Underbelly NZ: Land of the Long Green Cloud

This is a coming-of-age story.

Them...and us.

Marty Johnstone was one of them.

The Real Mr. Asia.

Before the name got highjacked by some pretender in Oz.

It's about the drug dealers and the cops growing up.

And the country too, really.

We all learned some pretty tough lessons.

No one more than Carole.

Working mum...best detective I was ever partnered with.

- You're under arrest! - OK...

Should never've run the platform. Could have been long gone.

Marty and his mates had gotten a bit ahead of themselves.

But then, so have I.

Around six years earlier, in '69,

the long white cloud had started taking on a distinctive tinge.

New Zealand green was on the up.

And the hippies were living the high life.

The cops were chasing the smoke,

not the people who were lighting the fires.

While police were uprooting crops,

Marty Johnstone was up rooting in Northland.

Trading weed for sex.

Just the homegrown cabbage, sure, but maybe the seed of what was to come was sown right then.

Along with his own seed.

Free love...cheap weed.

In 1971, I'd just joined a pretty wobbly thin blue line.

While I was culling the line,

the hippies were hoeing the weed.

For me...being a copper was what it was all about.

But Marty...he just wanted everything...fast.

Come on, bones. Give me a double.

So, let's see...

with doubling that's...three bucks.

That's American. With a chorus of angels.

The girls are hitchin' as well. You'll have to put your pack on top.

- So, Marty. - Rhymes with party... Anybody fancy a joint?

And that's how Marty met Andy.

By the time I met them,

they'd be burglaring warehouses by night and working in men's fashion by day.

Big collars, no cuffs. While I'd be carrying cuffs and trying to make collars.

No, mate, I don't move the goods.

But I can put you in touch with a fella.

Yeah... For a fee, I bet.

Fair enough.

- Come on. - Whoops, that's thirty-five dollars.

You'll pull lots of chicks in that gear.

Trust me.

Helen.

- Something for hubby? - Oh, that'd be lovely, but...this isn't him.

Detective Constables Charlton and Derwent.

The checkups.

My life. Have to be astonished to be the tiggers, ain't you?

- Johnstone and Mayer, is it? - It's Maher.

I'm Marty Johnstone...

Provider 'fession, strive, ties and slipping.

We're with crunch squad, burglary stiffs. That's what it pays.

We've received some complaints from Mr. Farquson, your boss,

- Lovely man, know exactly... - ...about thefts...from the till.

- That's bullshit. - I haven't seen anything.

- Andy? - Nope.

According to Mr. Farquson, it's only been going on since you started here, Mr. Maher.

- Now listen, about Peckish accusing me... - Mr. Farquson's wasted your time, officer.

If Andy'd had his fingers anywhere he shouldn't...I'd've chopped them off.

So, tell your, ah...sexternal notch.

Once we've had a wee chat with Mr. Fuckquson, he'll be withdrawing his complaint, bet on it.

You make a habit of monstering people, do you, Andy?

Understand, I am good with faces...and I'll be remembering yours.

Step out of line, we'll be on ya.

And fair enough, too. Truth and justice, eh? The rule of law?

Super sternal notch. Rule of law.

Lucky Marty was there. For you'd punched him out and ended up in jail.

Bonnie Marie Jones, tough as a nail...sharp as a tack.

They done fuckin' wrong. Fuckin' cops, eh?

Bloody boy says talkin' to. Huh. I'm gonna start fucking that course. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em, all of 'em.

Excuse me. You want try moderating your bloody language a bit?

What's your problem?

Him. Swearing in front of my old lady. Stay out of it, cow!

Cow...

- ...quack, quack... - Huh?

...duck.

Sucker punch at me? On my turf?

You don't know who you're messing with, shithead!

We'll see, fuck knuckles!

Quack, quack, here!

And a moo, moo, there!

Here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck, fuck!

Come on then, come on!

Let's get out of here! The farmer's on his way!

You need to stay cool. We don't need another visit from the cops.

- So, I'm into something big, here. - Well, how big?

Big ones, Andy. There's money to be made.

- Is it some warehouse to heist. - No, that's work. This is a bloody adventure.

You take on the bus, mate.

Magical bloody mystery tour with treasure at the end.

And a whole bunch of highs, fucking highs, along the way.

We can make names for ourselves in this town.

All those bastards like that bloke, they'll be looking up to us when we're done.

We'll be somebodies.

Drinking French champagne.

Riding out the guards with a hundred dollar night.

We get the kiss from the birds, do serious buys of weed, and we're on our way.

- What, local green? - Who talking local?

