GOODBYE CHICKA
CHARLIE

‘I’M so bloody cold and the night is so clear. A full moon, yeah, there it is, I can see it. Where have my legs gone? They must be there, but I’m blowed if I can feel them. What happened? Where am I? Why am I lying on the footpath? Shit no, don’t do that. God, I’m pissing my pants. Stop it, stop it. How bloody embarrassing, laying on the bloody footpath wetting myself. Who are those people looking at me? Yeah, me. Come on, mate. Get up, get up. How come I can’t bloody move? God, this is ridiculous. Where have my arms gone? I’ve got this pain in the middle of my upper back, near my neck, sort of cold and numb, but with a fire in it. I can feel something warm running out of my chest and up and out and down both sides of my neck. Shit, she shot me. Shot me right in the back. Open ya eyes, ya silly bugger. Don’t go under. Come on mate, get with it. Don’t die, that’s it, one eye open. Why don’t no-one help me? What’s wrong with ’em all? How did I fall into all this? Oh no, police sirens! Or is it ambulance? I’m gone. I took his bloody face off with the shotgun and she stood there. Don’t die, don’t die. Dreaming of her, bloody strobe lights, off, on, off, on, red and white light, off, on, blue and white light, off, on. How am I gonna get out of this one? That bloody music. Ha, ha. If I only had time. Yeah, only time. There she is, look at them legs. Here I am, dying, and she can still make me feel horny. What’s she doing, talking to the police. Hey, I’m down here! I ain’t dead yet. One eye still open. Hey, down here! I’d bloody well wave if my arm would work …

‘Ahh, oxygen. Yeah, great. Oxygen mask, ohh good. That’s right, into the ambulance. Ahhh yeah, I can still breathe. That’s better. Yeah, sweet oxygen. If I only had time. Don’t die mate. C’mon, don’t die, you can make it, if I only had time, only time.

‘C’mon, get me to hospital. No, I’m not dead, don’t take my mask away. I’m not dead. Open ya bloody eyes. Yell out. Why won’t my voice work? Why can’t I open my eyes? No, no, I’m not dead. God, there she is again, look at the long-legged witch, up on that stage dancing. The wet dream from hell.

‘How did you find me? I’d spent a lifetime avoiding honeys like you, and of all the hearts in all the world you had to razor blade your way into mine. Go on, get out, leave my mind alone, let me die alone and in peace. Don’t follow me to the grave. Shit, what did that medic say? Dead! Hey, idiot. I’m not dead. Can’t ya see, I’m alive in here, look inside my brain, ya dumb bastard.

‘Look at this witch. Look at her. God, he reckons I’m dead and I feel horny. This isn’t real. She’s following me all the way inside my mind to the morgue. I’m not breathing. I can’t feel a thing. Eyes closed, yet she’s alive inside my mind. Look at her rockin’ and rollin’.

‘Yeah, who wouldn’t toss his whole bloody life on to the roulette wheel for her? Ha ha ha.

‘It makes me smile. I must look a sight. Dead as a door nail, with a smile on me face. Come on, princess, let’s go. You stay right where ya are, dancing in my head. C’mon darling, it’s grave time. Oh well, better to die with you holding the hand of my memory than to die alone. Stay there, baby. Don’t leave me, stay there. I didn’t know dead men could dream. Ha ha. Great. Blow me to the grave, princess. Who would ever have guessed it. Dead men get to dream and she is coming with me, for ever and always. The Strobe Light Dancer, rockin’ and rollin’ in my mind’s eye. It’s you and me forever, into the depths and darkness of eternity …’

*

HOW did it all begin? Let me take you back seven days. It seems like a thousand years ago, but it’s only a week. It’s Saturday night as I lie here dying, and I met her last Saturday. I got out of jail Friday morning. Six years prison with nothing and no-one. Days spent in violence just trying to stay alive and nights spent with my eight-day in one hand and my imagination in the other. First port of call was my dad’s place, a shower, shave, a change of clothes, the $1200 stuffed down the barrel of my sawn-off shotgun was still there, and my little five-shot .22 magnum revolver was in perfect working order.

I had half a box of ammo in reserve, so I loaded the .22 and put a dozen extra bullets in my pocket, put the $1200 in the other pocket. Then I donned my old favourite box Chester overcoat, gave my dad a kiss on the cheek and went out to see what the new world had to offer me.

I’d spent six years dreaming totally unrealistic crap and now I was free and cashed up, armed up and all set to rock and roll – but I didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin or what to do. I walked into the first pub I came to and sat lost and all alone getting quietly pissed, wondering where the world I’d once known had gone to.

My whole life had been like one giant revolving door with people passing through it. They left their mark in the waiting room of my heart and mind – then vanished. All I wanted was for someone to enter and not leave me. I walked home, a bit sad, my big first day out had been a big heap of bullshit and nothing.

I fell into bed and slept. When I woke up the sun was blazing. It was Saturday morning, and the world looked a better place than it had the night before. Sure enough, while I’d been asleep, Wazza Warren had rung my dad and invited me to meet up with him for a drink at some club in the city. It was called the ‘The Mexican Madonna’. Funny name for a club, I thought. But a lot more than the date had changed in six years.

Wazza Warren. I met him in prison about four years ago. He was doing two years. I’d already done two years when he came in, but we hit it off okay. When he got out two years ago he kept in touch.

I got up, got ready and went out. It was about four in the afternoon when I got to the club. It was closed. It didn’t open till 6 pm, but Wazza was inside. He was the live-in bar manager, not a bad job for an alcoholic street fighter who couldn’t read or write. He let me in. The joint was a vision in red, black and gold, with mirrors all over and around the walls. Chairs sat high at the stage and around various smaller platforms and stages. I’d never seen a club like it. After copping an eyeful of this for a while I looked at Wazza. He was dressed sharp – flash as a rat with a gold tooth, as my old dad used to say. He looked smug with it, as if he knew he was on a good thing and wanted me to know, too.

‘What the hell is this place, Wazza?’ I asked.

‘It’s a dance club,’ he said. Deadpan, but I could tell he was chuckling up his sleeve at my wide eyes. I’m six foot plus of muscle, tattoos and bad intentions, but at that moment I must have looked a bit like a hillbilly kid on his first trip to the big smoke.

‘What sort?’ I asked Wazza. Meaning what sort of club.

He explained that while I’d been away, the smarties had brought in an American idea called ‘lap dancing’ or ‘table dancing’. What it meant was that when the club opened for business 20 of the hottest-looking honeys you’d ever set eyes on would come out in stiletto heels, gee string and garter belt, and wiggle it and jiggle it about half an inch in front of your nose while the punters stuck cash in the knickers and garter belts.

The lights would get turned down and the whole club would turn into a strobe-lit sex machine. It was madness, magic bloody madness. Wazza told me I was in for a top night. He gave me four stay-awake tablets, the sort truckies pop, and I washed ’em down with a cold can of beer.

The ladies started to roll into the club around 5 pm and 5.30 pm. They all looked good to me. Tall, leggy, pouty looking blondes and redheads. Chinese chicks, black mammas, brunettes. They all seemed to wear dark glasses and they all, without question, totally ignored me. Except for one big, tall redhead who spoke to Wazza then turned and looked at me, took off her dark glasses and said, ‘the table with the red velvet chairs, okay?’

I didn’t say anything. Then she pointed to a few lounge chairs in the corner with a low table in front of them. It was the darkest and most private corner in the joint. Then she marched off, swinging the best set of hips I’d seen in a long time. Mind you, for six years I hadn’t seen many, but I had a good memory.

‘Who’s she?’ I asked Wazza.

‘Carolyn, she’ll look after you. I told her you just got out.’

Carolyn, Carolyn. I repeated the name over and over in case I forgot it. ‘Who is she?’ I asked.

Wazza gave me a funny look. ‘Who cares who she is?’ he said. ‘She’s a dancer and she works here. Best body in the club. You wait till she gets her gear off.’

‘What was that funny accent?’ I asked.

Wazza thought, ‘I don’t know. Scottish, New Zealand, something like that.’

‘Why did she pick me?’ I asked.

Wazza thought again, then said ‘I’d mentioned my mate in jail was due out. She seemed interested and a bit curious and told me if you ever came in to point you out.’

‘Does she know what I was in for?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I told her. ‘She never minded. After all, you’re not a sex offender. All you ever did was shoot a few arseholes.’

He laughed, ‘In fact, she went all wet between the legs when I told her you’re a gunnie from Collingwood and that you always carried a gun on you.’

Wazza was smiling. I wasn’t. There was a small silence.

‘You told her a bit too much, I reckon,’ I muttered.

‘Ahh, C’mon mate,’ said Wazza. ‘She’s a thrill seeker, a danger junkie. She loves all that gangster bullshit.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but don’t tell her nothing more.’

*

WHEN the doors opened at 6 pm, a few men started to come in. The bouncers and bar staff got busy for a big night, and the place started to hum. I grabbed a large scotch and went and sat in the corner. The music was loud and the place was a black, red, blue and yellow flash of on-again, off-again strobe lights. The chicks came out. Every one of them looked like she’d come out of a top-shelf porno movie.

I sat back in a big red velvet lounge chair, as instructed. Where was Carolyn? Then I saw this walking wet dream come up from out of the darkness. She bent forward and kissed me like a butterfly on the mouth with a little flick of her hot, wet tongue on my top lip. I reached out to grab her, but she was gone.

In the blink of an eye she got up on this small table in front of me and started to swing and sway to the music. The whole thing was quite sexually insane. I pulled out a fist full of money and she saw it and got down and began to dance all over me, touching me and teasing me as I stuffed money into her knickers and gee string. At the end of the dance she walked away, then turned and let me know she wanted me to follow. I wasn’t going to argue. My dad taught me to be polite to ladies at all times, even if they weren’t altogether ladylike. I got up and followed. You could have stopped me with a chainsaw, but not much else.

She went behind a red velvet curtain and through a doorway. Once inside, she closed the door and together we walked along a darkened hallway to a small, dark dressing room. It had a big mirror on the wall with a light above it, a comfy chair and a bench full of make up.

There was a small washbasin and tap. The whole thing was pretty dingy. Carolyn wasn’t. She took out the 100 or so dollars I’d stuffed into her knickers and handed it back to me.

She said, ‘I don’t do this for everybody, but you seem like a good bloke and I know ya been away for a long time and only got out yesterday.’

As she was saying all of this she had the zip on my pants undone, one hand down my jocks and the other hand undoing my belt. As she undid the belt, my .22 magnum handgun fell free and hit the floor. She looked at it and her eyes opened wide.

‘Ohh,’ she purred, ‘I think you’re gonna be a really interesting guy to know.’

We did the business with her sitting on the make-up bench, the whole thing was over before it started. Six years of dreaming about women like Carolyn – all blown in a six-minute frenzy. When it was over and she was adjusting her knickers and readying herself to go back to work, I said the most ridiculous thing.

I looked into her face and said, ‘I love you’.

It was the most childish and stupid thing to say, but I felt hopelessly and utterly in love with this heavenly creature. For a bloke fresh out of the joint, she was a vision splendid, with her suntanned legs extended – like something out of a porn movie they watch in heaven. To me, she was no any ordinary woman, she was an angel with a figure designed by the devil to tempt men. She had the sort of face that men would die for – and kill for. A pouty look with lips that looked as if they’d spent the last 20 years sucking icypoles. I’d spent the past six years having serious sex with my mattress, dreaming about glamour girls half as good looking as this pornographic princess. And I’d just blown six years of pent-up prison passion deep inside a dream come true.

