As Billy Joe fell to the floor the crowd all gathered around and wondered at his final words:
‘Don’t take your guns to town, son. Leave your guns at home;
Leave your guns at home, Bill. Don’t take your guns to town.’ – Johnny Cash
TINA Torre walked quietly along Peel Street, North Melbourne, after doing her early morning shopping at the Queen Victoria Market. She was now married to a wealthy man and didn’t have to shop for bargains at the market, but old habits die hard.
It was a cold, crisp morning and Tina was wearing a tracksuit and joggers as she lugged her bags and parcels to her Mercedes. She was planning to sell the Merc because Princess Diana had died in one like it. Tina was very upset over the death of the Princess. It was strange, that. When all those poor people were murdered by that mentally retarded faggot in Tasmania the year before, Tina had been shocked, but not sad. But for some reason the death of the Princess really got to her. It was such a silly way to go, almost slapstick in its tragedy. An English princess, an Arab millionaire, a Welsh bodyguard and a French chauffeur filled with Scotch whisky, all in a German car. As Joey had said, the only thing that was missing was the Irish motor mechanic. And, if so, who was he working for: The IRA or MI6?
The world was starting to become a crazy place. Tina wanted Joey to stay home more. She didn’t dare mention his business affairs, but she was no fool. As a Sicilian herself she recognised the formal Scarchi Sicilian manner in which Joey’s uncle Hector was treated and greeted at the wedding.
Then there was the small matter of sixty men all carrying machine guns and shotguns in full view as the wedding procession left the church and headed through the streets of Palermo toward the Messina Club for the reception.
In fact, the wedding made the Godfather movie look like The Sound of Music. Tina’s family couldn’t help noticing it as well. The name Aspanu was almost as famous in Sicily as Juiliano himself.
Tina wanted to talk to Joey about a few things. First on the list was that she was pregnant and he didn’t know yet. The doctor had confirmed it the day Princess Di was killed. Yes, Joey was to become a father and a family man himself, and Tina’s wish was that all this flying all over the world on the wishes and whims of the old vampire in Palermo would stop. But culture, tradition and habit die hard. She was a liberated woman, but she was foremost an Italian girl married to a very Italian man. She just couldn’t say “excuse me, my darling, I’m having a baby, so you will have to resign from the mafia?” It didn’t work like that.
Tina got to her car, opened it, put away her parcels and got in. She was thinking about the baby. Surely it would slow Joey down, she thought contentedly.
That thought was the last thing that went through her mind, if you don’t count the back window of the car. Because when she turned the key in the ignition every bit of Tina above her knees was blown to bits.
*
BENNY Shapiro turned to Marven Mendelsohn as they stood in Victoria Street, North Melbourne, a hundred yards from the exploding Mercedes.
“Ya see,” said Benny seriously, “that’s what one landmine can do when its rigged up correctly. I told ya the anti-tank gun would be sheer over kill.”
Marven nodded. “But we use the anti-tank gun next time, hey?”
“Promise,” said Benny. “The next time we use the anti-tank gun.”
“What sort of land mine was that?” asked Marven, “M14 or M16.”
“No,” said Benny. “Stock standard Israeli APM.”
“Hmmm,” mumbled Marven, “do we have many of them?”
“I had three,” said Benny. “Got two left now. But I do have a dozen boxes of mark 2 para flares right out of the Paynes Wessex factory, and a dozen Very pistols and a thousand flares.”
“A Very pistol?” said Marven.
“The old-style flare guns. They’re hard to get, but they’d burn an elephant to death, them flares. Burn white hot under water.”
“Why do they call it a Very pistol?” asked Marven.
“Because it’s very fucking painful,” laughed Benny.
*
MEANWHILE, Simone Tao was getting off a plane at Tullamarine airport, where her pal Joey was waiting for her. Simone had flown in from Hong Kong. It would be her last flight from her old home. She’d remained to wave goodbye to the British but even though her new Chinese Communist masters were all smiles, Simone felt a little ill at ease. Her links with the triads, not to mention various Italian and American crime families, had not gone totally unnoticed in certain circles. Always a forward planner, she had already sexually serviced one Chinese Communist military commander and two high-ranking party members, not to mention a list of communist party financial and tax investigators. So there were lots of bonkers in Honkers, but she still wasn’t sure all was well for her there. Something told her never to go back.
She was travelling to Melbourne on a return ticket, but she had no intention of returning.
