Chopper Unchopped (150 page)

“She’s not a lady,” said Neville. “I like her myself, but let’s face it, Fitzy. She’s a moll.”

Fitzpatrick’s fist crashed into Neville’s mouth and his top lip and top teeth exploded into a small shower of red mush and Neville fell to the floor out like a light. Normie was amazed. He looked at his fallen brother, then at Fitzpatrick. Then he found his voice.

“You hit my brother. No-one hits my brother,” he said. He was livid, and was looking at Amy Jo. “You’re a trouble maker. This is your fault,” he spat.

“No, it’s not,” said Fitzpatrick. “Amy Jo is my friend and I won’t have her ill-treated or ill-spoken of and she isn’t about to be double bunged by a pair of loudmouth drunken ratbags like you pair.”

Normie was flustered. He thought of pulling his gun out, but Fitzpatrick had a bad look in his eye.

Gene Fitzpatrick smiled. “I know, I know. It’s like a black gin’s left leg, isn’t it, kid. It ain’t right, and it ain’t fair. But there ya have it. Now pick ya retard brother up and piss off. See me another time, when ya sober.”

Normie picked Neville up and helped him down the hallway and out the door. Tessa Kinsella was watching the whole thing in total shocked amazement. “Mr Fitzpatrick,” said Tessa. “It’s none of my business, but if you’ve got a mother ya better move her to safer ground.”

Gene Fitzgerald smiled a bleak smile. “The UDR shot my old mother 20 years ago. That’s why we came to this country.”

“Oh,” said Tessa. “I’m sorry.”

“Darlin’,” said Fitzpatrick. “The Mother’s Day trick was invented in Belfast, not Collingwood. Just let young Neville and Normie sleep it off. I’ll see Preston about it. It will be all right.”

Tessa nodded. But she was thinking to herself, this good-looking Irish bastard is kidding himself. Hoddle Street and the Shankill Road have got a lot in common. If he thinks he can knock Neville Reeves out and get away with it he is mentally unstable.

GRAEME Westlock took off his right R.M. Williams patrolman dress work boot, shook it, then put it back on. He was sitting in an interview room in the Armed Robbery squad offices.

“Now listen here, Abdul my darling, you’re a guest in our fair land, you heroin dealing dog. And unless you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be back to bloody Turkey,” he said with the sort of polished menace that comes only with long practice.

There was a knock at the door, followed by Charlie Ford coming in with a cup of hot coffee.

“Ahh, wonderful,” said Westlock, and took it.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, wog?”

Abdul Nazzar nodded.

“Ha, ha” said Westlock. “Try making one with a broken arm, ya rat.” As he spoke he lashed out and sent Abdul flying with a vicious back hander. As Abdul picked himself up and sat back down Pete Younger came in with a BCI file and pointed something out to Westlock.

“Ahh,” said Westlock. “How do ya spell ya name, wog?”

Abdul had trouble talking through his busted jaw.

“A-B-D-U-L N-A-Z-Z-A-R.”

“Ahh I see,” said Westlock “N-A-S-S-A-R”.

Abdul shook his head.

“Do ya know an Abdul Nassar?” demanded Westlock.

Abdul shook his head. Westlock got up and walked out.

“Oh Doc, can I see you please?”

Doc Holliday walked over. “Yeah, boss?” said Holliday.

“Yes,” said Westlock as he put his arm around his old friend’s shoulder.

“Now listen, Doc. I’ve pinched the wrong bloke here.”

Doc looked panicked.

“No, no,” said Westlock. “No problem really, but I think I’ve broken his jaw. Now Doc, I want this wog out of the building and back in Brunswick in at least six pubs and roaring bloody drunk when he gets home and I also want him totally convinced that he was arrested by the drug squad and not the armed robbers. Do ya think ya can handle that?”

Doc smiled. “Leave it to me, boss.”

“Hey, Benny,” Doc called to Masterson. “Get a car.”

“C’mon,” said Doc to Abdul as he walked into the interview room. “We’re off for a drive, sunshine.”

“Okay,” said Westlock. “Frank, Roy, Paul, Charlie. Damage control. Get over to Collingwood and arrest Kristy Toy, Ann Griffin and old Ferdie Taylor. According to Doc, Taylor has a pound of pure smack and three kilos of meth amphetamines in his tool shed and Toy and Griffin have a 100 grands worth of morphine pills in their parlour.”

“That’s drug squad work, isn’t it boss?” said Charlie Ford.

Westlock nodded. “Yes it is, Charlie, but the Collingwood Crew belongs to us, plus I reckon in about 48 hours the drug squad will have other matters to cope with.”

Charlie Ford looked puzzled.

“Don’t think about it Chaz. Just get it done.”

