Chopper Unchopped (55 page)

In the 1970s, while in jail in Melbourne, Read stuck his nose into an underworld war which had little to do with him. The Painters and Dockers Union was made up of hard men and violent criminals. A particularly vicious election battle for the control of the union ended with the union secretary, Pat Shannon, being shot dead in the bar of the Druids Hotel in South Melbourne on October 17, 1973.

A well-known docker and former member of the union executive, Billy ‘The Texan’ Longley, was charged with the murder. The Crown claimed Longley had paid another man, Kevin Taylor, $6000 to have the job done.

Longley served 13 years over the murder, but always claimed he was innocent. Years later, he spoke out to ‘The Bulletin’ magazine detailing allegations of crime and corruption involving the union. This resulted in the Costigan Royal Commission into the Painters and Dockers.

Longley’s decision to break his silence did not help his popularity in some circles. Read liked Longley and, never frightened of unpopularity, vowed to protect ‘The Texan’ while they were both inside. The pair eventually walked out of jail intact. But many of their enemies did not.

THE beauty of being in jail is that everyone knows where you are and they can drop you a line when they feel like it. And, of course, I have plenty of time to deal with all sorts of serious correspondence.

I have received heaps of mail from people who have read Chopper One and Two, and some feel that I seem to have some sort of hang-up about the Victorian Federated Ship Painters and Dockers Union. Some people who wrote to me were old dockies themselves, many of whom I personally like. Others were brain dead blockheads who must have got their parole officers to scratch their thoughts out in crayon.

But I think it is fair that I explain my relationship with some of the members of the union, which has had control of many elements of the Victorian crime world.

Let me make it clear, my friendship and loyalty to Billy Longley goes a long way back. I didn’t decide to shed blood and protect him from half the knife-wielding population of Pentridge because I was bored. It wasn’t a case of saying: ‘Hey, there’s nothing on TV, let’s start a prison war which will go on for years’. Despite popular opinion to the contrary, I’m just not that crazed.

In my first book, I stated I had first met Billy in the can in 1976. Well let me confess, dear reader, the old Chop Chop told a little prudent white lie there. Let me put it this way, at the time of writing Chopper From The Inside, I was in jail awaiting parole and I felt, along with my handpicked team of drunken advisers, that it was legally unwise to reveal certain matters which may or may not have happened involving The Texan and my good self, prior to 1976.

After all, it was basically ancient history, and my bloody business at any rate.

Let me simply say that perhaps I knew a little bit more about the Painters and Dockers War of the 1970s than what I read in the newspapers. I have sailed very close to the legal wind on some of the things I have written, and I have no intention of sailing into a legal hurricane over stuff that happened 20 years ago.

I have shown myself particularly stupid over the years but even I baulk at the concept of total legal suicide.

Let me tell you a few details about the untimely death of poor Pat Shannon. Senior members of the union, Mr Louey Wright, Jack ‘Putty Nose’ Nicholls and Bobby ‘Machine Gun’ Dix, all had one thing in common … they wanted to see both Shannon and Billy Longley out of the way.

Old Louey Wright was a waterfront power broker, controlling things from behind the scene while keeping a low profile. He was collecting 10 ghost pay packets a week for his own pocket, and that was seen as only a petty perk for the man.

It was Louey Wright who controlled the crew who controlled Pat Shannon. Shannon has been painted as a mastermind, but the truth is, he was only the front man for others. Sometimes front men can be exactly that and other times they start to believe their own publicity. Old Louey ended up with a little problem. Pat started to believe what people were saying about him and thought he was some sort of waterfront politician. He was getting a wee bit too big for his boots and started to forget who put him where he was. He was a puppet, not a boss, but he began to see himself in a different light.

Pat Shannon was a popular man and he was gaining his own power base on the docks. Many of the workers started to believe in him. But these admirers did not include Louey Wright and company. Machine Gun Bobby was a Shannon man, but he was not so blind as to ignore the real waterfront Godfather, old Louey. So Bobby gave his loyalty to two masters, both Shannon and Wright. Shannon had powerful friends in the political area. He had friends in the Labor Party, amongst some police, in legal circles and with the underworld. He had the full support of some heavy crooks including the Kane brothers, Jackie Twist and several other strong men. He was on the way up and nothing but a bullet with his name on it was going to stop him.

