Chopper Unchopped (172 page)

To her, he was a bricklayer who owned his own business, dressed well, had a few bob and maybe got into a few Saturday-night punch ups. How could he ever marry this lovely young lady and say “I’ll be back in three weeks, my darling, my uncle wants me to fly to Timbuktu and shoot a few people. Ya see, honey, as well as laying bricks I kill people for a living and the people I work for, and my enemies, would cut your head off if I ever fucked up too badly or dropped my guard”. Which is why Joey didn’t declare his love for her.

As for Cassandra Connor, she was as mad as a cut snake, all legs and a scallywag grin that told you don’t give this chick a match because she’d sure as hell burn your house down. Tina was fascinated in all she saw; Cassandra was amused in all she saw. Tina looked like a lady any man would want to protect; Cassandra looked like someone who’d front up for a crew wishing to sell protection.

Aussie Joe felt slightly ill-at-ease around young Cassie, but the two young ladies were the best of mates and Tina was one of the very few straight friends he had. For Joey, time spent with Tina and Cassie was rest and relaxation, even though Cassie could unnerve him with a twinkling eye and cheeky grin that said “if you’re a bricklayer I’m a bloody Irish brain surgeon”.

CASSIE Connor walked into the bar carrying a brand new bird cage. “Hi ya, Cass” said Tina.

“Hi Tina” said Cassandra.

“What’s the bird cage for?” asked Joey.

“I’m gonna put me fucking cat in it, ya bloody spazzo,” she answered tartly.

Joey ignored the insult and looked at the cage for a moment before realising she had no intention of putting her cat in it at all. The question was begging: why she was carrying an empty bird cage. She had either lost her bird or was on her way to collect one or was taking the new cage home to replace an old cage. Joey decided not to ask. Italian logic versus Irish-Aussie comedy always made him look like a dumb wog.

Joey looked back at the empty cage. He couldn’t help himself.

“Seriously, Cassie. What’s it for?” But she didn’t tell him.

Later that night, Joey walked Tina home hand in hand, long after crazy Cassie had vanished into the darkness with her empty bird cage.

Tina lived in a block of flats in Gertrude Street and, as was their routine, they stood on the footpath in front of the flats and have a little goodnight cuddle like a pair of teenagers. Joey put his arms around Tina and she wrapped her arms around him and they kissed. Tina slid her tongue into his mouth in a way that sent an electric shock through him and he wondered desperately if she noticed the massive bulge in his pants. Tina wasn’t quite as slow on the uptake as her virgin face implied. This time, she grabbed hold of the swelling and said with mock seriousness: “Ya know, Joey, ya gonna have to see a doctor about that lump of yours.”

Joey couldn’t help himself this time. He reached his hands down and took hold of Tina’s round firm arse. She had her arms around his neck and her already short skirt had crept up and Joey could feel warm flesh. She was wearing high-cut knickers, naturally, and he found he had his hands full of silky-smooth arse cheeks and she still had hold of him. This was right in the middle of Gertrude Street, Fitzroy. The tongue-kissing had gotten serious by this. Then both of Tina’s hands went south.

Joey was trying to get into the shadows under the flats. His hands had slipped under her knickers. Neither of them had planned this but both knew that in about thirty seconds something of a seriously passionate nature was about to happen.

Joey lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. But the thing she wanted most was still in his pants, so while little Tina hung on with her tongue running in and out of his mouth, Joey fumbled frantically. Tina lifted her hips up, knowing Joey needed a little help to direct the head of the problem into the mouth of the solution. Then, with a few little jiggles up and down, Tina sank her hips down with a moan.

Who said romance was dead? She began to ride him up and down, hanging on to his neck for dear life. “I love you, Tina” he said urgently. “I love you.”

That’s what Tina wanted to hear. Her passion seemed to go from smouldering to red hot and she replied with a frantic effort to get as much of Joey into her as she could. All of a sudden Tina wanted to pop this guy’s weasel so badly nothing else mattered.

Tina was moaning and riding him like it was the first and last time in her life. Suddenly, they heard something like a car backfiring three times. A piece of the brick work behind Joey shattered off and hit Tina in the neck. The next thing she knew she was on the ground, staring in horror at Joey pulling a gun out with one hand and putting his other weapon away with the other. He had blood on the side of his face, not from a bullet but from flying brick work. The three gun shots hadn’t hit home but they’d come close. Joey ran into the street and fired five shots at a bashed-up old Ford as it sped off.

