CHAPTER 4

A Sweet Voice Calling

IT was 1956. Russian tanks had invaded Hungary to put down a revolution. British troops went in to sort out the shit fight over the Suez Canal. Rocky Marciano hung up his gloves after proving to the world he was the greatest heavyweight boxer to that date after taking the crown from Jersey Joe Walcott in 1952.

In Melbourne, Frank Sinatra’s latest movie had just hit town, the 1955 classic ‘Johnny Concho’. It was the year a no-hoper horse named Evening Peal won the Melbourne Cup. And, of course, it was the year of the Melbourne Olympic Games, the 16th games of the modern era. The Duke of Edinburgh was in town, the Russian runner Vladimir Kuts was winning heaps, the Olympic great of past games, Czechoslovakian Emile Zatopek, was on a downhill slide, and two NSW coppers, Merv Wood and Murray Riley, won bronze in the double sculls rowing. They, too, were on a downhill slide. Wood won Gold in the single sculls in London in 1948 and silver in Helsinki in 1952, but his cop career ended in controversy.

Betty Cuthbert and Shirley Strickland were winning everything, and Brigid O’Shaughnessy was watching it all on her TV set. The only TV set in all of Easey Street.

Hell, if it comes to that, it was the only TV set in all of Collingwood, full stop. Brigid was a big, tall girl of 24, with long legs and curves in all the right places. She did her best to look and act just like her Hollywood B Grade movie star heroine, Jayne Mansfield. Brigid really did look like Jayne Mansfield, with her gorgeous pouting face, bleached blonde hair, narrow waist and swinging hips. Her extra large set of jugs set the whole fantasy off very nicely, if you don’t mind and she certainly didn’t. Brigid did look the part and acted it as well. Most of the prostitutes in Collingwood modelled themselves on Hollywood film stars – although the one that looked like John Wayne didn’t get all that much work, especially before the pubs shut.

Brigid’s 20-year-old sister, Colleen, looked like Shelley Winters. Carol Pepper looked like Kim Novak, Bonny Brown did her best to copy Marilyn Monroe. Young Kay Kelly, who was only 14 years old but big for her age, looked like Grace Kelly. Rayleen Bennett did a fantastic Marlene Dietrich. Val Taylor, a vivacious 15-year-old looked for all the world like Googie Withers. It was fair to say that Jenny Phillips and Cathy Reeves both looked like Betty Grable – and that’s only the whores who lived in Easey Street.

The Olympics had done one good thing for the local prostitution industry. The prices had gone from 10 bob a time to a straight pound. Yes, a quid a pop, that’s inflation for you. But for Brigid O’Shaughnessy, who was already charging two pound a time, it meant putting her price up to three quid. She handled six to nine mugs a night after the pubs shut at six o’clock. That’s why she could afford a brand new television set as well as the 1954 Pontiac she drove. Now she could twiddle the knobs for a change.

Brigid and the rest of the girls in Easey Street never had to fear the police or the standover men who robbed the rest of the whores in Melbourne. The Vice Squad from Russell Street Headquarters was headed by big Bluey Westlock, an old third-generation copper. He and his right hand man Bull Kelly, a second-generation policeman, both took their slings out in trade. At least there was no problems with tax, that way.

As for the crims, thugs and gangsters, Easey Street was ruled by a tough teenage kid and his gang. Young Roy Reeves was not only the leader of the toughest street gang in Collingwood but he was also Brigid’s nephew. The last bloke to try it on with a girl from Easey Street was Desmond Costello, and young Ripper Roy had shot him dead in Fitzroy the previous year. It was his first murder and it took the young tough with the Gary Cooper looks from a nobody to a local legend in less than twelve months.

One killing did that in those innocent days.

*

IT was Sunday night, Brigid’s one night off. She sat watching her new TV set with a large glass of Gilbey’s gin and lemon in her hand. It was her seventh drink for the evening and she was feeling the effect, and loving it. She wore a white pure silk dressing gown and a pair of white high-heeled slippers. She had the TV turned down and just sat looking at the black and white picture.

The electric record player blared out the sound of Brigid’s favorite singer and music man, the King of American bluegrass music, Bill Monroe and his mandolin. She was looking at a record by Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt, pondering whether to put it on next. Or maybe she’d listen to Hank Snow or Leon Payne singing, ‘I Love You Because’. Or maybe Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra, or maybe Tommy Dorsey’s Band or what about that new bloke, what was his name again? Elvis Presley.

Brigid laughed to herself. Elvis Presley. Shit, she thought. Ya won’t get too far with a name like that. Sounds like a real duffer. But he did sing nice. His voice did something to her. I might get some more of his records if I can find any. But for now Hank Snow singing ‘I Don’t Hurt Any More’ would do very nicely, thank you.

Bang, bang, bang.

Brigid’s head shot up. ‘God,’ she said to herself. ‘Who’s that?’

She looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was 7.30 pm.

‘Who the hell is that, at this hour?’ she grumbled.

Brigid got up and put her cute .22 calibre handgun into the pocket of her silk dressing gown and held it as she walked down the gloomy hallway of her little single-fronted, two bedroom house to open the door.

She turned the outside light on first. The flyscreen door was shut, but offered little protection. She peered through it at the shadowy figure on the verandah.

‘God,’ she snapped, sounding relieved and annoyed at the same time. ‘It’s you, Roy. What the hell are you doing? You gave me a fright. Sunday’s my night off. Bloody hell, I’m a bit pissed. I’m sorry, darlin’, come in.’

‘Hi ya, Auntie Bee,’ said Roy, using the pet name he’d always called her. He pulled the old flyscreen door open and gave the big blonde a kiss on the cheek. She was still holding her pistol in one hand and her glass of gin in the other. Suddenly, she giggled.

‘Sorry, darlin’, I was in dreamland.’

‘Oh great,’ said Roy, hearing the music playing as he walked down the hallway. ‘Bill Monroe, I love Bill Monroe,’ he added. ‘He’s the best.’

‘Do ya want a drink, Roy?’ Brigid asked.

‘Ya got a beer?

Brigid went into the kitchen and opened her fridge. It was brand spanking new. Most people around Collingwood still had ice chests. She had everything, Roy thought to himself.

‘Shit, a fancy electric fridge,’ he said.

Brigid pulled out a Richmond Bitter and handed it to him. The kid ripped the cap off the bottle with his teeth and swallowed. He was not Rex Harrison for ‘My Fair Lady.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Roy,’ said Brigid.

‘What?’

‘Take the cap off with ya teeth,’ she said. ‘It sets my nerves on edge watching you do that. Anyway, sit down.’ Roy sat and fixed his eyes on the TV set.

‘It’s bloody amazing, isn’t it,’ he said dreamily. ‘What they can do now days. Bloody fantastic.’

Brigid sat beside him on the couch.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I can’t get over it.’

‘How the hell did ya get one, Auntie Bee?’ asked Roy.

‘Ya gotta order ’em a year in advance. I heard they cost a mint, then ya got to get the bit of wire thing set up on the roof.’

Brigid thought for a moment. She’d screwed not only the bloke who owned the shop but the two who delivered it and fitted the aerial, and it had still cost her nine pounds to get it all fitted in time for the bloody Olympics. But she didn’t want to share this info with young Roy.

‘Oh you know Roy, a bit of cash and a bit of luck.’

Ripper Roy snuck a sideways glance at his Auntie Bee’s enormous set of tits and smiled. Roy thought she might have been using rhyming slang, but what rhymed with cash? He had a fair idea how she got the TV set, the same way she got the flash car. A bit of cash and a bit of hanky panky. The mugs would fall in love after the first knee trembler and she’d soon get her money back. Her trick was to bung on the dumb blonde, cute and pouty Jayne Mansfield routine – worked every time.

Some things never change.

‘Oh, I’ve only got two pound. Oh, and I really wanted that watch, could you hold it for me.’ Big smile. She had a way of wiggling and jiggling about when she talked to men, even when she stood still, and she always spoke to the manager or owner of the shop. She had screwed most of the shopkeepers in Smith Street, Collingwood, and the married ones spoiled her rotten for the sex, but most of all for her silence.

Roy had polished off his bottle of beer and they both sat watching the box. The record had finished and the arm with the needle in it came up and back and rested all on its own. Roy was amazed.

‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘That’s a fancy gizmo. How much did that cost?’

Brigid smacked Roy on the leg and said, ‘Don’t always be asking the price of things, Roy. It’s bad manners.’

‘Sorry, Auntie Bee,’ he said.

Brigid looked at the electric radiogram record player.

‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘It was a gift.’

Roy burst out laughing.

‘I bet it was,’ he roared.

‘What are you trying to suggest?’ said Brigid.

She was finishing off her eighth gin, and getting a little bit elephant’s.

‘Look Roy, ya know ya Auntie Bee’s a bit of a scamp, so don’t be a shit stirrer. Who cares what this cost or how I got that, ya know that handgun I gave you last year for ya birthday?’ she said. ‘Do ya think I paid for it. Nah, of course not. Ronnie West, the gunsmith, practically wets his pants whenever I walk past his shop. I spent a quick ten minutes face down over his kitchen table to get you that handgun, so don’t have goes at me,’ she snapped.

Roy was shocked at this outburst. ‘I’m sorry, Auntie Bee.’

‘Yeah, well, so ya should be, ya cheeky little tacker. I’m your auntie. Your mother is my big sister, so treat me with proper respect.’

She poured herself another gin to go with the wounded dignity.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the chastised Roy, who put his arm around his favorite relative and kissed her on the cheek again. For a bloodthirsty killer, he was really a nice boy underneath.

Her mood softened at once.

‘I’m sorry, Roy. I’m a bit drunk. I’m sorry, baby.’

‘Anyway,’ said Roy. ‘It’s about Ronnie West that I come to see ya. I need you to talk to him for me.’

‘What about?’ asked Brigid. ‘Some bloody new gun, I expect. I don’t know Roy, you and ya guns, you’re a real little Audie Murphy, aren’t ya darlin’?,’ she said with a smile and a cuddle.

She stood up and wove her way over to the record player put on a Frank Sinatra disc.

‘Well, go on,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it.’

Roy poured her a large gin. A large gin for Bee was enough to blind the average Indian elephant.