In love, in lust. Call it what you will, but I was in it. I would have pulled my heart out and handed it to her. She stopped and looked at me and touched my cheek with her long fingernails and sort of stroked my face and said: ‘You’re a really nice guy, but don’t tell me you love me. You don’t even know me.’

‘Yes I do,’ I said. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you for the last six years.’

She lifted her face up to mine and kissed my cheek.

‘Can I see you again?’ I asked.

‘I’m here every night,’ she said.

‘Can I see you after work?’ I asked.

Then she mentioned her boyfriend and my blood ran cold. She stood there hitching her gee-string knickers up and told me she had a boyfriend. A jealous arsehole who loved to slap her about. If she got caught after hours with another man she’d be in big trouble. She was free from 6 pm till about midnight at the club, but then the boyfriend showed up. He would hang about till 3 or 4 am, then take her home. She’d hand over most of the cash from her night’s work to him. He was a big, good-looking wog from Footscray. The bodybuilder, all muscle and mouth type. He spent his time gambling, lifting weights, working on his suntan, selling a few drugs here and there, buying stolen property, doing a bit of security work as a bouncer at a few clubs and pubs, buying himself la-de-da Italian-made clothes, slapping his girlfriend about and whoring her arse off when he needed money. Generally just rock and rolling around town, looking good and trying to play the role of the up and coming tough guy. His name was Eros Pantanas, but everyone called him Rocky.

Don’t ask me why, but all I could think of was seeing Carolyn again. She told me the club opened Sunday night and Rocky never showed up because he spent every Sunday night playing Russian poker, otherwise known as Manilla, at a wog shop in Williamstown.

Also, she went to see her dad in Richmond every Sunday lunch. If I wanted to, she’d meet me tomorrow in the Botanical Gardens at 2 pm near the duck pond on the South Yarra side. The entrance near the pub.

Yeah, I said quickly, I knew the place. With a butterfly kiss on the mouth to say goodbye, she turned and walked away swinging the best body I’d ever seen in my life as she went.

I left. I didn’t want to watch her dance for other men. I saw her wiggle her wet-dream arse in the face of some grey-haired old toff with a fat roll of notes in one hand and his other one buried in her knickers, and that was enough for me.

I said goodbye to Wazza and went home. Six years in the bluestone boarding school had gotten me used to early nights. In spite of the stay-awake pills I was out like a light by 9 pm. I dreamed about Carolyn. Dancing.

*

I GOT to the entrance near the duck pond at a quarter to two the next day. I’d been drinking since lunchtime, but the excitement at the thought of meeting Carolyn kept me sober. I had my mother’s diamond ring in my pocket. It was a half carat, set in 18-carat gold. My old dad had given it to me. Three and a half grand’s worth. I wanted to give her something that would show her that my love was for real and not just dick talk. Something told me this girl had heard an army of men tell her they loved her. I wanted to set myself apart from the rest. You could say I was a sucker for a pretty face.

As I stood there looking at the butterflies dancing in the sunlight, she did it again. I felt a tickle on the back of my neck. I spun around and she kissed me on the mouth again, with a flick of her tongue darting across my lips. She was a white witch, and I was under her spell.

When I saw her it was like I was walking on a cloud. She looked like a dream. A little pair of white runners on – I couldn’t get over how cute and tiny her feet were. Her legs were bare and tanned bronze. She had a little white cheese cloth dress, more of a long shirt than a dress. She wore a little white cheese cloth belt and the whole affair did its level best to cover her bottom when she stood straight and didn’t move too much. That’s how short it was. Her arms were bare. No make up and no jewellery. All she had was a pair of white rimmed dark glasses sitting high on top of her head, on her mane of blonde red hair. Her eyes danced from green to blue to a sort of yellow, depending how the light caught them. I couldn’t decide. She wore a light perfume and she smelt like a rose garden. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

‘How ya going,’ was all I said. It’s all I could say.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and murmured ‘Been waiting long, baby?’

Then she kissed me. This time a proper kiss. Her tongue was trying to knock my teeth out. My hands started looking for her arse underneath the cheese cloth. It didn’t take a lot of finding.

I ran my hands up her body and felt her tight, high cut knickers – the sort that show the thigh clean up past the hip bone. That’s all she had on. Flimsy panties with less material in them than a necktie, and this ridiculous excuse for a dress. She pulled away, took me by the hand and led me deeper into the gardens.

We didn’t talk. Down near the duck pond she broke the silence. Her voice was light and happy. All I’d ever known was violence and death, hate and hurt, and to me she seemed childlike, innocent, sweet, light, clean and fresh.

She chattered away like a kid. I was delighted. We walked down to the duck pond and watched the ducks. In a few days – hours, really – I’d gone from the blood and guts of Pentridge and the darkness of a long prison sentence to standing in the sunshine with an angel watching ducks on a pond. My mind could hardly wrap itself around the contrast. I felt lightheaded. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the diamond ring and said:

‘Close your eyes and open your mouth.’

She did so without question and popped out her little pink tongue. I sat the ring on her tongue. She closed her mouth, opened her eyes and looked up at me.

Then she reached her hand up and took the ring out. Her eyes came alive with a blaze of delight and childish wonder. When she saw the big diamond she looked at me and whispered, ‘For me?’

I nodded. She put it on her left hand, the finger next to her index finger. It was a perfect fit. I held her face in my hands and said, ‘I told ya I loved ya.’

I thought for a moment. She had tears in her eyes and she turned and said ‘C’mon’.

I followed along behind her into the thick trees and bushes of the garden. There was a little pathway which led to a bench. I thought for a moment that she’d been there before; she seemed to know her way around. She sat me down and sat beside me and undid my pants.

‘Don’t drop ya gun, baby,’ she said with a giggle.

But this time I had the little magnum in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket. She found what she was looking for and proceeded to Linda Lovelace the hell out of me.

Just when I thought that I was coming to the funny part she said, ‘Oh no, don’t,’ and got up and with a wiggle and a giggle had those little white knickers off in a flash. I lasted longer than six minutes this time around. And all the time when I could get her tongue out of my mouth I told her I loved her.

We made love for most of that afternoon. Then she had to get to work, so we set off and walked through the gardens towards the city. She would walk and sort of dance excitedly in front of me, chatting away like a married magpie. She was a Pisces, she told me. I was a Scorpion. That meant a perfect match. Then she said I was Irish – and she had been born on St Patrick’s day. Another thing in common.

All this trivia meant so much to her. Star signs, birthdays, it was all so cute to me. I noticed she carried no handbag. All she had was a little pocket on each side of her cheesecloth dress with her front door key and a hundred dollar note in one pocket and a packet of condoms and an American Express card in the other.

She wasn’t a pro, she went to great pains to tell me. She was a dancer, but if some old duffer offered 200 bucks for a quickie – well, why not. It was all rubber dickie work, patting the pocket with the condoms in it to prove her point.

She made three to four thousand bucks a week in tips and sex. Shit, I thought, I’ve got about a grand in my pocket and that’s all I’ve got in the world.

She kept looking at her ring and smiling at me in her little girl way with a mouth full of pearly white teeth.

‘Do you really love me, baby?’ she asked.

I told her I did. Then she said, ‘Well, don’t take this the wrong way, baby,’ and she stood on tip toe and whispered into my ear, ‘What’s your name?’

God, I felt like a freaking fool. I thought she knew it. I thought I’d told her or Wazza had told her. What’s your name? I’d humped her twice and put my mum’s ring on her finger and told her I loved her and hadn’t told her my bloody name. Brother, you’ve been too long in jail, you’re losing the plot. C’mon mate, get with it.

I told her my name and she repeated it several times, just like I’d done the night before. I put my arm around her and she hugged me. We got to the club and Wazza let us in. She went off to get ready and I sat at the bar. Wazza winked.

‘Best vacuum cleaner in the whole club, mate.’

I went into jealous mode, right away. But Wazza gave me a scotch and said, ‘Listen brother, we are mates, aren’t we?’

I nodded.

‘Well okay,’ he said. ‘Carolyn is a top chick but, brother, don’t lose it. She’s a cold-blooded slut arse whore. Don’t go losing the plot. She’s a tease queen. I’ve seen the bastards lining up 10 deep outside her dressing room at 100 bucks a pop and that was during a half-hour tea break. C’mon sport, wake up. Ya been living in a cage for too bloody long.’

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I grabbed Wazza by the hair and put the cute little .22 calibre handgun into his mouth. I was about to pull the trigger when Carolyn stepped out of the shadows of the semi-darkened nightclub and said, ‘It’s okay, honey. Leave it. He’s not worth it.’ I pushed Wazza back against the glass. He knew he’d said too much and had no intention of saying anything more.

The other girls were coming into the club to get ready for work and Carolyn took me back to her little dressing room.

‘I heard what that dog said,’ she said to me, ‘he’s only dirty cos I won’t blow him. He tries it on with all the girls, and as far as he’s concerned we are all molls.

‘If he talks bad about you again, princess, let me know and I’ll kill the rat.’

Carolyn looked at me in a way that made me feel that I’d kill several dozen men if that’s what she wanted, and crawl over their bodies to get to her. She said, ‘You really do love me, don’t you?’

‘Yeah baby, I told you I do,’ I said. ‘You’re a dream come to life and I don’t want to lose you.’

She held my head in her hands and said, ‘Look, this is what I do. Can you handle that?’

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s sweet.’ Silence. ‘But what about ya big wog boyfriend? He’ll have to go.’

Her eyes shone, just like when I gave her the diamond ring.

‘What do you mean?’ she said.

‘He’ll have to go. You’ll have to leave him,’ I answered.

‘Look,’ said Carolyn. ‘he’d kill me if I tried to leave him.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ I snarled. ‘I’ll shoot the big mongrel first. You’re mine, princess. You can rock and roll all you want at work but when you come home ya mine. Okay? Ya can forget the muscle mouth boyfriend. A shot in the skull will soon fix him.’

Carolyn went all smoochy and loving.

‘Would you do that for me, really?’ she cooed.

‘Of course I would,’ I said. ‘I’ll kill the dog tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

Suddenly, she turned thoughtful. ‘No, baby, no,’ she said. ‘Let’s plan it out proper. It’s got to be neat and clean.’

Then she looked at me funny. ‘Do you believe in fate?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

She explained that a fortune teller had told her she would fall in love with a tall, dark stranger who would rescue her from the cage of tears and pain she was trapped in.

I was fairly tall, fairly dark and some people reckon I’m strange, so I guessed I qualified. We made love again. Deep down inside my guts I knew she was a whore and probably lying her heart out, but I was in love, which is just another variety of insanity, if the truth’s known. But, more than anything, I wanted to be that tall dark stranger. I wanted to rescue her from that cage of tears and pain. I was in the middle of some sort of mental and emotional firestorm. I had a big part in some crazy underworld love story and I couldn’t understand the plot. I just kept on seeing this vision, this fantasy. My brain whispered to me that I had hold of a low-life dirty girl with heavenly looks, but I didn’t care. I knew she’d spin my mind until I couldn’t tell night from day, she’d weave me a web of lies and treachery and hump my brains out all the way to my grave. Every nerve in my body screamed that she was everything Wazza said she was, and a truck load more. But the wet dream body and the pouty princess face stopped me facing reality.

I was in some sort of hypnotic state. That’s what love and lust do. They make rattlesnakes look like fluffy bunnies. I didn’t trust her, yet I wanted to believe every word she said, and so I did. I guess I had been too long in jail. I was lost in love and lust and didn’t care.

