Chopper Unchopped (136 page)

‘But don’t drink grog on it,’ said Arthur. ‘Cos I think that’s what killed young Helen over there.’

Suddenly Bobby McCall stopped humping.

‘Whadya mean killed?’ he said.

Arthur smiled. ‘She’s been dead for the last ten minutes, Bobby, only I didn’t want to be a party pooper.’

Bobby McCall checked her breathing. There wasn’t any. ‘Geez,’ he said, looking sick. ‘But she’s as warm as anything. What the hell are we gonna do now?’ Arthur kept going as if nothing had happened. Roy looked shocked. ‘As I was saying,’ said Arthur, ‘morphine and alcohol is a fatal mixture, so tell Brigid, okay.’

‘I sure will,’ murmured Roy as he walked out, forgetting why he’d come to visit in the first place.

As Roy drove over to Easey Street he wondered about the dead Helen Hill and hoped she wasn’t related to the Richmond crew. All the Lennox Street Hills had green eyes and blondie brown hair, but the dead girl was dark. Anyway, there was at least three Helen Hills he knew of in Richmond and two in Collingwood, and they were all knob polishers.

‘Shit, I hope the boys dump the body well and keep it secret from Young Chang Heywood,’ he thought. ‘Chang’s a bloody gossip.’ Apart from being the best car thief in Melbourne Chang was also a loyal Richmond boy.

As Roy pulled up out the front of Auntie Bee’s place he noticed Ronnie West ducking around the corner in a hurry. What’s that shifty bugger up to, thought Roy. He got out of his car and walked up to his auntie’s front door and knocked. After about two minutes Brigid O’Shaughnessy answered the door. She was in a black silk dressing gown with black high heeled slippers. She was also in tears. The gown was torn open, revealing teeth marks on her breasts. She had a swollen eye and blood on her lip.

‘He raped me,’ cried Brigid. ‘Ronnie West raped me.’ She collapsed into Roy’s arms, howling.

‘C’mon, Auntie Bee, c’mon,’ Roy said gently. He took her into the bedroom and sat her down. He didn’t know what to do. She was in fits of tears.

‘He did it to me, up my bottom as well and he hit me and look,’ she said, holding her tits for examination. ‘He bit my boobs as well.’

‘I’ll fucking kill the dog,’ said Roy. ‘But first I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Wait here.’ But when he went to the kitchen to put the kettle on she followed him. ‘And he put it in my mouth as well, the dirty bastard. That is something I only do for special men I love.’

Roy was shocked.

She wrapped her gown around herself and sat down, trying to control herself, and explained what had happened.

‘Have you had your morning gin yet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Brigid.

‘Well, don’t,’ said Roy. ‘Try this.’ He pulled out the vial of morphine powder and put half a teaspoon of it into her cup of tea. He added three spoons of sugar the way she liked it, then milk.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘drink that and tell me how you feel.’

The sobbing lady drank her tea in four large swallows.

‘Ahh,’ she said, ‘nothing like a nice cuppa. What was that stuff?’

‘Magic powder,’ Roy said. ‘Tell me when you feel something, but remember – you can’t drink no grog on it or you’ll die.’

HALF an hour later Brigid said, ‘What on earth have you given me?’ She had vomited in the outside thunder box dunny three times and once in the sink, but she felt the best she ever had. As if she was floating on a sea of cotton wool, as if every part of her body and being was wrapped in heaven and all pain physical and mental was gone. She felt wonderful and was running herself a nice bath. The unpleasantness with Ronnie West was not just finished, but forgotten. At least where Brigid was concerned. Roy had a long memory and a loaded gun.

‘Jeez, Roy, that is fantastic stuff you put in my tea,’ she gushed. ‘This is the best I’ve felt in my whole life.’

The beautiful woman was lying back in her bubble bath, luxuriating.

Roy warned her again. ‘Don’t drink on it, Auntie Bee, or it can kill you.’

‘Okay, baby. I won’t. I don’t even feel like it.’

She looked over and spoke to Roy as she soaped her body.

‘You’re a good boy, Roy. You’re my favorite nephew and my best mate. I love you, Roy. You’re a bloody good kid to your Auntie Bee, hey?’ she purred.

‘Yeah,’ said Roy as he sat on a chair in the bathroom.

‘Take me to the movies, will ya, I love the movies.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Roy patiently. ‘Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘The Maltese Falcon.’

Roy knew why his auntie loved this movie so much. ‘The Maltese Falcon’ made in 1941 with Humphrey Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lawrie. The female leading lady was Mary Astor and, you guessed it, she played the role of none other than Brigid O’Shaughnessy.

