Chopper Unchopped (184 page)

Every walk down to the wharf for Clara in the morning sunlight would not see her walk home again till the sun was setting. With the help of a goodly amount of strong Giallo grappa to drink, and fishermen to help her drink it, she would suck till her jaw ached. Then, using virgin olive oil as lubrication, they would take turns giving it to young Clara from behind.

Afterwards, Clara would lie in a hot soapy perfumed bath to get the smell of fish and fishermen off her. She knew that her conduct was dangerous, and that her sluttish activities on the waterfront were no secret, but she guessed that no-one would dare repeat such foul gossip to her father. If they did, his blind rage could mean the death of every fisherman in Catania. If Clara was anyone else’s daughter she would be stoned in the streets or taken by the fishermen and sold to a brothel in Malta or Spain, Corsica or North Africa. But this angel-faced mafia Don’s daughter would remain a Sicilian princess in spite of the fact she was a sick, twisted slave to sexual depravity.

And so it was that behind the back of the great and feared Don Pietro Baldassare his teenage daughter was known to the fishermen as the Bambino Polio of Catania (the little chicken of Catania). They called her little chicken because she loved the cock so much. But as the old Sicilian proverb goes, the grave is the only place to keep a secret in Sicily, so when the outrageous rumour about Clara’s outrageous behaviour reached the ears of Don Hector Aspanu, he had a problem indeed.

After all, little Clara was his god daughter. She called him Uncle Hector, and wild yarns about her being shagged in the arse by every fisherman in the eastern ports of Sicily unsettled him, because it would be only a matter of time before his dear friend Pietro came to hear of it — and then what would happen? They would have to import fish from the mainland, for a start, because the Baldassare clan would kill every fisherman in Sicily.

Don Hector pondered the problem, but not for long. He knew that every Sicilian problem solved with either a wedding or a funeral, and this was no different. Clara was not far off 17, and it was high time she was married, but it couldn’t be to a man from Catania or even a native Sicilian as stories about the brides love for the taste of cucumber and white sauce would soon reach the ears of her husband. And what of his dear friend Don Pietro? He wouldn’t allow just anyone to have his pride and joy baby daughter. The only answer was to get baby Clara out of Sicily, properly married off to a wealthy Sicilian living in mainland Italy. Or even further away, thought Don Hector. Maybe France, Spain, America … or Australia.

Yes, thought the Don slyly, Australia was a nation of rat bags, hillbillies, Irish gunmen, English convicts, scoundrels, and yuppy bum bandits. The Don thought of it as the last outpost, a desert fit for cowboys and psychopaths. And it was a long, long way from Sicily. So it was just the place for his knob-polishing, slackarsed little tart of a god daughter. She could marry a wealthy Sicilian in Australia and drop dead, for all Don Hector cared. The main thing was the protection of the Baldassare family name. Maybe marriage and a funeral, he thought. Yes, that was it. Marry the whore off, then get her and her husband whacked. The Don was quite pleased with himself. If there was one thing he loved more than a good wedding, it was a good funeral, and with Clara Baldassare he could plan both.

DON Pietro Baldassare was surprised but secretly pleased when his dear and most trusted friend Don Hector Aspanu came to visit him with the offer for his daughter’s hand in marriage from a young Sicilian businessman living in Australia. Not only was the young man in question a millionaire at the tender age of 27, he was a member of the clan. Aniello Massaria was his name — an Australian-born Sicilian and a recognised member of the Alderisio clan which was under the wing of the Aspanu clan and therefore the Baldassares.

Don Pietro listened in silence as Don Hector put the offer to him and agreed to meet the young man in question. It would depend on Clara’s yes or no. Don Pietro would not force his child into a loveless marriage, but Hector Aspanu was as good a matchmaker as he was a funeral director. He had selected Aniello Massaria with great care, taking into consideration the wishes of his friend Pietro for a good match, and the secret lusts of the prospective bride.