“Okay, boss,” said Charlie Ford.

THE arrest of Ferdie Taylor, Kristy Toy and Anne Griffin on drug charges by the Armed Robbery Squad rocked Collingwood. The Collingwood crew’s old guard was beginning to vanish. From older members to younger hard heads, if any more went the heart and guts of the whole crew would be gone. Preston Phillips, backed by Bunny Malloy and Pat O’Shaughnessy, now controlled the shrinking Collingwood crew. But the Viets and dagos and Albanians, Rumanians, Yugoslavs, Calabrians, Sicilians and Chinese were all running riot with scant regard for the once all-powerful gang.

However, the old crew had one remaining winning card – more fire power than the average small country in the form of a massive stockpile of weapons that no other gang in Melbourne could get near. With Preston Phillips’s Irish and Neo-Nazi contacts there was a steady flow of firearms stockpiled in the basement of the late Stella Phillips’s home in Wellington Street.

You name it, and they had it. The boys like round numbers. There were 100 Sterling 9 mil. sub-machine guns, and the same number of 7.62 mil. SKS semi-automatics. Then there was the 100 AR15 semi-automatics, 100 mini-Rugers, 100 M16s, 100 Owen guns, six Vickers machine guns, two 84 mil. Carl Guztov anti-tank guns, seven M79 Grenade launchers, 1000 M26 hand grenades, 100 AK47 assault rifles, 12 M14 land mines, 12 M16 land mines, 1000 assorted shot guns, 500 assorted hunting rifles and 2000 assorted handguns with $50,000 being spent on more. The back shed at Muriel Hill’s place in Lennox Street, Richmond was chockers with enough guns to invade New Guinea.

Ripper Roy Reeves, Micky Van Gogh, Raychell Van Gogh, Karen Phillips and Kid McCall had bred the siege mentality into Collingwood, and this was the result.

“Who have we got left we can count on in a shit fight?” asked Preston Phillips.

Bunny Malloy had a pen and paper on the bar of the Leinster Arms Hotel.

“Well, let’s see,” said Bunny. “You, me, Geoff Twane, Pat O’Shaughnessy, Sean Maloney, Sonny Carroll, Greg Featherstone, Neville and Normie Reeves. There’s cousins, uncles, aunties, brothers and sisters. Ten to the dozen all over Collingwood from Clifton Hill to Abbotsford, but most of ’em are non-combatants.”

“What about young Hector Van Gogh?” asked Preston.

“Ha ha” laughed Bunny. “Hector The Cannibal, he’s a 17-year-old kid.”

“Yeah, well” said Preston. “Neville and Normie are only kids.”

Bunny shook his head. “Hector is a nut case. He can’t read or write, he can’t drive a car, and he sits in the front room of his mum’s place in Islington Street and watches old silent movies on video all day long. All that vampire Bela Lugosi bullshit. He’s a bloody nut and I gotta be honest with ya, Pres, he gives me the creeps.”

Preston Phillips looked blankly into space.

“Bunny, the kid cut both his ears off with a razor blade and ate them when he was 15 years old. Now think about it. Ear tartare, could you imagine the cholesterol? I reckon this is a bloke we should get on side. Put it this way, it’s got to be better than having the mad bastard off side.”

Bunny shrugged. “You’re the boss Pres, but I still don’t like it, okay.”

Preston Phillips’s efforts to court Gene Fitzpatrick and the crew from South Melbourne had paid off. Three mysterious Irishmen were now living in Stella Phillips’s old place in Wellington Street. The Collingwood crew needed serious man power if it hoped to ward off the Mekong Mafia and the encroaching Vietnamese and Greeks and assorted dagos with designs on the drug trade in the streets. Preston’s contacts in the Asian area seemed more keen on takeover than any shared partnership arrangement. At best, “friendship” between the Collingwood crew and the various Asian gangs and ethnic crime gangs was a smiling face arrangement with no real substance, and the police were killing off and arresting the Collingwood crew at a great rate.

Had Stella been the only dog? Was she really the spy? The question worried Preston. He was ill at ease. Collingwood needed to be led by a real head case and a tactical master. Preston was a top soldier but he knew he wasn’t a natural born gang leader. Little Cisco could have taken over but Westlock and Holliday had blown him away in Con the Greek’s barber shop. God, thought Preston, the whole thing is falling apart.

AMY Jo was sitting in the brothel in Cromwell Street. As usual, she was wearing full school uniform except for the stiletto high heels and the black elastic top stockings. Tessa answered the door then walked in and whispered to Amy Jo, “It’s that nut again, asking for ten bucks worth.”

