Chapter
TWELVE

Santini relaxed in front of TV. It was eight o’clock Sunday evening. He sipped the Jacob’s Creek Cabernet Sauvignon opened for his meal earlier. Turning down the volume, he reflected on his day with Giuseppe Pescaro.

The old Don was charming company. They’d enjoyed a great tussle over a game of bocce on the rolling back lawn, an exquisite alfresco lunch, fine wine and even finer thick coffee. In truth, they had both enjoyed a day off together. Pescaro had raised business only once – Ben Aldrittson. Santini told him he had no reason to think his message to Ben had gone unheeded.

He settled deeper into his chair. There was no Mrs Santini. Sometimes he regretted that but he had chosen his course and there was no place in his cold, dark and often violent world for a wife and family. As he mused upon the notion of family, his mind wandered to Ben Aldrittson. In a strange way, he was family; he had known him since birth, seen him grow up, develop and harden into quite a tough nut.

He pondered his warning to Aldrittson a few days earlier and smiled at the reaction. It wasn’t personal, just business. He had to be certain Aldrittson understood the plan must be provided when Pescaro wanted it. Santini thought of Ben as a pompous prick. He did however, acknowledge and respect Aldrittson’s network of contacts. To be fair, it was primarily due to his extensive reach and manipulation that much of their black waste concept had come so far.

His own actions were meant to show Aldrittson promise without actual harm, and without, he hoped, generating too much fear. Pescaro would be taking a similar line with Aldrittson senior.

He relaxed, sipped more wine and idly wondered. What if he had pissed Ben off? Would he retaliate or just meekly comply? He recalled an incident ten years earlier. Pescaro had become enmeshed in a short but vicious struggle for control of a protection racket in the Sunraysia District of northwest Victoria.

Leonardo Falcone, a Griffith capo working for the Sydney Mob, considered Pescaro’s interest intrusive. To the contrary, Pescaro had strictly confined his activity to Victoria, an arrangement agreed at a Mafia “sit down” in the 1940s. Then, the bosses thought Australia’s population too small and the country too large to operate on anything other than state boundaries. It was agreed there would be only one Don per state and no cross-border encroachment. For this reason, there was no capo di tutti capi, or boss of bosses. Occasionally, at border towns, as people moved around, lines blurred, practices shifted and matters sometimes became a little tense. Overall, the original agreement held well. That sit down had also decreed that anyone flouting the arrangement would taste traditional justice.

Falcone commenced expanding the territory of his Don, Lindoro Riina. At the same time, he was skimming off the top by quietly entering Sunraysia and breaching the long standing agreement on borders. Santini investigated and after talking to several growers, decided Falcone should be told to quit while he was ahead. That was a mistake of underestimation on his part.

On his way to Griffith, Santini was run off the road by a truck. His car had barely stopped rolling when bullets whacked into the upturned body. He had crawled from the back window and hidden behind a tree. Seconds later the petrol tank exploded. His attackers had been slack and failed to check whether he was dead or alive, they merely assumed he had been incinerated.

After hitching a lift to Hay, Santini spent a week under the radar nursing his scrapes. He had reviewed his options and considered potential actions that could be taken by Falcone. Falcone’s most likely choice would be to go to Mildura and eliminate Pescaro’s snitch.

Santini took a bus to Mildura, hired a car in Falcone’s name and drove to Nichol’s Point. Nothing seemed amiss at the grower’s home. He decided to return each nightfall for the next week.

At nine o’clock on the fourth evening, a black Celica pulled up at the house; Falcone and one of his men stepped from the car. Santini was concealed by a thick Oleander bush at the corner of the front veranda. Falcone strode to the front door while his thug snuck around the back. Santini followed him. While Falcone talked to the grower, Vincenzo Rizzi, his thug entered the house.

