Chopper Unchopped (137 page)

It was all very cute, but Brigid’s love or lust for these dago movie cowboys made Roy a bit sick.

‘Anyway,’ Brigid was telling him, ‘I went to confession this morning and Father Della Torre told me to go home and say an act of contrition.’

Roy laughed. ‘Confession, hey. Auntie Bee. That must have taken a while.’ She gave Roy a sharp look. ‘Don’t joke, Roy. Now kneel with me while I pray.’

So Roy knelt down facing his Auntie Bee. They both crossed themselves and Brigid began, ‘Oh my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins and detest them above all things because they have crucified. No, no that’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Hang on, yes, I remember; because they deserve the dreadful punishments because they have crucified my loving savior Jesus Christ and most of all because they offend thine infinite goodness and I firmly resolve by the help of thy grace never to offend thee again and carefully to avoid the occasions of sin. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ said Roy, as he stood up. But Brigid remained on her knees.

‘Well, come on Auntie Bee, up ya get,’ said Roy.

‘Ya know Auntie Bee,’ said Roy ‘between hail bloody Marys and doodle shaking half the world, the good Lord is going to have a bugger of a time figuring out what to do with you.’

MEANWHILE, a 1957 FE Holden with five men in it was parked a hundred yards up the street from Brigid’s place. Tuppence Murray sat at the wheel. Big Twisty was next to him, with a loaded .38 calibre handgun in his hand. Titchy Turner, Normie Green and Con Hardgrave were in the back seat. No-one wanted to be left out, so they all had .38s.

‘He won’t be in there long. Probably still staring at his auntie’s tits,’ said Twist.

‘Ya joking,’ said Turner. ‘He’s not, is he?’

‘Well, why not?’ said Twisty. ‘Colleen O’Shaughnessy is getting shafted by Billy and Ray Reeves and they are her cousins, and old Herb ‘The Hat’ O’Shaughnessy is her own uncle and if he isn’t plonking her I’ll bare my bum in Myer’s bloody window.’

‘Shit,’ grunted Con Hardgrave, ‘it’s all a bit sick, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, the whole Reeves clan have been a sick pack of killers and whores for as long as anyone can remember.’

‘Ripper Roy’s mad dad was the bastard who tried to kill Phar Lap, for God’s sake,’ said Titchy Turner.

‘Yeah, well, Ripper Roy killed my dad and that’s all I’m interested in,’ said Tuppence Murray. ‘My whole family will have to find a new place to live if we don’t fix Roy. He’s been hounding us for years.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said Con Hardgrave. ‘But, your problems aside, we’ve all got our own scores to settle.’

Hardgrave was thinking about his younger brother, Danny, who’d been shot dead outside the Cricketer’s Arms Hotel in Cruickshank Street, Port Melbourne, the previous year. It had Ripper Roy’s fingerprints all over it. As far as he was concerned, Reeves had to go.

AS Brigid walked Roy to the front door she was chattering on about helping old Father Harrigan down at the Sailor’s Mission. They were putting on a fundraiser.

‘So what does the old drunk want you to do, Auntie Bee?’ asked Roy. ‘Oh, Father Harrigan wants to put on a fete and he wants me to get some of the girls to bake cakes.’

‘I knew a few of them had buns in the oven but I didn’t know the girls could bake cakes,’ said Roy, smirking at the idea.

Brigid giggled. ‘No, I guess we’ll just pitch in a fiver each and get Quinn’s Bakery to knock up a few hundred, and we’ll probably toss Father Harrigan a lazy hundred quid to go with it,’ she said. She was a soft touch, all right.

Roy shook his head.

‘These two-faced priests condemn you in public for being whores and fallen women, then stamp you for a quid when the honest people won’t chip in. If it wasn’t for the crims and crackers slinging these priests money half the poor people who go to the church for food and warm clothes would freeze and starve. Christ, ya must hand over a grand a year to the priests, Auntie Bee. And what about the other girls. I saw old Harrigan stamp Sally Wingate for a fiver yesterday, and she’s a bloody Protestant.’

Brigid scowled suddenly. ‘Roy, don’t speak ill of Father Harrigan,’ she snapped. It was the Irish in her. She was as game as Ned Kelly about everything else, but scared of crossing the priests.

‘Speak ill of the old dog!’ said Roy. ‘When he’s not stamping the girls for money he’s trying to pants them.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Brigid, ‘that’s just a rumor.’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Roy. ‘You ask Bonny Brown about Father Harrigan. He’s been pantsing poor Bonny for the last ten years.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Brigid. ‘You can’t believe Bonny, she just loves to gossip. I’ll see her about that.’