When he returned Tina had found her feet, but not her temper.

“What was that all about?” she demanded.

“Ah, just some blokes who don’t like me,” said Joey carefully.

“You’re not a bricklayer are ya, Joe?”

“Nah, Princess, I’m not.”

“Then what the hell are you?” said Tina.

“Just a good bloke out of luck, Princess, just a good bloke out of luck.”

As they walked upstairs to Tina’s flat she was full of fear, fascination and questions.

“Do ya really love me, Joey?”

“Yeah, darlin’, I do. I always have, in fact. I just never had the guts to tall ya.”

Tina hugged him. “Ya big dummy, you should have said something.”

Joey continued, “we come from different worlds, Princess. I didn’t want to get you involved in my life.”

“But I am involved, Joey. That’s what love is, you and me against the rest of the world. That’s love,” said Tina.

They laughed as they went into Tina’s flat to finish what the gunplay had so rudely interrupted.

While Tina Torre spent the rest of the night showing Joey Gravano just how bad a good girl could be, Little Boy Bobby Aspanu and his two shadowy Sicilian bodyguards sat in the Gangitano lounge in Carlton. Big Al Guglameno, Eddie Giordano, Tommy Monnella and a big crew were all trying to convince Bobby Aspanu that the fuck-up on the attempted hit on his Uncle Joey wouldn’t come back on them.

“Bullshit,” said Bobby, “only a fuckin’ Calabrian would try shooting someone at night from a moving car with a hand gun at a distance of 60 feet. Jesus, who do you think you are, Monnella? Roy fucking Rogers?”

Monnella looked shamefaced.

“Gravano won’t know it was us. He’ll blame the Albanians,” he said.

Bobby Boy Aspanu laughed at this, but he didn’t look amused.

“If the Albanians wanted to hit Gravano they would get out of the car in broad daylight in front of a hundred witnesses and cut Gravano’s head off with a meat axe,” he snarled. They all knew it was close enough to true.

“What about Kelly and the Aussie crews?” said Giordano.

Guglameno answered this one.

“They would run into him in a pub and take his head off with a shot gun. Overalls, gloves, balaclava, get-away car. Cop this, Joey. Bang. Bobby’s right, Gravano will know we tried it.”

Little boy Bobby got up to leave.

“It’s like the old song, isn’t it boys? Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right and here I am stuck in the middle with a bunch of dagos who couldn’t run a three-seated shit house without getting one of the pans blocked up.”

“Don’t panic,” said Big Al soothingly. “Joey will never jerry that it was you who gave the order.”

Secretly Guglameno knew that Gravano would know right away that no Calabrian crew would dare to make a move on him without a Sicilian order. The Calabrians were soldiers following commands. Which meant that Little Boy Bobby was the one in big trouble. As Bobby walked out Tommy Monnella couldn’t help himself.

“She’s sweet, Bobby. Ya grandfather will understand it’s all business, mate. He knows that.”

The Calabrians looked at each other and smiled.

“Ya did good,” said Guglameno to Monnella. “A dead Gravano is no use at all but an angry Gravano out for revenge is worth his weight in Sicilian blood. Let them animals kill each other. We run Melbourne. Those Sicilian cockroaches get off the plane two, three times a year and tell us what to do for 25 per cent of our action.”

Peter Delia Torre, a Sicilian, looked ill-at-ease. Sometimes these Calabrians forgot who was in the room when they were talking. They had spent 700 years trying to outsmart the Sicilians, and all of a sudden a Robert de Niro lookalike from Carlton who spoke Italian with an Aussie accent was going to outsmart the Aspanu family. Oh yeah?

The truth was that Guglameno was a pig in a ball gown, a rat with a gold tooth, all razzle dazzle and no dash. If Don Hector found out about this Carlton Calabrian plot it was goodbye and, grandson or not, Bobby Boy was dead as well. Why couldn’t they stick to making money and stop trying to be politicians?

FOR some reason known only to Al Guglameno, Gorgeous George Marcus had been persuaded to return to Sicily with little Boy Bobby Aspanu and his two silent bodyguards.

