Chopper Unchopped (165 page)

Doc grinned a wide smile and Westlock drove away.

As Holliday turned and walked toward the house he began to sing
I’m an old cow hand from the Rio Grande
. He was as happy as a pig in shit.

AS Doc Holiday prepared himself for bed he pattered about the kitchen making himself his favourite nightcap of milk coffee with a double dash of Irish Whiskey. He was wearing his favourite slippers and his white pure silk pyjamas under a black silk dressing gown, looking every part the gentleman of leisure at bedtime. He poured his hot milk coffee into a large mug and slopped in a dose of whiskey, then necked several swallows from the bottle of Jamiesons. He held the bottle up in front of his eyes and recited an old Irish verse.

“Oh, Paddy Dear, and did ye hear the news that’s going round, the Shamrock is forbid by law to be grown on Irish ground. No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colour can’t be seen, for there’s a cruel law agin the wearing of the Green.” Holliday laughed to himself, put the bottle down and picked up his mug and headed for the bedroom.

He put his mug down next to the bedside lamp and got into bed, adjusted his pillows and blankets to get them just right, then he took a book from his bedside table. It was another wild west classic by Silvester John called
He rode an Appaloosa
, a fictional wild west yarn about his hero, the original Doc Holliday. As Doc settled into his book and Irish coffee he noticed the old grandfather clock in the hallway ticking for a moment. He thought he heard something else, as well. He put the book down, reached over and slid open the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a small sawn-off double barrel shotgun. He pulled both the hammers back, then listened.

The grandfather clock was still ticking but all else in the house seemed silent. Doc shrugged and rested the shotgun beside him on the bed, picked up the book and the Irish coffee.

Bad timing. The bedroom door, which was ajar, swung open and two men in dark blue overalls and full face balaclavas came in. Each had a handgun. Doc looked up just as a shower of slugs hit him in the chest. But the hot lead punching into his ribcage didn’t prevent him from grabbing his old sawn off shottie and pulling the trigger.

Rex Slater copped the blast from one barrel of the 12 gauge full in the face.

Robin Stokes turned and took a step toward the bedroom door but the second barrel caught him in the side of the neck, and his head lolled sideways as he fell. With the two would-be assassins lying dead at the foot of his bed the tough old copper looked down at the nine bullet holes in his chest. He knew he was dying. He reached for the telephone and dialled Westlock’s number but couldn’t hold the phone up to his ear. The handpiece fell to the floor, and Doc began to sing.

“Beautiful Dreamer wake unto me, Starlight and dew drops are waiting for thee.”

Doc was coughing up dark, frothy bubbles of blood as Westlock yelled down the other end of the telephone.

“Hello, Doc is that you?”

Holliday began to sing again.

“Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, lull’d by the moon light have all passed away.”

“OUT in the West Melbourne town of St Albans I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Ha ha.”

Young Detective Constable Frank James laughed to himself as he rearranged the words to an old Marty Robbins song. He was thinking of his fiance and soon-to-be bride, Miss Shelley McBain. He was unable to see the lovely Shelley on the night before the wedding. It was bad luck and she had insisted he not even attempt to call on her. Frank James sat in the armed robbery squad room all alone, pondering, when Charlie Ford walked in.

“Where the hell is everyone?” he snapped.

“Oh,” said Frank James, waking up from his day dreams with a start, “every one of us has been ordered to attend a Gay Awareness course. I was just about to leave.”

Ford paused. “A Gay Awareness Course,” he sneered. “Bloody hell, when you all come back from that, Westlock will be taking the lot of you out for a serious course of left hooks, and I’m not bloody joking. Well, go on,” he bellowed. “Piss off. And with poor Doc still warm in his grave, ya should all be bloody well ashamed of yourselves. Gay course indeed.”

As Frank James scurried out, Charlie Ford stood in the squad rooms alone and looked out the window.

“Well, boss,” said Charlie Ford to himself, thinking of Westlock, “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

Meanwhile, over in St Albans, the lovely Miss McBain, dressed in full flowing white bridal outfit, was face down on a large double bed with her arse in the air.

“Oh Tex, we shouldn’t be doing this,” she whimpered.

Texas Red Peddy just laughed as he drove himself deep into bride to be.

“C’mon Shelley” he said. “One last goodbye ain’t gonna hurt.”

“But not in my wedding dress,” cried Shelley. “I feel like such a slut. And, besides, what if we get it dirty.”

