Chopper Unchopped (179 page)

WHEN Charlie Fontana the comic-book gangster turned up next morning he was dressed in a more normal way — grey double-breasted suit with a white shirt, open-neck collar and Italian slip-on shoes. He looked like an off-duty nightclub tout instead of a complete joke.

Joey was carrying a small .22 calibre magnum revolver with a threaded barrel and silencer. He had the revolver in his right coat pocket and the silencer in his left. When they got to the restaurant he could tell that both Sally and Charlie were armed up. It’s hard to conceal shoulder holsters, even under a well-cut suit jacket. The restaurant was crowded.

“Jesus, Joey” said Charlie, “that English girl Donna is a case. She wants your phone number.”

“You’re kidding,” grunted Joey.

“No. For real, Joey. She’s in love. Reckons you gave her the best time she’s ever had.”

Joey couldn’t believe this.

“That sheila’s a fucking mental case,” he said dismissively, then turned his attention to Sally. “Now,” he said, “what’s all this paranoid shit from you? Who said Uncle Hector was upset with you? You wanna keep ya fucking nose out of the cocaine, Sal, it’s rattling ya fucking brain.”

For some reason Joey’s pissed-off attitude put Sally at his ease.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Joey. I should have known better. I was just freaking out over bullshit.”

“Damn right,” said Joey, “if the Don wanted you whacked he’d just ring ya and tell ya to shoot yourself, ya stupid prick.”

All three men laughed, then Joey decided to lighten up on poor Charlie.

“Where did ya get that crazy redhead nympho, Charlie?

Charlie talked fast while the going was good.

“She has the same arrangement with an escort service in London, Sydney and, I think, Rome or Tokyo, and I heard she’s done work in the Netherlands. She’s the sickest pain freak we have ever had on the books. And holy shit, Mr Gravano, she fell in love with you. When we got her back to the agency, she was in love.”

“Who’s this?” interrupted Sally.

“Some posh lah de dah whore, English air hostess Charlie fixed me up with,” replied Joey.

“Sucked more dummies than a millionaire’s baby and a dead set, crazy pain freak. She likes it hard, fast and very, very rough. Any rougher and you’d have to kick her to death.”

“Jesus, Charlie,” said Sally, “introduce me.”

“I will,” said Charlie, “but she’s on the plane tonight, won’t be back for six weeks, I think it’s Sydney next, then back home to London, then she returns to New York.”

“Well, fucking ring me when she gets in next,” said Sally.

“There’s a place near here,” said Charlie, “a girlie bar that puts on a good show.”

Sally smiled at Charlie. “Ya mean Mad Dog’s?”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “You remember the porno queen Vanessa Del Rio? Well, she puts on a strip at Mad Dog’s every afternoon. Ya gotta see this to believe it.”

“Well,” said Joey, “What are we waiting for?”

“By the way,” asked Sally, “what did Don Hector want, Joey?”

“It can wait,” said Joey. “You know the Don, a lot of fuss over very little.”

“Yeah,” replied Sally with a giggle, “that’s Uncle Hector all over. Hurry up and wait.”

“Yeah,” said Joey. “He’s an old man so I humour him.”

Sally nodded. He was at his ease now.

“Hey, Fontana” said Joey.

“Yes Mr Gravano.”

“Call me Joey, okay Charlie.”

Charlie beamed a big smile.

“Okay, Joey.”

“Yeah, don’t mind me. I got a senile uncle, jet lag, and a stomach ulcer” said Joey. “So let’s see this striptease porno queen.”

The three men got up and walked out.

MAD Dog’s strip joint was in Times Square and the star attraction was Vanessa Del Rio, one of the most awesome, outrageous and spectacular bosomed and buttocked, trouser-swelling nymphos ever to come out of Puerto Rico. She was a dark-skinned, exotic smorgasbord of witchcraft. She’d retired from films, but was still earning big money for a striptease performance only she could put on.

As the three men entered the dark club the loud throb of strip music hit them. The room was filled with men and the smell of stale tobacco smoke, stale booze, vomit, piss and perfume. The stage was set about two feet off the floor and customers could reach out and stuff money into the garters Vanessa Del Rio wore high on both legs. She was naked except for stiletto heels, and her body glistened in a mixture of sweat and baby oil. Her garters were stuffed with tens, twenties and some hundred dollar bills.

Vanessa balanced on her arse with her legs spread, lifted her hips off the stage, spread her legs wider than the Grand Canyon and did her trick with a vibrator that would scare a water buffalo. Joey had shot men with sawn-off shot guns that were smaller. It was more a freak show than a sex show.

