COLLINGWOOD, 1996. While most private schoolgirls busied themselves with piano lessons and language classes after school, Amy Jo Phillips made her way to the brothel in Cromwell Street. Sandie Toy always had a quarter gram of heroin for her, and there was plenty of time to shoot up. She didn’t have to be home until 7.30, as her mum, Stella, didn’t get home until about midnight but always rang up about 8 pm. So little Amy Jo had from after school until 7.30 all to herself, and where she was concerned the old saying about the devil finding work for idle hands was dead set right.
She knocked on the door of the brothel one evening and Tessa Kinsella answered.
“How’s it going, Amy?” said Tessa. “Okay,” said Amy.
“Sandie’s doing a mug,” said Tessa. “She’ll be done in about half an hour, but I’ve got ya goodies for ya.”
Amy smiled. She went in and Tessa led Amy into the kitchen and pulled a small plastic packet out of the drawer.
“Here ya go, darlin.”
Amy took off her school blazer and rolled her white shirt sleeve up and proceeded to mix the quarter gram of heroin into a spoon, then pulled a clean fit out of her school bag. As she was injecting herself, Tessa spoke.
“Ya wanna be careful, Princess. Stella will find out.”
Amy Jo laughed as she injected the heroin up her arm.
“Mum’s so morphed up she wouldn’t know if a tram was up her, less ya rung the bloody bell.”
“Well what about ya Uncle Preston?”
Amy smiled. “Uncle Preston is a smack dealer and he’s plonkin’ mum, his own sister-in-law.”
“Bullshit,” said Tessa.
“Well I can’t prove it but I reckon he is,” said Amy Jo. “Mum’s an old moll, anyway. She’s seen more pricks than a dart board.”
Tessa laughed. “Ya not doing too bad yaself, Amy.”
“Yeah, well,” said Amy, “like mother, like daughter. Besides, smack’s not cheap and 200 bucks an hour blowin’ out candles and getting slip slided is an easy way to pay for it.”
Amy Jo rubbed her arm. “Gee, I love this stuff. Two hours a day after school, it’s no big deal. Fifty bucks to the house and 350 clear for me each night. A 100 for a nice taste of smack, that’s 250 clear cash in hand a night, five nights a week, that’s $1250 bucks a week. Not bad for a 15-year-old. Well, I will be in two months time and Sandie reckons I can do three hours Saturday afternoon and two on Sunday arvo, that’s another bundle. I only have to hand over 25 bucks out of every 200. Sandie’s pretty good to me.”
“Yeah,” said Tessa. “That’s only ’cos you’re Preston’s niece and if Preston finds out he will shoot Sandie. Kristy won’t be able to save her and ya wanna hope them Reeves boys keep their mouths shut.”
Amy Jo looked at Tessa. “How’s Archie? Seen him lately?” Tessa Kinsella blushed red. Just then Sandie Toy bounced into the room.
“Hey, Amy, there’s a punter out here. Didn’t you buggers answer the bloody door. Ya wanna work or not?”
“Sorry, Sandie,” said the schoolgirl. She went out, and standing in the hallway was Fatty La Rocque, five feet seven tall and 24 stone of rolly polly pudding.
“I want the schoolgirl,” yelled Fatty.
Amy reeled back. “I’m not doing that pig,” she said.
But Sandie turned nasty. She grabbed Amy’s ear and twisted it hard.
“Don’t be a snob,” she hissed. “Now, come on Princess, it’s not all smack and sunshine. Fatty’s okay, all ya gotta do is sit on the big jelly bean’s face. Ya won’t even need to take ya school uniform off. Now get into it or piss off home.”
“Okay.” Amy straightened herself up. “But I reckon I should get danger money for this one,” she muttered.
*
STELLA Phillips worked as a bar maid at the Chicago Club in Clifton Hill. Bobby Torres ran it. It was a sort of pool hall with a liquor licence. It officially closed at midnight. But after Stella knocked off and went home the club really came to life. In spite of the Crown Casino some people still loved to gamble without being spied on by video cameras, and so there was still a place for the Chicago Club and a few other joints like it around town.
Believe it or not, (and why wouldn’t you?) a fair few coppers visited the Chicago Club. You could get a nice meal, have a drink, and play pool. It was an easy going, dimly lit place. People minded their own business and even though Bobby Torres was part of Billy Burns’s crew and Billy ran with Preston, the Chicago Club wasn’t part of the Collingwood crew’s domain. None of the crew went into the place as it was considered a businessmen’s and yuppies hang out. It had a tough name and a look to titillate the middle class patrons who got a thrill out of thinking they were hanging out with gangsters.
Stella was the star bar maid and would dress – or almost dress – to attract all the attention she could. High heels, short shorts, split at the sides to show as much arse and hip as she could and a halter neck top that did its best to hold in the silicone boob job. At 10 grand a tit why wouldn’t you show them off?
Stella didn’t drink, but she enjoyed most of the other vices. She dropped one or two 60 milligram morph pills a day. Sometimes Stella would get swept off her feet by one of the patrons and not get home till the wee hours. Her whole world was sunshine and cotton wool clouds. It was on one night in particular when Stella had been swept off her feet that she rang Amy Jo at ten to twelve and said she wouldn’t be home that night. Amy Jo was in her dressing gown and ready for bed and putting the phone down when the door bell rang.
It was Bunny Malloy.
“Hi ya, Amy, is ya mum at home?” said Bunny.
“Nah, she rang and said she wouldn’t be home tonight.”
Bunny looked as if he didn’t know what to do. Amy liked her Uncle Bunny, as she called him, though he wasn’t really related.
“Do ya wanna come in for a coffee or a drink?” said Amy. “ I’m all on me own. I don’t like being on me own.”
“Shit,” said Bunny. “Ya mum shouldn’t leave ya here all on ya lonesome.” He walked in and went into the lounge room and sat down.
“Do ya wanna beer, Uncle Bunny?” asked Amy Jo.
Bunny knew the answer to that one. “Yeah, okay Princess.”
Amy went and got a cold can and Bunny opened it and skolled it down. “Ya want another one?” said Amy.
“Yeah, one more,” said Bunny. You couldn’t fool him with these trick questions.
With half the second can under his belt, Bunny relaxed.
“Ah, that’s better. Well, young Amy. What’s going on?”
“Oh, you know, Uncle Bunny. Not much.”
“And how’s ya mother?” said Bunny. “Still working hard?”
“Yeah,” spat Amy. “Working hard on her back.”