I guess that’s the difference between a bank robber and a bank manager. One lives as if there’s no future. The other plans for it. And, as my old dad said: ‘Son, when it comes to a contest between balls and brains, balls win every time.’

*

I SAT at the bar for the rest of Sunday night and Monday morning till about 4 am. I was hoping the bodybuilder boyfriend might show up. I made the peace with Wazza and swallowed six stay-awake pills. Carolyn spent the night dancing and having hundreds and hundreds of dollars stuffed down her knickers. I’d promised to be a good boy and not get jealous. Blokes would fold $100 bills up into tight little balls and she’d dance over to them and they would slip the rolled up note right into her, along with half their hands. In fact, it seemed for a $10 or $20 tip you’d get a big sexy smile and a wiggle of the arse, an inch from your nose – but for $50 or $100 you could jam your whole hand up her grumbler and leave it there for a minute or two while she wiggled it all around.

I saw one beautiful big black chick put a condom in her mouth and roll it on a flat slob’s dick as he sat at the bar. It was dark but I could see her head work up and down for a full five minutes. Then she was gone. A Chinese chick was sitting on another guy’s lap as he sat at the bar across the room from me. I couldn’t see it properly, but it looked like sex in action. The whole thing was pornographic. I sat watching Carolyn jack hammer her arse up and down on a guy’s face as he buried his head between her legs. Someone grabbed me on the dick. I jumped and looked around, not sure for a second whether to go for my gun. Standing beside me was a long, tall, shaggy-haired blonde with big boobs. She had knob monster written all over her face. A real tough-looking, knowing, hard, sharp-faced slut. But not stupid.

‘How ya going?’ she said to me, and smiled. ‘I seem to recognise that smile.’

I said nothing. Just smiled back.

‘Remember me?’ she asked.

Shook my head.

‘No, I don’t. Wished I did, but I don’t.’

She smiled again.

God, I did know this chick. But who was she? She reached over and spoke into my ear.

‘Kerry,’ she said. ‘Kerry Griffin. Garry’s sister.’

No, I still didn’t get it. Who was she? I shook my head again.

‘You backed Garry up in a blue in South Melbourne seven years ago. You shot two blokes outside the police station. You saved Garry’s neck.’

No, I’d never shot blokes outside any police station ever, and I didn’t know this chick from a bar of soap. But, being a gent, I didn’t want to tell her that and disappoint her.

‘Geoff’ she said, ‘Your name’s Geoff Twane.’

She still her hand on my dick, so who was I to argue? I knew Geoff Twane. He was still in Pentridge, due out in about three months. And sure enough, he’d done about six and a half years for gunning down two arseholes outside the South Melbourne police station, just like the lady said. A simple case of mistaken identity, but who was I to go correcting people when they were acting so nice?

I smiled and said, ‘Oh yeah, Kerry. How ya going?’

She grabbed me by the hand and said ‘come with me.’

I followed along. I looked over my shoulder and saw Carolyn going in behind the red velvet curtain with a little Japanese bloke. Kerry took me behind another curtain at the end of another dark hallway and into a dressing room shared by several girls. In the dressing room and out of the strobe light she looked much nicer. She was tall, well-stacked, about 30 years old, with big eyes and a big mouth that was usually smiling. Not such a knob monster after all.

She was determined that she knew me. ‘God, it’s good to see ya, mate,’ she said, as if we were lifelong friends. ‘When did ya get out?’

I told her. Suddenly she lost her hard, knowing look and took on a happy, little-girl face. More proof that I didn’t know much about what made women tick. Her whole personality and attitude had changed from one moment to the next: from a tough tart who’d seen more pricks than a dart board, to a virgin who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Bloody women. Don’t understand them, love ’em all.

She was talking about her brother again, the one I was supposed to have saved. ‘Garry’s doing four years up in Long Bay in Sydney,’ she said. ‘Shit Geoff, it’s great to see ya again.’

‘I guess ya broke’ she added, matter-of-factly.

‘No, I’m okay Kerry. I got about a grand on me.’

She laughed. ‘I pull that much in a night.’ Then she tossed me a roll of hundred dollar bills that would choke Linda Lovelace. ‘Here, stick that in ya kick.’

It was a beautiful gesture. I was starting to be very grateful to this Geoff Twane character.

Next question from Kerry: ‘Are ya here on ya own?’

I told her I was waiting for Carolyn.

She went a bit chilly. ‘What are ya doing with her, mate? Jesus freaking Christ, Geoff. How did ya fall in with her?’

I said, ‘What’s wrong with Carolyn?’

‘Shit mate, she’s been trying to doodle shake half the gangsters who walk into this place into shooting her boyfriend for the last six months.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘She said nothing to me about it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Kerry, ignoring my attempt to defend Carolyn. ‘Eros Pantanas. They call him “Rocky”. Some two bob nothing from Footscray who thinks he’s a big deal.’

I tried again. ‘Yeah well,’ I said, ‘she hasn’t said nothin’ to me about no boyfriend.’

Kerry shook her head, then changed the subject.

‘Ya got a gun, babe?’

This I understood. I let her see the .22.

‘Shit, shit, shit, Geoff. You’ll need a bigger one than that.’

She laughed and rummaged through her handbag, and pulled out an old .38 calibre automatic handgun.

‘Here ya go babe, take mine.’

She tossed it to me. I caught it and pulled the clip out. Six bullets in it.

‘That’s all the ammo I got, mate,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

I shrugged and grinned. ‘That’s okay, Kerry.’

Shit, a roll of notes that would choke a horse and a handgun. What I call a top home-coming present. But there was more to come. Kerry was looking at me with a sly little smile. ‘Hang on, I ain’t done yet,’ she said. She took a step toward me and undid the zip on my pants. I pushed her back gently.

‘Nah, darling’ I said. ‘I’m sort of with Carolyn.’

Kerry just gave me a knowing smile and said: ‘Yeah well, if you don’t tell her I won’t.’

I tried to resist but she just dropped to her knees and I sort of went like jelly from the knee caps up. This big happy-faced chick could suck like a poddy calf. All the blood started to rush out of my brain and before I knew it I got hit in the groin with a thousand volts of electricity. I thought I was gonna pass out. I had to grab hold of her head to stop from falling over. All thoughts of Carolyn vanished.

When I regained my composure and Kerry had got back on her feet, she poured us both a glass of scotch. I sculled mine down.

‘Listen Geoff, you watch that little witch. She only loves one man, and he’s in a wheelchair. Sick bitch if ya ask me.’

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

Kerry looked at me and said, ‘Her old man. Lives in Richmond.’

‘What do you mean, her old man?’

Kerry got impatient.

‘Jesus, Geoff. Her dad, her father. Kiwi Kenny Woods. Some gunnie from Collingwood put him and two other would-be gangsters in their place about six years ago. Big shoot out. I can’t remember the gunnie’s name. I met him once about six or seven years ago in Collingwood, but can’t place him now. Shit, what was his name? You know him, Geoff. God, you introduced us.’

This was getting really interesting. Good thing Kerry’s memory had totally gone, I thought to myself. Because it was me who had shot Kiwi Kenny and his two mates six years before, six and a half to be exact. And it was the real Geoff Twane who had introduced me to her somewhere, although to be fair I couldn’t remember much about it either. It was only a matter of time before this big, good natured girl twigged, and remembered everything in the right order. What would happen then?

She could have her money and her gun back, but how do you return a head job?

Saying I was sorry wouldn’t be enough. God, she’d have to sit on my face for a week to repay the good turn she’d just done me, but I wasn’t gonna tell her that, so I’d just play along.

Geoff Twane was a tough old gunnie and a good friend. He also had a sense of humour and I doubted very much that he’d get too angry over this little bit of comedy. This Kerry chick was a real dinky di Aussie classic. Tough as an old boot and soft as a kitten. Rough talking and no nonsense – but straight and honest, a real true blue. I liked her. There was no evil or treachery in her. She was built like a brick shithouse and could head job an elephant to death. She had the look of a girl who’d cut your face open with a broken bottle if you crossed her. And the fact she could afford to toss me a loaded handgun without a second thought meant she was not without connections.

I liked this chick, and I knew she’d make a good friend. There was only one problem. I decided to tackle it head on.

‘Listen Kerry,’ I plunged. ‘Don’t tell Carolyn my name is Geoff Twane. Okay?’

She gave me a knowing look and said, ‘Yeah, good. Wise idea. Don’t tell her ya right name. Good thinking, Geoff.’

We both went back into the club and as soon as the strobe lights hit Kerry’s face she took on that Las Vegas showgirl slut look. She walked away swinging her arse. Carolyn was dancing over in the corner in front of a group of uniformed policemen. Shit, that was enough for me. I was going home. I had a lot to think about. Carolyn was Kiwi Kenny’s daughter. Big question: did she know who I was? Did she know it was me who’d put her dear old dad in the wheelchair? And what would happen when Kerry Griffin realised I wasn’t Geoff Twane? It was bedtime for me. I had to get out of the joint, go home to think this stuff over.

Carolyn Woods, so that’s who she was. But I still couldn’t help the insane thing I had about her. She was my little paper doll, my fantasy butterfly.

Kerry Griffin would make a more staunch friend, but Carolyn was my prison fantasy, a dream come true. If no-one told her that it was me who shot her dad, there wasn’t any problem at all. That’s what I told myself as I drifted off to sleep, anyway.

*

I SLEPT till about 1.30 Monday afternoon. But when I woke up it was still on my mind. As soon as I stepped out of the cot checked the phone book for Kenny Woods’ number and address in Richmond. Once I’d found that, I showered, had a Dad and Dave, got dressed and put my .22 revolver and the .38 calibre automatic Kerry had given me in my pockets.

I checked the fat roll of notes the big blonde had tossed my way, then counted it. There was $3200 in the roll. Jesus, I thought, how much dough are these tease queens pulling in a week? It put my income to shame, and I risked doing jail – or my life – every time I did a job of work in my line of business. I couldn’t believe my lucky break meeting Kerry … a handgun, a head job and 3200 bucks and ‘see ya later honey.’

She was either mad or the best-hearted chick I’d ever met. I’d have to see her again, but first I’d pop down to Coppin Street in Richmond and check out the man in the wheelchair. What was Carolyn playing at? I’d be a fool to ignore too many warnings. I made my way to the address and stood out the front across the road.

There was a black 1969 Chev Corvette parked outside. I knew Rocky Pantanas drove a black ’69 Corvette. I stood outside at a discreet distance for about an hour. Carolyn and Rocky came out with a bloke in a wheelchair. Carolyn kissed the old bloke in the chair and then Rocky bent down and kissed his cheek, too. Then Rocky and Carolyn got in the car and drove away. They looked pretty lovey dovey to me. My guts tightened up. Maybe Carolyn was just playing a girl’s game, pretending to love Rocky the wog but she loved her dad. But if she hated Rocky why take him to her dad’s place?

The old guy in the wheelchair rolled himself back inside. I stood there trying to figure all this shit out. I recognised him, all right. I’d shot him in the guts six and a half years before, the .45 calibre automatic sent a slug right through him and smashed his spine on the way out. Kiwi Kenny was – or had been – a tough hood from New Zealand, a rugby player, boxer, sports hero turned street fighter, gunman and criminal.

He was trying the wrong people on for size and I got paid to fix it. Big deal, but was this all a set up? Did Kiwi Kenny set Carolyn on to me on purpose as a set up? Or was it all just a coincidence? Just one of those freaky happenings that catches up with us all once in a while? You could get killed not knowing the right answer to questions like that. All I could do was play along with it and see where this insane game took me. Was Wazza Warren in on it? He was a mate but so what, the graveyards are full of men put there by their bloody mates.

