You’re only 29, you’ve got a lot to learn.
And when your mummy dies she won’t return.
PENTRIDGE Prison, 1990.
“The vilest deeds, like poison weeds, bloom well in prison air,
It is only what is good in man, that wastes and withers there,
Pale anguish keeps the heavy gate, and the warder is despair.”
Mirak Dardovski recited the Oscar Wilde classic The Ballad of Reading Gaol as he walked out of the jail that had been his home for quite a while. Mirak was an Australian-born Albanian who preferred to be called Mark Dardo. He was self-educated and loved the English and Aussie poets and would often recite Banjo Paterson or Kipling.
Dardo stood in front of the old bluestone prison, the College of Knowledge, or “the ear factory”, depending on your point of view. The warlords and tactical masters of ultra violence, the godfathers of insanity, lived behind those walls.
In matters of blood and violence Mark Dardo had been educated by the master of mental illness himself, Michael Brendon Kelly, the smiling chess master of strategy and psychological warfare. The same man who had given Mark his love of poetry.
Niko Ceka and Fracoz Lepetikha got out of a Ford LTD and yelled greetings in Albanian.
The three men were cousins, which was the same as brothers in Albanian culture. First, second, and third cousins, uncles, brothers-in-law — they were all sons to the head of the Albanian clan. The Albanians lived by an honour code of blood loyalty. That’s why the KGB picked all their hit men from the mountain villages of Albania: they were bred for the job after generations of blood feuds.
Killing people was second nature to them. The idea of actually being paid money for it was a modern, western world idea that had great appeal. Still and all, for a friend, they would still kill for nothing. Money was a bonus.
Mark Dardo was pleased to see his cousins, but he wasn’t too impressed with the fact they were now working for Sicilian Aussie Joe Gravano. Mark had nothing against Gravano personally, but he hated his Calabrian underlings. The Calabrians made trouble for the Albanian’s underlings — the Little Cousins, as they called Rumanians.
The Rumanians in turn controlled the Yugoslavs and the Lithuanians. Dardo knew that Gravano’s agreement with the Albanians would continue right up until their real friends told them to turn on their employers.
Niko put his foot down and the V-8 growled lazily as they sped away from Pentridge. Dardo considered the mad mosaic of internal politics that made up the criminal world of the maddest city in Australia, the city he loved so much. He thought of the friend he’d left behind in Pentridge, Michael Brendon Kelly. Then he burst out laughing.
“What’s up?” asked Fracoz, grinning a bit but not understanding. “I’m outta jail,” replied Mark. “Can’t a bloke have a giggle?”
Fracoz smiled and said nothing. His cousin was a criminal mastermind and a mental case. Who was he to question him?
“Micky Kelly wants us to shoot Aldo Gaspari on our way home,” said Mark suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him. “Can we fit that in?”
“No problem,” replied Niko. “He lives up here in Sydney Road.”
“I mean,” said Mark politely. “Is it on our way?”
“No worries,” said Niko. “It’s no trouble.”
Fracoz already had his gun out.
“Isn’t he Gravano’s brother-in-law?” asked Niko.
“Yeah,” said Mark. “Is that a problem?”
“No” said Niko. “We don’t work for Gaspari. We work for Gravano.”
Mark interrupted. “No, Niko. You only pretend to work for Gravano. Remember that. You pretend to work for Gravano.”
Fracoz smiled. He was glad the brains of the crew was back.
Micky Kelly’s simple request to shoot Aldo Gaspari was to Dardo a favour for a friend — but to Kelly it was all part of the chess game he was playing for the fun of it from inside his cell. Insane, but brilliant.
*
GASPARI wasn’t at home at the Sydney Road address, but the three Albanians located him at the Regio Calabria Club in West Brunswick, not far away. Fracoz went inside with his Israeli-made .50 calibre action express automatic, a massive piece that would drop a charging elephant at a hundred yards. Mark and Niko sat in the car outside.
Four ear-splitting blasts rang out, and Fracoz ran out and jumped in and Niko hit the road.
“Did ya get him?” asked Mark.
“Dead as a door nail,” said Fracoz, looking a bit worried.
“What’s the problem?” asked Niko.
“He was with his wife and mother-in-law,” said Fracoz.
“So,” asked Niko.
“So I shot ’em all,” said Fracoz.
“Jesus,” replied Niko.
“Gravano’s sister and his mother. Fuck it, piss on ’em all,” said Mark Dardo. Gravano won’t know who did it, and even if he finds out, if it came to a war between the Albanians and the Dagos we’d win it in an hour.”
