Chopper Unchopped (155 page)

The police, meaning Wild Bill Holliday, Kevin Kelly and Billy the Kid Westlock had seized control of a quarter of the Kitten Club’s weekly take, and claimed grazing rights at the club on Sunday nights, which meant Betty would provide girls, grog and gambling for police on the day of rest. The Sunday night turn became a police private club.

With Kalan Reeves gone and Johnny vanished in the war, Regan Reeves, Busy O’Brien, Padraic O’Shaughnessy and Eoin Featherstone got lazy and were happy to sit and accept regular slings, but they had no real involvement any more. They had become family men and didn’t want to live dangerously.

Meanwhile, young Betty Brown and Hector Van Gogh senior took control of Collingwood vice, sly grog, and illegal gambling. Harold, Herbert and Milton Van Gogh had joined the army, never to be seen again. The Japanese had their own gang. Collingwood was changing. It belonged to the young and the vicious, and the era of the gentleman gunman was finished. Evil and cunning had become the new code of conduct and Betty Brown, with the aid of her own insane family, Hector Van Gogh and her ruthless police friends, became the real power in spite of the fact that she still pretended to pay homage to Regan Reeves and the old established order.

Betty had become a tactical chess player in underworld matters. When it came to variations on the strategy of the knife in the back and the perfumed smile, Betty wrote the book.

“YOU want to lay down on the footpath now, son. It will save ya the trouble of falling.”

The young tough from Richmond stood stock still with panic as Hector Van Gogh menaced him with a meat cleaver.

“I don’t want no bother mister,” said Ronny Wells. “I just want me money. That slut Brown lashed on a three hundred quid bet. It’s not fair, she reckons her shit don’t stink.”

By this stage Betty Brown was standing in the doorway of the Kitten Club.

“Is there a problem, Hecky?” said Betty.

“Nah,” said Hector. “He reckons ya owe him three hundred quid.”

Betty laughed. “I do, but he’s got Buckley’s of seeing a zack of that lot. See him on his way, Hecky.”

It was too much for young Wells to handle. He made the mistake of giving in to the first impulse that came into his head. “Ya low life moll, Brown!” he yelled.

The meat cleaver sliced into his cheek bone like butter, and Ronny Wells fell to the footpath with blood pouring out of a six-inch gash. Then Hector put the boot in.

Wild Bill Holliday came out to see the commotion.

“Arrest that ruffian,” said Betty. “He is creating a disturbance.”

“Right,” said Wild Bill. “I’m here to uphold the law and keep the peace and, by God, I’ll kick any man to death who tries to interfere with me in the course of my duty.”

“Ha ha,” Betty laughed.

Hector came back inside while Holliday kicked the young man down the street, bleeding like a stuck pig.

Les Pepper’s wife was sitting in the kitchen. She had come to complain that Les was mistreating her and drinking all the money. She wanted to borrow another ten pounds.

“That’s sixty quid you owe me,” said Betty.

Sally Pepper was another one of the cheap Collingwood trollops who copied the film stars. Her go was to try looking like a cross between Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich. Sally had been a Brown before she married Les Pepper, which was why her constant requests for help came Betty’s way. Sally was a spoilt 26-year-old, the only girl in an all male family of eleven. While she was a raving slut, she was also a spoilt slut and spent money like water.

“Les is good to you, isn’t he?” asked Betty.

Sally screwed up her face.

“He’s out all the time, up the pub, or at the races or the footy. He never takes me no place so I have to go out and find my own good time, then he reckons I’m a moll and belts me,” she moaned. “We never have no proper money.”

Betty took a ten pound note out of the bread box, which was a good place to keep bread, when you think about it. “Ya can put in a few hours here of a night, if ya like Sal,” she said.

Sally sneered, “I’m no bloody cracker.” She was the second person that night to put a hole in her manners.

Betty looked at Hector and nodded. Hector grabbed Sally’s hair, pulled her to her feet and waited for orders. Betty said quietly, “Give her a little touch up, Hecky.”

Hector did. He gave Sally a light slapping, not enough to draw blood and cause damage but enough to hurt her and cause her pain and panic.