‘Ronnie West has got an Owen submachine gun,’ he said. ‘I offered him ten quid for it, then twenty quid. But he won’t part with it. Jeez, Auntie Bee, with a bloody Owen gun me and my gang could run Collingwood. Bloody hell, I’ve got to get that gun.’

Brigid thought to herself for a moment. Her young nephew and his gang were more feared in the local area than even they realised, but with an Owen gun in Ripper Roy’s young hands her own control over the Collingwood street whores would be secure.

The Murrays and the Bennett Brothers and the rats from Fitzroy and Carlton had been threatening to slash Brigid’s face if they caught her outside Collingwood. If she wanted to build and expand her own power she had to support the up and coming career of her nephew. She knew why Ronnie West was holding out on the sale of the gun to young Roy. West knew Roy would come to Brigid, and in turn Brigid would go and see Ronnie and the randy gunsmith would not only get his twenty quid but he’d get to run rampant over every inch of Brigid’s body for however long it took, which wasn’t long, as Brigid remembered.

Yes, she thought, if there is a machine gun going spare then Roy must have it before it falls into the wrong hands. She took the glass of gin from her nephew and held it up to her mouth and took a large swallow and her dressing gown fell open. She was only wearing panties underneath and her bosoms were on show, but she didn’t move to cover herself.

‘Don’t worry, Roy,’ she said as she swayed to the music, ‘that gun is yours.’

Young Roy looked at his Auntie Bee swaying to the music with her silk dressing gown open at the middle and he flushed red in the face and felt himself swelling in an area that he didn’t want his auntie to know about. Brigid, however, took a certain evil delight in teasing her young nephew and knew what effect her dancing and swaying body was having on the boy. He was only human, after all.

‘I gotta go now,’ said Roy.

All he wanted to do was get out. He felt embarrassed that he could get into such an excited condition over his own auntie. Brigid was lost in a seductive dance routine. Roy stood up to leave and his excited condition was making itself evident. The bulge in his trousers was ridiculous, as Roy had backed up for a second helping when the good lord was handing out the dicky birds.

‘God, Roy,’ giggled Brigid, pointing to his groin. ‘Every time you come to see me of late, you sit on my couch and crack a bone that a dog wouldn’t chew on, then get up and run out the door.’

‘I do not,’ protested Roy, trying to cover his condition with both hands in his pockets.

‘Well what the hell do ya call that thing you’re trying to hide?’ she said, pointing again to the area in question. ‘They haven’t seen a monster like that outside of Loch Ness.’

Brigid was still dancing as Sinatra sung. She had an almost hypnotic effect on the lad. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Roy, almost in tears with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry Auntie Bee.’ Brigid smiled and walked over to Roy and put her arm around him. ‘Don’t be sorry, darling,’ she cooed. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Don’t worry, baby. This will be our little secret. Ya mum will never know.’

*

A GROUP of big, mean-looking, teenage boys stood across the street from Ronnie West’s gun shop on Johnston Street, Collingwood. Irish Arthur Featherstone, Terry Maloney, Benny Epstein, Mocca Kelly, Bobby McCall, Tommy Pepper, Ray Brown, Normie Bennett, Kenny Taylor, Paul Phillips, Eddy Bradshaw and Micky Twist, all of them were waiting for the head of their street army, Ripper Roy Reeves, and his wet dream in high heels of an auntie, Brigid O’Shaughnessy.

‘Here they come,’ said Micky Twist, pointing at the big white 1954 Pontiac.

‘Shit,’ said Bobby McCall, ‘I’d love to get into that car.’

‘Yeah,’ said Normie Bennett, ‘and I’d love to get into what’s driving it. I’d love to get into her glove box.’ They all laughed, as young men with more mouth than experience often do.

‘Don’t let Roy hear ya say that,’ said Irish Arthur.

The mention of Roy’s name stopped all laughter. Most of the boys who stood in the group were older than Ripper Roy. Between 16 and 19 years old compared to Roy’s humble 15, but the murder of the gunman and standover man, Desmond Costello, by Roy when he was only 14 put him above them all. They knew Roy carried a loaded .38 calibre revolver his auntie had given him, and he’d use it at the drop of a hat. Roy was serious young man who would not hear a slight against his auntie without immediate retribution.

The big Pontiac pulled up. Roy got out and ran around and opened the driver’s side door to let Brigid out. He was well mannered, was Roy. Brigid wasn’t pleased, and she pulled Roy to one side. ‘What are these whackers doing here?’ she whispered to him, scowling.

‘That’s me gang,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I know that,’ said Brigid. ‘But let’s not beat about the bush. You and I both know why you asked me to talk to Ronnie West, and you and I both know that ten seconds after I walk into that shop he’ll lock the door and hang the closed sign in the window and in about half an hour’s time I’ll be walking out with your blinking Owen gun.’

‘Yeah,’ said Roy, ‘and I love you for all you do for me, Auntie Bee.’

Brigid smiled and said, ‘I love you too, Roy, but you don’t expect me to walk in there and do the business with this team of wombats hanging about outside clutching their tossles and giggling like a pack of silly buggers. It’s bloody embarrassing.’

Roy was puzzled.

‘But, Auntie Bee, where I go me gang goes,’ he said.

‘Look, Roy,’ continued Brigid, ‘ya know the Saint Patrick Hotel around the corner? Tubby Phillips runs it. Tell him I sent ya and he’ll let ya in.’

‘Shit,’ said Roy, ‘we’re all under age.’ He could kill a man in Bourke Street without blinking an eye, but he was concerned that he might be seen in a pub drinking something stronger than red lemonade.

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ said Brigid. ‘You’re carrying a gun and ya all look heaps older than you are. Besides, when Tubby finds out you’re my nephew he’ll do what he’s told.’ She winked.

Roy got the picture.

‘Oh yeah. Ha ha. Okay, Auntie Bee. C’mon boys,’ said Roy all set to go to the Saint Pat. ‘Hang on,’ said Brigid and handed Roy a quid. ‘You’ll need some money. Stick this in your kick.’

‘Thanks,’ said Roy and gave her a big hug and a smooch on the cheek. The gang waved her goodbye as Brigid walked across the street to the gun shop. Every one of the pimply-faced gangsters would have given a year of his life to be in Ronnie West’s shoes. Or his undies, anyway. Brigid was thinking to herself, ‘I hope this doesn’t take long. The things I do for young Roy. I deserve a Brownlow bloody medal for the best and dirtiest.’

Most of the gang already drank in pubs in Collingwood, but for Roy the drinking caper was all a bit new. Then there was the shock of finding the great and feared Aussie boxing champs Redda Maloney and Jackie Twist going hell for leather in the bar of the Saint Patrick. It was a sight to behold.

The two pugs were both covered in blood, and the sawdust on the pub floor was such a bloody mess it looked like a butcher’s shop after a big day. Tex Lawson stood at the door. He was a tough young dockie, about 20 years old. Next to him stood the lovely Colleen O’Shaughnessy. Roy called her Auntie Coll.

She might have looked like Shelley Winters, but she didn’t look happy. In fact, she was in tears and her big bazoomers heaved up and down as she sobbed.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Roy. ‘What’s going on, Auntie Coll?’

She flew into his arms.

‘Twist tried to stamp me for ten quid and then he hit me, and Redda jumped in.’

Roy went for his gun, but a big man stopped him.

‘Ease up, kid,’ he said. It was Fred Harrison. ‘Twist will keep. Besides, there’s no way in the world he’ll beat Redda Maloney.’ Freddie ‘The Frog’ Harrison was an underworld legend and without a doubt the most feared man on the Melbourne waterfront. He was also no friend of Twist’s and had smacked Jackie about in public several times to prove the point. ‘You’re a dog and a hoon, Twist,’ yelled Harrison. ‘C’mon Redda, into him.’ And with that Maloney sent Twist to the floor with a flurry of upper cuts, leaving the heavyweight champ out cold.

Freddie The Frog walked up to the unconscious Twist, opened his fly and pissed onto the boxer’s puffy face.

‘There you go, Jack,’ he sneered. ‘Have a drink on me.’

Everyone in the pub broke out laughing. The Frog and young Tex Lawson and Redda Maloney swaggered out.

‘Are ya coming?’ Freddie yelled to Colleen.

She looked at Roy. ‘See ya later, darl,’ she said, giving him a quick hug and a kiss. ‘Here ya go,’ she said, and stuck a five pound note in Roy’s hand. ‘Have yourselves a drink on Colleen.’ Then she swayed and wiggled over to Harrison’s 1952 Chevrolet, and got in it.

The big man waved at Roy Reeves. ‘Hey Roy, your dad was one of the greatest. Take care of ya self son.’

‘Yeah Mr Harrison,’ yelled Roy as the car drove away. He didn’t know it would be the last time he’d ever see the great Freddie Harrison alive again. The Frog got croaked soon after. The funny thing was, although there were dozens of men on the wharf when it happened, not one was able to tell the police who did it. Even the ones with bits of blood and brains splashed on them.

But some of them reckoned later that if they had seen the bloke with the shotgun, it was just possible he might have looked a bit like Jack Twist. Of course, that was probably foul slander and innuendo.

*

EVELYN Owen was a motor mechanic from Wollongong. He invented the Owen submachine gun in 1938. At first it looked like a small Thompson machine gun. The first production models were issued to Australian troops in New Guinea as replacements for the much heavier American Thompsons in 1942, and in time the Owen even replaced the Sten gun. It had a 33-round vertical fed magazine and fired 10 shots a second.

Brigid O’Shaughnessy didn’t really need to know all this detail, but she listened politely, anyway. She was lying on the single bed in Ronnie’s bedroom above the gun shop. He had just spent a fast and furious 10 minutes of heavenly happiness tooling the Jayne Mansfield lookalike and was now standing stark naked, holding the Owen gun, and explaining the finer points of the weapon.

Brigid could afford to listen for a while – she’d talked him down from twenty quid to a fiver and a bit of the old funny business. Ronnie jumped at it, but he wanted another 10 pound for the 1000 rounds of ammo that went with the gun. She was trying to work that down to five pound with another ten minutes of slip sliding away between the sheets, but Ronnie West was a one-root wonder. He fired a shot quicker than the Owen gun.

