Chopper Unchopped (188 page)

Somehow, Alphonse had gained the nod of approval from old Jackie Twist, who had also turned on Peter the Poof. Mad Charlie was in jail over a rape charge, and Dave the Jew wouldn’t work for a poof. The Jew would have described himself as homophobic if he knew what it meant. In those days it was enough to say he didn’t like poofs.

At the time I wasn’t due out for about a year. So Peter Rand found himself the victim of standover tactics and handing over large amounts of cash to Alphonse for a full year until I got out. Of course, I wasn’t all that pleased with Peter myself. He had handed several hundred thousand dollars to Melbourne criminals, along with control of clubs and parlours. I’d copped $25,000 compo for doing prison time I didn’t need to do. I’d been doing porridge while he’d been eating it. I’d spent $20,000 on firearms and given the other five grand away to friends in need.

I walked out of prison in 1977 gun rich and cash poor. Peter Rand wanted me to fight his battles for him on the strength of the $25,000 I’d already been paid. Peter wanted revenge, but would not hand anyone a penny more, or so he said. All I had to do was sort out the Gangitano matter and Peter would see me right. I contacted Mad Charlie, who was still in jail. Even inside he was a man of some influence.

‘Fuck Pam Rand,’ said Charlie, a man of few words and most of them obscene. ‘That old poof don’t own or control nothing no more.’

Dave the Jew agreed.

But I wasn’t sure. I don’t know why but I felt sorry for old Peter Rand and agreed to go along and talk to Alphonse at the Dover Hotel in Carlton. Peter Rand was living in his fortress-like white mansion at 268 Domain Road, South Yarra, totally alone and in fear. I don’t know why I felt sorry for him, but there you go. Maybe it was my Christian upbringing.

‘Why am I helping you?’ I said to Peter, ‘you old poof.’

‘Because I remind you of your mother, darling,’ said Peter.

For some reason I sensed that if I took old Peter’s side against his tormentors I’d earn myself a powerful and blood loyal friend. So, in the face of all sound advice and without the Jew’s help I went to see Fat Boy Alphonse. Chopper Read fighting the good fight on behalf of an old Queen, old enough to be my father — or, in his words, my mother.

How would I ever live this one down? I cut my teeth on bashing faggots. The whole situation was insane, but I knew if I didn’t move against Alphonse we would all end up working for the fat-arsed dago, so off I went.

I MET up with Alphonse and his crew upstairs at the Dover Hotel. Big Al and his team seemed pleased to see me. It’s sad to look back and see it’s gone … not Big Al, the pub.

Conversation that night ranged from Mad Charlie, who Alphonse believed would join his crew when he got out of Pentridge, to Peter Rand, who was secretly financing a major heroin venture, as well as placing Alphonse in control of large massage parlour interests. Big Al said Shane Goodfellow was also joining his crew.

I doubted aloud that Mad Charlie would ever team up with Alphonse. Big Al accepted this. I then said Shane Goodfellow was a wombat and as soon as I saw him I’d flog him.

Goodfellow could beat Big Al in a fight and my dismissing Goodfellow as a total loser insulted Gangitano. It was a calculated insult. Then I told Al to drop off Pam Rand and explained that any money anyone could squeeze out of Peter Rand was only ever petty cash to Peter. He would probably outlive us all and would make a better friend than an enemy. I told Alphonse that if he fucked with Peter he fucked with me and if he fucked with me he had better attach a toilet roll to the side of his head coz I’d use his mouth to piss in. It seemed to me a sound negotiating tactic.

I finished my seventh pot of beer. I drank seven pots an hour back then. I excused myself to go to the shithouse. I walked into the toilet and locked the door, pulled my pants down, put my revolver on the floor and proceeded to squeeze out a prison officer when, all of a sudden, there was a smash and a crash and the toilet door got kicked in.

All I remember was fists and feet. All I wanted to do was get off that toilet and get my pants up. Pain was nothing compared with public embarrassment. I got my pants up with my face running red with a river of blood.

I pissed my pants. I then replaced shock with self defence and started tossing return punches. I never was really quick but even my enemies would admit then that when I hit, you stayed hit. I felt my left fist connect with a mouth and my right fist hit a nose.