When Sally was on the floor, in tears, Betty bent forward and hissed at her. “What? You’re no bloody cracker and I am, but ya don’t mind my bloody money do ya, you stuck up slag? Stick her in the play room, Hector. She’s gonna earn her ten quid and pay off the rest she owes me.”

Hector took Sally to a bedroom with no window and locked the door. Eight hours later, after four men an hour, a shattered and shell-shocked Sally sat shivering at the foot of the bed. Betty handed her a full seven-ounce glass of rum. Sally drank it to steady her nerves.

“There’s a hot tub of water and a bar of soap in the washroom,” Betty sneered. “I’d let you use the bathroom but whores like you don’t deserve it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sally, in tears.

“Sorry,” said Betty. “Don’t be sorry yet. Ya haven’t pulled the night shift yet.”

Sally looked up in wide-eyed horror, and Betty smiled.

“Only kidding. Get washed, get dressed and here’s ya ten quid and if ya want more ya gonna be working for it on ya back like any other honest woman, and not scrounging and bludging it off them that do. Ya got it straight now?”

Sally nodded and took the ten pound. As Sally walked out Betty looked at Hector.

“During the bloody depression I’d eat shit and root a dead dog for tuppence,” she said. “She’s older than me and went through the depression being milk fed and spoiled shitless and looks down her nose at crackers, but she has the hide to borrow our money. Bloody cheek, if ya ask me.”

“Too right,” said Hector. He was agreeable like that. The nicest homicidal maniac you could meet, providing you hadn’t done anything to upset his Betty.

As Betty got up to walk out a “yoo hoo” came from the footpath. It was Johnny Reeves’s widow pushing a pram. Betty put on her polite face.

“Oh,” she said as she opened the flyscreen door. “Mrs Reeves and little baby Roy. Hello Roy,” she cooed as she walked out onto the footpath. Just then Wild Bill Holliday came along the street toward them. He, too, adopted a polite approach. He tipped his hat and said “G’day Mrs Reeves. Nice afternoon.”

Even Hector Van Gogh tidied himself up and put on a smile.

“I’m taking Roy to the shops,” said Mrs Reeves. “Do you think you could slip me the milk money a day early?”

“Certainly,” said Betty and nodded to Hector, who ran inside and grabbed the Reeves’s pay-off envelope, containing seventy five quid. Betty took it from him and handed it to Mrs. Reeves. “Oh thank you, Betty,” she said, as if she’d just been given a pot of marmalade by a favorite aunt, instead of a massive sling from a brothel run by the biggest villains in town. With that she waved them all goodbye and toddled off down Cromwell Street. Betty looked after her as she walked away.

“We could kill her for ya,” said Wild Bill, on a spur of the moment. Hector Van Gogh’s eyes glared death at Holliday.

“Nah,” said Betty. “Johnny built all of this. Him and Squizzy. Every country has its royal family, but in Collingwood their name is Reeves, isn’t that right, Hector?”

“Too right,” said Hector. “It’s only fair we pay our tax. I reckon that little Roy will grow up to be a good’un. Chip off the old block, hey Betty?”

“I reckon so,” said Betty.

With that the woman turned and went inside singing her favourite song …
Beautiful Dreamer, out on the sea, mermaids are chanting the wild loralie
.

CROMWELL Street, Collingwood, 1997. Penny McMahon sat in the private lounge office area of Amy Jo’s brothel. She couldn’t stop talking.

“My goodness, Amy, it was totally enormous,” she said breathlessly. “I mean to say, adventure unlimited, murder most foul on the Queens Highway and then to be gallantly rescued by a no-eared gentleman carrying a shot gun.”

Hector The Cannibal Van Gogh smiled like a cat with a fair chance of robbing the cream jug. Penny beamed back, and rattled on.

“I found the whole episode highly and delightfully exhilarating. It was just totally, totally marvellous,” she gushed.

Amy Jo was dumbfounded.

“So getting shafted while a bloke gets his brains blown out is okay by you hey, Penny?”

Miss McMahon blushed. “Amy, really. Mr Twane was hardly a gentleman. He was altogether a monstrous fellow and I’m only glad I could play some small role in his demise.”

