Chopper Unchopped (174 page)

She ran from the club, crying. At this point Hector Aspanu looked at Baldassare and Delia Torre and in Sicilian Scarchi slang said one word. All three men knew that along with the French dog, the Spanish rat, the Roman pig and the Calabrian snake that these two priests were now also dead men.

TWO days later the head of the French gang leader, Pepe Leon, was found on the steps of the St Januarius Cathedral. The following day the head of the Spanish rats, Torres Garcia, was on the steps. The morning after that the Roman Johnny Mastrioianni met the same fate, and the day after that the Calabrian Lorenzitti the Gypsy had his head placed on the church steps.

Such public and swift action was a classic mafia trademark, and got a reaction. It was public and violent, quick and simple. Naples went into a state of silent shock and horror. Within days the under bosses and bosses of every street gang in Napoli were calling on the two priests, Carlo Fontana and Danilo Domenico, with gifts of respect. Suddenly the Camorra was coming together, so it would seem, under the leadership of one controlling force, the La Santa Casa gang. However, neither Fontana or Domenico had seen the three Sicilians since the night of the flower girl.

Then, one night, a small time Naples gang leader came to visit the priests at the Santa Lucia club. He was Aniello Sanicola, nicknamed “The Face” as a result of once having a German rifle butt smashed into his face, making him possibly the most ugly man in Naples.

Fontana and Domenico didn’t expect a visit from such a small-time fish, even though he was probably the most frightening and evil little monster in Naples. He simply didn’t have the manpower or the guns behind him to claim any true control of anything, but the priests were polite. After all, they were now Dons in their own right. The three Sicilians had seen to that, God bless them.

“I come with the deepest respect, Don Carlo, Don Danilo,” said Sanicola.

They were surprised at being addressed in such a grand and respectful fashion, and sat back and smiled at the little monster with the horror movie head.

“No, no” said Fontana, “It is we who are honoured that you should call on us. Please sit down.”

“With respect, Don Carlo, I would prefer to stand. I have two messages of some formal importance to give you and it would be rude to deliver such messages while seated.”

The priests sat up.

“Go on, Sanicola,” said Fontana. “This is most interesting.”

The club was full of whores and Camorra gangsters. The music had stopped and all was very quiet. All ears strained to hear this conversation.

“First of all,” said Sanicola as he reached into his pocket with his left hand and threw down three hundred American dollars. “Here is the money the little flower girl owes you, plus the six months interest.”

Domenico and Fontana looked at each other in surprise, then back at Sanicola.

“You come here to pay the debt of some whore of a flower girl. Debt paid or not, she belongs to us” said Domenico.

“I don’t think so, Don Danilo” said Sanicola. “Little Sophia is under the protection of the Aspanu clan. This message is also from Hector Aspanu.”

The club went deathly quiet. Camorra gunmen in the club who had secretly drawn their weapons in case of a threat to Fontana and Domenico quietly replaced them again. A blind man could see what was coming next, but the two priests were both more than blind, they were arrogant.

“Ha, ha” Fontana laughed, “the little Scicoloni slut is under the protection of that Sicilian dwarf Aspanu. What? And we are meant to be afraid? These fucking Sicilians come up here and cut off a few heads and now we are all meant to be afraid.”

Fontana didn’t see the Sanicola’s right hand come out from under his coat. It was holding a 9mm Luger automatic. Fontana didn’t hear the shot that killed him but Domenico did, as Fontana fell backwards with a hole in his forehead.

Domenico looked at Sanicola, then dropped to his knees and started to blubber. “No, no, no, in the name of God no, no, Holy Mother Mary, please no, Santa Maria, please.”

Sanicola pulled the trigger again and the slug caught the priest in the throat and Domenico gasped and choked and grabbed his neck with both hands, bleeding. As he fell Hector Aspanu, Pietro Baldassare and Filippo Delia Torre walked into the club with Sanicola’s gang, all carrying machine guns. Hector was holding the hand of the beautiful flower girl, Sophia Scicoloni.

THE next day Hector Aspanu, Pietro Baldassare and Filippo Delia Torre sailed out of Naples across the bay. Aniello Sanicola and his gang ruled the Camorra gangs, and Hector Aspanu had left Sanicola with the duty to watch over the health, wealth, wellbeing and future of the flower girl. On his knees before Hector Aspanu, Sanicola swore that only his death would stand in the way of his duty of care.