It was not what turned Joey on, but it had its good points, professionally speaking. In the darkness Fat Sally and Charlie stood in front of Joey like Beavis and Butthead, totally transfixed. Joey took the little handgun out of his right pocket and the silencer out of his left and threaded it on, then put the barrel to the back of Charlie’s skull in the darkness and — pop. The music muffled the click of the hammer as it slammed down. Believe it or not Sally didn’t even notice when Charlie fell to the floor. Then Joey tapped Sally on the shoulder. Sally turned, and in the darkness Joey winked at him.

“What’s up, cousin?” asked Sally.

Joey winked again, then shot Sally in the guts.

As Sally gulped air and doubled over Joey put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger twice more.

As Joey turned to walk out he noticed a crowd girl looking at him — a whore who worked the crowd. As Joey walked by the stunned girl he said “Sorry honey,” then shot her in the head. She wouldn’t have made much of a witness, but in the sleazy, smoke-filled darkness she was the only one to notice and that made her, for better or worse, a witness. Which made her dead.

Outside, Joey walked down the street talking to himself. “Yeah, well, Sally. Ya told me to give ya the wink first. Ya can’t get much fairer than that. Sorry, cousin.”

TINA Torre walked quietly along Peel Street, North Melbourne, after doing her early morning shopping at the Queen Victoria Market. She was now married to a wealthy man and didn’t have to shop for bargains at the market, but old habits die hard.

It was a cold, crisp morning and Tina was wearing a tracksuit and joggers as she lugged her bags and parcels to her Mercedes. She was planning to sell the Merc because Princess Diana had died in one like it. Tina was very upset over the death of the Princess. It was strange, that. When all those poor people were murdered by that mentally retarded faggot in Tasmania the year before, Tina had been shocked, but not sad. But for some reason the death of the Princess really got to her. It was such a silly way to go, almost slapstick in its tragedy. An English princess, an Arab millionaire, a Welsh bodyguard and a French chauffeur filled with Scotch whisky, all in a German car. As Joey had said, the only thing that was missing was the Irish motor mechanic. And, if so, who was he working for: The IRA or MI6?

The world was starting to become a crazy place. Tina wanted Joey to stay home more. She didn’t dare mention his business affairs, but she was no fool. As a Sicilian herself she recognised the formal Scarchi Sicilian manner in which Joey’s uncle Hector was treated and greeted at the wedding.

Then there was the small matter of sixty men all carrying machine guns and shotguns in full view as the wedding procession left the church and headed through the streets of Palermo toward the Messina Club for the reception.

In fact, the wedding made the
Godfather
movie look like
The Sound of Music
. Tina’s family couldn’t help noticing it as well. The name Aspanu was almost as famous in Sicily as Juiliano himself.

Tina wanted to talk to Joey about a few things. First on the list was that she was pregnant and he didn’t know yet. The doctor had confirmed it the day Princess Di was killed. Yes, Joey was to become a father and a family man himself, and Tina’s wish was that all this flying all over the world on the wishes and whims of the old vampire in Palermo would stop. But culture, tradition and habit die hard. She was a liberated woman, but she was foremost an Italian girl married to a very Italian man. She just couldn’t say “excuse me, my darling, I’m having a baby, so you will have to resign from the mafia?” It didn’t work like that.

Tina got to her car, opened it, put away her parcels and got in. She was thinking about the baby. Surely it would slow Joey down, she thought contentedly.

That thought was the last thing that went through her mind, if you don’t count the back window of the car. Because when she turned the key in the ignition every bit of Tina above her knees was blown to bits.

BENNY Shapiro turned to Marven Mendelsohn as they stood in Victoria Street, North Melbourne, a hundred yards from the exploding Mercedes.

“Ya see,” said Benny seriously, “that’s what one landmine can do when its rigged up correctly. I told ya the anti-tank gun would be sheer over kill.”

Marven nodded. “But we use the anti-tank gun next time, hey?”

“Promise,” said Benny. “The next time we use the anti-tank gun.”

“What sort of land mine was that?” asked Marven, “M14 or M16.”

“No,” said Benny. “Stock standard Israeli APM.”

“Hmmm,” mumbled Marven, “do we have many of them?”

“I had three,” said Benny. “Got two left now. But I do have a dozen boxes of mark 2 para flares right out of the Paynes Wessex factory, and a dozen Very pistols and a thousand flares.”

“A Very pistol?” said Marven.

“The old-style flare guns. They’re hard to get, but they’d burn an elephant to death, them flares. Burn white hot under water.”

“Why do they call it a Very pistol?” asked Marven.

“Because it’s very fucking painful,” laughed Benny.

