Chapter
THIRTY-TWO

By three o’clock Friday afternoon, Drummond had been at the State library for two hours. He was trawling the microfiche of local and interstate newspapers for anything about Falcone, Pescaro or Altierre.

He had reached the early eighties without much joy. Obviously, he mused, these characters were gold medallists at the low profile. So far, only Sydney’s Leonardo Falcone had surfaced in a short-lived story about extortion. Committed for trial in 1982, the case was dropped when, mysteriously, three key witnesses died in separate road accidents – all in one week. No connection was discovered to Falcone and there was no further attempt at prosecution.

He was beginning to think his idea was futile when he smelt a vaguely familiar perfume. The source was a very attractive dark-haired woman. As he discreetly studied her recognition stirred. She was the woman he had seen on TV at Santini’s funeral. Today she was in jeans, a cream top and smart suede leather jacket. On television she had looked a stunner, but in the flesh, she was even better. He watched her walk towards the counter. Then, with a jolt, he suddenly twigged it was not just the perfume that was familiar – he had seen that purposeful walk before. His mind flashed back to the Aldrittson Depot where, crouched by a desk, someone wearing that perfume walked briskly past him to Santini’s office. There was no mistaking the build and gait. Drummond was sure she was Aldrittson’s second intruder.

He continued watching her. Eventually, she took several microfiche packets to a reader three stations away. Now he was fascinated. He rose, ordered more microfiche and came back to the work-station opposite her.

Teresa’s tumultuous feelings had put her off balance: simultaneously she was angry, revulsed and deeply hurt. She had met Pescaro at nine that morning and learned the ghastly story of her parents and Angelina Pescaro. Even though she felt as though her heart was being ripped out she knew she had surprised Pescaro by remaining outwardly stoic. Since discovering the newspaper articles she had lain awake most nights weeping while knowing her bitter and depressing past was unchangeable. Wrongly, Pescaro had construed her reaction as one of strength and conformity to the Family Code.

He stressed that her task now was to master the role of Consigliere. She would be the Family’s investment manager, banker, realtor, entrepreneur and mediator. In so far as Alfredo and Angelina were concerned, the Code had been honoured. Pescaro had spoken emotionally of his own pain and remorse for Teresa’s mother. He had attempted redemption by maintaining a watchful eye over Teresa from then on. And that was why she seethed: so much of her life had been a stage-managed fable and she hated it. Hated the deception.

Teresa was industrious and intelligent, proudly so, and she believed she was a good person. She had never harmed anyone, stolen anything or cheated in relationships. She invested and managed Mafia money but that was like monopoly – the money was already there. Through her skills she made it grow.

Yet right now, she didn’t know what to do or quite how to behave. She had returned to the library even though she had all the newspaper articles she needed. Here was where the truth lay; here was where she able to feel close to her parents because of what she had learned; and here was where she realised that, in spite of everything, there was an aching void for the mother and father she had not known.

To her consternation, tears began slowly to trickle down her cheeks. Damn, she thought, I don’t want to be crying in here. She took some tissues from her bag, wiped her eyes, gathered the microfiche and returned them to the desk. Still dabbing her eyes, she left.

Drummond hurriedly collected his papers and followed. Her tears intrigued him. She paused under the portico then descended into Swanston Street where she was engulfed by a swirl of students and young people as she walked south.

From behind, Drummond heard the rumble of an approaching skate board. He had seen a group of scruffy youths and their boards at the corner of Swanston and La Trobe streets. Jumping off ledges and onto seats they laughed, clattered, shouted and jostled, deliberately intimidating older members of the public. Glancing round, Drummond saw one of these youths dressed in a bomber jacket and cargo pants weaving in and out among pedestrians, the tails of a red bandana flapping behind his head. He whizzed by Drummond, barely missing a woman walking towards them, wheels whirring on basalt pavers.

When the “skater” reached Teresa, he raised his left arm and drove his elbow into her head. Flying sideways with arms outstretched, her shoulder bag slipped and was whipped off by the board rider who darted into the crowd. Two men immediately gave chase but were no match for the thief ’s deft and rapid flight.

When Drummond reached her, she was sitting amid a knot of people, visibly upset, a welt already rising under her right eye and across her cheekbone. He watched and listened to the murmurs of sympathy. Face wet with tears, she hugged her knees. Drummond stepped forward and leaned down. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘He took my bag,’ she said, trembling. ‘He’s got my cards and my money and my keys.’ The attack, on top of Pescaro’s revelation about her parents had taken her to the edge and, for the moment, she felt bereft.

‘Can I call someone for you?’ Drummond’s gentle voice penetrated her anguish. Can I get you a taxi?’

She looked at Drummond. He seemed vaguely familiar though she couldn’t place him. She raised her hand and gently, he helped her to her feet.

Drummond repeated, ‘Can I call someone for you?’

‘No, I have a friend in a shop not far from here. I’ll be alright. Thank you.’

‘Would you like me to walk with you?’

‘Thank you, no. I’ll be alright. My friend will help me get home. Thank you for your kindness.’ She wiped her eyes, adjusted her jacket and continued down Swanston Street.

Drummond was curious. She mixed with people he suspected were Mafia; he was certain she was the breaker at AWD, and, though distressed by the attack, he had seen her strength. Apart from that, she was very attractive. Well, Miss No-Name, he thought, I am going to find out more about you.