After a while, Brigid got sick of the firepower lecture. ‘Ahh bugger you Ron,’ she said, getting off the bed and tossing the gunsmith his ten extra quid for the ammo. ‘I haven’t got all day. Stick all that in the boot of my car, will ya? And the next time you get horny it will cost you a handgun and a box of shells every time. I’m sick of you messing me about.’

‘Don’t be like that,’ said Ronnie.

‘One more word out of you, ya ten-minute pansy, and I’ll tell young Roy ya hit me and you’ll be pulling bullets out of ya bum by teatime.’

Ronnie West took a serious tone. He wanted to hit the arrogant slut for the way she talked to him, but she was right. Roy Reeves would gun down anyone who messed with any member of his family.

‘Let me get dressed,’ he said, biting his tongue. ‘And I’ll pack it all up carry it to the car for ya.’

‘Okay,’ said Brigid. ‘Snap it up will ya. I don’t have all day.’

*

IT was 1958 and Roy Reeves was driving a lovely FC Holden his Auntie Brigid had bought him. He was 17 years old and growing, and so was his gang. There were now 30 young hoods who’d do anything for Roy, and they weren’t the only ones. Roy had a way of inspiring respect.

He was collecting a flat two quid a week from every prostitute in Collingwood, Victoria Park, Clifton Hill and Abbotsford. He collected another ten quid a week from every brothel and a fiver a week from every sly grog operation. He was also standing over every SP bookie in the area for a fiver a week.

It all added up. Roy was pulling in 300 quid a week. Every man in his gang got five quid a week. That was 150 quid a week gone in wages. Every gang member had his own criminal interests and raised their own funds, with a flat 10 per cent going into a general gang kitty held by Auntie Bee. In two years that kitty had grown to three thousand pounds, a small fortune. At the time a new car cost about 600 pounds.

Auntie Bee’s problems with the Bennett brothers had been solved when Ripper Roy came walking through the swinging doors of the Peppermint Lounge jazz club in Smith Street, Collingwood, with a handgun in each hand. He looked for all the world like Hoot Gibson and shot like him – gunning down the three brothers with seven shots. They all lived but held true to the Collingwood code of silence. Two days later Ripper Roy and his newfound friend Stanley Van Gogh did the Murray Brothers over with broken beer bottles in Blood Lane. The Van Goghs lived in Collingwood Lane, in the worst and most evil part of the old slums – the part of Collingwood that all the politicians reckoned they would pull down later and put all the people in new Housing Commission high rise flats. They were saying the same about Richmond and Fitzroy but no-one believed them at the time. Stanley Van Gogh said to Ripper, ‘The pollies are full of shit and it’ll never happen.’

Ripper Roy wasn’t so sure about that. As the world grew more la de dah the old slums seemed more like London’s East End before the war than Melbourne in the modern 1950s. Sooner or later, he reckoned, they would pull half of Collingwood down and rebuild it. Most of the children in old Collingwood, the dark side, where they didn’t even have street lights at night, had spent their first years of life fighting for food with the rats who lived with them. Easey Street was rough, but it was posh compared with where poor Stanley lived.

‘Let’s head over to Auntie Bee’s place to watch telly,’ Ripper Roy said to Stanley.

‘Nah,’ said Stan. ‘Them TV things is bad for ya eyes. My dad reckons that they send out radio waves that can send ya blind.’

Ripper wondered at this. He didn’t seem convinced. ‘Oh well, okay then. See ya,’ he said.

He started up his new FC Holden and went over to Gipps Street to collect his two faithful right and left hand men, Irish Arthur Featherstone and Terry Maloney.

When he got to the house they shared with Bobby McCall and Ray Brown, he walked in to find Bobby McCall chock-a-block up Helen Hill, a Richmond prostitute who was another Hollywood lookalike. Helen was a big, well put together brunette who prided herself on looking like the movie star Jane Russell. Bobby McCall had failed to notice that the big girl was totally unconscious.

‘Hey Bobby,’ yelled Roy, ‘she’s out like a light, what’s going on?’

Bobby paid no heed and continued to jack hammer the poor girl. ‘It’s this stuff,’ said Ray Brown, holding out a glass vial of white powder.

‘What is it?’ asked Roy.

‘We got it from Chang Heywood over in Richmond. He got it from the Chinese. Them dagos in Carlton are selling it to the molls.’

Roy looked sour at the mention of the wogs. There weren’t many of them, but the pocket of Italian criminals in Carlton had already made their presence felt around the Victoria Market area with their secret society and dago versus dago shootings. They were yet to try the Aussies on for size, but Roy knew it would only be a matter of time. He had already shot two of them in the legs for drinking in hotels in Collingwood. They were a couple of dagos named Corsettie and Carrasella. At least they told the police nothing, which was something to their credit.

The Chinese were harmless. They stayed around Chinatown in the city and had done since the 1850s and had broadened the Aussie culture. After all, Roy reasoned, hadn’t they introduced chiko rolls and dim sims to the delicate local palate? But what made Roy ill at ease was the influx of what he and everybody else called ‘these reffo immigrant bastards’ with their slicked-back oily hair and their charm with the ladies and their waving hands around as they talked their languages you couldn’t understand.

‘Yeah, well,’ said Roy, looking at the white powder Ray Brown was holding out.

‘It’s called Mortine powder or something,’ Ray told him.

Arthur Featherstone laughed. ‘Morphine powder, you idiot,’ said Arthur. ‘You mix it with water in a spoon, heat it, then suck it up into one of these.’ He showed Roy a glass needle plunger thing, like one he’d seen in a hospital once. ‘Then you inject it into your arm or your hip in the muscle or the vein.’

‘Shit,’ said Roy, ‘sounds a bit rough, what’s the big deal?’

‘Well,’ said Arthur, ‘a lot of the crackers, the working girls, love it and they pay five pound for half an ounce, ten pound an ounce.’

‘Shit,’ said Roy, ‘ten quid an ounce? How much does it really cost?’

Arthur said: ‘About 10 bob an ounce from the Chinese, 15 bob an ounce from the dagos, but the trick is if you cut it up into small portions and sell it in little packets you can charge five bob a pop.’

‘And how many little one-person packets can you get out of an ounce?’ asked Roy.

‘From 100 to 112,’ said Arthur.

Roy couldn’t quite believe it. He was doing mental arithmetic as he spoke. ‘How much?’ he muttered. Then, as if answering himself, he said: ‘Five bob 100 times … that’s 25 pound. Shit! Have you got some of this stuff? I’ll show Auntie Bee this.’

Arthur handed Roy a one-ounce glass vial and a needle.

‘Nah. I won’t need that thing,’ said Roy, handing the needle back. ‘She can taste it by sniffing it up her nose or swallowing it with a cup of tea.’

‘But don’t drink grog on it,’ said Arthur. ‘Cos I think that’s what killed young Helen over there.’

Suddenly Bobby McCall stopped humping.

‘Whadya mean killed?’ he said.

Arthur smiled. ‘She’s been dead for the last ten minutes, Bobby, only I didn’t want to be a party pooper.’

Bobby McCall checked her breathing. There wasn’t any. ‘Geez,’ he said, looking sick. ‘But she’s as warm as anything. What the hell are we gonna do now?’ Arthur kept going as if nothing had happened. Roy looked shocked. ‘As I was saying,’ said Arthur, ‘morphine and alcohol is a fatal mixture, so tell Brigid, okay.’

‘I sure will,’ murmured Roy as he walked out, forgetting why he’d come to visit in the first place.

As Roy drove over to Easey Street he wondered about the dead Helen Hill and hoped she wasn’t related to the Richmond crew. All the Lennox Street Hills had green eyes and blondie brown hair, but the dead girl was dark. Anyway, there was at least three Helen Hills he knew of in Richmond and two in Collingwood, and they were all knob polishers.

‘Shit, I hope the boys dump the body well and keep it secret from Young Chang Heywood,’ he thought. ‘Chang’s a bloody gossip.’ Apart from being the best car thief in Melbourne Chang was also a loyal Richmond boy.

As Roy pulled up out the front of Auntie Bee’s place he noticed Ronnie West ducking around the corner in a hurry. What’s that shifty bugger up to, thought Roy. He got out of his car and walked up to his auntie’s front door and knocked. After about two minutes Brigid O’Shaughnessy answered the door. She was in a black silk dressing gown with black high heeled slippers. She was also in tears. The gown was torn open, revealing teeth marks on her breasts. She had a swollen eye and blood on her lip.

‘He raped me,’ cried Brigid. ‘Ronnie West raped me.’ She collapsed into Roy’s arms, howling.

‘C’mon, Auntie Bee, c’mon,’ Roy said gently. He took her into the bedroom and sat her down. He didn’t know what to do. She was in fits of tears.

‘He did it to me, up my bottom as well and he hit me and look,’ she said, holding her tits for examination. ‘He bit my boobs as well.’

‘I’ll fucking kill the dog,’ said Roy. ‘But first I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Wait here.’ But when he went to the kitchen to put the kettle on she followed him. ‘And he put it in my mouth as well, the dirty bastard. That is something I only do for special men I love.’

Roy was shocked.

She wrapped her gown around herself and sat down, trying to control herself, and explained what had happened.

‘Have you had your morning gin yet?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Brigid.

‘Well, don’t,’ said Roy. ‘Try this.’ He pulled out the vial of morphine powder and put half a teaspoon of it into her cup of tea. He added three spoons of sugar the way she liked it, then milk.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘drink that and tell me how you feel.’

The sobbing lady drank her tea in four large swallows.

‘Ahh,’ she said, ‘nothing like a nice cuppa. What was that stuff?’

‘Magic powder,’ Roy said. ‘Tell me when you feel something, but remember – you can’t drink no grog on it or you’ll die.’

*

HALF an hour later Brigid said, ‘What on earth have you given me?’ She had vomited in the outside thunder box dunny three times and once in the sink, but she felt the best she ever had. As if she was floating on a sea of cotton wool, as if every part of her body and being was wrapped in heaven and all pain physical and mental was gone. She felt wonderful and was running herself a nice bath. The unpleasantness with Ronnie West was not just finished, but forgotten. At least where Brigid was concerned. Roy had a long memory and a loaded gun.

