Chopper Unchopped (219 page)

You pay for a hit, you have to pay the same price to cancel it. And it’s not tax deductible. The arguments over this issue lasted nearly ten years. Now, that is hard to believe and I don’t expect everybody to believe it, which suits me fine. In fact, the fewer that believe it the better.

Anyway, this story is dedicated to the late Carmine Colosimo. Don’t ask. You figure it out.

RENO, Nevada, is surrounded by desert, sand and more sand. A story told to me that I can either believe or disbelieve is about a Japanese ‘mafia’ guy who won over a million dollars cash playing craps, as in dice. As everyone knows, the Japs call their ‘mafia’ the Yakuza … or is that singing in a bar when you’re pissed? The people he won the money from were doing business with the Japs, however, a million cash is a million cash. The Jap was driven to a private airport and went aboard his private jet with his million dollars and three blonde hookers he wanted to take back to Japan with him.

It was like a scene from the movie
Casino
starring Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone and Joe Pesci. The plane wouldn’t start so back to the hotel they went. The Japanese, his body guards, the three hookers and his million dollars. The boys who wanted the million bucks had electrified the penthouse spa bath knowing that the Jap loved to tub up. They had the spa wired up while the Jap was on his way to the airport. However, the handyman doing the job had hooked up enough voltage to cook the whole hotel. When the Jap and the three hookers got into the spa and one of the wise guys involved turned the power on from the basement it blew the power in the whole hotel. It fried the Jap and the three hookers like boiled chicken and the boys got their million back, but they had to pay for a new fuse-box. And more.

The power to the hotel was on the fritz for several hours. It emptied the Casino and cost the Casino boss several million in lost earnings. In fact the whole exercise cost the Casino boss three to four million. They tossed the electrician out of the sixth floor of a nearby hotel because they couldn’t take the lift up in their own because the power was off.

Sometimes, said the storyteller, it is just better to let the fuckers walk away because killing the arseholes can cause more trouble than the money is worth.

Two years later and they still can’t get the smell out of the Penthouse. They say it was like a cross between chicken and fish which, of course, would be a little like crocodile. Yummy.

The thing was that Jap and the three hookers boiled to death in electrified water for 20 minutes before every power panel in the whole casino blew. I suspect there would not be many worse sights than finding three hookers in a cooker with a Jap who’s gone zap.

It was, to use an American term, a goddam nightmare.

To top it off, insurance wouldn’t pay out and it cost over a million to fix the damage. In the old days we would have just shot the Jap on the way to the airport but these days everyone wants to be so fucking hi-tech. All the hitmen think they are James Bond 007. Instead of whacking a guy with a hammer over the head they want to put battery acid in an ice cube and watch the guy choke to death at the table – or bomb his car using remote control and before he gets to his car some prick uses a mobile phone and the fucking car blows up 50 feet from where the guy is standing and kills a little old lady and three schoolgirls.

Call me old fashioned. The highest technology I would use is a blow torch. Pain is pain, but then again, I’m just an old fashioned guy.

The hi-tech Mafia is gone, I’m glad to say. They have all gone back to the old stock standard shot in the skull routine. Killing people should be kept neat, clean and quick. No mess, no fuss and no complications.

Electrified spa bath, indeed. They were lucky they didn’t burn the whole casino down and, yeah, this is a believe-it-or-not story.

What the hell do I care?

Excuse me while I go and have a bath.

THE Psychology of Fear, as I’ve said, is a collection of dangerous lies and myths. All my life I looked up to the Kray Brothers. One of the most famous yarns relating to the Kray twins was when Ronnie and Reggie visited New York and met with Mafia boss Crazy Joe Gallo. It has taken me 30 years to find out that when the twins visited New York they never met with any Mafia boss at all let alone the great Crazy Joe Gallo.

Add it up, the twins had photos taken of nearly everyone they had ever met in their life and Gallo was an egomaniac. He loved his photo being taken, yet no photos of the twins’ meeting with Crazy Joe ever appeared. Because none were taken. By the time the story was told Crazy Joe was dead, shot to death in a Mafia war, so the twins had no-one to argue with them.