Bunny pretended to be shocked. “Oh, Amy, that’s not a nice thing to say about ya poor old mother.”
Amy was sitting at the other end of the couch with her legs tucked up and her knees under her chin with her dressing gown covering her legs. Bunny was nearly old enough to be the girl’s grandfather and he had to admit that she was developing a rough manner of speech as well as a suggestive manner in the way she moved. He was wondering what they taught her at the posh private school.
Amy Jo continued. “Mum’s a moll, Uncle Bunny. Everyone knows it, so why kid ourselves?”
Bunny looked the young girl in the eyes. Her pupils were pinned. Bunny knew enough about heroin to know the kid was using it, so he thought he would put it to the test.
“Hang on will ya darlin’, we got something in the car I want to get.”
Bunny was back in a flash and sat down again. Amy was up on her feet and fiddling with the CD player. Then k.d. lang came on singing “What’s New Pussycat” and Amy Jo started dancing about.
“I love k.d. lang,” said Amy.
Bunny laughed. “And from all reports, young Amy, I reckon k.d. lang would love you as well. Plate licker and a vegetarian as well,” said Bunny, who fancied himself as a bit of a humorist.
“But a top singer, hey?” said Amy.
“Yeah,” said Bunny, “sounds a bit like Patsy Cline.”
“Who’s she?” said Amy.
“Before your time, kid.”
With that Bunny pulled out a full ounce bag of heroin and tossed it on the coffee table.
“Wanna taste, Princess?”
Amy Jo stopped dancing about and looked at the plastic bag. She didn’t know what to say.
“C’mon, kid, I know you use.”
Amy Jo choked a bit. “Don’t tell mum or Uncle Preston.”
Bunny Malloy smiled. “Nah, Princess. It’s between us. Keep it, you can keep it all.”
Amy Jo was amazed. “Uncle Bunny do you know how much this is worth?”
Bunny nodded. “Yeah, Amy, I think I’ve got a fair idea.”
Amy Jo left the room and took the bag into the kitchen to have a taste. As she was doing this Bunny began to chatter away.
“Keep an eye on ya mum for me, will ya darlin.”
“What do ya mean?” called Amy.
“Ahh, you know. Strange phone calls, strange people, cars, visits, anything not quite right. We have a rat in the camp and we reckon they could be trying to use people close to us, so just keep an eye on ya mum and don’t let her know.”
Amy came out of the kitchen and gave him a big hug.
“ I’ll keep an eye out, Uncle Bunny. No problem. Anything funny or anyone funny and I’ll let ya know.”
“Good girl,” he said. “Anyway, darlin’, I’m going.”
“Ohh do you have to, Uncle Bunny?”
“Yeah darlin’, see you later.”
Bunny walked down the driveway. He turned to wave and saw Amy Jo standing in the open doorway with her dressing gown undone down the centre. She was too out of it to notice. She was naked underneath and as she waved one big, bouncy 15-year-old schoolgirl boob waved at him. God, he thought, what a dead set little case young Amy has turned out to be.
*
I’M an old cowhand from the Rio Grande and I learned to ride ‘fore I learned to stand,
I’m a riding fool who is up to date, I know every trail in the Lone Star state coz I ride the range in a Ford V8.
Yippy I Oh, I’m an old cowboy …
Graeme Westlock was singing to himself as he read Larry and Stretch by the famed wild west author, Marshall Grover.
“Hang on, boss,” said Doc Holliday, interrupting the next verse of the endless song. “Here they are.”
Graeme Westlock looked up and, sure enough, Archie Reeves, Billy Burns and Johnny Pepper got out of an old Kingswood and walked into the ANZ Bank in High Street, Thornbury. “Shit,” said Holliday. “Burns has got a bloody Stirling 9 mil. SMG.”
“Well, howdy doody Joffa boy,” said Westlock and reached under the front seat of the police car and pulled out a long barrelled revolver.
“What the hell’s that?” said Doc Holliday.
“This,” said Westlock as they got out of the car, “is a Buntline Special .22 cal. single action with an 18-inch barrel. It fires a 22 cal. magnum hollow point bullet as used by the great Marshall Wyatt Earp himself except that he never had the benefit of magnum ammo and a new improved handgun. Never underestimate the punching power of a small bore handgun with a heavy load. Okay, boys, let’s hit the trail,” he ordered. With that the three other unmarked police cars parked behind Westlock’s spewed out plain clothes members of the famed and feared armed robbery squad. Charlie Ford, Pete Younger, Henry McCarty, Paul Clanton (nick named Ike), Ray Dolton (nicknamed Bob), and Detective Chief Inspector Clay Allison, who replaced the late John W. Hardin, Ben Masterson and young Frank James. All men armed with .38 calibre police specials except for Doc Holliday, who carried his trusty pump action shotgun, and Graeme Westlock, who held his police issue .38 in his left hand and the long-barrelled Buntline special in his right. The ten policemen walked into the middle of High Street and stood in a line and held up lunch time traffic
“Here they come, boys,” said Westlock.
The doors of the bank burst open and out ran Reeves, Burns and Pepper. It took Burns a moment to notice the line of men in suits all carrying guns and as he raised his Stirling 30 shot machine gun he yelled “Jacks!” But before he could pull the trigger Graeme Westlock fired, and a magnum slug hit him in the eye.
“Fire!” yelled Westlock to the rest of the coppers.
Archie Reeves got off a single shot and hit Clay Allison in the hip, but a single round from the pump action tore Archie’s heart out. The nine police still standing all fired at will. Johnny Pepper fell without even firing his .38 handgun. The shooting continued until Doc Holliday ran out of shotgun shells and pulled out his service revolver.
“Halt!” said Westlock, but Doc put two shots into the corpse of Billy Burns. “I said stop!” yelled Westlock.
Reeves, Burns and Pepper lay dead, their bodies blown to bits. Beside Pepper lay a gladstone bag with $95,000 in it.
Westlock stood, reloading his guns. “Secure the crime scene, Charlie. Get the mop and bucket boys, Frank.”
Oh I’m an old cow hand from the Rio Grande and I come to town just to hear the band
And I know all the songs that the cowboys know, ’bout the big corral where the dogies go, coz I learned them all on the radio.
Yippy I oh, I’m an old cowboy ha ha ha.
Pete Younger turned to the wounded but now standing Clay Allison and whispered, “I reckon the boss is going a bit dippy, Mr Allison.”
Allison said, “I’ve been drinking a bottle of scotch a day ever since I joined the armed robbers. All Westlock does is sing silly songs. I’d take his dippy over my dippy any day of the week. Now get me to bloody hospital.”