But, as they drove away they privately wondered if Mad Micky Kelly had just launched them into a gang war. They didn’t worry too much, because they followed the credo that it’s better to die in the name of a friend than to live in the name of an enemy.
The war between the Calabrian-Sicilian crews and the Albanian Russian teams was something both sides knew would come. Kelly had just lit the fuse. Now it was up to the Albanians to toss the bomb in the right direction. Mark had to laugh to himself.
“Kelly, you cunning mental case, you’ll be the death of us all. Ha ha.”
*
SICILY, 1990. Don Hector Aspanu sat in his humble two-room apartment in Palermo, with the telephone to his ear listening to his nephew Joey Gravano crying over the phone as he explained the murders of his mother, sister and brother-in-law.
“I can’t prove it, Uncle Hector, but I think it’s the fucking Albanians.”
“What have those animals got against Gaspari?” asked Uncle Hector.
“Nothing,” said Joey, “but Mad Micky Kelly has a war going with the Calabrians and it smells as if he’s behind this.”
“Fuck Gaspari,” said Uncle Hector. “I told your sister not to marry a fucking Calabrian. They’re no good for anything except getting killed at the wrong time.”
Joey rambled on wildly. “This is war, uncle.”
“Yes,” said Hector. “It is war. But you take no part.”
“What?” gasped Joey.
“You come back to me now,” Hector said. “Now, I’ll handle it all, okay? I don’t want you in some insane war with madmen in Melbourne.”
“But, uncle!” cried Joey.
“Shut up!” yelled Hector. “You’re on the next plane out of there.” He slammed down the phone.
Joey sat in the lounge room of his home in Carlton. This was a nightmare. Micky Kelly was the insane son of old Keith Kelly the swimming instructor, his old chess master. Kelly’s influence over the tactical thinking of the Albanian criminal clans via Mark Dardo was unbreakable. Joey knew that a blood war face to face with the Albanian clans was suicide. His revenge had to be cold, secret and silent. Uncle Hector was a master of silent revenge. He must obey his uncle. Rage boiled up in him, but he knew logic and business must rule. Uncle Hector would handle it.
To act hastily is what Kelly wanted. But before Joey went home to Sicily he would arrange for a bomb to be placed under the hood of Pop Kelly’s car and a funeral wreath to be delivered to the old man’s door. At least Michael Brendon Kelly would know that the Sicilians realised he was behind the Albanian move and that he would not be forgotten.
Yes, he must obey his Uncle Hector. It was smart. But, deep in his heart, Joey couldn’t help feeling like a coward. Business and survival had become more important than honour. How long could the Mafia survive with that attitude? Did the future truly belong to the money men and the criminal financial brains — or to the mindless warring tribes? Uncle Hector was right about the rest of the world, but Joey wasn’t so sure about Melbourne. It still belonged to the warring clans. Joey Gravano was a hit man, not a gang war strategic tactician, but he was deeply disturbed. The old, dark Sicilian way had placed family honour, revenge, the vendetta and loyalty to the brotherhood above all else. But since the 1970s money, business and long term survival had replaced the old Sicilian and Calabrian code of blood for blood at any cost. Since then it had mostly been a case of if it wasn’t worth it, walk away and deal with it another time. Why destroy an empire in a war you can’t win, over a few dead relatives?
Blood had been the oil that kept the whole mafia machine running, and without the threat of it, that beautiful money-making machine might just seize up and be replaced by some group that was prepared to be more ruthless.
He remembered the old chess master, Doctor Emanuel Lasker, and his doctrine of allowing the other side to attack and then using that attack against them, and in doing so isolate the king. This was the real thing, a game far more evil and treacherous and dangerous than a board game — but the principle still applied. He must allow the enemy to think him a fool or a coward and in doing so control the game by using the other side’s attack as his greatest weapon. It was, after all, known as the Sicilian Defence.
*
FRANCE, 1991. Big Al Guglameno, Little Anthony Capone, Eddie Giordano, Tommy Monnella, Fat Sally Gigante, Little Boy Bobby Aspanu and Sammy Gravano, little brother of Aussie Joe, all sat at a table by a pool in the rear yard of a luxury villa in the French Riviera.