In my writing and ringing America to research for this book I found that the old story of the twins meeting with Crazy Joe and his brother Larry ‘Kid Blast’ Gallo was bullshit.

The Gallo brothers were fighting a gang war at the time of the twins’ visit and the twins’ fame hadn’t reached America until after their arrest.

To suggest that the Gallos would stop everything to meet with twin brothers they had never heard of was far fetched. In conversation with American friends this topic came up.

‘Just say you came to America and met with Reno Garchi,’ said Charlie The Yank. ‘I mean, he died last year, but who will ever know? Them fucking Pommy twins pulled the same stunt in their book with Joey Gallo.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Ronnie and Reggie never met Crazy Joe Gallo?’

‘I’ve never met the Queen of England,’ said Charlie. ‘But I’ve been to England and stood outside her house. I could always say I went to a garden party and met her. I mean is she gonna argue? She wouldn’t know who she’s met and who she hasn’t met. But I can tell you Ronnie and Reggie never met the fucking Gallo brothers in their lives. But who’s gonna bother arguing. After all, it’s only a book.’

In a way I was sort of pleased that, like me, the legend of the Krays was a hundred facts and a thousand fairy tales. There would be people who would swear they did things they didn’t do and they would have got away with a million things and never been caught. Just like me. An enigma wrapped in a myth and then covered by a legend. Or in my case, a psychopath wrapped in an overcoat and wearing underpants.

It doesn’t mean there isn’t a hell of a lot of truth in amongst all the flapdoodle, it just means that as I grow older my heroes and the idols of my youth are becoming more human and less super human. I always found the ‘we met the Gallo Brothers’ yarn just a touch hard to believe. They had enough truth to tell but were yarn spinners and couldn’t resist giving the public leg a little pull. I don’t condemn them for it, although it is not something a respected author like my goodself would ever indulge in. Much.

NEXT topic. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve formed a small business venture with my dear friend Sam Risovich in Reno, Nevada, called ‘Little Reno Films’. Who knows? I may be the next international Australian media mogul, although I am not as ruthless as the other one. And I’m a lot more lively than Christopher Skase.

Sam was telling me that once a year he visits Bill Gates and his uncle is Dr George ‘The Jew’ Rathman, the bio-tech king, and that in his younger days he used to take underworld boss and Mafia money man Meyer Lansky on fishing trips on some lake in Nevada. Fishing for cut throat trout, I imagine. He told this to me in an off handed manner. I was impressed.

I said ‘Do you have a photo of Meyer Lansky?’

He told me that Meyer never liked his photo being taken but he did have a personally signed photo sent to him by Lansky in 1969. Sam is 52 years old. As a kid he would take Lansky fishing and place bets for him at the casino and the track.

He was more a part of Lansky’s friendly social set than his underworld set. This was hard to believe until Sam sent me a copy of the photo signed, sealed and delivered.

‘No-one can call themselves a made guy if they haven’t met Meyer Lansky.’
– Sam Risovich.

OF course, when Lansky died in 1979 this quote became a tad unfair, as Sam himself will agree, but the point I’m trying to make is that you shouldn’t swallow everything in these supposedly completely factual two bob gangster books that come out of England. If Lenny ‘The Governor’ McLean claims to have beaten the American Mafia champ in a fist fight then don’t tickle Kate Kray’s panties with the story, mate. Prove it. Coz the mob guys I’m talking to reckon you’re full of shit and so do I. You pansy. Cop it sweet or kill me, you faggot. Or sue me.

How about fighting me? I’ll get you a guide dog and a white stick because after the fight you’ll need one. I don’t mind a liar, but at least I don’t pull people’s legs right off.

Anyway Lenny, piss on you and that’s from me. I hope I meet you one day, fat boy. I’ll give you a six punch head start, then stick six bullets into your brain. Jesus, I hate big noters who write outrageous things in books. It shouldn’t be allowed.

