Chopper Unchopped (181 page)

The Russians had told her that the Albanians she was to make contact with in Melbourne may want to employ her for the full thirty days before she had to return to London for other business commitments. Evidently the Albanians would be her cup of tea: that is, they were animals.

Donna looked at the little Japanese businessman sitting next to her as the plane took off. She loved her visits to Japan. The Japanese treated the sexual domination and mistreatment of woman as normal and loved to degrade and dominate a white woman. The only trouble was, thought Donna, the Japs had pricks the size of a girls little finger. A lady could accommodate 30 Japanese in a night and not even notice it. No wonder they hated woman so much.

Donna crossed her long legs and the Japanese businessman took note as her dress crept up. Donna smiled a big, inviting smile then got out of her seat and reached to get her carry bag. The dress rode higher. She would just pop along to the ladies and remove what needed to be removed then return to attend to the little Japanese.

By the time she got to Melbourne she’d have this little bonsai businessman lighter by several thousand or her name wasn’t Donna Allan.

JOEY Gravano flew out of Sicily with the Don’s words ringing in his ears. Micky Kelly, Marven Mendelsohn, Benny Shapiro, Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka … kill ’em all, or put the barrel of your gun in your own mouth and pull the trigger.

The death of Simone Tao was a financial nightmare but it served the Don right, as the old man said himself, for placing his faith and his money in the new technology. Imagining that a fortune in Aspanu money could all be kept safe and secure on some floppy disk in the hands of some floppy Chinese whore was as much the Don’s fault as Joey’s. The truth was, old Hector had liked the Chinese girl and trusted her and she had not betrayed the Aspanu clan. She had simply gotten herself kidnapped while under Joey’s protection and had her head cut off, and with her vanished the whereabouts of thirty fucking million dollars. Or was it forty million?

Don Hector didn’t know how to operate a microwave oven, let alone a computer. The whole thing was a high tech nightmare. But, said the Don, it was a fuck-up he too had to share in. Joey had made the introduction but Simone had swept the old Don off his feet, so too much was placed in her care. It was the Don taking part of the blame that saved Joey’s life this time, but there must not be any more mistakes.

Joey’s plane left Italy at about the same time that Donna Allan landed at Tullamarine and, sure enough, Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka were there to meet her. Niko noticed her first and nudged Mark Dardo.

Mark nodded toward Donna. “Miss Allan?” he said.

“Oh, yes” said Donna.

“My name is Mark Dardo. This is my cousin Niko Ceka. Do you have any luggage?” asked Mark.

“No, none” replied Donna. “Only my carry bag,” indicating to the small leather bag she held in her left hand. Mark looked down at the bag in a sort of puzzled horror and Donna laughed.

“Oh, no, Mr Dardo. It’s not in there, it’s in a safer place than that,” and she gave a little wiggle of her hips. “I’ve a letter to give you from Mr Zijit. That is, Mr Vladimir Zijit.”

She pulled an envelope out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Mark. It was written in Albanian and Mark read it in front of Niko and Donna.

“What does it say, brother?” asked Niko.

“It says,” said Mark, “this letter will introduce Miss Donna Allan who is a personal and good friend of the Zijit brothers and that they vouch for her honesty and character. It also says,” and Mark looked at Donna and she smiled, “that she loves it two at a time, and will accommodate any number of men in a night if requested. If she misbehaves or protests or whimpers or makes any complaints whatsoever she is to be beaten to within an inch of her life like a disobedient slut.”

The letter went on: “Mark, she is the craziest, twisted bitch, pain freak whore I’ve ever come across. Try not to kill her. All the best, Vlad.”

Mark and Niko looked at Donna in amazement, and she smiled at them both.

“Well,” said Mark, “that is quite a letter of introduction, Miss Allan. I don’t know what to say.”

“I do,” said Niko. “Let’s get out of here and try her on for size.”

Donna was marched from the airport to a waiting car and driven to a nearby motel. While having a shower she removed the tube, cleaned it and handed it to Mark — only to be joined in the shower by a naked Niko. Mark pulled the shower curtain back and said, “hold out your arm.”