Aniello Massaria was a freak among sawn-off Sicilians, being well over six feet tall, handsome and strong as a young bull. He had inherited money from his family and had extensive interests in the Melbourne fishing and market garden industries. Through his interest in fishing he imported heroin from the Philippines, and in his market gardens he grew massive crops of marijuana. He also had close links with the Calabrian Onorata Societa and the Naples Camorra. He lived by the code of silence, known by many and varied names. There is the one sure thing in the criminal world, be it in Italy or outer Mongolia. The rules change to suit the game daily. In the game Don Hector Aspanu was playing, he knew a wedding would unite two or three families — but that a funeral would bond them in blood forever. Providing, of course, he could place the blame for the deaths of Clara Baldassare and Aniello Massaria at the feet of others, he could direct revenge from the guns and knives of the Baldassare, Massaria and Alderisio clans toward an area of interest that would profit Don Hector Aspanu himself.

On the chess board of the criminal world, to bring your friends closer to you then you must give them an enemy you can both fight … even if you have to create that enemy yourself.

MELBOURNE, 1974. It was a hot summer and young Joey Gravano was enjoying himself with his Thomastown-born Sicilian mates in the hotels and illegal brothels of Fitzroy street and Grey Street, St Kilda.

It was an exciting time. The Melbourne sharpie wars had been raging since 1969, not to mention the painters and the dockers shootings. The Dagos were losing every fight they tried on with the Aussie gangs, but among their ranks they were dominating the fledgling heroin market. They already controlled the marijuana market with the help of Aussie Bob Trimbole and his Calabrian hillbilly, dope-growing farmers. And they were gaining ground in the illegal gambling and prostitution rackets. But they couldn’t win a round when it came to street battles and shootouts with the established Aussie criminal order. The Melbourne gunmen, toecutters, headhunters and standover men would just swoop in and take what they wanted, when they wanted.

Joey Gravano was one of the few Italians who saw that a war for control with the Aussie gangs was futile, and that the true power would be in taking silent control of the drug supply, rather than distribution. If the Italians and Chinese shared drug importing, the Aussies and the rest of the insane, blood-crazed rabble could kill each other for ever more in the endless wars fought over distribution.

Joey knew that in supply was real power. Why argue over a glass of water with fools if you controlled the tap? Some Italians who couldn’t see this insisted on getting into insane pissing competitions with mad men over street dealing. As far as Joey was concerned, they could all jump into their graves with his blessing. The Sicilians would remain friendly and smile at every one. “Me no speak a da English, me no want a da trouble” they’d say, and with the help of the Chinese they would quietly keep their hands on the tap. They had their ways of dealing with problems. An example of how they did was when Joey took the call from his Uncle Hector in Sicily to attend to the little business of Aniello Massaria and his lovely young wife, Clara.

The whole conversation was Sicilian Scarchi code, which relied on fish names, animal names, the names of drinks, vegetables, fruits, meats and seafood, months of the year, days of the week, colours and numbers.

To someone in the know, one word could mean a whole sentence. The Sicilian tactic of killing a friend in secret then blaming it on an enemy in order to rally the clans in the name of the common good was known in Scarchi as the swordfish, or La Pescespada. If the body of the victim was never to be found it was La Tonno, the tuna. The Chinese triads were known as La Riso, the rice. A fire, or death by fire, was La Pane Tostato, the Toast.

For the situation to remain as before, meaning that orders previously given should remain unchanged, then it was La Menu a prezzo fisso — the set menu. A coward was La Coniglio (the rabbit) and a person to be killed was La Anatra (the duck). If a bribe was needed they spoke of butter. If a friend was a bit mad and was to be watched he was noodles. Sunday was the day of death. A bad idea was black, and a good one was white. If you had the answer to a problem and could solve it, you had the key. If you were given the Don’s nod to proceed you were given a stamp. To be sent a newspaper was to be sent coded written instructions. In old Sicily Jews had to paint their houses blue, so a Jew was La Azzurro, a double killing was a postcard. To give someone soap was to kid them along with smiles and nice lies before they were killed. The only time Interpol broke the Sicilian Scarchi code was when they kept talking over the phone about marijuana and naturally referred to it as La Verde (the green) so they changed it to La Cavolo (the cabbage).

