Enforcer (3 page)

‘Yeah, but I’ve got a good reason.’

I had my hand just inside the doorjamb, and he booted the door, crushing my hand. My hand was killing me but I went inside and told him what had happened.

‘Oh, all right,’ he said. ‘Go to bed and I’ll talk to you when you get up.’

Next day he bandaged my hand and asked, ‘Would you know any of these blokes if you saw ’em?’

‘I’d know two of the cars.’

So that night we went down to Box Hill – Dad with a pick handle – and I spotted the two cars parked outside a milk bar. Dad walked into the milk bar, smashed every bloke in the place, then came out and smashed their headlights and windscreens before hopping back in the car.

‘When you grow up,’ he said, ‘that’s how you do it.’

‘Yeah, okay Dad.’

A
FTER YEARS
of boxing, in Victoria I moved into the wrestling scene. I found that the wrestling could outdo the boxing because, when you’re a boxer, you really just learn to throw punches, but if you’re a wrestler, you can grab a person, get him in close, and put arm locks on him, leg locks, head locks. You can immobilise a person in so many ways. And when you combine the boxing skills with the wrestling, it sets you up to be a very strong fighter.

At seventeen, I won the Victorian under-twenty-one Greco-Roman championship, but I came away with a more lasting legacy, too. I met an old Italian bloke who’d been a champion wrestler in Europe, and he said to me, ‘The way you wrestle, you wrestle like gladiator. You like little Caesar.’ After that people started calling me Little Caesar, and before long they dropped the ‘little’. From then on I was known as Caesar.

I bought myself an AJS 500 twin bike, had my hair styled in an Elvis peak, and started hanging round a motorcycle club called Bad Blood from Emerald at the bottom of the Dandenong Ranges, near where we were living. They’d started back in 1941 as the first outlaw club in Australia. They weren’t a big club, but that’s how they liked it, small and real tight.

They were mad as cut snakes. They were always in blues and caused themselves a lot of trouble with the local coppers. They used to do things that I wouldn’t do. They’d switch off their headlights at ten o’clock at night and scream down these roads through Sherbrooke Forest. I thought, Fuck this. If a truck came round a corner you were gone.

We used to go for runs together or meet up at milk bars and play pool, put songs on the jukebox. I was just about to become a nominee for them when my old man decided the family was moving back to New South Wales. I could have stayed in Victoria, but Dad was getting pretty crook with diabetes and a bad heart, so I’d been helping him out a lot and we’d become real close.

We ended up back on Sydney’s northern beaches, at Avalon and then Dee Why, then shifted to Dulwich Hill and Surry Hills in the inner city. While we were living in Surry Hills, Mum went into the Women’s Hospital to have her last babies, the twins, Cathy and Pauline. It was 1965 and I had just got my first tattoo. It was a panther on my arm, but Dad absolutely hated tattoos, so I had to keep my shirt sleeves rolled right down to hide it from him. I went to visit Mum in the hospital and for some unknown reason, sitting there opposite Dad, I started rolling up my sleeves.

Dad sharpened his focus. ‘What the shit is that?’

Whoomp
, I was off, hotfooting it out of the hospital with the old man after me. I was nineteen and Dad was crook, but I wasn’t taking him on. He was still the toughest bloke I’d ever run into.

No matter how sick Dad got, he was still a mad bluer and wasn’t going to take crap from anyone. If someone insulted him or put the family down, he didn’t care how bad his heart was, he’d want to punch on or get even. He came home from a pub at Taylor Square one day in a pretty bad way, spewing and not real well. I got it out of him that this bloke and four of his mates had ganged up on him. I knew who the bloke was, and knew that he walked past the same factory in Surry Hills every afternoon. We went down there and I hid in the doorway while my old man waited out the front of the factory. This bloke eventually turned up with a mate of his and obviously thought they were going to do the old man over again. Well I grabbed them and dragged them inside the entrance alcove and gave them a good hiding. Then I said to the old man, ‘All right, Dad, do what you wanna do.’ The old man could hardly make it up the steps, but he got up and gave them a kicking.