She would leave behind half her wealth, but that still left her with almost two million dollars. One million invested in Australia with Joey in the heroin trade, and another million with the Don in the arms business. All the Aspanu money was safe in Swiss banks. Not to mention various other accounts all over the world.
Of course, in their lines of business, anything could go wrong at any time.
For instance, at that very moment, as Joey greeted her, he was unaware that his wife had been blown to pieces a few minutes earlier.
Now, Joey was one hard hombre, but had he known about Tina’s bad luck with the bomb he may not have driven Simone straight to the Hilton Hotel, rushed her upstairs to a luxury apartment and gotten her clothes off for a bit of old times’ sake. Simone was hardly through the door of the suite than Joey had his favourite weapon out and was ripping Simone’s dress off. As Simone helped him into the master bedroom and fell back on the bed, wrapping her bare legs around him, she said, “So, Joey. How’s married life?”
The response to this made her give a little yelp.
*
BENNY Shapiro was arguing with Marven Mendelsohn. “Look, Micky said to leave the Sicilian alive. Anyway, they are on the bloody seventh floor. You can’t hit the whole seventh floor with an anti-tank gun.”
“I can if you find out what fucking window to aim at,” grumbled Marven.
The two Jews were sitting in the street below the Hilton in Marven’s 1954 Studebaker Landcruiser.
“Look,” said Benny, “Micky wants us to kidnap the Chinese chick, okay? No-one said nothing about hitting the fucking Hilton with a fucking anti-tank gun.”
“Well, this is giving me the shits!” yelled Marven. “What’s the use of having an anti-tank gun if we never get to use it.”
“Where’s Pauline fucking Hanson when ya need some fish and chips?” replied Benny, laughing.
Marven stopped dead in his mental tracks.
“What the fuck has she got to do with the argument?” he asked.
“Well,” said Benny, “there’s more than one fish and chip shop in Australia and, believe me, Marven, you will get to use your bloody anti-tank gun soon enough.”
“You’re a strange man, Benny” replied Marven, which was pretty rich coming from him. “Speaking of fish and chips, I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, hey Benny?”
“Yeah,” said Benny “we’ll grab the gook tonight.”
As Marven drove away Benny said, “Did ya hear what old Pop Kelly said about Pauline Hanson?”
“Nah, what” said Marven.
“Pop Kelly reckons he hopes the Abos grab all the bloody land they can get their bloody hands on.”
“Fair dinkum,” replied Marven, puzzled.
“Yeah,” said Benny, “because the more land the Abos grab the less land there will be for the fucking Japanese, according to Pop.”
Benny roared laughing, but Marven looked quite serious.
“Ya know, Benny, silly as it sounds, old Pop’s got a good point.”
*
MARK Dardo and Niko Ceka sat quietly drinking in the Builders Arms Hotel in Fitzroy. Niko had been out of hospital only a few days and was still coughing up blood. He didn’t look good. Shadows under his eyes, and as skinny as buggery. But he was cheerful, in spite of the fact the bullet Joey put in to Niko’s chest in the wild shoot ’em up at the Bagdad Hotel in Abbotsford had done more damage than was first thought.
The backyard doctor in Footscray had done the best he could. He removed the slug, then stuck an iron spike deep in the wound and rushed him to hospital, with a tall tale that Niko had been the victim of a totally unprovoked street attack.
The police were called, but Niko could not help them with the identification of his attackers except to say that they were Vietnamese. The funny thing was, Niko and his lawyers were going to lodge a crimes compensation application.
The doctors said the iron spike went in one side and out the other like a bullet, but they couldn’t explain the internal damage. It was as if someone had been probing around inside the victim’s chest with a pair of pliers. Very puzzling for the medical profession, it was.
Nevertheless, they concluded Niko appeared to be the innocent victim of a criminal attack and, as such, fully entitled to compo. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t faking being crook.
“It will all turn out for the best,” Mark Dardo said to Niko, who was coughing up some more blood into a clean white tissue.
“Where’s Micky Kelly? Why can’t we kill that fucking Gravano?” said Niko.
“Ha ha,” laughed Mark. “The Jews blew his wife up this morning, and I think they are on some mad mission either today or tonight.”
“Where’s Micky?” said Niko.
“Calm down,” said Mark. “He’ll be here soon. Have another whisky, brother.”
As Niko polished off his fourth glass of whisky, Micky Kelly walked into the bar.
