Chopper Unchopped (146 page)

Johnny hadn’t come for the Van Gogh family history. He was looking at the dead copper in silent amazement.

“By the marks on his neck,” said Busy, taking a professional interest, “I’d say this bloke’s been strangled.”

Hector beamed up a big smile. “I did it,” he volunteered proudly.

“Ya see, Mister Reeves, the boys had ventured out to Smith Street and this copper had a go at ’em so Heck here snapped his neck. The lads didn’t know what to do with the body so they carried him home,” explained Milton.

“When did this happen?” asked Macka McCall.

“Oh,” said Milton “about three o’clock this arvo.”

“Hang on,” said Johnny “you three carried a dead copper back here from Smith Street in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Macka, you gotta gun?”

“Yeah,” said McCall.

“Then get out of here fast. Get over to Regan’s place and get back here with his car”.

“What?” said Busy.

“Regan’s Buick?”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “Regan’s Buick.”

“Well, boys,” said Johnny, as Macka hurried out the door. “We’ve got the car. You got the shovel?”

“Ha, ha. Yeah, Mister Reeves,” said Milton Van Gogh. “We got the shovel, all right.” He was laughing, but there wasn’t much humour in it.

COLLINGWOOD, 1996. The sound of someone singing floated out of the windows of the unmarked Commodore.

Beautiful Dreamer wake unto me, starlight and dew drops are waiting for thee. Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight have all passed away
.

Beautiful dreamer, Queen of my song, list while I woo thee with soft melody. Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng
.

Beautiful Dreamer awake unto me. Beautiful Dreamer awake unto me, Beautiful Dreamer out on the sea. Mermaids are chanting the wild loralee, over the streamlet vapors are borne, waiting to fade at the bright coming morn
.

Beautiful Dreamer, beam of my heart, E’en as the moon on the streamlet and sea then will all clouds of sorrow depart. Beautiful Dreamer awake unto me, Beautiful Dreamer awake unto me
.

“Ahh,” sighed Detective Chief Superintendent Graeme Westlock, “that is a beautiful old song, Doc. Who taught you to sing that?”

Detective Sergeant John “Doc” Holliday looked far away. He was feeling sentimental. “My old Auntie Betty,” he answered. “She was an old Collingwood girl.”

“Yeah, Betty Brown,” said Westlock. “I recall my old man making mention of her. Tough as old boots, he reckoned. She ran the Kitten Club in Cromwell Street till 1960. That was a famous old haunt. Or infamous, anyway. Squizzy Taylor started it up back about 1920, didn’t he?”

Doc Holliday nodded. “And she was your auntie, Doc?” asked Westlock, looking surprised.

“Mother’s cousin, really,” said Doc. “But she was always good to me when Mum died.”

Westlock began to get into a bit sentimental, too. “My old grand dad used to sing a song,” he confided. “I was only a little kid when he did. He was in his 90s when he finally dropped, old Taffy Westlock.

“Shit,” said Doc Holliday. “Taffy Westlock was a freaking legend.”

“Yeah, well, like I said,” Westlock mused, “Grand dad used to sing cowboy songs. One old one went something like this:

Step aside you ornery tenderfeet, let a big bad buckeroo pass,

I’m the toughest hombre you’ll ever meet though I may be the last. Yes

sir ree we’re a vanishing race, no sir ree, can’t last long.

Step aside you ornery tenderfeet while I sing my song.

I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grande.

“Hang on,” said Doc. “Shush, here they come.”

Two men began moving out of the Federal Credit Union on Smith Street. There was no trouble picking them from shoppers. They were armed and fully masked.

“Now, now, now!” yelled Westlock into his walkie talkie. “Move it, move it”.

As he spoke, a dozen men wearing navy blue overalls and face masks and carrying pump actions and other heavy duty firepower appeared from the back of two parked vans and from behind fences and brick walls. There were yells and screams and all hell broke loose. One of the masked men coming out of the credit union raised his gun. Westlock yelled “Hit him, hit him!” and not one of his men failed to oblige. It was like a bloody firing squad without the blindfold and the last cigarette. Then the second gun man made a tactical error by sticking his hand into his carry bag. Westlock screamed “hit him” and a dozen more shots rang out. He would have been better advised to have thrown himself on the ground and played dead, but as it turned out he didn’t have to do any acting.

When the gunsmoke settled both would-be armed bandits lay dead with 17 bullet and shotgun wounds between them. They had a very severe case of lead poisoning.