Aussie Joe was in Paris. There had been a shooting at the airport of two New York mobsters on their way to attend the meeting at the quiet villa on the Riviera. What the Sicilians and Calabrians at the meeting were pondering privately was that one of their own number may be an informer. Aussie Joe had met with his own informer in the drug enforcement administration at the Jules Verne restaurant on the Eiffel Tower. He had left that meeting in shock at what he’d been told, then proceeded to the Moulin Rouge nightclub to meet yet another source of dubious information. Then he went to the Crazy Horse and Harry’s Bar. It was a big night, but for once Aussie Joe wasn’t enjoying himself.
After returning to his hotel he rang his Uncle Hector. He couldn’t believe what his contacts had told him, and he wanted to talk about it.
*
GORGEOUS George Marcus wasn’t a 24-carat gold hood. He was more a criminal yuppie, a fetch and carry boy. No-one really trusted him, but he was eager to please and did what he was told. Every culture has its hangers-on and Gorgeous George loved to mix with gangsters. He believed he was part of it all. Big Al Guglameno, the Carlton-born Calabrian, used Marcus as a lackey and, in return, Marcus was allowed to live out his gangster fantasy — borrow money and not repay it, threaten people and get away with it, and in general act the role of the gangster playboy. When Big Al wanted a girl he’d send George to fetch him one. He was good at that bit.
The pool side meeting was interrupted when gorgeous George walked into the court yard with a tall, awesome-looking German girl. She was spectacular, all long legs and tits. How the hell George found such gorgeous creatures was a never-ending source of amazement to Big Al.
The big beautiful blonde German was evidently an air hostess on a hitch-hiking holiday around France. The Germans’ love of backpacking saw German girls murdered and raped all over the world. The fact that this beauty had agreed to get into George’s car, return with him to the villa to stand in front of this evil group of gangsters beaming a big smile, wearing short shorts and a tight t-shirt, mountain-walking boots and a look in her large blue eyes of total delight was proof to all gathered that German backpackers were either all mentally retarded, suicidal or nymphomaniacs.
Her name was Helga and she was welcomed with wide smiles and a line of cocaine that would have killed any normal woman. The only effect it seemed to have on Helga was to make her feel the need to disrobe herself. Having removed her boots, socks, shorts, panties and t-shirt she dived into the pool, with big Al Guglameno and little Anthony Capone close on her heels.
“Jesus Christ,” said Sammy Gravano. “Don’t they have any cocaine in fucking Germany?”
“You dirty bastard,” yelled Tommy Monnella to Little Anthony. “Don’t screw her in the pool – people gotta swim in that after you.”
A rumble of general agreement followed this, regarding hygiene.
Helga didn’t seem to care. She was hanging on the edge of the pool with her arse aimed in Capone’s direction. Capone couldn’t contain himself, and with his hands holding on to the massive tits for support he went for it.
“You dirty bastard!” yelled Sammy Gravano.
Big Al Guglameno got out of the pool.
“Where did ya find this nut case?” he asked George Marcus.
“Just hitch-hiking, all tits and arse and waving it about.”
“I don’t know how you pull ’em” said Big Al to Marcus, shaking his head, “but every time you produce a chick she’s a bigger raving rat than the last one.”
George Marcus smiled at this compliment.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Anthony” said Tommy Monnella to little Anthony. “But I think ya Nazi girlfriend is having some sort of heart attack.”
“Anthony likes to finish what he starts” said Big Al. Capone let out a cry and a shudder, then got out, leaving the German backpacker quietly sinking to the bottom.
“Well,” said Sammy Gravano, “I’m definitely not going swimming till we’ve had the pool cleaned.
“George, you brought the moll here. You can dump her – and next time bring us a healthy one,” Sammy continued. “I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in all my life. This is supposed to be a fucking holiday. Get the pool emptied and clean it up George. You brought her here, you get rid of her.”
“I think it was the cocaine,” said Marcus mildly.
“Three grams of pure coke in a giant fat line,” growled Sammy. “Ya wouldn’t need to be a rocket scientist to work that out.”
*
AUSSIE Joe Gravano returned to the villa the following day to find all the boys sitting around a now empty swimming pool. Aussie Joe had something on his mind.
For some time he had suspected Big Al and his crew of two-bob Calabrian offsiders. He’d given them the task of putting the bomb in Pop Kelly’s car, and that had turned into a fuck-up. Guglameno had neglected to include a detonator. So there were six sticks of gelignite all wired up to the ignition and no detonator.
Old Pop Kelly found the bomb and, being of the old school who hated waste of any sort, he carefully saved it up, got a detonator and two weeks later the same bomb was used by Micky Kelly’s insane Jewish offsider Mad Benny Shaprio to blow the arse out of the Calabrian social club in North Fitzroy.