‘Jeez, Roy, that is fantastic stuff you put in my tea,’ she gushed. ‘This is the best I’ve felt in my whole life.’

The beautiful woman was lying back in her bubble bath, luxuriating.

Roy warned her again. ‘Don’t drink on it, Auntie Bee, or it can kill you.’

‘Okay, baby. I won’t. I don’t even feel like it.’

She looked over and spoke to Roy as she soaped her body.

‘You’re a good boy, Roy. You’re my favorite nephew and my best mate. I love you, Roy. You’re a bloody good kid to your Auntie Bee, hey?’ she purred.

‘Yeah,’ said Roy as he sat on a chair in the bathroom.

‘Take me to the movies, will ya, I love the movies.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Roy patiently. ‘Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘The Maltese Falcon.’

Roy knew why his auntie loved this movie so much. ‘The Maltese Falcon’ made in 1941 with Humphrey Bogart, Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lawrie. The female leading lady was Mary Astor and, you guessed it, she played the role of none other than Brigid O’Shaughnessy.

The Bogart character, Sam Spade, spends the whole movie running from the bad guys or chasing after them and making love to Brigid O’Shaughnessy. At least that’s how Auntie Bee saw it. Forget Lauren Bacall, as far as Auntie Bee was concerned Humphrey Bogart loved her and only her.

‘Jayne Mansfield should have played that role,’ said Brigid. ‘Bloody Mary Astor, she looks like the blinking barmaid at Dan O’Connell’s pub. Jayne Mansfield would have gone much better next to Humphrey Bogart.’

Roy knew what to say and when to say it. ‘You would have made a good Hollywood movie star,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful, Auntie Bee.’

‘And you look like bloody Gary Cooper,’ said Brigid, and they laughed like a pair of kookaburras.

At Auntie Bee’s pleading Roy had decided not to kill Ronnie West, on the logic that a tame gunsmith was worth his weight in gold. But he didn’t get away scot free for putting such a serious hole in his manners. Irish Arthur and Terry Maloney were dispatched to collect Ronnie West from his shop. They borrowed a stolen 1952 Vauxhall from Chang Heywood for the princely sum of 10 bob, pulled up with a squeal of drum brakes, dragged a terrified West from his shop and threw him into the car.

They drove to the front of the Royal Melbourne Hospital and parked. Roy Reeves got into the car, and Ronnie West went white.

‘I’m gonna hurt ya Ronnie,’ Roy said. ‘Now, you can give me up to the police and I’ll go to jail but the rest of the gang will kill your mother and father. Ya know Frank Kerr don’t ya, ya know how he’s got one arm? Well, I took the other one. Now which arm do you want to lose?’ said Roy.

Ronnie West was in tears of terror. ‘No Roy, not my arms,’ he begged. What was the use of a one-armed gunsmith?

‘All right,’ said Roy, and he pulled out a meat cleaver. ‘Hold the dog Terry.’

Big Terry Maloney held Ronnie West as Roy Reeves smashed the meat cleaver down hard across West’s left knee cap. West tried to struggle and kick but Ripper Roy brought the cleaver down a second time. West was screaming and tried to make it for the car door but a third blow from the meat cleaver severed the leg. ‘Open the door,’ yelled Ripper Roy, and Ronnie West was pushed out onto the footpath.

‘You’ll live, dog, but talk to the cops and your mum and dad will die like dogs,’ Roy spat as Arthur Featherstone drove away.

Ripper Roy took the leg and wrapped it in a towel. It looked funny with the shoe still on the foot. He got Irish Arthur to drop him off at Auntie Bee’s place and he knocked on the door. Brigid answered and said. ‘Hi ya, Roy, what’s that you’re hiding behind ya back, a present for me?’ She said it with a smile, jiggling and wiggling all over with girlish excitement. ‘Yeah,’ said Roy, deadpan. ‘I went to see Ronnie West for ya. He said he’s very sorry and he’s sent ya this.’ Roy held out the severed leg and unwrapped it from the blood-drenched towel. Auntie Bee fell to the floor in a heap. She’d fainted dead on the spot.

‘Well,’ said Roy to himself. ‘There’s bloody gratitude for ya. That’s the last leg I’m cutting off for you.’

He bent down and picked up his fallen auntie, while still holding the leg. Brigid woke up and saw it in his hands as he was carrying her down the hallway. She let out a little scream and fainted again.

‘Jesus, Auntie Bee,’ he grumbled, ‘it’s only a bloody leg, for God’s sake.’

*

ROY Reeves and Irish Arthur stood looking at a large framed photograph hanging above Roy’s fireplace in Easey Street. They were waiting for Terry Maloney and Stanley Van Gogh and a new member of Roy’s gang – a 15-year-old kid named Johnny Go Go.

‘Who’s that in the photo, Roy?’ asked Arthur.

‘That’s my old dad, Johnny Reeves, but they called him Roy the Boy and the little bloke in the bowler hat is Squizzy Taylor. My Dad was Taylor’s right hand man,’ said Roy proudly. ‘Yeah, Johnny Reeves was the bloke who tried to shoot Phar Lap before the 1930 Melbourne Cup.’

Arthur looked impressed. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Now, there’s a bit of dinky di Aussie history for ya.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. ‘But between you, me and the gatepost, Roy, I’m glad ya old man didn’t kill Phar Lap.’

Roy nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah, me too. How would I be as the son of the man who killed Phar Lap?’ Arthur nodded. ‘Not too bloody popular,’ he said.

Roy’s mum let Terry Maloney in, along with Stanley and Johnny Go Go. They were all off to the footy to watch Collingwood play in the 1958 Grand Final.

‘Another Premiership for us,’ yelled Terry.

‘Of course,’ said Roy. ‘I don’t even know why we bother going. We all know who’s gonna bloody win.’

‘Did ya hear Ronnie West is out of hospital?’ said Johnny Go Go.

‘Nah,’ said Roy. ‘That’s news but I do know he stuck staunch.’

What Roy didn’t know was Auntie Bee had quietly paid Ronnie a visit in hospital and instead of giving him grapes she slung him a thousand pounds of her own money. She told him to take the cash and shut up, and if he mentioned Roy’s name she’d scream rape on him. It was a fair exchange, sort of the crims version of Worker’s Comp. Also, Ronnie was by nature a solid Collingwood boy and never gave people up. Besides which, the passing threat from Ripper Roy re his mum and dad had stuck with him.

Roy seemed like a man of his word.

Brigid swore to herself that it would be the last time she went crying to Roy when some bloke upset her. God, she was still having bad dreams about that leg.

‘Shit,’ said Brigid. ‘No-one misses a slice off a cut loaf and crying over getting up-ended once in a while isn’t worth it.’

If her nephew intended to thrust severed limbs in her face, she wouldn’t be sharing her troubles with him in future. The cut-off leg was more of a mental and emotional shock than the rape.

‘Never again,’ she said.

When the boys went to the footy, Brigid went to church to do a bit of plea bargaining with God. She knelt before a statue of Holy Mother Mary, surrounded by candles. She lit a candle for Ronnie West’s severed leg and crossed herself, then prayed. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’

Then she opened her eyes and looked up at the Madonna and said, ‘And please watch over Roy, Lord, and we are sorry about Ronnie’s leg. I know I’m a fallen woman and probably deserved what I got for all my sins, but I reckon Ronnie West had that coming to him. Nevertheless please forgive us. I’d tell the priest, but Father Gillis is a bad drunk with a big mouth and between you and me, Lord, I reckon Father Gillis would give ya up in a police station, so this is between us, hey Lord. You, me and Mother Mary.’

Brigid crossed herself, then stood up and walked out. She had once been, if nothing else, a good Catholic girl. Somewhere along the way, she mislaid the ‘good’ bit. But she was still a Mick at heart.

*

IT was 1962. Ripper Roy was driving a brand new Chevrolet Belair, which suited his style as a wealthy man. He’d put 3000 pounds on Hi Jinx to win the 1960 Melbourne Cup, and the result made him one of the biggest landlords in the inner suburbs, as well as running all the other standover rackets. He was on easy street, and he was on his way to Easey Street after a visit to the cemetery. He and Neville Griffin, Tex Lawson, Redda Maloney, Bobby Rebecca and Stan Twain had put flowers on Freddie ‘the Frog’ Harrison’s grave, as was their habit since Twisty had blown his head off a few years earlier down on the docks.

Ripper Roy remembered Freddie fondly. ‘One of the grand old men and a better chap you’d never meet in a day’s march,’ he used to say. He pulled up to Auntie Bee’s place. Brigid had put on a few pounds over the years around the hips and tits area, but she was still a small boy’s wet dream. He walked in to find Auntie Bee on her knees in the lounge room.

‘What’s goin on, Auntie Bee?’ said Roy.

‘Father Della Torre told me to go home and say an act of contrition,’ said Brigid.

‘Who the hell is Father Della Torre?’ asked Roy.

‘He’s the new priest at St. Mary’s,’ she answered.

‘Holy mother of God,’ said Roy. ‘A dago priest. Shit, Banjo bloody Paterson would roll over in his grave if he could see this.’

‘No Roy,’ protested Brigid, who was a soft touch in more ways than one. ‘Father Della Torre is a lovely man.’

‘That would be right,’ thought Roy.

He was ashamed to admit it, but he knew his esteemed auntie had a weakness for these Latin types, especially since Norman Bradshaw had taken her to Perry Bros Circus and Zoo down at the Burnley Oval in Richmond. Old Normie had been shaggin’ the guts out of young Brigid since she was 16 years old, but it wasn’t love. She did, however, fall in love when she met the Great Caballero, a Spanish acrobat and trick rider who performed at the circus.

She was 17 years old and she was head over heels over the acrobat. The smooth-talking Spaniard promised her the world, then left her at the altar a year later, pregnant and brokenhearted. She lost the baby in childbirth, which was about right, as nothing the oily dago gave her ever worked right. But, afterwards, she still had this thing for cowboys like Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Hoot Gibson, John Wayne and Audie Murphy. If they rode a horse and carried a gun she loved ’em all, but her favorite was the Mexican Caballeros on the movies. The Spanish horse riders. Did she love them Latins.