When Teresa turned left into Lonsdale Street he moved. He crossed the street and waited for the traffic lights to change at Lonsdale Street. Opposite, and still some thirty metres away, he was astonished to see the youth in the red bandana coming towards him. The cheeky bastard, he thought, looking for his next victim no doubt. Drummond decided to wait and confront him. When Bandana arrived at the intersection he sauntered defiantly against the red light clutching his skateboard. A tough and wiry looking twenty year old with attitude, his ill fitting clothes were grubby and worn.

Drummond went after him. Drawing level, he bumped him hard with his shoulder.

‘Fuck off shit head,’ Bandana snarled.

‘Are you talking to me sonny?’ Drummond smiled at him.

‘Yeah, watch where ya fuckin’ goin’ dickhead.’ Bandana’s pock marked face revealed two missing front teeth while dark eyes smouldered with anger. They continued walking side by side. Bandana lengthened his stride but showed no fear of Drummond pacing beside him.

‘I ‘spose you think you’re pretty tough mouthing off,’ said Drummond grinning at him, ‘so tough you’ve got to rob defenceless women. You’re as weak as piss.’

Bandana stopped abruptly and swung his skateboard like a scythe. Anticipating the response, Drummond stepped in close, crowded him against a shop wall and belted him hard in the ribs. Bandana yelped, dropped the board and in a trice was kneeling as Drummond pushed his arm up his back to the point of pain.

‘Now smart arse,’ growled Drummond, ‘where’s the bag?’

‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ grunted Bandana.

‘Let me help you remember.’ Drummond pushed the arm higher and Bandana screeched in agony.

Two by-passers stopped and one said, ‘What’s going on?’

‘This little shit just pinched my wife’s bag and I want it back,’ said Drummond with vehemence.

‘Fair enough mate, push harder.’ They laughed and walked on.

‘Got the drift shit head? Where’s the bag?’ Drummond gave his arm another nudge.

Bandana started whimpering. ‘I chucked it in a bin down the street.’

‘Get up. We’re going for a little walk; you can retrieve it.’

‘Someone else might have pinched it,’ Bandana whined.

‘Start praying they haven’t,’ said Drummond, ‘otherwise I’m going to break your arm. On your feet you little prick. We are going to walk together and you are not going to cause any trouble. If you do, you’ll feel pain like you’ve never known. Understand?’

Bandana gave a surly nod. He bent to pick up the skateboard.

‘Forget it,’ barked Drummond.

Resentment flushed Bandana’s face. ‘It’s worth 300 bucks. Get stuffed, I’m takin’ it.’

Drummond grabbed Bandana’s left wrist, pulled sharply, twisted and held him in an excruciating lock. ‘I warned you, on your way. See how it feels to lose something of value.’

They walked down Swanston Street to Turner’s Alley. Bandana said, ‘It’s up here in a rubbish bin.’ They turned into the lane where several large bins stood at one side a few paces off the footpath.

‘Go get it.’ Drummond released Bandana who rubbed his wrist. He went to the last bin, rummaged in it and brought out a brown leather shoulder bag. ‘Open it and put the contents on the lid,’ said Drummond.

‘There’s nuthin’ in it,’ said Bandana.

‘Do it!’

Bandana upended the bag and shook it over the bin lid. ‘See, I told ya.’

‘Put the bag on the lid and come here.’ Reluctantly, Bandana complied. ‘Now,’ Drummond said calmly, ‘there’ll be no cops but, I just want you to understand something.’ Without warning, Bandana received a brutal blow to his midriff – he gasped and sagged to the ground.

‘I want you to understand, my young friend, that I don’t like liars and I don’t like thieves, and I especially don’t like men who pick on women. Where are the contents of the bag?’

Bandana gasped and flapped at his jacket pocket.

‘Are we clear about things, sonny?’ rasped Drummond.

Bandana nodded again, groaned and drew his knees up to relieve the pain.

Drummond knelt and from the right jacket pocket removed a small silver mobile phone. ‘Hers?’ he enquired. Bandana nodded. From the left pocket he took a slim, brown, crocodile skin purse. In it was a driver’s licence in the name of Teresa Marchese, several plastic cards and $150.

‘Is this all that was in the purse?’

Again, Bandana nodded.

‘What about her other things in the bag?’

Bandana hesitated. ‘There was some newspaper clippings, I ditched ‘em down the street. That’s all. I swear!’

Drummond took a firm but friendly grasp of Bandana’s shoulder. ‘Think before you answer my next question: where are her keys?’

Bandana paled. ‘I dunno. I mean, they were in the bag. I chucked ‘em into a passing truck after I ratted her stuff. At the time I thought it was funny. Honest, I dunno where they are.’

Drummond stood up. ‘Keep your nose clean in future, the next person you deal with may not be as kind as me.’ Bandana groaned. Drummond took the bag, purse and phone and left the youth coiled on the ground.

Back in his Balwyn unit Drummond studied Teresa’s belongings. He checked the call register of her mobile and found a galaxy of numbers. He downloaded them to his own mobile and from her driving licence noted her address as 16 Rose Street, Burnley – not too far away. He fetched his white pages directory and checked for a land line number – not listed.

Drummond felt he had a conundrum on his hands. He was deeply suspicious of AWD and their practices and he had seen this woman on television at Santini’s funeral. Not only that, she was standing next to a man connected to the Mafia. Santini worked at AWD. Jack Aldrittson was at the funeral. With these associations he wondered why on earth she had broken into the AWD depot. What was going on? He contemplated taking her belongings to Rose Street but in the end decided to keep his distance and just post them back to her with a note.