Friendship in the criminal world was like an empty gun – meaning it is always the empty gun that can kill you. Nothing was for sure; everything had to be treated as fully loaded and aimed in your direction.

I had to think about all of this. One thing was for sure: if this was a set up, Kiwi Kenny was a dead man, along with Two Bob Rocky. I’d kill em both. But what of Carolyn, my sweet, beautiful baby doll. All I felt for her was love. She was inside my blood and guts. I’d never been hit so hard by something so soft.

I walked to a phone box and checked the phone book again. Griffin, Griffin, Griffin, K.B. Griffin, K.A. Griffin. Ah yeah, plain as bloody day: Kerry Griffin, Malvern Road, South Yarra. Shit, the bloody Prahran Commission flats. I got the phone number and rang it, a sleepy female voice answered.

‘How ya going, princess?’ I said.

‘Who is it?’ was the reply.

‘It’s me, Geoff’ I said.

Kerry seemed to come awake in a flash.

‘Oh yeah baby, great. Who gave ya my number?’ she asked. Why do people ask that stupid question when they’re listed in the telephone book, I wondered.

‘I got it outta the phone book,’ I said brightly.

‘Great, great’ said Kerry. ‘Ya got the address?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘259 Malvern Road, which I know is the commission flats, but I don’t have the flat number. It just says 259 in the book.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘They buggered it up. It should have my flat number as well, but they mucked it up.’

I thought to myself that she was a very open and trusting girl to have her name, full address and phone number openly on display in the phone book.

But I kept my thoughts to myself. Next thing, Kerry was inviting me over. ‘C’mon over Geoff, I’m in bed. Ya woke me up. I’ll have a tub while ya getting over here.’

I said ‘okay’ and hung up. I laughed a bit to myself at her expression for a wash, bath or shower. Tub – it was a classy prison slang expression to ‘have a tub’. Ha ha.

She was a real knockabout Aussie girl, our Kerry. Bit of a hard case and funny with it. And suck the chrome of an exhaust pipe. I hailed a taxi and went on over to Malvern Road. Kerry lived on the fourth floor. The bloody lifts were out of order, so I took the stairs. I found her flat and knocked. She took about a minute to answer; she was wet and wrapped in a white towelling bathrobe. Her bleached blonde hair hung down her back, all wet. She started to wrap her hair and head in a white towel. Moments after opening the door she was wearing white high-heeled ladies’ slippers with little bits of fluffy stuff on the toes. Very cute.

The flat was full of clutter and the walls were covered with photographs in frames. Hundreds of photos over every wall. The place was warm and cosy, with a black velvet lounge suite with white lamb’s wool rugs hanging over it.

The floor had black carpet all over it with red and white lamb’s wool rugs scattered around. She had a giant colour TV set and video recorder and a huge stereo unit with big speakers. There was a bar in the corner of the lounge near the kitchen.

She invited me to sit down but I started looking at the photos. There was photos of Kerry with famous boxers, footy players, TV personalities – and three photos of her with almost nothing on, in what appeared to be some sort of nightclub, with a former Prime Minister. She was sitting on his knee. There was another picture of her with a union boss who had since been murdered. And one of her with one of the most famous Collingwood football players of all time. There were photos of her with rock singers, rock bands, basketball players, jockeys and race horses. The whole thing was fascinating. I recognised dozens and dozens of criminal identities, dead and still living. From policemen to politicians, she knew everyone.

Then my eye fell on a photo taken in a nightclub of three men. It was an old photo, about six, seven or eight years old. I recognised Geoff Twane and I recognised myself and the other guy was a mystery. We all looked as drunk as skunks. Kerry saw me looking at it, and walked over. Was this the moment of truth?

She pointed at my face in the picture. ‘Yeah, there you are, Geoff’ she said. The fact the real Geoff was next to me in the photograph didn’t jog her memory. She pointed at him and said: ‘That’s the bloke who shot Kiwi Kenny Woods, and the other guy is Johnny Go-Go. Remember him? He runs the Caballero night club in Collingwood.’

‘I don’t remember this photo at all,’ I said. ‘Where was it taken?’

‘Mickey’s disco in St Kilda,’ she said. ‘Shit, I took the photo.’

I shook my head and bunged on a puzzled look. ‘I must be losing my memory,’ I said. ‘I can’t remember this at all.’

‘Ya remember me, but, don’t ya Geoff?’ she said in her best come-on voice.

I turned to her and smiled. ‘Yeah, of course I do, princess.’

Then I looked at the photo again. Johnny Go-Go was part of the Collingwood crew, worked for Ripper Roy. It was Johnny Go-Go who paid me to shoot Kiwi Kenny and his two mates. It was all starting to come back.

Mickey’s disco on the Lower Esplanade – Bob a Job Flanigan’s old club. Christopher Dean ‘Bob a Job’ Flanigan – so-called big deal hit man. His cousin Victor ‘Vicky’ Mack did all the killings. Flanigan took all the bows. Flanigan was a weak as piss poof, if you asked me. Vanished in Sydney. Spit on the dog. But we used to go down to his club years ago.

‘What were you doing back then, princess?’ I said to Kerry.

‘Dancing,’ she said. ‘Cage dancing, then I went to work for Johnny Go-Go and then La Grecca hired me to work the King Street Clubs.’

Shit, she knew ’em all. At last I understood her confusion over my identity. She had spent years thinking that the bloke in the photo who was me was Geoff Twane. This child was a bit puzzled in the brain box, but she was an after-dark dancer, not a nine to five rocket scientist. The whole world she lived in was a blur of faces and strobe lights. I told Kerry that I thought she might be right about Carolyn. She smiled and threw her arms around me. Her bathrobe fell open as she started to kiss my neck and face and before I knew where I was, she had dragged me into her bedroom. What could a man do?

The whole bedroom was like a bondage and domination chamber – more whips, chains, and leather gear than the average stable. I noticed a large photo on the wall of Kerry displaying her big boobs, with a man either side of her.

‘Yeah’ she said. ‘There’s me brother Garry and old Tex Lawson.’

Shit, I thought, this chick is well and truly connected. But that’s Melbourne as far as the criminal world goes. Everyone is either related to a friend or the friend of a relative or screwing the sister of a friend or the wife of a relative. The Melbourne underworld was one giant daisy chain and I suspected that Kerry had either met ’em all or screwed ’em all. No wonder faces and names became a blur in her mind. She wasn’t paid to pay attention to faces. Her expertise was a bit further south.

Tex Lawson was dead and the guy in the photo wasn’t Tex Lawson, it was Chris Flanigan. This chick knew ’em all living and dead. She was just losing the plot a bit and mixing up the name tags in her head. Lucky for me.

We made love for the rest of the afternoon. She was a sex machine, like hot wet marshmallow. The only thing was she started calling me ‘Jim’ when she got excited.

I said nothing. Geoff? Jimmy? Who cares? Million-dollar sex with the mentally-ill was still million-dollar sex.

I told her I’d meet her at the club later that night – and not to mention my real name to Carolyn.

‘Okay, baby,’ she said. ‘See you then. Are ya right for money?’

I said, ‘Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks anyway.’

She smiled and kissed me goodbye and I walked away.

*

I MADE my way to the Australia Hotel, the pub across the road from the Mexican Madonna nightclub, and sat by the window just drinking and thinking. It’s true that I’d gone a bit mentally insane since I got out and so much had happened to me. I was trying to nut it all out in my brain. I thought to myself, ‘what have I got myself into and who the hell are all these people?’ Yeah, I guess I could just walk away, but I was being pulled towards them by some strange force. I knew I’d be back at the Mexican Madonna that night, that I had to see Carolyn again.

A bloke walked into the bar I recognised from prison. Felix Furneaux. Everyone knew him as Frenchy. A good guy and a nut case and I was bloody glad to see him.

‘Hey, Frenchy,’ I called out softly.

Frenchy spun around. He smiled when he recognised me.

‘How’s it goin’, brother?’ he said.

We shook hands. He had got out of jail that morning and had $20 in his pocket. I bought him several drinks, then pulled out a thousand bucks and handed it to him.

‘Jesus mate, thanks. Bloody hell, I mean that!’

Frenchy was as pleased as punch. He wasn’t a big thinker, but he could use his noggin when it counted. He was a head butt specialist, a top street fighter and a very tough, hard little man, but earning a quid wasn’t his big go. Frenchy Furneaux spent his whole life up to his neck in violence whether inside jail or out of it. Money in his pocket wasn’t part of the deal. He was a simple bloke, honest in his way, and good natured. But above all, he was loyal. The sling I gave him was money well spent. For a grand in the hand and free drinks he’d follow you to the grave, and punch on with the devil himself for the hell of it if you wanted him to.

I’d fallen in love with Carolyn the day after I got out – and little Frenchy had just fallen in love with me. I knew I’d done the smart thing. Up to now I’d been on my own, totally one out. Now I had back up. I decided to cement the partnership by showing Frenchy a good time. I knew just exactly what he’d fancy.

‘Listen Frenchy,’ I said. ‘About an hour or so after that club across the street opens, I’ll take you over and introduce you to a sheila. She’ll destroy ya.’

Frenchy smiled up very big when he heard that. We had to keep our strength up, so we ordered counter teas. Steak, eggs, mushrooms, sausages and chips and ate up, washing it all down with beer after beer.

Frenchy was most impressed when he found out I had two guns and about two and a half grand in cash in my kick. I mentioned I might need him to watch my back for a few days, and told him there would be an extra grand in it for him. Frenchy bit a chunk of glass out of his pot of beer and chewed on it and spat a mouth full of broken glass and blood on to the floor.

‘Any dog tries it on with you, mate, and I’ll eat their dog eyes. I’ll rip their bloody lungs out. I’m with ya, mate.’ Then he bit the back of his hand until blood flowed to prove his point. It looked as if I had a partnership.

‘Cut it out, Frenchy,’ I said. ‘I know you’re with me.’ I put my arm around the little madman’s shoulder and gave him a hug. ‘It’s good to see ya, mate’ I said, throwing in what the shrinks call positive reinforcement. Ideal for training children, dogs and psychopath bodyguards.

‘Yeah,’ said Frenchy. ‘It’s good to see you too, mate.’

Men in jail found themselves lost and all alone in a world that had passed them by, and both Frenchy and I were genuinely happy to have found each other.

I explained the situation with Carolyn and also explained the Geoff Twane mix-up with Kerry Griffin. ‘So call me Geoff when ya meet her. Okay, Felix?’

Frenchy thought all this very funny. I told him I’d fix him up with Kerry. He couldn’t wait. We drank for another hour, then made our way over to the club. Once inside, Wazza Warren came up to us. He recognised Felix, and I could tell he was just a little concerned. He suspected if Frenchy got started, someone would need a chainsaw to make him pull up. Wazza shook our hands and told Felix there would be no charge for drinks that night. No fool, Wazza.

I couldn’t see Carolyn anywhere. Wazza told me she was in her dressing room. Frenchy was totally amazed at the sight of the dancing girls. He couldn’t believe it. Kerry was dancing in front of a group of men. She had several $20, $50 and $100 notes hooked into her knickers. The strobe lights almost, but not quite, hid the fact one dork had his dick out and with his one bar heater in one hand and a $100 note in the other was trying to persuade Kerry to swallow the evidence. But she either didn’t like the look of him or didn’t think $100 was enough, and treated the offering with total ignore. Or so I thought. The next thing I saw was a broken glass smash into the punter’s face, which started pissing blood as big Kerry sliced and diced his features with the rough end.