“Yes sir,” said Younger.
*
PRESTON Phillips sat in the lounge room of Stella Phillips’s house in Wellington Street. Young Amy Jo had her shoes off and her tunic hiked up her thighs. She was wearing a black pair of high cut knickers and Preston Phillips was sitting on the couch talking to her pretending not to notice her tanned thighs.
Amy Jo took her school blazer off, undid her tie and loosened her shirt and relaxed herself even more, lifting her knees up and opening and closing them and sliding down the bean bag, which made her knickers cut up tight between her legs and arse. Preston Phillips was now looking at more than just a flash of knickers.
Amy Jo giggled. “Ha ha, naughty boy, Uncle Pres,” but she only opened her knees wider and did nothing to cover herself. Preston felt himself flush with a mixture of embarrassment and shame and lust. This wanton display was having an effect on him and he began to feel quite hot and bothered, but Amy Jo kept looking at him as she lay there, opening and closing her knees. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Cut it out, Amy,” said Preston.
“What am I doing, Uncle Pres?” said Amy with a smile.
“Pull ya dress down,” said Preston.
“What if I don’t?” said Amy.
Preston got a bit angry. “Pull ya dress down, ya little shit stirrer or I’ll …” He wasn’t sure how to finish the threat.
“You’ll what? Give me a smack?” she challenged.
“Hey, I’ll give ya more than a smack,” growled Preston.
“Ohh,” said Amy Jo, “will ya give me a spanking?”
At this point Stella walked in the front door and like magic Amy Jo flicked her school dress down to cover her thighs and knees and winked at Preston.
“Hello Preston,” smiled Stella, then turned to Amy Jo and said “Hi ya darling.”
The girl ignored her mother. Stella was in high heels and a pair of short shorts cut up at the sides to show all the leg and hip she could. All in soft black leather and a black leather halter-neck top with a $2000 leather jacket.
“The leather gear looks good,” said Preston.
Stella smiled and began to strut about modelling the stolen leather gear.
“I love it all, Pres. Thanks.”
“That’s all right, Stell. Anytime.”
“Any phone calls, Amy?” asked Stella.
Amy Jo looked bored. “Some bloke called Doc rang.”
“Doc who?” said Stella quickly, darting a nervous look at Preston. “I don’t know any Doc.”
“I don’t know,” said Amy Jo. “He just said his name was Doc and he’d ring you back.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Stella. “I don’t know any Doc.”
Stella turned to Preston. “Fair dinkum, I don’t know any Doc.”
“Well, I don’t know Mum,” said Amy Jo. “You asked if there was any phone messages and that was it. Don’t go crook at me.”
“Probably a wrong number,” said Preston to Stella.
“Yeah,” said Stella again. “Wrong number, because I don’t know any bloody Doc.”
Preston got up and said “Anyway, I gotta go.” He handed Stella a small packet of 60 milligram morph pills and said “I’ll see ya later.”
“I’ll walk ya to the car, Uncle Pres,” said Amy Jo, and threw her arm around him. As he walked out to his white 1965 Pontiac Parisienne he said to Amy Jo, “Ya know Princess, this was the same car Kid McCall was using when Westlock and Holliday shot him. I’ve had it done up since then. Ya don’t see many ’65 Pontiacs around these days.”
Then he turned and said, “Keep an eye on ya Mum for me, will ya Princess.”
Preston had a sad faraway look on his face and bent down and kissed his niece on the cheek.
“By the way Princess, take it easy on the smack.”
Amy Jo protested. “I don’t use drugs, Uncle Pres.”
The old hood looked down at his cheeky niece. “Yeah, I know darlin’. You don’t use drugs and ya still a virgin and if ya stick ya tooth under ya pillow the fairy will leave ya sixpence. Just take it easy kid and keep ya eye on ya mum for me.”
Preston got into his car and wound his window down. “And stop flashing ya knickers. See ya later, darlin’.”
When Amy Jo walked back Stella attacked her and slapped her hard across the face. “What are you trying to do to me, you junkie slut,” she screamed.
“Yeah that’s right I know about the drugs and I’ve been told ya selling it, you two-faced treacherous little whore. What’s this Doc bullshit, what are you trying to do to me.”
“I’m sorry, mummy,” screamed Amy Jo, covering up and bursting into tears, “but Doc did ring really,” she screamed.
“Jesus,” sobbed Stella, “someone is doing a job on me. God almighty. I don’t know any Doc.”
She fell on the floor and sobbed. Amy Jo was in tears.
“I’m sorry, mummy. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Who’s Doc? What’s it all about.”
“Ohh, Jesus Christ,” sobbed Stella. “God save me, sweet mother of God. Please save me.”
“What’s wrong, mummy?” cried Amy Jo.
Stella wiped her tears with her hand and stood up. “I’m dead baby, that’s what’s wrong, I’m dead.”
*
“COME on Doc,” said Graeme Westlock. “Who is she?”
“I can’t tell ya,” said Holliday “Come on,” said Westlock. “It has to be someone close. I mean really on the inside.”
“You know how it goes,” said Holliday. “A secret shared is a secret lost. All I’m saying is it’s someone right on the inner with one of the six names in Collingwood.”
“Shit,” said Westlock. “Reeves, Van Gogh, Phillips, Pepper, Brown, O’Shaughnessy or maybe Bennett. Bloody hell, Doc. You turned one of them.”
“Well, it’s not a Kinsella because we killed one of them. And it can’t be a Pepper or a Reeves coz we killed one of them each. Not unless this spy of yours is giving up family members.”
“Don’t even guess at it, boss, because ya wouldn’t believe it even if I told ya.”
“Well,” said Westlock. “I’ve got to hand it to ya, it’s the best info we have ever had on the Collingwood crew. It’s a gold mine.”
Doc Holliday stood and looked out the window. “I reckon we will see a bit more killing before we are done, Graeme,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, well,” said Westlock as he walked over to his old friend and put his arm around his shoulder.
“How’s that old Banjo Paterson poem go again, Doc?”
Doc Holliday smiled “By the Old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, there’s a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, for they bear a crude inscription saying ‘Stranger drop a tear, for the cuff and collar players and the Geebung Boys lie here’.”
Westlock roared laughing.
Frank James looked at Charlie Ford. “I don’t know about you Charlie, but I’m asking for a transfer.”