“How’s it going, boys?” he said.
The Albanians greeted him with smiles all round and big hellos.
“Listen,” said Kelly, “I’ve got Billy Jecka in the car outside. Do ya mind if I bring him in for a drink?”
“Bronco Billy,” said Mark Dardo.
Niko Ceka looked at his cousin Mark, and shrugged.
“Why not?” said Niko.
Mark looked at Micky.
“Oh well, the more Albanians the better. Bronco hates Jews, so we best keep him clear of Benny and Marven.”
“Yeah,” said Micky, “but he hates Germans worse. When Gravano hears about his wife he will attack. The fucking Calabrians won’t back him against the Albanians, but he’s been doing big business with the neo-Nazi crew from St Kilda.”
“Kaltenbrunner,” said Mark.
“Yeah,” replied Micky.
“Ernst fucking Kaltenbrunner,” said Niko, “the fucking German gunsmith. He’s almost as mad as Bronco Billy.”
“Yeah,” said Micky. “So I thought we would get Billy in on it. I got Hacker Harris to ring Bronco.”
“Jesus,” said Mark Dardo. “Hacker Harris. We are entering the land of the seriously insane now, aren’t we?”
“Nah,” said Micky with a grin. “Hacker is okay, and Bronco Billy and his team would go to the grave on Hacker’s say so. Believe me, when that fucking Sicilian finds out about his wife, it will be on.”
“He must know by now,” said Niko.
Micky Kelly smiled.
“Not according to the Jews. He’s still in the Hilton with the Chinese moll. Benny and Marven will grab her tonight. Remove her, and the balance of their financial thinking will collapse. Joey’s logic will shatter when he finds out about his wife. It will be total insanity by either tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” said Mark. “Tell Bronco to come in. Let’s work this out now.”
Micky smiled. “I love this shit. I really love it.”
*
ERNST Kaltenbrunner was the grandson of a German war criminal, a former SS officer with the same name. The young Kaltenbrunner was a group leader of the Aryan Defence League and controlled a small army of approximately 200 neo-Nazi skinheads as well as operating as a backyard gunsmith and arms dealer. He’d heard and seen a lot of angry people, but nothing like Joey Gravano.
When Joey rang the Nazi at home in Home Street, Elsternwick, he was nearly mad with grief and rage.
“I need your help, I’ll pay anything,” he was sobbing. “I fucking can’t rely on my own people. None of ’em want a war with the Aussies and the fucking Albanians.”
Ernst had heard tell of the car bomb, and had been expecting Joey’s call.
“Juden schwein” said Ernst, or something like that.
“What?” said Joey.
“Jewish pigs,” said Ernst. “The schwein who did your wife, they were Juden hunds”
“What?” said Joey.
“Jewish dogs” replied Ernst.
“Speak English!” screamed Joey.
Then Ernst yelled down the phone in German something like: “Ich werde den hund den kopf abschneiden.”
“What?” cried Joey.
“I’ll cut the dogs head off,” said Ernst.
“When?” yelled Joey.
“Tomorrow,” replied Ernst, “but geld zuerst, Joey. ”
“What?” said Joey, “talk fucking English.”
“Money first,” replied the German. “I’m not running a public fucking charity, okay?”
“Okay,” said Joey grimly.
And that’s how it began.
*
THE following night at the Albanian Club in Yarraville, Bronco Billy Jecka and his team were drinking with Mark Dardo, Niko Ceka and their crew. Micky Kelly was in attendance with his assorted gathering of Collingwood madmen. Kelly had also recruited the help of a Maltese crew, led by a mean-looking heavyweight kickboxer named Maltese Dave, who was there with his girlfriend, a stripper called Jasmyn.
“Ya won’t believe this,” said Micky Kelly to Dardo, “but Jasmyn here used to go out with bloody Gorgeous George Marcus. She knows ’em all. That’s how Dave met her, on some weird plane trip to Italy. George had kidnapped her on some mad holiday to fucking Sicily and Big Dave took her off the plane in Rome. She knows ’em all. Gravano, Guglameno, Giordano, Capone, Monnella, the whole crew.”
Niko broke into the conversation. “Do ya reckon Gravano will try hitting us tonight? I wish Benny and Marven was here.”
“No,” said Micky. “They are with the Chinese slut. They’ve got her tucked up in some house in Avoca Street over in South Yarra.”
“What are they doing with her?” asked Mark.