Santini drew his knife and silently crept after him. A wide, darkened veranda stretched across the back of the house providing access to a central passage inside. Santini heard angry voices at the front of the house. The fearful cries of a woman joined in. Falcone’s man was in the passageway moving quietly through the gloom to the front. As Santini eased the flywire door open and stepped inside, the latch snapped audibly. Tense with concentration, the man whirled, gun in hand then fell to the floor with a grunt as Santini’s heavy knife ploughed into his chest. Blood sprayed the polished floor. His hand twitched and the gun fired aimlessly into the wall. In the following silence, Santini moved quickly. He grabbed the gun from the quivering hand and bounded into the lounge room. Falcone held Rizzi’s wife in front of him, an arm tightly around her throat, a revolver pointed steadily at Rizzi’s head – all of them frozen near the front door. Santini used the oldest trick of all. Standing stock still, arms by his side, the gun concealed behind his leg he said in a low voice, ‘Cut it out Falcone, you’re finished.’

Falcone snarled, ‘Not yet Santini, I’ve got a little surprise in store for you.’

Santini nodded and said, ‘Me too. Shoot him Ludo.’ Rizzi’s wife fainted. Hampered by the woman’s dead weight, Falcone spun in the direction of Santini’s nod. Smoothly, Santini raised his arm and shot Falcone in the side of his head. Rizzi too collapsed to the floor.

Constructive experience mused Santini – never underestimate an adversary. He considered Aldrittson weak but recognised his gutsy performances in Parliament. Perhaps weak was not quite the term for Aldrittson, Santini reflected, the stakes were high and Aldrittson had much to lose. He reconsidered his opinion and concluded that familiarity and, yes, even a touch of arrogance may have caused him to underestimate Ben Aldrittson. Okay. What could Aldrittson do? He liked power, had contacts, unlimited wealth and influence, and, thought Santini, while he does confront people, he’s bloody sneaky about it. Aldrittson had only two choices: comply or retaliate. The more he thought about Aldrittson, the more he leaned towards his own underestimation of the man. He took a large gulp of wine and reached for the phone.

‘Pronto?’ The deep voice spoke softly.

‘Don Pescaro, I’ve been thinking about my recent meeting with Ben Aldrittson. I’ve no grounds for alarm, but you know I am careful. I think we should take precautions.’

Santini listened to Pescaro’s thoughtful silence.

‘Anything else Nardo?’

‘No Giuseppe, that’s all.’

‘I’ll deal with it Nardo, ciao.’

In the empty house across the road, Fox listened to the cryptic conversation through a pair of tiny speech activated microphones hidden at Santini’s front window. Having established that Santini and Pescaro were together for the day, he had taken a closer look at Santini’s house. In a cap and Red Cross vest, Fox doorknocked both sides of the street canvassing for donations. He grinned and felt good at the thought of someone in the Melbourne Red Cross office opening an envelope with $132 and a “good luck” card inside.

Knowing Santini was not at home, Fox had planted his bugs under the ploy of creating sufficient noise to wake the dead or, in this case, bring Santini to the door. Santini’s neighbour emerged to check out the fuss. Fox explained who he was then left after receiving a $5 donation from the man. His success was marked by this captured conversation.

Fox dialled Spencer Johnson’s hotline.

‘Yes.’

‘Fox. Santini’s radar just kicked in. Far as I can tell there is nothing either we, or Aldrittson, have done to trigger his warning bells. He just asked Pescaro to take precautions in regard to Ben Aldrittson.’ Fox spoke succinctly.

‘Thanks mate. I might get Little and Jamieson back on the job. Perhaps split them and have one watch your back. I’m not yet sure just what Aldrittson has planned, but he must be untouchable. And, we can’t afford to underestimate Pescaro, he’s got big resources. Anything else?’

‘No, but listen, I don’t need those two. Last time they were here they stood out like country dunnies. If Santini is tuned in, he won’t miss them.’

‘Righto ate, I’ll leave it to you.’

Fox settled back in his camp chair. His bug revealed that Santini was now watching the Sunday night movie. At 10:45 p.m., Santini’s light went out. Fox settled himself for sleep and set his watch for 4:30 a.m.; he wouldn’t need it, just a precaution. He didn’t want to miss Santini leaving for work.