“Sophia Scicoloni“, thought Hector as he sailed away. “I wonder what will become of her, my little flower girl.”

MELBOURNE, 1995. AUSSIE Joe Gravano sat in the bar of Dan O’Connell’s Hotel in Canning Street, Carlton. With him sat Gaetano Lucchese, a young American Italian, grandson of the old-time New York mafia boss Gaetano Tommy “Three Fingers Brown” Lucchese.

Young Gaetano liked to be called Little Tommy after his famous grandfather. He was a stockbroker, a law graduate and a screaming faggot and Aussie Joe was trying hard to keep the conversation away from Little Tommy’s urgent desire to get into Joey’s pants.

Joey was intending to put little Tommy and his heroin investment fund in touch with Simone Tao, thinking that the two should get along like a house on fire as they shared a common interest which involved wrapping their laughing gear around male clients’ privates.

Simone had been a little out of sorts with Joey since she hadn’t been invited to his wedding in Sicily. However, he had seen her briefly since then and after allowing her to welcome him in the usual way, for old time’s sake, he apologised for not inviting her to the wedding. She accepted but her nose was still out of joint. No wonder, considering where she put it. She was just a bit jealous. The truth was Joey could hardly marry Simone no matter what she could do between the balance sheets and the bedsheets. Whoever heard of a half-caste Chinese mafia boss?

LITTLE Tommy, like all Americans, not only felt that he had the wisdom of the ages but that it was his mission in life to give it to less fortunate people — those unlucky enough not to be Americans.

He was bombarding Joey with tall tales from American criminal history. Joey pretended to listen, but there was only one thing he wanted: a flat million dollars from the ten million Little Tommy had in his company account. Joey wanted to invest five hundred thousand in Australian films and the same in the local music industry.

Little Tommy was in full flight, explaining to Joey his last run-in with the FBI. Then he tapped his nose and said, “But I can tell you, Joey, I told them shit.

UNKNOWN to Little Tommy, Simone Tao was on her way to Melbourne from Hong Kong with all necessary paperwork and documentation for the transfer of funds. Joey had also made arrangements for Tommy Lucchese to be entertained by a giant professional bodybuilder at two thousand dollars a night. Little Tommy had to be kept in Melbourne until he had parted with his funds, legally or by whatever means were necessary. His American mob connections meant shit to the Aspanu clan. However, before anything else, Joey did have one important personal mission to fulfil. Acting on a secret request from Don Hector he had asked Little Tommy to locate and bring with him a collection of old photographs taken during the late 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s. These pictures had been the property of Jimmy Tarantino, a boxing writer who once ran a gossip magazine called
Hollywood Night Life.

“You remember to do me that little favour?” asked Joey.

Little Tommy smiled.

“I got it on me,” he said, patting his pocket, and pulled out an envelope and handed it to Joey. “What’s this all about?” he asked. “I didn’t know you were a movie buff.”

“Ah,” said Joey, deadpan. “Just a favour for a friend.”

“My grandfather and my Uncle Willie are in amongst that lot,” said Little Tommy, referring to the photographs. “There are some very famous faces in that little collection. I hope Don Hector likes them.”

Joey shot Little Tommy a savage glance.

“Who mentioned my uncle’s name, you fucking faggot? You mention my uncle’s name again and I’ll get your dick cut off and I’ll feed it to my dog.”

Little Tommy went pale.

“I’m sorry, Joey. Please, it’s just that your Uncle Hector is in …”

Little Tommy never finished his sentence. He went backwards off the stool he was sitting on and flying across the floor. This minor violence drew little attention from other drinkers in the bar of Dan O’Connell’s. A shotgun blast may get a second glance but a bit of a slap hardly caused a ripple.

Little Tommy picked himself up, frightened and embarrassed. Gravano was a fearful, brutal-looking thug of a man. Little Tommy could think of some things he’d like to do with such a big hunk, but being bashed by him wasn’t one of them.

“I’m sorry, Joey,” he whimpered.

JOEY had put Tommy into the protective custody of Alecoz Samokvic, the body builder who had instructions to attend to him until Simone arrived. Joey went back to the new $2.3 million dollar home in Domain Road, South Yarra, that he had given Tina as a wedding gift. He sat in the flash drawing room, opened the envelope and pulled out a thick pile of old black and white photos.

