Chopper Unchopped (166 page)

“Shit,” said Westlock, watching the fat tart as she turned the corner, “she looks like Miss Plum Pudding, 1987.”

“Yeah,” said Ford. “Sometimes I reckon we are arresting the wrong people, boss.”

Westlock smiled at this last remark as it reminded him of a similar remark Doc had been fond of making. Westlock felt another twinge of sadness and nostalgia for his lost comrade. He put his hand on Ford’s shoulder and gave him a friendly pat.

“Ya not wrong, Charlie. Ya not wrong,” he said softly.

TEXAS, Red, Brian and Graeme Peddy sat in an old red Falcon GT parked just around the corner from Thomas Street. Vicky Payne walked hurriedly toward the car. Her ample curves swung, wobbled and wiggled underneath the tight tee shirt and leggings. She got to the car, bent forward and put a dirty bleached blonde head through the open driver’s side window.

“Westlock is standing out front, right on the footpath,” she said quickly. “Right now.”

Tex Peddy handed the fat whore a plastic bag containing several grams of heroin and said, “Get going, Vicky.”

As the pro walked away, Texas Red turned to his brothers. “Okay, this is it. This one’s for Ray.”

Tex Peddy started up the car and Brian and Graeme Peddy checked their weapons. Each man had a sawn-off double barrelled shot gun. Brian sat beside Tex in the front passenger’s seat with the window down. Graeme sat behind him. As the car swung into Thomas Street, Tex Peddy saw Ford standing next to Westlock.

“Forget the other one,” he ordered. “Put the lot into that prick Westlock.”

ALTHOUGH Westlock was in deep conversation his eyes were everywhere, from force of habit that had kept him alive in a lot of sticky situations. Ford didn’t notice the bashed up old red Falcon but Westlock did. He also noticed the familiar sight of the twin barrels of cut down shotties hanging out the front and rear side windows.

With one huge shove with his left hand Westlock sent Ford flying to the footpath as he yelled, “Watch out, Charlie”. With his right hand he drew his trusty .38 calibre police special handgun and sent two quick shots hurtling into the face of Brian Peddy at the same time as both Brian and Graeme emptied their shotguns into his chest, stomach and groin. The last thing Westlock saw before he hit the footpath was Brian Peddy’s face explode.

In the shadows of the white cloud that surrounded Westlock’s brain as his life slipped away, he saw her. “God,” he whispered, “Karen. Jesus, it’s Karen bloody Phillips, but you’re dead.” A female voice returned to him “And so are you, cowboy”. She waved to him, then beckoned for him to follow her. As he started to walk through the cloud he saw a man on a big palomino stallion.

“How’s it goin’ Caballero,” came the man’s voice. Westlock looked up. It was old Ripper Roy Reeves himself.

Then, from his left side came another voice.

“Hi ya, Westlock”. It was a female voice. He turned and saw Raychell Van Gogh, then from behind her appeared Micky Van Gogh and Kid McCall. He quickly turned at another noise and saw the face of Ronnie Reeves and Hector Van Gogh, all the crims whose deaths he was involved with.

Then from behind him came another voice.

“Hey Graeme, this way mate,” and Westlock turned and saw his old comrade Rocket Rod Kelly, then John Harding and Ray Dalton and the familiar faces of various other dead coppers. As Westlock turned away and walked toward his dead friends the voice of Ripper Roy followed him.

“Adios Amigo.”

Westlock turned and looked back toward the old gunman on the white horse.

“Ya know Roy,” yelled Westlock “I wish I had have known ya when you were a little younger.”

But as Westlock was about to open his mouth to continue Ripper Roy’s horse reared up in fear.

“C’mon Graeme,” came an old friendly voice.

Westlock turned and saw Doc Holliday standing under the gateway of a brilliant white light.

“This way mate, we ain’t got much time”.

Westlock was filled with feeling of inner peace and great joy at seeing his old friend. As he was about to enter the light he turned and looked back toward Ripper Roy and the group standing with him. They seemed frightened of the white light. He could tell they wanted to enter it, but could not.

Charlie Ford was in tears as he bent over the bleeding body of his fallen commander. The party within the house on Thomas Street had spilled out, a gun in the hands of every man, but it was all too late. Men stood in tears as Charlie Ford shook the body of the fallen Westlock.

“Don’t die, boss,” cried Charlie Ford. “Don’t die.”

At that Westlock’s eyes opened. “I just seen Doc, Charlie, I just seen Doc.”