Gorgeous George was over the moon at the prospect of meeting the great Don Hector Aspanu, not to mention carrying out yet another secret agent assignment for his friend and protector Guglameno. George had even invited his latest girlfriend along, a blonde stripper named Jasmyn. When George wanted to butter people up he knew there was no greater butter than an extra-friendly young lady.

The flight from Melbourne to Rome was not without comedy. The yummy Jasmyn got swept off her feet in first class by a Maltese kickboxer and on landing in Rome was not only a member of the mile high club several times over but deeply in love. Gorgeous George was shattered, but he swallowed his pride while Jasmyn swallowed something else. Maltese Dave was in the heavyweight division and George was no fighter. Worse was to come. The meeting with the Great Don Hector was a disaster for George.

“Who’s this stupid bastardo?” asked Don Hector.

“He’s a friend of Guglameno,” said Bobby.

“Oh, I see,” said Don Hector, “the fuck-up Calabrian sends me a Greek messenger. So, Greek messenger, what the fuck happened to Peter Delia Torre, not that I give a shit, but he was a Sicilian.”

“Well,” said George, “it was all a bit odd. He woke up at three o’clock in the morning to hear a cat meowing.”

“What?” said Don Hector.

“You know,” said George “Meow, meow, meow.”

“Yeah, yeah” said Don Hector. “Meow, meow. I understand. Then what?”

“Well,” said George. “Peter gets up and goes outside and he finds a cat in a birdcage in his driveway.”

“A what?” grated Don Hector.

“A cat in a birdcage, grandfather,” said Bobby.

“I heard him,” snapped Don Hector. “A cat in a bird cage. Then what?”

“Well,” said George. “He picked the cage up — then, bang, and Peter’s head is lying on the front lawn. Double barrel shotgun.”

“Jesus,” said Don Hector, puzzled but slightly amused. “A cat in a bird cage. Couldn’t they afford a horse’s head? Ha ha.”

“Maybe it was the Albanians,” said Little Boy Bobby.

“Pig’s arse,” said Don Hector who, for some bizarre reason talked a bit like John Elliott with an Italian accent. “Ya can’t blame them for everything. Anyhow, they would eat the bird and fuck the cat. Ha ha ha.” A great one to laugh at his own jokes, the old Don.

“Nah,” he concluded. “The only people whose tactics defy human logic is the fucking mad Irish. What the hell did Delia Torre do to upset those mental cases?”

Everyone looked at each other and shrugged.

“Cats in bird cages,” said Don Hector. “Jesus Christ! Is the whole world on medication? And what about the fuck-up hit on Joey? I guess you’re gonna tell me the fuckin’ cat did that as well before he hopped up in the bird cage. And don’t blame the fuckin’ Albanians for that. Or the stupid Irish. That, my dear grandson, was your fuck-up friends the Calabrians, hey Bobby?”

It’s what you call a loaded question. Loaded with buckshot, and Bobby knew it. As Don Hector spoke his bodyguards moved in. Benny Benozzo grabbed Little Boy Bobby and swung an ice pick with fearful force with a right hand blow into the left ear.

Franco Di Tommaso and Luigi Monza froze in horror. As the loyal bodyguards of the suddenly dead Bobby Aspanu their own lives were in question, but a look from the old man told them to relax. He knew they were only soldiers — and soldiers, however loyal to their capo, owed their final loyalty to the boss, the old general of the clan, Don Hector himself.

Gorgeous George, however, was not so confident or continent just at this moment. He pissed his pants and froze in blind terror as Bobby’s body hit to the floor. Don Hector turned to him.

“Tell Guglameno just to make money and not to involve himself in Sicilian family politics. Joey Gravano is my most loyal nephew. Bobby was my most treacherous grandchild. I’m a man with many grandchildren — all Hollywood Sicilian yuppies who try to impersonate Al Pacino. Joey’s not too bright, but he is loyal to his uncle and his Godfather.

“My sons and their sons spend all their time counting my money and plotting against me before I’m even in the grave. So, Greek messenger, you go back and tell Guglameno he must thank me for every heartbeat, because he won’t ever get a second chance. Now, go home, and let an old man cry for the death of his grandson.

As George Marcus left, Don Hector spoke in Sicilian to Di Tommaso and Monza.