Now and again Brigid would use silly Spanish expressions, like her favorite: ‘Uno momento, senor, may I have the money first please?’ Or ‘come on, Caballero, ride me like the wind.’

It was all very cute, but Brigid’s love or lust for these dago movie cowboys made Roy a bit sick.

‘Anyway,’ Brigid was telling him, ‘I went to confession this morning and Father Della Torre told me to go home and say an act of contrition.’

Roy laughed. ‘Confession, hey. Auntie Bee. That must have taken a while.’ She gave Roy a sharp look. ‘Don’t joke, Roy. Now kneel with me while I pray.’

So Roy knelt down facing his Auntie Bee. They both crossed themselves and Brigid began, ‘Oh my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins and detest them above all things because they have crucified. No, no that’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Hang on, yes, I remember; because they deserve the dreadful punishments because they have crucified my loving savior Jesus Christ and most of all because they offend thine infinite goodness and I firmly resolve by the help of thy grace never to offend thee again and carefully to avoid the occasions of sin. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ said Roy, as he stood up. But Brigid remained on her knees.

‘Well, come on Auntie Bee, up ya get,’ said Roy.

‘Ya know Auntie Bee,’ said Roy ‘between hail bloody Marys and doodle shaking half the world, the good Lord is going to have a bugger of a time figuring out what to do with you.’

*

MEANWHILE, a 1957 FE Holden with five men in it was parked a hundred yards up the street from Brigid’s place. Tuppence Murray sat at the wheel. Big Twisty was next to him, with a loaded .38 calibre handgun in his hand. Titchy Turner, Normie Green and Con Hardgrave were in the back seat. No-one wanted to be left out, so they all had .38s.

‘He won’t be in there long. Probably still staring at his auntie’s tits,’ said Twist.

‘Ya joking,’ said Turner. ‘He’s not, is he?’

‘Well, why not?’ said Twisty. ‘Colleen O’Shaughnessy is getting shafted by Billy and Ray Reeves and they are her cousins, and old Herb ‘The Hat’ O’Shaughnessy is her own uncle and if he isn’t plonking her I’ll bare my bum in Myer’s bloody window.’

‘Shit,’ grunted Con Hardgrave, ‘it’s all a bit sick, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, the whole Reeves clan have been a sick pack of killers and whores for as long as anyone can remember.’

‘Ripper Roy’s mad dad was the bastard who tried to kill Phar Lap, for God’s sake,’ said Titchy Turner.

‘Yeah, well, Ripper Roy killed my dad and that’s all I’m interested in,’ said Tuppence Murray. ‘My whole family will have to find a new place to live if we don’t fix Roy. He’s been hounding us for years.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said Con Hardgrave. ‘But, your problems aside, we’ve all got our own scores to settle.’

Hardgrave was thinking about his younger brother, Danny, who’d been shot dead outside the Cricketer’s Arms Hotel in Cruickshank Street, Port Melbourne, the previous year. It had Ripper Roy’s fingerprints all over it. As far as he was concerned, Reeves had to go.

*

AS Brigid walked Roy to the front door she was chattering on about helping old Father Harrigan down at the Sailor’s Mission. They were putting on a fundraiser.

‘So what does the old drunk want you to do, Auntie Bee?’ asked Roy. ‘Oh, Father Harrigan wants to put on a fete and he wants me to get some of the girls to bake cakes.’

‘I knew a few of them had buns in the oven but I didn’t know the girls could bake cakes,’ said Roy, smirking at the idea.

Brigid giggled. ‘No, I guess we’ll just pitch in a fiver each and get Quinn’s Bakery to knock up a few hundred, and we’ll probably toss Father Harrigan a lazy hundred quid to go with it,’ she said. She was a soft touch, all right.

Roy shook his head.

‘These two-faced priests condemn you in public for being whores and fallen women, then stamp you for a quid when the honest people won’t chip in. If it wasn’t for the crims and crackers slinging these priests money half the poor people who go to the church for food and warm clothes would freeze and starve. Christ, ya must hand over a grand a year to the priests, Auntie Bee. And what about the other girls. I saw old Harrigan stamp Sally Wingate for a fiver yesterday, and she’s a bloody Protestant.’

Brigid scowled suddenly. ‘Roy, don’t speak ill of Father Harrigan,’ she snapped. It was the Irish in her. She was as game as Ned Kelly about everything else, but scared of crossing the priests.

‘Speak ill of the old dog!’ said Roy. ‘When he’s not stamping the girls for money he’s trying to pants them.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Brigid, ‘that’s just a rumor.’

‘Ha ha,’ laughed Roy. ‘You ask Bonny Brown about Father Harrigan. He’s been pantsing poor Bonny for the last ten years.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Brigid. ‘You can’t believe Bonny, she just loves to gossip. I’ll see her about that.’

The two stood on the footpath just behind Roy’s car. Roy put his arm around Brigid and said, ‘I’ll see ya later, Auntie Bee.’ He didn’t see the FE Holden as it cruised toward them, but Brigid did. She screamed, ‘Look out, Roy’ and threw herself in front of him. She grabbed him, putting her body between Roy and the line of fire. A stream of bullets hit them. Roy tried to push her out of the way to protect her, but she clung on tight. She had three slugs in her back, and there were more coming. They whistled past Roy’s head and smacked into the front of the old red brick house.

He clawed for his gun and returned fire, hitting the Holden with six slugs as it tore away. When it turned the corner he laid Brigid down on the footpath. She was bleeding badly and coughing blood.

‘Auntie Bee,’ Roy yelled. ‘Don’t die, Auntie Bee.’

But she was. It didn’t matter how much he yelled. The dying woman was still holding Roy’s shoulder with her left hand and she looked up at him with her big eyes.

‘I’m gone, Roy,’ she said. ‘No, ya not, Auntie Bee. No ya not,’ cried Ripper Roy. ‘Yes, I am darlin,’ said Brigid. ‘Via con dios, caballero,’ she said, coughing blood. ‘Via con dios.’

‘No, Auntie Bee, no,’ cried Roy.

Brigid O’Shaughnessy looked at the crying Roy Reeves and said, ‘Bill Monroe’s the best, hey Roy?’

Ripper Reeves held his Auntie Bee. ‘Bill Monroe’s the best,’ he said. The dying woman started to sing, ‘I can hear a sweet voice calling,’ then she closed her eyes and died.

Ripper Roy stood up slowly. He emptied the spent shells out of his .38 and reloaded as if he was in a trance. He didn’t look at the pistol, but down Easey Street with a faraway stare. For a while, he was lost in space and time. Then he spoke to the body on the footpath.

‘They’ll be hearing some sweet voices calling tonight, Auntie Bee, I can promise ya that. They’ll be hearing some sweet voices calling tonight.’

Oh, an Irish girl’s heart is as stout as shillelagh,

It heats with delight to chase sorry or woe,

When the piper plays up then it dances as gaily,

and thumps with a whack to leather a foe.

– Brigid O’Shaughnessy, 1962.

*

IT was late 1976. Van Der Hum had won the Melbourne Cup and you’d think Ripper Roy Reeves owned him and backed him as well, with the amount of cash he had quietly invested around Collingwood.

Ripper Roy was sitting in one of his investment opportunities, the newly-named Caballero Night Club, in Smith Street. It had formerly been the Peppermint Lounge, but that ended as soon as Johnny Go Go bought the place, fronting for Roy.

Things changed fast. Whereas the club had once bopped along to the jazz sounds of Jelly Roll Morton, it now rocked to the sound of striptease music while a young hot pants from Richmond named Muriel Hill popped fly buttons all over the joint.

Ripper Roy was travelling pretty well. He was about to tuck in to a big feed of baked lobster with oyster sauce, which was the kind of tucker he had only heard about when he was nothing but a dangerous kid. Now he was rich and choosy, but still dangerous.

‘Holy shit,’ he yelled as he spat out a mouth full of roast lobster. ‘What’s this shit? Who cooked this crap?’ he said to Arthur Featherstone.

Irish Arthur hurried over to see what the matter was.

‘Taste this crap!’ Roy demanded.

‘God,’ said Arthur, spitting it out. ‘That’s off. That would kill a brown dog.’

Terry Maloney and Ray Chuckles came over along with Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric.

‘What’s wrong,’ they asked.

‘Who cooked this shit?’ asked Roy.

‘Bunny Malloy,’ said Terry. ‘He was head cook at Pentridge for the last seven years. He got out three weeks ago.’

Arthur broke in, trying not to smile. ‘Excuse me, Terry, but is this the same Bunny Malloy who told young Muriel Hill a few days ago that Cordon Bleu was a French bank robber?’ As laughter broke out Roy snarled, ‘You sack him, Terry, or I’ll shoot him.’

When Reeves threatened to put someone off he didn’t mean to the unemployment office. It’s hard to get a new job with a hole in the scone.

‘But, Roy,’ protested Terry. Ray Chuckles jumped in, trying to defend poor Bunny. ‘He’s a good bloke and a hard man,’ he said.

‘Well then,’ said Roy, ‘pull him out of the kitchen and give him a job as a bouncer, but he’s to stay out of the kitchen. Okay, Terry?’

‘Yeah, Roy,’ said Maloney, smiling.

‘If he can slaughter load-mouthed drunks like he did a job on that overgrown yabbie then he’ll be the toughest doorman this side of the East End,’ Roy said.

‘Now,’ he said to Chuckles, ‘what do you wombats want this side of town? Sit down, boys. Sit down.’

Ray Chuckles, Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric all sat down at Ripper Roy’s table.

‘Tex Lawson sent us to see ya, Roy,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘But he’s in jail,’ replied Roy. ‘Doing 13 years for murdering Pat Boon down the docks.’

‘Brian O’Flanagan spoke to him for us. They’re in H Division together,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ said Roy. ‘Only testing. Go on, what’s the go?’

‘Well, Roy,’ said Ray. ‘It’s like this. We need six machine guns, and you’re the only man in Melbourne with his own personal collection of machine guns.’

‘What’s it all for?’ asked Ripper Roy. ‘And tell us the truth or ya can all piss off right now. I know you’re a good bloke, Ray. I know ya used to be Tex Lawson’s bodyguard, I know you’re a solid and staunch Caballero – but lie to me and I’ll kill ya right now, okay?’

