Chopper Unchopped (130 page)

The Kid didn’t ask where it all came from. Sometimes a gentleman knew when to remain silent.

They both put on long white double breasted soft woollen silk lined ladies’ overcoats and they were ready to go.

Johnny looked a little stunned. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘Is that all you’re wearing?’

‘Well,’ said Coco, a little puzzled, ‘the coats come off when we get inside.’

‘Is Karen coming?’ asked Johnny.

‘She’ll meet us there,’ said Suzi.

They all went in the Kid’s new car, with the Kid at the wheel. If it wasn’t his idea of heaven, it was close.

CHIEF Inspector Graeme Westlock sat in a car parked in Inkerman Street, St Kilda. With him was Abdul Yurenc, head of the biggest Turkish criminal family in Melbourne.

‘So it’s on?’ asked Westlock.

‘Yeah,’ said Abdul, ‘that Jew dog Guzzinburg,’ spat Yurenc. ‘After you kill her I will kill him.’

Westlock nodded. ‘Whatever you like, Abby. As long as I get her.’

‘You no want arrest her’?’ asked Yurenc.

The hard old copper shrugged. ‘Sometimes Abby, a shot in the skull solves a lot of problems. There’s no Court of Appeal from a bullet.’

‘I no like kill woman. It bad luck, like running over a Chinaman,’ said Yurenc.

‘I don’t like it either, but as a young kid I used to know was fond of saying, needs must be met when the devil calls. Ahh Abby, some people die too early and others live too long.’

Westlock was thinking of Blueberry Hill, and for some odd reason he felt a touch of sentimental feeling for the tough young kid and he felt a bit sad at the fate that he knew awaited Karen Phillips. While Hollywood told the world that their bad guys did it better, in Collingwood criminals who would make Bonnie and Clyde look like Mickey and Minnie Mouse, lived and died in silence with no-one remembering their names outside the bar rooms of Melbourne and the drunken yarns passed down from crooked father to crooked son.

The Kray Brothers killed two, three, four or five men and reigned over a little bit of London for ten years and wrote themselves into the pages of British and world criminal history. John Dillinger killed one man and robbed 20 or 30 banks and is world famous.

But an Aussie called Ray Chuckles killed at least a dozen and led a gang of drunks on a raid that took six million from the bookies and no one knows his name outside of a handful of old coppers, newspaper hacks and a few old-time crims who bother to remember.

God, thought Westlock, if the Rabbit Kisser was in America she’d be public enemy number one with a book deal and a movie contract, but in Aussie we hide our crims. Only when they are dead do we raise a glass to them in the bar rooms of the nation’s hotels and drunkenly cry into our beer about what good blokes they were.

Ned Kelly was only a horse thief, Squizzy Taylor was just a little battler who shot a few scallywags. Poor old Ripper Roy, he just cut people’s arms and legs off. Boo hoo for Raychell Van Gogh, she was just a little girl who cut a few dicky birds off with razor blades.

Let’s sing a sentimental song for the Rabbit Kisser. What about the men, including police, who vanished into the mist and were never seen or heard of again. All last seen heading in Karen’s direction.

Enough is enough, thought Westlock. Yeah, when she’s dead she can go up there with Ned and Squizzy and Ripper Roy and Mad Raychell and Micky the Nut, along with a dozen or so lesser lights. And, yes, I too will raise a sentimental glass to her, thought Westlock. That’s life, and that’s Melbourne. In Melbourne people fall in love with their gangsters after they die. Which is the way it has to be.

THE Midnight Machine Night Club in Swanston Street was a ten minute drive from Collingwood, so there was no great rush for Kid McCall and his pair of beautiful killer whores. Suzi suddenly had an idea. ‘Pull past Bennett’s parlor and let’s say hello,’ she said softly into the Kid’s ear.

Johnny smiled. ‘Yeah, why not?’ He turned into Johnston Street, Collingwood, and cruised along, with one eye on the footpath and one on the road.

‘There she is,’ said Coco. Sure enough, there was Michelle Bennett standing on the footpath in front of the parlor. It was dark but the street was well lit up. She was wearing black stiletto high heels and black elastic top stockings, black high cut knickers and a little black tank top that covered her curvy body hardly at all. She was standing on the footpath, as bold as brass, talking to Terry Kerr.

‘Look at this moll,’ said Suzi, ‘dressed like that in the middle of the bloody street.’ From her disapproving tone anyone who couldn’t see her would think Suzi was a Sunday school teacher dressed neck to knee in flannel.