*
STELLA Phillips walked out of the Chicago Club. It was midnight. Bobby Torres had spent all night trying to get into her pants and she was glad to knock off. Letting Torres screw her once was the worst move she had ever made, she thought as she opened the door to her old 1970 model Mercedes sports. As she got in Neville and Normie Reeves stepped out of the shadows.
“How’s it going, Stella?” said Neville.
Stella froze and tried to start the car, but in her panic she fumbled. Normie opened the door and grabbed her hair and dragged the screaming woman out of the car. Bobby Torres came running out of the club but on seeing Neville and Normie, backed off. Bunny Malloy pulled up in an old Ford panel van. Neville and Normie opened the back and tossed Stella into it. It had a mattress on the floor of the van and Stella fell on to it. Neville and Normie got in. “Okay, Bunny, let’s go,” said Neville and punched Stella in the side of the face.
“Get them pants off, dog,” he snarled. Stella pulled her leather shorts off in no time flat. Her brain was racing. She was beginning to hope she was in for a good belting and a good raping and she knew she could handle both. It would mean she wasn’t going to die. To Neville and Normie’s surprise she took off her leather jacket and leather halter neck top and unleashed her extra large and very expensive set of silicone tits. Neville undid his pants and proceeded to mount her.
By the time Bunny Malloy had reached the Maribyrnong River in the western suburbs both Neville and Normie had raped her. When the car pulled up Stella was sure she was in for more at Bunny Malloy’s hands and was quite happy to accommodate him. Neville and Normie ordered her out. She was naked and it was cold.
“Ohh, it’s freezing. It’s warmer in the van, boys,” she said.
Bunny came up to her. “Turn around and bend over, Stella” he said.
“Come on, Bunny,” said Stella, “can’t we do it in the car.”
“No,” said Bunny, and he put the barrel of a .38 revolver to the woman’s head. “Turn around and bend over.”
For 20 years men had been saying that to her so it was almost fitting they were the last words she would ever hear. She didn’t know what hit her when the .38 went off.
“Toss the dog in the drink,” said Bunny. “And I hope you two used condoms.”
“What for?” said Neville.
“DNA,” said Bunny.
Neville looked at Normie and shrugged.
“What’s D and A, Uncle Bunny?”
“I’m not your uncle and you two are a pair of idiots. It might as well stand for Drunk ’n Arseholes for all it means to you.”
“Yeah,” said Neville. “Well, if we’re so stupid, how come we got a root and you never?”
“Yeah,” said Normie. “Get outta that one.”
Bunny Malloy shook his head. “Let’s go.”
*
AMY Jo was wearing black stiletto high heel shoes and black stockings. She was also wearing her white school shirt and blue tie. She didn’t bother wearing knickers on the job; since the death of her mother she had started work at the brothel in Cromwell Street full time and was handling one client an hour on the afternoon shift.
She liked her nights off. Neville Reeves had started to take her out nightclubbing and dancing every night. She liked Neville. She was really pulling in some serious cash every week and had a raging heroin habit, but it didn’t cost her a penny as Neville and Normie looked after her, and Uncle Bunny would visit her often at the brothel and sling her all the smack she liked free of charge.
She had given up going to school but still had a half dozen school uniforms and insisted on wearing them when she worked, as it drove the mugs wild. Everyone had been really nice to her since her mum got put off, with visits and kind words and kisses and gifts of money. She was unable to help the police, but they were still working on the case. She had moved out of home and moved in with Muriel Hill over in Lennox Street, Richmond. Preston Phillips and Bunny Malloy arranged that. Amy Jo liked Muriel and she loved little Michael Roy, Muriel’s foster or stepson.
Tessa Kinsella was taking care of a client in a private room and Sandie Toy was likewise engaged in a three-way scene with two Vietnamese in another room.
When Preston Phillips called in to see her, Amy Jo whoring herself was no longer a secret and Preston had come to accept that she was old enough to make up her own mind about things. Preston walked through the door with Gene Fitzpatrick, a well-known mental case and a fund raiser for the friends of Sinn Fein.
“How’s it going Princess?” said Preston.
“Hi ya, Uncle Pres,” said Amy Jo, giving the old gangster a big hug.
“Have ya met Gene Fitzpatrick? He’s a mate of mine.”
Amy Jo always put her forefinger in her mouth when she was shy or nervous.
“No, I haven’t,” said Amy.
Fitzpatrick smiled and said “Hello”.
God, thought Amy, he’s totally beautiful.
Fitzpatrick was tall, thick set, and well built with dark short hair and a deep tan. He had sparkling green eyes and a smile as white as snow. His nose was broken but it only added to his slightly Paul Newman, Marlon Brando good looks. Amy Jo was a bit of a movie buff and she loved Paul Newman and Marlon Brando and this guy looked like both of them. For once, Amy was glad her white school shirt covered her bottom, because she didn’t want this gorgeous guy to think she was some moll.
“Amy,” said Preston. “Gene here needs a favour. He’s got some relatives coming over from the old country and they need a place to stay. I was wondering if they could stay for a while at your mum’s old place in Wellington Street.”
Amy Jo looked at Gene Fitzpatrick. He smiled at her and she felt all mushy inside. “Yeah, of course,” said Amy Jo. “Father O’Connell is holding the keys to the house along with mum’s personal papers as he is executor of her will, but I’ll talk to him.”
Fitzpatrick spoke and Amy Jo detected a fine Northern Irish accent. “O’Connell’s a good man, I’ll have a little chat to him myself. My people don’t want a lot of fuss. In fact, best to keep this just between us, hey Amy Jo.” And with that the big man patted Amy on the back and ran his left hand down the small of her back to give her a friendly pat on the backside. It took Fitzpatrick a split second to realise she was wearing no knickers and he left the hand there a bit longer.
“I can see you’re a good girl and can be trusted and I thank you for ya help, young Amy.”
His hand moved underneath the girl’s shirt and cupped one ripe firm bottom cheek. All Amy Jo could do was look up to the gorgeous giant and smile like a lovestruck puppy, well, wag her tail like one anyrate.
Preston Phillips looked at his watch and made a move to leave. He pulled out a small parcel wrapped in birthday paper and said to Amy “a little something for ya, Princess” and put it on the top of the TV set. Then he turned to Gene Fitzpatrick and said, “I’ll be off now mate.”
“Okay,” said Gene. “I might hang about for a while,” and winked at Preston.
“See ya, Uncle Pres,” said Amy, breaking free of the hand glued to her arse and giving her uncle a hug. As Preston walked to the door Amy walked with him and as he opened the door he bent down and whispered in her ear. “Gene’s a good bloke. It wouldn’t hurt you to have a friend like him. You need a proper bloke in your life.”
