Chopper Unchopped (201 page)

POSTSCRIPT: The truth is that 99.9 percent of the physically big men who enter the criminal world aren’t worth a you know what full of cold water. (What a silly expression, a you know what full of water would be warm, wouldn’t it?)

So I guess you could say big crims with any guts, heart and dash are freaks in that respect. If that is true, then I was a freak.

Many of the big men who try to be standover men only become targets for the police, press and other crims. He is a good scalp to have. A small man with a gun hiding in the bushes beats some giant who can bench press three hundred pounds. Rat cunning and mental strength beats boneheaded strength. A lion may have the roar but is no match for a mouse with a magnum. Or, as one of my publishers says his grandfather told him: ‘It wasn’t Abraham Lincoln who made all men equal, son. It was Samuel Colt.’

AS with old football players, boxers and sportsmen in any physical high risk area there comes a time to walk away. The ones who end up dead are mostly men who over-stayed their time. When the barman yells last drinks you leave, and I left.

Had I stayed on I would have become more a figure of comedy than a figure of fear. There is nothing more embarrassing in my opinion than some over the hill old fart who still thinks he’s a tough guy. I honestly don’t think that would have happened as I would never have lived long enough to reach the point of being an object of embarrassment.

I was always quicker and smarter than the snakes I hunted and once I slowed down the odds were against me, and in my (old) business you never punt against the odds. You don’t see many old mongooses, do you? Or as they used to say about fighter pilots in wartime: there are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.

If I had kept going I would have had to become more violent to make up for my age. I would not have been able to bash or stab or give people a light touch of the blue flame. I would have had to shoot every enemy through the head.

I would have had to recruit young turks (or more likely Albanians) to be the muscle I once was. I would have had to become the coach rather than the star player. Better to get out while at the top, or maybe at the bottom.

I guess if I’m honest the books saved me and I will always owe my publishers a debt of gratitude. I was lucky to find two money hungry spivs who saw the chance to profit from my pain. At least they didn’t rip me off but they weren’t lawyers, after all.

My ego tells me that had I not written one about myself some other prick would have so it’s only fair I got the money.

Nevertheless to Sly and Greedy, thank you. And in the immortal words of Brian Kane when he learnt that his young nephew was having ballet lessons: ‘I wonder where I’d be today if I had have taken up ballet dancing.’ The girls would have loved Brian in Swan Lake when he had a magnum stuffed down the front of his leotards. The problem might be when he shot some socialite in the front row when he did his first squat in the first Act. In other words only God or the Devil knows where I’d be today had I not met up with Sly and Greedy. I no longer carry a gun. It mightn’t seem much to you, but for me not to carry a gun was a huge decision. I felt naked walking around without a shooter. But for me to carry a gun means that eventually I would use it. It would be like a smoker carrying a pack of fags when he’s trying to give up.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no born-again pacifist. I’d be lying if I tried to tell you I didn’t know where to get my hands on a gun in a hurry in case the Indians attack and we have to circle the wagons, but I no longer carry a gun and I no longer break the law.

I swore never to have children because a crook with kids can be got at through his children. I knew if I ever did have a child my life would have to change. And so it has.

I’m soon to be a father and like all fathers I don’t want my son to have my life, that’s fair enough. A dad wanting a better life for his son than he had himself. I’m not part of some criminal dynasty, nor do I wish to start one. I’m a freak, I was never meant to be but I was and now I am no more and I wouldn’t wish what I went through on anyone — least of all, my own son.

I have gone all philosophical so here is another message for you. Never build a chook shed when you’re pissed.

MY spelling is often called into question, a matter I find most offensive so I will relate one of the rare stories I have been told by my wife. She who walks on water told me of an Irish policeman who came across a bombing with bits of human bodies all over the place. He pulled out his pen and paper and began to take notes. He saw one hand lying on the road. ‘How do you spell road?’ he said to himself and wrote down ‘Roed’. Then he found a leg and a foot on the road and wrote down leg and foot on ‘Roed’. Then he came across a hand in the gutter. ‘How do you spell gutter’ he thought, then wrote down hand found in ‘Guta’. Then he found a human head on the footpath. The Irish policeman thought ‘footpath, footpath, how do I spell that?’ Then, looking about quickly, he kicked the head onto the road. Then, smiling, he wrote that a human head was found on the ‘Roed’.

