Chopper Unchopped (28 page)

Sex is not a test. I have known some women who would go to bed with a German Shepherd if he had cash, took her to dinner and barked sweet nothings in her ear.

And most men would betray their own grannies to save their own stringy necks.

It is the ultimate battle, to know who to trust and who to watch. The words of an old Sicilian bandit still haunt me. ‘My enemies I fear not, but heaven protect me from my friends.’

I lost a few so-called mates after the first book because they got upset about things I wrote, or felt that I didn’t give them glowing-enough mentions, which surprises me as I would have thought half of them couldn’t read anyway.

It has been an interesting exercise as I have learnt a lot about some of the people I thought would remain staunch to me. I have been the victim of acts of treachery and betrayal that have astounded me, but many of the old crew have remained loyal and stay in touch.

Joe ‘The Boss’ Ditroia still writes from his cell in Adelaide, the Hoddle Street killer, Julian Knight, writes to my dad and, of course, Craig ‘Slim’ Minogue and Frankie Waghorn stay as solid as ever. Frankie’s mother is a sweet old dear. I envy Frankie having such a lovely mum.

There are others on the outside who have been loyal. Dave The Jew, of course, Billy ‘The Texan’ Longley, Bobby Lochrie. Sammy Hutchinson and Mad Micky Marlow have all stuck.

There are too many to call, but I must mention my lovely lawyer, Anita Betts, who has done the right thing for me. Margaret, who has been through so much, has remained loyal and I will always remain in her debt.

It seems that a bloke like me brings the worst out in human nature. People are either really bad to me or show me great kindness. I guess that despite all the treachery, life’s not that bad really.

CRIMINALS who do not use drugs and do not deal in them are considered to be straight criminals involved in straight crime.

I am one of the few who can stand up and say that I am an old fashioned crook who has steered well away from selling drugs. I have always had the paranoid fear that I would one day be set up by my many and various enemies, or even some police who might like to see me out of the way.

All they would have to do would be plant drugs in my car or home, or get some stupid junkie who was desperate to get out of trouble to invent a story and give evidence against me.

I have never had the hint of drugs or drug charges against me and I am very proud of that. I am totally clean in that area and for a crim to say that after 20 years in the underworld is a proud boast indeed.

It is a fear that I have that instead of trying to kill me, they will try to set me up. I would rather be set up and shot than set up with a drug charge.

Am I paranoid? I don’t know. It stands to reason that sooner or later my enemies will consider this. Let me put it another way. If I was Chopper Read’s blood enemy, that’s how I would do it.

I HAVE spent about 20 years in different Victorian prisons and boys' homes and I thought I had a fair idea of how jails worked – and don't work – but things in Tassie are different, let me tell you.

The oddest thing about Risdon Jail is that it's a little bit like a boy scout jamboree. They don't have Divisions, they have Yards. I have spent my time in the Remand Yard, or H Yard. The child killers, sex offenders, police informers and protection cases are kept in E Yard. But here is the giggle … E Yard has a footy team and they play the rest of the jail.

These vermin walk freely in the jail without any fear of violence. Why? Because, if you can believe it, it is against the rules. If one of these human mice is hurt on the football field the other prisoners say ‘come on, play fair.' There is not a great deal of dash shown by the inmates of Risdon Jail. No wonder it's known as the ‘Pink Palace.'

There would be about 250 inmates in the Tasmanian prison system and about 220 of them are assorted dogs, hillbilly retards and child sex offenders. There would be about 30 solid crims in the system and about that many on the outside.

But I suppose the same can be said about crims on the mainland. I feel that win, lose or draw, someone like me is out of place wherever I go.

ONE bloke in here had a very attractive girlfriend. When the Navy arrived in town she couldn't keep her pants on. She was keen to show some Tassie goodwill to our brave fighting boys. So, the Tassie boyfriend broke her leg and said, ‘go on, hop down to the docks now and have a good time.'

I nearly fell over when he told me that his grandfather used to wander about a little so they would tie his leg to a 20-foot length of rope attached to the cherry tree so he wouldn't get lost.

Another bloke here lived in a town that had two pubs and he was barred from both. When Margaret and I met him he was standing outside one of the pubs asking people going in if they would mind buying him a stubbie and bringing it out for him.

When he wanted a counter meal he would write out an order on a bit of paper and would send in the order and his money with a passerby. They would then serve him his meal on a table, outside the pub. No-one minded serving him food and grog, as long as he didn't come inside.

Sometimes he would wait an hour until someone passed the pub who would get him a drink. Poor bugger: only two pubs and barred from both.