Amy smiled. “Hector ‘The Cannibal’ Van Gogh,” she said. The weirdo who was on the dole and once a week would knock on the door and ask for ten bucks worth. Every week he’d been told to piss off, until the day Amy Jo answered the door and felt sorry for the semi-mental bloke with no ears. He’d been a regular ever since. He might have been mad, but he knew when he was onto a good thing, which is the way things go with blokes with no ears.

Amy also was a student of Collingwoods’s history and the bloke with no ears was related to a family of kooks that you always wanted on your side. He was the grandson of Hector Van Gogh, a monster in the 1930s, the son of Ringo Van Gogh, the nut, who got put away in J Ward at Ararat Mental Hospital for plotting to kill Prince Charles during his visit in 1983. Ringo said the prince’s ears drove him mental.

Amy Jo got up and called out, “C’mon in, Hector.”

Tessa whispered again, “Ya shouldn’t encourage him, Amy. He gives me the creeps.”

Amy ignored her. “Come on, Hector,” she said softly again, and the strange, smiling and clearly insane youth entered the room.

“I’ve got me ten bucks,” he said shyly, handing Amy Jo five two-dollar coins as if he was buying a bag of mixed lollies. Amy made a big point of counting it out.

“That’s right, Hecky. Ten bucks. C’mon mate, let’s go,” she said, and took Hector into one of the bedrooms.

“Same as always, Hecky?”

“Yes please, Amy,” said Hector.

Amy took off her school blazer and skirt and stood there in stilettos, elastic top stockings, black high cut knickers, white shirt and blue tie and school hat. Hector took his clothes off. He had savage, evil-looking teeth marks and fingernail scratches all over his back and chest.

“Now lie down, Hecky,” said Amy Jo.

Hector lay down obediently. Amy Jo removed her knickers and sat across his tummy, then bent her head down and bit hard into the lad’s shoulder. She put all her strength into it until she could taste blood. She felt him swell and stiffen up but not to full size so she lifted her head up and allowed Hector to kiss the blood from her mouth and tongue. This time she went for the other shoulder, and dug her teeth in hard and bit down and chewed until she tasted blood all over again. It was lucky she wasn’t a vegetarian. In more ways than one, because by this time Hector had really hit full length.

Amy Jo lifted her hips up and reached her right hand around and took hold of the swollen length and proceeded to gently aim it in the right direction. This time she bit into his chest and dug in so deep that Hector made a slight murmur and as she did this she slid herself onto Hector’s dick. She bit his chest again as he pushed it home.

She pumped her hips up and down and bit in again. After about 60 seconds he cried out and exploded. Nothing to it, really. Amy Jo jumped up and led Hector into the ensuite shower then joined him and the two soaped each other and washed each other clean, then got out and dried off and dressed.

“Same time next week, Hecky,” said Amy Jo.

Hector nodded, but she could tell something was on his mind except next week’s arrangements. “Preston Phillips wants to see me,” he said hesitantly. “Reckons I can make plenty of money. If I had money, Amy, I’d bring you flowers.”

Amy Jo gave the boy a cuddle. “I don’t need flowers, Hecky,” she whispered.

“Preston Phillips and Bunny and all them reckon I’m mad,” said Hector. “I’m not gonna do nothing for them,” he muttered fiercely. “The only person I’d do anything for is you, Amy. You’re the only one who’s ever been nice to me.”

Amy kissed the boy on the cheek.

“You’re my only friend, Amy,” he said. “If ever I can help you, you only have to ask.”

Amy Jo showed the boy out. She took the five two-dollar coins and wrapped them in a couple of hundred dollar bills and said “Hey, Hector. Here baby, take this. Your friendship is all the money I need.”

“No,” said Hector, but Amy pushed the dough into his hand.

“Now listen, Hecky, you’re my friend and I’ve got plenty of cash so whenever you want to see me you just come round and it won’t cost you a penny. I know you’re only on the dole, so I’ll slip you a few bob each week, okay, and if I ever need someone to help me or protect me I’ll know I can call on my friend Hector.”

The mad boy’s eyes blazed with emotion. Amy Jo had touched something deep inside him.

“You’re my only friend, Amy. I’ll do what you tell me and if you ever need me just ring my mum’s. I’m always home.” Amy stood on her tip toes and whispered in the boy’s ear. “I love the way we do it, Hecky. I love the taste of blood.”

Hector’s eyes flashed and he turned and walked out. Amy Jo watched him.

“You’re a sick puppy, Amy Jo,” said Tessa. “He’s a dangerous mental case. I’ve seen the blood on the bed. He’s a pain freak. You wanna watch him.”

Amy smiled. “I’ll watch him, all right, Tess. And Hecky will watch me. Everyone needs someone special to watch over them, and Hecky’s my little pit bull. Ha ha ha.”