“I think they are teaching her to speak Yiddish,” replied Micky, who fancied himself as a bit of a wit.
“If Joey or that fucking Nazi show tonight it’s going to be one hell of a stink,” said Mark, “especially when he thinks the Jews are here.”
“You want him to show?” asked Niko.
“Yeah,” said Micky, “this is what it’s all about, boys. Total rock and roll. Sneaking about, blowing the shit out of each other is okay, but in the end it comes down to this. High noon in front of the Red Dog saloon.”
Neither Niko nor Mark understood exactly what Micky meant by this crazy cowboy stuff. But they got his drift.
*
OUTSIDE the Albanian Club, Joey Gravano and a handful of brother Sicilians of the no-spika-da English variety pulled up in a 1968 Chevy Impala. Behind them came the German, Ernst Kaltenbrunner, and three of his right hand men in a 1966 Dodge Phoenix. Then came a 1970 Holden Monaro GTS, with five more neo-Nazis, and a 1967 Ford Fairmont with six men in it. A total of twenty men, all armed.
However, they had been misinformed a little about the reception committee in attendance. For instance, they were ignorant about a gang of 37 knife-carrying Maltese mental cases who happened to be in the club. Nor did they know that Micky Kelly and his crew and Bronco Billy and Mark Dardo’s crews were inside. Joey was simply given to believe that Benny and Marven and a handful of Albanians were inside having a drink.
“Let’s kill the Juden Schwein,” said Ernst.
“For a start,” said Joey, “when we walk in try to speak English for Christ’s sake. I can’t understand a word you’re saying half the time.”
“Okay,” said the blond psychopath, whose eyes were the palest, craziest Gestapo blue, like the Slyboy’s.
“Yeah, well, danke mein herr, as they say in the fucking German,” said Joey as he pulled out his .38 calibre police special. His quiet Sicilian mates also produced handguns. Ernst produced a 9 millimetre wartime Luger, but none of his men had guns – only iron bars and German army bayonets.
“You’re kidding,” said Joey to Ernst. “Iron bars and bayonets. You’ll never get a fourth Reich going with that sort of hardware.”
“You paid only for me,” said Ernst. “My troops are here out of the goodness of their hearts. You want me to tell them to go home?”
“No, no, no” said Joey. “I’m sorry, iron bars and bayonets should do nicely. ”
“Okay, let’s go,” said Ernst. “Handa hockjuden hunds.”
Joey shot a corrosive look at Ernst. “We aren’t going in to stick the place up, ya fucking Nazi retard. Handa fucking hock indeed. Speak fucking English or you’ll be getting a bit of old Sicilian right in the fucking head. No wonder you pricks lost the war. I mean, look at the way ya dressed. Doc Martin boots, jeans, an Adolf Hitler t-shirt and ya bloody grandad’s old SS dress uniform jacket. We’ll be lucky if the fucking Jews don’t laugh ’emselves to death. Look at the way ya fucking mates are dressed. What, did they have a sale on flight jackets and Doc Martins at Vic Market” he snarled.
Ernst looked down his nose at Joey.
“You stand there wearing red slip-on shoes and a green double breasted sports jacket and dare to make adverse statements about me and my men. In my grandfather’s day people like you were told to hit the showers and don’t take ya fucking towels,” he said.
“What did you say to me, you big German dog.”
“Dog!” yelled Ernst. “No-one calls me a dog.”
*
“DID ya hear that?” exclaimed Jasmyn. The music and conversation in the club was pretty loud, but Niko had heard it too.
“Yeah, what the hell was that?” said Niko.
“Sounded like a car backfiring.”
Mark Dardo opened the door of the club and looked out into the dark, then closed the door quickly.
“What’s up?” asked Micky Kelly.
Bronco Billy went and looked out a window into the dark outside. “Fucking bunch of skin heads in some big fight,” he grunted.
Mark Dardo opened the door and walked out onto the footpath followed by Niko Ceka, Bronco Billy, Micky Kelly and Maltese Dave, then Jasmyn and assorted other patrons of the Albanian Club, namely various Albanian mental cases, Maltese criminals and Aussie gunnies from Collingwood.
The footpath in front of the club began to fill up, and no wonder. There was the most amazing sight: a handful of Sicilian gangsters led by Aussie Joe Gravano and a dozen neo-Nazis led by Ernst Kaltenbrunner punching the living guts out of each other. One Sicilian was lying in the street, shot, and one Nazi skinhead appeared to be down and out. Kaltenbrunner was using his handgun to pistol whip all comers. They were cutting each other to shreds with iron bars, bayonets, knives and pistol butts. Then it got more willing. Gravano shot a skinhead and Ernst Kaltenbrunner returned fire and shot one more Sicilian.