This time, Hector Aspanu wanted Joey to do the Swordfish. Joey knew that the politics behind the order was none of his business. He knew only that obeying orders would elevate him overnight in the ranks of his clan. So if the old man back in Sicily wanted the Swordfish, the Swordfish it would be.

ANIELLO and Clara Massaria lived on a farm in far western Victoria. They had 1500 acres with 200 of them on the South Australian side of the state border. For Clara, it was a long way from Sicily, but Aniello was built like a Greek God, with the face of a Roman prince, and the dick of a Welsh pony. As was his right as a Sicilian husband, he gave Clara a good beating with his belt on the night of their wedding in Catania. This was because she made the mistake of questioning him when he ordered her to hand over the wedding purse so he could count the cash.

“That’s my money,” said Clara. She was beaten till she screamed for mercy, then Aniello pulled out his wedding gift and took her virginity with a violence that made her scream in pain. Aniello was delighted to find the sheets red with virgin blood.

However, when Aniello got his young bride back to Australia and, having drunk a little too much one night, forgot his manners and ordered her to go down, he began to suspect he’d been sold a used car. One that had copped a few bananas in the diff, at that. He suspected this because Clara, having also partaken of a little too much vino, forgot to say “Oh no, my husband, you’ll have to show me how.” Instead, she promptly proceeded to give him the hottest, deep throat blow job he had ever had in his life. This resulted in the jealous Sicilian accusing her of being an experienced vacuumer in the fly department and, after another savage beating, she confessed and told all. With the result that he beat her near to death and made her sleep in the chicken shed, chained to the wall like a howling dog.

Aniello Massaria was insane with rage. That old Sicilian pirate Aspanu had sold him some little whore who had swallowed more swords than a circus performer. Naturally Aniello would have to kill her, but it must look like an accident, or suicide, lest her father and old Aspanu kill him. Aniello thought furiously how this Sicilian marriage had been pushed on him with far too many smiles, and now he knew why. Now all Sicily was having a good laugh at him. Soon, thought Aniello, when the whore with the arse like a Greek bucket returns to Sicily in a coffin, the laughter would turn to tears …

All of which explains why, when Joey Gravano made the long night drive over to the property he got there just in time to receive the sad news of the death of young Clara Massaria. The result, it was said, of a tragic accident while she was trying to climb through a barbed wire fence, carrying a loaded shotgun.

As Joey drove along in the hope of finding some small country town with a phone box that worked, the local news on the car radio informed him that a market gardener, Mr Aniello Massaria, had been arrested by Victorian police for the murder of his wife, Clara. By the time Joey found a phone box both the Victorian and South Australian police had located a marijuana crop on the Massaria farm valued at two million dollars and were arguing over who should make the arrest. It seemed that while Mrs Massaria was shot on the South Australian side of the property, the marijuana crop had fifty acres either side of the border.

When Joey rang Sicily and informed his uncle of this interesting turn of events, he was told to forget it and get out of there. Massaria had spilled his guts to police in return for a manslaughter charge instead of a murder blue, and police were arresting Italians in both states.

Within 24 hours there were calls for a royal commission into mafia involvement in the marijuana industry. Aussie Bob Trimbole’s name was mentioned along with about anyone whose name ended in a vowel. Suddenly the newspapers were screaming about an honoured society. Every dago dirt farmer who grew a little dope between his tomatoes had suddenly become part of the mafia. So much for the code of silence.

When he rang Joey a week after the news the Don didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Well, Joey” he said, “Pietro’s baby Clara is a virgin again. Death can do that even to a whore — but this swordfish has just stabbed us all in the arse.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Joey.

“Simple,” said the Don. “Tell the boys to start growing their dope in New South Wales. Ha ha.”

SICILY, 1998. Don Hector Aspanu had just told his men the story of Clara and Aniello Massaria, and how Massaria had vanished to Canada after doing a secret deal with a Royal Commission.

The old man hung his head and shook it as if, even in retelling the story, he still couldn’t believe it.

“So we never got him?” asked Bobby Benozzo, surprised.

“No,” answered the Don. “We think he opened a pizzeria in Canada and got involved with the De Carlo family. We send some boys over and shot the wrong man. The pizzas stunk too. The whole thing was a fucking nightmare.”