IN a recent letter to Mr Ray Wheatley, editor of Australia’s biggest boxing magazine
Title Fight
, I felt the need to vent my spleen on the psychology of fear trick that is being used by the new spoilt brat punk kid of boxing. I am talking, of course, about that Mummy’s little boy and Daddy’s pride and joy Anthony – the so-called ‘Man’ – Mundine. The kid who travels with his own brass band and who so far has fought the boxing world’s version of toilet paper. As in half a dozen blokes who aren’t boxers and then one who used to be – 10 years ago.

What more could you expect from a bum, to use that old boxing expression. I asked in the letter how I could get in on this comedy caper and added that if I promised not to hurt the kid too much and take a dive in the third would I be paid in cash, cheque or by credit card.

I also quoted Mundine’s hero Mohammad Ali in that all the hype in the world won’t make a chimp into a champ – or a chop into a steak for that matter.

The tactics young Anthony and his camp is using is a classic example of the Psychology of Fear. He is setting about creating his own legend, his own reputation, his own myth, using a mixture of fact and fiction. The Psychology of Fear works best when fear and or violence is a large part of the lifestyle you’re involved in. Mundine is living proof that this tactic works. It’s a lie but if enough people believe the lie then the lie becomes truth. Just watch him and see if I’m wrong. Until he runs into a real fighter who’s trying. There’d be a dozen in Detroit or LA who could mince him.

SURF’S up yet again. Out of the blue one of the original thinkers I first wrote about sent me a photo of a young blonde guy holding two semi-automatic hand guns. I’ve had to blank out his face and have the photo redone so that his identity cannot be proved. It appears that a new boy has been found.

He comes from the Gold Coast, is a former member of the Queensland Police force and former army medic. A first class CV for a psychopath. He has a firearm permit, loves surfing, has a passport and will carry out bang bang you’re dead hits (and leaves them where they lay) for $15,000 a time. Cheap, really. Hasn’t he heard of inflation?

His code name is Dominik, after Andrew Dominik, the director of the
Chopper
movie but he is nicknamed The Shark. He has been tested in Melbourne on a small no-name hit on a young punk Italian ‘free of charge’ before being recruited into the team.

I enclose the touched-up photo to prove that what I’m saying could very well be the truth. I cannot go too far as I don’t want to involve myself in legal problems.

His first major hit was planned for a very well-known member of the old school tie underworld. I don’t know why I was sent the photo but I will touch it up, copy the touched-up photo and destroy the original. I guess I’m the one keeping a record of these things and The Shark insisted the photo be sent to me with instructions to blank the face out. Which proves that in spite of themselves, their massive egos know that I am the recorder of history – after it happens, as it happens and, spookily, before it happens. I feel just a little ill at ease as this could place me in legal hot water. I don’t want to end up in court in more hot water than a hooker in an electrified spa, so I will add this disclaimer.

This could all be bullshit and simply another part of the Psychology of Fear. To Dominik ‘The Shark’, all I can say is everyone who has ever pulled the trigger for the original thinkers is now dead.

You view yourself as a new breed but you’re playing chess with the masters and I suspect you are only equipped to play draughts. I only hope you’re still alive when this book hits the shops but, for some reason, I doubt it.

You have been recruited for one hit, one big hit only. You’ll get your money then the surf won’t be up for you no more. I doubt you’ll even be alive to read this. However, if you prove me wrong you could be the Beach Boy the original thinkers are looking for, as their list is far from finished.

I was once like you, Dominik, but I wasn’t working for blokes like me. That’s the difference.

May you live a long life but I very much doubt it. I suspect The Shark will end up as Flake.

A friendly tip, kid. Get rid of the big automatics. A .22 magnum revolver is all you need. I used to love autos but experience taught me that a sawn-off shotty or a small calibre .22 handgun or a .32 calibre, or even a .38 revolver is best. Autos are just for blow and show. When it’s time for go get the old-fashioned revolver. They never jam, and you can always hit somebody in the head with them. Take care, Beach Boy.