Three bouncers rushed in and gave the poor fallen fool an extra special kicking and dragged him out the door and turfed him into the street. Kerry bent down and picked up the $100 from the floor and walked to the bar. I followed along with Frenchy.

‘Hey Kerry,’ I said. She turned and smiled up big and gave me a huge hug as if slicing up people with broken glasses was the last thing on her mind. Friendly but dangerous, like a grizzly bear on heat.

I introduced her to Frenchy. No sooner had I mentioned his name than Kerry recognised him.

‘Oh yeah, I know you, Frenchy Furneaux. You bit a guy’s ear off at the Caballero nightclub in Collingwood about two years ago. I used to dance there.’

‘Yeah’ said Frenchy. A man of few words.

Kerry wasn’t worried. ‘Remember me, Frenchy, Kerry Griffin, Garry’s sister. You backed Garry up in a fight one night outside the Caballero?’

‘Yeah’ said Frenchy.

I bent over and whispered in her ear. ‘Frenchy just got out this morning, he’s on my side. Put a smile on his face will ya, princess?’

She winked at me and I said to Frenchy, ‘Listen mate, I’ve got to go and see a sheila. You go with Kerry.’

I patted the little bloke on the shoulder and Kerry on the arse and walked toward Carolyn’s dressing room. I made my way behind the red velvet curtain and down the darkened hallway, but before I got to knock on her door something stopped me dead in my tracks.

I could hear noises. I stepped back and walked down the hall on the other side of the door to Carolyn’s dressing room and stood stock still, quiet in the darkness. The door opened and Rocky the Wog came out. Carolyn walked behind him in her dancing clobber, stiletto high heels and gee string – the sort of knickers cut so high they could start a riot at 50 yards.

Rocky was talking. I was listening. ‘Try to set it for this Saturday night, baby’ I heard him say.

‘Get him there by Saturday night – to the Coliseum Hotel. You know it. You’ve been there with me a dozen times. Shit, I don’t see the bloody problem. Just do it. Okay?’

I could tell Carolyn had been crying. She just hung her head and nodded miserably.

‘Okay,’ she said in a little Orphan Annie voice.

Rocky was doing his tough guy routine. ‘Do you love me baby?’ he said. Been watching too many gangster movies, I thought.

Carolyn nodded her head obediently. Then Rocky bent down and kissed her. But instead of pulling back, maybe the way I was hoping she would, she melted into him like hot butter into a crumpet, and they kissed as if they had just invented it for a full minute, with her hands trying to undo his pants. In the end, it was him that did the pulling back.

‘No more, no more, you little nympho,’ he laughed.

Carolyn giggled and Rocky kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘See ya baby. Now, just play him along and get him there, okay?’

Carolyn nodded again. Rocky seemed satisfied that he’d got the message to her loud and clear about the set up. He turned and walked off down the hall, and Carolyn went back into her dressing room.

Me? I kept standing in the darkness and tried to understand what had just taken place. Big question that kept banging about the old brainbox: exactly who was she meant to be bringing to the Coliseum Hotel on Saturday night? No wonder I was becoming quite paranoid about this little bit of tragic magic with the wet-dream looks. But I knew – or thought I did – how to play the game just as well as they did. And now I had Frenchy Furneaux backing me up, which put a large ace into the hand I was holding.

I waited about 10 minutes, then walked into her dressing room. Carolyn was standing there with the tip of a needle pointed into a spoon. The needle was stuck into a small bit of filter torn from a cigarette. She was sucking up the clear liquid from the spoon through the filter and into the fit.

She didn’t seem concerned at me showing up, only irritated about being interrupted. ‘Shit’, she said. ‘Close the door.’

‘What’s that?’ I said. One of those stupid things you say. You didn’t have to be Einstein to work out what she was doing.

Carolyn didn’t answer, she just tapped the fit with her index finger and slid the point of the needle into her arm, neat and smooth as you like. She drew back a little blood into the glass, then injected the mixture of blood and clear liquid back into her arm.

‘Just a little smack, baby,’ she said, distantly, as if she was dreaming. ‘Takes the edge off things.’

She pulled the fit out, rubbed her arm with a towel and put some cream on the spot where the needle had been a second before. Should have been a nurse. Sister Morphine, like the song says.

‘There ya go,’ she said, looking at me properly for the first time since I’d got in the room. ‘No-one would ever know.’

She gave her face and nose a little scratch, then started to scratch her arse.

‘How long ya been using that shit?’ I asked.

‘Oh, not long’ she purred. ‘A quarter gram a night, just to mellow me out. Ohhh, it feels real good. Ya want a little taste, mate?’

I shook my head. ‘Nah, I’ll be right. I don’t use it.’

Carolyn said, ‘I’m not a junkie. I just like a little taste now and then.’ She paused and made dirty girl eyes at me, flicking her pointy little tongue over her lips. ‘It makes me horny as a rabbit,’ she giggled. ‘C’mon, big guy. Show me if that’s a gun in ya pocket or what. Give us a look.’

I stared at her. I felt a sort of sick inside. She was a junkie, and the golden rule was that no-one could ever trust a junkie or believe a word they said. I knew it as well as anybody, but for some reason I felt powerless to stop myself acting like some stupid squarehead being fed a line by a cunning whore with one hand on his fly and the other on his wallet. It was dead set suicide, but all I wanted to do was love this little girl and protect her and hold her in my arms.

I didn’t trust her but I did love her, for some crazy reason I couldn’t even understand myself.

‘C’mon baby, bang my brains out,’ she said.

I shook my head. It took some doing.

‘Later, princess,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ve got a mate with me tonight. He got out today. I gotta get back out there and keep an eye on him.’

‘Ohh baby,’ she purred. ‘If you don’t someone else will. I’m so freaking horny.’ Her eyes had that spaced-out, glassy look – a mixture of narcotics and nymphomania.

I don’t know what took hold of me. I swung my arm and gave her a backhander that sent her crashing from one side of the little dressing room to the other. She fell against the wall and slid down to the floor. I walked over and grabbed her by the hair.

‘Why didn’t ya get Rocky to screw you. Ya low dog, lying moll?’ I screamed. Then smashed her face into the mirror.

The glass broke, and she started to cry.

‘Don’t be mad at me. Don’t hit me,’ she pleaded.

‘You’re a lying, junkie slut,’ I yelled. I was right off the air.

‘No, no, no,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t hit me.’

She was crying like a little child. She said: ‘I love you, I love you. I wouldn’t hurt you, I love you. I won’t use drugs again, I promise.’ The same old sob, sob, sob story a million junkies have spun when the shit hits their particular fan.

‘Don’t talk shit,’ I snapped. ‘You’re a junkie slut. Give us my mother’s ring back, ya slag, before ya sell it for smack.’

She fumbled around, then handed the ring back. Her hands were shaking and she was still crying. I turned on my heel to walk out, but she grabbed me.

‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘I know you’re only angry cos you love me. I’ve been naughty and I deserve what I got. Don’t walk away angry. I’m sorry, baby.’

Then she fell into my arms, sobbing. A tidal wave of sorrow hit me. I took her in my arms. We kissed and made up, and then I bent her over the make-up bench and gave her what she’d wanted in the first place. It was as if hitting her and making her cry made her all the more willing and ready to do the business. I loved her, but I knew now exactly what she was. We agreed to meet up Tuesday afternoon at the Boat Race Hotel, across the road from the South Yarra entrance to the gardens.

‘See ya later,’ I said. Always was a smooth-talking devil.

She went out and started dancing as if nothing had happened, as if banging mirrors with your head and then banging your brains out, all in the space of five minutes, was normal. Then again, if you’re a junkie stripper who fancies gangsters, maybe it goes with the territory.

I went back to Kerry’s dressing room, and found out it was also her undressing room. There she was, on all fours on the floor, like a dog, with little Frenchy chock-a-block up her from behind. Another romantic, like myself.

‘C’mon Felix,’ I said. ‘Get a move on.’ Kerry laughed.

‘It’s his second time around. I love a bloke fresh out of the can. Get us a beer, will ya?’

So while Frenchy jack-hammered big Kerry from behind like a randy bull terrier with 10 minutes to live, I grabbed a can from the little bar fridge, opened it and handed it to her. She started to drink it, but spilt beer all over the joint, thanks to Frenchy doing his Casanova routine.

‘Give us a drink,’ said Frenchy, who obviously couldn’t believe his luck. Out of jail a few hours, and he had money in his pocket, a moll on his pole and a beer in his hand. He was in hog heaven.

She handed him the can with one hand on the floor, holding herself up. A long-legged, Chinese chick appeared in the doorway with a bloke in tow, hanging behind her.

‘C’mon, Kerry,’ said the Chinese chick. ‘I need the room.’ More romance. Love was in the air everywhere. But Kerry wasn’t impressed.

‘Blow him in the hallway,’ she snarled, ‘ya slope-headed, pox-ridden maggot.’

The big Chinese girl turned to the mug and said, ‘over here, then.’

She took him three steps away from the dressing room door and dropped to her knees, then yelled, ‘Shit, someone toss me a bloody franger.’

I picked up a packet of condoms from the make-up bench and threw them to her. Sort of thing gentlemen do for ladies.

‘Thanks, honey,’ she said with a wink.

The client was so drunk he didn’t say boo, let alone do what he had thought had seemed such a good idea 10 minutes earlier, when the Chinese chick had snared him out in the club. It was quite a funny sight.

Just then, Frenchy came to the funny part with a yip, yip, yahoo, and Kerry laughed.

When Felix got to his feet Kerry stood up, cleaned herself up and put her high-cut knickers back on and said, ‘He’s a randy little runt.’

Frenchy grinned like an idiot. A very happy idiot. And said, ‘Can I see ya again?’ This was about the only thing he liked as much as fighting, although he wasn’t bad with a knife and fork, either, when it was time for tucker.

Kerry told Frenchy I knew her address. As we walked out, we saw the drunk the Chinese chick was dealing with had passed out cold on the hallway floor. She was standing there with a $100 note in her hand.

‘He’s asleep,’ she complained, as if it mattered.

Kerry walked over, bent down and took the mug’s wallet out of his coat pocket. It was stuffed with $50 and $100 notes.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And he lost his wallet as well.’

The Chinese chick protested. ‘You can’t do that.’

Kerry went all soft and sexy. Or seemed to. ‘Oh, c’mon Lee Lee, don’t be cross with Kerry,’ she purred.

The Chinese girl’s face softened. ‘I’m not cross, Kerry,’ she said.

Kerry walked over to Lee, took her in her arms and kissed her. The Chinese girl melted … then screamed as Kerry pulled away. Blood flowed from the Chinese girl’s bottom lip. It rained down her chin and across her tits and tummy, Kerry had nearly bitten her bottom lip off. The Chinese girl ran screaming.

Kerry snapped, ‘Bugger this brothel. Bloody chows and coons trying to put us Aussies out of bloody work. I’m quittin’.

She marched into the dressing room and put on her jeans, white tee shirt, black leather jacket, and stilettos and grabbed her big handbag.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

Wazza Warren and two bouncers came running in. Quick as a flash, Frenchy headbutted Wazza, who went down like a pole-axed steer. I pulled the .38 automatic out and smashed one of the big bouncers in the face. His nose opened up a treat, and the blood flowed.

Kerry lifted up a leg and stabbed the heel of her stiletto into Warren’s face.

‘You’re the one who hires all these bloody chows, ya little rat.’

I grabbed Kerry and we left. As I walked out with Kerry and Frenchy, I saw Carolyn leading two men behind the velvet curtain.