The Bogart character, Sam Spade, spends the whole movie running from the bad guys or chasing after them and making love to Brigid O’Shaughnessy. At least that’s how Auntie Bee saw it. Forget Lauren Bacall, as far as Auntie Bee was concerned Humphrey Bogart loved her and only her.

‘Jayne Mansfield should have played that role,’ said Brigid. ‘Bloody Mary Astor, she looks like the blinking barmaid at Dan O’Connell’s pub. Jayne Mansfield would have gone much better next to Humphrey Bogart.’

Roy knew what to say and when to say it. ‘You would have made a good Hollywood movie star,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful, Auntie Bee.’

‘And you look like bloody Gary Cooper,’ said Brigid, and they laughed like a pair of kookaburras.

At Auntie Bee’s pleading Roy had decided not to kill Ronnie West, on the logic that a tame gunsmith was worth his weight in gold. But he didn’t get away scot free for putting such a serious hole in his manners. Irish Arthur and Terry Maloney were dispatched to collect Ronnie West from his shop. They borrowed a stolen 1952 Vauxhall from Chang Heywood for the princely sum of 10 bob, pulled up with a squeal of drum brakes, dragged a terrified West from his shop and threw him into the car.

They drove to the front of the Royal Melbourne Hospital and parked. Roy Reeves got into the car, and Ronnie West went white.

‘I’m gonna hurt ya Ronnie,’ Roy said. ‘Now, you can give me up to the police and I’ll go to jail but the rest of the gang will kill your mother and father. Ya know Frank Kerr don’t ya, ya know how he’s got one arm? Well, I took the other one. Now which arm do you want to lose?’ said Roy.

Ronnie West was in tears of terror. ‘No Roy, not my arms,’ he begged. What was the use of a one-armed gunsmith?

‘All right,’ said Roy, and he pulled out a meat cleaver. ‘Hold the dog Terry.’

Big Terry Maloney held Ronnie West as Roy Reeves smashed the meat cleaver down hard across West’s left knee cap. West tried to struggle and kick but Ripper Roy brought the cleaver down a second time. West was screaming and tried to make it for the car door but a third blow from the meat cleaver severed the leg. ‘Open the door,’ yelled Ripper Roy, and Ronnie West was pushed out onto the footpath.

‘You’ll live, dog, but talk to the cops and your mum and dad will die like dogs,’ Roy spat as Arthur Featherstone drove away.

Ripper Roy took the leg and wrapped it in a towel. It looked funny with the shoe still on the foot. He got Irish Arthur to drop him off at Auntie Bee’s place and he knocked on the door. Brigid answered and said. ‘Hi ya, Roy, what’s that you’re hiding behind ya back, a present for me?’ She said it with a smile, jiggling and wiggling all over with girlish excitement. ‘Yeah,’ said Roy, deadpan. ‘I went to see Ronnie West for ya. He said he’s very sorry and he’s sent ya this.’ Roy held out the severed leg and unwrapped it from the blood-drenched towel. Auntie Bee fell to the floor in a heap. She’d fainted dead on the spot.

‘Well,’ said Roy to himself. ‘There’s bloody gratitude for ya. That’s the last leg I’m cutting off for you.’

He bent down and picked up his fallen auntie, while still holding the leg. Brigid woke up and saw it in his hands as he was carrying her down the hallway. She let out a little scream and fainted again.

‘Jesus, Auntie Bee,’ he grumbled, ‘it’s only a bloody leg, for God’s sake.’

ROY Reeves and Irish Arthur stood looking at a large framed photograph hanging above Roy’s fireplace in Easey Street. They were waiting for Terry Maloney and Stanley Van Gogh and a new member of Roy’s gang – a 15-year-old kid named Johnny Go Go.

‘Who’s that in the photo, Roy?’ asked Arthur.

‘That’s my old dad, Johnny Reeves, but they called him Roy the Boy and the little bloke in the bowler hat is Squizzy Taylor. My Dad was Taylor’s right hand man,’ said Roy proudly. ‘Yeah, Johnny Reeves was the bloke who tried to shoot Phar Lap before the 1930 Melbourne Cup.’

Arthur looked impressed. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Now, there’s a bit of dinky di Aussie history for ya.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. ‘But between you, me and the gatepost, Roy, I’m glad ya old man didn’t kill Phar Lap.’

Roy nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah, me too. How would I be as the son of the man who killed Phar Lap?’ Arthur nodded. ‘Not too bloody popular,’ he said.

Roy’s mum let Terry Maloney in, along with Stanley and Johnny Go Go. They were all off to the footy to watch Collingwood play in the 1958 Grand Final.

‘Another Premiership for us,’ yelled Terry.

‘Of course,’ said Roy. ‘I don’t even know why we bother going. We all know who’s gonna bloody win.’