Amy nodded. She had made up her own mind on that the moment she saw him.
“See ya, Uncle Preston,” she said, and kissed him goodbye and closed the door.
Back in the lounge of the brothel Amy Jo picked up the birthday parcel of smack and put it in her bag, then offered Gene a drink. Just then the doorbell rang and Tessa came out to answer it, having finished with her client.
Neville and Normie burst into the place just as the sly client, finished and all paid up, was trying to get out. “C’mon, Amy Jo,” yelled Neville. “Get ya gear off, me and Norm’s going double bung ya. Ha ha.”
Amy Jo flushed red with embarrassment at this crude display in front of Gene Fitzpatrick.
“Now, boys,” said Fitzpatrick. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”
Neville and Normie recognised Fitzpatrick at once. He ran the most feared crew of torture merchants in Melbourne. They had kneecapped and killed a million dollars in dago heroin money. And it was no secret that Fitzpatrick had IRA connections.
Shit, even Kid McCall had looked up to this psychopathic murdering Irishman. However, Neville and Normie were drunk and little Amy Jo was a prostitute, a junkie and the daughter of a dead dog.
“What lady would that be, Fitzy?” said Neville.
Fitzpatrick nodded in Amy Jo’s direction. “This young lady here,” he said.
“She’s not a lady,” said Neville. “I like her myself, but let’s face it, Fitzy. She’s a moll.”
Fitzpatrick’s fist crashed into Neville’s mouth and his top lip and top teeth exploded into a small shower of red mush and Neville fell to the floor out like a light. Normie was amazed. He looked at his fallen brother, then at Fitzpatrick. Then he found his voice.
“You hit my brother. No-one hits my brother,” he said. He was livid, and was looking at Amy Jo. “You’re a trouble maker. This is your fault,” he spat.
“No, it’s not,” said Fitzpatrick. “Amy Jo is my friend and I won’t have her ill-treated or ill-spoken of and she isn’t about to be double bunged by a pair of loudmouth drunken ratbags like you pair.”
Normie was flustered. He thought of pulling his gun out, but Fitzpatrick had a bad look in his eye.
Gene Fitzpatrick smiled. “I know, I know. It’s like a black gin’s left leg, isn’t it, kid. It ain’t right, and it ain’t fair. But there ya have it. Now pick ya retard brother up and piss off. See me another time, when ya sober.”
Normie picked Neville up and helped him down the hallway and out the door. Tessa Kinsella was watching the whole thing in total shocked amazement. “Mr Fitzpatrick,” said Tessa. “It’s none of my business, but if you’ve got a mother ya better move her to safer ground.”
Gene Fitzgerald smiled a bleak smile. “The UDR shot my old mother 20 years ago. That’s why we came to this country.”
“Oh,” said Tessa. “I’m sorry.”
“Darlin’,” said Fitzpatrick. “The Mother’s Day trick was invented in Belfast, not Collingwood. Just let young Neville and Normie sleep it off. I’ll see Preston about it. It will be all right.”
Tessa nodded. But she was thinking to herself, this good-looking Irish bastard is kidding himself. Hoddle Street and the Shankill Road have got a lot in common. If he thinks he can knock Neville Reeves out and get away with it he is mentally unstable.
*
GRAEME Westlock took off his right R.M. Williams patrolman dress work boot, shook it, then put it back on. He was sitting in an interview room in the Armed Robbery squad offices.
“Now listen here, Abdul my darling, you’re a guest in our fair land, you heroin dealing dog. And unless you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be back to bloody Turkey,” he said with the sort of polished menace that comes only with long practice.
There was a knock at the door, followed by Charlie Ford coming in with a cup of hot coffee.
“Ahh, wonderful,” said Westlock, and took it.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, wog?”
Abdul Nazzar nodded.
“Ha, ha” said Westlock. “Try making one with a broken arm, ya rat.” As he spoke he lashed out and sent Abdul flying with a vicious back hander. As Abdul picked himself up and sat back down Pete Younger came in with a BCI file and pointed something out to Westlock.
“Ahh,” said Westlock. “How do ya spell ya name, wog?”
Abdul had trouble talking through his busted jaw.
“A-B-D-U-L N-A-Z-Z-A-R.”
“Ahh I see,” said Westlock “N-A-S-S-A-R”.
Abdul shook his head.
“Do ya know an Abdul Nassar?” demanded Westlock.
Abdul shook his head. Westlock got up and walked out.
“Oh Doc, can I see you please?”
Doc Holliday walked over. “Yeah, boss?” said Holliday.
“Yes,” said Westlock as he put his arm around his old friend’s shoulder.
“Now listen, Doc. I’ve pinched the wrong bloke here.”
Doc looked panicked.
“No, no,” said Westlock. “No problem really, but I think I’ve broken his jaw. Now Doc, I want this wog out of the building and back in Brunswick in at least six pubs and roaring bloody drunk when he gets home and I also want him totally convinced that he was arrested by the drug squad and not the armed robbers. Do ya think ya can handle that?”
Doc smiled. “Leave it to me, boss.”
“Hey, Benny,” Doc called to Masterson. “Get a car.”
“C’mon,” said Doc to Abdul as he walked into the interview room. “We’re off for a drive, sunshine.”
“Okay,” said Westlock. “Frank, Roy, Paul, Charlie. Damage control. Get over to Collingwood and arrest Kristy Toy, Ann Griffin and old Ferdie Taylor. According to Doc, Taylor has a pound of pure smack and three kilos of meth amphetamines in his tool shed and Toy and Griffin have a 100 grands worth of morphine pills in their parlour.”
“That’s drug squad work, isn’t it boss?” said Charlie Ford.
Westlock nodded. “Yes it is, Charlie, but the Collingwood Crew belongs to us, plus I reckon in about 48 hours the drug squad will have other matters to cope with.”
Charlie Ford looked puzzled.
“Don’t think about it Chaz. Just get it done.”
“Okay, boss,” said Charlie Ford.
*
THE arrest of Ferdie Taylor, Kristy Toy and Anne Griffin on drug charges by the Armed Robbery Squad rocked Collingwood. The Collingwood crew’s old guard was beginning to vanish. From older members to younger hard heads, if any more went the heart and guts of the whole crew would be gone. Preston Phillips, backed by Bunny Malloy and Pat O’Shaughnessy, now controlled the shrinking Collingwood crew. But the Viets and dagos and Albanians, Rumanians, Yugoslavs, Calabrians, Sicilians and Chinese were all running riot with scant regard for the once all-powerful gang.