Pat Shannon’s contact list included men from the ACTU, several union leaders, newspaper and television journalists. He was a mover and shaker, but he was also greedy, a fatal flaw. Then along came Billy Longley, a popular, powerful and feared waterfront personality, who tossed his hat into the election ring on an anti-commie ticket. ‘Let’s get these bloody commies off the docks,’ Billy used to yell.

Shannon had some powerful friends in other unions who were communists. This meant that every commie on the waterfront backed Shannon against Longley. Shannon was recruiting even more powerful backers. Sometimes Dockie politics gets a little bit exciting, and on this occasion a real shooting war broke out. Meanwhile old Louey Wright watched and waited. Anger and hate towards Billy Longley drove Putty Nose Nicholls and Bobby Dix further into the Shannon camp.

Old Louey was forgotten in all the blood, chaos and bullets that was the election campaign. It was a bad mistake. I don’t care how hot things were getting, you should never leave someone like old Louey out of business calculations.

Three weeks before the Shannon shooting, Jackie Twist met Louey in a Port Melbourne hotel. It was a private conversation. Twist left the meeting to visit various men close to Shannon. Twist passed on a clear message: ‘This shit must stop’.

Now Twist was not a man to be argued with. He was the one who croaked Freddie ‘The Frog’ Harrison with a shotgun in broad daylight on the docks in the 1950s and he was a feared and respected figure.

He told them all that the war must end and that both Shannon and Longley must go.

Many of the men in the Shannon camp knew that Pat was off tap, that he was to die. It came as no surprise when he got his. Longley was supposed to die on the same night. And at least two others, a Shannon strong man and another major waterfront figure, were also supposed to go on the missing list.

Shannon expressed his fears about Louey Wright to Alfred ‘The Ferret’ Nelson. The Ferret was later to scream his lungs out and tell all before his very painful death as part of the war. His body was never found, and let me assure you, it never will.

Shannon tried to get Brian Kane to kill Louey Wright, but Louey and Brian’s father, Reggie, were very close, which was very unfortunate for Shannon.

On the night of Shannon’s death he was caught off-guard and his minders seemed not as alert as they should have been. At least one key Shannon man was nowhere to be seen at the time of the killing. He must have just stepped out for a minute. Many people knew it was coming, but they didn’t bother to warn Pat. Kevin Taylor was supposed to be working for Billy Longley, but was he really? I have always had severe doubts on that count.

Taylor claimed he did the hit for five grand on the nod, on credit. Now I have heard many strange things, but I don’t know of any sensible gunman who would agree to a shoot now, pay later credit plan. Taylor claimed he was put up to it by Longley and that he never even got paid for it. I would have given him 20 years for stupidity if that was the case.

Taylor screamed Longley’s name long and loud when he was arrested and questioned. Taylor later told me he only gave Longley up because he believed Billy was dead. If Taylor believed that the Texan was on the missing list, he must have had intimate knowledge of the plans of others.

Taylor was a small part of a bigger plan. Whether the Texan had Shannon whacked or not is beside the point. Longley was the victim of a treacherous waterfront chess game put together by some of Shannon’s so-called mates. They cheated Longley out of his lawful election victory, then set Shannon up for a bullet, and Longley for a life sentence. I know that Billy the Texan hated Shannon’s guts, and badly wanted to see him dead. But I don’t believe for a moment that Longley hired a nitwit like Kevin Bloody Taylor to do it.

Longley could have called on any number of top people from Ray Chuck to Jimmy the Pom to Vincent Villeroy. I would have been happy to do it if I had been asked, so why Kevin Taylor? Old Louey Wright, Jackie Twist and Bobby Dix took a lot of secrets to the grave, including the real truth about the Shannon killing.

If Billy was behind the Shannon killing, he couldn’t have pulled it off without the help of some of Shannon’s men. Longley got set up and given up. It is all over now, but nothing is ever forgotten or forgiven. Just ask Kevin Taylor. Oh, I forgot, you can’t. He got his right whack in Pentridge.

Longley and Shannon hated each other but they had one thing in common: They wanted to change the face of the waterfront. After the war, after people went on the missing list, after the funerals and after the trials, Shannon and Longley were gone from the union. Then the old established power brokers surfaced and things went back to normal. They were the only ones who would win from having both men out of the way. They placed all the blame on the Texan to wash away their own sins.