‘Did ya hear Ronnie West is out of hospital?’ said Johnny Go Go.

‘Nah,’ said Roy. ‘That’s news but I do know he stuck staunch.’

What Roy didn’t know was Auntie Bee had quietly paid Ronnie a visit in hospital and instead of giving him grapes she slung him a thousand pounds of her own money. She told him to take the cash and shut up, and if he mentioned Roy’s name she’d scream rape on him. It was a fair exchange, sort of the crims version of Worker’s Comp. Also, Ronnie was by nature a solid Collingwood boy and never gave people up. Besides which, the passing threat from Ripper Roy re his mum and dad had stuck with him.

Roy seemed like a man of his word.

Brigid swore to herself that it would be the last time she went crying to Roy when some bloke upset her. God, she was still having bad dreams about that leg.

‘Shit,’ said Brigid. ‘No-one misses a slice off a cut loaf and crying over getting up-ended once in a while isn’t worth it.’

If her nephew intended to thrust severed limbs in her face, she wouldn’t be sharing her troubles with him in future. The cut-off leg was more of a mental and emotional shock than the rape.

‘Never again,’ she said.

When the boys went to the footy, Brigid went to church to do a bit of plea bargaining with God. She knelt before a statue of Holy Mother Mary, surrounded by candles. She lit a candle for Ronnie West’s severed leg and crossed herself, then prayed. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’

Then she opened her eyes and looked up at the Madonna and said, ‘And please watch over Roy, Lord, and we are sorry about Ronnie’s leg. I know I’m a fallen woman and probably deserved what I got for all my sins, but I reckon Ronnie West had that coming to him. Nevertheless please forgive us. I’d tell the priest, but Father Gillis is a bad drunk with a big mouth and between you and me, Lord, I reckon Father Gillis would give ya up in a police station, so this is between us, hey Lord. You, me and Mother Mary.’

Brigid crossed herself, then stood up and walked out. She had once been, if nothing else, a good Catholic girl. Somewhere along the way, she mislaid the ‘good’ bit. But she was still a Mick at heart.

IT was 1962. Ripper Roy was driving a brand new Chevrolet Belair, which suited his style as a wealthy man. He’d put 3000 pounds on Hi Jinx to win the 1960 Melbourne Cup, and the result made him one of the biggest landlords in the inner suburbs, as well as running all the other standover rackets. He was on easy street, and he was on his way to Easey Street after a visit to the cemetery. He and Neville Griffin, Tex Lawson, Redda Maloney, Bobby Rebecca and Stan Twain had put flowers on Freddie ‘the Frog’ Harrison’s grave, as was their habit since Twisty had blown his head off a few years earlier down on the docks.

Ripper Roy remembered Freddie fondly. ‘One of the grand old men and a better chap you’d never meet in a day’s march,’ he used to say. He pulled up to Auntie Bee’s place. Brigid had put on a few pounds over the years around the hips and tits area, but she was still a small boy’s wet dream. He walked in to find Auntie Bee on her knees in the lounge room.

‘What’s goin on, Auntie Bee?’ said Roy.

‘Father Della Torre told me to go home and say an act of contrition,’ said Brigid.

‘Who the hell is Father Della Torre?’ asked Roy.

‘He’s the new priest at St. Mary’s,’ she answered.

‘Holy mother of God,’ said Roy. ‘A dago priest. Shit, Banjo bloody Paterson would roll over in his grave if he could see this.’

‘No Roy,’ protested Brigid, who was a soft touch in more ways than one. ‘Father Della Torre is a lovely man.’

‘That would be right,’ thought Roy.

He was ashamed to admit it, but he knew his esteemed auntie had a weakness for these Latin types, especially since Norman Bradshaw had taken her to Perry Bros Circus and Zoo down at the Burnley Oval in Richmond. Old Normie had been shaggin’ the guts out of young Brigid since she was 16 years old, but it wasn’t love. She did, however, fall in love when she met the Great Caballero, a Spanish acrobat and trick rider who performed at the circus.

She was 17 years old and she was head over heels over the acrobat. The smooth-talking Spaniard promised her the world, then left her at the altar a year later, pregnant and brokenhearted. She lost the baby in childbirth, which was about right, as nothing the oily dago gave her ever worked right. But, afterwards, she still had this thing for cowboys like Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Hoot Gibson, John Wayne and Audie Murphy. If they rode a horse and carried a gun she loved ’em all, but her favorite was the Mexican Caballeros on the movies. The Spanish horse riders. Did she love them Latins.

Now and again Brigid would use silly Spanish expressions, like her favorite: ‘Uno momento, senor, may I have the money first please?’ Or ‘come on, Caballero, ride me like the wind.’