Kid McCall pulled over and parked. They watched as a carload of oriental gentlemen in a 1992 VP Commodore pulled up and called Michelle over. She left Terry Kerr and strutted over to the Commodore like a catwalk model and bent forward and started talking to the guys in the car. Eager little hands reached out the open windows to touch her. She didn’t object, but then she stood up and went back and continued talking to Terry Kerr, and the carload of Asians drove off.

‘Shit,’ said Suzi, ‘I thought the little cow had just pulled the quadrella.’

‘Nah,’ said Coco, ‘they just window shopping. Thrill seekers with no money.’

‘Yeah,’ said Suzi, ‘dream merchants. What are ya gonna do Kid?’ asked Suzi.

The Kid said, ‘Karen wants to see Michelle about that story Yolanda told us. I had better let Michelle know and I want to know what that dog Kerr is doing sniffing about. I don’t trust that shifty rat.’

The Kid got out of the car and walked up toward Michelle and Terry Kerr.

‘How ya going Johnny?’ asked Kerr, who saw him first.

McCall ignored Terry Kerr and spoke directly to Michelle Bennett.

‘Karen wants to see you, Michelle.’

What came next shocked McCall totally. Michelle Bennett spun around and snarled, ‘You can tell Karen Bloody Phillips to go and get a dog up her. She don’t tell me to do nothing no more.’

McCall just stood there dumbfounded at such a public display of temper.

‘And you can boot off, too, ya imbecile,’ said Michelle.

‘Kid McCall, ha ha ha,’ she laughed. ‘I reckon if we put you in a dress we could make a fortune selling your arse. Go on, piss off, you two bob punk.’

Michelle Bennett’s eyes were blazing. She was as high as a kite on something. Terry Kerr, on the other hand, was white with terror at what he knew would follow, and he had good reason to be. Kid McCall pulled out a gun and shot Michelle Bennett stone dead, then turned the gun on Kerr and pulled the trigger.

Saying ‘Get a dog up her’ about Karen was bad manners, but the remark about McCall being placed in a frock and jack hammered up the ring gear, was simply not on. High on drugs or not, it was a clear breach of etiquette and needed to be rectified immediately.

JAMIE Nazzerone’s nightclub was in full swing when Kid McCall, Coco Joeliene and Russian Suzi walked in. They walked over to one of the four bars in the club and sat on vacant stools. Most people were dancing. The Rocky Horror Dance contest was about to start.

Russian Suzi saw a familiar face and pointed him out to Johnny and Coco Joeliene. It was Clancy Collins, Melbourne’s former chief Stipendiary Magistrate and at present the deputy state secretary of Alcoholics Anonymous. He was standing at the end of the bar, totally alone, singing. He had his trademark red suspenders on and was drinking a large glass of what looked rather like rum or whisky. According to Suzi it would be whisky, as he drank only Vat 69 Scotch Whisky and was notorious for holding his glass up to ladies in hotels and yelling out, Madam, may I offer you a 69?’ Very funny.

Russian Suzi said that she met him once after he had given her a suspended sentence for kicking a mug in the face at the Caballero who was trying to grab her feet while she was dancing, and tripped her over. ‘He showed up drunk as a lord later that night at the Caballero and held his full glass up to me as I danced and said, “My dear Miss Polanchoishnavich, may I offer you a 69,”’ Suzi said.

‘I was so pleased that someone had not only remembered my bloody name but could pronounce it that I jumped down from the stage and said, “Your Worship, I’ll sit on ya bloody face any time ya bloody like.”’

‘Well, he nearly fell over. Then he told me he was only joking. He’s not a bad old duffer really. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.’

Suzi marched over. ‘Your Worship,’ she said, ‘How ya going?’

‘Ahh, my dear Miss Suzi,’ said the drunken old gentleman.

‘You remember me?’ said Suzi, delighted.

‘Ahh, my dear young lady,’ said old Clancy, ‘I never forget a blonde. Ha ha.’

‘If it’s not a rude question,’ said Suzi curiously, ‘what are you doing here?’

Clancy laughed. ‘I’m judging the Miss Erotica Contest. What else?’

‘Ya joking,’ said Suzi delightedly, as if she’d just got word that she had the winning lottery ticket. She slid open her overcoat and said, ‘How da ya reckon I’ll go?’

The old fellow’s eyes nearly fell out. ‘My dear girl, are you attempting to make me an offer that I can’t refuse?’ he spluttered.

Suzi laughed, then Coco moved in and popped the question, ‘Your Worship, how you reckon I’ll go?’ Poor Clancy nearly fell over as she opened her coat and shoved his face between 48 inches of full bodied Jamaican marshmallows.

