Pic above: A typical press report of a Melbourne taxi holdup -- not the one described by Clive below.
 
It was 6:30 on a warm Friday night at Tulla airport in 1997. I stood in the taxi queue behind at least fifty other weary travellers. I was sales manager of a Melbourne based automotive component manufacturing company. After two days of tough talks in Adelaide with Mitsubishi, which was about to dump our company for a cheaper Korean supplier, I was exhausted. Taxis flowed from the holding area to the pickup rank, piling passengers and bags on board like a Dyson lifting crumbs from a carpet. As the queue shrank, I glumly wondered how long this country's automotive parts industry would survive. I longed to finish this last leg of the trip and be home with Susan, my two kids, and her pot roast simmering in the oven.
I wondered if I'd score a clean cab with a driver who knew where he was going. As a VT Commodore pulled up, I was in luck. The taxi shone in its Vic Taxi yellow livery.
The driver got out with a smile and offered to stow my carry-all shoulder bag in the boot. I shook my head and put it on the rear seat--conscious of the confidential company documents in my carry-all. I had left my kit in a taxi once before, and I was not about to do it again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Hi, I'm Pete; where can I drop you this evening?"
Elwood, I said, 
"No problems, I'll get you to the front gate in no time."
I took in the taxi's interior, and it was spotless. Pete wore a white shirt with company epaulettes and a matching tie, and I felt I was in a chauffeur-driven limo. I figured Pete to be in his mid-fifties, he had the look of a schoolteacher about him, and I wondered if he was a "Premier Kennett" causality from the school rationalization. He was at ease in his company uniform and enjoyed his life as a Melbourne cabby. With the right blinker on, we eased into the traffic.
"Pete, love your cab. Is it yours, and how long have you been a cabby?"
"About five years now, and no, it's not mine. I drive for the owner. He's a good guy. and we share the shifts".
We chatted as he put Tulla behind us, and I asked, "Ever been mugged".
"A guy put a knife to my ribs and demanded money. I guess you may find that exciting, but for me, I nearly shat myself. Thank God it only happened once."
We had passed the old Essendon airport and stopped by roadworks; my mind rolled back to 1961 when I took my first flight for work from the Essendon strip. How many flights over the years, hundreds even, as my auto parts industry went down the gurgler. Pete's company was a nice distraction as I fired a barrage of questions.
"Were you injured, did the coppers catch the bad guy, and if yes, was he charged, did he go to jail, did you get any victims comp"
"Well, you're paying. It was three or four years ago after my previous pick upended in Bay Street Brighton. A guy hailed me from outside the bank. My eyes did 'a passenger check', he looked OK. Smart casual clothes, MAORI/Islander in appearance, about 30. he should have the fare, I reckoned. He'd go to St Kilda, which gets me back towards the city for the afternoon rush. I pulled over, and he got in the front seat.
'Moorabbin'. His voice was deadpan, his black eyes piecing. I was immediately nervous about this guy alongside me.
"Where to in Moorabbin?"
"South Road"
"That's a long road. What number?
"I'll tell you when we get closer". 
I drove with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I did a quick visual, and he was intense, mouth closed, fingers drumming on the console like he was playing a keyboard. I thought, here is a runner!
"What number South Road?"
Silence as I drove eastwards from the commercial hub.
He didn't answer as the meter clicked over another 10 cents.
"Left here, left here"
At that moment, I knew trouble was ahead. More of a problem than someone running off without paying. We were now in a residential area, and he yelled again,
"Left left!" 
Then silence. I glanced across my left shoulder in panic and saw a face of evil and a lethal-looking knife at my rib cage, followed by the shouts,
"Give me your money, give me your money!
There is nothing new about bad guys assaulting and robbing taxi drivers. I wished I'd taken up the taxi regulator's recommendation of installing a Perspex screen. I should have got one for sure.
My brain exploded into action. I knew it was him or me, I saw him unlatch his seat belt just as my left foot hit the emergency button. In the same instant, I grabbed the mike: 
"Mayday mayday",
Then I rammed the cab into the kerb, and His face slammed into the windscreen with a thud, almost shattering the glass.
A stream of profanities followed, "You c—t, you c—t, f—k you! "he screamed, spraying me with saliva and drops of blood from his bleeding nose.
"He jumped from the cab grasping his knife and disappeared down a driveway. It was all over in seconds".
"I cannot believe this story. What happened next?" I asked.
As he jumped, the base radio squawked:
"Are you OK, are you injured?"
"What street, what's the closest house number?"
I had the mike tight in my shaking hand.
I didn't know where I was. I had to pull myself together now, the evil bastard had gone, and someone had to catch him. My mind refocused, and with surprising calmness, I looked up at the corner street sign and answered clearly.
"I'm in Leiden Street Moorabbin outside number 52".
"Then sit tight, relax, the police are on the way."
I heard the siren wailing from South Road, and in what I thought was an eternity, but only a few minutes, a divvy van screeched around the corner and jolted to halt behind me. Two coppers jumped out, running. I'm still in the Taxi, my heart beating at a rate enough to burst my rib cage.
"Are you injured? If not, come and sit in the divvy van; your Taxi is a crime scene, forensics are on their way to dust it."
"Yikes", I am now enthralled as Pete relives the old nightmare.
