Chopper Unchopped (142 page)

McCall looked down at the gram of speed Kinniburgh was holding. ‘Yeah, why not?’ thought McCall. He’d stay up tonight and get ready for tomorrow and have another blast in the morning. He’d be full of beans and as horny as hell when he got out. He’d plonk Melanie then get her to wait at home in Lennox Street while he went to check on Coco’s in Victoria Street, then he would bang Kristy and Muriel. Why not? Hell, he’d been away a fair while. Shit yeah.

McCall put the speed into a spoon and mixed it. He didn’t use drugs, but a little now and then wouldn’t hurt. Leigh sucked the speed up into a needle and McCall held his arm while Kinniburgh shot him up. Shit yeah, it nearly took the top of his head off and hit him in the arse at the same time. That was good stuff. No wonder Karen loved it. Poor Karen. His first root and his most sentimental memory. He’d never forget her.

Kinniburgh laid on his bunk and started to nod off. He was full of smack. The lamp in the cell was on and the TV was on with the sound down. McCall packed his letters and personal gear into a box, but couldn’t stop going through the photos and his memories. He had become obsessed with going to visit Joeliene in Jamaica when he got out. The whole world was his. He had it all waiting for him. He felt like a young prince on his way to being king. Nothing could stop him.

He held up a photo of Joeliene with a group of well-dressed men and looked at it. She looked a million dollars at some swish party. He looked at the back of the photo. It simply said ‘Bridgetown, Barbados’ but he couldn’t recall the story.

Hang on. That’s right. Sir Leo had taken her on a private jet to Barbados for some weekend political do. Sir Leo had taken along a group of Jamaican senators and some members of the Jamaican House of Representatives, including a fist full of cabinet ministers. They had to attend some Caribbean political do. Joeliene had taken along Isabella Dominuquez and some other chick McCall had a photo of – a beautiful Hispanic-Chinese-African mixture who was another beauty contest runner-up fallen on hard times. Evidently a fist full of cash and a beautiful sheila sitting on a politician’s face could get you anything you wanted in the Caribbean. Whatever Joeliene was now, and regardless of her husband’s money which would be all hers one day, she was basically a corrupt and criminally minded miss. McCall knew this was one of the reasons she so much wanted him by her side.

It was clear that she was becoming the Rabbit Kisser of Kingston, with an army of dark-skinned wet dreams at her disposal. She was on her way to being a very powerful woman and very, very wealthy. God, few fit and strong young men could last a long weekend with her. Sir Leo was 70 or 71 years old. He’d be in the cardiac unit any time now, what with 48 inches of Jamaican marshmallow rolling around underneath him every night. God, McCall, you’ve got it made in heaven. C’mon, open the cell door. Let me out of here, for God’s sake. I want to get out. Joeliene needs me.

McCall was starting to spin out. What was it she said about a bit of trouble with the Marus Garvey mob. What did she call them? The Haile Selassie Mafia. Ha ha. Yeah, that’s right. The bloody Rastafarians. She has to pay them off to keep her nightclub going, regardless of her newfound wealth, status and political influence. She still has to deal with the street people.

McCall held up a photo of Isabella and the beautiful African-Chinese looking lady standing on either side of a small donkey on a stage inside Coco’s club. God, thought McCall, I gotta get outta here and if Melanie gives me any shit I’ll leave her behind. Hell, a few months working at Coco’s Restaurant in Victoria Street would do her good, so she better not whinge. I’m gonna get out and have a good time …

THE screws were opening the cell doors. Hell, it’s bloody morning already, thought McCall. He shook Leigh Kinniburgh awake and grabbed his gear. ‘Ya want another blast?’ asked Leigh, pointing to the half gram of speed.

‘Nah,’ said McCall. ‘I’m off my head at a hundred miles per hour already.’

The cell door swung open and McCall heard the noise of 200 men as they came out and ran around having a shower – doing this, doing that, doing a thousand different meaningless things men do in jail in the morning.

‘Got time for a quick shower, Boss?’ he asked the screw.

‘Yeah. But hurry up, McCall. You’re out of here in half an hour.’

‘Okay, yeah. Thanks boss,’ said McCall.

‘Can I have that photo?’ said Kinniburgh, pointing to a big striptease photo of Joeliene he’d forgotten to pack.

‘Yeah,’ said McCall. ‘Keep it, I’m outta here. I’ll be with the real thing in a week. Pull yaself silly.’

Johnny the Kid shook hands with Leigh Kinniburgh just as Big Frankie Waggels put his head in the door and said, ‘If ya want a shower Kid, ya better hurry up.’

Frankie was a good bloke, doing the lot for a murder he didn’t do. At least that’s what he told everyone, and no one would dare argue with him, least of all McCall.

‘Thanks Frankie. See ya later.’

‘Yeah, Kid,’ said Frank, and they shook hands. ‘Get one of them beauty queens to write to me, will ya Kid?’

‘Frank, I’ll have one out here sitting on ya lap by the weekend,’ said McCall. ‘And that’s a promise.’

‘Yeah well,’ said Frank. ‘I’m off to sit some breakfast on my lap. See ya Kid.’

