Chopper Unchopped (222 page)

‘Well,’ said Rod, ‘we have just killed a hundred birds with a single stone. We evened up a hundred scores and a nice getting out of jail pressie for Hacker.’

‘Poppa Dardo’s dying wish granted,’ he continued, ‘… and Charlie and Conforte left to mop up the gravy. The Black Diamond and Gilbert Bazooka get their revenue and half the drug informers in Melbourne lose their biggest protector. The rest of the boys can pull it all back together.’

The blue-eyed man said nothing in reply. He had only one reason and this had nothing to do with power struggles, money, crime or blood feuds. He was just doing an old friend a favour. The blue-eyed man smiled. The Apple Cucumber, a psychological tactic the Texan invented and Hacker Harris perfected. It was to use a friend of the target to get close enough to kill.

Poor Kindergarten. Oh well, ya can’t bury an Italian omelette without shooting and stooging a few eggs. Ha ha.

HACKER Harris was out of Pentridge and going for a birthday drink at the Dover Hotel just a stone’s throw from the Russell Street police station. He entered the hotel with two lifelong friends, a Jew named Benny David, and an Italian from Mallazzo, Sicily, named Sammy Stromboli. Little Sammy was carrying a large bag containing an original World War II British-made 9mm Sten machine gun, a carbine Mark 1. A classic and most rare model. He planned to sell the weapon to Alfonse Cologne for $1000. Hacker Harris didn’t want it as he already had a dozen 9mm M44 sub-machine guns, all fitted with 36-round box magazines. He even had 71 round drum magazines.

Hacker Harris boasted the largest collection of arms and ammo in Melbourne. He wouldn’t pay $1000 for a worn-out Sten gun, famous for jamming after the third shot and therefore not safe in the hands of the untrained. There was a slight trick to using the Sten, namely that it was damn near impossible to get ammo for it in 1977. Hacker knew that the 50 rounds the Sten came with were all there ever would be. This being a secret he didn’t share with his friend Stromboli or Alfonse Cologne, the mug about to pay a grand for it.

The three men walked up the stairs to the lounge dance area of the pub and greeted Big Al Cologne, Tony Mavric, Big Mick Conforte and Ronnie Burgess with smiles and handshakes. Al Cologne and Harris pretended friendship, but secretly distrusted each other. When Cologne and Conforte saw the little Sicilian, Stromboli, they became so polite it was embarrassing.

Both Cologne and Conforte claimed Sicilian family connections. However, they were in fact Calabrians by way of Milan. Neither of them could even speak Italian to a full-blood Sicilian. Stromboli was part of an old Melbourne Sicilian clan with connections to the Monza and Caprice families. Yet little Sammy never needed to mention the word Mafia. The Mafia word was only used by men who came from mainland Italy and used the fact they were Italian as a reason to bluff their enemies.

In Sammy’s opinion, Big Al was ‘a prezzo Fisso’ a scarchi (Sicilian slang) expression for a menu, meaning a man who is easy to read.

In other words, you saw Big Al coming and his manner, style, strategy and tactics never changed. As Sammy said, ‘If Al is a Sicilian, I’m a fucking Chinaman and I doubt he is even a Calabrian. He speaks Italian with a Milano accent.

‘Quanto costa,’ said Alfonse in Italian, meaning ‘How much is it?’

‘A thousand,’ grunted Sammy.

‘I’ll give you 500 bucks,’ said Al.

‘I’ll give your mother my dick in her arse,’ answered Sammy and with that promptly walked out, leaving Hacker Harris and Benny David standing in shock. Benny was quickly told by Hacker to rush after the hot-headed little Sicilian and bring him back. Hacker remained drinking with Cologne and his crew.

‘Have you seen Shane Goodfellow?’ asked Cologne.

‘Fuck Goodfellow,’ replied Harris. ‘Next time I see him I’m going to snap his neck. This conversation is giving me the shits. Where’s the dunny?’

With that Harris marched off to the toilet, which was a natural enough reaction to Alfonse Cologne.

