Chopper Unchopped (147 page)

“I don’t work here” said Amy Jo, “I’m waiting for my mum”.

“Oh yeah,” said Neville, “and who’s ya mum?”

“Stella Phillips,” said Amy Jo.

Neville stopped and looked at Normie who was by this time standing there with his pants down around his knees and in the process of offering Sandie something to chew on.

Normie looked at Neville. “Ahh, bugger it, Neville,” he said. “What Stella don’t know won’t hurt her.”

Meanwhile Archie was ushering Tessa quietly down the hallway and into a private room. Tessa had stopped her tears and was acting most unlike the grieving widow. Heroin, Normie thought to himself as Sandie swallowed the sword, as long as ya didn’t use it, ya totally owned and controlled the human filth who did. Normie didn’t use, neither did Neville. Archie was a weekender. Normie patted Sandie’s head. “Good girl, baby. That’s right, keep going.”

Normie despised junkies. They were there to use and to be tossed away like human condoms. Blow in ’em and flush ’em. Jason Kinsella’s grieving widow was screaming like a wild pig from the room down the hall as Archie let her have it. Her husband’s body was still warm and a quarter gram blast up the arm made everything better. Low life dog moll, thought Normie.

SATURDAY night, 2 March, 1996. Graeme Westlock sat in his office in the St Kilda Road Police Complex looking at a wall full of photos. Archie Reeves, Neville and Normie Reeves, Earl Teagarden, Chang Heywood, Kristy Toy, Anne Griffin, Johnny Pepper, Sonny Carroll, Sean Maloney, Pat O’Shaughnessy, Preston Phillips, Billy Burns, Bunny Maloy, Ferdie Taylor, Greg Featherstone.

Next to them were the dagos. N’Dranghita, L’Onorata Societa, Bonventre, Castronovo, Salvatore, Greco, Mazzara, Mazzurco, Rocca Corsettie, Carrasella, Della Torre.

There was another section with O’Neil, McKeon, Kennedy, Scanlan, Fitzpatrick, McIntyre, Lonigan, Shee, McDougall, McCormack, O’Day, Duffy, O’Grady, Brady, Finnagan, Flannagan, Callaghan, Donovan, MacCreevy.

“What’s all this, Graeme?” asked Doc Holliday.

Westlock sighed. “The Aussies and the wogs.”

There was one Asian in the top right hand side.

“Who’s he?”

“Tuyen Tran Truong,” said Westlock. “New boss of the White Rat.”

“Where’s all the Albanians?” asked Doc.

“Next room,” said Westlock. “Four walls full of ’em.”

Holliday opened the bar fridge and pulled out two cans and handed one to Westlock.

“Who do ya reckon will take over Collingwood, Phillips or the Reeves?”

That reminded Westlock of something. “Where the hell is young Ronnie Reeves and what happened to that big black chick we had our eye on?” he asked.

Doc Holliday turned the TV on. He wanted to see the outcome of the federal election.

“Montego Bay, Jamaica,” said Doc. “That’s what Ray Kelly reckons.”

“What?” asked Westlock incredulously.

“Ronnie Reeves and Coco Joeliene,” said Doc patiently. “Kelly reckons they are in the West Indies.”

“Fair dinkum,” said Westlock. “Well, half their luck.”

John Howard was giving his victory speech on TV. Westlock got to his feet.

“Well, Doc, it looks like it’s goodbye to the third best Irishman in Australian history, next to Ned Kelly and Squizzy Taylor.”

“Who’s that?” said Doc, and Westlock pointed to the TV.

“Paul bloody Keating, Doc. And he did it all without a stocking mask or a shotgun.”

Doc Holliday raised his beer can. “Hear, Hear, Graeme. To Paul Keating. Adios amigo.”

Graeme Westlock raised his beer can too. “Adios amigo.”

PRESTON Phillips sat in the bar of the Carringbush Hotel in Langridge Street, Abbotsford. He was sipping his beer and talking quietly with Billy Burns, Bunny Malloy and Johnny Pepper.

“There’s a dog in the camp, I’m sure of it,” said Phillips.

His drinking companions all nodded in agreement.

“This shit with young Jason Kinsella, that’s just one of many, I’m tellin ya. We got a talker in the tent.”

Burns spoke up, “What about the young blokes?”

“Who?” said Phillips.

Billy felt embarrassed even to suggest it but went on.

“Archie, Nev and Norm”.

“Nah,” said Bunny Malloy. “The Reeves are as solid as rocks.”

“What about the girls?” said Johnny Pepper.

“Anne, Kristy and that crew.”

Billy Burns disagreed with that.