Another time we were driving together when he spotted a bloke who’d pissed him off. The old man pulled over and I grabbed the bloke and had him in the back. The old man was saying, ‘Punch him in the ear, belt him there, twist this, break that.’ I ended up breaking both his thumbs, a couple of fingers on each hand, and thumping the shit out of him. Then we threw him out of the car at about thirty miles an hour. He bounced down the road.

M
EANWHILE I
was doing a bit of work driving utes and vans, doing deliveries. But my old man had a lot of friends up at Kings Cross and I started picking up some work from them. I think he got to know them through his trucking business; he did a lot of carting interstate. Some of them were on the shady side, but to Dad, that was their business. Dad never got charged with a crime, he never went to jail. He got on as well with some of the top cops as he did with the blokes at the Cross. It was funny, one night we’d have the regional police commander over for tea and the next it would be a well-known underworld identity. I think Dad was respected because he had the balls to say no to a lot of stuff that people wanted him to do. And he would never tell the coppers a thing about the people he knew up the Cross. He had his own code, which was loyalty and honour.

The Cross became my main haunt. It was buzzing from all the American Marines on R&R from Vietnam. There was rock’n’roll at Surf City, illegal casinos, the transvestite stage show Les Girls and the Whiskey Au Go Go Nightclub on William Street. There were characters like the strip-joint spruiker ‘Half a Mo’ who wore funny-coloured suits and a bowler hat; strippers like Alexander the Great who had the biggest tits in the Cross; and the most famous of them all, Sandra Nelson at the Pink Pussycat. I took out Bambi, the second most famous stripper in town. Chequers nightclub was for the posh types. No bikers allowed, but Dad and I were allowed in.

Behind it all were the standover men like Chow Hayes and Chicka Reeves. And then there were the big players above them.

I was coming out of the dark backrooms of the Carousel Club on business one time when I bumped into a very well-known underworld boss surrounded by bodyguards. He turned to me and said, ‘You’re Caesar.’

‘Yeah. And I know who you are.’

‘If you’re ever looking for a bit of work, get in contact with me through the club here.’

He was known as the Little King, and from then on I worked for him – collecting and doing other bits and pieces. The going rate for most collectors was ten per cent, but I used to charge thirty-five per cent, so I’d get the real hard jobs, retrieving money from people who’d purchased goods and hadn’t paid for them. Not straights, these were people on the other side of the law. I wouldn’t go near a straight.

W
E UPPED
and moved again, this time to Annandale in Sydney’s inner west. It was pretty rough around there in 1966. There was a local bowling alley that was known as Blood Alley because if you were there on a Friday or Saturday night you’d have three or four groups of blokes punching on. They didn’t give a stuff that there were families there with kids.

We had one gang up the street that considered themselves to be real heavies. Sometimes there’d be twenty or thirty of them hanging round of a weekend. I was at home one day when someone came in and said one of these blokes had pulled a gun on my younger brother. I was straight out the door, running as fast as I could, but who was already halfway up the street in front of me? My mum. She got there just before me and grabbed the barrel of the gun. The bloke was standing there in shock, so I pushed Mum out of the way and grabbed the gun off him. I hit him straight in the face with it and just kept pounding till he went down. Another couple of them came out and I did the same with them. Then I unloaded the gun and threw it over their roof.

From then on whenever they saw one of us it was a running blue. By this stage the old man was so crook he’d taken to carrying a big shifter and a bottle of ammonia in his back pocket, so that if he got into a blue he could throw the ammonia in the bloke’s face to blind him and take his breath away, then lay into him with the shifter. This one time he was on the main drag, Parramatta Road, when he ran into some of them and pulled out his tools.

He put a few of them away and came home but they must have got on the blower because next thing about thirty of them turned up and were mobbing up the end of the street. The old man told Mum to boil up some water on the stove, so she was filling up the pots, and all these blokes were marching down the street and banging on the front wall. We had an eight–foot cyclone fence topped with barbed wire, which some of these blokes were trying to scale. The old man and I were belting them with pick handles.

