Chopper Unchopped (176 page)

“Yeah,” said Benny, “and six boxes of M26 hand grenades, as well as bloody jumping jack land mines.”

“Yeah, well” said Marven, “ya can’t bag a bloke for taking precautions.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Micky. “Precautions! The mad bastard’s got more guns than God — or he did have. He gave the Collingwood crew all his small arms before he moved to Tassie. But what possessed him to give the military gear to the fucking Albanians? M79 grenade launchers, land mines, hand grenades. Ya know he had the largest privately-owned collection of hand guns of any crim in Australia at one stage, not to mention all the military stuff. Bloody flame throwers, the lot.

“Luckily he was only a mad collector and only ever used a handgun, but the fact that he had this gear kept a lot of people in line for a long time, and now you’re telling me Bronco fucking Billy has got the anti-tank guns. Jesus, Cassie, you have to go and see Hacker again and get him to ring Billy for us.”

“Do I have to?” said Cassie.

“Ah come on,” said Benny, “what’s the poor bloke want in return. A blowie? Big deal.” Cassie sighed. “That, I can deal with. But I don’t know that I want to sit through another hour of the
Beverley Hillbillies.”

The boys looked puzzled.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cassie, “if I told ya, you wouldn’t believe me.”

NEXT night Micky, Benny, Marven and Cassie were enjoying fine Italian cuisine at the Prego Restaurant in Macquarie Street, Hobart.

“Well,” said Micky, “you’ve done well, Cassie.”

“Yeah,” said Cassie. “Old Hacker will ring Bronco Billy and tell him to expect you.”

“That’s a relief,” replied Benny. “I don’t fancy knocking on Bronco’s door saying ‘excuse me, but may we borrow one of your two anti-tank guns, please’.”

Marven laughed. “Albanians placed in charge of military hardware — it’s a frightening thought.”

Micky Kelly thought for a moment about his own rather close relationship with the Albanian mafia via Mark Dardo and his clan. Bronco Billy came from another Albanian criminal clan and that clan owed their loyalty to Hacker, so good manners must be strictly adhered to, otherwise both Albanian clans could take offence. Good manners was the name of the game in the arms and ammo area, specially when dealing with rival Albanian clans.

Micky knew that the trip to Tassie had been worth it. The Aussie crews and the Albanians had a friendship he couldn’t afford to shatter because of some stupid breach of protocol.

“No, Cassie” said Micky, “you’ve done bloody well.”

“By the way,” said Cassie, “Hacker wanted to know if you knew how to load a 84mm Carl Gustov anti-tank gun?”

Micky stopped eating.

“Well no, not really, but there shouldn’t be much to it.”

Cassie continued. “Hacker reckons the ammo’s a bit funny looking.”

“How do ya mean?” asked Micky.

“Well” said Cassie “it’s shaped a bit like a heavy tube with a sort of spiky point sticking out of one end.”

“Excuse me,” said Benny, “but correct me if I’m wrong, but Hacker did tell you how to operate a 84 mm anti-tank gun, didn’t he Cass?”

“Yeah,” said Cassie, “but it sort of didn’t make sense.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” said Micky, “Marven will figure it out, won’t ya Marv?”

The blue-eyed Jew smiled and nodded, but secretly hoped he could nut it out, as he had never even seen an anti-tank gun, let alone loaded or fired one.

“Yeah,” said Micky, “a gun’s a bloody gun. There can’t be much to it can there?”

All agreed and continued eating and polishing off their wine.

NEXT day, it was time for Micky and the Jews to leave. A few morning drinks at the Alabama Hotel in Liverpool Street followed by a light lunch, then it was off to the airport for more drinkies and a tearful goodbye from Cassie.

“Try to pop in to see old Hacker now and again, Cassie” said Micky.

“Ya know,” interjected Benny, “Tassie’s not a bad place really. At least a bloke can come down here and win a game of spot-the-Aussie, and the cops seem pretty laid back.”

“Yeah,” replied Cassie, “they are pretty easy going. Every now and again they take a turn for the worse and stick a gun in some poor bugger’s backyard, but all in all, they try not to shoot ya at the drop of a hat.”

The boys all nodded in agreement. The police shootings in Melbourne had reached almost comic heights. “The only problem down here,” Cassie went on, “is the silly buggers are sitting on a gold mine and don’t know it. They are so busy looking at the bloody trees they can’t see the wood. They have a bible in one hand and a photo of Queen Victoria in the other and refuse to budge an inch. You’d think that with two bloody heads they’d be twice as bloody smart, but they’re not.”

Micky nodded. “One thing’s for sure, Cassie. With weather like this there’s no chance of a Vietnamese takeover.”

“Yeah,” said Benny, laughing. “The Viets don’t like the snow. Ha ha.”