The two stood on the footpath just behind Roy’s car. Roy put his arm around Brigid and said, ‘I’ll see ya later, Auntie Bee.’ He didn’t see the FE Holden as it cruised toward them, but Brigid did. She screamed, ‘Look out, Roy’ and threw herself in front of him. She grabbed him, putting her body between Roy and the line of fire. A stream of bullets hit them. Roy tried to push her out of the way to protect her, but she clung on tight. She had three slugs in her back, and there were more coming. They whistled past Roy’s head and smacked into the front of the old red brick house.

He clawed for his gun and returned fire, hitting the Holden with six slugs as it tore away. When it turned the corner he laid Brigid down on the footpath. She was bleeding badly and coughing blood.

‘Auntie Bee,’ Roy yelled. ‘Don’t die, Auntie Bee.’

But she was. It didn’t matter how much he yelled. The dying woman was still holding Roy’s shoulder with her left hand and she looked up at him with her big eyes.

‘I’m gone, Roy,’ she said. ‘No, ya not, Auntie Bee. No ya not,’ cried Ripper Roy. ‘Yes, I am darlin,’ said Brigid. ‘Via con dios, caballero,’ she said, coughing blood. ‘Via con dios.’

‘No, Auntie Bee, no,’ cried Roy.

Brigid O’Shaughnessy looked at the crying Roy Reeves and said, ‘Bill Monroe’s the best, hey Roy?’

Ripper Reeves held his Auntie Bee. ‘Bill Monroe’s the best,’ he said. The dying woman started to sing, ‘I can hear a sweet voice calling,’ then she closed her eyes and died.

Ripper Roy stood up slowly. He emptied the spent shells out of his .38 and reloaded as if he was in a trance. He didn’t look at the pistol, but down Easey Street with a faraway stare. For a while, he was lost in space and time. Then he spoke to the body on the footpath.

‘They’ll be hearing some sweet voices calling tonight, Auntie Bee, I can promise ya that. They’ll be hearing some sweet voices calling tonight.’

Oh, an Irish girl’s heart is as stout as shillelagh,

It heats with delight to chase sorry or woe,

When the piper plays up then it dances as gaily,

and thumps with a whack to leather a foe.

– Brigid O’Shaughnessy, 1962.

IT was late 1976. Van Der Hum had won the Melbourne Cup and you’d think Ripper Roy Reeves owned him and backed him as well, with the amount of cash he had quietly invested around Collingwood.

Ripper Roy was sitting in one of his investment opportunities, the newly-named Caballero Night Club, in Smith Street. It had formerly been the Peppermint Lounge, but that ended as soon as Johnny Go Go bought the place, fronting for Roy.

Things changed fast. Whereas the club had once bopped along to the jazz sounds of Jelly Roll Morton, it now rocked to the sound of striptease music while a young hot pants from Richmond named Muriel Hill popped fly buttons all over the joint.

Ripper Roy was travelling pretty well. He was about to tuck in to a big feed of baked lobster with oyster sauce, which was the kind of tucker he had only heard about when he was nothing but a dangerous kid. Now he was rich and choosy, but still dangerous.

‘Holy shit,’ he yelled as he spat out a mouth full of roast lobster. ‘What’s this shit? Who cooked this crap?’ he said to Arthur Featherstone.

Irish Arthur hurried over to see what the matter was.

‘Taste this crap!’ Roy demanded.

‘God,’ said Arthur, spitting it out. ‘That’s off. That would kill a brown dog.’

Terry Maloney and Ray Chuckles came over along with Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric.

‘What’s wrong,’ they asked.

‘Who cooked this shit?’ asked Roy.

‘Bunny Malloy,’ said Terry. ‘He was head cook at Pentridge for the last seven years. He got out three weeks ago.’

Arthur broke in, trying not to smile. ‘Excuse me, Terry, but is this the same Bunny Malloy who told young Muriel Hill a few days ago that Cordon Bleu was a French bank robber?’ As laughter broke out Roy snarled, ‘You sack him, Terry, or I’ll shoot him.’

When Reeves threatened to put someone off he didn’t mean to the unemployment office. It’s hard to get a new job with a hole in the scone.

‘But, Roy,’ protested Terry. Ray Chuckles jumped in, trying to defend poor Bunny. ‘He’s a good bloke and a hard man,’ he said.

‘Well then,’ said Roy, ‘pull him out of the kitchen and give him a job as a bouncer, but he’s to stay out of the kitchen. Okay, Terry?’

‘Yeah, Roy,’ said Maloney, smiling.

‘If he can slaughter load-mouthed drunks like he did a job on that overgrown yabbie then he’ll be the toughest doorman this side of the East End,’ Roy said.

‘Now,’ he said to Chuckles, ‘what do you wombats want this side of town? Sit down, boys. Sit down.’

Ray Chuckles, Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric all sat down at Ripper Roy’s table.