“God bless the special operations group,” said Doc Holliday. “Saves the rest of us having to kill the buggers.”

“Hey Stan,” Westlock joked and ruffled his friend’s hair in the old Laurel and Hardy routine. “It certainly does, Olly. Ha ha, it certainly does.”

The pair had remained seated in the car through the whole thing. Detective Chief Inspector Clay Allison ran up to Westlock’s car.

“All correct, sir. Suspects secure, crime scene secure, ambulance on its way, homicide notified, coroner notified, Assistant Commissioner informed.”

Westlock nodded and ripped the top off a cold can of beer.

“You can have this one, Clay. Keep my name out of it. I’ve got enough on me bloody plate.”

Clay Allison smiled. A tactical arrest of this size and drama would either get him promoted or jailed, and he was willing to take the punt.

“Oh, oh,” said Holliday. “Let’s go. TV crews.”

“Shit,” said Westlock.

“Okay, Doc. Step on it. We’re outta here. She’s all yours, Clay.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

By the time Allison saluted Doc Holliday had the wheels spinning.

“Ha ha,” laughed Doc. “Allison’s got a bit to learn. Ha ha.”

“Ah, well,” said Westlock. “What do ya expect? He’s spent the last 10 years in admin, and before that he was Bendigo CIB. Cattle duffers and sheep thieves.”

Westlock studied the two BCI files in his hands. They told him everything the law had compiled on the dearly departed Bruno Picasso and Jason Kinsella.

“Picasso, that’s Bonventre’s brother-in-law, isn’t he?”

Holliday nodded “Yeah, they are all in the same family.”

Westlock didn’t need to ask about the young Kinsella kid. The Kinsellas, O’Briens, O’Connells, O’Gradys, Griffins, Browns, Phillips, Reeves, Peppers, Maloneys, Featherstones, Taylors, Malloys, Carrolls, Toys, O’Shaughnessys, Van Goghs, Burns, Carmichaels … the list of relatives went on, from street to street. Kinsella was pure Collingwood. What Westlock did not share with his old friend Doc Holliday as they drove along was that one of his own aunties was a Kinsella. Small bloody world, thought Westlock. That kid Kinsella was some sort of prick relative, albeit through marriage.

Ah well, we all have our little secrets, thought Westlock. Doc wouldn’t care anyway. Shit, his Auntie Betty has given birth to more bastard kids, and all fathered by crims, than any whore in Melbourne. She was a legend.

Westlock gave his old mate a sideways glance. If Doc hadn’t joined the force he would have become a criminal. Gunman for sure. Lovable bloody mental case, he sniggered to himself. He began to sing his Grandad’s old song as they drove along.

I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grande, but my legs ain’t bowed and my cheeks ain’t tanned
.

I’m an old cowboy who never saw a cow, never roped a steer, cause I don’t know how and I sure ain’t fixin to start now
.

Yippy I oh, I’m an old cowboy
…

REGGIE “Rat” Kinsella walked out of the milk bar across the road from the Leinster Arms Hotel. Archie Reeves and Neville and Normie Reeves were waiting for him. Reggie unwrapped a new pack of smokes and pulled one out. A heated movie debate was showing no signs of running out of steam. “Quentin Tarantino makes the best movies.
True Romance, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs”
said Archie Reeves.

“Bullshit,” said Normie.
“Reservoir Dogs
was crap. Big deal, some nitwit got his ear cut off and it’s meant to be shock horror. Shit, ears have been coming off in Melbourne since the 1970s. It got to be a bit of a fashion for a while. All the best lookin’ blokes in Pentridge were doin’ it.”

Neville broke in. “Remember when John Travolta shot that coon’s head off in the back of the car in
Pulp Fiction?
He used an H and K 9 mil. automatic and he didn’t break the rear window. The slug didn’t pass through the head. That’s shit. An H and K 9 mil. auto would pass through a dozen heads.

“Also,” said Normie, eager to add to his brother’s argument. “There is no great splatter of blood from a bullet hole in the face, not even from a point blank shot gun blast. A bullet implodes. It don’t explode. The damage is all inwards, not outwards.”

They all agreed on this. They could hardly read and write between them, but they seemed to know a shitload about ballistics and film making. Some things you don’t learn in primary school.

“You can stand point blank in front of anyone and let them have it in the nose, mouth, eye, balls, with anything you like and you won’t get so much as a microscopic spot of blood on ya cos it all goes inward, not outward.”