I know how he feels.

My father-in-law, Ernie Hodge, tells a yarn about two old farmers who walked past each other every morning. ‘Morning,’ one would say. ‘Morning,’ the other would reply, and for twenty-odd years this was the only words spoken between the two. ‘Morning,’ one would say and ‘morning,’ the other would reply. Then one morning one farmer spoke.

‘My horse is sick,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ replied the other.

‘Morning,’ said the farmer with the sick horse, and walked on.

The following day they approached each other again.

‘When my horse was sick I gave him paraffin and molasses,’ said the second farmer, then said ‘morning,’ and walked by.

‘Morning,’ said the other.

The next day the two farmers approached again.

‘I gave my horse paraffin and molasses and he died,’ said the farmer with the sick horse.

‘So did mine,’ replied the other.

And I thought the jokes in jail were bad.

WHEN I got out I ended up knocking around with a few tearaways and there were photos taken of me with what appeared to be guns. I was charged with a few minor offences after the photos were mysteriously circulated around.

So it was back to Michael Hodgeman’s office and back into my wallet to pay him. It was then the truth came out: The guns were obviously replicas (pull the other one — Ed.) and the charges were dropped.

It was an expensive but important lesson for me. If the police were so insanely desperate to lock me up, what would they do if they caught me really doing the wrong thing.

It was the sharp lesson I needed. If it had not happened I am sure I would have drifted back to the old ways and would be back in jail now. It was a reminder that the police took me more seriously than I took myself.

When I got out back in 1991 I was determined to keep out of jail but when I got to Tassie I drifted back into bad company and I ended up back inside.

I usually only last about six months out. The cops would give me enough rope to hang myself, but this time they moved too soon. It was the wake-up call I needed and if I’d had any guns — which, of course, I didn’t — they were dumped.

It was time to make the break.

Finally.

For good.

For ever.

But I will never end my quest to get a firearms licence back. I have been involved in a tongue-in-cheek battle with the authorities to get a rotten .22 bolt action or a shotgun like any other farmer.

I believe they will never change and I think they believe that writing to me saying I cannot have a gun is the same as writing to a monkey, saying don’t eat peanuts.

I am a law-abiding citizen and as a farmer you need a firearm to protect yourself from snakes, the slithering types and the two-legged ones.

I NOTICE from my country retreat that the bikies have been at it again. You would have seen reports that the big international bikie gangs had a meeting in Sydney and decided there was room for about six main gangs in Australia.

The little gangs were given a choice, join us or get flogged. For most it wasn’t a hard choice. In the end the knifings, bombings, shootings and all that shit have nothing to do with honour or turf or any of that bullshit.

It is the biggest drug war there has ever been in Australia. This is the battle for the control of the methamphetamines market. People can die for as little as $100, so could you imagine what people will do for the billion dollar industry.

These bikie gangs always have hangers-on prepared to kill to get their full colours, so there are always plenty of soldiers prepared to die so they can curry favour from the generals.

They are like the Mafia except they wear leather instead of silk suits. The bikie leaders know that if they don’t get control there will be chaos. The biggest speed king, Johnny Higgs, has been locked up so there is a big market to fill.

The people pulling the strings are the American bikie gangs who have passed their instructions over to their local little brothers.

In 1995 the police grabbed the world’s largest amphetamines lab worth $488 million, including $24 million in pure speed. Now this was in Australia: are you starting to get the picture? People will bash their grans for the price of a hit so what would they do for an empire of speed? In America the bikies and the Italians have become very close and the same thing has happened in Australia.

Behind every gang of bikies you’ll find the Italians controlling the product. After all, bikies aren’t fucking Avon ladies and someone has to sell it.

