Chopper Unchopped (126 page)

Meanwhile, as Jerry Carrasella and young Benny Castronovo walked out of the Kent Hotel in Rathdowne Street, Carlton, Vincent Rooney and Pat Slattery took their heads off with four blasts from sawn-off pump action shotguns.

Toto Corsetti escaped death, but lost his left leg from the knee down as he ran up Wellington Parade, East Melbourne, trying to escape the shotgun of Albert Vinton.

Maria Lamberti was killed by accident when she got in the crossfire in a shoot-out between Aaron Guzzinburg and Charlie Mazzurco, a Corsetti family strong man. Mazzurco did cop three slugs in the guts and chest before being dragged into a car by Kiki Lucharas.

Return fire was sent in the direction of little Peter Gilmore and Neil Crawford as they walked out of the Curry Family Hotel in Wellington Street, Collingwood.

‘No great loss,’ said Karen to young Johnny McCall. ‘All in all it’s been a bloody good start to things. I’m well pleased,’ she said, patting Russian Suzi on the back. ‘Let’s go to the Telford. C’mon Coco,’ she yelled to the big Jamaican girl. ‘Let’s go. We had better close the Caballero till this lot is over.’

The Telford Social Club in Victoria Street, Abbotsford, was a shotgun blast away from the Terminus Hotel. It had been a small billiards club built in 1927 and later named after H.R. Telford, the trainer of the world’s greatest racehorse, the magnificent Phar Lap. There had been an ugly rumor that the great horse was born and bred in New Zealand. The truth, of course, was that the beast was born in Collingwood. In a small stable off Hoddle Street, to be exact. Collingwood was well known for its thoroughbred breeding.

The old social club had been closed up since 1952, but Karen Phillips had bought it about a year before and done it up a treat. It was now used as her own private hangout for personal friends and the inner circle of the crew.

It had case-hardened steel plate two centimetres thick on the inside of the front door, and the front windows were covered by thick red velvet curtains that were lined with bulletproof material. It would nearly break your arm to pull those curtains – but no-one pulled them, no matter how nice a day it was outside. While they were across the window, no-one could look in, and no-one could shoot in.

Security bars ran across the outside of the door and windows. A small red and gold sign above the front door simply read ‘H.R. Telford Social Club – members only.’

The inside was small but it had been decked out with the Karen touch. It wasn’t what you’d call a light touch in the style department. There was plush red deep-pile carpet and red and gold velvet wallpaper, and the ceiling was painted black. It seemed the decor was not inspired by a nunnery.

A full-size billiard table stood near the front door with a big covered light hanging low over the table, straight out of ‘Pot Black’ on television. All that was missing was Whispering Ted Lowe, Eddie Charlton and Hurricane Higgins, but it’s a fair bet they might not have been keen to play at the Telford Club – at least to win – once they saw the regulars there.

Behind the billiard table stood a big, highly polished wooden table with twelve heavy chairs around it. Behind that was a massive timber bar with fridges and freezers and a fully equipped kitchen attached to it. The toilets and bathroom were upstairs, along with two bedrooms and a lounge and another small kitchen. There was a lock-up garage out the back, leaving enough room for a small courtyard. All in all, it could have been ‘Property of the Week’ in the real estate pages, although the armor plating might have been a bit hard to explain away.

The bar was fully equipped with enough booze to get a small army drunk, or two members of the armed robbery squad, and the kitchen held enough food to feed the same army before it got onto the booze. There was an old 1960s model juke box near the billiard table that played all Karen’s favorites – 1950s rock and roll, country music and some modern stuff. It was like some sort of gangster’s time warp.

The walls were covered with probably 100 or more framed photographs. Photos of Ripper Roy Reeves, Micky Van Gogh, Raychell Van Gogh, Leon and Deon Pepper, Fatty Phillips (Karen’s dead and never seen again brother), and Raychell’s dead brother Bryan Brown. There was a photo of the old world billiards champ, Walter Lindrum, a photo of Phar Lap and Collingwood-born jockey Jim Pike, after the 1930 Melbourne Cup win. And a photo of famous Collingwood boxer Lionel Rose when he beat ‘Fighting Harada’, who was not born in Collingwood, for the world title in 1968.

Naturally, there were photographs of the Collingwood Football Club, the 1953 and 1958 Premiership teams, photos of Aussie cricket greats Victor Trumper and Don Bradman and jockeys like Darby Munro and Scobie Breasley. Not to mention the boxing legend Les Darcy, criminal legend Squizzy Taylor, Hollywood movie star gangsters Jimmy Cagney, who wished he was born in Collingwood, Humphrey Bogart, who barracked for Collingwood, Edward G. Robinson, and the sex goddess Jayne Mansfield.

