Chopper Unchopped (217 page)

McMillan was never going to be a tough guy or a gunman. He was pure midnight express brains and polish, James Bond 006. Licensed to thrill, not kill, and drugs was where it was at.

Genius or not, his problem was the same as a lot of other moron crooks. When he kicked a goal he couldn’t help flashing it about. No matter how much money he made he tried like mad to spend it, which is a dead giveaway. He spent and spent – on houses, cars and expensive toys of every sort. Even wealthy people started to smell a rat and a cunning old former policeman who lived next door down near Brighton somewhere smelt more than a rat. He smelt a heroin dealer.

McMillan demanded that anyone working for him should maintain a low profile yet he himself lived the life of the rich and famous. No expense was ever spared.

McMillan’s girlfriend, Clelia Vigano, was one of the beautiful daughters of a hotelier and restaurateur called Ferdie Vigano. Clelia’s grandfather, Mario Vigano, had married a European countess and was the proprietor of the original Mario’s restaurant in Exhibition Street, Melbourne. A very posh establishment in its day. The family and the restaurant were both Melbourne institutions. I didn’t eat there. Perhaps it was because I didn’t wear a tie. It would have nothing to do with my lack of ears and my fetching tatts. That would be discrimination.

Clelia was attracted by dangerous men, bad boys, but with McMillan all she got was a heroin needle. The lifestyle they shared cost McMillan years in prison and Clelia her life.

By 1979 McMillan had teamed up with Micky or Michael Sullivan, another looks good, feels good, talks good loser with a heroin habit. Sullivan couldn’t fight his way out of the ladies’ toilet no matter how good a pole vaulter he was.

Together they were a pair of snobs. Arrogant, paranoid shits.

I don’t know if Jason wrote this, but if you’re so tough how come the bloke who whacked your brother is still alive? Writing nasty letters to me won’t get the job done. Continue with the poetry, you have talent. Love, Chopper.

THE shot passed through his open mouth then, for some reason, did a sharp left through his ear hole and – just my luck – I was standing to the prick’s left side. I had brain fluid, blood and a sort of yellow red stuff all over my neck.

The .22 calibre magnum slug had spun past my neck. The body slumped to the dirt floor of the garage.

‘Fucking hell,’ I said. I don’t like to swear but I was quite cross. ‘Nice one, toss the fucking maggot in the back – no, not the Fairlane, the ute, I’ll cover him in garbage and wood. We’ll drive him up to the tip. Jesus, who told you to shoot the fucking idiot. Bloody hell. You get given a gun for 30 seconds and in a playful moment you shoot your so-called best mate.’

The trigger man (no names mentioned) was in tears and a total state of nervous breakdown. The victim, whose $150,000 Mercedes was parked out front, had to be dumped somewhere. I loaded up the ute. One of my dogs had already nuzzled his nose into the left ear hole and dragged out a goodly length of human brain and was proceeding to eat it. Sounds offal, I know. A hollow point .22 magnum slug goes in like a pea and comes out like a fucking watermelon. It was 10.30 at night. I didn’t need this shit. I wanted to watch the late news, not be on it.

Also, it was raining and the window wipers on my old Ford ute didn’t work. Great, what a drive.

We drove through the rain. I didn’t know it but both my dogs had taken a flying run at the ute and landed in the back. You can imagine what had happened by the time we got to the tip. Let’s just say that he didn’t have many brains to start with, but even less by the time it came to rest him in peace. Or should that be pieces?

We burnt the remains and his Mercedes then, using the Council bulldozer tipped the burning lot into the garbage hole which was the size of a small footy field. We then used the remainder of the jerry can of petrol we had to set fire to a giant pile of old tyres after bulldozing them in on top. It must have worked coz we haven’t heard a word since.

They later bulldozed the site over and opened a new tip so I won’t tell you where, who, when or what but it was a dead set fucking mess. That is a lesson for you. Never play with guns when you’re pissed. I had to hose the dogs down when I got home after dropping my gun happy mate home. They were covered in blood and stunk.

I never let them lick me again.

Accidents will happen and once the gun goes bang it’s all hands to the pump. No time to waste, as I’ve said before, whacking the bums out is easy, getting rid of the bodies is the headache. Believe me, it is hard work.

NOW on to Shane the Rooster. Now here’s a yarn you won’t believe.
(What? – Ed.)
This rooster was dead set like something out of the twilight zone.

Shane the Rooster was named after my mate Shane Ronald Farmer. Both like to preen themselves and like to think they rule the roost.