He meant it. Ray Chuckles continued very politely. ‘It’s like this, Mr Reeves. Remember the old bookmaker Bert Shaw? He’s dead now. Remember old Bert went to Tex about an idea he had and Tex went to Teddy Kidd and his crew, but Kidd knocked it back?’

‘Shit,’ said Roy. ‘Not that old chestnut. Tex Lawson has been trying to interest people in that numb nut idea for years.’

Ray Chuckles nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah, Mr Reeves, the bookies.’

Roy started to look interested, in spite of himself. He was a natural born thinker when it came to planning any sort of larceny, especially if it involved a bit of the old firepower. He would have made a great general if there’d been a war handy. ‘You’ll need at least six to seven men,’ he said suddenly.

‘We’ve got seven in the crew,’ said Ray. ‘Six will do the job.’

‘You’ll need heavy duty firepower,’ said Ripper Roy, which was no surprise. If there was one thing he liked, it was the smell of gunpowder. Even after 20 years.

‘Well, that’s why we came to see you,’ said Ray Chuckles.

Ripper Roy was looking into space and thinking aloud.

‘The bloody Victoria Club,’ said Roy, lost in thought. But he looked doubtful. ‘Shit … could it be done? Nah, you’ll never pull it off.’

‘But,’ said Ray, ‘if we do, we could net millions. If we don’t, that’s our risk.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ripper Roy sourly, ‘and I lose six machine guns. Do you know how hard it is to put together a collection of machine guns?’

‘Ya right, Roy. But you’re a punter,’ said Ray. ‘If we win you’re there for a slice of the pie.’

‘How much?’ said Ripper Roy.

Ray Chuckles looked at Veggie McNamara and Marco Montric. ‘We have all discussed it. How about 100 grand if we pull it off?’ said Ray.

‘Right,’ said Roy. ‘I can let you have one sten gun, two Owen guns and three Stirling submachine guns. How’s that sound?’

Ray Chuckles smiled. ‘Thanks, Ripper. I mean Mr Reeves,’ he added hastily.

Roy laughed. ‘Forget the bullshit. False courtesy and politeness will do.’

‘Okay Roy,’ said Ray Chuckles.

‘What about the Kanes?’ said Roy.

‘Ahh, piss on them,’ said Ray Chuckles. ‘They have been talking to that copper Skull Miller for so long now, they think they’re policemen. I betcha they’ve got flat feet to match their flat heads. I’ll handle them,’ said Ray.

‘We can kill ’em for ya,’ said Roy.

‘Nah,’ said Ray. ‘The Kanes are our problem. We can catch and kill our own mice, as they say.’

Ripper Roy thought about Brian and Les Kane. They had always stayed clear of Collingwood. As long as Ripper Roy got his hundred grand Ray Chuckles and his crew and the Kanes could drown themselves in their own blood, for all he cared.

Roy then wondered if Tex Lawson was copping a sling out of all this. After all, Bert Shaw was dead and it was Tex who’d taken the bookie plot to Ray Chuckles in the first place. ‘Okay,’ said Roy, slapping Chuckles on the shoulder. ‘Ya got yourself a deal.’

He turned and yelled, ‘Terry, grab the key to the gun cupboard, will you?’

Roy had sixty machine guns in storage, oiled, ready and waiting. What was six more or less? It was a hundred grand for jam, raspberry jam.

*

THE ghosts of 1962 had been laid to rest, more or less. Ripper Roy hadn’t seen the faces of the men in the car who shot at him in Easey Street and killed his Auntie Bee, so he simply put the names of his worst enemies into a hat – all 70 of them – and got Terry Maloney to pull six names out. By the end of the month three totally innocent men were dead, and three more who had nothing to do with the shooting had vanished off the face of the earth.

‘When in doubt, shoot everybody,’ was Roy’s thinking. Whether they did it or not, it made Roy feel much better. And it made people think twice about crossing him.

As Ray Chuckles and his two offsiders drove their 1973 Ford Falcon through the streets of Collingwood with six machine guns and ammo in the boot, they had to stop for a gang of kids playing cricket in the street.

Ray Chuckles tooted his horn, then wound his window down.

‘C’mon, you rug rats, move ya selves,’ he yelled.

‘Who are youse talkin’ to?’ yelled a skinny little kid who stood knee high to a grasshopper.

‘You, ya little bastard,’ growled Ray Chuckles. ‘Move ya selves out of the way or I’ll run over the lot of you.’

The kid picked up a rock and hurled it at the car. It smashed the side window and hit Veggie McNamara in the face, where he was sitting in the back seat. ‘You little turd!’ yelled Veggie.

Ray Chuckles got out of the car and so did Marco Montric and Veggie. Next thing, about 30 kids aged from five years old to twelve armed themselves with rocks, stones, broken bottles, fence palings and cricket bats surrounded them. The little kid, who didn’t seem to be any more than six or seven, seemed to be boss.

‘Go on,’ yelled the little kid, ‘make a move, dogs, and we’ll kick ten shades of shit out of ya.’

Ray Chuckles laughed and said, ‘Where’s your mother, you little bastard? You need a foot up the arse. I’m goin to tell ya mum on you.’ The little kid spat on the ground. ‘Yeah, that would be right. Dob me in, ya dog. All you buggers from Footscray are give ups.’

Ray was puzzled at this Footscray remark, then realised there was a Bulldogs football sticker on the back window of the car. The reason for that was, it was Jockey Smith’s car. He barracked for Footscray.

A girl came up and took the little kid by the hand and said, ‘Come on Micky, let’s go.’

‘Nah,’ said the little kid, ‘if these dogs want to start, let’s rip it in to ’em. Let ’em have it!’ Broken bottles, rocks, and fence palings rained down on the car and the three men.

Ray Chuckles, Marco Montric and Veggie McNamara jumped back in and took off, but not before every window in the car was broken.

‘I hope we make a big heap of dough out of this job,’ Ray Chuckles muttered.

‘Why’s that?’ said Veggie amazed at what had happened.

‘Because,’ said Ray, ‘people with big heaps of money don’t have to drive through bloody Collingwood. That’s why.’

*

IT was 1979, the year Hyperno won the Cup. But at the Caballero Night Club, other interests were on the agenda.

Terry Maloney, Edgar Duffy and Phil Scanlan sat at the bar talking to a new girl who was working at the club as a dancer. She was a big blonde named Kerry Griffin.

‘Ya see, Kerry,’ said Terry Maloney, who was a talker. ‘It’s like this. The 17th of March, St Patrick’s Day, isn’t to celebrate St Patrick’s birthday the way everyone thinks. The 17th of March is the day St Patrick died.’

‘Oh,’ said Kerry, fascinated with the history of the saints according to Terry the Collingwood hoodlum. At least, if she wasn’t fascinated, she was doing a bloody good job of pretending she was.

‘Now,’ said Terry, ‘you’re Bonny Brown’s niece, aren’t ya?’

‘Yes,’ said Kerry.

‘Well then, the Browns are related to the Callaghans and the Gradys, and the Gradys are related to the Bradys, and the Bradys are related to the Reeves, and the Reeves are related to the O’Shaughnessys. For God’s sake, my dear girl, you’re a blood relative to St Patrick himself.’

Terry Maloney held his arms wide open and said, ‘Cead mile failte.’

Kerry Griffin was puzzled.

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘It’s Gaelic,’ said Terry. ‘It means “a hundred thousand welcomes” – and now you say “Cead mile failte” back to me and give me a big cuddle.’

Kerry Griffin said the ancient words and fell into Big Terry Maloney’s arms. Then she kissed him and walked away as happy as Larry.

‘God,’ said Edgar Duffy under his breath, ‘where the hell did you find her? And where did you get the gift of the gab? I don’t reckon you kissed the Blarney stone – you took a bite out of the bastard.’

Edgar shook his head in admiration at Big Terry’s form in the talking department.

Roy Reeves sat at the other end of the club at his private table. It was a quiet afternoon. The club was closed all except for a handful of live-in strippers and a dozen or so members of his crew, along with a few invited guests come to talk business.

Ripper Roy smiled as he overheard Terry’s verbal nonsense to the tits and legs stripper, but at the same time he was trying to pay attention to what Victor ‘Vicky’ Mack was saying to him. Victor was talking nineteen to the dozen. He was excited about something, and that something was Ray Chuckles.

‘Mate, I’ve spoken to Geoff Twain and Brian McCormack, and they all agree. George McKeon, Eugene Carroll, Lou McMahon, Donny McIntyre, Frank Lonigan, Terry Scanlan, Bobby Fitzpatrick, Pop Kennedy, Liam O’Day, the whole friggin’ crew. Micky Burke, Larry McDougal, Jamie O’Callaghan. They all agree. Ray Chuckles has gone too far.

‘Les Kane is dead, which is fair enough, and no skin off anyone’s nose, but Chuckles has lashed a lot of people. He stamped a lot of people for a lot of upfront cash, guns and goodies so he could pull the bookie raid. Now he’s six million bucks the richer and not a penny repaid. We know he got the machine guns from you. He’s using his legal problems and his war with the Kanes as an excuse not to repay debts. I’m tellin’ ya, Roy, he’s gotta go. Jesus, this bloody war he started with the Kanes has pulled both our crews into it and not a penny for either of us.’

Ripper Roy sat in silence for a few seconds after Vicky Mack’s outburst. Then he spoke quietly. ‘You’ve done a deal with Brian Kane, haven’t ya Vicky?’

‘So what if I have,’ said Vicky Mack, on the back foot all of a sudden.

‘Well, why come to see me?’ asked Roy. ‘Okay, so Chuckles lashed on the machine guns. Big deal, I got plenty more. Why come to me about Chuckles?’

Vicky Mack took a big swallow on his large glass of Glen Heather scotch. ‘We want your blessing, Roy. We know Chuckles was close to Tex Lawson, and Lawson is part of your crew.’

Roy broke in, ‘We are all Aussies together, all Irishmen. We shouldn’t be killing each other.’ ‘But we have been for years,’ said Vicky Mack.

‘Yeah,’ said Roy, ‘and while we kill each other the bloody dagos sit back and grow stronger and richer.’

‘I know,’ replied Vicky Mack. ‘But what do ya do, Roy? Do we have ya blessing, because none of the crew will agree to move without your final nod.’