“You talk posh,” said Hector admiringly, still smiling. He quite liked this cold blooded school teacher with the la de dah voice and the big knockers.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Hector, my dear. Thank you.”

After the shooting Hector had taken the blood-drenched woman back to his place in Islington Street and told his mum she had been in a car accident. Penny had taken a hot bath and changed into one of Hector’s tee shirts and a pair of his mum’s old slippers and jeans and then made her way home.

As she was about to leave, however, she had popped her head into Hector’s bedroom and happened to see the young man with his shirt off. She could hardly avoid seeing the savage teeth marks and finger nail marks all over his back, shoulders and chest. Penny McMahon was an astute observer of the human condition and she twigged straight away that Hector was either a masochist or had tangled with a chainsaw. She realised that this was the sexual and emotional hold Amy Jo held over the boy. Penny was a late starter but, like a female Darth Vader, she had tasted the dark side and loved it. When Hector noticed her staring at him in his bedroom he tried to cover up, but Penny said the magic words.

“No Hector, don’t cover up. I think you look totally amazing. I don’t know who did that, but I’m quite sure I could do much better.” That little speech left Hector in a highly excited state.

Amy Jo had noticed that since Hector and Penny had returned from the Geoff Twane killing they seemed highly friendly with each other.

Oh well, she thought, killing someone together would form a bond, a bit like being blood brothers, only with someone else’s blood. She decided not to get jealous. Hector was allowed to have friends and Penny was Amy Jo’s friend as well, and a top lady to have around, it seemed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school today?” asked Amy Jo.

“St Guztovs can do without me, I think. If it’s all right with you I’d like to work full time.”

“Okay,” said Amy. “But I’ll have to take a 25 per cent cut.”

“Perfectly correct,” said Penny.

Miss McMahon had already built up quite a loyal and regular clientele and, if she was honest about it, Amy would have to admit she was glad to have her in the crew full time.

“Well,” said Amy, “I’m glad. From now on you’re on the team.”

Penny was delighted. So was Hector. He celebrated by getting up and laying out two large lines of speed cocaine on the bar.

“Oh goodie,” said Penny. “I quite like this stuff.”

“We can see that,” said Amy drily. Jody put her head around the door and called out, “You gotta come and see this, Amy.”

Amy Jo walked out into the waiting area to find a middleaged gentleman with a video camera under his arm and a German Shepherd dog on a chain. The dog was a massive brute, the size of a Shetland pony.

“What the hell is this?” asked Amy with a comic smile.

“I was wondering if I could hire a girl to make a video,” said the man. “I’ll pay $500,” he added helpfully.

Penny McMahon walked out into the lounge area.

“Oh, a doggie,” she squealed like a schoolgirl.

“How very obscene. He wants to do a dirty video,” said Amy.

The girls gathered round.

“Not me,” said Jody, and the other beach beauties all nodded in agreement. Dogs were off the menu for them.

“Well, not me either,” said Amy Jo.

“Oh well,” said Penny, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock torment, “I suppose it falls to me yet again. Shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone.”

“But it will cost you a damn sight more than $500,” Amy said to the bloke with the dog.

“How much?” he asked.

“$1000,” said Amy. With that the gentleman produced a gold American Express Credit Card.

“Yeah,” said Amy, “that will do nicely.”

“Can I watch?” said Hector, practically jumping out of his skin with excitement. “It’s all right with me, if it’s all right with you, mister.”

“My name is Ditchburn,” said the would-be film maker.

“Oh,” said Penny, “not old Mr. Ditchburn’s son? Oh, how delightful.”

Amy shook her head and took the credit card.

“You’ve got an hour, and if Rin Tin Tin shits on the carpet it will cost ya an extra $200.” Amy never let sentiment get between her and a dollar.

SONIA Vonchek had left Preston Phillips at Kelly’s Bar and Grill in the city. Preston was in deep conversation with Earl Teagarden at the time. He had given her the day off while old Earl drove him about and carried the gun.

Sonia headed over to Cromwell Street. She had become obsessed with the name the horse game and wanted to spin Hector’s brain with her latest knowledge. She had been studying up and, furthermore, she liked Hector in spite of the bagging everyone gave him, and she was getting sick of Phillips and his paranoid ways and paranoid mates.