It was a thing of beauty, that explosion. Especially when stupid Guglameno promptly blamed the Yugoslavs for it. In a gang war Big Al wouldn’t know if you were up him with an arm full of chairs. As far as blood and guts strategy and tactics went he was so far behind he couldn’t hear the band playing, but he was a good drug dealer and money mover.
When suspicions were raised about a double agent in the camp Aussie Joe secretly hoped it would be Guglameno, but he thought he knew the truth was otherwise, and it made him downhearted.
Uncle Hector had cleared it and Aussie Joe had been given his orders. There was no turning back. For Don Hector the leaked information about who the informer was came as no surprise, and he knew exactly what had to be done.
Aussie Joe was part of a hard clan, perhaps not quite as mindless as the worst Irish and Albanians, but when it came to the old Sicilian ways concerning honour and revenge the Aspanu clan had harder rules for their friends and family than they appeared to have for their enemies in business. A strange contradiction of the Sicilian personality is that they expect to be attacked by their enemies — that is business — but betrayal by friends and family is considered far worse because it is personal.
Enemies in war and business can only really stab you in the arse, but the betrayal of a loved and trusted friend or family member is a stab to the heart …
This explains why Aussie Joe Gravano walked into the courtyard in stony silence, ignoring loud and warm greetings from the men gathered there. He shook hands and embraced and kissed each man, then embraced his little brother Sammy last of all.
Anybody who was watching Joey closely would have noticed he had tears in his eyes, which wasn’t exactly what they’d expect. He kissed his brother on the mouth and said quietly, “Como Sardechi Questo in Siciliano, Sammy?”
Sammy didn’t fully understand the old Sicilian scarchi slang dialect but the expression “How do you say this in Sicilian?” was not lost on him. It meant how do you say death in Sicilian.
Joey was crying now, as Sammy stammered for a reply.
The other Italians in the group could make out only every second or third word. Scarchi was a mountain Sicilian slang, an old dialect.
Then, without warning, Aussie Joe thrust an ice pick into the left ear of his young brother, into the brain. Sammy’s eyes closed and as Joey withdrew the ice pick Sammy fell like a rag doll to the marble floor. The other men stood in silence. They realised Sammy must have been an informer. They knew one Sicilian doesn’t kill another, let alone his own baby brother, unless family honour and orders from the head of the family are involved.
No man spoke. They filed out of the courtyard, leaving Aussie Joe crying as he stood over his brother’s body.
Joey went down on his knees over the body of his fallen brother and crossed himself and said a short prayer in Latin.
There were a few tough Italians in that group that day, but each man left the villa with a new sense of respect, and the chilling thought that he stood with one foot in the grave if he fucked up.
*
GORGEOUS George Marcus made the call to the National Crime Authority headquarters in Melbourne. He was talking to Julian Farrance, QC, deputy director of the organised crime unit.
“I’m telling ya, Julian, his own fucking brother!” he chortled down the phone. “Al is in the clear. All it takes now is for old Aspanu to give the nod and Poppa Di Inzabella will give Al the nod, then he controls it all in Melbourne. Gravano thought his own brother was the dog that wagged its tongue and not its tail. Ha ha.”
“It went magic. The DEA trick worked an absolute treat, fair dinkum. These fucking Sicilians are too busy being paranoid to think clearly. Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll tell him. See ya.”
He hung up and returned to the car of Al Guglameno.
“All sweet?” asked Al.
“Yeah,” said George, still grinning.
Big Al never spoke to his police connections on the phone in case his voice was recorded. Likewise, he never met with them. He used George Marcus as his middle man with his NCA, DEA and Federal Police contacts. It had all been arranged by a lawyer friend of his who was now a judge.
George Marcus loved it. It made him feel like he was some sort of covert operation James Bond secret agent. What he didn’t stop to consider was that any time Big Al felt he needed to protect himself from being exposed, he only had to have poor simple George killed. The splendid legal system being what it is in a modern democracy, the police would have a hell of a time proving to anyone that Guglameno was their man, when all the time they had only ever dealt with Marcus. It was a tactic known in some circles as a version of the “lemon twist”.
George Marcus was worth his weight in jelly beans. To find someone as stupid as George was good fortune indeed for Guglameno. And after seeing what Sicilians did to their own family members suspected of being rats, Big Al appreciated George Marcus all the more.