Underbelly NZ: Land of the Long Green Cloud

In my younger days, Iused to dig that rock and roll.

Gave me such a high, andreally supercharge my soul.

Whoa, ,, Mr. Rock and Roll.

This is a coming of age story.

Them and us.

Marty Johnstone was one of them--

the real Mr. Asia, beforethe name got hijacked

by some pretender in Oz.

It's about the drug dealersand the cops growing up.

And the country, too, really.

We all learned some prettytough lessons, no one more

than Carol.

Working mom.

Best detective I was ever partnered with.

You're under arrest!

Oh, yeah.

Should never have worn the platforms.

Could have been long gone.

Marty and his mates had

got a bit ahead of themselves.

But then, so I have.

Around six years earlier, in '69,

the long white cloud had startedtaking on a distinctive tinge.

New Zealand green was on the up, and the hippies

were living the high life.

The cops were chasingthe smoke, not the people

who were lighting the fires.

While police were uprooting crops,

Marty Johnstone was uprooting in Northland,

trading weed for sex.

Just the home grown cabbage, sure,

but maybe the seed of what wasto come was sown right then--

along with his own seed.

Free love, cheap weed.

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

While I was toeing the line, thehippies were ho-ing the weed.

For me, being a copperwas 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.

A Samaritan, and with a chorus of angels.

The girls are hitching, as well.

You'll have to put your back on top.

So I'm Marty.

Rhymes with party.

Anybody fancy a joint?

And that's how Marty met Andy.

Woo!

By the time I met them,

they'd been burgling warehouses by night,

and working in men's fashion by day.

Big collars, no cuffs.

While I'd be carrying cuffsand trying to make collars.

. I don't move the goods.

But I can put you in touch with a fella.

Yeah.

For a fee, I bet.

Fair enough.

How much?

Well, that's $35.

Thank you.

You'll pull lots of checks in that gear.

Trust me.

Darling.

Something for hubby?

Oh, that'd be lovely.

But this isn't him.

Detective Constables Charlton and Derwent.

Detectives?

No way.

Far too stylish to be detectives, aren't you?

Johnstone and Maher, is it?

It's "Marr."

I'm Marty Johnstone.

Purveyor of fashion.

Stripes, ties, that sort of thing.

We're with crime squad.

Burglaries, thefts.

That sort of thing.

We've received some complaintsfrom Mr. Your boss.

Lovely man.

Not exactly--

About thefts.

From the till.

That's bullshit.

I haven't seen anything.

Andy? - Nope.

According to Mr. It's only been going on since

you started here, Mr. Maher.

Listen, if that prick is accusing me--

Mr. Haswasted your time, officer.

If Andy had had his fingers anywhere

he shouldn't, I'd have chop them off.

The till, your, uh--

suprasternal notch.

And once I've had wee chatto Mr. "Fuck-wason," he'll be

withdrawing his complaint.

Bet on it.

You make a habit ofmonstering people, do you, Andy?

Understand I am good with faces,

and I'll be remembering yours.

Step out of line, we will be on you.

And fair enough, too.

Truth and justice, eh?

The rule of law.

Suprasternal notch?

Rule of law?

Lucky Marty was there, or you'd have punched

them out and ended up in jail.

Bonnie Marie Jones.

Tough as a nail, sharp as a tack.

You're not fucking wrong.

Fucking cops, eh?

Bloody boss is talking to 'em.

Lucky they're such fucking dickwads.

Fuck 'em.

Fuck them, all of 'em!

Excuse me?

Want to try moderatingyour 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.

Chuck a punch at me, on my turf?

You don't know who you'remessing with, shit head!

We'll see, fuck knuckle.

With a quack, quack here,and a moo, moo there.

Here a fuck, then 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.

We're on the edge of something big here.

Big ones, Andy.

There's money to be made.

Even from weirdos as I?

Naw, that's work.

This is a bloody adventure.

Get your ticket on the bus, mate.

Magical bloody mystery tour,with treasure at the end.

And a whole bunch of highfucking highs along the way.

We can make names for ourselves in this town.

Oldschool bastards like that bloke--

they'll be looking up to us when we're done.

We'll be somebodies.

Drinking French champagne,lighting our cigars

with $100 .

We take the cash from the burgs,a few serious buys of weed,

and we're on our way.

What, local green?

Who's talking local?

Make the fence, my information is

he's got contacts.

The big time, guys.

It's a jungle out there.

It's a jungle out there.

It's a jungle out there.

Yeah, primo stuff, mate.

Greg Ollard hadn't been

too long out of Witako prison.

One toke, and you'll be flying first class.

He had a habit and a girlfriend

to support, but not for long.

Three years later, he'd be dead.

Mate-- no!

Jolly good stuff, is it, angel?

Want to try some?

What? Try it before we buy?

I don't think Greg here would like that.

We'll just buy it straight up.

So how much dope you want, then?

10 grand's worth.

Plus whatever this is lot's worth.

Nicked fresh.

So I'd say two for this.

That's 12 grand's worth of dope allotment.

12 and 1/2?

Uh, 12.

Half's on top, my commissionfor, um, putting you in touch.

Fair enough. Uh, but--

I get to keep the lava lamp.

So-- in touch with who?

Um-- well, he's a stewardon the Dutch freights.

Everybody calls him Chinese Jack.

Boss.

Jim.

Mr. Shepherd.

Yeah.

That's more like it.

You looking for Marty Johnstone?