“Don’t be too bloody sure,” said Marven, “there’s nothing stopping the little scallywags from buying warm coats.”

When the boys got on the plane Micky looked back at the last state in Australia that could be called a true blue Aussie stronghold and wondered if Cassie was right — or if the world would jump up one day and bite poor old Tassie in the arse.

As the plane took off Micky shook his head. The sun set on the empire a long long time ago, he thought. One day these poor simple-hearted, true blue bastards are gonna wake up in fright and, like the rest of Aussie land, realise that Banjo Paterson is dead and the land of Oz belongs to fuckin’ Uncle Sam and the Japs.

Ah well, thought Micky, as long as the Aussie crews have got all the guns, we’ll never be beaten, not by other crims, at any rate. The rest of Australia might like it up the arse from the Yanks and the Japs but in the criminal world ground was too hard to win just to simply surrender it. As far as Micky was concerned, Banjo Paterson was still alive and well … but now he carried a loaded gun. Ha ha.

PUNTA Raisi Airport, Sicily, 1996. On the tarmac was a Boeing. In the cargo hold was a coffin. In the coffin was what was left of Don Pietro Baldassare after the Australian pathologists had opened him up with a Black & Decker to count how many bullets were in him and check out how much damage they’d done. The answer was five bullets and plenty of damage. The old bastard had been dead on arrival at hospital after the little welcome to Melbourne so neatly arranged by Matchstick Marven and his toy .22.

Aussie Joe Gravano had flown across to escort the coffin home to the old country, the least he could do in the circumstances. Don Hector Aspanu met him. The old Don looked on stonily as his bodyguards took charge of the coffin.

“Jesus!” yelled Don Hector when the boys nearly dropped the coffin.

“Take it easy.”

As Don Hector watched the body of his old friend being loaded into the back of the 1959 Cadillac hearse he said to Joey: “There goes the man who disposed of the body of fucking Jimmy Hoffa, the great American mystery. And he gets whacked at the airport in fucking skippy nut nut land, fucking Australia.”

Joey was shocked.

“Don Pietro got rid of Jimmy Hoffa?”

“Yeah,” said Don Hector, “chrome coating chemical vat in Detroit, 1975. I ordered the hit. Pietro went over to see it and make sure it went to plan.”

“Jimmy Hoffa,” said Joey, impressed. “The big boss of the American Teamsters Union.”

The old Don nodded.

“Yes, life is a funny thing, Joey. All the boys go to meet fucking Hoffa in Bloomfield, Detroit, 30th July, 1975, at the Machus Red Fox Restaurant. He owe us a fucking lot of money.”

“So why kill him?” asked Joey.

“Coz he no fuckin’ pay,” said the Don. “Anyway, we never had to fucking kill him. The fat pig had the fucking heart attack at the fucking restaurant. Pietro tell me. He eat noodles, macaroni, spaghetti, pizza, then fucking two plates linguine, then he have fucking sugar-coated fried pastry and two bottles of imported grappa. He fucking burp, drop dead. No wonder.

“Well, Pietro couldn’t believe it, so the boys melt the body in the chemical factory and the big ‘Who killed Jimmy Hoffa Mystery’ begins. And this just like that” he added.

“How do you mean, uncle?” asked Joey, puzzled.

Don Hector almost laughed.

Joey was almost laughing at the Hoffa story while trying to maintain a sombre look. The truth behind most underworld mysteries was either very simple or very stupid. It wasn’t so much organised crime as disorganised comedy at times. Jimmy Hoffa — who would ever in a million years believe he killed himself on an overdose of linguine?

“Don Hector,” said Joey, “where they gonna bury Don Pietro?”

“Catania,” said Hector. “We gotta drive to Catania first, then over to that shit hole Castellammare Del Golfo.”

“Jesus,” said Joey. “Castellammare del Golfo, that’s 50 fucking miles away. Little America.”

“Yeah,” said the Don, “but we gotta be polite.” The seaside town with the long name had the reputation, along with towns like Cinisi and Corleone, as Mafia strongholds. The truth was that American Italian gangsters from Milan, Rome, Calabria, and Naples returned to Italy during the 1920s and 30s and bought holiday villas such places, thus reinforcing the great American myth about them.

The Don didn’t care. His old friend Pietro Baldassare was a true Sicilian, and if his half-caste and quarter-caste bastard grandchildren in Castellammare del Golfe wanted to cry and kiss Don Hector’s ring, well, it would be rude not to let them.

It was a long drive to Castellammare del Golfo. Joey pulled the old car up in front of a particular cafe on the waterfront, and he and the old Don went inside. They were greeted by a small gathering of men. This included Dominic Scarvaci, a killer who had just been released from prison in Rome, and Tommy Greco, a heavy heroin trafficker who represented one of the major New York crime families, the Bonanno clan.