Charlie Ford sobbed like a child.

“C’mon now, Charlie,” whispered Westlock. “No tears for a tough guy. I ain’t frightened, mate. Doc’s with me now. I’m going with Doc. Adios Charlie, adios amigo,” and with that Westlock’s eyes closed, never to open again. The old cowhand had gone across the Rio Grande forever.

“Where’s this light lead to, Doc?” said Westlock.

“All the way to the other end” said Doc.

“Where all the good guys go.”

Doc laughed.

“Will I like it?” asked Westlock.

Doc smiled at his old friend. “Yeah boss, you’ll like it.”

EIGHT days later. Last farewells having been said to Detective Chief Superintendent Graeme Westlock in the biggest police funeral in the state’s history, Miss Penny McMahon, Texas Red, Graeme, Laurie and Leigh Peddy were having a midnight drink and party at the Rocker Bye Baby Bar in Hoddle Street, Collingwood.

A motley collection of Yugoslav, Rumanian and Albanian cut throats had joined the party along with some Vietnamese gentlemen of dubious reputation and some renegade Italians from the Mazzurco and Bonventre clans. The two Marshalarta sisters sat arm in arm with the Coughlin brothers. The Coughlins representing along with the Peddys almost the last of the Collingwood criminal families. The only Reeves and Van Goghs left were yet to reach puberty and still tossing rocks at motor cars.

Pentridge Prison and the graveyard had taken Collingwood’s main players to its bosom. It was not Penny’s intent to set herself up in any criminal position of power. However, she did like the idea of porno movies and an international video distribution network. The Italians and Chinese along with the Albanians had put this suggestion to Penny and she now saw herself as a future international porn queen.

“Oh,” she’d squealed “how delightful.”

The money to be made from such a project was massive. A million returned on every hundred grand invested. It wasn’t as big as heroin money but it was legal and almost respectable and heroin money could be washed clean via the legal sex industry. Financially washed, that is, not morally, but Penny had never been bothered by moral questions since she was a young girl. Crime gangs were not the future, business was the future and the hard cold edge a criminal network could bring to any legal or semi-legal enterprise gave that particular business interest teeth that the competition lacked.

Penny was in fine form. Her brain was revving overtime on high voltage speed cocaine mixture. She was dressed in a tight black lady’s business suit and her bare suntanned feet sat in a $600 pair of Italian-made high heeled slippers. The neck line of the suit was cut in a way that allowed a blind man at 300 yards to notice her ample cleavage and her skirt was cut so tight around the waist and hips that her arse caused men who were already sitting or dancing with horny looking women to turn and stare. Penny walked out of the ladies room and back toward the party tables. She stopped to talk to an evil looking giant known locally as Greco the Secco, an infamous character who not only beat his enemies to a pulp with his bare hands but added insult to injury by then pulling down their pants and having anal sex with them.

Hugo Greco stood talking to Penny with one large right hand wrapped around her left buttock and it was plainly evident that the skirt tightly fitted as it was being expertly pulled up. A one-handed party trick of Greco’s that Miss Penny McMahon totally ignored. Two of the Albanians got up and walked over, fearing Penny was in trouble. Penny was like a bitch in a permanent state of heat and every dog in the place had his eye on her.

“You okay Pen?” said one of the Albanians.

Penny turned and smiled. “Certainly Peter, Hugo was just telling me the funniest story.”

Greco the Secco removed the offending hand at the sight of the two half crazy Albanians.

As Penny was being escorted back to the party table one of the Albanians with her said, “Shit, Penny, you gotta watch yaself a bit more.”

“Yeah,” said the other Albanian “three drinks and you’re anybody’s.”

Penny laughed. “Nonsense, sober I’m anybody’s, three drinks and I’m everybody’s. Ha ha.”

The Albanians laughed at this remark as in spite of the comedy, it was also perfectly true.

“That bloody Greco the Secco thinks he’s the duck’s guts” said Tex Peddy. “How dare he put his hand on Penny’s arse, he knows she’s with us.”

“Yeah,” said Graeme.

Little Nicky Mazzurco agreed and with that the party of roughly twenty men not including girlfriends all proceeded to look in Hugo Greco’s direction, giving the big hood the evil eye. “Oh,” exclaimed Penny, “it was nothing really, all he wanted to do was screw me. I mean, really, I took it as a compliment.”

“Screw you!” snarled Texas Red. “He knows you’re with us. That makes us look like weak bastards.”