I heard two sets of squeals like someone had just stuck a knife up a puppy’s arse and with my eyes full of blood I charged out screaming and tossing punches.

Evidently two bouncers came to help me and I floored both of them. Nothing personal. You just keep throwing punches until you can’t. Big Al and his crew had attacked and ran away, leaving me to toss punches blindly, convinced I was fighting the whole pub.

PETER RAND’S problems no longer mattered. Alphonse had laid hands on my person. He now had two choices. He could hide or he could die. Big Al hid well. Later, he would prove to be just as adept at the other.

The Dover Hotel was shot up the night after as well as the homes of several of Big Al’s crew. I nearly got Gangitano in a laneway in Carlton. He had a handgun. As it happened, it was the same .38 revolver I’d put on the floor of the toilet at the Dover Hotel. I was driving Pam Rand’s 1975 model Grand AM Pontiac motor car. I didn’t have a licence to drive, but then again I didn’t have a licence to carry a gun, or a licence to shoot fat dagos either. That was living in the Seventies, doing the Lygon Street Limbo.

Big Al and two of his retards moved up behind the car as I was getting out. They thought they had me in the bag except for one little detail — I was carrying my dad’s pump action shotgun, fully loaded with SG shells.

For those who don’t know, SGs have a few slugs the size of ball bearings on the heavy side of buckshot, and are used sometimes for shooting pigs. Which made them perfect for Porky Al.

I pumped off two shots as the dago and his mates ran off down the laneway and into the night. Big Al dropped the .38 revolver he was carrying, and I picked it up. That’s how I know it was the one I’d lost on the night at the Dover.

As it happened, ‘Pam’ Rand’s problem with Alphonse became a side issue, as in any criminal blood war sides are taken and the reasons for the original dispute are lost. People take sides out of loyalty or because they see some advantage for themselves, never because of right and wrong.

Big Al could no longer risk even talking to Peter Rand let alone attempting to do business with him for fear anyone associated with me could unknowingly lead Alphonse to his death. Mad Charlie being the rare exception as Charlie, always the politician, remained both my friend and Alphonse’s.

Charlie was a one-off. Everyone liked him and even the coppers thought he was funny, but he used his charm to stay ahead of the pack, or so he thought.

However, in 1987 Charlie was, I believe, attempting to set me up for Alphonse. Oh, what a web we weave. That’s life. Or should I say, death.

PAM RAND felt the whole Chopper Read-Alphonse thing was all done by me to protect him and in gifts of cash and goodies I guess he tossed me an easy $100,000 over fifteen years.

Did I invest in real estate or the futures market? Did I take an option on Telstra shares? No. It all went on buying guns and fighting blood wars in and out of prison.

It wasn’t a lot of money but my crew had the full use of cars and properties, homes, flats and massage parlours owned or controlled by Rand and while in prison I’d spend about a hundred dollars per week on food. I had a five grand a year food bill all paid for by Peter and if you count how many years jail I did, you can see how it added up.

Any of my crew or men associated with me could see Peter for a sling. When Mad Charlie got out of prison in the early 1980s Peter Rand slung him $25,000 and placed him in charge of a massage parlour until I told Peter to withdraw all help because of Charlie’s friendship with Alphonse.

So, all in all, Peter Rand turned out to be a lovely old lady to have on side. He really was my fairy godmother over the years.

Why a person like Peter was so fascinated with a world he was so clearly not part of is a psychological question I am unable to answer, but he was my financial backing in hard times off and on for at least fifteen to twenty years.

I had the use of his cars, his boat, his holiday home in Sorrento and the use of his bank book all because I stood between him and the world he was so fascinated with — and prevented that world from eating him up. I was his insurance policy and he was my financial pink security blanket.

He was a strange friend for me to have and I guess I was an even stranger friend for him to have. It was more than just business, I really did like him.

Ah well, the old girl is gone now. Ivia con dios Signoretta.

ANNA MARTIN (not her real name) was only a young teenage girl when she first met Chris Flannery at Micky’s disco in St Kilda. She was little more than a kid, and I could only guess at her age. She was sitting at the bar and announcing in a loud voice that she had never met a man she couldn’t deep throat, thus gaining the full attention of every man in the club.