Many lesser lights were there, waiting for Don Hector to give his blessing for Tommy Greco to take over the Baldassare clan. Don Hector wasted no time. He kissed Tommy warmly on both cheeks, then on both Tommy’s eyes and his forehead. Only an old Scarchi Sicilian sitting in the corner of the cafe understood, and smiled. Tommy Greco had just received a kiss on each cheek for welcome, one on each eye for blessing — and one on the forehead for goodbye. Tommy didn’t know it, but he was a dead man.

As the old Sicilian proverb goes, “anything bought can be sold but what you kill for, you keep.” The point was, Tommy Greco had bought his way into power, and so had no real grip on it. Under Sicilian rules, you just don’t buy votes like some politician. The mafia there was a military dictatorship, not some Yankee pork barrel democracy.

The Don sat down and a drink was brought to him. Strong grappa, like liquid fire. A picture on the wall caught his eye. It was a very old Playboy Playmate of the month centrefold of Miss Jayne Mansfield. Miss February, 1955. Her measurements were printed underneath: 40, 21, 35.

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” said Hector Aspanu softly. “Holy Mother of God, she was a woman.”

“You knew her?” asked Tommy Greco.

Don Hector nodded. “Yes, I knew her.”

He sat back and finished the grappa. As another was poured for him, Tommy Greco lit the long, thin cigar the Don had put to his lips. Hector took a deep draw on the cigar and blew out the smoke and the gathered men waited in silence for a story they hoped would follow. They got it.

“Baldassare and me, we go to America regular in da 1950s to see all the boys,” the Don began. He listed a Who’s Who of American mobsters of the era, the heads of every heavy crime family in the States.

“You were going to tell us about Jayne Mansfield, Don Hector,” Tommy Greco reminded him.

“Ah yes,” smiled the old Don with a smile. “In 1955 Frank Sinatra, Sam Giancana, Baldassare and me were having drinks at the Union Club, Hoboken. Then Trafficante and Profaci joined us with Vito Genovese, so we go to see the boxing at Madison Square Garden on Fifteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, New York. This was a Friday night. After the fight we go to all the big clubs. It was a big night. Sinatra asked me if I wanted lady. I say who. He say he can get me either Marilyn Monroe or Mamie Van Doren, and they got the tits like the ripe grapefruit. I tell him in Sicily we don’t like the grapefruit, we like the big watermelon. Ha ha. I was the guest of George Boomer, owner of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York. Next morning about 11am I wake up to knock on door and there was Jayne Mansfield. Oh my God, all my dreams come true. I fall in love like the fuckin’ thunderbolt.”

Joey Gravano smiled slyly to himself at the way his Uncle Hector was talking. He’d noticed that when his uncle was in the company of American Italians visiting Sicily he played the “no speaka da English da very good” routine and spoke in broken English, playing the humble old Sicilian peasant role. The truth was Hector Aspanu was a very polished and educated old gentleman who spoke several tongues and had been speaking English longer than most of the men gathered had been alive.

“She was fucking beautiful,” continued Don Hector.

“Ahh yes, Vera Jayne, that her real name. Vera Jayne Palmer. She married some bum named Paul Mansfield so she pinched his name. She just finished movie called
Hell On Frisco Bay,
and the boys put in money for another movie for her.

“Fucking Sinatra tell her I can help her in the movies. Jayne a good girl and very smart, she have da fucking IQ of 163, very bright girl. Anyway, I invite her in to my room. She no mess about. ‘My name Jayne Mansfield, Mr Aspanu,’ she says, and we shake hands. ‘Mr Aspanu,’ she say, ‘Mamie Van Doren told me that for a girl to get any place in Hollywood she had to learn to swallow her pride along with as many movie producers as she can get her mouth around. I’m told you like the watermelons and not the grapefruit. Ha ha.’

“Then she giggle and wiggle and smile and with a flick of two little buttons the top of her dress come undone and, holy mama mia, out pop the biggest set of tits I ever see. I stood there with my fucking mouth open. She not a very shy girl. Then she just get down on her knees right in the hotel room hallway and undo my pants.

‘Mr Aspanu,’ she said, looking up to me. ‘There’s a movie coming up called
Girl Can’t Help It.
They want Mamie Van Doren to play the role of Jerri Jordan. She’s been promised it. She’s screwed half of Hollywood, the slut. But I’m told you could fix it with a phone call.’ Then she started. She got a mouth like the fires of hell. She stopped and looked up at me. I’m nearly passing out and she said ‘Can you help me, Mr Aspanu?’

“I said ‘call me Hector, my little Madonna, and don’t worry, I fucking fix it, I swear to God.’ Then she smiled and said ‘Well, I guess I better fix this, hey, Hector?’ then she go to work. Never in all my life I ever had anything like it. She was the Devil’s daughter. After she finished I made the phone call in front of her. They tell me Mamie Van Doren got the role. I tell them if Jayne Mansfield don’t get the role I put the hit on the producer, director and Mamie Van fucking Doren as well, and also I invest money in da movie. Not 15 minutes later I get return call. Guess what? Miss Mansfield got the role, easy as that.