‘Tex Lawson sent us to see ya, Roy,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘But he’s in jail,’ replied Roy. ‘Doing 13 years for murdering Pat Boon down the docks.’

‘Brian O’Flanagan spoke to him for us. They’re in H Division together,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said Roy. ‘Only testing. Go on, what’s the go?’

‘Well, Roy,’ said Ray. ‘It’s like this. We need six machine guns, and you’re the only man in Melbourne with his own personal collection of machine guns.’

‘What’s it all for?’ asked Ripper Roy. ‘And tell us the truth or ya can all piss off right now. I know you’re a good bloke, Ray. I know ya used to be Tex Lawson’s bodyguard, I know you’re a solid and staunch Caballero – but lie to me and I’ll kill ya right now, okay?’

He meant it. Ray Chuckles continued very politely. ‘It’s like this, Mr Reeves. Remember the old bookmaker Bert Shaw? He’s dead now. Remember old Bert went to Tex about an idea he had and Tex went to Teddy Kidd and his crew, but Kidd knocked it back?’

‘Shit,’ said Roy. ‘Not that old chestnut. Tex Lawson has been trying to interest people in that numb nut idea for years.’

Ray Chuckles nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah, Mr Reeves, the bookies.’

Roy started to look interested, in spite of himself. He was a natural born thinker when it came to planning any sort of larceny, especially if it involved a bit of the old firepower. He would have made a great general if there’d been a war handy. ‘You’ll need at least six to seven men,’ he said suddenly.

‘We’ve got seven in the crew,’ said Ray. ‘Six will do the job.’

‘You’ll need heavy duty firepower,’ said Ripper Roy, which was no surprise. If there was one thing he liked, it was the smell of gunpowder. Even after 20 years.

‘Well, that’s why we came to see you,’ said Ray Chuckles.

Ripper Roy was looking into space and thinking aloud.

‘The bloody Victoria Club,’ said Roy, lost in thought. But he looked doubtful. ‘Shit … could it be done? Nah, you’ll never pull it off.’

‘But,’ said Ray, ‘if we do, we could net millions. If we don’t, that’s our risk.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ripper Roy sourly, ‘and I lose six machine guns. Do you know how hard it is to put together a collection of machine guns?’

‘Ya right, Roy. But you’re a punter,’ said Ray. ‘If we win you’re there for a slice of the pie.’

‘How much?’ said Ripper Roy.

Ray Chuckles looked at Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric. ‘We have all discussed it. How about 100 grand if we pull it off?’ said Ray.

‘Right,’ said Roy. ‘I can let you have one sten gun, two Owen guns and three Stirling submachine guns. How’s that sound?’

Ray Chuckles smiled. ‘Thanks, Ripper. I mean Mr Reeves,’ he added hastily.

Roy laughed. ‘Forget the bullshit. False courtesy and politeness will do.’

‘Okay Roy,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘What about the Kanes?’ said Roy.

‘Ahh, piss on them,’ said Ray Chuckles. ‘They have been talking to that copper Skull Miller for so long now, they think they’re policemen. I betcha they’ve got flat feet to match their flat heads. I’ll handle them,’ said Ray.

‘We can kill ’em for ya,’ said Roy.

‘Nah,’ said Ray. ‘The Kanes are our problem. We can catch and kill our own mice, as they say.’

Ripper Roy thought about Brian and Les Kane. They had always stayed clear of Collingwood. As long as Ripper Roy got his hundred grand Ray Chuckles and his crew and the Kanes could drown themselves in their own blood, for all he cared.

Roy then wondered if Tex Lawson was copping a sling out of all this. After all, Bert Shaw was dead and it was Tex who’d taken the bookie plot to Ray Chuckles in the first place. ‘Okay,’ said Roy, slapping Chuckles on the shoulder. ‘Ya got yourself a deal.’

He turned and yelled, ‘Terry, grab the key to the gun cupboard, will you?’

Roy had sixty machine guns in storage, oiled, ready and waiting. What was six more or less? It was a hundred grand for jam, raspberry jam.

THE ghosts of 1962 had been laid to rest, more or less. Ripper Roy hadn’t seen the faces of the men in the car who shot at him in Easey Street and killed his Auntie Bee, so he simply put the names of his worst enemies into a hat – all 70 of them – and got Terry Maloney to pull six names out. By the end of the month three totally innocent men were dead, and three more who had nothing to do with the shooting had vanished off the face of the earth.

‘When in doubt, shoot everybody,’ was Roy’s thinking. Whether they did it or not, it made Roy feel much better. And it made people think twice about crossing him.

As Ray Chuckles and his two offsiders drove their 1973 Ford Falcon through the streets of Collingwood with six machine guns and ammo in the boot, they had to stop for a gang of kids playing cricket in the street.