I didn’t see her again until 1987, about ten years later. She was still only knee high to a grasshopper, but a very well put together lass with a very cheeky face and a knowing smile.

‘How’s it going, Chopper?’ she said. It was going all right and going to get better, I thought.

I was standing in the Chevron Nightclub and looked down at a set of big smiling eyes and a wide mouth grin. All tits and legs in a micro mini and stiletto high heels.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she said. I didn’t reply.

‘Suzie,’ she said. I still didn’t reply. I was pretty cool back then.

‘Suzie Blue,’ she said. I shook my head.

‘Vicki?’ she said again.

I still didn’t remember her. Suzie, Vicki, how many names did this scallywag have? Then she stood on the tip toes of her stilettos and whispered into my missing left ear, the ear that matches my missing right ear.

‘I’ve never met a man that I couldn’t deep throat,’ she whispered. ‘Remember Micky’s Disco?’

My brain woke up. So did something else. ‘Anna Martin,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ she smiled.

The music was a bit loud so I yelled, ‘that’s ten years ago.’

‘You got a good memory considering we didn’t know each other then and we don’t know each other now, and you never took your knickers off for me.’

I always had the gift of the gab.

She was a bit taken aback, but continued on. ‘I know you by reputation and I know you was there that night.’

I thought I knew her by reputation also. I was a gunnie and she was a gummy, if you know what I mean.

‘So what are you doing these days?’ I asked.

‘You mean who am I doing, don’t you?’ she giggled.

I smiled back. She was such a wag.

I was waiting for Mad Charlie. He was in the piano bar talking with Athol. Athol ran the Chevron back then. There were darkened parts of the Chevron where a gentleman could take a lady, but I’d rather use Athol’s office.

‘Yeah, well, who are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Mad Charlie,’ replied Anna.

The reason for her talking to me now clicked in. She must have known I was with Charlie. I relaxed and forgot all ideas of taking Anna to some dark and private area within the club.

‘How long you known Charlie?’ I asked.

‘A few years,’ she replied.

I nodded. I was losing interest fast.

‘Big Al introduced us,’ she continued.

I regained my interest. ‘Al who?’ I asked.

‘Alphonse Gangitano,’ she said as if I had just come from Mars. I just nodded.

‘If you want to know about a bloke then talk to the chick who’s got him by the dick,’ I thought to myself.

‘You got a phone number?’ I asked. Anna nodded and handed me her business card. She seemed as eager to talk to me as I was to talk to her.

Charlie arrived with Athol and I talked to Athol while Mad Charlie removed Anna to a more private and darkened area of the club. As she walked away with Charlie she looked back over her shoulder at me and gave me a wide smile and a cheeky wink. I smiled and nodded back.

I let the matter rest for a week or so then rang Anna and arranged to meet her at a hotel in Collingwood, the one area neither Alphonse nor Mad Charlie would venture into. We met at the Leinster Arms Hotel in Gold Street. I’ve written about the Leinster Arms Hotel before in my crime fiction books. It is one of the great old back-street Collingwood pubs that few people know of outside of Collingwood.

While Anna Martin isn’t her real name, her real name isn’t necessary for this story. Girls like her go under many different names. They have names they dance under, names to root under when they work in the parlours, and years later, if they’re not dead from drugs or a bullet, they change their names when they get married and pump out a few kids.

Anna did work under other names back then — Vicki and Suzie were two of them. Anna worked in the prostitution game, turning her hobby into a job. She was no fool and set up and ran parlours for other people: training new girls, setting up escort services and brothels. She was either upper management or the best French Polisher in the business, depending on what paid best at that time. She had a solid gold American Express Card for an arse.

She was a money-making machine. She didn’t use drugs, she wasn’t some mindless gangster moll, junkie gutter slut. She was just a girl ducking and diving her way through the chessboard of life in an industry peppered with blood and betrayal. Her idea being to screw her way through the valley of the shadow of death and come out the other end, rich and very much alive.

In the 1980s death and injury wasn’t totally unheard of. I quite liked Anna Martin. She was a smart chick with a heap of dash. We met around midday and she beat me at pool at $20 a game until I’d handed over about $100. She chatted about Charlie and Alphonse and seemed to know phone numbers, names and addresses that I needed to know.