Chopper Unchopped (148 page)

“Eamon De Valera. Adios amigo.”

COLLINGWOOD, 1996. While most private schoolgirls busied themselves with piano lessons and language classes after school, Amy Jo Phillips made her way to the brothel in Cromwell Street. Sandie Toy always had a quarter gram of heroin for her, and there was plenty of time to shoot up. She didn’t have to be home until 7.30, as her mum, Stella, didn’t get home until about midnight but always rang up about 8 pm. So little Amy Jo had from after school until 7.30 all to herself, and where she was concerned the old saying about the devil finding work for idle hands was dead set right.

She knocked on the door of the brothel one evening and Tessa Kinsella answered.

“How’s it going, Amy?” said Tessa. “Okay,” said Amy.

“Sandie’s doing a mug,” said Tessa. “She’ll be done in about half an hour, but I’ve got ya goodies for ya.”

Amy smiled. She went in and Tessa led Amy into the kitchen and pulled a small plastic packet out of the drawer.

“Here ya go, darlin.”

Amy took off her school blazer and rolled her white shirt sleeve up and proceeded to mix the quarter gram of heroin into a spoon, then pulled a clean fit out of her school bag. As she was injecting herself, Tessa spoke.

“Ya wanna be careful, Princess. Stella will find out.”

Amy Jo laughed as she injected the heroin up her arm.

“Mum’s so morphed up she wouldn’t know if a tram was up her, less ya rung the bloody bell.”

“Well what about ya Uncle Preston?”

Amy smiled. “Uncle Preston is a smack dealer and he’s plonkin’ mum, his own sister-in-law.”

“Bullshit,” said Tessa.

“Well I can’t prove it but I reckon he is,” said Amy Jo. “Mum’s an old moll, anyway. She’s seen more pricks than a dart board.”

Tessa laughed. “Ya not doing too bad yaself, Amy.”

“Yeah, well,” said Amy, “like mother, like daughter. Besides, smack’s not cheap and 200 bucks an hour blowin’ out candles and getting slip slided is an easy way to pay for it.”

Amy Jo rubbed her arm. “Gee, I love this stuff. Two hours a day after school, it’s no big deal. Fifty bucks to the house and 350 clear for me each night. A 100 for a nice taste of smack, that’s 250 clear cash in hand a night, five nights a week, that’s $1250 bucks a week. Not bad for a 15-year-old. Well, I will be in two months time and Sandie reckons I can do three hours Saturday afternoon and two on Sunday arvo, that’s another bundle. I only have to hand over 25 bucks out of every 200. Sandie’s pretty good to me.”

“Yeah,” said Tessa. “That’s only ’cos you’re Preston’s niece and if Preston finds out he will shoot Sandie. Kristy won’t be able to save her and ya wanna hope them Reeves boys keep their mouths shut.”

Amy Jo looked at Tessa. “How’s Archie? Seen him lately?” Tessa Kinsella blushed red. Just then Sandie Toy bounced into the room.

“Hey, Amy, there’s a punter out here. Didn’t you buggers answer the bloody door. Ya wanna work or not?”

“Sorry, Sandie,” said the schoolgirl. She went out, and standing in the hallway was Fatty La Rocque, five feet seven tall and 24 stone of rolly polly pudding.

“I want the schoolgirl,” yelled Fatty.

Amy reeled back. “I’m not doing that pig,” she said.

But Sandie turned nasty. She grabbed Amy’s ear and twisted it hard.

“Don’t be a snob,” she hissed. “Now, come on Princess, it’s not all smack and sunshine. Fatty’s okay, all ya gotta do is sit on the big jelly bean’s face. Ya won’t even need to take ya school uniform off. Now get into it or piss off home.”

“Okay.” Amy straightened herself up. “But I reckon I should get danger money for this one,” she muttered.

STELLA Phillips worked as a bar maid at the Chicago Club in Clifton Hill. Bobby Torres ran it. It was a sort of pool hall with a liquor licence. It officially closed at midnight. But after Stella knocked off and went home the club really came to life. In spite of the Crown Casino some people still loved to gamble without being spied on by video cameras, and so there was still a place for the Chicago Club and a few other joints like it around town.

Believe it or not, (and why wouldn’t you?) a fair few coppers visited the Chicago Club. You could get a nice meal, have a drink, and play pool. It was an easy going, dimly lit place. People minded their own business and even though Bobby Torres was part of Billy Burns’s crew and Billy ran with Preston, the Chicago Club wasn’t part of the Collingwood crew’s domain. None of the crew went into the place as it was considered a businessmen’s and yuppies hang out. It had a tough name and a look to titillate the middle class patrons who got a thrill out of thinking they were hanging out with gangsters.