Shane Ronald was a pure bred Sussex Rooster, free range and wild. His size and ability to fight and stay alive was quite unique. He had three shots put into him with a high powered .177 air rifle at close range, but it didn’t worry him. He sat in the pine trees for two days and nights to recover then he had three rounds from a pump action .22 calibre rifle put into him at close range and, again covered in blood, took to the trees and returned several days later none the worse.

He had so many bullet wounds he looked like someone who had been arrested by the armed robbery squad. His bloodlust was never satisfied. I found him covered in blood from fights with Wayne and Dwayne, his two rivals on the farm.

Shane was attacked several times by both my cats, Poop Foot and Ernie, and fought them off. Then Little Bill, my trusty Jack Russell terrier, had various battles with the big rooster.

But, bleeding and near death, Shane fought like mad then took to the trees. Little Bill and Patsy Cline, my other dog (whose breed is still a mystery – a mix of Dingo, German Shepherd, Staffy, Blue Heeler and possibly Wolverine) started ganging up on Shane.

But Shane always got away, covered in blood and half dead but alive enough to return another day.

But one morning I opened the dogs’ cage to let them out and they had not eaten all their ham, liver, kidneys, shanks and meaty bites, and, naturally, Shane snuck in to the open pen to have a peck at the dogs’ dinner.

This time Little Bill and Patsy ‘Crime’ were waiting and in they went. It was an old fashioned doggy ambush. One had the tail, the other had the head but the big rooster fought and flapped and squawked so much that the dogs let go several times.

I watched as the battle progressed out of the pen and into the yard and in the name of Christian kindness I broke up the fight.

Shane was an inch from death, so I jumped on his head several times. I was wearing gum boots.

Later that day, I picked up the mortal remains of Shane and tossed him in the back of my ute.

The saga of the rooster who wouldn’t die was over. Oh yes, I forgot, he had previously survived a blast from a .410 shot gun at seven metres, killing several unwanted fowl and wounding Shane badly. As you remember, I have no firearm licence, so I would have no idea what scallywag was shooting at my rooster.

Personally, I was sad to see the last of this hard case rooster.

The next day, while I was about to load up the rubbish to take to the tip, I looked in the back of the ute and there was Shane standing up with a crushed head looking at me with one good eye. He was ready to go again. I let the dogs out and grabbed Shane.

‘Okay, big fella, rock and roll’ I said, and he did.

He nearly blinded little Bill and cut Patsy badly with spurs as long and as thick as a man’s thumb and sharp. Shane was a prize winning rooster, a giant. I guess he weighed as much as a small dog and he stood over two feet in height.

A fighting cock would have had no chance in free range barnyard combat with a monster such as this. I don’t fight roosters in pits, but if they happen to have a blue in a free range environment I let them sort it out the natural way. I’m a softie at heart.

I’m trying not to offend the Greenies and animal lovers but Shane was raised on grain and mince meat, blood, offal, liver, ham and dead possums. He loved blood and he loved fighting and he had no fear whatsoever of dogs or cats or humans. He would have fought an elephant but we don’t get many in country Tassie. They’re nearly as rare as foxes.

If you turned your back on this rooster for ten seconds he would fly at you. He was just a mean, angry bird.

Anyway, the dogs got on top and I took poor Shane with a load of rubbish to the tip and when I tossed my bags of rubbish in I reached in to grab Shane and he sliced my hand with his spur then pecked me. He was still alive. This was starting to get spooky.

I tossed him in and covered him with rubbish bags and drove to the Campania Tavern for a few beers. I told no-one the story. Who would ever believe me and who tells wild yarns about poultry that won’t die?

How embarrassing for a known killer like me to be unable to finish off a glorified chicken dinner. There is room for only one psychopath in my family. Shane had to go.

I’m left to wonder if Shane ever made it out of the tip and is right now roaming around Brown’s Mountain. I feel a slight unease about the rooster who wouldn’t die. Perhaps he will come back and peck me to death. Instead of a southern Italian it will be a Sussex rooster which finally finishes me off.

To Shane, I salute you. In the world of fighting cocks your name will be remembered and your legend will live for as long as people read this story and retell the yarn. Via Con Dios, Amigo.

STUART ‘Noddy’ Attwood is his name. I’ve probably spelt Stuart wrong, which will piss him off no end. A retired gentleman such as myself must number among his friends at least one strip club owner, being Shane Farmer; one nightclub owner, being Charles ‘Charlie T’ Touber – or ‘The Dutchman’ behind his back; one gun dealer, whose name need not be mentioned here, and at least one used car dealer. And that is Noddy Attwood. A Tasmanian used car king – sort of a Port Arthur Daley, if you know wot I mean, guv. You see, Noddy is originally a South London lad who migrated to Australia. So far he has sold me a Volvo 240 GL and a Mercedes Benz 280 SEL. The Merc is an old limo. All I need is a few Jews in the boot and I’d feel like a member of the fucking Nazi Party. I cracked this joke in front of his mum and dad, lovely people, but I didn’t know his mother’s granny was Jewish. I should have been warned. It’s social death to crack the wrong jokes in the right company.