“No,” said Preston. “Let’s not jump at shadows. Let’s just be aware of it and watch and wait. It’s someone on the inside yet far enough out of things not to be noticed.”

“How do ya mean?” said Johnny Pepper.

“Everyone has someone who isn’t in the crew who they trust.”

“That don’t make sense,” said Bunny Malloy.

“Yeah, well,” continued Preston Phillips, “every one of us has a mother or a sister or an auntie or a granny or an uncle or a brother, someone close who isn’t really in the inner clique yet totally trusted. So watch what ya say to anyone not on the inside. If they don’t need to know, tell ’em nothing, okay.”

They all nodded in agreement, but left the pub amazed and shocked. Preston had in his own roundabout way told them that someone had a mother, sister, auntie, granny, uncle or brother who was a dog and that meant that someone on the inside was about to lose a family member. Preston Phillips got into his car and drove over to his sister-in-law’s place in Wellington Street, Collingwood.

Stella Phillips used to be Stella Bennett until she married Leo Phillips, then Leo went missing during the Rabbit Kisser war and Stella got left with young Amy Jo. Poor Stella, she was 36 years old and totally paranoid about growing old. She’d had a face lift, bottom lift, tummy tuck. She’d had her eyes done and her lips blown up as well as a silicone boob job and her hair was peroxide platinum blonde. She looked like a sex offender’s wet dream, a blown-up Barbie doll from head to toe. Add a morphine addiction to all of the above and that was Stella. Preston had a boot full of hot leather gear he was taking to Stella’s place. Leather jackets, leather mini skirts, leather pants. The latest in ladies sexy leather. About 12 cows gave their lives to rap this one up in animal skin. Stella loved all that fashion bullshit.

Preston pulled up and got out of his car, pulled two large bags full of gear out of the boot, then went in to Stella’s place and rang the bell. After about forty seconds young Amy Jo answered the door in full school uniform. Preston thought to himself, little Amy lives in that bloody uniform from the time she gets up till bed time. God, thought Preston, she’s smacked off her face again. Amy Jo’s eyes were pinned and she was rubbing her nose.

“Oh, hi ya, Uncle Pres,” said Amy Jo and gave him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Preston wondered if Amy Jo’s morphine-addict mother knew that her teenage daughter was a heroin junkie.

“Mum’s in the bath,” said Amy Jo. “Sit down.”

Preston sat on the couch and Amy Jo sat on the floor in front of the telly.

“Uncle Pres,” said Amy Jo.

“Yeah,” said Preston.

“Do you know Neville and Normie Reeves and Archie Reeves?”

Preston Phillips looked at his niece in a serious manner.

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Amy Jo. “I met them the other day.”

“Where?” said Preston

“At the pinball place in Smith Street.”

“Oh,” said Preston, looking a bit doubtful and wondering what the hell three of Collingwood’s most insane low lives were doing in a bloody pinball parlour.

“Ya know, Amy,” said Preston. “I’ve known those three young blokes all their lives and they would kill their own mothers for sixpence. Don’t get me wrong, they are top blokes and bloody great to have on side. Blood relatives of Ripper Roy himself, God rest his soul, but they would rape a dog on a chain and kill each other if the price was right. Please, Amy, don’t you start knocking around with the Reeves boys.”

“Oh, no. Uncle Preston,” said Amy Jo, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I just met them and they were very, very polite.”

“They didn’t give you drugs did they?” asked Preston suspiciously.

“Oh no,” said Amy Jo.

Preston thought to himself as his niece sat on the floor cross legged with her dress up around her thighs, smacked off her tits, that someone was giving the lying little cow drugs. Preston didn’t believe the goody goody two shoes act for a moment. But what could he do?

His brain snapped back into life when Stella wafted into the room. The smell of her perfume would have hit the nose of anyone within a 20 yard radius. Stella was pink from her hot bath and wrapped in a satin dressing gown, a shiny black affair, and wearing black high heeled slippers. She was towelling the long mop of wet platinum blonde hair.

“Oh hi, Pres,” said Stella. “Oh, is that the leather gear? Oh great.”

Amy Jo turned to watch TV and Stella bent and whispered in Preston’s ear.

“Have you got it?” and with that Preston pulled out a packet of 100 morphine tablets. Stella took them and popped the parcel into her dressing gown pocket then turned and walked into the kitchen. At the same time Amy Jo turned and gave her Uncle Preston a knowing wink. God, thought Preston, here I am asking Amy Jo about drugs and she knows I’m supplying her mother with morphine.