However, the old crew had one remaining winning card – more fire power than the average small country in the form of a massive stockpile of weapons that no other gang in Melbourne could get near. With Preston Phillips’s Irish and Neo-Nazi contacts there was a steady flow of firearms stockpiled in the basement of the late Stella Phillips’s home in Wellington Street.
You name it, and they had it. The boys like round numbers. There were 100 Sterling 9 mil. sub-machine guns, and the same number of 7.62 mil. SKS semi-automatics. Then there was the 100 AR15 semi-automatics, 100 mini-Rugers, 100 M16s, 100 Owen guns, six Vickers machine guns, two 84 mil. Carl Guztov anti-tank guns, seven M79 Grenade launchers, 1000 M26 hand grenades, 100 AK47 assault rifles, 12 M14 land mines, 12 M16 land mines, 1000 assorted shot guns, 500 assorted hunting rifles and 2000 assorted handguns with $50,000 being spent on more. The back shed at Muriel Hill’s place in Lennox Street, Richmond was chockers with enough guns to invade New Guinea.
Ripper Roy Reeves, Micky Van Gogh, Raychell Van Gogh, Karen Phillips and Kid McCall had bred the siege mentality into Collingwood, and this was the result.
“Who have we got left we can count on in a shit fight?” asked Preston Phillips.
Bunny Malloy had a pen and paper on the bar of the Leinster Arms Hotel.
“Well, let’s see,” said Bunny. “You, me, Geoff Twane, Pat O’Shaughnessy, Sean Maloney, Sonny Carroll, Greg Featherstone, Neville and Normie Reeves. There’s cousins, uncles, aunties, brothers and sisters. Ten to the dozen all over Collingwood from Clifton Hill to Abbotsford, but most of ’em are non-combatants.”
“What about young Hector Van Gogh?” asked Preston.
“Ha ha” laughed Bunny. “Hector The Cannibal, he’s a 17-year-old kid.”
“Yeah, well” said Preston. “Neville and Normie are only kids.”
Bunny shook his head. “Hector is a nut case. He can’t read or write, he can’t drive a car, and he sits in the front room of his mum’s place in Islington Street and watches old silent movies on video all day long. All that vampire Bela Lugosi bullshit. He’s a bloody nut and I gotta be honest with ya, Pres, he gives me the creeps.”
Preston Phillips looked blankly into space.
“Bunny, the kid cut both his ears off with a razor blade and ate them when he was 15 years old. Now think about it. Ear tartare, could you imagine the cholesterol? I reckon this is a bloke we should get on side. Put it this way, it’s got to be better than having the mad bastard off side.”
Bunny shrugged. “You’re the boss Pres, but I still don’t like it, okay.”
Preston Phillips’s efforts to court Gene Fitzpatrick and the crew from South Melbourne had paid off. Three mysterious Irishmen were now living in Stella Phillips’s old place in Wellington Street. The Collingwood crew needed serious man power if it hoped to ward off the Mekong Mafia and the encroaching Vietnamese and Greeks and assorted dagos with designs on the drug trade in the streets. Preston’s contacts in the Asian area seemed more keen on takeover than any shared partnership arrangement. At best, “friendship” between the Collingwood crew and the various Asian gangs and ethnic crime gangs was a smiling face arrangement with no real substance, and the police were killing off and arresting the Collingwood crew at a great rate.
Had Stella been the only dog? Was she really the spy? The question worried Preston. He was ill at ease. Collingwood needed to be led by a real head case and a tactical master. Preston was a top soldier but he knew he wasn’t a natural born gang leader. Little Cisco could have taken over but Westlock and Holliday had blown him away in Con the Greek’s barber shop. God, thought Preston, the whole thing is falling apart.
*
AMY Jo was sitting in the brothel in Cromwell Street. As usual, she was wearing full school uniform except for the stiletto high heels and the black elastic top stockings. Tessa answered the door then walked in and whispered to Amy Jo, “It’s that nut again, asking for ten bucks worth.”
Amy smiled. “Hector ‘The Cannibal’ Van Gogh,” she said. The weirdo who was on the dole and once a week would knock on the door and ask for ten bucks worth. Every week he’d been told to piss off, until the day Amy Jo answered the door and felt sorry for the semi-mental bloke with no ears. He’d been a regular ever since. He might have been mad, but he knew when he was onto a good thing, which is the way things go with blokes with no ears.
Amy also was a student of Collingwoods’s history and the bloke with no ears was related to a family of kooks that you always wanted on your side. He was the grandson of Hector Van Gogh, a monster in the 1930s, the son of Ringo Van Gogh, the nut, who got put away in J Ward at Ararat Mental Hospital for plotting to kill Prince Charles during his visit in 1983. Ringo said the prince’s ears drove him mental.
Amy Jo got up and called out, “C’mon in, Hector.”
Tessa whispered again, “Ya shouldn’t encourage him, Amy. He gives me the creeps.”
Amy ignored her. “Come on, Hector,” she said softly again, and the strange, smiling and clearly insane youth entered the room.
“I’ve got me ten bucks,” he said shyly, handing Amy Jo five two-dollar coins as if he was buying a bag of mixed lollies. Amy made a big point of counting it out.
“That’s right, Hecky. Ten bucks. C’mon mate, let’s go,” she said, and took Hector into one of the bedrooms.
“Same as always, Hecky?”
“Yes please, Amy,” said Hector.
Amy took off her school blazer and skirt and stood there in stilettos, elastic top stockings, black high cut knickers, white shirt and blue tie and school hat. Hector took his clothes off. He had savage, evil-looking teeth marks and fingernail scratches all over his back and chest.
“Now lie down, Hecky,” said Amy Jo.
Hector lay down obediently. Amy Jo removed her knickers and sat across his tummy, then bent her head down and bit hard into the lad’s shoulder. She put all her strength into it until she could taste blood. She felt him swell and stiffen up but not to full size so she lifted her head up and allowed Hector to kiss the blood from her mouth and tongue. This time she went for the other shoulder, and dug her teeth in hard and bit down and chewed until she tasted blood all over again. It was lucky she wasn’t a vegetarian. In more ways than one, because by this time Hector had really hit full length.
Amy Jo lifted her hips up and reached her right hand around and took hold of the swollen length and proceeded to gently aim it in the right direction. This time she bit into his chest and dug in so deep that Hector made a slight murmur and as she did this she slid herself onto Hector’s dick. She bit his chest again as he pushed it home.