The toilet door at the Dover Hotel was made of wood with a little slide bolt to lock it. Hacker locked the door and pulled his pants down and proceeded to punish the porcelain.

Then it happened. The toilet door was kicked open and a hail of punches rained down on Hacker. Blood and pain didn’t bother Harris much, so while he was being punched and kicked in the face, his only concern was to wipe his arse and pull his pants up. One still had to follow the rules of hygiene, even in a fist fight.

It was only then that Hacker returned fire with a volley of punches that sent Cologne running. Kicking the shit out of Hacker Harris as he sat on the toilet was one thing, fighting him toe to toe was quite another.

The three men ran from the pub. Hacker was covered in so much blood that he could no longer see who or what he was punching. He blindly attacked two bouncers who had tried to come to his rescue. The night ended with little Jock Mackenzie, an old Collingwood gunnie, coming to Hacker’s rescue.

After pulling out an old Italian 9mm Glisneti, 1910 model, a self-loading pistol not unlike the 7.65mm German Luger in appearance, Jock gathered up the bleeding and confused Harris and bundled him into a taxi. They headed for the safety of good old Collingwood.

Upon hearing the yarn told by Harris of the attack in the toilet at the hands of dagos, Mackenzie took off into the night, leaving Harris in the safety with friends. Poor old Jock Mackenzie was never seen again.

So begins another story.

MACKENZIE was a clan Scot with heavy-duty relatives, all of them armed to the teeth. The Mackenzie motto read: ‘From the lonely shielding of the misty mountains, divide us. A waste of wild seas, yet still the blood is strong. The heart is highland and we in our dreams behold the Hebrides.’

Jock MacKenzie’s death that dark night could not be pinned on Alfonse Cologne.

However, the Mackenzies demanded the revenge of an old Aussie Collingwood criminal family, and they took it as a fact that Al had something to do with it. Which is why Harold Kindergarten, a nephew of old Jock’s, attacked Alfonse in a Footscray nightclub two nights later. He almost beat the big Italian to a pulp and only lay off when the police arrived.

Harold was locked up and it was at this stage that Harold cried out ‘you fuckin dog Alfonse’.

Harold was later to hang himself in the Footscray Police cells. The ‘dog’ remark was soon forgotten, but not the death of the young Kindergarten.

The shovel that was to dig Alfonse’s grave was selected on that night.

The secret of reaping the greatest

Fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment

From life is to live dangerously!
– Nietzsche

A TWELVE-year-old Hacker Harris sat in silence in the Greensborough Seventh Day Adventist Church on a Saturday morning. The preacher, Pastor Pat Ford, poured fire and brimstone into the congregation.

‘And the Beast will arise and swallow us all to its bowels, lest we heed the warnings of Ellen G. White and the Book of Revelation and run to the hills,’ he thundered.

This was classic Jim Reeves, ‘Gimme that old time religion’ stuff. The Pope and the Catholic Church were supposed to be planning to take over the World. Only guts, guns and God would defeat the Sons of Satan.

Young Hacker sat in terrified silence. The Seventh Day Adventists, sometimes called the Christian Jews, believed in a fundamental Old Testament hellfire and brimstone brand of religion that no one outside the Church could understand. Next to the King James Bible in the boot of Young Hacker’s father’s car, was a mint condition German Bergmann 9mm MP 18 sub-machine gun complete with 500 rounds of ammo. Young Hacker was taught Bible and guns from childhood and, as a result of perverted religious teachings, saw Rome as the centre of all evil, the Pope and the Catholic Church as the ‘head’ of the Beast, as revealed in the last book of the Bible, the book of Revelation.

‘Yes, you!’, cried the preacher, pointing at young Hacker.

‘Yes, you, young Michael Brendon. Don’t look away, lad. I’m talking to you!’, screamed the preacher. Michael Brendon Harris, known to all his mates as Hacker, looked at the old preacher in horror and shock.

‘Jesus wants you, son,’ cried the preacher man. ‘What does Jesus want you for?’