Mad Charlie controlled the chemicals for the manufacture of methamphetamines in Australia. He did business with Italians and bikies and some of the bikies even crewed up with the Asian triads in the heroin trade. They would do this on the quiet because heroin is supposed to be a no no in the bikie world.

Mad Charlie had the personal home numbers of most of the main bosses of the American clubs, including the one time boss of the Fort Lauderdale Outlaws Gang, Clarence Smith, who was convicted of five murders in 1997. He executed four bikies and then bombed a witness in New Orleans. He had the number of the most powerful member of the American Hells Angels, a man he called ‘Sonny’.

Basically Charlie told me that by the year 2000 it would be all organised crime and he said that by then the funny thing would be they would all be working for us. Now I didn’t think for a moment he meant Tasmanian chicken farmers and by the way he jokingly pushed his nose in the air I knew he meant the Italians.

‘You don’t think Old Pauly and Popa Tony and Eddie C are just gonna sit back and watch some blokes who think they are in the remake of
Easy Rider just
cruise into town and take over the game? They need the chemicals and they need the docks so they need us. They need a distribution network so they need us even more. They can get the headlines and we can get the money. It seems fair to me.’

He said that the Hells Angels were the gang that was in control but he didn’t care who came out on top. It’ll be the gang with the most guns and the biggest pull in America, but basically they may be gang members but they aren’t gangsters. They are squareheads who ride bikes with a nose full of speed and arms covered in tattoos.

‘They are easy to control. Personally, I am more worried about the Chinese,’ said Charlie.

It doesn’t matter about all the bombings and the deaths because the bikies still have to go to men named Dominic, Angelo, Nino, Carmine, Bruno, Rocco and Tony to get the chemicals. You control the chemicals and you control the product.

There is a small group of men who have multi-millions invested in the illegal drug industry and none of them ride motor bikes and they won’t be giving up control just because of some so-called 2000 agreement. Remember where you read it first.

A HAND from the past reached out and tapped me on the shoulder not long ago and I made a phone call I thought I’d never have to make again to a lifelong brother and friend I had turned my back on in the name of domestic and family normality.

Dave the Jew was glad to hear from me and he jested that if Mad Charlie had shot him (Dave the Jew) in Dave’s front yard then my son would now be called Dave and not Charlie.

Please do not read too much into such a comic remark, as who shot Mad Charlie is the business of the man who did it and the one who gave the order and the price of a book doesn’t warrant the keys to the Kingdom of Knowledge. No offence. I hope. You only get that sort of inside information from a $50 hardback. Only joking.

I explained to The Jew the concern my wife and I had regarding a certain person wishing to visit me, and that this person had contacted both my father and father-in-law. Dave gave his little giggle and told me the problem vanished the moment I rang him.

‘Forget about it, mate, he will never make the airport.’

The phone call was the sad contradiction of my life. I want to bury Chopper Read so that the Chicken Farmer can replace the gangster.

I am a once was, has been and glad of it. But when my peace and quiet is threatened I still reserve the right to ring up a man who the professional hitmen of Australia look upon as their hero.

It is strange to talk to a man who can smile and say ‘don’t worry’ and you know that means that someone is about to die.

He is the perfect hitman because he has no criminal record to speak of and so the police of the nation view him as they would a fairy story. But in the criminal world, his name is worth its weight in coffins.

The fact that he is regarded as a believe it or not suits Dave. Unlike Mad Charlie. Dave did not seek the headlines and the reputation, his name was made in blood. Other people’s. Our phone call ended with The Jew, almost tearfully, agreeing to be little Charlie’s Godfather. I don’t want my son to follow in my footsteps but I don’t want no-one kicking sand in his face when he goes to the beach, either.

It’s like the Jewish Muslim who went to the Pope for confession. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the Pope. ‘Just having a bet each way,’ said the Jewish Muslim.

I don’t want little Charlie falling under the influence of the wrong type of person so why not have the most dangerous man in the country in the shadows just to make sure?