Dad yelled out to Mum to tip the water, so she and my sister Patricia started pouring the boiling water from the second-storey windows. These blokes were jumping up and down while Dad and I kept laying into them. One bloke got halfway over and my German shepherd leapt up and grabbed him by the leg. He was stuck on the barbed wire, with my shepherd hanging off his leg. It only ended when the coppers turned up after about fifteen minutes.

***

S
TRAIGHT ACROSS
the road from us at Annandale lived a couple of sisters, Sandra and Cathy. Sandra was seventeen and one of those real glamour-type sheilas who would have the blokes hanging off her left, right and centre. Even my sister’s boyfriend wanted to go out with her. I was up the milk bar one day buying a couple of bottles of Coke when she walked in and said, ‘Caesar, how come you’ve never asked me out?’

‘Because I don’t fuckin’ like ya.’ I turned around and walked out of the shop.

I’d seen the way she treated her younger sister Cathy like shit so I didn’t want a bar of her. Cathy was fifteen and a pretty good-looking girl, and she had a really nice personality. I used to spend an hour or two each day sitting on the step with Cathy outside her joint because I felt sorry for her. A week before her sixteenth birthday she came up to me and said, ‘Do you wanna do something for me for me birthday?’

‘What?’

‘Will you go to bed with me?’

‘Yeah all right.’

She was a nice sheila and we started hanging out together. She fell pregnant and started to show. One day my old man finally asked me, ‘Are you the father of Cathy’s kid?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well you’re gunna have to marry her.’

The old man marched me down to the house and Cathy came out. The old man said, ‘Do you wanna marry him?’

‘Yes, I’d love to,’ she said.

Then her mother came out: ‘Your bikie scum’s not getting anywhere near my daughter.’

The old man cast his eye over Cathy. ‘Well it looks like he already has.’

That was the end of it for Cathy and me. Her parents forbade her from seeing me, which was a shame because I liked her a lot, so after a while I hooked up with this other bird, Irene. It was more out of convenience than anything. Irene’s girlfriend was going out with a mate of mine, Pete Davies, so we were all knocking around together. Pete was into bikes and we used to go riding a lot. His old man owned a car yard and if ever I needed a flashy car like a Corvette or a Jag or a Porsche I only had to ring him up and say, ‘I see you got a new Ferrari in there.’

‘When do you want it?’

I’d rock out there and leave my bike in his garage, pick up the Ferrari and go for a pose up the Cross.

Irene had just come onto the scene when I took her home one day. My old man gave us the big speech: ‘Just remember, you get her pregnant, you gotta marry her.’

‘Yeah, Dad.’

Next thing I knew she was pregnant. She told my old man before she even told me.

I was spewing. There was just nothing between us. As far as I was concerned she’d cracked on to me. But the old man was on at me: ‘You gotta do the right thing.’ I thought, Here it comes.

Even though, as a kid, my old man had belted me from pillar to post, I had that much respect for him that there was just no way the thought ever entered my head to fight back. If someone else had belted me I’d have ripped their head off, but if Dad’d belted me in the mouth, I’d have stood there and taken it.

So at twenty-one I married Irene. Meanwhile Cathy had given birth to a baby boy, Michael Anthony, and had taken to wheeling the pram past the house to piss off Irene. It worked.

I would have liked to have spent time with Cathy and the baby, but Cathy’s parents eventually moved her away from me and we lost contact.

On 11 March 1969, Irene gave birth to a baby boy, too. We named him Chane, and as much as there was nothing between me and Irene I was very proud to have a son.

Within a few months of Chane’s arrival my old man’s heart finally gave up and he died at the age of forty-six. We were really close at the end, and for the first time in my life I shed a tear.

I was twenty-two and took over the role of looking after the family. Mum still had thirteen kids at home, including me, right down to Cathy and Pauline, who were only three years old.