“Why would that Calabrian send me a Greek messenger?” he spat. “You know the old Sicilian proverb?”

Di Tommaso replied, “Never trust a Greek or a priest.”

“Yes,” said Don Hector. “For Guglameno to trust a Greek we must now ask ourselves about Guglameno. We still have an informer in the camp.

“Who set Delia Torre up? And this strange visit from this nothing Greek on an invitation from Guglameno? Joey killed his own baby brother because we thought he was the informer. Maybe Bobby was the informer. Who knows? But this visit for no reason from this shifty Greek makes me wonder is the Greek the dog? And if he is, then what of his Calabrian master?”

Luigi Monza spoke. “How do we know the truth, Don Aspanu?”

The old man smiled an evil smile. “We let it be known that if the informer isn’t found and killed within 30 days then the relatives of every Calabrian in control in Carlton still living in Italy will all die. Men, women and children.”

Bobby Benozzo spoke. “That could mean a hundred people, Don Hector.”

“So what,” said the old man. A hundred Calabrians mean nothing. If Guglameno is the informer, as Joey secretly thinks he is, then he will kill his Greek messenger and blame him.”

“Then what?” asked Di Tommaso. “We kill Guglameno?”

“No,” said the Don. “Once we know the game we can control the moves. Guglameno can die tomorrow or in ten years time.”

A FUNNY thing happened. Exactly 30 days after George Marcus flew out of Palermo he was found shot dead in a quiet street in North Box Hill in Melbourne, outside the address of one of his many girlfriends.

Guglameno had despatched Mario Dellacroce to do the job for $14,000. Dellacroce paid a lot more than that to young Victor Masolino and ordered him to do it. Masolino, having accepted the money, promptly lost his guts and subcontracted the job out to his girlfriend’s uncle, an old Aussie gunnie and alcoholic, fallen on hard times. So, for the princely sum of $7000, old Kevin Thackery ended up actually pulling the trigger.

Dellacroce had lost big money to save face. Masolino made money to save face, and poor old Thackery got robbed. As often happens when a job is too hard for the criminal yuppies, they dust the cobwebs of some old Aussie gunman who still thinks a $7000 hit is a good earn.

Guglameno would have used the Albanians for three or four thousand and for that money got a crew of six with a chain saw, but George had served him well and in keeping with his Hollywood gangster image deserved to die like one. The good thing was, Marcus owed money all over Melbourne and had made serious enemies. His love life was enough to get twenty men shot and it would take the police several years just to question the list of suspects.

As for Guglameno, he would henceforth maintain his secret contacts with the NCA, the DEA and Federal Police through a Jewish lawyer, a lovely lady indeed. And while all this was going on old Poppa Di Inzabella was watching Big Al from a distance with an evil eye, and he let Don Hector Aspanu know that the grave had already been dug for Guglameno. In one year or ten years, it didn’t matter. Meanwhile, Guglameno was a money mover at a street level and as long as he ran his end of things at a profit for all, he lived.

MELBOURNE, 1994. When a smart Sicilian wants to kill an Albanian in secret, he will hire a Russian, and the Russian will then make a financial arrangement with a Lithuanian. So it was that Vlad Alayla, a Russian marriage broker, money lender and immigration adviser, stood at the bar of the Bavarian Club in West Melbourne with Big Viko Radavic, a half-crazy Lithuanian standover man, talking business of a violent nature.

And so it came to pass that Emma Russell, a 12-year-old school girl, was quietly strolling to school in West Brunswick when she came across the half-dead body of Fracoz Lepetikha. Emma went over to have a look, because she didn’t get to see too many dead people as a rule, certainly not on a school day.

She gave the body a little kick and jumped back when Fracoz gave a moan and rolled over on his back. It wasn’t a good look. Someone had bashed his face in with a blunt instrument. His top and bottom lips and all his teeth seemed to be missing, one of his eyes had been torn out, and there wasn’t much left of his nose. He had holes in his chest as if someone had repeatedly hit him with a hammer.

“Doctor,” groaned Fracoz.

“You okay?” said Emma. “Ya don’t look too good to me, mate.”

“Doctor,” came the voice from the grave, again.

“Do I look like a bloody doctor?” said Emma. She stared at the horrific pulp that was once a face and said, “you don’t come from around these parts, do ya mate?”