“I don’t use heroin,” said Donna.

Niko grabbed her arm and held it out and snarled, “stay still.”

“Don’t worry” he added. “I’ve only used half a match head, a very small amount. You won’t die.”

Mark hit the vein, jacked the fit back then plunged it in. Within moments the smack hit and she said “ohhhh yeah,” then she vomited in the shower and washed her face under the water.

“Good?” asked Mark.

Donna nodded with a drugged smile, her eyes half closed.

She moaned, lurched forward and vomited again, then hung her head under the hot water of the shower. She felt wrapped in a cloud of cotton wool. So much for testing the quality of the Russian’s heroin.

When Niko blew his load she didn’t even feel it. Mark replaced Niko in the shower and got into the act. She wasn’t fully aware of the changing of the guard until Mark slapped her across the face. There was no pain, but she loved it anyway. Force of habit.

Donna remembered being taken from the shower and put in the large motel bed, where she was subjected to lots of Albanian, from every angle. When she awoke in the morning Mark gave her another small shot of the magic powder, and she showered and dressed and hopped in the back of their car and was driven to the Albanian Club in Yarraville. The Russians were quite right, she decided, the Albanians were animals.

Donna had her money, credit cards, passport, carry bag and clothing taken and was allowed to keep only her high heels and high cut panties. Her bra was taken from her and she was told to get up on the bar and dance.

She protested that she wasn’t a good dancer and received a beating that went far beyond her sick sexual masochistic fantasies. For once, she was in true pain and fear. She was then ordered into a shower and told to wash the blood off. Her nose was broken. She was supplied with a new set of high heels and a new set of high-cut knickers, and felt no pain after another taste of heroin.

It was decided that a girl with a bashed-up face could hardly be used as a dancer at the club so Donna was locked in a rear room that contained a double bed and an adjoining toilet and shower. For some reason Donna recalled the Australian mafia guy in New York telling her she belonged in a lock shop brothel. Sure enough, the door opened and men entered two at a time and Donna serviced them all until she lost count. Any failure to show full interest in her work was greeted with a vicious slapping about the face.

In the morning she got a heroin needle and a shower and she was allowed to rest in the painless cloud of peace the needle brought her. She knew that the night would bring a full repeat of the night she had just endured, but she also knew that her new Albanian masters would provide her with another needle full of heaven beforehand. She didn’t care, and closed her eyes. She had at last reached the pits of hell. She had been tempting fate for a long time, and now it had happened. She had fallen all the way to the bottom. But she was such a sick pup that it was what part of her had been looking for.

The trouble was, at the minute, too many Albanian heavies were looking for that part of her, too. She’d gone from a high-class thousand dollar an hour call girl to being tossed to the dogs for $50 a pop. And it could only get worse.

She should have listened to her mother, after all.

APRIL, 1998. Micky Kelly walked out of Footscray Hospital with a long, leggy girl with blonde hair tied up in a top knot. She was wearing a skintight all black outfit that clung tight to every curve, except for a baggy black t-shirt. Under the t-shirt she had a Colt .32 automatic handgun tucked tight under a wrap around velcro tummy belt. The beauty of such a girl carrying a firearm was that men noticed only her hips and arse and hair and her pouty face hidden behind dark glasses. They couldn’t help it. The little head always ruled the big head.

As Jasmyn escorted Micky from hospital even the police who were watching the pair didn’t think for a moment that the cheeky-looking blonde might be carrying a loaded gun.

Maltese Dave opened the door of the Ford LTD and Micky got in the passenger’s seat. Dave got behind the wheel and Jasmyn got in the back behind Micky. The two were on Micky’s payroll — Maltese Dave as driver, and Jasmyn as bodyguard. She carried the gun and was quite willing to use it. Maltese Dave also carried a gun, a .32 calibre Young revolver, and Micky had a Heckler and Koch automatic in the glovebox.