MEANWHILE, Simone Tao was getting off a plane at Tullamarine airport, where her pal Joey was waiting for her. Simone had flown in from Hong Kong. It would be her last flight from her old home. She’d remained to wave goodbye to the British but even though her new Chinese Communist masters were all smiles, Simone felt a little ill at ease. Her links with the triads, not to mention various Italian and American crime families, had not gone totally unnoticed in certain circles. Always a forward planner, she had already sexually serviced one Chinese Communist military commander and two high-ranking party members, not to mention a list of communist party financial and tax investigators. So there were lots of bonkers in Honkers, but she still wasn’t sure all was well for her there. Something told her never to go back.

She was travelling to Melbourne on a return ticket, but she had no intention of returning.

She would leave behind half her wealth, but that still left her with almost two million dollars. One million invested in Australia with Joey in the heroin trade, and another million with the Don in the arms business. All the Aspanu money was safe in Swiss banks. Not to mention various other accounts all over the world.

Of course, in their lines of business, anything could go wrong at any time.

For instance, at that very moment, as Joey greeted her, he was unaware that his wife had been blown to pieces a few minutes earlier.

Now, Joey was one hard hombre, but had he known about Tina’s bad luck with the bomb he may not have driven Simone straight to the Hilton Hotel, rushed her upstairs to a luxury apartment and gotten her clothes off for a bit of old times’ sake. Simone was hardly through the door of the suite than Joey had his favourite weapon out and was ripping Simone’s dress off. As Simone helped him into the master bedroom and fell back on the bed, wrapping her bare legs around him, she said, “So, Joey. How’s married life?”

The response to this made her give a little yelp.

BENNY Shapiro was arguing with Marven Mendelsohn. “Look, Micky said to leave the Sicilian alive. Anyway, they are on the bloody seventh floor. You can’t hit the whole seventh floor with an anti-tank gun.”

“I can if you find out what fucking window to aim at,” grumbled Marven.

The two Jews were sitting in the street below the Hilton in Marven’s 1954 Studebaker Landcruiser.

“Look,” said Benny, “Micky wants us to kidnap the Chinese chick, okay? No-one said nothing about hitting the fucking Hilton with a fucking anti-tank gun.”

“Well, this is giving me the shits!” yelled Marven. “What’s the use of having an anti-tank gun if we never get to use it.”

“Where’s Pauline fucking Hanson when ya need some fish and chips?” replied Benny, laughing.

Marven stopped dead in his mental tracks.

“What the fuck has she got to do with the argument?” he asked.

“Well,” said Benny, “there’s more than one fish and chip shop in Australia and, believe me, Marven, you will get to use your bloody anti-tank gun soon enough.”

“You’re a strange man, Benny” replied Marven, which was pretty rich coming from him. “Speaking of fish and chips, I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, hey Benny?”

“Yeah,” said Benny “we’ll grab the gook tonight.”

As Marven drove away Benny said, “Did ya hear what old Pop Kelly said about Pauline Hanson?”

“Nah, what” said Marven.

“Pop Kelly reckons he hopes the Abos grab all the bloody land they can get their bloody hands on.”

“Fair dinkum,” replied Marven, puzzled.

“Yeah,” said Benny, “because the more land the Abos grab the less land there will be for the fucking Japanese, according to Pop.”

Benny roared laughing, but Marven looked quite serious.

“Ya know, Benny, silly as it sounds, old Pop’s got a good point.”

MARK Dardo and Niko Ceka sat quietly drinking in the Builders Arms Hotel in Fitzroy. Niko had been out of hospital only a few days and was still coughing up blood. He didn’t look good. Shadows under his eyes, and as skinny as buggery. But he was cheerful, in spite of the fact the bullet Joey put in to Niko’s chest in the wild shoot ’em up at the Bagdad Hotel in Abbotsford had done more damage than was first thought.

The backyard doctor in Footscray had done the best he could. He removed the slug, then stuck an iron spike deep in the wound and rushed him to hospital, with a tall tale that Niko had been the victim of a totally unprovoked street attack.

The police were called, but Niko could not help them with the identification of his attackers except to say that they were Vietnamese. The funny thing was, Niko and his lawyers were going to lodge a crimes compensation application.

The doctors said the iron spike went in one side and out the other like a bullet, but they couldn’t explain the internal damage. It was as if someone had been probing around inside the victim’s chest with a pair of pliers. Very puzzling for the medical profession, it was.

Nevertheless, they concluded Niko appeared to be the innocent victim of a criminal attack and, as such, fully entitled to compo. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t faking being crook.

“It will all turn out for the best,” Mark Dardo said to Niko, who was coughing up some more blood into a clean white tissue.