She pumped her hips up and down and bit in again. After about 60 seconds he cried out and exploded. Nothing to it, really. Amy Jo jumped up and led Hector into the ensuite shower then joined him and the two soaped each other and washed each other clean, then got out and dried off and dressed.
“Same time next week, Hecky,” said Amy Jo.
Hector nodded, but she could tell something was on his mind except next week’s arrangements. “Preston Phillips wants to see me,” he said hesitantly. “Reckons I can make plenty of money. If I had money, Amy, I’d bring you flowers.”
Amy Jo gave the boy a cuddle. “I don’t need flowers, Hecky,” she whispered.
“Preston Phillips and Bunny and all them reckon I’m mad,” said Hector. “I’m not gonna do nothing for them,” he muttered fiercely. “The only person I’d do anything for is you, Amy. You’re the only one who’s ever been nice to me.”
Amy kissed the boy on the cheek.
“You’re my only friend, Amy,” he said. “If ever I can help you, you only have to ask.”
Amy Jo showed the boy out. She took the five two-dollar coins and wrapped them in a couple of hundred dollar bills and said “Hey, Hector. Here baby, take this. Your friendship is all the money I need.”
“No,” said Hector, but Amy pushed the dough into his hand.
“Now listen, Hecky, you’re my friend and I’ve got plenty of cash so whenever you want to see me you just come round and it won’t cost you a penny. I know you’re only on the dole, so I’ll slip you a few bob each week, okay, and if I ever need someone to help me or protect me I’ll know I can call on my friend Hector.”
The mad boy’s eyes blazed with emotion. Amy Jo had touched something deep inside him.
“You’re my only friend, Amy. I’ll do what you tell me and if you ever need me just ring my mum’s. I’m always home.” Amy stood on her tip toes and whispered in the boy’s ear. “I love the way we do it, Hecky. I love the taste of blood.”
Hector’s eyes flashed and he turned and walked out. Amy Jo watched him.
“You’re a sick puppy, Amy Jo,” said Tessa. “He’s a dangerous mental case. I’ve seen the blood on the bed. He’s a pain freak. You wanna watch him.”
Amy smiled. “I’ll watch him, all right, Tess. And Hecky will watch me. Everyone needs someone special to watch over them, and Hecky’s my little pit bull. Ha ha ha.”
*
GENE Fitzpatrick wrapped up the Hi Standard .22 calibre automatic handgun with an extra clip and two boxes of 50 bullets in nice birthday paper. It was the 20th of April, Hitler’s Birthday. It was also Amy Jo’s birthday. She was sweet 16 and never been kissed, he joked to himself.
Never been kissed between the toes. That was about the only place the little alley cat had never been kissed, he thought.
A 16-year-old who earns two grand a bloody week working the day shift in a brothel and that’s after the house has taken a 25 per cent cut.
A 16-year-old with a grand a day smack habit — and gets it all free of charge from her Uncle Preston and Uncle Bunny.
A 16-year-old with an insane no-eared bodyguard who follows her about like a puppy dog.
A 16-year-old who has pulled her cousins, the Bennett brothers, and the other assorted Bennett nut cases back into the Collingwood crew.
Yep, this little 16-year-old was a force in her own right, with a small but deadly power base that couldn’t be sneezed at. How many 16-year-olds drove around Collingwood in a mint condition 1967 Cadillac Fleetwood Eldorado?
Gene Fitzpatrick recalled the late Karen “The Rabbit Kisser” Phillips and compared Amy Jo Phillips. Was history repeating itself?
Preston was tossing Amy Jo a birthday party at the old Telford club in Victoria Street, Abbotsford, and the Irishman was looking forward to it.
Amy Jo had changed a lot in a year. She had developed a knowing look in her eyes that made her seem much older and wiser. And like her mother, she had bleached her long hair platinum blonde. In many ways Preston Phillips and others remarked she was looking more and more like Karen Phillips herself except, of course, for the tits. She stood out in that department, boasting a set of boobs her old mother would have been proud of, to the tune of a 38-inch D cup. Some things will never go metric.
Gene Fitzpatrick arrived at the Telford Club at 6 pm as requested, to find that the whole place had been done up and returned to its former glory. Muriel Hill answered the door. Preston Phillips, Bunny Malloy and old Chang Heywood were at the bar drinking with Earl Teagarden, and Evil Hadley, Geoff Twane and Gaja Jankoo were also in attendance, along with Greg Featherstone, Sean Maloney and Sonny Carroll.
Sandie Toy and Tessa Kinsella, Reggie Rat Kinsella and Neville and Normie Reeves, Angelo and Tony Bennett sat together, drinking and ignoring all others until Filson Pepper, another Amy Jo recruit, walked in and joined them. Then Tommy Brown, the late Rachel Van Gogh’s nephew, walked in and joined the Bennetts. Tuyen Tran Truong and three of his shadow men were also at the gathering. Just to round it off, there was mad Albanian Johnny Dobro, Mekong Kellie and Benny Marshalartas.
The brothel across the road, Coco’s Restaurant, had been shut for the night and the six ladies invited to the party to add female weight to the evening. All in all, it was a somewhat sad looking lot, thought Gene Fitzpatrick. Maybe the party would get moving when Amy Jo and her no-eared shadow walked in.
Bunny Malloy walked over and put a record on. He pushed two buttons on the juke box and k.d. lang came on singing “What’s New Pussy Cat”. As the song started Amy Jo walked in with Hector Van Gogh close on her heels. She was wearing a skintight pair of faded blue jeans and a white pair of Reebok runners, a white tee shirt that stretched tight across the biggest boobs in three suburbs and an expensive black leather jacket that Preston recognised as one that had belonged to her mother. Oddly enough, Hector was dressed in exactly the same gear, as if he was her twin.
The party came to life when Amy Jo walked in.
“Happy Birthday, Princess,” said Preston.
“Happy Birthday, darlin’,” said Bunny.
Everyone gathered and hugged and kissed Amy Jo. Gene Fitzpatrick walked over and bent his head down and kissed Amy on the cheek and gave her the birthday gift. Others handed her gifts, but she opened Gene’s first and was delighted. She loaded the .22 calibre bullets into the clip then slid the clip into the butt of the automatic.
“Thanks Gene,” said Amy Jo. “Now we got two.” With that she pulled out a beautiful automatic that perfectly matched the one she’d just been given. Everyone laughed.