SID Collins has done for the Outlaws motorcycle club what Jack the Ripper did for women’s liberation. As a force in the ‘one percent’ motorcycle world they are now viewed with suspicion. If their former president turned out to be a nark and a police informer and Crown witness then how does that help the so-called solid-as-a-rock reputation of the Outlaws motorcycle club in general?

Some comedian sent a telegram to the Outlaws’ Launceston headquarters, at 42 Mayne Street in Invermay, requesting that the club not make any phone calls during Operation NOAH. Ha ha. Another joke in the bike world is that when the Outlaws say they are ‘one percenters’ it means there is a 99 per cent chance they will spill their guts in a police station. I will, however, say that there are some rock-solid good blokes in the club, and Sid Collins’ sins should not be held against all of them. But I will also say that not one member of the Outlaws lifted a finger to try to stop Sid giving evidence against me. Forgive me for being unkind, but I was sent to prison – for life, maybe – on the false evidence of a former president of the Outlaws.

Since being in Risdon I have received a lovely letter from Craig ‘Slim’ Minogue sending me regards and hellos from an old mate of mine and former Overcoat Gang member ‘Bluey B’. They are in the same yard and Slim was telling me that he found out recently that three Crown witnesses in his case, who for some reason were not given police protection, spent two years hiding out under the protection of the Vigilante motorcycle club – one of these witnesses having friends in that area. Slim says that the moral and conduct code of a lot of these so-called rough bike gangs is highly suspect. The only club in that scene whose reputation cannot be called into question is the Hell’s Angels.

I am very bitter inside about this Collins bullshit. While I put on a happy face and maintain my normal smiling self I am not happy inside. It is something I will not forget. Collins, and any friend and supporter of Collins, would be well advised to avoid me in future. Trent Anthony and his friends would be wise to do the same. There are other so-called friends in Launceston who did not put out the hand of friendship toward me in my time of need. These human scum, who I will not name, will not be forgotten either.

And I am a man with a long, long memory. Shallow people and false pretenders don’t have long memories. They will forget, but I won’t. I don’t have to shoot people to punish them. There are more ways to kill a cat than by wringing its neck. The cats in question used up their nine lives when they betrayed my trust and friendship, let me tell you.

As I have stated before, to me revenge is a holy duty. It is not something to be loudmouthed about in pubs, or to big-note about. It is not just something that ‘should be done’, but something that ‘must be done’. In some way, either by my own hand or by my hand guiding the hand of another, I have always had my revenge. In the revenge department I see myself as something of a puppet master. I didn’t kill Alex Tsakmakis, but he is dead. Billy ‘the Texan’ Longley didn’t personally kill ‘Putty Nose’ Nicholls but Putty Nose is dead. I didn’t kill Shane Goodfellow, but he is dead. I didn’t kill Paul Brough or Big Dave Dominguez, but they are dead. It’s all chess. It’s just the way you place your pawns, your rooks, your knights, and your bishops. It’s all a game and it’s a game I’m good at. As I’ve said before, revenge is a dish best eaten cold, and time is my friend, not my enemy.

I’VE HAD a lot of time to think about things lately, and I remembered something from when I was a kid. When I was about 10 or 11 years of age there was this wrecker’s yard in the area where we lived, full of junk cars and trucks. This yard was protected by a high chain wire fence topped with barbed wire and four guard dogs.

Three of the dogs were all bark and no bite, but the fourth was the meanest junkyard dog God ever shovelled guts into. It was a large, mongrel-bred, crazy-eyed killer which seemed in a non-stop frenzy. The other kids used to feed and pat the good dogs through the fence and tease and torment the savage dog, tossing rocks at it and delighting at its rage. But none of the kids could get into the wrecker’s yard. I, on the other hand, would go down to the yard alone and befriend the mad dog and offer him my lunch. And over a period of time I could even pat him through the fence. He was a dirty, ugly, evil beast but he ended up trusting me and would greet me with tail wagging and eat the food I offered. One day I climbed the fence. I was the only kid the crazy dog would allow into the yard. That was my first practical lesson in tactical psychology and I have studied it ever since. That and what I call ‘human chess’ has helped me stay alive in the face of overwhelming odds.