There were photos of the famous London gangsters Ronnie and Reggie Kray and, most strange of all, a large photo of the old country singing legend Smoky Dawson right next to a photo of the Queen of England.

One thing there wasn’t. There were no photos of Yank basketball players and no-one wore baseball caps back to front. It was like stepping back to a time when Australians were happy to be themselves and not poor imitations of people from another country. This was Collingwood, not New York.

As far as Karen was concerned Manhattan was a drink drunk by hairdressers and rich poofters.

The whole place had a magic look and young Johnny McCall, the 16-year-old gunnie, loved it. They walked in. The big Jamaican girl had never been there before but Suzi and Johnny McCall were regular visitors. They sat at the table and Suzi went and got four extra large glasses of Scotch whisky.

‘Hey kid,’ said Karen, ‘have you met Coco?’

Johnny McCall looked at the big smokey-eyed Jamaican lady and said, ‘Well yeah, but no, not really.’ What he meant was that he’d seen her in her role as an exotic dancer, but had not yet had the pleasure of being formally introduced. The kid smiled and held out his hand and stood up.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Coco,’ he said.

The big stripper took his hand and smiled. It was like a scene from ‘My Fair Lady.’

‘My name is John McCall, but you can call me Jackie for short, if you like,’ he said.

Suzi and Karen both laughed and Coco sort of melted a bit and shook his hand.

‘You nice baby boy. You can call me Coco or Joeliene,’ she said in a husky West Indian accent to die for. Some blokes already had.

‘I’m not a baby boy,’ said Johnny, his ego quite bruised.

‘Yes yo’ is, boy,’ said Coco with a smile, ‘but you a real pretty baby, so don’t be cross.’ Johnny sat down. ‘Take it as a compliment,’ said Suzi. Both Suzi and Johnny had seen the Big Jamaican chick take life as casually as if she was shelling peas, but it was the first time either had heard her speak.

Johnny was really curious about Coco, but bit his tongue as he was smart enough to know that questions weren’t welcome in this sort of company.

Johnny McCall had known Karen Phillips most of his life. His idols when he was growing up had been Micky Van Gogh, Ripper Roy Reeves, Raychell Van Gogh, and then the famous Collingwood legend herself – Karen Phillips, the Rabbit Kisser.

IT was a dream come true when he was invited to get around with her and she gave him his own handgun with 50 boxes of ammo and $1000 a week walking-around money. To top it off Karen had taken his cherry about a week before. The very first sex he ever had. It was fantastic, but she had explained she could do it only the once as she was having women’s problems after having the baby. He wouldn’t trouble her again, unless he was asked, because he fancied himself a gentleman.

Johnny didn’t realise that the truth was a little more than simple ‘women’s troubles’ and Karen had every intention of showing both Suzi and Coco exactly why, when she got the chance. Karen had given birth to a healthy boy and got the doctor to put an extra stitch in to keep her nice and tight, but Johnny could have done real damage if he’d got up a full head of steam, so to speak.

It was hard to believe that a 16-year-old with the face of a 14-year-old boy, roughly 5 feet 7 or 8 inches tall in the old measure, could be so well equipped in the trouser snake department. Both Coco and Suzi towered over him. He was built like a tuppenny skun rabbit, as skinny as a rake, but hung like a draught horse. He also had a young gun madness in him. A wild west cowboy gunslinger fixation. Shades of Ripper Roy with a loaded gun in his hand. He was totally kill crazy but without it, either Suzi or Coco would snap his skinny little neck like a twig. But he was cute, sweet-faced kid, real cute.

‘Suzi, Coco,’ said Karen. ‘How big was the biggest you ever seen in your life?’

Karen got up and brought over the bottle of scotch. Johnny was a bit embarrassed at this line of questioning.

Suzi wasn’t. She answered, ‘Probably Ripper Roy. I never had him myself, but I have seen him pull the monster out a few times.’

Karen nodded, ‘Yeah, Ripper Roy for sure. That was a bloody whopper.’

Coco spoke in that lazy Caribbean drawl. ‘Herman the German, he would come to see me twice a week in a whore house ah worked in Amsterdam about four years ago. Now, he made my eyes water but, ohhh, ah loved that thing.’