No-one expects a man’s exotic dancer companion to pull out a shooter and blast away at the first sign of trouble. Having Jasmyn on hand and armed up, was a sneak go the enemy would not look for. They would concentrate all fire power on Micky and Dave, allowing Jasmyn vital seconds to return fire.

She had spent a week practising, and could hit six out of six beer bottles at 30 yards. She had the Colt loaded and carried an extra clip with six rounds. Jasmyn liked her new role. As a club dancer she was treated as a dumb blonde, but now the men around Micky Kelly treated her with new-found respect. Funny what a pistol can do.

She had shown courage under fire at the shoot-out outside the Albanian Club and Micky did not forget whose arms held him after he had been shot. The only problem was that Jasmyn was Dave’s girl and it would be putting a hole in his manners for Micky to try to get into her pants. But Micky copped it. You can’t have it all your own way all the time, he thought.

As Maltese Dave drove Micky toward Squizzy Taylor’s Hotel in Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka were pulling up in front of that very establishment. With them was a beautiful redhead wearing sun glasses and a tight t-shirt. A close look at the sexy face revealed the lady had a broken nose, but this slight facial flaw only added to the raw sex appeal. Like Jasmyn, the lady with the two Albanians also had her hair up in a top knot.

Donna Allan was now well and truly Albanian property. She had a raging heroin habit that the Albanians fed. She relied on them for food and drink, pocket money, clothing and make up. She had to ask them and they would provide. She followed her Albanian masters around like a puppy. She acted on any instruction of a sexual nature with blind obedience. She was in a world she could not escape and the gates that held her were made of heroin.

She was serving a life sentence — but not a long one. It would last only as long as her physical beauty held out. Her sexual charms kept her alive, but the drugs and daily sexual abuse would age her by twenty years in about two, then she would either die of an overdose — which would be a kindness — or allowed to wander and beg like a starving dog for money or drugs from men who no longer wanted to buy the worn-out goods she had. That route, too, was a shortcut to a pauper’s grave. Heroin is a heavenly highway, but it leads to hell.

In Melbourne, as in Ireland, Murphy’s Law and the criminal law are two and the same. So when Micky Kelly, Maltese Dave and the lovely Jasmyn walked through the door of Squizzy Taylor’s Hotel to be greeted with wild hellos and hugs and kisses all around from Mark Dardo, Niko Ceka and Donna Allan, it set the scene for farce.

Johnny and Joe Jankoo, the Lithuanian brothers on the hunt for the Albanians, and Joey Gravano, on the hunt for Micky Kelly and the Albanians, pulled up in front of the hotel at the same time and unbeknown to each other. The Lithuanians parked on one side of Gertrude Street, Aussie Joe Gravano on the other. Both Gravano and the Jankoos intended shedding blood. Like the Irish bank robber who ran into the bank only to have his gun taken from him by the three men already robbing the bank, the Jankoo brothers walked through the front door of the hotel at about the same time as Joey was about to cross the street. As Gravano looked to the left, then to the right, and to the left again, checking traffic, he heard gunfire. Three shots, then three more. Joey could tell from the sound that different guns were being used.

Joey was frozen to the spot. He reached under his coat for his .45 Gold Cup automatic and watched the door as Micky Kelly came out, carrying a handgun, followed by Maltese Dave, also holding a shooter. Then came a long leggy blonde, also carrying a rod. Then he saw (and heard) a redhead chick screaming. As Joey pulled out his shooter and aimed it at Micky Kelly, he was a fraction distracted by the thought that he had seen or met the redhead before.

Joey snapped off six shots at Micky Kelly. The blonde girl took aim at him and returned three quick rounds, but the slugs hit passing cars. Joey ducked and ran back to his car and started the motor just as a fourth slug shattered the driver’s side window. His right eye filled with blood as he sped away. Maltese Dave put two shots through his rear window, but it was all too late. Of the six shots fired in Micky Kelly’s direction one hit the red-haired whore in the throat, and she lay dying on the footpath. Two other shots caught Micky in the chest. He was mortally wounded. Jasmyn tried to pick up the dying Kelly and Maltese Dave yelled, “leave him, Jas, he’s finished.”