She pulled up in front of the brothel and went in. There was a hell of a racket coming from the Blue Room. It was, in fact, a recently retired private school teacher crying out.

“Yes, oh yes, oh yes. Good boy, oh yes, good boy, oh yes!” floated out from behind the door, followed by thunderous applause. Then more of the same, and the the sound of a dog barking. “Go Rinnie!” someone yelled.

Sonia headed for the private lounge and found Amy Jo sitting with Jody the beach girl bimbo.

“What the hell’s going on?” she asked.

“Penny’s making a wild life video,” said Amy Jo, deadpan.

“Yeah,” said Jody, “with a German Shepherd the size of a pony. She’s a bloody degenerate.”

“Ha ha,” laughed Amy, then looked at her unexpected visitor. “So what do you want, Sonia?”

“Oh,” said Sonia, still shocked at the shenanigans in the Blue Room, “I’ve got some guess-the-horse questions to toss at Hector.”

“Oh beauty,” said Amy. “I love guess-the-horse.”

Jody was puzzled. After the dog caper, she must have wondered when Mr Ed was going to make an appearance. The possibilities boggled her tiny grubby mind.

“Ha ha,” laughed Amy. “Sit and listen, you’ll love it.”

About twenty minutes later Penny and Hector joined Amy, Jody and Sonia in the lounge.

“Well,” said Amy, “how was it?”

“Oh,” said Penny airily, “nothing to it, really. Like being screwed by a friendly fur coat. Young Mr Ditchburn wants to make it a regular thing.”

“I’ve heard of puppy-love but this is ridiculous. You must have every sick monkey in town on your client list by now,” said Amy.

“I can but try,” said Penny with a coy smile.

“I’ve never seen nothing like that,” said Hector. “Ditchburn is gonna give us a copy of the video.”

“Oh well,” said Amy, “that will be must viewing. Anyway, Sonia’s got some horse questions.”

Hector turned suddenly serious. Animal porn was light entertainment. But animal quiz was deadly serious. “Okay, go on,” he murmured.

Sonia began, “Alexander the Great.”

Hector thought “I think the name of his horse was pronounced Besefalass.” It wasn’t a bad try for a no-eared lunatic from Collingwood whose idea of ancient Greek was the old geezer in the fruit shop in Smith Street.

Sonia looked impressed.

“Ha ha,” laughed Amy.

“Can I play?” asked Penny.

“Go on,” said Hector.

“What was Mr Ed’s real name?”

“Too easy,” said Hector. “Mr Ed’s name was Mr Ed.”

Sonia continued, in best quiz show style. “Priscilla Presley, Elvis Presley’s wife, rode a horse called what?”

Hector smiled again. “Ya won’t get me on Elvis again. I’ve done some checking. Priscilla Presley rode a horse named Domino.”

“Shit,” said Amy, and Penny clapped her hands with delight.

“Okay,” said Sonia, “last one.”

“Hang on,” said Hector, “if I get this one what do I get?”

Sonia looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

Amy spoke up. “People generally lose money or get shot over this game in Collingwood. If you lose and Hector gets this next question you’ll owe him something.”

“What?” said Sonia.

Hector thought. “It’s Benny Marshalarta’s birthday party tomorrow night. You lose, then you strip at his party. Don’t worry, I’ll be there and so will Amy and Penny. It will be a strip dance and nothing more.”

Sonia thought about it. She was taking a chance but she had guts.

“Yeah, why not? And what if I win?” she said.

“Then I’ll do a striptease at Benny’s party,” said Hector, quick as a flash.

“Okay,” said Sonia. “Here it is, remember The Phantom – Mr Walker, the ghost who walks – what was the name of his horse?”

“God,” said Penny. “Even I know that.”

Hector looked at Sonia. “They don’t breed ’em too bright up in New South Wales, do they? That is so easy, it’s laughable.”

“Well,” said Sonia. “Answer it then, if it’s so easy.”

“Hero,” said Hector. “The Phantom rode a horse named Hero.”

Sonia hung her head for a moment, then looked up. “How many people at this bloody birthday party?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hector. “How many can they fit into the Collingwood Town Hall?”