Fracoz tried to raise his arm and got a bloody hand print on Emma’s right shoe.

“Get ya fucking hand off me shoe,” she yelped, and gave him a swift kick.

“Ahhhh!” screamed Fracoz.

Young Emma looked around. She was late for school and didn’t really have time for this Florence Nightingale stuff. She said, “My dad told me that if ya nurse a mug he’ll die in ya arms. I’m sorry, mate. I’m late for bloody school and ya not dying in my arms.” And with that she marched off to school.

The ghosts of Gravano’s mother and sister had returned to claim the life of Fracoz Leptikha.

Two nights later Joey Gravano sat quietly with Tina in the lounge bar of Squizzy Taylor’s hotel.

Mad Cassandra and her empty bird cage had not reappeared since the night the shots were fired at him and Joey knew that she and her dubious relatives in Collingwood had some role to play in the death of Peter Delia Torre. Joey was no genius, but he could conclude that the coincidence was too much to dismiss. But who put the Aussies up to it? Who stood to gain? Then he thought of George Marcus and Guglameno.

“Snap out of it,” said Tina. “You’re day dreaming.”

Joey came back to life.

“Where’s Cassie?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, she got a job as a table dancer in Tasmania,” said Tina.

“You’re joking” said Joey.

“No,” said Tina. “She couldn’t get out of Melbourne quick enough. She’s in Hobart now, works at some dance club in Liverpool Street. She’s flashing the map of Tassie down in Tassie.”

Joey laughed, then shook his head and muttered, “I wonder if she took her bird cage.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tina.

“Private joke,” said Joey. “Private joke.”

OUTSIDE the hotel Mark Dardo, Niko Ceka and Abdul Kravaritis sat in a 1978 Valiant Regal.

“Okay,” said Mark, “we just give Gravano the best kicking he’s ever had.”

“Let’s kill him,” said Niko.

“No, no,” said Mark. “We can’t prove he was behind Fracoz getting it.”

“Same fucking dog, different haircut,” said Abdul.

“Like the coppers say,” said Niko, “if he isn’t guilty then he’ll do till we find out who is.”

“No,” said Mark. “Tonight we just kick the living guts out of the Sicilian snake.”

Niko and Abdul nodded in silence. Mark was the head of the crew and the brains and he had to have a tactical reason for wanting a simple bashing instead of a killing.

They got out of the car and walked to the pub.

Joey Gravano was still sitting at the table with Tina in a world of his own. That’s because Tina had her hand under the table, gently caressing his trousers. Joey sat still with his left arm around Tina and a glass of whisky in his right hand. Tina had a gin and tonic in her left hand and a Sicilian trouser snake in her right. The lounge bar was nearly empty.

Something exploded against Joey’s head. It felt like a sledge hammer behind the right ear. He heard Tina scream as blows rained on him. He fell backwards in his chair, and then the kicking started.

He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. He tried to force himself up but the kicking was too heavy and too fast. He felt his top teeth being shattered as a boot crashed into his open mouth. He tried to breathe but choked as a boot hit him in the neck and caught his wind pipe. All he could hear was Tina crying and screaming. Then it all faded to black, with the sound of Gene Chandler singing
Duke of Earl
lingering in his head.

Joey spent three weeks in hospital in a coma. When he recovered he remembered nothing, but when told of the night’s events he concluded that to avenge himself on the Albanians would prove only that he was the guilty party behind the murder of Fracoz. Besides, a good bashing now and again is simply the tax all men in any criminal culture pay. It can sometimes be classified under the heading of friendly fire. Anything that involves a nice warm hospital bed afterwards and regular injections of Pethidine once every four hours can hardly be considered serious violence.

Joey was, however, a bit pissed off at having his front top teeth kicked down his neck, but Tina didn’t care. To her, Joey was a hero and in the privacy of his hospital room she proceeded to kiss the only part of him the Albanians hadn’t kicked in.

When Joey got to the gooey bit he cried out “marry me baby, marry me!” Tina thought to herself that being offered marriage with her smackers around her loved one’s knackers is hardly Romeo and Juliet, but she was in love and full of the joys of spring and all. After a moment to regain her composure she said “Joey, are you really serious?”

“Yeah,” said Joey. “Dead set serious.”