‘Treacherous slut,’ I said to myself.

We walked across the street and went into the Australia Hotel and sat by the window. Soon, the police and ambulance arrived. They put the Chinese girl into the ambulance. She was holding a blood-soaked white towel to her face. Wazza Warren and the bouncer with the smashed nose refused medical attention, and the police and the ambulance drove away.

‘Wazza won’t say nothing,’ I said.

‘Neither will Lee Lee,’ said Kerry. ‘I know where her family live in the Richmond Commission flats. She’s been hockin’ her box since she was 13 years old, and no-one’s ever given her a touch up. About time she got put in her place.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘Let’s finish our drinks and get out of here.’

We all jumped into a cab and headed off to Kerry’s place, stopping to get two bottles of whiskey and two slabs of beer. When we got there we sat in the lounge room. Kerry excused herself and went to her bedroom to get changed, then into the bathroom to shower.

I said to Frenchy, ‘So ya knew Kerry’s brother, Garry, did ya?’

‘No,’ said Felix. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘What about the fight at the Caballero Night Club?’ I asked. ‘And the ear-biting business.’

‘Nah,’ said Frenchy. ‘I’ve never been to the bloody Caballero in my life.’

‘She’s a bloody strange bit of work, this Kerry chick,’ I said.

‘You’re telling me,’ said Felix. ‘When I was getting up her she started to call me Frank.’

‘Well, where does she know you from?’ I asked.

‘She don’t,’ said Frenchy. ‘But I’m not saying nothing. She’s a good chick. Why hurt her feelings?’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘A bit scattered in the head but she’s got a good heart.’

‘Top body, too,’ said Frenchy.

*

ABOUT half an hour later Kerry reappeared wearing her white towelling bath robe and white high-heeled slippers with the fluffy stuff on the toes. Her hair was all wrapped in a white towel. She had a camera with a flash in her hands, and snapped a photo of me and Frenchy sitting together.

‘That’s one for my collection,’ she said.

She removed the towel from her damp hair and shook it all free. It looked good. She then removed her bathrobe and stood there wearing a white pair of high-cut knickers.

‘C’mon,’ she said. ‘Photo time.’ She gave Frenchy the camera and I got up and sat on a bar stool with Kerry sitting between my legs.

Then it was Frenchy’s turn. It then dawned on me that Kerry must have had a photo taken with every guy who meant anything to her, meaning any bloke who she spent any time with, as a great many of the photos on Kerry’s walls were taken in her flat. She was a criminal groupie of sorts. It looked as if she just loved crooks, danger, and violence. If somebody had any sort of a reputation, Kerry knew them.

I gave the camera back after snapping a few hot shots of Kerry, then told her I had to go and see my dad. I asked Kerry to keep an eye on Frenchy, and said I’d see them both on Tuesday.

Kerry was a bit pissed at this. She wanted me to stay. I walked her outside to the front of her flat and said, ‘Listen darlin’. I think I’ve got some trouble coming with Carolyn and Rocky. Something is going on, and you and Frenchy are the only two I can count on. I’ve got to go and sort a few things out. I want Frenchy on the team 100 per cent, so make sure he’s with us. You’re with me aren’t ya, Kerry?’

She hugged me and said, ‘I’m with ya all the way, Geoff. What’s going on?’

I shrugged. ‘I think I’m being set up, and the only way to fix it is to get in first. Look, screw Frenchy’s ears off tonight and we will have a good talk tomorrow, okay?’

‘I’ll see ya about 11 in the morning, okay?’

‘Goodnight, princess.’

I walked away.

*

PAT Sinatra was a shifty old Sicilian pirate who knew every dago and wog gangster in Melbourne. He was a financial partner in a dozen different criminal enterprises and a very respected old gentleman. I’d met him only a few times. Pat was well out of my league, but my old dad knew him well so I got my old man to ring him and an hour later I was in a taxi and on the way over to Sinatra’s place in Carlton.

Old Poppa Pat lived alone. He greeted me warmly when I knocked on his door. We sat in his lounge room and over a few whiskies I explained my situation, mainly concentrating on my concern over Eros ‘Rocky’ Pantanas.

Big question: was he crewed up and if so who with?

Old Pat looked puzzled.

‘Eros, Eros, Eros. Ahh yes, the son of George Pantanas. Big boy, he does a da weight lifting, but no heart. Sissy boy, he’s a not a problem. He a hitta the girls, he no hitta da boys.’ I laughed. I’d picked Rocky in one. Good to know I wasn’t losing my touch.

Old Poppa picked up the telephone.

‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I check on something.’

He dialled a number and waited, then spoke in Italian, laughed, then spoke some more, then looked serious and hung up.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Eros very silly boy’ said Poppa Pat. ‘He’s workin’ for Chicka Charlie.’

My ears pricked up at this lot.

‘Chicka Charlie Doodarr?’ I said.

‘Who else? Chicka Charlie,’ Poppa answered, faintly irritated.

‘Blood enemy Johnny Go-Go’ he said. ‘You know Johnny Go-Go? Them mad bastards in a Collingwood. All a dead now, thank bloody God’.

Poppa crossed himself as he whispered the name ‘Roy Reeves, thank a bloody God.’

‘Shit, Poppa,’ I said. ‘This is all a bit out of my league. I did a bit of business once for Johnny Go-Go, but I’ve only met him once.

‘Half the gunnies in town have done a bit of business for Johnny Go-Go. Big deal. This Rocky wants to set me up and now you reckon he works for Chicka Charlie. Jesus Christ, what the hell have I done to any of them?’

Poppa Pat sat in silence and pondered the situation.

‘Whatever you resist will persist. You must go with it all, flow along, smile, be a nice, see what a happen. They only play a game, and you only small pawn in the bigga game.

‘Chicka Charlie he’s a very, very shifty boy. But Johnny Go-Go – ahh.’ Poppa shook his head. ‘No-one knows where he is. he become a da big shadow, da big mystery, he live a longer than Charlie. Ahhh,’ said Poppa again, shaking his head. ‘Go now. I don’t like this shit no more. Da last war cost me too many friends. I’m not involved. I’m an old man. I don’t a need shit with Go-Go, you go now.’

Poppa got up and showed me the door. As I walked out, Poppa took my arm.

‘You watcha ya back kid, and give my love to your father. He’s a good man. You say hello to your poppa from me, okay?’

And with that, the old man closed the door.

Shit, I thought to myself as I walked away. What game had I become involved in? My old dad always told me: ‘Son, winners expect to win, losers hope to win.’

I was just hoping to stay alive.

The Collingwood crew and their bloodbath war was a legend. Johnny Go-Go had vanished from public view about six months ago. Chicka Charlie Doodarr was probably the most powerful ganglord in Melbourne. Rocky the Wog worked for Charlie, and it looked like Rocky the Wog was trying to get Carolyn to set me up. Why? I shot Kiwi Kenny, so it should be her trying to set me up, not Rocky, why? What’s the reason?

Not all situations within the criminal world and its many twists and turns can be figured out. Not everything has an answer. I walked down Lygon Street. The Collingwood crew had a war with these bastards and won. Chicka Charlie betrayed Ripper Roy and Mickey the Nut. The story was now criminal folklore.

How the hell does a two-bob, smalltime $1000 a shot gunnie like me get into this shit? What’s Chicka Charlie got against me? What’s Rocky got against me? Kiwi Kenny? Maybe, but why should Rocky the Wog care? Maybe he loved Carolyn. Shit, I did. But no, it don’t add up. Bugger this, I’ll go and talk to my dad …

*

DAD was an old-time Collingwood boy from the local push during the late 1930s and early 1940s. He knew Ripper Roy Reeves in the 1950s and 60s. Dad was in his 70s, but a tough old boy and still plenty alert and with it.

He listened to me explain it all. Then he said, ‘Look boy, if old Ripper Roy said one thing that made any sense it was “when in doubt – shoot everybody.” Put a slug in this Rocky the Wog poofter, and stick this bloody Carolyn in a sack and toss her in the Yarra. Jesus, son, how do ya get yourself into all this shit?

‘I don’t know, boy. You’re a bloody grown man and you’re still asking your bloody father questions. Shoot the bastards! Jesus Christ, stop piss farting about, and raise ya bloody mind above ya bloody dick. That Carolyn would be better off in the drink. Now bloody well get with it, son.’

I slept till 10 am Tuesday, then got up and got ready. I had a hearty breakfast and walked over to Kerry’s place. An easy 20 minute stroll. When I got there I was surprised to see that she had a visitor – a tall, skinny long legged blonde with a very sexy pouty face. But her eyes stared out at you with a cold, knowing glare. She looked like a 19 or 20 year old but her eyes looked 100 years old.

She was wearing denim jeans, all faded, a white tee shirt and a faded denim jacket with a lamb’s wool lining. The jacket collar was up as if she was cold. She wore a little pair of white runners, and a pair of sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. She looked all very neat, clean and very cute.

She stood in the lounge with her left hand in her jacket pocket and her right hand holding a large glass of whisky.

Frenchy was showered, shaved, dressed and all set to go. Kerry was out of the shower and still flouncing about the flat, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and an undecided look. She was in a muddle over which shirt and jacket to wear.

She introduced me to the younger girl. ‘This is a mate of mine, Geoff. Her name is Sally. I told her about what you said last night. She might be able to help out.’

I was a bit angry that Kerry had told anyone anything, let alone invite some lolly legs girl in on my business, but I held my tongue. I played along, rolled with the punches, like old Pat had told me.

‘Yeah,’ I said, almost pleasantly. ‘So what can you do to help out, Sally?’

When Sally spoke she had a steely tone, and a note of authority. A woman much older than she looked.

‘Carolyn Woods wants her boyfriend dead. That will make you happy. She’s also screwing Chicka Charlie and Charlie wants Johnny Go-Go dead, but little Carolyn’s a public toilet, and she knows what side her bread is buttered on.’

This tough talking girl had me dumbfounded. She certainly knew plenty.

Sally continued ‘There is 10 grand in a plastic bag on the bar. Check it out. Kill Rocky the Wog and we will talk business. After that.’

‘Okay, hang on,’ I said. ‘Just who the bloody hell are you?’

Sally moved her body slightly and the butt of a .32 calibre automatic protruded from under her jacket. It was stuck down the front of her jeans. She finished off her whisky, then took out a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter held in her left hand. As she pulled the lighter out of her pocket, I noticed that her whole hand was covered with a tattoo. A spider’s web.

‘Don’t worry about who I friggin’ am,’ she said curtly. ‘You’re either 10 grand richer or you’re on ya bloody own. By the way, if you don’t whack Eros, he will whack you. If he’s trying to set you up, go with it, but get in first,’ she said.

I stood in silence. I knew that whoever this tough girl was, her name wasn’t Sally. Old stories I’d heard in prison came flooding back. Micky Van Gogh and crazy Raychell. Both had full spider’s web tattoos running the length of their left arms, from shoulder to hand. They had been dead for a while now, but the shadow of Ripper Roy, Mickey the Nut and Mad Raychell hung heavy over the Melbourne criminal world.

Johnny Go-Go and his friends and followers were still alive and well, and for some reason alarm bells in my head warned me to be very polite. I strongly suspected that this tough, sexy chick with the spider’s web tattoo was part of the shadow.

The Collingwood crew was still the Collingwood crew. Reeves and Van Gogh might be dead, but this little chick in front of me wasn’t, and neither was Johnny Go-Go.

‘Yeah well, Sally,’ I said slowly, ‘10 grand is 10 grand and Rocky the Wog is no skin off my nose.’