The very first photo was of Hank Sanicola, Frank Sinatra and Willie Moretti, boss of the old New Jersey family, taken at the Park Avenue Athletic club. Joey tossed it on the coffee table with hardly a glance.

The second photo was of Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe and Aniello Dellacroce, under boss of the then Gambino crime family. Interesting, but not what his uncle was looking for.

The third photo was one of Sam Giancana, boss of the Chicago Mafia, Angelo De Carlo, Vincent Jimmy “Blue Eyes” Alo, Johnny Roselli, Frank Sinatra again and Gina Lollabrigida, taken at the Koko Motel in Cocoa Beach, Florida. An interesting snap for anyone who didn’t already know of Sinatra’s love of being photographed with hoods. Ancient history, common knowledge.

The fourth photo was a heap, of mob guys and — believe it or not — John F. Kennedy and the peroxide blonde movie star Mamie Van Doren.

Joey put that photo to one side, then pulled out the next one. Mamie Van Doren again and Joey Bonanno, Marilyn Monroe, Aniello Dellacroce and … Hector Aspanu. Joey put that aside as well.

The next was Uncle Hector again with Sam Giancana, Frank Sinatra and John F. Kennedy. Next was a porno shot of a naked blonde on all fours with some guy who looked like Sammy Davis Junior in front and another who looked a lot like Dean Martin coming at her from behind. No names or date on the back, but the lady in question looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe.

Then he found the photo he knew his uncle wanted — or one of them. It was of Sam Giancana, J. Edgar Hoover and Hector Aspanu himself. Putting it to one side, Joey continued through a collection of movie stars, gangsters, political figures, millionaires, many of them porno photos of the rich and famous. There was one of Rock Hudson doing the business with James Dean. Joey put that aside, too. He knew his uncle put much importance in these photos for one reason: he wanted just one of them very much. The rest, while worth their weight in gold to scandal magazines, meant nothing compared to the one photo he wanted.

There were more porn photos of Marilyn Monroe on her knees with Clark Gable. Another of Marilyn in the same highly compromising position with Montgomery Clift, with Clark Gable in the background with a glass of something in his hand. Rock Hudson again, this time with a large black man chockers. It was all getting a bit boring.

Then he found it. The lost picture of Hector Aspanu and the secret love of his life, the only woman who stole his heart. It was a simple little photo of Hector with Jayne Mansfield, standing in front of Rusar’s Jewellery Store in Beverley Hills.

Jayne made Mamie Van Doren and Marilyn Monroe look downright undernourished. She towered over the Don and was built like a blow-up doll.

Toss the rest to the shithouse, the Don had said. But Joey decided to post the one photo to his uncle and keep the rest. Pity he didn’t have these back in the 1950s, he thought. All they were now were a pile of magazine photos — worth a lot, but back then they could have got men killed or made others very rich. Joey was holding the winning ticket to the Irish sweepstakes in his hand — 40 years too late.

THREE days later Simone Tao had, with the help of Little Tommy Lucchese, a dozen international phone calls, a little computer magic and all necessary paperwork, transferred one million into the Gravano Terracotta cement, bricks, slate and paving company of Carlton.

“Not,” said Simone, “the fanciest name for a million-dollar building and construction company.” Meanwhile, the other nine million bounced as if by magic from New York to London then to Rome, with half ending up in a Naples account and the other half going into an account held at the Vatican Bank.

Uncle Hector was very pleased when he rang Joey – but wanted to know about the photo.

Joey held the phone to his ear, thinking he had to talk louder because Uncle Hector was not only ringing from Sicily, but going a little deaf.

He said, “It’s in the post. Yes, Uncle Hector, I posted it. Yes, destroyed all others, I swear. Yes, okay. Yes, yes, uncle, I’ll do that. Yes, yes, I’ll take care of it. Yes, I did destroy them. Yes, I’ll lose the other thing as well. Yes, I agree. A fucking disgrace, okay?” and with that Don Hector hung up.

Joey sat and thought. He had just made his uncle nine million dollars richer, and yet all the Don wanted was one photo and a sworn promise that all the other photos were destroyed. And he’d dropped a strong hint that the faggot should go.

Joey was a soldier. He mostly did what he was told. But suddenly he got the idea this pile of old photos was worth more than money could buy. What the hell was in them? He broke his own rule and asked his wife, Tina, who was a movie buff, to have a look at them.