But it stands to reason that no man can win every battle, argument or chess game. Napoleon was a tactical combat genius, whereas Wellington was a la de dah tea-drinking powder puff with limited experience … but look what happened.

Sid Collins and Trent Anthony did to me what I did to that guard dog all those years ago, and I couldn’t see it happening.

THERE is a young Englishman in Risdon prison called ‘Pommy Mick’ who knows Sid Collins. Around September 1991, according to Pommy Mick, Collins was involved in a questionable deal. A punch-on broke out between the two men in the car park of the Mowbray Hotel in Launceston. Collins ran off and fired two shots at Mick with a small calibre handgun. Two weeks later, Pommy Mick ambushed Collins as he came out of the Park Hotel and fired shots at him. Neither men could hit the side of a barn. Not a drop of blood hit the footpath in either case.

Mick was going to make a second attempt on Collins and his friend and sometimes bodyguard Black Uhlans Larry around December that year – but was told Collins was a friend of mine, as it was that month that I first met Collins. I had always been told that Collins had only befriended me for reasons of his own personal safety. Pommy Mick was only one of those reasons. This Mick might not be able to shoot straight but he is a cold blooded young madman who hopes to meet Mr Collins again one day, which would be very pleasant as far as I’m concerned.

It appears there is a rather long list of men who are looking to kill Collins and his offsider Larry, so they needed someone like me as protection. And I’m supposed to be the tactician. I’m ashamed. In matters of tactical warfare and violence I am the best, but Margaret always said I was too soft-hearted and trusting with people I felt were my friends. And Margaret, as always, was right.

SPEAKING of Sid Collins, if Sid believes in omens he’d better start worrying about his will and what sort of flowers he wants on his grave, because I had an insane dream recently that I was at his funeral.

In the dream, Renee Brack, the ‘Hard Copy’ television reporter, was conducting the service and my old mates Dave the Jew and Horatio Morris were the gravediggers. I was chief mourner — and then Sid appeared and stood beside me and told me he was sorry and asked me to forgive him. He told me he had hired Anita Betts, as he was going to sue the president of the Hell’s Angels for killing him. And he told me his mate had run off with his wife Simone.

I did exactly what I’d like to do in real life: pulled out a gun and shot Sid in the head. Then Trent Anthony jumped out of the crowd yelling: ‘I saw that! I saw that!’. Anita Betts then attacked Trent Anthony – so Sid yelled out to her that she was fired. Then Damien Bugg (the prosecutor who got me put away) rushed in and tried to bandage Sid’s half blown-away head. Anita turned around and yelled out: ‘Who invited that bastard?’

I turned to see Mr Justice Cox (the trial judge in the Collins case) and I said: ‘I hope you’re taking note of all this’ and he replied that he wasn’t allowed to talk to me. So I shot him in the head. Trent Anthony broke free from Anita and screamed: ‘I saw that!’ Then I shot Trent in the head, and it was Sid’s turn to yell out: ‘I saw that’. Billy ‘the Texan’ Longley appeared. I said: ‘What are you doing here?’ He said he was visiting Pat Shannon’s grave. Damien Bugg then tried to arrest Billy the Texan. Meanwhile, Renee Brack was telling her offsider to get it all on film. I began to walk away from this graveside chaos – and Ita Buttrose marched past me, really angry. I said: ‘What’s wrong, Ita?’ and she said: ‘That bloody Renee Brack has just pinched my camera’.

It was all too much for me. Bloody hell, I was relieved when I woke up. But I have to say that when I dream I have vivid dreams in full living color, as if it is all real. Doctors have told me that my ultra-vivid dreams have nothing to do with any psychiatric disorder, but maybe they’re just being nice to the man with no ears. Let me tell you that I have some 1000 percent LSD acid trips when I dream. I’m a solid sleeper as a rule and don’t dream much, but when I do it’s worth the wait. They seem to go on all night and have a cast of thousands. I can meet someone once and two days later the bugger can jump into my dream.

I often dream that I’m caught in a life and death situation and I reach for my gun and it isn’t there. Or I get stuck in a chess game that won’t end. Once, three nights in a row, I dreamed I mowed the lawn over and over again and never seemed to finish it. I often die in my dreams and go to either heaven or hell. When I fall from tall buildings I always seem to land.