Gene thought that his good looks and charm had won the young girl over. He had become a powerful force within the Collingwood crew and shared equal authority with Preston Phillips, but the bad blood between Fitzpatrick and Neville and Normie Reeves still existed and so Amy Jo was loath to take sides until she became powerful enough to make such a move.
She knew Neville and Normie were a pair of shits, but Fitzpatrick wanted to rule everything. Amy Jo had started to see herself in a Karen Phillips, Raychell Van Gogh light. She had gathered about her a young crew of madmen in the form of the Bennetts, her own cousins, Tommy Brown, Filson Pepper and, best of all, Hector “The Cannibal” Van Gogh.
Johnny Debro and Benny Marshalartas were swinging voters. They would follow the strength. Tuyen Tran Truong had already handed over four kilos of pure white rat heroin to Amy Jo on credit. It was a secret deal. If she could handle it, he would do more business. All of Collingwood felt that Amy Jo and Hector Van Gogh and their small crew had their eye on leadership and saw themselves as the new headless horsemen of the Collingwood criminal world. Preston Phillips was Amy Jo’s uncle and if he could see leadership he would hand it over when the time was ripe …
All of which set the scene for Amy Jo’s birthday party. It was the night young Amy Jo moved from a world of lightweight fun and games into a world where death sits on your shoulder and the only way to survive is to make death your friend. Gene Fitzpatrick kissed young Amy good night. He had to leave early, around 7.30 pm. Amy Jo stood at the bar with Hector Van Gogh close at hand.
“I wonder what really did happen to my mum?” said Amy out loud. “I remember years ago the old yarn about Fatty Phillips turning dog and getting put off by Mad Raychell and Micky Van Gogh. And Karen Phillips, Fatty’s little sister, just turned a blind eye. Yeah, well, I know my mum was no good. I know she was talkin’ to Doc Holliday, but no-one can just let that sort of shit go.”
The room went quiet. Amy Jo held a pause just long enough, then swung around to face Preston Phillips.
“Uncle Pres, you didn’t kill Stella, did ya?” she said softly.
Preston flushed red. “No, baby, course not. What a thing to ask me,” he blustered.
“Well, someone in this room did,” snarled Amy Jo.
Hector The Cannibal put his right hand behind his back and grabbed the butt of his Beretta automatic. Filson Pepper, Tommy Brown, Angelo and Tony Bennett did the same. The party mood had vanished and serious tension had taken over.
“Someone put Stella off,” said Amy. “I wonder if Bobby Torres saw anything that night.”
“She was a dog,” yelled Neville in a panic.
Amy turned. “Yeah, I know that, Neville. Why are you so upset? All I said was I wonder what Bobby Torres saw.”
“Ya can’t believe him,” said Normie.
“Why don’t you two idiots shut up,” yelled Bunny Malloy. He was livid.
“You two bob jumped-up slut,” he yelled. “You’re a junkie and a moll and ya mum was a dog. Don’t come in here trying to act like Karen Phillips, putting it on us over ya dead dog of a mother.”
Amy Jo didn’t miss a beat.
“Bobby Torres said you drove the car, Bunny, and Neville and Normie tossed her in the back.”
Malloy went silent.
“But, I ask myself, which one of ya killed her?”
Neville cracked. “Bunny did. Me and Normie only screwed her.” Neville pointed at Bunny. “So what,” said Malloy. “What are you going to do about it, moll?”
Amy Jo smiled. “Nothing. Hector, have you anything to say?”
No-one saw the gun in Hector’s hand in the dimly-lit room, but they all saw the muzzle flash as the 9 mil. slug spat out and shattered Bunny’s cheek bone. Tessa Kinsella and Sandie Toy screamed. Neville and Normie went for their guns but got smashed to the floor and disarmed by the Bennett brothers and Filson Pepper. Tommy Brown pulled out a .44 handgun that could stop an elephant and covered the crowd with it. Amy Jo stood over the fallen body of Bunny Malloy.
“Sorry, Bunny. Sorry, Uncle Preston. I know Bunny was ya friend, but fair is fair.”
Preston nodded slightly. He wasn’t arguing. Amy Jo started to walk out and looked at Neville and Normie Reeves. To kill Malloy in front of everyone was a good career move. But to kill the Reeves brothers would be suicide.
“I’m not killing anyone for getting up me mum,” she said.
Neville and Normie stood up in tears.
“I’m sorry,” said Neville.
“I’m sorry,” said Normie.
“Yeah well,” said Amy Jo. “Bunny’s dead and mum’s dead. So we will leave it at that, okay?”
Neville and Normie nodded.
As Amy Jo and her crew walked out Neville called out “We are still friends aren’t we, Amy?” Amy Jo turned. “Yeah, Nev. We’re still friends.”
*
BEAUTIFUL Dreamer wake unto me, star light and dew drops are waiting for thee. Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, lull’d by the moon light have all passed away.
“HERE he comes,” said Westlock, and with that Doc Holliday stopped singing.
Gene Fitzpatrick pulled up outside his house in Cruickshank Street, Port Melbourne, in his 1986 Mercedes Sports. He got out and instead of going straight inside he stood in the gutter and took a leak.
It was a very poorly lit street at night time, something that some residents had complained to the council about for some time. It encouraged undesirables, they said.
They didn’t come much more undesirable than Holliday and Westlock, who had got out of their car sneakily and were walking toward Fitzpatrick, guns drawn.
“How ya going, Fitzy?” said Westlock.
Fitzpatrick didn’t stand on formality. Without even taking one hand off his fly he pulled out his .32 calibre automatic and fired, hitting Westlock in the chest.
Westlock staggered back and Doc Holliday emptied six slugs into Fitzpatrick. Then he grabbed Westlock’s handgun and emptied three more into him.
It made the Gary Abdallah job look half-hearted. This amused Westlock, whose sense of humor ran deeper than a .32 slug in his guts.
“Ha ha,” he laughed. “I think you got him, Doc. Ya under arrest, Dog,” he yelled at the Irishman’s body. Then he said, “Get me to hospital, Doc.”
As Doc Holliday floored the unmarked police car toward the Alfred Hospital, Westlock began to sing as he held his bleeding chest.
Step aside you ornery tender feet, let a big bad buckeroo pass,
I’m the toughest hombre you’ll ever meet though I may be the last,
Yes siree, we’re a vanishing race. No siree, can’t last long, step aside
you ornery tender feet while I sing my song.
I’m an old cowhand from the Rio Grande.
Then he passed out.
“Don’t die on me Graeme,” screamed Holliday. “Come on, mate, don’t die.”