“This is worth its weight in gold,” said Micky Kelly
If there was one thing Albanians and Maltese both hated more than Italians it was Germans. This insane display was priceless.
It got too much for Bronco Billy to resist. He yelled out and ran into the fight, screaming and throwing punches — and, bang, Kaltenbrunner shot him stone dead. Then Joey Gravano broke free and fired into the crowd on the footpath and one of the Maltese fell wounded, then Micky Kelly fired two shots in return and two skinheads fell. Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka started firing as Joey ran to his car. Another Sicilian and a skinhead dropped. It was pitch black as the Aussies, Albanians and Maltese moved in for the finish.
Gravano started his Chevy and took off as bullets shattered the rear window. Skinheads and one remaining Sicilian ran for their lives but Kaltenbrunner stood his ground, totally alone, apart from the dead and wounded around him.
Kaltenbrunner screamed, “come on, ya fucking dogs, come and get it” and then fired two wild shots, hitting Micky Kelly in the stomach and wounding a Maltese.
Then a volley of return fire from more than a dozen handguns cut the German to bits. The big Nazi fell to his knees but refused to fall all the way, screaming blindly in German: “Juden fucking dog Schwein!”
Then Niko hit him in the head with a final shot and the Nazi fell backward, deader than vaudeville.
Jasmyn held the badly wounded Micky Kelly in her arms. Mark Dardo took charge. “Right” he yelled Mark. “Jasmyn, Dave, get Micky to hospital, tell ’em he got shot in Allandale Road, St Albans.”
“What about Fremont Parade, West Sunshine?” replied Jasmyn.
“Are you two masterminds fucking joking?” screamed Micky. “I mean does it matter, does it really fucking matter? Just get me to hospital. I know the bloody drill. Holy shit!”
“Sorry, Micky” replied Mark.
Jasmyn and Maltese Dave loaded Micky into the back of a Fairmont and drove off. Mark turned to Niko, and the rest of the men gathered.
“Okay, let’s get this shit cleaned up. Shoot the fucking wounded and dump all the bodies in the back of Dave’s panel van and we will bury these dogs. We can’t have all this mess in front of the club.”
Niko put the barrel of his gun to the head of a wounded Maltese and pulled the trigger.
“Hey, Niko” yelled Mark.
Niko looked up. “Yes, brother,” replied Niko.
“Ahh, their wounded, mate,” said Mark carefully. “Not ours.”
“Oh, sorry” said Niko.
The rest of them stood in dumbfounded silence and looked at Niko in disbelief. Niko flushed red with embarrassment at his breach of etiquette. He looked around into the faces of the men gathered and feebly repeated himself.
“I’m sorry fellas,” he mumbled. It would be the last time he’d forget that in polite company you don’t shoot your own wounded.
*
LATER that morning, Benny Shapiro took a phone call at the house in Avoca Street, South Yarra, where Simone Tao had been an unwilling guest. Benny listened in silence for several minutes, then hung up and turned to Marven.
“If ya fucking read this in a Chopper book ya wouldn’t believe it” he snorted.
“What?” asked Marven.
“Bronco Billy’s dead, which is no great loss. And Micky Kelly is in the Footscray Hospital getting a bullet pulled out of his guts, so it was a good night out at the Albanian Club,” laughed Marven.
“Yeah,” said Benny. “You’d need a fucking corpse juggler to count the fucking bodies. They killed the big Nazi. Ha ha,” laughed Marven.
“Good one. Mark wants us to bring the Chinese moll over to Footscray.”
Marven looked at Benny, and Benny hung his head.
“And so you should hang your head too,” scolded Marven. “She had important information. I leave you alone for fifteen minutes to go to the shops and I come back to a dead chow hanging in the fucking bathroom.”
“She committed suicide,” said Benny defensively.
“I’m not saying she didn’t hang herself,” said Marven, “but only after you did your hands-on trick. Anyway, why did you leave her alone in the bathroom so she got a chance to top herself?”
Benny jumped in. “Because I wanted to give her a bit of privacy while she had a shower.”
“Well, you weren’t too fucking worried about privacy when you were raping her five minutes after we got her through the front door,” retorted Marven.