I’ve got a mad sense of humor and a lot of my dreams are very comical, at least to my good self. During the Collins trial, I was dreaming nearly every night and in one of them Sammy the Turk (Siam Ozerkam, shot dead by Read in June, 1987) gave evidence against me, saying that I shot him in the eye. And Anita Betts asked him: ‘Where did this happen?’ and he said in the back of Sid’s car. Then the barrister Boris Kayser swept into the court room and yelled ‘Your Honor, this man is dead. Will the Crown stop at nothing?’

The judge was none other than my old mate Vincent Villeroy, and he agreed with Mr Kayser and ordered Sammy the Turk reburied. Damien Bugg was no longer prosecuting. He had become foreman of the jury, and Trent Anthony was on the jury and so was my mother and my sister and Craig Minogue (convicted of the Russell Street bombing) was the prosecutor. My dear old Dad was sitting in the public gallery in full Masonic regalia holding his Enfield .303 rifle. Sid Collins was sitting beside me in the dock, and Frankie Waghorn was assisting Anita Betts with the defence.

The screw sitting in the dock with us was one I’d known at H Division, wearing full Ku Klux Klan robes and hood. Collins was shitting himself. There was a massive argument raging between Anita Betts and Craig Minogue. Slim was arguing that Julian Knight shot Sid as he was driving down Hoddle Street. Anita Betts then accused my old mate Micky Marlow of doing it. Micky stood up and said: ‘No, no. Tony Tanner did it’. Vincent Villeroy then asked me if Sid Collins was a member of the Victorian Federated Painters and Dockers. The screw in the KKK robes started to kick Sid Collins in the head, and Boris Kayser yelled out: ‘Your Honor!’ The dream went on like this all night: total chaos, with everyone from Margaret to Cowboy Johnny Harris and Tracy Warren yelling abuse from the public gallery while I sat in the dock.

The dream ended with Vincent Villeroy pulling out a firearm from behind the bench and shooting every member of the jury, while Sid and I returned to the cells with Anita telling Sid that if he told the truth she would get him off with a fine.

And the psychiatrists reckon there’s nothing wrong with me. Ha ha ha.

WHEN I came to Tassie in November, 1991, I had already arranged, or should I say, it had been agreed between my good self and some other gentlemen (who could be said to be enemies of mine) that I be paid a small but regular sling sent to me care of a post box number. I saw it as my ‘stay away money’. It was only a grand a month from men who spent a grand a night on dinner and drinks and girls, so it was only petty cash to them. But it was the principle that was important. I am a man of principle, especially when it comes to money. Why shouldn’t I collect a sling, after all? I was going to Tassie, which meant their wish had come true. I wasn’t planning on returning, which they thought was wonderful. Technically, I had won the war, so why should I walk away with nothing? But a grand a month soon gets spent on the basics of life and the money ran out quickly every month. The deal had been struck while I was in jail, and a grand a month seemed good at that time. It lasted right up to my coming to Risdon jail but won’t be continuing — unless, of course, I return to Melbourne to renegotiate, which I won’t be doing in the near future. The criminal culture of Melbourne sees the sling as an acceptable part of doing business. The parties concerned wanted peace, so it seemed only fair that I get a small piece of the action. The size of the sling is not the issue. It is a simple matter of personal respect — of ‘face’, as the Japs like to call it. If anybody had found out about it, the other side would have lost face, so I said nothing. But my little sling is now over, so what’s the harm?

Because I went back to jail for the Sid Collins incident, the total sling ended up being only $7000 altogether. Big deal. I could have snipped them for a much bigger sling, but that would have meant them trying to kill me … and me having to retaliate. The grand in the hand every month was a token offering that pleased both sides. So to them who thought I left Melbourne because of the fearsome might of my enemies, think again. I wanted to leave, and I’d had enough, and I was being paid. So don’t believe all the shit you hear in nightclubs.

OVER the years, I have had various hush hush police from the federal internal investigations department, the Victoria Police IID and internal security unit come to see me over various matters. One funny memory was when a member of the Victoria Police ISU was flicking through the pages of my address book, which he had seized to find his own name, rank, squad, address and phone number listed. Ha, ha. I collect details of various police like a punter collects details on racehorses, even down to car registration numbers. Why? Because it could be useful one day. Apart from anything else, I love to see their faces when they find out I know at least as much about them as they do about me.