Some blokes in Tassie are as tough as anything you'll find on the mainland. One of them, Spratty, a former SAS veteran from Vietnam, who now works in the timber industry, hit himself in the head with his own chainsaw and lived to tell the story. Another bloke cut his thumbs off for the accident insurance. It leaves me in the shade. I can tell you … a bloke with no ears hardly gets a second look down here.

One half-mad bastard left his young child on the edge of the washing machine, when he came back he found the child had fallen in and drowned. Two days later his second child died of cot death. His father gave him the money for two headstones for two little graves. He thanked his dad and then blew the money at a greyhound meeting.

In its own way. Tassie is a hard state with hard men, and I don't mind the place. But as far as the local crim population is concerned, they have never been taught correct underworld etiquette.

The average Tasmanian involved in crime simply cannot be trusted inside a police station. They seem to leave their guts at the front door and turn into crying little schoolgirls.

I have been told by the senior prison officers here that they know I am writing a book and they are not happy.

It would appear they want to sabotage my literary efforts. I am amazed that they are so opposed to good writing. One would have thought it was a better way to pass the time than indulging in violence or helping others making escape plans.

As I sit here in cell 27 I can hear another inmate singing, ‘On top of old smoky, all covered in red, one in the heart and one in the head.'

The same guy made up a song for me.

I AM sitting here in my cell in Risdon writing a letter to Margaret, when a light bulb falls out of the ceiling and hits me on the head. I don't know if I should take it as an omen of some sort. It has never happened to me in jail before.

Risdon prison, the big boys' home, is the coldest prison south of the equator. But apart from the cold, it is totally harmless. If I go back to crime, it will be somewhere warm where at least I can work on my tan.

I have taught the boys in the remand yard the song, ‘I don't care if it rains or freezes, as long as I've got my plastic Jesus on the dashboard of my car.'

The police have taken my whole gun collection. I am heart broken. That leaves me with a mere 30 guns hidden away that they didn't get. I will be unable to defend myself, ha ha.

I am afraid that guns have always been my weakness. I still have a collection buried in Melbourne. Four Eskies wrapped in chamois leather and gun oil. I may lose the argument, but I will never lose the war.

ONE prisoner here at Risdon is a minister of religion who knows my Dad and has been very kind to me. He is doing time for receiving stolen goods and tickling the offering plate. He swore that the stolen television sets found in the back of his church in Launceston were gifts to the church, but the court disagreed. He is a grumpy old coot but he keeps me supplied in smokes and chocolates.

Another character here is the disgraced accountant, Colin Room, the fellow who refused parole because of work commitments inside the prison. He is a happy and bright personality who flutters around the prison, busily managing the affairs of the jail. He is involved in everything from the budget of the canteen to the debating team's program.

Colin is another mate of Mad Micky Marlow. He is a likeable enough fellow who is always smiling. If I had his money, I'd be smiling too. He is not any sort of real criminal, more a colorful character with a taste for creative book keeping. Some like him got invited to the Lodge; he just got invited to the slammer.

Colin is writing a book on the ‘history of Tasmania.' I am sure there will be an overwhelming demand for a book on the history of Tasmania. Ha ha, I am sure it will sell well.

RAY Sheehan is an old-time bank robber, payroll bandit and general ‘stick 'em up merchant.' He is from the old school, one of the dying breed who don't believe in giving people up in a police station.

I have known Ray for 20 years. He is now in his 50s and doing it easy here in Risdon jail. It is like a little retirement village for Melbourne crims. Ray was originally a Tassie boy who went to Melbourne to do some robberies. But when he returned to the state of his birth – yes, you guessed it – he succumbed to the temptation to do another stick up. The bloke is totally hopeless.

I am sure that in time to come, news reports will tell of a 100-year-old man with a gun in one hand and a walking stick in the other, hobbling off down the road after robbing a bank. When they catch him, his name will be Ray Sheehan. He may not be Jockey Smith, Mad Dog Cox or Ray Chuck, and he never will be, but one thing is for sure, the old boy's done more stick ups than Ned Kelly.

ON September 24 the boredom of Risdon prison life was broken when I was told I had a visitor. I don't get many visits here so I went up to find a bloke I had never seen before. He was a young man named Mark, which isn't a bad name, at that. He told me he was from South Australia and was in Tassie on his honeymoon. He told me that he and his young bride were having a wonderful time in Tassie. Then he produced a copy of my first book from under his arm and asked if I minded autographing it for his brother.

Now this was not the Myer book department and we weren't at some literary lunch, but the screws said they didn't mind, so I autographed it. The visit lasted only about five minutes and then he was on his way, happy with the world.

He left me standing there, totally amazed. The screws were a bit shocked as well. I wouldn't mind if I could find another eleven like that. They would make a great jury.