“I’m sorry,” said Benny.
“Yeah, well, we will leave out the perverted details and just tell the boys she hung herself when our backs were turned,” said Marven. “Okay.”
“We could turn this into a plus,” said Benny hopefully.
“How?” asked Marven.
“Cut her head off and send it to the dagos,” said Benny. “They aren’t to know she committed suicide.”
Marven walked into the bathroom and inspected the naked body dangling from the shower rose with pantyhose. He was thinking aloud.
“Hmm, psychologically that could be a tactical winner. Yes, indeed, I know Micky Kelly would love that idea. Okay, Benny, get her down and cut her head off.”
“Why me?” complained Benny.
“You’re the one who fucked her. You’re the one who left her alone in a locked bathroom and you’re the one who brought up the wonderful idea of cutting her head off,” said Marven. “So fucking cut it off and stop whinging. Bloody hell, Benny, get with the fucking program and we haven’t got all day, either” said Marven. “I promised to take mother to the casino this afternoon, so get with it, okay?”
As Benny pulled a butcher’s knife out of the kitchen drawer, he giggled.
“Did you hear about the Abo on the rape charge? He pleaded not guilty and used the Mabo Defence on the grounds that the sheila was standing on his land, so he got up her for the rent. Ha, ha, ha.”
A loopy Jewish gangster telling Abo jokes. Marven shook his head. “If you tried to earn a living as a comedian, Benny, you’d starve to death,” he said. “Just hurry up and start digging.”
*
MELBOURNE, February, 1998. Acting Detective Inspector Barry Mann sat in the bar of Barassi’s Hotel in Bridge Road, Richmond, nursing a seven-ounce glass of scotch.
Big Barry was not a happy man. Beside him sat his mate Detective Senior Sergeant ‘Big Jim’ Reeves with an even larger glass of whisky in front of him. There was music coming from somewhere behind the bar, the melancholy sound of Hank Snow singing My Blue River Rose.
“It’s not fair,” complained Big Barry in disgust. “It’s just not fair. The bloody drug squad.”
“But they did promote ya,” said Big Jim.
“Yeah, promoted and demoted all at the same time. One minute I’m a humble shitkicker in the armed robbery squad. The next I’m an acting big deal shitkicker in the poxy drug squad.”
“The drug squad is not too bad,” said Big Jim. “It could have been worse. They could have bunged ya into the vice squad.”
Barry Mann groaned.
“Yeah, I suppose every toilet has a silver lining. But I don’t understand it, a fucking complaint against me made by that dog Guglameno, a complaint backed up by his dog mates Giordano and Monnello and fucking Capone, and the fucking ESD boot me up and out.”
“Jesus, mate” said Jim Reeves, “you’re an acting inspector. You should be pleased.”
“Charlie and all the boys and you are still in the armed robbers. Why did I get the shaft?” asked Barry.
“Well, someone had to wear it and they pulled your name out of the hat,” said Reeves.
“I’m gonna dead set fix them fucking dagos,” said Barry Mann. “Believe me.”
“I got a better idea,” said Jim Reeves, and handed him a slip of paper.
Barry opened and read it. It had Aussie Joe Gravano’s name and his Domain Road address on it. Then the words Sicilian Controller, Melbourne, Calabrian heroin connection, Aspanu clan, Sicily. Then there was a list of file numbers — state, federal and Interpol. And the entry codes for each.
Big Barry Mann put the paper in his pocket.
“Who give ya this?” he asked.
“Charlie Ford,” replied Jim Reeves.
“Would Charlie like a quick arrest?” asked Barry.
Big Jim mumbled something.
“What did you say?” asked Barry.
“I said,” answered Jim Reeves, “that I don’t think a fucking quick arrest was what Charlie and the crew had in mind.”
Big Barry Mann beamed a wide smile.
“Ha ha ha, so we’re back in the saddle again, hey Jim?”
Big Jim Reeves gave a sly smile.
“Charlie and the boys reckon having you in the drug squad might turn out to be not such a bad idea after all, Bazza. Ha ha.”
Big Barry Mann raised his glass.
“To Cowboy Westlock and Doc Holliday,” he said solemnly.
Big Jim Reeves raised his glass.
“Legends never die, Bazza. Legends never die. Ha ha.”
Mann looked a lot happier. “Ya know, Jim, I was just thinking I might like the drug squad after all,” he chuckled.