Micky Kelly looked up into the eyes of the crying girl and said, “Go on, Princess, piss off.”

Jasmyn was dragged, crying, back to the car by Maltese Dave and driven away. Inside the hotel bar lay the dead bodies of Mark Dardo, Niko Ceka and the Jankoo brothers. The Jankoo brothers had got off only three rounds, one into the head of Mark Dardo and two into the chest of Niko Ceka, before Jasmyn had punched three return rounds into them — two into Johnny Jankoo’s chest and one into Joe’s face. She had then replaced the clip — still holding three rounds – with the full clip, as she didn’t want to hit the footpath outside the pub with only three shots left.

Maltese Dave didn’t freeze up when the Lithuanians opened fire but he did react slowly because of the surprise, as did Micky Kelly and the Albanians. What amazed them was Jasmyn’s lightning response. “With hands as quick as light, she took up the devil’s challenge and went into the night,” thought Micky, as he lay dying on the footpath.

He turned his head to see the open eyes of the dead Donna looking straight at him. A crowd gathered around him and Micky could hear the sound of the ambulance, or was it a police car?

Who’s gonna tell my dad, thought Micky. Jesus, he’s gonna be mad at me. Don’t go getting yourself into any bloody trouble, son, he always says. Ha ha. Maybe Jasmyn and Dave would tell him. What the fuck were those mad Lithuanians doing? And Gravano? Did Jasmyn clip him with one of her shots?

As Micky lay dying an old song came into his head and he mumbled the words. “Oh ya can laugh and ya can cry, ya can bleed until ya die but one way or the other, son, ya gonna pay the bill.”

He laughed and coughed up blood.

Then it all went black except for a tunnel of white light. Micky felt at peace and warm and began to walk through the light, but to the onlookers staring down at him in front of Squizzy Taylor’s hotel he was going no place at all. He was dead.

MELBOURNE, June, 1998. Benny Shapiro rang Marven Mendelsohn and invited him to come over to have a look at Benny’s new car. Benny was a pest, but he was also the closest thing to a friend Marven had in the world, next to his mother. But Benny did give Marven the shits, as he had to humour Benny like a kid.

Marven kissed his mother and got into the 1954 Studebaker and drove quietly over to Benny’s place in Beaconsfield Parade, St Kilda. As Marven drove along, he began to sing quietly to himself an old Christian hymn. As a rule Jewish hitmen weren’t big on hymns but, although he didn’t know all the words, he did like the Mahalia Jackson tape his mother played at home after the evening meal. The Christian religion, while a total load of flapdoodle to Marven, was given to producing nice religious music, especially black American Baptist gospel singers. And, as Marven drove along, mulling over the trivial nonsense of religious music and Benny’s new car, he began to sing. “Just a closer walk with thee, granted Jesus let it be, nearer my God I am to thee, Oh let it be, dear Lord, let it be.”

As he pulled up outside Benny’s place he saw Benny standing on the footpath with a big smile on his dial.

“Come and have a look,” said Benny, practically jiggling up and down, like a small boy who’s caught a frog, “it’s in the garage.”

Marven followed Benny to the garage and Benny pulled the roller door up. Inside was a bright yellow Volvo with a surfboard on the roof rack and Tasmanian number plates. It took Marven a moment to register, then he stared at Benny, who could hardly contain his laughter.

“Benny, this is in really serious bad taste,” he scolded. “It would serve you right if you’re arrested, or at least pulled up every day, if you drive that around.” He paused and added: “Tell me that it’s not bloody Martin Bryant’s, is it?”

Marven looked hard at Benny, who was laughing so much he was nearly pissing himself. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the Studebaker.

“Ya got no sense of humour, Marve” yelled Benny.

Marven got into his car, opened the driver’s side window and started the motor.