‘And what about Brian?’ said Ripper Roy.

‘Ha ha, that’s the good part,’ said Vicky Mack. ‘Ray Chuckles’ own crew will kill him after we kill Chuckles.’

Roy smiled. ‘Everyone dies and six million just vanishes. Hey, yeah, only the Irish would consider that to be a fabulous plan of attack.’

Ripper Roy shook his head in his own comic self disgust.

‘Ha ha. Yeah, to hell with it, piss on ’em all. Why not kill him?’ said Roy. ‘But let Chuckles know it came from me, hey Vicky.’

‘And how will I do that, Roy?’

‘Yell out, “Hey Raymond, Roy Reeves said to say hello” in front of plenty of witnesses.’

Then Ripper Roy bent forward and whispered in to Vicky Mack’s ear. Victor Mack smiled and said, ‘Okay, Roy, I’ll do that. Ya got yaself a deal.’

*

ON St Patrick’s Day the Caballero Night Club was a wondrous sight to behold. Edgar Duffy and Phil Scanlan and young Megan O’Shaughnessy had spent all night decking the club out for the big day. The full membership of the Collingwood branch of the friends of Sinn Fein were due to attend and the Collingwood chapter of the Fenian Brigade were also coming along with the Sons of St Patrick. Just to make sure every street fighter and gunman in Collingwood was there, every member of Ripper Roy’s gang and his extended family and the relatives of his gang members were also on the invite list.

A big Irish flag with the Golden Harp of Tara on it hung from the ceiling. The green, white and orange flag of Ireland also hung down. A giant golden harp of Erin stood at the end of the bar and a seven-man Irish band was all set up. The only non-Irish thing in the place was a giant Collingwood Football Club flag, a big white affair with a magpie in the middle.

The club was filling up with people. By 10 am green beer and Jamieson’s Irish whisky was being served as if it would go off if it got warm. Liam Lynch and Bunny Malloy took care of club security, with the aid of two concealed AK47 assault rifles. Because Father Harrigan was coming, the club strippers were not allowed to perform, which didn’t please a lot of the men, but Kerry Griffin, Muriel Hill and Megan O’Shaughnessy were all set to jump into their green stiletto high heels and green high-cut bikini bottoms, with little green shamrocks stuck to their nipples, the moment the Reverend Father had drunk his fill and passed out or pissed off.

Arthur Featherstone had also arranged a jelly wrestling contest – using lime jelly, naturally – between Lizzie Bennett and Marion Taylor, a couple of voluptuous harlots of low moral rectitude from Wellington Street, Collingwood. So getting the good Father drunk and in a cab and back to the Sailor’s Mission was the first plan of attack.

Nearly every prostitute in Collingwood, Abbotsford, Victoria Park and Clifton Hill had decided to come, and in spite of Father Harrigan’s attendance, it was damn hard to prevent hanky panky. Human nature, green beer and Irish whisky being what it is.

As the booze flowed, the general conduct grew a little lax and some of the ladies and the more drunken gentlemen were getting a bit disorderly.

‘I’m back in the saddle again!’ cried Seamus O’Brien, as he proceeded to put the ferret through the fairy hoop with a drunken middle-aged lady who looked like the local school teacher. Seamus was at least 60 years of age, and the lady he was tooling at the far end of the club was no spring chicken, she wasn’t even a spring roll.

‘Drag that drunken pair of idiots into the street,’ ordered Ripper Roy.

‘Sorry Father,’ said Roy, as he stood at the bar with the old priest. Arthur Featherstone and Terry Maloney and young Kerry Griffin stood with him. All had large glasses of Irish whisky in their hands.

‘So you are a Catholic, my girl,’ said Father Harrigan.

‘Oh yes,’ said Kerry Griffin, ‘I went to St. Monica’s.’

‘Ahh, good,’ said Father Harrigan.

Kerry had on her virginal butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth face, in spite of the fact her green ‘Give Ireland back to the Irish’ T-shirt did little to conceal her tits. She was wearing a faded pair of denim jeans so tight they looked like they had been painted on. It was true to say that poor Kerry was built like a porno queen, and even fully clothed in jeans, runners and T-shirt she was hardly the sort of girl you’d expect to see talking to an aged priest.

About 20 feet away Roy noticed an unconscious man with a large piece of cutlery stuck in his face, which was covered in blood. He whispered to one of his men to remove the gentleman in question, and ordered the band to play. Irish jigs broke out all over the club.

The place was now in full swing and packed full of Irish drunks and ladies being molested by Irish drunks. The various fist fights that broke out got little attention due to the music and dancing. Then, at midday, the club was called to order by Arthur Featherstone so the ‘Amran na Bfiann’, the Irish national anthem, could be sung by the members of the Sons of St Patrick. A soldier’s song, sung in Gaelic. When that ended Terry Maloney jumped onto the bar and yelled in Gaelic ‘Dia’s muire agus padraig dhuit,’ which translated means ‘God and Mary and Patrick be with you.’ And with that, the celebrations continued on.

Mick Sheehan and Sean Danaher pulled out handguns and fired shots into the ceiling and were promptly attacked for misconduct by Bunny Malloy and Liam Lynch, much to the amusement of Father Harrigan, who was taken up in what appeared to be deep religious and political conversation with Kerry Griffin.

The big white-haired old Irish priest looked like Boris Karloff, the old horror movie actor, as he stood next to Kerry at the bar bending his head down to hear what she was saying. As she chattered into his cauliflower ear, he rested his right hand on the small of the girl’s back so as to push her that little bit closer. The music was a touch loud, and he had trouble hearing her, of course.

Kerry was quite taken with the old fellow, and was overwhelmed that he should spend his time talking to her and listening to her. Her big tits strained against her T-shirt, and as she spoke into his ear she couldn’t help but press herself against the grand old man. However, being a gentleman at all times, and a man of the cloth, the priest gave Kerry no sign that he either noticed or minded.

Meanwhile, Arthur Featherstone, Terry Maloney and Johnny Go Go had moved over to Roy Reeves’s private table. Mad Lizzie Bennett was eager to get the jelly wrestling underway, as the winner would collect $500 and a dozen bottles of whisky. The loser would collect $250 and half a dozen bottles of whisky. The luckiest spectator collected either the winner or the loser, according to taste.

‘Mudguts’ McNally was already dragging the children’s swimming pool full of green jelly out on to the dance floor. Both girls had their green high cut bikinis on, ready for action.

‘C’mon Roy,’ said Lizzie, anxious to get into action. ‘Piss on the priest – the dirty old bastard’s got a hand full of Kerry’s arse, who’s he to complain?’

Roy looked over through the crowd and sure enough it looked as if Kerry was standing rather close to the old fellow as they talked, but he couldn’t see any hands on bums.

‘Nah,’ said Roy. ‘We’ll recite the pledge first, then I’ll get Kerry to pull the Father’s coat and get him out of the way.’

The pledge for them was the Collingwood version of the old Irish pledge of allegiance. Roy called for order and the whole mob stood and faced the Collingwood Football Club flag, and the room broke out with nearly 400 voices swearing the pledge to Collingwood.

‘We are willing to fight for the club that we love, be the chances great or small;

‘We are willing to die for the Collingwood Club, be the chances nothing at all.’

Then a massive cheer went up and the band played the Irish national anthem again.

Roy went over and spoke to the priest and Kerry and the two walked away with a full bottle of Irish whisky and two glasses, and Kerry seemed to be leading Father Harrigan in the direction of a booth table at the left hand side of the stage. This would face the good Father away from the jelly wrestling and give the Father and Kerry greater privacy for the conversation they were involved in.

Three drunken Irishmen and a semi-clothed young miss who was in the full throes of a rampant exchange were promptly dragged from the rear booth by Bunny Malloy and Kerry and the holy man took their seats.

‘Right,’ declared Roy, as if he was Boutros Boutros Whatsisname at the United Nations, ‘let the fun begin.’

So while Lizzie Bennett and Marion Taylor tried to kill each other in a pool of green jelly, to the wild roars of the crowd, Kerry kept talking to the good Father.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear girl,’ said Father Harrigan with great compassion and understanding in all things. ‘Why, our Lord Himself mixed with killers, thieves, tax collectors and whores. Yes, my dear, whores. You have heard the story of Mary Magdalen. She bathed our Lord’s feet with the most expensive oils, then dried his feet with her own hair.’

Kerry was wide-eyed as the priest poured himself yet one more large whisky and continued his spiel. ‘Well, my child, Mary Magdalen was a whore just like you. So, you see, you have no reason for guilt or shame. Just confess your sins, come to mass and donate to the church and say a Hail Mary before bed and all will be well.’

The priest still had his hand around the girl’s back as if he didn’t even realise it, and Kerry without even thinking placed her hand on Father Harrigan’s left leg and squeezed in a show of affection.

‘You’re a really lovely old bloke, Father,’ she cooed. ‘I wish I had a real father just like you.’

The old priest smiled. ‘And if I had a daughter, my child, I’d want her to be just like you.’ He gave her a nice little squeeze with his hand.

‘Is it wrong for me to want to give a priest a kiss and a cuddle?’ asked Kerry.

The old Father thought about this. ‘Oh, I see no reason why not, my girl,’ and with that Kerry melted herself into Father Harrigan like marshmallow.

‘Do ya reckon that priest is okay in there with Kerry?’ asked Terry Maloney.

Roy was remembering old rumors about the good Father and Bonny Brown, but had previously dismissed them due to his Auntie Brigid’s anger at such nonsense. After a while the suspense was killing him. ‘Go over and stand on a chair and peek over the top of the booth,’ he said.

Terry Maloney walked over and, as instructed, found a stool and stood on it. He peered over the top of the darkened seating area. Then he came back.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘She’s sweet. They’re just sitting together.’

‘Well, in that case, we’ll join them,’ said Roy. ‘It’s a bit insane out here.’

The three men walked over to the private booth and said, ‘Mind if we join ya, Father?’

The Priest gave a weak and very strained smile and a nod of his head. He didn’t look well. He was flushed, red in the face and his right eye was sort of flickering.

‘Gee Father,’ said Arthur. ‘You don’t look too good.’