But Tex Peddy ignored the young lady’s protests as he continued to pump away. Out in the loungeroom sat Brian, Laurie, Graeme and Leigh Peddy.

“I wish Tex would hurry up,” complained Brian. “What if her bloody boyfriend lobs. He’s in the armed robbery squad and he won’t be too thrilled at this lot.”

“Relax,” said Graeme. “How many chances do ya get to gang bang a copper’s chick in her wedding dress the day before she gets married.”

“Yeah,” said Laurie. “That Frank James must be a total dickhead. Shelley is the biggest slag in the western suburbs.”

“Love is blind,” giggled Leigh. “Love is blinder than Shelley is after ten rum and cokes.”

Just then Tex walked out.

“Okay Brian, in ya go,” he said.

“How come Brian goes next?” whined Leigh.

“Coz he’s the second oldest,” said Tex.

“But that means I’ll have to go slops, coz I’m the youngest,” whinged Leigh.

“Well don’t, then,” said Tex. “Ya don’t have to root her.”

“No, no, that’s okay” said Leigh. “I’m in.”

“That’s right,” said Graeme. “Every one you miss out on is one you’ll never get again, isn’t that right Brian?”

But, by then, Brian was vanishing through the bedroom door.

“Put some music on, Leigh,” said Tex, and with that young Leigh got up and fiddled about with Shelley’s CD player. As Willie Nelson started singing
Mama don’t let ya babies grow up to be cowboys
, Shelley let out a squeal of pleasure and pain.

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,” yelled Shelley

“Turn it up, Tex,” came the cry from the bedroom. “I love Willie Nelson.”

“Cowboys ain’t easy to love and they’re hard to hold,” sang Willie Nelson.

“Oh yeah” yelled Shelley “ride ’em cowboy.”

“Shit,” said Leigh “she really does like Willie Nelson. Ha ha.” The four men laughed.

“SHELLEY McBain,” growled Westlock. “How on earth did our young Frank get tied up with that cow?”

Charlie Ford shrugged. “The wedding is tomorrow.”

“Why wasn’t I informed or invited?” asked Westlock.

“You were, boss,” said Charlie smoothly. “The invitation’s been on your desk for the past three weeks, but I guess with Doc and all you forgot about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grunted Westlock. “Well, I guess I better attend. Where’s it at?”

“St Martin’s Church, South Yarra, then a small reception at Frank’s place over in Thomas Street, Yarraville.”

“From South Yarra to bloody Yarraville,” sneered Westlock. “Shit, there’s a come down. A South Yarra wedding and a western suburbs reception. Bloomin’ posh, I must say.”

“Yeah, well,” said Charlie. “What can you say, hey boss.”

“Get ya smackers round me knackers when I toast the bride,” laughed Westlock. “This is embarrassing,” said Westlock. “Our young Frank is marrying ‘See-Saw’ Shelley. Doc would have loved this. Now, Charlie, what’s all this flapdoodle about some gay bloody awareness course?”

As the two men chatted away in Westlock’s office a knock came and both men turned to see a young smiling giant in the doorway.

“Jesus,” whispered Westlock. “What is that?”

The young man in the doorway was an easy six feet seven tall and at least 22 stone with a fat smiling face, dancing blue eyes and a crew cut of blond hair.

“Who are you?” asked Westlock.

“Detective Constable Jim Reeves. Present and correct, sir,” said the young man, holding out his transfer papers. “I’m the new replacement.” Westlock and Charlie Ford stared in open mouthed shock. “What did you say your name was, son?” asked Westlock faintly.

“Reeves, sir. Jim Reeves.”

Westlock avoided the obvious question about Collingwood relations, and instead took another approach.

“Like the old American country singing star, hey?” he said.

“What?” asked the young policeman, puzzled.

“Jim Reeves,” said Westlock. “Holy shit, son, you never heard of Jim Reeves?”

“Well I’m the only Jim Reeves I’ve ever heard of,” said the giant.

Westlock and Ford looked at each other, then back at young Reeves.

“You’re a big hombre, I’ll give ya that,” remarked Westlock. “What’s ya speciality, son?”

The young man looked puzzled again.

“What are ya good at?” asked Charlie Ford patiently, like a teacher talking to the slowest kid in the class.

“Oh,” said Reeves, “I’ve got a degree in computer science.”

Westlock shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Computer science, hey son. Well, I can tell you right now, lad, we don’t get a lot of call for computer science here at the armed robbery squad.”

