the fire – in the lounge room – and some cross-eyed, ill-bred gentleman cleaning a hunting rifle at the kitchen table. Karen’s son, a tough toddler named Little Jack, was trying to stab the family pig dog with a fork, much to the animal’s understandable annoyance, and White Dove’s daughter, Kerrie, was kicking Little Jack in an effort to take the animal’s side in the family dispute.

The radio, record player and TV were all blaring away at the same time. It became clear to Tony that this date was not going to be like a scene from a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. At that moment Tony started to suspect he may have been stiffed, to give up a perfectly good greyhound for a night out with the passion flower. But it was too late and he had to make the best of it.

The ex-husband was there to look after the kids and Tony and the White Dove made tracks to the casino. Anyway, to cut a long story short, once away from the family anarchy, romance began to blossom and Tony fell deeper under the spell of the beautiful Karen. He then asked her if there was anything she needed. Most girls would ask for a bottle of perfume, or hint that tickets to a rock concert would be nice, maybe even suggest that a diamond ring would woo them, but the White Dove proceeded to put the hard word on him for a truck load of firewood. This was a first for Tony.

The night ended and it came time to hit the bedroom. He found that she slept with a loaded rifle beside the bed. He was advised that it would be best if neither of them went off half-cocked, so to speak.

In spite of everything, romance was in the air and a good time was had by all.

I am left with a problem. Being inside jail, it is difficult to walk my greyhound. The authorities here have been most sympathetic to many of my problems but I think they would baulk at the idea of me popping out of Risdon to walk the favorite for the first leg of the double at the dogs.

I intend to ask Mary-Ann, the babe from the Tax Department, if she would exercise the greyhound for me. The idea of swapping one chick for a greyhound and then getting another to walk it for you strikes me as a classic case of enterprise bargaining at its finest. I am nothing if not an entrepreneur, as many people could tell you.

I have decided to name the greyhound The Buggster, after Damian Bugg, the Director of Public Prosecutions.

One must never lose one’s sense of humor.

IN LIGHT of these recent events I have decided to rate all females on a one to 10 greyhound scale. The White Dove was a one greyhound girl although I think I got stiffed. Call me old fashioned, but I would have thought Karen was worth at least two greyhounds. I was new at this trading thing and I will drive harder bargains in future.

I would class Renee Brack as a two greyhound girl, no problem. Smart, quick and loyal – the greyhounds that is – although there is nothing wrong with Renee that couldn’t be fixed quite easily.

The scale is easy: How many greyhounds would the woman in question be worth. Is she a one greyhound girl or is she an Elle MacPherson, who would have to rate nine greyhounds easily? Of course, Ita Buttrose would have to be a 10 greyhound lady, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees.

I do not believe there would be a girl alive worth more than 10 greyhounds. I think this revolutionary greyhound scale would go down well with the down-to-earth, thinking Aussie male. A good dog is worth between $1000 and $3000, and never asks for money to go to the hairdressers, you can see that the scale is not as insulting as it may sound.

Personally, I think it is a marvellous idea.

In the midst of all my legal worries I have now got my first vet’s bill for The Buggster. He caught some sort of doggie chill and fever and I am now worrying more about the wellbeing of my greyhound than my own problems.

By the look of this bill, if I come back in my next life, it won’t be as a gangster. It will be either as a barrister or a vet. Both make more with a pen and a calculator than I ever could with a gun.

If anybody’s interested, Tony Boros and Karen ended up going away together for a weekend in Melbourne. Hey, it mightn’t be Paris, but it’s a step up from chopping wood in the lounge room.

Those two are having a lovely time while The Buggster still requires medical attention. By the time he is well enough to race he will have had more jabs in the bum than a Filipino bar girl …

HAVING finally gotten over the doggie ’flu, The Buggster was ready to show a select few how quick he was. But the big deal greyhound blew his monkey muscle at the time trials. He ran a swift 26.1 seconds, then he did this small muscle in his back. The vet bills aren’t worth it.