Stella was the star bar maid and would dress – or almost dress – to attract all the attention she could. High heels, short shorts, split at the sides to show as much arse and hip as she could and a halter neck top that did its best to hold in the silicone boob job. At 10 grand a tit why wouldn’t you show them off?

Stella didn’t drink, but she enjoyed most of the other vices. She dropped one or two 60 milligram morph pills a day. Sometimes Stella would get swept off her feet by one of the patrons and not get home till the wee hours. Her whole world was sunshine and cotton wool clouds. It was on one night in particular when Stella had been swept off her feet that she rang Amy Jo at ten to twelve and said she wouldn’t be home that night. Amy Jo was in her dressing gown and ready for bed and putting the phone down when the door bell rang.

It was Bunny Malloy.

“Hi ya, Amy, is ya mum at home?” said Bunny.

“Nah, she rang and said she wouldn’t be home tonight.”

Bunny looked as if he didn’t know what to do. Amy liked her Uncle Bunny, as she called him, though he wasn’t really related.

“Do ya wanna come in for a coffee or a drink?” said Amy. “ I’m all on me own. I don’t like being on me own.”

“Shit,” said Bunny. “Ya mum shouldn’t leave ya here all on ya lonesome.” He walked in and went into the lounge room and sat down.

“Do ya wanna beer, Uncle Bunny?” asked Amy Jo.

Bunny knew the answer to that one. “Yeah, okay Princess.”

Amy went and got a cold can and Bunny opened it and skolled it down. “Ya want another one?” said Amy.

“Yeah, one more,” said Bunny. You couldn’t fool him with these trick questions.

With half the second can under his belt, Bunny relaxed.

“Ah, that’s better. Well, young Amy. What’s going on?”

“Oh, you know, Uncle Bunny. Not much.”

“And how’s ya mother?” said Bunny. “Still working hard?”

“Yeah,” spat Amy. “Working hard on her back.”

Bunny pretended to be shocked. “Oh, Amy, that’s not a nice thing to say about ya poor old mother.”

Amy was sitting at the other end of the couch with her legs tucked up and her knees under her chin with her dressing gown covering her legs. Bunny was nearly old enough to be the girl’s grandfather and he had to admit that she was developing a rough manner of speech as well as a suggestive manner in the way she moved. He was wondering what they taught her at the posh private school.

Amy Jo continued. “Mum’s a moll, Uncle Bunny. Everyone knows it, so why kid ourselves?”

Bunny looked the young girl in the eyes. Her pupils were pinned. Bunny knew enough about heroin to know the kid was using it, so he thought he would put it to the test.

“Hang on will ya darlin’, we got something in the car I want to get.”

Bunny was back in a flash and sat down again. Amy was up on her feet and fiddling with the CD player. Then k.d. lang came on singing “What’s New Pussycat” and Amy Jo started dancing about.

“I love k.d. lang,” said Amy.

Bunny laughed. “And from all reports, young Amy, I reckon k.d. lang would love you as well. Plate licker and a vegetarian as well,” said Bunny, who fancied himself as a bit of a humorist.

“But a top singer, hey?” said Amy.

“Yeah,” said Bunny, “sounds a bit like Patsy Cline.”

“Who’s she?” said Amy.

“Before your time, kid.”

With that Bunny pulled out a full ounce bag of heroin and tossed it on the coffee table.

“Wanna taste, Princess?”

Amy Jo stopped dancing about and looked at the plastic bag. She didn’t know what to say.

“C’mon, kid, I know you use.”

Amy Jo choked a bit. “Don’t tell mum or Uncle Preston.”

Bunny Malloy smiled. “Nah, Princess. It’s between us. Keep it, you can keep it all.”

Amy Jo was amazed. “Uncle Bunny do you know how much this is worth?”

Bunny nodded. “Yeah, Amy, I think I’ve got a fair idea.”

Amy Jo left the room and took the bag into the kitchen to have a taste. As she was doing this Bunny began to chatter away.

“Keep an eye on ya mum for me, will ya darlin.”

“What do ya mean?” called Amy.

“Ahh, you know. Strange phone calls, strange people, cars, visits, anything not quite right. We have a rat in the camp and we reckon they could be trying to use people close to us, so just keep an eye on ya mum and don’t let her know.”

Amy came out of the kitchen and gave him a big hug.

“ I’ll keep an eye out, Uncle Bunny. No problem. Anything funny or anyone funny and I’ll let ya know.”

“Good girl,” he said. “Anyway, darlin’, I’m going.”

“Ohh do you have to, Uncle Bunny?”

“Yeah darlin’, see you later.”

Bunny walked down the driveway. He turned to wave and saw Amy Jo standing in the open doorway with her dressing gown undone down the centre. She was too out of it to notice. She was naked underneath and as she waved one big, bouncy 15-year-old schoolgirl boob waved at him. God, he thought, what a dead set little case young Amy has turned out to be.