"I sat in the divvy van with one copper, the other talking to the homeowner where the perpetrator had disappeared. I filled the copper in, and he immediately summarized the situation to the D24. The general call to all units came over the police network with a description of the perpetrator--- still in the neighbourhood, jumping back fences and heading towards the footy ground."
I relaxed for the first time since that knife was produced and was thankful for the police presence. My new pal in the divvy van turned to me:
"The plainclothes boys are on their way. They will care for you from here on. Here have a smoke; it'll calm your nerves".
"No thanks, whisky would be better. Got any in the van? 
He laughed.
"Ask the suits. They carry everything."
"With a parting smile, he said a tow truck would lift the Taxi and take it as evidence to Moorabbin CIU yard. I wondered how I would explain to the owner why the Taxi was not at the 4:30 pm change over. No time to think about that now as the plainclothes boys had arrived. They beckoned me over and waved off the divvy van. There are no suits. The boys are in matching black bomber jackets, each displaying a colourful embroidered Cobra on the left chest, coiled ready to strike. My mind swept back to Hawaii Five-O, my favourite TV show of the past, and I momentarily saw detective "Danno" lazing against his Ford Galaxy cruiser chewing gum.
My mind snapped back to reality when one Cobras called, 
"Jump in the back. We need to talk."
I'm in a new world. The police radio was constantly babbling info on the search for the perpetrator as cops surrounded the neighbourhood. Thick cigarette smoke stung my wide-open eyes as I scanned the cop car interior. Marlboro packs, empty paper coffee cups, and Macca's wrappers littered the interior. One of the Cobra's turned to face me, his jacket open, and staring at me was a shoulder holster carrying a black revolver housed in a leather pouch. I knew then I was with the right guys.
The Cobra said, "You're lucky. We are sure the guy who did you over attacked another cabbie in Port Melbourne early this morning. The perp robbed him of his morning takings, about 100 bucks, then locked the poor bastard in the boot. A walker heard his muffled screaming and banging on the boot lid and called the police. He's now at The Alfred in the Psychiatric ward under observation. His head is in a bad place, and he may never drive a cab again. His life stuffed for 100 bucks. We need to put this guy away. Your action saved you a similar fate, and now it's our job to catch the evil prick."
"I sank back into the seat exhausted, closed my eyes and thanked my preservation instincts. The radio continued to babble with updates on the search, and moments later, screams of joy filled the car. On his motorbike, a Toggie (Traffic Operations Group) caught him on the footy oval as he sprinted towards the goalposts."
They yelled, "That's the winning goal!"
"Great catch but embarrassing for our team to be outrun by a Toggie." 
After some back and forth, the chief Cobra said to me," We've got him in custody now, and he fits your description and still has the knife on him. He's toast. Let's head back to the station and put this matter to bed."
As we drove to Moorabbin CIU, I called Andy, the cab owner, to say that the left front wheel was dangling from the axle assembly, and the cab was undrivable.
Andy replied, "Don't worry, mate. Do what you have to at the copshop, and I will pick you up when you're through."
I felt better and readied myself for the next stage of this frightening afternoon.
We swung into the police carpark, and my cab sat forlornly in a corner and greeted me with its left side covered in white fingerprint dust. I noted that dust-covered the front passenger seat, the console, and the glovebox lid. I thought it would be easier to clean up than vomit. With a confident walk, the Cobras led me into the copshop. We went directly to an office with a glass wall facing a corridor.
TV crime shows always show the witness interview room as welcoming and comfortable and the perpetrator identification as line up behind one-way glass, with the witness hidden from the scowling group. It's not like that in real life. Moorabbin CIU was austere and business-like.
Cobra: "The perp will be walking the walk down the aisle. He'll will be handcuffed and held by two officers. He can't hurt you. Look at him as he passes and confirm with a nod if that's the guy who had the knife to your ribs".
My guts churned—only that glass wall between the assailant and me. Before my mind unscrambled, the prisoner was walking the walk. I nodded and nodded like the little buddha at my Chinese restaurant check out. I couldn't stop. The whole procedure took less than a minute, and then silence. Soon a cup of black coffee in a paper cup appeared beside me with a Marie biscuit".
"Sorry, no milk, and you don't need sugar," said the policewomen with a smile, a welcome soft voice in this male domain.
Number one, Cobra, then appeared and informed me the prisoner had been charged and would be remanded. 
"It could be three months before the Magistrates Court contacts you with a court date."
"You're all done, Pete. Call your mate Andy to pick you up and go home and relax, have a beer or two and put today's drama behind you." 
I went home and did just that"
Earning top money in Taxis requires the cab to be on the road 24/7. So, taxi service garages are all around Melbourne. Full service in thirty minutes, new brake pads in an hour, and a new front end in less than a day. 
Andy had the cab back on the road in no time.
Cab life returned to normal. Around three months later, with the episode dimmed in my mind, a magistrate's court clerk rang and said the prisoner had pleaded guilty. He said this matter was complete, and the court terminated my involvement.
I said to Pete, "Let's finish on that word terminate, my street is around the corner, and it's number 42. Pete, your experience that afternoon needs recognition. You cabbies do it tough. I might write about it one day. Pete here's an extra five bucks for you, that was the best Taxi ride from Tulla ever."
I stood on the nature strip and watched the cab disappear around the corner. Within 15 more minutes, I tucked into Susan's pot roast and drank a red. The taxi drivers of Melbourne are in a dangerous business, and would you believe. I became one myself for ten worthwhile years. And I never got robbed once.