“Where’s Micky Kelly? Why can’t we kill that fucking Gravano?” said Niko.

“Ha ha,” laughed Mark. “The Jews blew his wife up this morning, and I think they are on some mad mission either today or tonight.”

“Where’s Micky?” said Niko.

“Calm down,” said Mark. “He’ll be here soon. Have another whisky, brother.”

As Niko polished off his fourth glass of whisky, Micky Kelly walked into the bar.

“How’s it going, boys?” he said.

The Albanians greeted him with smiles all round and big hellos.

“Listen,” said Kelly, “I’ve got Billy Jecka in the car outside. Do ya mind if I bring him in for a drink?”

“Bronco Billy,” said Mark Dardo.

Niko Ceka looked at his cousin Mark, and shrugged.

“Why not?” said Niko.

Mark looked at Micky.

“Oh well, the more Albanians the better. Bronco hates Jews, so we best keep him clear of Benny and Marven.”

“Yeah,” said Micky, “but he hates Germans worse. When Gravano hears about his wife he will attack. The fucking Calabrians won’t back him against the Albanians, but he’s been doing big business with the neo-Nazi crew from St Kilda.”

“Kaltenbrunner,” said Mark.

“Yeah,” replied Micky.

“Ernst fucking Kaltenbrunner,” said Niko, “the fucking German gunsmith. He’s almost as mad as Bronco Billy.”

“Yeah,” said Micky. “So I thought we would get Billy in on it. I got Hacker Harris to ring Bronco.”

“Jesus,” said Mark Dardo. “Hacker Harris. We are entering the land of the seriously insane now, aren’t we?”

“Nah,” said Micky with a grin. “Hacker is okay, and Bronco Billy and his team would go to the grave on Hacker’s say so. Believe me, when that fucking Sicilian finds out about his wife, it will be on.”

“He must know by now,” said Niko.

Micky Kelly smiled.

“Not according to the Jews. He’s still in the Hilton with the Chinese moll. Benny and Marven will grab her tonight. Remove her, and the balance of their financial thinking will collapse. Joey’s logic will shatter when he finds out about his wife. It will be total insanity by either tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” said Mark. “Tell Bronco to come in. Let’s work this out now.”

Micky smiled. “I love this shit. I really love it.”

ERNST Kaltenbrunner was the grandson of a German war criminal, a former SS officer with the same name. The young Kaltenbrunner was a group leader of the Aryan Defence League and controlled a small army of approximately 200 neo-Nazi skinheads as well as operating as a backyard gunsmith and arms dealer. He’d heard and seen a lot of angry people, but nothing like Joey Gravano.

When Joey rang the Nazi at home in Home Street, Elsternwick, he was nearly mad with grief and rage.

“I need your help, I’ll pay anything,” he was sobbing. “I fucking can’t rely on my own people. None of ’em want a war with the Aussies and the fucking Albanians.”

Ernst had heard tell of the car bomb, and had been expecting Joey’s call.

“Juden schwein” said Ernst, or something like that.

“What?” said Joey.

“Jewish pigs,” said Ernst. “The schwein who did your wife, they were Juden hunds”

“What?” said Joey.

“Jewish dogs” replied Ernst.

“Speak English!” screamed Joey.

Then Ernst yelled down the phone in German something like: “Ich werde den hund den kopf abschneiden.”

“What?” cried Joey.

“I’ll cut the dogs head off,” said Ernst.

“When?” yelled Joey.

“Tomorrow,” replied Ernst, “but geld zuerst, Joey. ”

“What?” said Joey, “talk fucking English.”

“Money first,” replied the German. “I’m not running a public fucking charity, okay?”

“Okay,” said Joey grimly.

And that’s how it began.

THE following night at the Albanian Club in Yarraville, Bronco Billy Jecka and his team were drinking with Mark Dardo, Niko Ceka and their crew. Micky Kelly was in attendance with his assorted gathering of Collingwood madmen. Kelly had also recruited the help of a Maltese crew, led by a mean-looking heavyweight kickboxer named Maltese Dave, who was there with his girlfriend, a stripper called Jasmyn.

“Ya won’t believe this,” said Micky Kelly to Dardo, “but Jasmyn here used to go out with bloody Gorgeous George Marcus. She knows ’em all. That’s how Dave met her, on some weird plane trip to Italy. George had kidnapped her on some mad holiday to fucking Sicily and Big Dave took her off the plane in Rome. She knows ’em all. Gravano, Guglameno, Giordano, Capone, Monnella, the whole crew.”

Niko broke into the conversation. “Do ya reckon Gravano will try hitting us tonight? I wish Benny and Marven was here.”