Penny protested. “Please Tex, no trouble, not tonight.”

Penny was about to say that poor Hugo Greco was one of the few who hadn’t as yet screwed her and she failed to see what all the fuss was about but she bit her lip. The look in Texas Red’s eyes meant business. Suddenly Penny realised that she was shortly to witness bloodshed and all because of her.

“Oh,” she thought, “how delightful.”

CHARLIE Ford sat in an unmarked police car in Hoddle Street across the road from the Rocker Bye Baby Bar. Next to him sat Big Jim Reeves, and behind him sat the new lady to the crew, Susan Hilton, with detectives Younger and McCarty. Frank James, Clanton and Masterson sat in the car parked behind Charlie Ford’s and Detective Chief Inspector Clay Allison sat in the third car with Detective Inspector Tyrone Kelly and Detective Sergeant Edgar Harding of the Internal Security Unit.

Sandra Emerson had been put in charge of the Internal Investigations Division at the lofty rank of Detective Chief Superintendent and had ordered that the armed robbery squad arrest of Penny McMahon and the Peddy Brothers be observed by the ISU. The fact that both Kelly and Harding were related by blood to two fallen police officers killed in the line of duty had totally escaped Sandra Emerson.

“Mr Ford,” said Susan Hilton in a strained whisper, “we are here to arrest them, aren’t we?”

Charlie Ford looked at the frightened young lady Detective Sergeant. “Of course we are, Susan, why do you ask?” he said politely. “Well,” continued Susan Hilton hesitantly, “it’s just that we seem to be here in some number and every man is carrying a pump action.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Charlie apologetically. “Bloody thoughtless of me. Hey, Pete,” said Charlie, turning to Pete Younger, “We’ve got a spare pumpy in the boot, don’t we?

“Yeah,” said Younger.

“Well, give it to Susan here, will ya? We’re an equal opportunity police force these days, y’know. None of this sexist stuff.”

“No, no” protested Susan Hilton. “ I’m fine, I’ve got my revolver.”

“Oh,” said Ford. “You sure about that? It’s no trouble to get you the pumpy in the boot.”

“No, no,” said Hilton.

God, she thought, who are these mad bastards?

“What I mean is,” she continued, “we are here to arrest them, not kill them.”

Charlie looked horrified. “Of course, my girl. To arrest them, of course.”

“However,” interrupted Pete Younger, “they are desperate and dangerous killers of police and we reserve the right to defend ourselves if they make a move toward weapons. It is the law.”

“Of course,” replied Hilton.

“We will arrest them,” said Ford. “However, if they protest and resist and make a move for their guns then we will conduct ourselves accordingly. Fair enough, young Susan?”

The policewoman nodded. She knew then, by the way Charlie Ford was talking, that McMahon and the Peddys were all going to die.

“Ha ha,” laughed Pete Younger, “that’s how Gary Cooper would do it hey Charlie?”

Charlie Ford smiled at this old Westlock-Holliday jest.

“Yeah Pete, that’s how Gary Cooper would do it.”

Susan Hilton looked out the window toward the night club across the road.

Gary Cooper and pump actions. Christ, this certainly wasn’t the vice squad.

THE broken whisky bottle in Texas Red Peddy’s hand was concealed from Greco the Secco’s view behind Peddy’s back as Tex and his brothers made their way toward the men’s room. The dimly-lit nightclub allowed good cover and the stage spotlight was on a young stripper in a schoolgirl uniform as Tex kept a watchful eye on Greco. The big hood was keeping a lustful eye on the young stripper. Texas Red glanced over to the stage and cast his eye in the direction of the dancer in the school uniform.

Bloody hell, thought Peddy, it’s young Rachel. She lived next door to his mum’s place in Francis Street. Cheeky monkey, thought Tex. Her bloody mum will be hearing about this lot, but first …

“Argh!” Peddy screamed as he smashed the broken bottle into the right hand side of Greco the Secco’s neck, then again to the face. As if on cue the other Peddy brothers proceeded to pistol whip Greco across the face and head, the barrels of their handguns crashing into flesh and bone.

The big man staggered forward. Then, out of nowhere, came the Albanians wielding knives. In moments Greco’s chest was like a butcher’s shop window. A gush of blood pumping straight from the heart went skyward and came to rest all down the front of young Rachel’s school tunic. Greco the Secco wouldn’t live long enough to see the tunic removed – and as far as Rachel was concerned, no-one else was going to see it removed either.