Mack the Mick, bud, the fence, my information is he's got all these contacts.

The big times, guys.

Yeah...pretty nice stuff, mate.

Greg Ollard hadn't been too long out of Wetecho prison.

Hmm, one cut and you're flying...first class.

He had a habit and a girl friend to support.

But not for long. Three years later, he'd be dead.

No!

So the good stuff is behind you?

- Want to try some? - What?

Try it before you buy? I don't think Greggie would like that.

We'll just buy straight up.

How much stuff you want, mate.

Ten grand's worth, plus whatever this lot's worth, Mick fresh.

Eh, so, say two for this, that's twelve grand worth of dope allotment.

- Twelve and a half. - Eh? Twelve.

- Half on top, my commission, from putting in touch. - Clear enough.

Ah, but, I get to keep the lava lamp.

- So! In touch with who? - Ehm...

Well, he's a steward on the Dutch freighter. Everybody calls him Chinese Jack.

Boys.

- Jim. - Mr. Shepherd.

Yeah. That's more like it.

You looking for Marty Johnstone?

He's here, mate.

Marty. Pleasure.

Piss off, please.

- You want a drink? - Piss in it.

Cops like it here, do they?

Cops can't afford threads like these.

You turn out to be one, you're gonna wake up with blood on your sheet, and your dick, and your mouth.

My mouth isn't big enough.

What's your interest...heroin?

- Buda? - Buda, for now. I know there's good market for that.

I can move more grass than "H" here.

I got good connections with Thai growers.

If you got cash, I will organize sticks.

They grow their maryjane close to a poppy. Makes it stronger.

Grows like shit!

And how much are we talking for this good shit.

Marty knew that the thing about the poppies was just an urban myth...

but...Chinese Jack's promise of a more potent product was right on the money.

Buda would turn out to have a THC up to ten times as strong as New Zealand green.

So, do we shake hands, or do we compute the size of our dicks.

The statistics pretty much speak for themselves.

- Safe breaks. We have burglaries,... - Break-ins.

Have you got something you want to share with us all, Detective?

- You two swapping knitting patterns? - I was just adding pharmacies to the list, sir.

What's that got to do with these figures, Detective Constable?

Well, the spike in the stats, sir, it's seasonal.

This time of year, the local crop of grain's down, so the potheads look for alternatives.

Chemical, if necessary.

So pharmacy hits go through the roof, car thieves, drug thieves, speed instead of weed.

- Speed? - Amphetamines, sir.

Speed costs more, so more thefts just to pay for it.

These safe jobs are good as bloody well signed. The work of old pros, not your smokers of funny cigarettes.

- Some of them, I agree, sir, but I think... - Oh, you agree, do you, Detective Constable?

This bloke's not long out of in-service training, isn't he?

Sir.

So, maybe this time next year, you might know your ass from your elbow.

- Sir. - Yeah.

Regarding the safe jobs...

Turned out I DID know my ass from my elbow.

But what none of us knew was that the chemists were about to get a reprieve.

Courtesy of Marty and his mates.

All right, Bonnie... There you are.

So, that was Marty...

...bold swagger, shirt open to the navel, money to burn, and boy, did he burn it.

Fresh clothes, expensive cigars. Cuban, of course.

Only the very best.

The gold medallion was just one of a few, but it was the one that he'd always wore.

Ah Fu Hau, Chang Shau Mein,

Chinese symbol for long life.

Ironic, that.

In five years, Marty's mutilated and very dead body

would be dumped in a flooded quarry on the other side of the world.

With the medallion still round his neck.

Naryingly a bloke with speeding star would choose such a salubrious venue for his near-miss facilities.

All charges dropped.

And a justice system's loss is our gain.

- To Speedy Stan. - To spirit well had!

Look at all these old bastards! They think they still run things.

They still do, Andy.

Heh! Not for long, hey?

Oh, quit flexing your muscles! You'll tear your shirt.

She's right.

These guys have still got big balls...and even bigger ears.

Like Greg Ollard, Terry Clark had graduated from Wetecho Prison,

where he'd served three out of four years for burglary and receiving.

He'd come north to Auckland with Norma Slate, an addict who had married while he was inside.

Maybe not such a great move.

Norma's looks and her easy ways made her a bit too popular for Terry's liking.

You blokes print your own invites, did you?

Good God, no, Gary. Wouldn't dream of gate-crashing.

We think you can get a job for a kneecap on toff.

Now me and my friends, we're getting up a party of our own. And everyone's invited to that one.

Just over a month, and I'm already paying my top people three grand a week.