Karen was waiting for the cue to talk about Johnny’s. ‘Well, girls. About a week ago I copped the biggest monster God ever hung on any man. I was saddle sore for a week. It was like trying to ride a mad bull in a rodeo. I walked like Wyatt Earp for a month.’

Suzi and Coco looked at Karen in surprise. This was the Rabbit Kisser talking, after all. She could take on a herd of donkeys and blow a bloody elephant. Any man who got her to send up the white flag was a freak.

All of a sudden, young Johnny McCall went as red as a beetroot. Suzi saw Johnny’s face and pointed at him and looked at Karen.

‘You’re kidding,’ said Suzi.

Karen smiled, ‘I took his cherry and it turned out to be a fucking coconut. That monster nearly killed me doing it.’

Coco’s eyes went wide.

‘Show me,’ she purred, like a black panther on heat.

Suzi started to giggle. ‘Yeah, c’mon kid. Let’s have a gig at this.’

Johnny turned to Karen, covered in embarrassment.

‘Karen,’ he pleaded.

‘C’mon kid,’ said Karen. ‘It’s only us here. No-one will know. Show ’em. These girls have seen more dicks than an army doctor.’

Johnny sat still. If they thought he was going to stand there in a public place and put on some sort of sick floor show they had another thing coming, or so he was thinking …

This was a new and novel experience for the three girls. Men had always begged to get their gear off whenever they were anywhere near these walking wet dreams. Now they had a bloke who really was shy. What on earth could they do? It was a fair bet they would think of something.

Karen winked at Coco, and the big Jamaican girl seemed to know exactly what she meant. She took off her leather jacket and dropped it over a chair, then removed her tank top and unleashed a big black set of watermelons. Then she took off her high heels and her jeans. Then her panties. Then put her high heels back on again. This was a master stroke. Johnny thought he was going to have one. But his heart managed to stay in one piece, and despite his embarrassment, he felt himself rising to the occasion.

‘Coco knows what little boys like,’ she whispered in that throaty voice.

Suzi and Karen sat there as Coco went to the juke box and looked down at the selection panel.

‘Ahh yeah,’ she purred. ‘A little Elvis.’

She pressed B17 and Elvis started to sing that old striptease classic ‘Little Egypt.’

‘Little Egypt came out struttin’, wearing nothing but a button and a bow, dar dar dar dar …’ Coco mouthed the words suggestively and swayed to the music, gradually dancing over to Johnny.

Karen and Suzi sat and smiled, totally entertained at the sight of the blushing young kid who, only a few days before, had gunned down Keith Kerr in cold blood in front of 200 Collingwood criminals without batting an eyelid. Now he was almost rigid with nervous embarrassment. It was quite comic. Coco swayed back and forth and bent forward and jiggled her massive tits into the kid’s face and, sly as a pickpocket going the dip on a bankroll, she reached down and started to undo his pants.

Johnny jumped, but Coco purred to him like a big cat.

‘Take it easy baby, relax,’ she whispered as she worked on those pants. Johnny’s handgun dropped heavily to the floor as it fell out of his belt. Then Coco reached into his underpants and took hold of the contents, and it was her turn to be shocked. She stopped dancing and looked down at the giant thing in her hand.

‘Ohhh my sweet Mary,’ she groaned. ‘I don’t believe this.’

The big Jamaican got to her knees in front of the boy and held it in her hands like an axe handle. Suzi was on her feet.

‘Oh God,’ said Suzi. ‘That’s not for real. No wonder you’re so thin, kid, all ya blood is in ya dick.’

Personal pride was on the line. Coco had worked in whore houses from London to America and she had yet to come across any man she couldn’t take, but here it was in front of her, attached to the skinny little body of a baby faced 16-year-old kid.

The big Jamaican whore stood up with one foot on either side of the chair Johnny was sitting in and with her hand guiding the young lad’s dick she lowered herself on to it with a look of surprise on her face. About half way down it she moaned and then Johnny couldn’t control himself any longer and he gave his hips a little thrust upwards and the big black girl eyes began to bulge. He wasn’t able to sink his full length but the big girl held the lad’s shoulders and pushed his face into her massive bosom and held her weight on her legs, unable to allow herself to take any more than the half a length.

She moved up and down, trying not to do herself any medical injury, and still she was only humping on a bit over half.

Then Johnny yelled out ‘Ahhhh’ and Coco felt better. She had popped his cork in roughly 100 seconds, maybe 120 seconds. Even if she couldn’t take it, neither could he. She climbed off and looked down at the kid.