“If you want to cruise around town in a yellow Volvo with a surfboard on the roof rack, Ben, then ya on ya own” he yelled. “Ya fucking sick schmuck.”

Benny stopped laughing.

“It’s only a bit of a giggle, Marven.”

“Yeah,” said Marven, “and in a way I can see the comedy of it, but we have our necks on the chopping block. The Albanians are dead, at least the ones we do business with. Micky Kelly is dead. Our names are on the list and you’re out buying fucking yellow Volvos like some psychopathic Monty Python. Ya wanna start getting serious, Ben. If we don’t get them fucking dagos, they will get us. Jesus.”

Benny took the dressing down seriously.

“I’m sorry, Marv” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, get with it.”

Then Marven stopped and thought again.

“Is the Volvo registered in your name, Ben?”

“Yeah,” said Benny.

“Hmm, pity” replied Marven.

“Ya got an idea, hey Marv?” asked Benny, smiling at being let off the hook.

Marven gave a sly grin.

“Maybe, maybe. We’ll see. Okay, mate, see ya later.”

“Yeah,” said Benny, wondering what was going on in Matchstick Marven marvellous mind. “See ya, Marven.”

AUSSIE Joe Gravano didn’t like to call on Al Guglameno and his crew but he needed a hand. Badly. Joey had two trustworthy Sicilians, Charlie Coppola and Elio Monza, but he needed a lot bigger crew to handle the storm that was cooking up.

Gravano needed Guglameno and his crew to help him handle the Jews. After all, the Jews had got Monnella, so the fucking Calabrians were honour bound to get with the program. Tony Capone and Eddie Giordano were both anxious to help Joey, but big Al — as always — was a fucking misery guts who dragged his feet on every issue. It was only Aussie Joey’s mention of taking it all to Poppa Di Inzabella that prompted Al to suddenly appear with a smile on his face, the arsehole. Why Uncle Hector wanted to let this Calabrian dog live was a puzzle to Joey, but Joey was a soldier and didn’t question orders.

His eye was getting better after having glass from the car window removed from it, but he still had to wear an eye patch that made him look more like a Sicilian pirate than ever. The Calabrians had taken to calling him Captain Pugwash behind his back.

When rumours of this reached Joey’s ears, he laughed. But he asked himself how a pack of Calabrians from Lygon Street, Carlton, would be able to come up with a bit of classic Aussie comedy straight out of the television history books.

“Hmm,” he thought to himself. “Too much time spent drinking with Aussie coppers. Sometimes people give themselves away without knowing it. The Calabrian Onorata Societa. What a joke.

Joey thought of Tina. If the mafia is so powerful why can’t it protect itself against madmen. Then Joey remembered the old proverb, “no strength in swordsmanship, however just, can stand secure against a madman’s thrust.”

Joey was thinking hard. “Two Jews to kill, why should that be so hard?”

The whole thing was a lie, and the shame of it made Joey sick. A man could only pretend so long before it started to eat him away. Joey was in a dangerous mood.

IT was a wet night. The few people on the streets were running for any place that was dry. It was warm and cosy in the Calabrian Soccer Club in Cardigan Street, Carlton. Big Al Guglameno, Tony Capone, Eddie Giordano and members of each man’s own personal crews were there.

Aussie Joe Gravano had just arrived with Charlie Coppola and Elio Monza. The personal and regional grudges between these men had been put aside. This night they were all Italian brothers against a common enemy, the Jews.

As the various crews in the club talked softly about battle plans to be put into action, Marven Mendelsohn sat a hundred yards up the road in his 1954 Studebaker. Beside him sat Maltese Dave.

“Stop playing with ya gun,” said Marven to Dave.

Dave said something in Maltese that sounded like a cat getting strangled, but meant “Get fucked”.

“Where the hell is Benny and Jasmyn?” said Marven.

“Driving over here in a fucking yellow Volvo with a surfboard on top. They’ll get pulled over for sure.”

“I got Cassie Connor driving the Al Shiek brothers over. They have a personal blue with Eddie Giordano.”