As Amy Jo lay on her tummy on the floor she was lifting her feet up in the air. One foot at a time. Somehow her school tunic had ridden up and a fair portion of her bare bottom was exposed. To Preston’s shock his niece was quite plainly wearing a black thong high-cut gee string sort of affair. Shit, thought Preston, strippers wear that sort of gear, not school girls.

Stella came back into the lounge and noticed Preston looking at her daughter’s bottom.

“Pull ya skirt down, Amy. Ya wanna give Uncle Pres a heart attack.”

Amy Jo obeyed her mother then turned and gave her Uncle Preston a cheeky grin. Stella sat down on the couch next to Preston.

“I’m a bit worried about young Amy,” she said.

Yeah, thought Preston, I would be too.

COLLINGWOOD, 1975. Ripper Roy Reeves sat at a table in the Caballero Night Club in Smith Street. Also at the table was his old Uncle Regan Reeves and his other uncles, as he called them, Eoin Featherstone and Padraic O’Shaughnessy. Old Regan was in tears.

Terry Maloney brought over a tray with glasses and a large bottle of Irish whiskey. Arthur Featherstone tended the bar, the club was otherwise closed. It was a sad day. The former Prime Minister and President of the Irish Free State, the great Eamon de Valera, was dead. “1882 to 1975,” said Roy. “He had a good innings. I’ll fly ya all over to the funeral if ya like, Uncle Regan.”

“No, boy,” said Padraic, looking at Regan. “His heart won’t take a plane ride. It would kill him.”

The three old IRA men sat in silence and tears, drinking their whiskey.

“He was the greatest Irishman alive,” said Regan.

Roy broke in, “next to Squizzy Taylor and Ned Kelly. Ha ha ha.”

Regan laughed too. “That’s what Johnny said or something like that when we first met him back in ’27. We toasted de Valera and he toasted Squizzy Taylor. Ya know ya dad was the man who tried to shoot Phar Lap?”

Roy sighed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that old wives’ tale a thousand times but it’s never been proved to me. I don’t really like being reminded that my old man tried to shoot Phar Lap.”

“Famous story,” said Regan.

“Famous bit of flapdoodle if you ask me,” said Roy.

“Don’t talk about ya dad like that,” said Regan. “Johnny was a grand man. He died a war hero, ya know.”

“Really,” said Roy. “I heard he broke his neck trying to jump off a tram in Swanston Street blind drunk.”

“Lies,” said Eoin. “Filthy bloody lies. He died a war hero.”

Roy had heard various yarns about his mysterious old father but he had never really questioned his dad’s oldest living friends on the matter.

Even his Auntie Brigid and Auntie Colleen and Roy’s own mother didn’t want to talk about it much. Died in the war. Died in America. Died in Ireland. What did it matter now, anyway? But he couldn’t help asking.

“Well, come on Uncle Regan, what the hell did happen?”

Regan polished off his third glass of whiskey and poured another.

“Well, young Roy, in June, 1942, MacArthur ordered 1000 militia men, the 39th Battalion or Maroubra Force to hold Kokoda and its airfield. The Japs took Kokoda on the 29th of July and forced back the Aussies. In August the first battalion of the 7th Division of the AIF was sent in to reinforce the 39th, and as the Japs advanced they met the Aussies face on and it was a blood bath.

“The Aussies retreated, but held the Japs up. And in retreat the Aussies won an important battle at Milne Bay on the 31st August. Kokoda was important because it had an airfield, and it was the only land route through the Owen Stanley Ranges to Port Moresby. Kokoda could only be reached by a winding trail over the Owen Stanley Ranges.”

“Hang on,” said Roy. “Where does my dad come into this?”

“Well,” said Regan, “Johnny died a hero during the battle of the Owen Stanley Ranges.”

Roy looked puzzled. “I got told by an old digger when I was a kid, in 1957 or ’58, that they put old Johnny in front of a firing squad after he shot his commanding officer in the back of the head.”

“No, no, no,” said Regan. “They were going to shoot him for that but before they could he died a hero in combat so he beat the army on a technicality.”

Roy smiled. “So you admit the old bastard did shoot his commanding officer?”

Regan looked a bit shy and smiled. “Well, yes, but he ran away right into the line of Jap fire and took seven Japs with him before he fell, and had he not killed his commanding officer I’m sure, my boy, that they would have given old Johnny the Victoria Bloody Cross.”

Roy smiled again. At last he heard a yarn he could half believe.

“Anyway,” said Regan, “we aren’t here for that. We are here to drink a last goodbye to the greatest Irish patriot who ever lived. Eamon De Valera.”

All the men stood and raised their glasses.

“To Eamon De Valera,” said Regan Reeves.

“Adios amigo.”

“Hear, hear,” said the gathering.