“After that I take Miss Mansfield to lunch. Jack White’s Club, New York City. That night I fly her to Hollywood. We go dinner, dancing first, La Rue’s Restaurant, Hollywood, then dancing Beverley Wilshire Hotel, then big room upstairs. She do the striptease dance for me and sit on my face. In the morning she go but she give me phone number. I give her mine in Sicily and contact number in New York. We kiss goodbye then I walk her downstairs and right in front of fucking hotel Mamie Van Doren get out of car screaming ‘You fucking slut’ and attack Miss Mansfield. Ha ha. Jayne big girl. Pennsylvania farm girl, strong as the fucking ox. She punch Mamie Van Doren out with two hits and leave her on the fucking sidewalk. Then she kiss me goodbye and hop in taxi.

“We remain good friends right up to the day she died. Best sex I ever had. I help her get lot of movies.

“I get her in Italian movies, all the fucking Hercules movies, about four or five. This time she suck me twice as hard because she want me to help her new boyfriend, whatever, Micky Hargitay. Shit, in 1958 she even invite me to her fucking wedding in Palos Verde, California, but I couldn’t go. She called me Poppa Aspanu or Uncle Hector or sometimes Padrino. She tell me her father’s name was Herbert and I remind her of him, because he would give her anything, too. The last movie got her in was
Las Vegas Hillbillies
in 1966. She was on her own and doing okay by then. ”

Tommy Greco interrupted.

“She had her head cut off in a car accident in California with Micky Hargitay, didn’t she?”

Don Hector laughed.

“Everyone think this, even I make joke about it. But, no, she died in car crash one night, June 29th, 1967, on a road outside New Orleans. Micky Hargitay not even in the car. Sam Brody driving. He died too and no, she never lost her head, only her blonde wig. She no stupido bimbo, ya know” said Don Hector. “She went to University of Texas and UCLA. She very smart, tough lady. She know who to be friends with.”

Tommy Greco interrupted again.

“You ever met Marilyn Monroe?”

“Yeah,” said the Don, “but I never fuck her. She had the pox. Every gangster and big deal movie boss and politician in America fuck Monroe, all catch the pox. Fuckin’ Kennedy give her the pox. She passed it on, but not to me. Out of ’em all, Jayne was the best but Monroe have more friends and do more favours, and had too much shit on too many people. She knew too much so a lot of people helped her, but then she had to go. She started saying get me this movie or I tell this to FBI, get me that movie or I tell this to Senate Committee. She started to become a fucking problem.”

Joey wanted to ask about the photos but bit his tongue. Tommy Greco was fascinated.

“Kennedy, you ever meet Kennedy?” asked Tommy.

“Yeah,” said the Don. “I know his poppa, old Joe. Old Joe use to do the business with Capone, that’s how John F. Kennedy got to meet Sam Giancana and I met his cocaine-snorting dragon of a wife as well.”

Tommy Greco nearly jumped out of his chair.

“What Jacqueline Kennedy? Jackie O? You met her? Jesus, she was beautiful.”

The old Don spat. “Crazy-eyed, coke-snorting fucking mental case. Mansfield was close up beautiful, Kennedy was a coke addict, Monroe had the pox and a morphine habit, and Mamie Van Doren was a fucking big mouth and a drunk and a fucking lesbian. She do it with Monroe, Joe Di Maggio tell me.

“What was Frank Sinatra like?” asked one of the boys.

“Ha ha,” laughed the Don, “the Irish Sicilian. He was about as Sicilian as that suit you’re wearing, and correct me if I’m wrong but that was made in Milano by that Portofino faggot Frenchman.”

“Padrino,” said Joey. “You said once Jayne Mansfield broke your heart. What happened?”

The old Don went quiet, then swallowed another glass of grappa.

“She divorced Hargitay in 1964 and I asked her to be my wife. She say no. She say I love you, Padrino, but no. I say why not and she was a bit drunk and say to me because she can’t marry a man who looks like fucking Bela Lugosi.”

“Who was he?” asked Tommy.

“He was the guy who play the fucking vampire in the silent horror movies” said the Don.

Joey was remembering the old photos and was dying to ask the fatal Kennedy question. But the Don looked at his watch and said, “Come on, Joey, we go to Catania, we have long drive.”

After every man kissed him goodbye Don Hector got in the car and said “let’s go, Joey.” As Joey drove away Don Hector said, “that Tommy, he not a bad boy but we gonna have to bury him with Pietro. A pity really. By the way, young Joey, you got rid of all the photos, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Padrino,” said Joey.