‘I don’t know,’ murmured the terrified Hacker.

‘A sunbeam, lad. That’s what Jesus wants you for, Boy. Jesus wants you for a sunbeam.’

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‘This concludes today’s lecture, ladies and gentlemen.’

Detective Inspector ‘Big Jim’ Reeves rose to his feet and turned to Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Ford. ‘I’ll stick to what I’ve got,’ he said, tapping his shirt, which was tucked in over the top of his concealable body armour vest. ‘A Spectra concealable ballistic vest.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Charlie. ‘Most crooks couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shovel full of wheat. I’ll go without. By the way, what’s the latest on Alfonse?’

Big Jim smiled and nodded. ‘Tomorrow night, so I’m told. Ha! Ha! Ha!’

‘Well’ said Charlie. ‘Bloody well hope so. Ten fucking years overdue but better late than never. Who’s pulling the trigger?

‘I don’t know,’ said Big Jim. ‘All Mumbles told me was the Dago’s off tomorrow night.’

‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s had his run. You know what they say … every dog has his day.’

With that, the two old dinosaur cops laughed like pre-historic hyenas and left for the pub where they planned to partake of a mixed grill with the lot and a dozen or so pots as per their general lunch time requirements.

BRIAN Carl Hanlon stood at the telephone in Bendigo Prison. With tears in his eyes, he listened to his wife pour out her story of brutal violence and rape at the hands of a punk teenage kid from the western suburbs.

The offender was a young would-be gangster named Johnny Moore, the spoilt son of old Sixpence Moore, the SP bookie. Moore felt his dad’s old dockie and criminal connections entitled him to run riot in the nightclubs of Melbourne. His new friendship with the Great Alfonse Cologne and his Lygon Street plastic mafia crew had added weight to the young kid’s ambitions.

Brian hung up the phone and returned to his cell to find a phone number.

‘Come on. Where is it? Where is it?’ he muttered over and over. He was shaking with anger at what his wife had told him, and could hardly think straight.

Tony MacNamara and Hacker Harris walked into the cell to see a tearful Hanlon fumbling through his personal belongings.

‘What’s up?’ asked Tony.

‘You got Mumbles’ phone number?’ Brian said, his voice cracking.

‘Nah,’ replied Tony, ‘but I can get it for ya.’

‘Well, get it then,’ said Hanlon. ‘I need to talk to Mumbles urgently.’

‘OK,’ said Tony. He was surprised, but knew better than to intrude too much. There was a long silence. Brian had tears rolling down his cheeks.

‘Stop crying, Brian,’ Tony said after a while. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’ he asked gently.

That’s when Brian told him.

SEVEN days later old Sixpence Moore was forced to pay a cash compensation to members of the Hanlon and Kindergarten families in return for the life of his spoilt brat punk junkie kid.

Honour was preserved, as they say, but nothing was ever forgotten. Alfonse Cologne took the cash from Old Man Moore and handed it to ‘Mumbles’ with Alfonse acting as the go-between. Mumbles in turn handed it over to the Hanlons. What Alfonse was not to know in 1986 was that acting as the go-between and, in doing so, protecting young Moore, would form part of the shadow that would see him to his grave.

HACKER Harris was yet again back on the streets of Melbourne. The now not-so-young street fighter, gunman and standover man had earned himself the bloodiest and most violent reputation in Melbourne for gunplay, torture, death and insane comedy. He had the backing of old Tex Longman and Poppa Dardo, the King of the Albanian criminal world in Melbourne. Harris saw himself in the gunslinger light. More a Gary Cooper than an Al Capone. Harris was usually broke but always armed to the teeth. Another gang war for the sheer comedy of it was about to start. Naturally, Hacker turned his undivided attention to the major heroin dealers of Melbourne, most of who called Al Cologne their friend. This suited Cologne, as he could cut himself in for a slice of a hundred different pies. It also suited Harris cos it’s easy to shoot fish if they all swim in the same pond. So the games began.