DOMINIK ‘The Shark’ got off the plane at Hobart airport. He arrived with one of the original thinkers just to meet me. Why? I’m out of all this now. Every time I try to get my life in order a hand from the past tries to drag me back. What time does the next plane leave? About 1.30 pm? Right, you two wombats are on it. ‘But I thought you might want to meet ‘The Shark’ said one of the original unthinkers.

I whispered into the ear of the unnamed person who was talking to me.

‘He’ll be dead in a fucking year if he don’t come up to scratch. I’ve met him, goodbye, piss off.’

‘Ever since you had a movie made about you ya reckon ya Mister Big,’ said the unnamed party. ‘As far as I’m concerned you get no more info off us.’

The Shark took me to one side. ‘Listen, Chopper. I grew up on stories about Chopper Read. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a holy religious honour to meet you and if this maggot is pissing you off say the word and I’ll whack him as soon as we return to Melbourne.’

He was trying to flip his controller, so I had to double flip with a twist. ‘Remember Dessie Costello,’ I said to the unnamed party, ‘the young bloke here has just offered to pull the same stunt.’

The unnamed party, one of the original thinkers, smiled.

‘I told you he was a good kid.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘He’s all right but at 1.30 you’re gone.’

‘What do we do in the mean time?’

I sent them both off to the Men’s Gallery. Do sharks like pussy? Silly question. Shelley was putting on a strip at midday. I told her to spin my two visitors out and she must have as they didn’t leave until 5.30 that afternoon.

‘By the way, Chopper’ said the Shark. ‘I’m not as silly as your mate thinks I am. I’ll feed you all the info you want. Just let me know when my new friends are ready or are going to stab me in the back.’

‘Sweet,’ I said.

What a life, what a world, I thought to myself. I’m so very, very, very glad I’m no longer part of it, other than writing about it. Even that has its risks.

It could be an old crocodile against a young shark. I know who I would be backing.

Not everyone who picks up a Chopper Read book is mentally well. I write for those people as well. Their money is as good as anyone’s. I’m dancing inside the minds of the mentally unstable.

Are or were the Beach Boys real? What about Dominik ‘The Shark’, is he a reality or just a kid with blond hair photographed holding two automatic handguns?

Was Sammy The Turk just a bad payer out of luck. Only time and history will judge that.

Or maybe time and history will never know the truth or be able to sort out the fact from the fiction. Who would have thought the World Trade Center in New York would collapse after crazy terrorists flew planes into it?

That is a classic example of the Psychology of Fear. Real violence backed by rumour and panic. When would the next attack come? What about poisoning the water? Maybe we will all die from anthrax. Maybe every dusky type with a towel on his head is a terrorist. The world goes mad and we go to war not because of what has happened but what might happen. I fear the terrorist may have read my books to learn the real lessons of terror. Never let the enemy know what you will do. Inflate your power so they are on the defence. If they believe your power then that power is real. When next you’re told a story or you read a book ask yourself this: If the Japanese and the Germans had won the war do you think we would be reading about death camps and prisoners of war starving to death? I don’t think so.

Losers in war are savages and winners never raped women or killed prisoners. Funny, that. Maybe it’s because the winners get to write the history books. We simply believe that every man is as honest or as dishonest as we ourselves are and that every man is as good or as evil as we ourselves are. We think that every man plays the same game of public pretend that we ourselves play. None of us admits that we are one or the other or a bit of both. Every person wants the world to view him as he or she wants the world to view us and that in itself is a lie. It all goes to make up basic human nature.

The Psychology of Fear is simply one part of the human condition that I’ve delved into. If fear is not popular why do we sit and watch horror movies? Why are we so morbidly fascinated with death and violence and fear? Why are my books best sellers when they dwell on the dark side?

Because the human being by nature is a violent, vicious, brutal being. That’s why. We kill everything we touch in order to survive. You sit and snicker at my humble psychology – yet you read on because you know that from the pen of this particular madman comes the unholy truth that we are all born in the likeness of God and then grow into the likeness of the Devil.

Yes, folks. Luke Skywalker is a fiction. We are really all Darth Vader. Yes, I am quite mad and there is no law preventing the mentally ill from writing a book.