When he came up for air he took a large swallow of whisky and yelled, ‘My dear, there’s gold in them thar hills.’ Everyone laughed at His Worship’s little jest. He had a great sense of humor, the old Clancy Collins.

The Rocky Horror Dance Contest was nearly over and Jamie Nazzerone, mine host to the rich and famous and the wannabes, came over and inquired, ‘Are you ready Mr Collins?’

The joint was full of yuppie businessmen and young socialites, all in outrageous dress and all drinking chardonnay. Old Clancy walked off with Nazzerone. Clancy, who had a pair of glasses on the end of his nose and several under his belt, got into the spirit of things by grabbing a microphone and beginning to sing ‘Ohh how would you like to be me, down by the rolling sea, sitting on a rock, playing with my cock, with a mermaid on my knee.’ Then he fell over. There were more laughs.

Jamie Nazzerone took the microphone and said, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, if the contestants will all go backstage, we will try to sober our judge up and the Miss Melbourne Erotica Contest can begin.’

Old Clancy came back to life. ‘Can I offer anyone a 69?’ he yelled. There’s no gag like an old gag.

The crowd roared. They sat Clancy in a chair in front of the stage and Suzi and Joeliene went backstage along with a giggling gaggle of assorted lascivious lovelies.

Kid McCall took a stool and sat back and ordered a double Jamieson’s Irish Whiskey and told the waiter to deliver a double Vat 69 to Clancy’s table. The music started and out came Saigon Sally, a professional stripper from Hindley Street, Adelaide, who didn’t even live in Melbourne and had no right being in the contest. She wriggled her arse in Clancy’s face to no avail and then left the stage.

The second contestant was a chick named the Towering Inferno because she was tall with red hair. Her real name was Rhonda something-or-other, and she was a showbiz hoofer who’d gone wrong and ended up taking her clothes off for living. Big deal, thought McCall.

The third called herself Monique, another pro stripper. She wore the French maid’s uniform, the whole works.

The fourth was a former prostitute from St Kilda who had danced at the Caballero before it closed because of Karen’s war with the Italians.

McCall recognised her. She was Gigi Gascoyne. She was a wet dream come to life and old Clancy sat up and took notice.

Then came Chantelle, another whore from South Melbourne, followed by three or four more non-events. Then on came Russian Suzi and the crowd went insane.

Yeah, she’s won it, the Kid thought. No-one out danced the Russian. But the next one on was the big Jamaican, Coco Joeliene. Her body, the face, the legs, hips and the sheer size of her swinging boobs had a hypnotic effect on the crowd.

She got down off the stage and danced over to old Clancy and jiggled her tits in his face, then sat on his knee. This was cheating. She was tormenting a drunken judge. It was clear she would win when she left the stage. She bent forward with her bottom to the crowd and touched her toes, and you could have driven a train up what she was flashing at the punters. Clancy covered his eyes in disbelief. If Coco didn’t win there would be a riot for sure.

As Nazzerone was about to come out on stage he was pulled back, the lights went dark and a single spotlight came on. This was a turn up. Out came a fabulous Madonna blonde, and McCall sat up. It was Karen. The crowd took one look and cheered. Karen was notorious. Her face and body had been on the front pages of every newspaper in the land, and on every TV news and current affairs program. She was legendary. She was the hottest property in six states, in more ways than one. Every cop in the country was looking for her. Old Clancy sobered up in about two seconds as the sight of the full length left-arm spider’s web tattoo penetrated his brain. She ran that spider’s web up and down her body and it sent the crowd mad. Whatever else she was, or was not, the Rabbit Kisser could dance with the devil and beat him. She was the psycho Queen.

McCall looked around and, sure enough, there was Aaron Guzzinburg. I hope no one calls the cops, thought the Kid. He walked over to Guzzinburg and the two men stood and watched and, like everyone else, fell under the spell of this dancing witch. The music died and she vanished.

Guzzinburg said goodbye, then said he had to take Karen to see some people. He vanished. Old Clancy got to his feet and took to the stage and, no longer drunk, he took on a serious but comic tone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began solemnly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve let you down. Honesty tells me Russian Suzi won the contest, lust tells me I’d be a fool not to award the prize to Coco Joeliene, and I will go to my grave happy having seen her perform tonight. But my heart tells me to award the prize to a young lady I cannot name because legally I’m going to pretend I didn’t see her here tonight, so I must step down as the judge of this contest and ask our host Mr Jamie Nazzerone to award the prize.’