I’M an old cowhand from the Rio Grande and I learned to ride ‘fore I learned to stand,
I’m a riding fool who is up to date, I know every trail in the Lone Star state coz I ride the range in a Ford V8
.

Yippy I Oh, I’m an old cowboy
…

Graeme Westlock was singing to himself as he read
Larry and Stretch
by the famed wild west author, Marshall Grover.

“Hang on, boss,” said Doc Holliday, interrupting the next verse of the endless song. “Here they are.”

Graeme Westlock looked up and, sure enough, Archie Reeves, Billy Burns and Johnny Pepper got out of an old Kingswood and walked into the ANZ Bank in High Street, Thornbury. “Shit,” said Holliday. “Burns has got a bloody Stirling 9 mil. SMG.”

“Well, howdy doody Joffa boy,” said Westlock and reached under the front seat of the police car and pulled out a long barrelled revolver.

“What the hell’s that?” said Doc Holliday.

“This,” said Westlock as they got out of the car, “is a Buntline Special .22 cal. single action with an 18-inch barrel. It fires a 22 cal. magnum hollow point bullet as used by the great Marshall Wyatt Earp himself except that he never had the benefit of magnum ammo and a new improved handgun. Never underestimate the punching power of a small bore handgun with a heavy load. Okay, boys, let’s hit the trail,” he ordered. With that the three other unmarked police cars parked behind Westlock’s spewed out plain clothes members of the famed and feared armed robbery squad. Charlie Ford, Pete Younger, Henry McCarty, Paul Clanton (nick named Ike), Ray Dolton (nicknamed Bob), and Detective Chief Inspector Clay Allison, who replaced the late John W. Hardin, Ben Masterson and young Frank James. All men armed with .38 calibre police specials except for Doc Holliday, who carried his trusty pump action shotgun, and Graeme Westlock, who held his police issue .38 in his left hand and the long-barrelled Buntline special in his right. The ten policemen walked into the middle of High Street and stood in a line and held up lunch time traffic

“Here they come, boys,” said Westlock.

The doors of the bank burst open and out ran Reeves, Burns and Pepper. It took Burns a moment to notice the line of men in suits all carrying guns and as he raised his Stirling 30 shot machine gun he yelled “Jacks!” But before he could pull the trigger Graeme Westlock fired, and a magnum slug hit him in the eye.

“Fire!” yelled Westlock to the rest of the coppers.

Archie Reeves got off a single shot and hit Clay Allison in the hip, but a single round from the pump action tore Archie’s heart out. The nine police still standing all fired at will. Johnny Pepper fell without even firing his .38 handgun. The shooting continued until Doc Holliday ran out of shotgun shells and pulled out his service revolver.

“Halt!” said Westlock, but Doc put two shots into the corpse of Billy Burns. “I said stop!” yelled Westlock.

Reeves, Burns and Pepper lay dead, their bodies blown to bits. Beside Pepper lay a gladstone bag with $95,000 in it.

Westlock stood, reloading his guns. “Secure the crime scene, Charlie. Get the mop and bucket boys, Frank.”

Oh I’m an old cow hand from the Rio Grande and I come to town just to hear the band

And I know all the songs that the cowboys know, ’bout the big corral where the dogies go, coz I learned them all on the radio
.

Yippy I oh, I’m an old cowboy ha ha ha
.

Pete Younger turned to the wounded but now standing Clay Allison and whispered, “I reckon the boss is going a bit dippy, Mr Allison.”

Allison said, “I’ve been drinking a bottle of scotch a day ever since I joined the armed robbers. All Westlock does is sing silly songs. I’d take his dippy over my dippy any day of the week. Now get me to bloody hospital.”

“Yes sir,” said Younger.

PRESTON Phillips sat in the lounge room of Stella Phillips’s house in Wellington Street. Young Amy Jo had her shoes off and her tunic hiked up her thighs. She was wearing a black pair of high cut knickers and Preston Phillips was sitting on the couch talking to her pretending not to notice her tanned thighs.

Amy Jo took her school blazer off, undid her tie and loosened her shirt and relaxed herself even more, lifting her knees up and opening and closing them and sliding down the bean bag, which made her knickers cut up tight between her legs and arse. Preston Phillips was now looking at more than just a flash of knickers.

Amy Jo giggled. “Ha ha, naughty boy, Uncle Pres,” but she only opened her knees wider and did nothing to cover herself. Preston felt himself flush with a mixture of embarrassment and shame and lust. This wanton display was having an effect on him and he began to feel quite hot and bothered, but Amy Jo kept looking at him as she lay there, opening and closing her knees. She knew exactly what she was doing.