The three men slid into seats and poured themselves a drink. ‘Here Father,’ said Terry. ‘Have a drink.’

The priest took the glass with a shaky hand and put it to his mouth, and began dribbling whisky as he drank.

‘Shit, Father, you look like you’re gonna have a heart attack. Do you reckon we should call a doctor?’

Father Harrigan didn’t reply. Kerry sat in silence, blind drunk, with one hand holding her whisky glass and the other hidden under the table. You don’t have to be told. She had the old bloke unzipped and was slowly and with the skill of a snake charmer giving him a nice old workover.

Roy looked at the priest, then at Kerry, and a strange thought crossed his mind. Then both Arthur and Terry picked up on it. Kerry couldn’t contain herself. She put the glass to her lips to drink, then winked at Roy and gave a little giggle. Father Harrigan’s face looked like it was about to explode, and his eyes glazed over. For a moment Roy thought he was about to drop dead. Then Father Harrigan let out a groan like a man in great pain and began to jerk his shoulders and chest. Then he groaned and jerked again. Ripper Roy, Terry and Irish Arthur looked on in total amazement. Then the priest collapsed and tears welled up in his eyes and he hid his face in his hands and cried.

Kerry lifted her hand from under the table and moved away.

‘Let’s get away from the dog, boys,’ she said. ‘Bloody priests. I’ve been hearing that God loves a whore. Bullshit. Since I was old enough to do it, I’ve never met a bloody priest who didn’t want to do it to me. Has anyone got a hanky?’ Terry handed her a hanky and the girl wiped her hand. Ripper Roy and the boys were still in a state of shock.

‘I’m a whore,’ said Kerry. ‘But I’m not a liar or a false pretender, I’m not a hypocrite. He’s no priest. He’s just another mug who wants to get his prick pumped. I should have charged the two-faced dog, but like you say, Terry, you can’t take a penny off an Irishman on St Paddy’s day. Ha ha.’

With that, the big buxom girl walked away.

‘Ya know,’ said Roy. ‘I reckon she’s been stooging us all. She might be a bit dippy, but I’ve got a funny feeling young Kerry ain’t totally stupid.’

*

MURIEL Hill walked out of Pentridge. She had been in to visit Ray Chuckles. The Governor had allowed a special contact visit and Ray had made the most of it. One good thing about being built like a blow-up doll is that men think you’re stupid and this, if played right, can be a winning advantage.

In between a rather frantic session of being slipped on like a wet soapy sock when the screws weren’t looking, followed by Ray Chuckles’ scallywag idea of Muriel bending over the visit table while he pretended he was a Greek Orthodox Priest, he had told her he’d be facing Chief Stipendiary Magistrate Clancy Collins for committal proceedings in three days time.

The case was crap and Ray reckoned it wouldn’t get past the committal. Being rogered twice in the space of an hour while keeping both eyes out for the screws and both ears open for gossip was not Muriel’s idea of a good time, but people didn’t say no to Roy Reeves. If Ripper Roy told her to do the locomotion with the local Collingwood Boy Scout Troop or a herd of elephants her reply would be a big smile followed by ‘Okay Roy.’

People who said no to Roy Reeves may as well hit themselves in both eyeballs with a broken whisky bottle, because if they didn’t do it themselves someone else certainly would do it for ’em. When it came to business, Roy had respect, because he was hard but unfair.

Roy Reeves had noticed the way Raymond Chuckles had looked at Muriel Hill when he had come to ask for the machine guns and when Ray received Muriel’s letter while he was in jail, he never suspected for a moment that this hot-arse, gorgeous sex machine was part of some master plan. Muriel Hill was just a knob junkie from Richmond, one of the Lennox Street Hills, a family of criminals – solid, staunch and dumb. Just a slippery bit of mischievous nonsense, he thought.

While Raymond was in jail he thought he’d won the lottery when she first came in to see him. God, she was built like Babylon and did anything Ray asked her to. On one contact visit, Brian O’Flanagan was having his birthday two tables away so Ray sent Muriel to the toilet and about 90 seconds later Brian O’Flanagan walked into the toilet. It only took about five minutes and Brian was back at his table talking to his mother and friends and Muriel was back on Raymond’s knee. Muriel was a bicycle with a better than average face and a lavish body, but a moll was a moll and Ray Chuckles was not a sentimental person.

But that didn’t make him invincible. What he didn’t know was that the moll was also a mole.

It seemed to Ray that Muriel was in love with him and he just played her along. Hell, thought Ray, Muriel’s whole life was one big perverted unnatural act. She was there to be used, not loved. She ran on a diet of cash and KY Jelly, the bloody whore.

*

‘HE goes to court in three days time,’ said Muriel, looking a bit down. ‘What’s wrong, Princess?’ asked Roy.

Muriel was a bit frightened but spoke up. ‘Well, Mr Reeves, I’d rather not visit that bloke no more if it’s okay with you. I’m a good girl. I do like I’m told, but I’d just rather not.’

Ripper Roy patted Muriel on the head.

‘You’re a good kid. You done me a big favor, okay. You don’t need to visit him no more.’ Muriel smiled.

Ripper Roy picked up the phone and rang Victor Mack.

*

RAY Chuckles sat in the cells of the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court. Muriel had promised to visit him by 9 am. He had gone to some lengths to arrange the visit, but she hadn’t shown, and he was filthy on her. ‘Bloody molls,’ he said sourly. ‘Ya can’t trust ’em.’

Two policemen came to collect him. He had to face the legendary Clancy Collins on the bench. He was sure he’d beat the blue, because he had Steve Stratton representing him. The Crown had no case at all. Once he beat this crap he was home free, he thought to himself. He had just over a million dollars put away and he was heading for sun, sand and surf. To hell with bloody Melbourne and its never-ending wars. His whole crew was heading a long way north.

Veggie McNamara had his girlfriend living in Spain already, in a rented villa. A million bucks in Spain was like ten million in Aussie land. He had the dim sim factory and the restaurant in Brunswick and the massage parlor in Fitzroy. He had the car yard in Footscray and the block of flats in Richmond. He had a half share of the pub in Coburg and $75,000 worth of shares in BHP. He had a solicitor managing the whole shooting match for him and monthly cheques would be sent to him anywhere in the world. He also had hard cash in various bank accounts and building societies, and some on hand as well. He could walk away – or keep fighting mindless wars and power struggles. The smart thing was to hit the toe and never come back.

*

AS the two coppers walked Ray Chuckles through the court corridors he noticed neither of them had guns. Nah, he thought, I’m not falling for that … being shot by police who are carrying guns while escaping from police who don’t have guns. Anyway, why bother? He would beat the murder blue over Les Kane. He’d won.

As he walked along he noticed that the cop on his left was sort of humming and singing a tune to himself. Ray thought he recognised it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

The young copper answered, ‘It’s an old Bill Monroe tune.’

‘Shit yeah,’ said Ray. ‘Bill Monroe. That’s it. I know a bloke who’s always whistling or singing that tune. What’s it called again?’

‘I forget,’ said the young copper, and the three of them walked along in silence until Ray Chuckles started to hum the old tune, all the time wondering what the name of the song was, and marvelling that it really was a very small world indeed.

Victor ‘Vicky’ Mack sat on a bench in a crowded corridor outside Clancy Collins’s court room, upstairs in the old Magistrates’ Court opposite Russell Street police station. People were milling about. There were a lot of tits and legs. A whore in a micro mini-skirt and high heels was sitting next to Vicky trying to make conversation.

‘I told the bastard to just leave me alone,’ she said. ‘My life is my life, but would he listen? No way. If I want to go out and have a good time I bloody well will.’

She lit up her tenth smoke for the morning and offered Vicky one. She noticed he was wearing a wig. At least it didn’t look like his own hair. It was long and not the same color as his eyebrows. He was probably trying to pull a shifty in court, she thought. Good luck to him.

She wouldn’t shut up. ‘Anyway, I said to him, “It’s not my fault if your mates keep putting the hard word on me”.’ She crossed a pair of legs and the micro mini ran up to reveal nearly all she had, but Vicky Mack was looking down the corridor.

‘I said to him, “Just cos I’m your bloody wife don’t mean ya own me,” and it’s not my fault his brother and his best mate got me pissed at Leo’s party. What am I meant to do? Now he’s calling me a slut and a moll and his dad is calling me a moll. Ha ha, that’s rich. That dirty old bastard. I could tell the court a few things about him, but I won’t.’

Vicky Mack saw two police escorting Raymond Chuckles down the corridor about thirty feet away through the crowd. The long-legged lady with the big mouth was crossing her legs the other way around now, with every man in a ten yard radius casting wide eyes in her direction

All except for Vicky Mack. He quietly stood up and walked down the hall. As he walked he could hear the dragon with the long legs bellow out some more personal detail about her domestic troubles. ‘His mum’s just a drunk and both his bloody sisters are junkies and they call me a moll, if you don’t mind. He should tell his dirty old Dad and his prick of a brother to stop trying to root me before he points the finger.’

*

AS Ray Chuckles walked up the stairs from the courtyard with the two cops, he was in daydream land.

‘What’s the name of this bloody tune? Jesus that’s annoying. Ripper Roy’s favorite song. God what is it?’

As Ray Chuckles and his two young police escorts walked toward Vicky Mack, Ray scratched his nose with his handcuffs – and remembered. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said to the police escort. “I Can Hear a Sweet Voice Calling.” That’s the name of that tune.’

At this point Vicky Mack pulled out his .38 handgun. ‘Hey Caballero!’ he yelled. ‘Cop this.’ Ray Chuckles’s eyes shot towards Victor Mack as the gun went off. It’s true what they say: You never hear the shot that kills you. Ray never heard the sound. All that was inside his head as he fell was the song he’d been humming.

As he hit the floor, he could sense the panic around him but he felt numb. Everything was soft. He could hear everything but see and feel nothing. Everything was dark, but he could still hear. ‘He’s got a gun!’ he heard some woman scream.

People were running all around him. He could hear them, standing over him, yelling for help. Then the old song came back and all else faded.

‘I can hear a sweet voice calling.’

Ray Chuckles smiled and drifted away. He was dead on arrival at St Vincent’s.

‘Ya never hear the shot that kills ya.’

– Ray Chuckles, 1979.