They all agreed again, but Archie Reeves couldn’t let it rest. He was like a dog with a bone, the way gangsters are about gangster films. “Yeah. Tarantino might be a good movie maker but it’s easy to see he ain’t never shot no-one. Shootin’ people is clean. The slug or shot enters the body faster than the speed of sound and everything in its way blows with it, not against it.” Reggie the Rat nodded.

“Now, if you was standing on the other side of the body – yeah well, that’s a different story.”

They all nodded solemnly.

“I reckon Samuel L. Jackson and his Ezekiel 25.17 stuff was sensational,” said Neville.

“Nah, I liked Mister Wolf, Harvey Keitel,” said Normie.

Archie broke in. “Harvey Keitel is in a movie called
Bad Lieutenant
, have you blokes seen it?”

Reggie Rat, Neville and Normie all shook their heads.

As all this flapdoodle was going on Anne Griffin came out of the pub and walked across the road.

“Hey fellas, the jacks just got Bruno Picasso and Jason Kinsella,” she said.

Archie Reeves yelled out, “It would be that maggot Westlock again.”

“Nah,” said Annie. “It was the SOG and some nuff nuff named Clay Allison, a Detective Chief Inspector.”

After the news sank in Reggie the Rat spluttered, “These turds are getting a bit out of hand. Jason was just a harmless junkie. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why shoot him?”

His eyes filled with tears. “I had better head home, Mum and Auntie Jan will be freaking out,” he said.

With that Reggie the Rat headed off down Gold Street.

“Do ya reckon he will back up?” said Anne indicating toward Reggie Rat.

“Nah,” said Archie, “the Kinsellas are all good roots but they ain’t good robbers.”

“Reggie and his crew will talk tough and cry a lot then expect us to back up for ’em”.

“Yeah well,” said Normie. “Let’s all go round and comfort Tessa. Ha ha ha.”

With that Normie and Archie Reeves all headed off for the brothel in Cromwell Street, Collingwood.

Tessa Kinsella was the junkie wife of young Jason Kinsella. She had a three gram a day heroin habit and the looks that could feed it, while they lasted. She was a long-legged, big-eyed, flat chested thing with a set of lips on her that would put Mick Jaggar to shame. She had long jet-black hair and vivid blue eyes. She stood an easy six feet tall in her high heels and was super model thin.

I guess one could say she was outrageously glamorous in a gutter slut sort of way. She had been married to Jason since she was 18, and had been married about 18 months, so that made her close to 20 years old.

By the time the boys got to the Cromwell Street brothel Tessa was in tears and hanging out and flew into Archie Reeves’s arms when the three young men walked in the door.

“Ahh Archie, they shot Jason,” she sobbed.

It was a tragic scene with Tessa in her silk dressing gown and stiletto high heels. Archie was the very picture of the comforting friend and he wrapped his arms around the heartbroken girl.

“She’s sweet, Tessa,” said Archie.

Tessa just sobbed. Normie winked at Neville and Neville pulled out a plastic bag containing two full ounces of near pure heroin.

“Got a spoon?” Neville asked and a big bleached blonde named Sandie hurried off and returned with a spoon, several new fits and a cup of water. Two other girls appeared like magic. One was a strung-out whore who looked like a skun rabbit and the other was a dead set proper schoolgirl in full college uniform. She was a vision in navy blue tunic, white shirt, blue tie, white socks, black shoes, navy blue blazer and a blue and white hat.

“What’s your name, kid?” said Normie.

“Amy Jo,” said the girl, fluttering her eye lashes over her big brown eyes. Her brown hair was in tightly tied pigtails. She looked as neat and clean as a new pin.

Neville pointed to the bag of heroin on the coffee table and said “Ya want some?”

Amy Jo wet her lips with her tongue and nodded eagerly.

“Yes, please.”

Neville started to mix up a full gram of near pure, enough for three or four good hits. Then he loaded up four fits and said “go for it”.

Sandie picked up a fit and tapped it then stuck it in her arm and got the vein first time. Archie was giving Tessa a hand with hers and the nameless strung-out whore had hers.

Neville held the last loaded fit up and handed it to Amy Jo. The school girl took off her blazer and rolled her white shirt sleeve up and said “Give us a hand will ya.” Neville injected her. The school girl closed her eyes then moaned “ohh yeah” and began scratching her arse with one hand and her nose with the other. “Ohh yeah, that’s fantastic,” said Amy Jo.

Neville was not one to let a chance go by and he led the school girl quietly away, down the hall.