‘Good,’ said the tough talking girl. ‘You’re on ya way to see Carolyn now, aren’t ya?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Well, tell her ya seen me,’ said Sally.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I retorted.

‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘Up till now you’ve been lost in space over this chick, I’m just tellin’ ya to get ya head together. Anyway, Kerry knows how to contact me, so when you’ve done Eros get her to ring me. Okay?’

She started to walk out. I followed her outside. When the two of us were alone at the front of the flat I put it on her.

‘Who are you? Your name’s not Sally.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. ‘And your name’s not Geoff Twane.’

I froze when she said this.

‘Don’t panic,’ she continued. ‘Kerry’s been thinking that Monday was bloody Tuesday for as long as I’ve known her.

‘Look, mate,’ she added. ‘Who I am or who you are isn’t the point. The point is, whose side are you on?’

I thought about this quickly, then answered, ‘I’m on your side. You’re the one with the money.’

She smiled at this and walked away. I went back inside. Frenchy was looking a bit puzzled and worried.

‘Sally, my arse’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What’s going on, mate? She’s got death written all over her.’

‘What’s wrong, boys? said Kerry. ‘Sally’s okay. I’ve known her for a few years. She used to dance at the Caballero in Collingwood.’

Frenchy changed his tune.

‘I’m not saying she isn’t okay. I’m just wondering if we are all gonna be alive this time next week, that’s all. Ha ha.’

Kerry looked puzzled. ‘What do ya mean, Felix?’

I broke in. ‘It don’t matter, darlin’. Private joke.’ I winked at Frenchy.

The 10 grand was still on the bar. It looked as if it needed a good home. I picked it up, peeled off two grand and handed it to Kerry. She was rapt. She had totally forgotten that she had already given me a bundle. I tossed another two grand to Felix. He was most pleased. I put the remaining six into my pockets. By this time Kerry was all set to go. She’d decided on a pair of jeans, runners, a white bikini top that showed her big tits off to their best advantage and a black leather jacket which, like Sally’s, had a lamb’s wool lining. She looked quite cute.

She went to the bar, reached behind it and grabbed a little .25 calibre automatic and put it in her jacket pocket, then put on her dark glasses and said, ‘Well, let’s rock and roll.’

I offered Frenchy my .22 calibre revolver and he took it. Now all of us were armed up. Off we went to the Boat Race Hotel, nearer the river in South Yarra, to meet Carolyn. We walked into the pub and Carolyn was sitting at the bar. She was a bit shocked when she saw I wasn’t alone. I could tell Kerry’s presence frightened her.

We took our drinks and went over to a quiet corner and sat down.

‘You better start telling the truth,’ said Kerry for openers, ‘or I’ll personally cut ya snatch out and feed it to my cat.’ She had a way with words, our Kerry.

Carolyn started to panic.

‘Look, take it easy,’ I said. ‘Kerry, calm down.’

‘I’m sorry, Geoff,’ Kerry said. She didn’t look all that sorry to me. Carolyn looked at me. I could tell she was confused when Kerry called me ‘Geoff’.

‘What’s going on?’ I said to Carolyn quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘The Coliseum Hotel,’ I said, poker faced.

Carolyn started to cry.

‘Stop blubbering, ya low life moll,’ Kerry grated. So much for being sorry for talking tough to Carolyn 20 seconds earlier.

Carolyn broke down and told us that Rocky wanted her to get me into the Coliseum Hotel on Saturday night.

‘Why?’ I asked, dying to know.

‘To kill you,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t going to do it,’ she added quickly. ‘I love you.’

My heart went soft. Kerry’s didn’t. She jumped in, boots and all.

‘Love! Ha ha,’ she said sarcastically. ‘The only thing you love is the needle and blowing police dogs. Ya little maggot. We oughta knock her now, Geoff.’

‘If we are gonna knock her,’ said Frenchy. ‘Can I get up her first?’ Top marks for timing and taste.

Kerry slapped Felix over the back of the head as if he was a naughty little boy. ‘You’re a randy little runt, aren’t you?’ she said with a giggle.

Carolyn sat with silent tears running down her cheeks.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We ain’t killin’ no-one just yet. You go back and tell Rocky that you’ll have me at the Coliseum on Saturday night. Now why does he want me dead?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed.

I was too frightened to mention Kiwi Kenny.

‘Okay, okay, never mind, you tell him I’ll be there, all right?’

‘I love you,’ said Carolyn.

Kerry spat a mouthful of beer back into her glass when she heard this.

‘Yeah, ya love him up your arse, ya dog. You’re a thing, Woods. A low dog and a thing. You tell the wog that Geoff will be there Saturday night, and don’t betray us, sweet.’

Carolyn nodded her head and said, ‘Who’s Geoff?’

Kerry started to really lose her cool.

‘You dumb slut, he’s Geoff,’ she shouted, pointing at me. Carolyn sobbed, ‘But I do love him, really I do. I’m sorry Kerry.’

‘Let’s take it easy,’ I broke in. ‘We didn’t come here for this shit.’ Call me Kissinger.

‘Carolyn,’ I continued quietly. ‘You know what you have to do. Just have Rocky at the bar of the Coliseum on Saturday night with his back to the door, and I’ll do the rest. That’s all you have to do.’

Carolyn put her hand on me under the table and said, ‘I won’t cross ya, I’ll do the right thing, I promise.’

It was wasn’t my hand she was touching. In spite of myself, I still felt some sort of twisted love and lust pulling me toward this evil angel. I wanted to take her some place quiet and just hold her and kiss her tears away, but I couldn’t afford to make Kerry too angry. She was starting to show signs of jealousy.

‘Okay, you get going,’ I said, a bit gruffly.

‘When can I see you again?’ she asked in a voice that would melt a landlord’s heart. With her hand under the table giving me a gentle squeeze.

‘I’ll ring you at the club tomorrow night,’ I said. ‘Now get going and tell the wog you’ve set it all up for Saturday night. Now boot off.’

Carolyn tried to kiss me, but I pulled my face away. An action purely to please Kerry, because inside my heart I dearly did want to kiss her.

I got a result, though. Kerry smiled as Carolyn got up and walked out.

‘Don’t worry, Geoff,’ said Kerry. ‘She won’t cross us. She knows me, and she knows I’ll cut her guts out if she betrays you.’

The loyalty of this insane woman Kerry Griffin, who I didn’t really know at all, was quite unnerving. She had became a solid and staunch friend. I’d be in serious trouble if she decided to become my enemy. We stayed, drinking, for most of the afternoon. Kerry stuck a gram of speed into a cigarette paper, folded it up and swallowed it down with a glass of beer then handed Frenchy a gram and he did the same.

After a bit of coaxing, I did the same. Kerry seemed to be producing grams of speed in small plastic bags from the pocket inside her leather jacket. Drugs, cash, guns and criminal contacts: they all had a strong smell of Collingwood about them. This Kerry was indeed a dark horse.

‘There’s this nightclub in St Kilda,’ Kerry said suddenly. ‘A guy down there owes me six grand. I’m going down to collect tonight. How about coming with me as back up?’

Frenchy and I agreed, being gentlemen. The speed was taking effect and I felt wide awake, alert, alive, paranoid and as horny as a grasshopper.

We drank like fish, drink after drink, and talked at a 100 miles an hour about Carolyn, the wog and the Saturday night set-up at the Coliseum Hotel. Everything seemed so clear. The world seemed a lot better. My life was falling into place. I had cash, guns, friends and something to plan. I know it was madness, but I was starting to feel safe and secure about life. Just having little Frenchy and big Kerry with me gave me a feeling of personal security. As far as I was concerned that is as good as it gets.

*

I WOKE up in a strange bedroom. Where was I? I had no idea. I looked at the woman on the bed next to me. At least I recognised her. It was Kerry Griffin, fast asleep. I lit a smoke and laid there. Where the hell was this? It was all new to me. The sun was trying to get through the closed curtain. My gun! Shit, my gun! And my bugs bunny, six grand in notes, where was that?

I jumped for a moment, then relaxed when I looked around. My clothes were neatly folded on a chair, with my money and the .38 auto Kerry gave me sitting on top, all in easy reach of the bed.

Kerry’s clothes were all on a table, a dressing table with a large mirror on the other side of the room. I could feel the speed still in my system. I was coming awake again. It was warm and cosy under the doona in the big double bed and the naked body beside me started to give me ideas. I was confused as to where I was, I couldn’t remember getting here, but I could ask Kerry after I woke her up. And I knew exactly how to do that. I rolled her over and took full advantage of the situation. She wrapped her arms around me and opened her legs while still asleep. Force of habit. After about three minutes of sex that was little more than violent rape, she awoke and began to respond.

She was a good chick, this Kerry. After what seemed like a full hour, I climbed out of bed and went to explore while she simply rolled over and went back to sleep.

I walked out into the hallway and into the kitchen. I could hear the sounds of flies buzzing as I walked in. Then I saw a sight I didn’t quite understand, at first.

It was Frenchy, but he was sitting at the kitchen table with his head lying in a pool of dried, thick sticky blood, face down. Very dead.

It looked as if he’d been dead for a day or two. He was dark red and black in parts. His face and hands seemed dark and swollen and his face was purple, red, black and swollen. Yes, I thought to myself, dead at least two days. He had a hole that went through both temples. The .22 magnum revolver was lying on the floor in another pool of blood underneath his right hand, which was hanging down. I picked up the gun and turned the hot water tap in the sink on and washed the gun. Then I sprayed oven cleaner over it and dried it with a tea towel. It’s very important to do the right thing and clean up after a shooting in the home.

Frenchy was a bit on the nose, I noticed as I checked over the pistol. There was only one shell in it – and it was empty. I knew then what had happened. I dimly remembered something about a game of Russian roulette with Kerry. Then Kerry played with two sheilas and then with Frenchy. I couldn’t remember the end of the game, but I was beginning to suspect that Frenchy had lost. Messy bastard.

Shit, I thought, we are going to have to clean this mess up and bury poor Frenchy in the backyard. What day was it? God, how long had I been asleep? I walked out of the kitchen and closed the door. I went into another bedroom, and found two really horny-looking girls in bed with each other, sleeping like babies.

As I walked in, one of them woke up.

‘Oh, hi Geoff,’ she said.

‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘I can’t remember a thing.’

‘I’m Tiffany,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

‘Where am I and who are you?’ I asked.

Tiffany said, ‘I’m a mate of Kerry’s from the club and this is my place and we are in St Kilda.’

‘When did we get here?’ I asked.

Tiffany yawned. ‘Oh, about midnight Wednesday night.’

‘Wednesday. Shit, what day is it now?’

Tiffany looked at her watch and then at the sunlight coming through the window and said, ‘Shit, it’s two in the afternoon. We got to sleep sometime Thursday night, so it must be Friday.’

‘Friday,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember nothing. Do you know there is a dead man in your kitchen, Tiffany?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Bummer, that. You promised to bury him down the side of the house for us.’

‘Did I say that? Well, I guess I will but I’m gonna take a shower,’ I said.

Tiffany got out of bed. ‘I’ll come with ya,’ she said. Who was I to argue. It was her house.

She showed me to the bathroom. On the way we passed the lounge. Above the fireplace was a giant photo in a frame of a younger Tiffany, posing semi-naked, and Kerry Griffin, and a big blonde with giant tits and a full spider’s web tattoo running the full length of her left arm. They were standing show girl style behind two men who were sitting down. I recognised one man as Ripper Roy Reeves. The other, younger man I did not know, but his left hand was covered in a spider’s web tattoo. I guessed who he was.