“Can ya fight?” asked Charlie.

The young policeman gave Ford a cheeky smile.

“Well sir, let’s put it this way,” said Jim Reeves, “if I couldn’t beat you I’d commit suicide.”

Westlock laughed and held out his hand.

“Computer science with attitude, that’s what I like. Welcome aboard.”

Young Jim Reeves accepted the outstretched hand of the legendary old copper. A warm wave of relief and pride crept over him. He had made it to the armed robbers. The only squad worth being in, in the only police force worth being in, in the only country worth being in, in the whole wide world.

THE boxer-bull terrier cross dog jumped up and put two heavy paws on Westlock’s stomach.

“Go on,” yelled Westlock. “Piss off, ya evil-looking mutt.”

“It’s okay, mister,” yelled the grubby-faced little boy, “Syndrome don’t bite.”

The big, evil-looking dog jumped up on Westlock again.

“What did you say this dog’s name was, son?” Westlock demanded. “Sydney?”

“Nah,” said the kid. “Syndrome, his name is Syndrome.”

“Fair dinkum,” said Westlock with a smile. He directed his next command to the animal.

“Down Syndrome! Down!” he shouted.

The young boy cracked up laughing, then Westlock realised the black comedy being played at his expense. The dog jumped up again and Westlock repeated the command. “Down Syndrome! Down Syndrome!”

The kid roared laughing.

“You got a strange sense of humour, kid,” said Westlock, shaking his head.

Charlie Ford walked out of the driveway and joined Westlock and the large dog and small boy on the footpath in front of Frank James’s house in Thomas Street, Yarraville.

“Ha, ha,” laughed Charlie, “so you’ve met Syndrome then, hey boss?”

“How’s it goin’, Ernie?” said Charlie to the boy.

“Good as gold,” said the boy.

“C’mon Syndrome,” said the kid to the brute, and the boy and the dog walked off together down the street.

“What sort of kid names his dog Syndrome?” asked Westlock.

“If ya ever get to see that dog fight you’ll know why he’s named Syndrome,” said Charlie.

“The western suburbs,” snarled Westlock. “Jesus Christ. Pit bulls and speed dealers. What a place to hold a wedding reception. How’s it going in there?”

Charlie lit up a smoke. “Frank is pissed and Shelley’s just chucked up all down the back of Father Farrall’s black jacket.”

Westlock shook his head. “Another typical armed robbery squad swanky affair.”

The two policemen stood quietly on the footpath smoking and chatting, looking off into space as if Thomas Street was a green Irish meadow and the view was a sight be behold. As Charlie Ford chatted away about steam trains and the Collingwood Football Club, Westlock interjected.

“Ya know they are sending us a female?”

Charlie Ford looked surprised. “What, a stripper to a wedding reception?”

“Nah,” said Westlock patiently. “Gee, you can be a mutton headed bastard at times, Charlie. To the squad. We are being sent a female. Some female detective sergeant from the vice squad. A dickless tracy.”

“Shit,” said Ford. “Yeah, well, the squad can always use someone to make the tea and do the dusting,” he laughed.

“I reckon she will be wanting a more hands-on role than tea lady,” said Westlock. “And guess what her bloody name is?”

Ford said nothing. He knew there was a punch line coming and he was waiting for it. He wasn’t wrong.

“Hilton,” said Westlock. “Susan bloody Hilton, can you believe it?”

Ford didn’t get the joke, and gave Westlock a puzzled look.

“Susan Hilton,” said Westlock again. “Remember Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86 and his offsider 99? Well, 99’s real name in the TV series
Get Smart
was only ever revealed once.”

“Barbara Feldon played that role, didn’t she?” asked Ford.

“Yes, yes,” said Westlock “but Agent 99’s name in the TV series was Susan Hilton.”

“Jesus,” thought Westlock. He missed Doc Holliday. Doc would have known the answer to that bit of television trivia. It wasn’t the same without him.

As Westlock chatted on to Ford about television nonsense, an overweight prostitute in skin tight leggings, high heels and a tee shirt walked past, her arse wobbling with each step and her tits doing a bouncy bounce in time with her buttocks.

“Ya wanna girl, boys?” said the porky moll.

“Get thee under the house, ya ugly dog,” muttered Westlock as she went past.

He looked at Ford. “Bloody cheek to be approached like that in broad daylight in a quiet street like Thomas Street. Bloody cheek indeed.”

“Yeah, and by a big bush pig to boot,” said Ford.