Porno shots and all, there must be a diamond in amongst this lot that only a fool would destroy, and Joey wanted to solve the riddle. He knew he had something important in his hands, but he didn’t know what yet.

An hour later Joey and Tina had the pile of old photos fanned across their big twelve-piece dining room table. Tina was highly excited to be invited to help Joey because since marrying him he had fed her bullshit and kept her in the dark.

She had not forgotten Don Hector’s speech at the wedding. “Woman are like a deck of cards: Ya need a heart to love ’em, a diamond to keep ’em, a club to belt ’em with and a spade to bury ’em. In my experience, ladies and gentlemen, all women work by the inch, want by the yard and should be kicked by the foot.”

Don Hector’s speech was regarded as most comic and greeted with much laughter, but Tina suspected the old man was deadly serious. This was the first time her husband had allowed her to take part in something she knew was family business. She was eager to help and flattered to be asked.

“You know all about Hollywood movie history, don’t ya bubby?” said Joey. “Marilyn Monroe and all that shit?”

“Yeah,” said Tina. “I’ve read everything ever written on Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, the Kennedy clan, all that movie mobster political gossip crap. It’s fascinating.”

“Well,” said Joey, “cast your eye over this lot. I reckon it’s an historical photo collection worth a fortune, but Uncle Hector told me to destroy them all except for one of him and Jayne Mansfield.”

“Shit,” said Tina. “Uncle Hector knew Jayne Mansfield?”

“Evidently pretty well,” replied Joey.

Tina glanced over the collection.

“Oh look,” she said. “He’s much younger here, but wasn’t he at our wedding? And look who he’s standing next to.”

She was pointing at an old shot of a much younger Don Pietro Baldassare holding hands with a wild-eyed brunette with a big mouth and a fixed smile.

“That’s Don Pietro,” said Joey. “Who’s the mad-eyed moll next to him?”

“That,” said Tina, “is, if I’m not mistaken, Jacqueline fucking Kennedy.”

Joey looked at the back of the photo and read the scribbled writing. “Ciro’s Nightclub, Hollywood” it read. But no names, no dates.

“Joey,” said Tina quietly, “I think that is a very important photo.”

He nodded. Tina went through others. John F. Kennedy with various movie stars and mobsters. Then she came across a photo of JFK and Jackie Kennedy with Pietro Baldassare. Then a photo of JFK, Marilyn Monroe and, again, Petro Baldassare. Then another photo of Baldassare with Johnny Roselli, Sam Giancana and Jackie Kennedy.

“Jesus,” said Joey, “I missed these ones.”

“Shit,” said Tina, “a photo of fucking Fidel Castro.”

Joey grabbed it. Sure enough, it was a photo of Castro, Jayne Mansfield and Meyer Lansky. But that was impossible, thought Joey. Everyone in the world knew of the mad CIA White House mafia plot to kill Castro — yet here was a photo of the Jewish financial genius behind the whole American mafia and the only actress in America that Fidel Castro publicly said was built like a real woman. If the mob really had been planning to hit Castro this photo proved they weren’t trying too hard. Unless they’d hired Jayne Mansfield to screw him to death.

Don Hector always told him, “when buttering up an enemy or a friend use butter that spreads easy,” and Miss Mansfield was without a shadow of a doubt the most famous leg spreader in Hollywood. So, who knows, maybe this photo proved the plot happened.

Then Tina squealed. “I don’t believe it! Are these photos real? No, it can’t be.”

She had a photo of three men and a blonde taken at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York.

“This is it, Joey, this is it. I don’t bloody well believe this.”

Joey looked at the photo. It was Don Pietro Baldassare, Johnny Roselli, some nobody Joey didn’t recognise and Marilyn Monroe.

“Yeah,” said Joey. “So what, Poppa Pietro went to America in the 1950s with Uncle Hector and met a lot of people.”

“Joey, Joey, Joey” said Tina. “Look at the guy sitting next to Marilyn Monroe.”

Joey looked and shook his head. “He don’t look like no-one to me.”

Tina couldn’t believe Joey didn’t recognise the face.

“Joey,” she said patiently, “either these photos are all fakes or that is a photo of Marilyn Monroe cuddling Lee Harvey Oswald.”

Joey gave Tina a blank look.

“The guy who shot President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas” Tina hissed, rolling her eyes.