Chapter 6

Our Local

One room would be full of Italian tailored Zegna suits, fresh off the docks. In another, a thousand pounds of the best smoking dope, straight from the South Australian, Victorian and NSW Golden Triangle. Yet another room would be packed to the ceiling with very pricey perfume. All sorts of criminal booty, product and trade tools. That was the Prince of Wales Hotel, in Ascot Vale, for a good part of the 1980s and early 90s.

Lewis used to boast what fools the coppers were. They only looked downstairs, never up in the residents’ rooms. Of course, this was merely idle boasting, as he knew full well the cops would never search upstairs. He had an understanding with certain boys in blue who would ensure that would always be the case. Hotel raids were a known hazard in the world on the other side of the road, not at the Prince of Wales while the Morans ruled the roost. You had to be at the bar every night, because you would never know when a shopper would appear laden with riches that could be purchased for 25 per cent or less.

Even when Lewis shot a bloke called Mark Wallan at the bar, the jacks never got a warrant to search the upstairs rooms. These were inhabited by the strangest lot of so-called humans known to man. There was me, ripped every night, usually off the planet. I would take Lewis home, and then bust my gut to get back to the pub, to indulge in whatever was going that night. There was Stan, the resident barman, custodian of anything and everything. And a misogynist to boot. The House Rat was another character. He wrote books and quoted poetry. Jason had found him living on the streets and sold him to his father, Lewis. Of all people, the House Rat was the catch of a lifetime. Throw him a rough $100,000 to count and he would have it all done, bundled and tidy, by the next day. No need to take it home, he would have it ready for business the next morning.

Old Johnny was another character who helped to add a bit of colour at the Prince – even when he didn’t know it. He didn’t know that Lewis and Jason had a key to his room upstairs. Grog was his job. And it’s probably just as well that he was in a permanent haze. If only he knew what he slept with under his bed some nights. Kilos of speed, blocks of coke, the occasional gun, bundles of money and much more. He would have died if he had only known he was a millionaire criminal’s safe deposit box.

Others came and went but they all fell under the spell of the Morans. Residents of the hotel chose to see nothing and say even less if they stumbled across the plants and stooks throughout the place. And never once did the custodians of law and order think to mine the rich lode above their heads.

Not everything was smooth sailing though. Arguments between associates and likely lads were a common occurrence. Guns drawn, bashings and thuggery were the norm. On one occasion, the entire Coburg Football Club, players and officials together, were set upon and put to flight. It’s pretty hard to beat Mr Smith, Mr Wesson and Sam Colt.

Another of the more notable skirmishes was a Sunday night when Lewis was having a go at Tuppence about a girl. Tuppence was going out with this girl who was a barmaid. Lewis was bad-mouthing her, and Tuppence, goaded beyond reason, king hit Lewis at the bar. Lewis went down and Tuppence followed him to the floor, knees to the chest of Lewis. Tables, chairs and patrons became as one, tangled and blood spattered.

Those not close enough to cop a stray fist or flying piece of pub furniture wondered how the hell they could escape unscathed. Everyone – except for these two stupid amateur arbitrators about to try and intervene. I advised them to step back, and in no uncertain terms, desist from any impetuous involvement. I believe my exact words were something like, ‘Fuck off, you stupid cunts!’

One black eye, a broken nose – and the Moran maulers still kept up the fight. Couldn’t be told. No sense in anyone trying to sort those two out.

‘Just let them go,’ was my call. Then Jason arrived, obviously from nearby and called by some well-meaning Samaritan, and laughed. I suppose he had little choice, son of one slugger, nephew to the other, the situation called for a little levity.

‘Look at you two,’ Jason blurted, in a jocular voice somewhat like Father Christmas, just before he fired a shot off that curbed any enthusiasm that remained between the two brothers.

The night Lewis shot a bloke at the bar, there were at least 12 witnesses – it was after a snooker night, and both teams were there. Lewis went to whack him over the head with a five-shot .38. But his finger was on the trigger and it carved a hole in the poor bastard’s head, beside his ear. Never had I seen someone jump into the air and start to run before his feet touched the ground, until then. Lewis was in one hell of a hurry to get out of there. Of all the witnesses, none of them have ever come forward. Such was the power and fear associated with the Morans. They were not to be messed with.

Lewis was eventually charged. But as the evidence was only hearsay it never went beyond a committal mention. I was charged, some weeks later, with possession of a pistol supposedly used in the shooting. I was found guilty in the Magistrates Court, when represented by none other than lawyer Andrew Fraser, who some years later was to go down for his role in a $2.3 million coke import. I appealed and Andrew was also to represent me for the appeal, but pulled out the night before. He simply said, ‘You can’t win this.’