He waved and walked off. McCall headed for the showers, put his box of personal goodies down outside, and took his shower bag and towel and went in. The shower room was full of men and the steam was like a London fog, only hot. McCall took a vacant shower at the end after stripping off. He cleaned his teeth and had a quick shave under the shower and lathered himself up.

Suddenly, out of the steam came a smashing blow to the nose. His nose shattered and he fell against the shower wall. He stood up. Blood ran down his lips and chin and his chest and dripped onto the cement floor.

‘How ya going, pretty boy?’ McCall looked up to see a thickset evil thug of a man he recognised as Chico Della Torre.

‘Getting out today, hey Kid?’ said the Sicilian. Della Torre was serving a 14-year sentence for a $250,000 payroll armed robbery. He had served ten years and was awaiting deportation to Italy.

McCall had politely avoided Della Torre during his time in Pentridge, but now the big Sicilian was standing naked in front of him in the shower.

‘Ya know, Kid, I always reckoned you had an arse on you like a little girl’s.’

McCall knew what that meant. He tried to run out of the shower but Della Torre grabbed him and pushed him back, then crashed a fist into Johnny’s top teeth, mashing teeth and lips. Another punch to the jaw dropped him.

Della Torre stood over McCall and said, ‘Kid, down this way we eat chicken and when we done with that, we eat more chicken.’

McCall looked up and Della Torre looked down like some evil, smiling entrant in an Edward G. Robinson contest.

McCall went to try to stand up but Della Torre bent down and sent another killer punch into the side of his jaw. The Kid was nearly unconscious. Della Torre was soaping himself up and got down on his knees behind McCall and said, ‘Kid, this ain’t the fucking Limerick Castle and you ain’t got no gun. You’re gonna remember me till the day you die.’

It was then The Kid realised it was pay back time for the Rabbit Kisser’s war with the Mafia.

McCall was on all fours under the shower with his blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. Della Torre slid a substantial Sicilian salami deep into the lower bowel of Johnny the Kid.

McCall let out a scream and he heard laughing from the other men in the shower room. Della Torre withdrew and then thrust himself in deep again and McCall let out another scream, only to cop another smashing blow to the side of the face. The blood flowing from his face was mixing freely with the blood coming from his bum, all running together with the soapy hot water on the shower floor.

Della Torre laughed, ‘Ahh Kid, you’re a little virgin. Ha ha.’

He began to thrust himself in and out, faster and faster. McCall felt helpless. He was being shafted like a queer on the shower floor, like some little jail queen taking it up her arse. Della Torre began to moan, ‘Aah yeah. Kid. You’re a good fuck. Go on, Kid. Make me come.’

Then he let out a little cheer as he blew his load deep into McCall’s body. McCall fell to the shower floor and his bowels gave way and he shit himself and lay there under the shower in his own blood and mess and curled himself up in to a ball and sobbed. His tears ran onto the shower floor and mixed with his blood. He heard men laughing and he cried.

Melanie, he thought to himself. And Joeliene. They loved him because he was a man, but he had just been turned into a woman. He wanted to die. He could not stop the tears. As Della Torre wrapped a towel around himself and walked out of the shower, he turned around and looked down.

‘C’mon Kid,’ he sneered. ‘Cut out the cryin’. Ya know what they say. No tears for a tough guy.’

‘No-one can give any guarantee that he will not expose the public to the danger of some form of violent crime.’

– Chief Justice William Cox

‘… written with verve and pace, and has the ring of authenticity.’

– Professor H.P. Heseltine, Miles Franklin Literary Award judge

‘What’s verve mean?’

– Mark Brandon Read

“Your Honour, I protest,” a voice came from the bar,
“You’re not in court now, old sport, the drinks are shouted equal here.

The learned judge stumbled forth, and dusted off his purse,
And in doing so nearly had a stroke, and the barman called the nurse,
A month went by and all forgot, or so old Michael thought,
Then came the day of a major trial, and guess what judge he caught?
“My God,” thought wily Mick, “a foul law trick”,
“How will I win the day?

“This old drunk will have my client hung, no matter what I say,”
Then a twinkle came to his eye, and a smile to his face,
The old QC had not yet lost,
And if he hit the court room running, he still might win the case,
“I rejoice to see Your Honour, fit and well,” said Michael with a wink,
“A month in bed has no doubt solved Your Honour’s problem with the drink,”
The judge, pretending deafness, ignored this comic slur,
So Michael let forth with another, he did enjoy a stir.
“I know, Your Honour, we live today, in a world so politically correct,
“But my client would prefer His Honour to be sober and erect.”
“My God,” His Honour screamed, “a QC is not exempt,
“Much more from you, my learned friend, and I’ll have you for contempt.”

The outcome of the case was neither here nor there,
Suffice to say Michael won, with His Honour in despair,
And as I sit and pen this note, I confess ’tis a fairytale event,
But the bloke of whom I speak, is a real life, true blue Aussie gent,
A master of the legal twist,
A shrewd and artful dodge man.
The man I swear this ditty to,
The one and only Hodgman.