I seem to be constantly buying and selling cars through Argyle Quality Cars, Noddy’s car yard. Shane Farmer, who dabbles in cars as a side line, spits the dummy every time. Whenever I get rid of one for another, Shane screams ‘Go through me, go through me.’ What he means is buy a car through him.

‘I gave you that Toyota at a loss and you traded it on a Merc. Noddy ripped you on the Falcon and the Fairlane and you ended up with some shit heap Volvo,’ he said to me one day. He was frothing.

This nonsense goes on all the time. If I wanted a bullet proof Cadillac, Noddy could get me one. I love the comic banter of the used car dealers. A nice collection of smiling rogues and scallywags. How come I did all the jail time and they get all the cash? I wind somebody’s nose with a pair of pliers and I get jail time but they wind back speedos and it’s called business. Perhaps I should have concentrated on car dealers rather than drug dealers. You work it out. My brain hurts.

But if you are in the clique you can get a good deal. I made Noddy a share holder in my movie venture so, as a semi-silent partner (there is no such thing as used car dealer who can shut up) it’s hard for him to say no.

I no longer mix with violent criminals but I don’t mind club owners, pub owners, car dealers, gun dealers and the like. What the English call wide boys – not evil men but definitely after-dark bandits, to put it politely. It’s a bit hard for me after a lifetime dealing with crooks, gangsters and hard men to start mixing with total square heads and blokes like Noddy, Shane and Charlie are as close to the edge I can get and yet still mix with supposedly ‘honest’ people.

Charles Touber is a decent family man and a man with a good heart and a kind nature and all sarcastic and tongue-in-cheek millionaire ALP yuppie remarks aside, he is a good bloke and undeserving of the comic pretend slander I have heaped on him.

It is just that these men are contradictions. Their social standing, political standing, public life, business life and private life all contradict each of the other. That is why I find them of literary interest.

Whatever they may or may not be, they are not boring. Charles Touber holidays in Cuba and, I’m told, has met Fidel Castro. Fidel probably had to go into therapy after the meeting – and count his fingers after shaking hands with Charlie. Or at least his cigars. Shane Farmer holidays in America and Thailand and numbers among his friends persons he would rather I didn’t name. Probably to protect them rather than him.

Noddy holidays in London and, although a man who prides himself on his normal, everyday honesty, he attended the funeral of the late Violet Kray, mother of Ronnie and Reggie. I’ve noticed that everyone has a story to tell. My gun dealer friend trains top sports people, but I digress.

‘Why Cuba?’ I asked Charles once.

‘Because it’s like stepping back into the 1950s,’ he told me. I felt like pointing out that we lived in Tassie, which meant we weren’t exactly up with the Jetsons on the edge of modern living.

Charles told me other yarns which even I wouldn’t write down for fear of my honesty being put up to question.

Michael Hodgman, QC, had met the Queen of England, my wife went to dinner with Princess Anne. Everyone has something of interest to tell you and, for a writer, it’s hard not to betray a confidence. It’s almost impossible, but I do try. Suffice to say Shane, Charles and Noddy are interesting fellows to talk to.

My mate, Dave Lornie, the Editor of the ACP Publication
100% Home Girl
, is going to Spain to visit his Dad. I didn’t know his dad lived in Spain. I’ve always dreamed of a holiday in Spain on the Costa Del Blanco or the Costa Del whatever. Who knows where my future may take me? Certainly not to Thailand or America with Shane – not unless I went to Reno to visit Sam Risovich.

Not to Cuba with Charlie T, either. I’d probably go to London with Noddy provided he paid, but Noddy has deep pockets and very short arms. But Spain, yes, I can see that. Maybe when Charlie is a bit older – no, not Charlie Touber, my son Charlie, Charles Vincent Read. I can see myself in the sunshine of Spain and if anyone deserves a holiday I do. I’m thinking out aloud. All I can do is see where life takes me and enjoy the ride.

It is my great regret that I have not travelled overseas yet. Travel broadens the mind and mine was broadened by travelling from Pentridge to Geelong Prison. I was too busy fighting local battles to look overseas. A big trip for me was from Thomastown to South Yarra. I got jet lagged going as far as Ballarat.