‘Well, you can just jump off a cliff,’ I said. ‘I’ll win this, with you or without you.’

I briefed another barrister the morning of the appeal, and won it. Witnesses were unreliable. Possession of the pistol could not be proven. And the Victoria Police had to pay some very heavy costs, as they’d had to fly a witness from Sydney for hearings at both the Magistrates and County Courts. This was the same witness who was summarily discredited, leading to my successful appeal, and of course, the conviction against me being overturned.

All of this, with the dismissal of all that diligent police work, did, I believe, somewhat enrage the Victoria Police informant, Marty Allison, the nemesis of Lewis and his gang for several years before Purana.

The only winner at the end of that saga was whoever took possession of the pistol in the Victoria Police. Brand new, it took Lewis six months to stop whingeing and get over the shock of having to pay $2500 for another pistol to replace the loaner he’d lost. Just as I’ve said before, he was a mean bastard.

The Prince of Wales was a closed shop alright. If you weren’t known and walked in the door, all eyes in the pub were upon you. Undercover coppers had no hope. It was an impossible task to infiltrate the Morans.

There was one night to remember, when Lewis and his mate, Trevor Russell, were drinking after hours. Stan the barman had locked the doors, and was dispensing alcohol with crazy abandon. Suddenly the peace was broken by shattering glass and the splintering of wood as the bar doors buckled under the pressure of clubs and feet. An opposition gang, five strong, probably angered by something Lewis had said in an unguarded moment, were baying for blood. Lewis and Trevor armed themselves as best they could. Knives and cleavers from the kitchen and a heavy metal bar and baseball bat from under the bar. No gun though.

The doors held and the assailants turned around and headed off toward their own hotel, the Polo Club, just a block away. But they had only just crossed the road when out of nowhere, Mark and Jason appeared. While the opposing gang tried to smash through the doors, Lewis had called them and told them to get there fast, with Sam Colt and his six mates. In a barrage of bullets, three of them were gunned down. There were no give ups that night, even though one of the victims was on life support for six days, another was shot in the leg and an arm was punctured, leaving another victim scarred for life. The code of silence was upheld yet again.

You tend to remember your local with great fondness after certain events there have given you an almighty blood rush to the head. Like the time I saved one idiot from almost certain misery as he stood transfixed by Lewis while he let loose on this other bloke.

‘Down, down, you stupid dill,’ were my words as I pulled this wide-eyed square head I had been drinking with to the floor. Lewis was at it hammer and tongs, with a length of electrical cable I had given him from under the bar, belting an adversary who had been bad-mouthing him. Then through the back door had come this bloke’s mate, Kevin ‘Weary’ Williams. He tried to line up Lewis with the shooter he had in his hand. He couldn’t get a clear shot. Not that I think he would have been too worried if he hit his mate, who kept bouncing up and down as Lewis kept laying into him. Williams let one go, and it was then I pulled the inquisitive halfwit to the floor. I was hoping to Christ that Williams hadn’t seen us on the other side of the bar. Lewis by this stage had got the better of his assailant and the smashing of bottles as he made his retreat sounded like the devil’s own orchestra.

Lewis pursued his adversary outside, hotly followed by Williams, who was met by Mark Moran and the best right hand ever thrown. The enemy had a car up on the footpath and Lewis’s adversary and Williams were like two drunken sailors as they attempted to get into their metal life raft. Never was I so happy to see Mark in full flight. Another blow through the window and Williams was out cold. His gun had fallen somewhere inside the car. But the driver had only one thought, to move as fast as he could.

In the aftermath we observed a car parked across the way. We didn’t know, nor did anyone then, that Williams and his mates were under surveillance: they were being watched as they cased two or three banks.

They were pinched days later, fully tooled up on their way to do a stick up. But that was another night where Mark showed his dash. And to think he was gunned down by two scumbags, ambushed like a dog. He had more dash than Errol Flynn and Clark Gable put together. Fearless but driven by an inner demon that refused to be quelled.

The years we occupied the Prince of Wales were those where the Moran muscle grew in both legend and reality to its strongest standing. We were among the all-time most brazen, obvious and feared crews Melbourne had ever seen. But our years at the Prince of Wales court struck a sour note in the end. Around the mid-1990s, the Prince of Wales had licence problems and our crew migrated a few hundred metres south to the Laurel Hotel. It was all good for a while, until the pub owners changed and bar managers seemed to develop an itch to our presence.

The old Prince of Wales has been through quite a few different owners and transformations since those days. For a while it was a trendy bar called Jimmy Rowes, and then it reverted back to the Prince of Wales.