PRESTON Phillips sat at the table with Fatty La Rocque and Sonia Vonchek. They were having lunch and drinks at Kinsella’s Bar and Grill in Collingwood. Preston had a look on his face that said he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, sort of half way between anger and mirth.

“So let’s get this clear, now, Fatty,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “You sold 900 Omega wrist watches for $1000 and a free root?”

Fatty looked shamefaced. “Well, 100 bucks each and a $100 extra and a free go wasn’t bad.”

“How do you come at that?” asked Preston, amazed.

“Well,” said Fatty “nine times 100 is $900 and she gave me a grand, plus I got a go at that Penny the goggle-eyed school teacher. She’d head job an elephant to death.”

Preston looked at Fatty. “Nine times 100 is 900, but 900 times 100 … well, Fatty, I don’t know without a pocket calculator, but you can take it from me Amy Jo ripped you off.”

Fatty laughed. “So what. A crate load of wrist watches, who cares?”

Preston looked exasperated. Sonia’s mobile phone rang and she answered it.

“Yeah,” she said, and went silent. Then she got up and said, “Do ya mind if I piss off for ten minutes? I’ve got to take care of something.”

“Okay,” said Preston. “Everything all right?”

Sonia tried not to panic or look nervous. “Yeah, Pres, she’s sweet. I’ve got a personal matter to deal with.” And with that she walked out.

“Christ,” said Fatty. “She’s got an arse on her. Did ya see her at Benny’s party the other night?”

Preston smiled and nodded.

“Shit,” said Fatty, “she’s built like a brick shit house.” Which was pretty rich coming from a bloke built like the old North Melbourne gasometer, but smelled worse. Meanwhile, Graeme Westlock, Doc Holliday and Charlie Ford sat in a police car outside the restaurant. Westlock was reading a pulp Wild West paperback he’d picked up for two bucks somewhere.

“Here lies Kindrick Pate, six slugs in the skull with a .38. Ha ha. And next to him lies Ringo Shaw, two shots in the guts with a .44. Ha ha,” laughed Westlock. It was the sort of poetry that appealed to him. No-one had ever accused him of being Professor Harry Heseltine, the literary giant. But he knew what he liked, the old Westy.

“What are ya reading, boss?” asked Holliday.

“
Tales of Tombstone
,” said Westlock, “by Silvester John, a true genius and a very attractive man.”

“Can I read it when ya done?” said Holliday. With that Westlock tossed him the book.

“Silvester John?” said Holliday. “Didn’t he write
Hell Cat Hotel
?”

“Yeah,” said Westlock. “And
Texas Shanghi
and
Tear Drops in Boot Hill
, and
Laredo Lynching
. Hell, he’s one of the greatest wild west writers of all time.”

“There she goes,” said Holliday, as he pointed to Sonia Vonchek walking out of the restaurant.

“Shit,” said Charlie Ford, “She’s got a body on her. Them bloody jeans look like they are painted on.”

Westlock smiled. “Yeah, she is a cheeky little dickins. Anyway, Doc, I believe this is our cue.”

“Yeah,” said Doc. “Don’t shoot till we see the whites of their eyes, hey Graeme, ha ha.”

“Only if they slap leather first, Doc. After all, we’re the good guys, aren’t we? The ones in the white hats who get the gals. Let’s go, Charlie.”

The three policemen got out of the car and walked across the street.

Doc started singing to himself. “Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me.”

INSIDE, with Sonia absent, the conversation was really warming up. “I’m tellin’ ya Preston, there must have been seven hundred people at Benny’s party and she went totally wild,” Fatty was saying.

“I was there,” said Preston. “I saw it, don’t worry. I’ve never seen any chick open her legs so wide. She did the splits. Bloody pity she wasn’t on the menu for that. It was a wild strip show, but strictly no touching.”

“I don’t know,” said Preston. “I reckon Benny got his end in.”

“Ya reckon, do ya Pres” said Fatty. “Shifty bastard, that Benny. He’s too bloody good lookin’ to be trusted.”

Preston laughed at this last remark. Then he stopped laughing, because he’d seen what was coming through the door, and he didn’t like it one bit.