‘Who are all they?’ I asked.

‘Oh,’ said Tiffany, ‘that’s me, Kerry, Raychell, Ripper Roy and Mickey Van Gogh. It was a big party night at the Caballero.’

‘How do you know them all?’ I asked.

Tiffany giggled. ‘I was one of the bridesmaids at Raychell’s and Mickey’s wedding.’ She laughed again.

I asked how come Kerry was in the photo. Tiffany looked at me and said ‘Ya don’t know much do ya?’

I said, ‘No, I don’t. I’ve been in jail for six years.’

‘Yeah, well, Kerry Griffin is the late Raychell Van Gogh’s cousin.’

I walked into the bathroom and turned the hot shower on, then the cold water, got the temperature right and got under. Tiffany joined me as if having a shower with a bloke she didn’t know was an everyday event. I soaped myself up, then her, and handed her the soap. She started to wash me all over.

‘There is another blonde with a spider’s web tattoo.’ I said. ‘I met her Tuesday morning. She told me her name was Sally. Do you know anything about her?’

‘Oh,’ said Tiffany. ‘That would be Karen Phillips.’

The name hit me. I thought to myself: Johnny Go-Go’s girlfriend. She was with Mickey the Nut, Mad Raychell and Ripper Roy right up until the very end. She vanished with Johnny Go-Go.

‘How come silly bloody Kerry thinks everybody she meets is someone else? I asked.

By this time Tiffany was trying to work me up to do the business, and having a bit of success. She laughed.

‘Oh, that’s just Kerry. She has known me for eight years and still calls me Simone.’

‘Ha ha ha,’ I laughed. ‘So there is nothing shifty in it?’

‘Nah, she used to call Mickey Van Gogh, Jamie. Convinced he once saved her brother’s life.’

‘Do you know her brother Garry?’ I asked.

Tiffany laughed again.

‘Her brother’s name was Graeme, and he hung himself in the tool shed at the back of their home in Collingwood 15 years ago. If Kerry wants to call anyone anything it don’t mean nothing. She’s a good chick. She’s just a bit out of it.’

At this point Tiffany turned around, parted her legs and stood on her tip toes. Like a gentleman, and reminding myself that I was a house guest, I politely offered her a place to sit. That bloody speed in my blood stream was playing havoc with my mind, and it made me so bloody horny …

*

IT took me until about 7 o’clock that night to bury Frenchy’s body, while Tiffany and her girlfriend cleaned the kitchen. Kerry was a bit upset about poor Frenchy.

‘He was a randy little runt. I liked him,’ she said a couple of times.

‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘You were the last chick he screwed before he died, so he went out happy.’

‘Yeah,’ said Kerry thoughtfully. ‘I’ve screwed a few blokes who have died not long after.’

I thought to myself, I bet you bloody well have, too, you mad cow.

‘Don’t forget,’ said Kerry, ‘you got to be at the Coliseum tomorrow night.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Then I asked, ‘what happened Tuesday?’

Kerry laughed. ‘We dropped a few acid trips with our speed. Had a wild time. Do you remember shooting that guy in the nightclub?’

‘What guy?’

Kerry laughed. ‘He owed me six grand and lashed, so you shot him.’

I shook my head. ‘What happened to Wednesday and Thursday?’ I asked.

‘Don’t know,’ said Kerry, ‘but I feel like I’ve been gang banged by a herd of elephants. I’m as sore as a boy scout at a poofter’s picnic.’

‘Let’s get back to your place, Kerry. I need a proper night’s sleep. Saturday is a big day and I want a clear head.’ Kerry went all cuddly and romantic. ‘Just you and me together, Geoff?’

‘Yeah, baby’ I said, and kissed her cheek.

We said our goodbyes to Tiffany and her girlfriend and went out into the night, hand in hand, to catch a cab home.

*

THERE was a lot to do Saturday. I set the alarm clock for 7 in the morning. Kerry and I had knocked off a full bottle of Scotch, soaking together in a hot bath. I’d never actually been a boy scout, but I fully approved of the value of being prepared, and did some thinking about the job ahead. I’d use my sawn-off shotgun. One blast would take a pig’s head off at six paces. Good practice for shooting wogs. I rang Carolyn at the club to confirm it was all set. She was in a panic, as she hadn’t heard from me.

I told her not to worry and I’d see her Saturday night, 9.30 pm on the dot. In the bar of the Coliseum.

Kerry and I climbed into her big bed exhausted and very strung out. After a frantic session, running on nothing but nervous energy, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. I dreamt of Carolyn. She was dancing inside my dreams. But she wasn’t dancing for me. She was dancing for another woman, a woman with a spider’s web tattoo all the way down her left arm. They kissed and made love, and Carolyn turned and laughed out loud at me. Her face looked pure evil. She laughed and Sally, who I now knew to be Karen Phillips, the chick with the tattoo, pulled Carolyn away. And they made love while I looked on, helpless.

When I woke up I could remember this dream clearly. It was stuck in my head. Carolyn and Karen Phillips. I wondered what it all could mean. Kerry and I showered for an hour. I’d been in jail a long time. We had a big breakfast, got dressed and, hand in hand, walked over to my dad’s place.

As we walked I said, ‘Listen princess, I’ve got to tell ya something. My name isn’t Geoff Twane.’

Kerry thought for a moment and then asked, ‘Well, who are you?’

I told her that we did meet years ago at Mickey’s Disco, a blatant lie, because I could never recall ever meeting her, and that she had mixed me up with Geoff. He was the one who shot a couple of guys in front of the South Melbourne cop shop – and I was the one who shot Kiwi Kenny Woods and his mates.

‘So,’ said Kerry, ‘You’re the guy in the photo, and the real Geoff Twane’s the other guy?’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

She thought some more, and squeezed my hand.

‘I don’t care who you are. I reckon you’re beautiful. So what is your name?’

I told her. She was really pleased that I’d been honest with her. We got to dad’s place and spent the day with him. Kerry cooked lunch and took it upon herself to call my father ‘Uncle Alf’. Whoever Uncle Alf was. By early evening she had fallen back to calling me Geoff. I winked at my dad, but he didn’t mind one way or the other.

A good heart over-rides a scattered mind. Kerry just liked to call people either what she felt they should be called, or what she thought their names really were. Whatever the psychological reason, it wasn’t a serious flaw in her otherwise solid, staunch, loyal and loving personality. We both kissed my dad goodbye. Kerry promised to ring him and call in on him regularly, which made the old bugger most happy.

We caught a cab to the city and drank quietly in a pub till about 9 pm. I had my sawn-off shotgun under my overcoat. I gave all my money to Kerry and said, ‘If anything at all should go wrong, give the dough to my dad.’

Kerry didn’t have her little .25 calibre automatic handgun, and I’d left the .22 revolver at her place after washing Frenchy’s blood off it so carefully. All I had on me was her .38 automatic and my sawn-off shotgun. I didn’t like to think of her waiting outside the Coliseum Hotel unarmed so I gave her back the .38. We caught a cab to the Coliseum, pulled up about 100 yards from the pub, got out, and started to walk towards the joint.

‘I’m coming in with you, Geoff,’ Kerry said suddenly. ‘If it’s a set up we will go down together in one big blaze. If they kill you the slugs will have to go through my body first.’

I looked at the big, sexy, shaggy-haired blonde. She had tears in her eyes. ‘you’d do that for me, would you, baby?’

She nodded. A tear ran down her face. I bent down and licked it. It was salty. I kissed her. Time for good old mum’s ring again. I fumbled around in my pockets for the one I had taken back from Carolyn. I put it on Kerry’s finger. She hugged me. ‘No darling,’ I said. ‘You’re waiting outside.’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘If you die, I die, I love you, Geoff.’ This was getting out of hand. Me proposing to a mad woman a minute before shooting someone.

She was crazy, all right. I held her in my arms and tried to reason with her.

‘I won’t die, princess. Don’t cry. C’mon, cheer up.’

We started to walk along, arm in arm.

‘Hey,’ yelled a chick standing near an old white Holden Premier, a 1966 or 1967 model. It was ‘Sally’ – or Karen Phillips, as I now knew her.

We walked over.

‘He’s in there,’ said Karen, not wasting any breath on small talk. ‘Got his back to the door talking to Carolyn.’

I said to her: ‘Listen, I’m going in now, but before I do I want to ask you a favour.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Take care of Kerry for me. She’s waiting here with you.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Kerry defiantly.

That’s when I hit her. It was a hard, fast right hand that travelled about and six inches caught her flush on the tip of the jaw. She collapsed. Knocking girls out is easy. Kerry went to sleep like a baby.

‘Look after her, will ya Karen,’ I said.

‘Who told you my name?’ she asked.

‘I’m not stupid,’ I replied. Which was another blatant lie. But I was getting good at telling porkies.

‘If something goes wrong, keep an eye on Kerry for me, she’s sort of grown on me.’

Karen nodded. ‘Kerry will always have friends with us. Collingwood takes care of its own.’

As I walked towards the pub, Karen yelled: ‘If anything goes wrong, brother, we’ll knock whoever’s responsible, we’ll kill em all. Them and the bloody horses they friggin’ well rode in on. They’ll all die.’

I kept walking. At the door I stopped and adjusted the sawn-off shotgun under my overcoat. It was time to get into character.

I opened the door. The joint was full as a Catholic school, but I didn’t see any nuns. There were 60 to 70 drinkers jammed in. A juke box played, ‘If I only had time’ by John Rowles. It was a sad, sentimental haunting sort of song. I walked through the crowd until I saw Carolyn.

God, she was beautiful. She was standing, talking to Rocky. He had his back to the door. I walked up behind him. Still Carolyn didn’t realise I was in the bar. This would be child’s play. A lot of paranoia over nothing. Carolyn wasn’t out to set me up at all, she was setting Rocky up, she must really love me, just like she said. I pulled out the sawn-off and aimed it at Rocky’s head. ‘Hey shithead!’ I yelled.

He swung around. It wasn’t Rocky the Wog. It was Chicka Charlie.

*

HIS hand went inside his coat just as I pulled the trigger. His face exploded in front of me. Flame burst from the barrel and his top lip, nose and left eyeball sort of vanished back into his head in a soup of red and white. The spray of blood, bone and brains spat out a full two feet from the back of his skull. I caught a glimpse of Carolyn’s face as I turned. I couldn’t believe it. Her face was a blaze of fear and rage and her hand shot forward to catch Chicka Charlie.

As I turned, I thought I noticed her grab Charlie’s gun out of his belt. I walked fast towards the door. I didn’t hear the shot until after a red hot poker and a sledge hammer hit me in the back. They used to joke that you don’t hear the bang until after the slug’s gone through because the slugs travelling faster than the speed of sound. Now I knew it wasn’t a joke, it was true.

I stepped out of the pub and tried to walk a few steps more, but I couldn’t feel my body any more. I’d gone numb from the neck down. I could hear screams and men yelling and more screams and John Rowles singing that damn song.

‘Kerry, Kerry,’ I said.

I thought I was going to fall forward, but I went backwards and this is where the story started …

*

JUST me and the princess of evil dancing in my brain. I don’t think my dream princess will be with me for long, them and the horses they rode in on. Ha ha ha.

That’s what the tattooed lady said. I reckon my little dancing queen will be joining me for real very soon, dreaming her own dreams. I wonder if she’ll dream of me.

So long Kerry, I wonder if she’ll ever remember my right name? Oh, yeah. About names. I haven’t told mine. Dead men don’t have names.