Chopper Unchopped (177 page)

“Good boy,” said the Don.

But for some reason Joey felt the old man’s eyes cutting into the back of his head and he felt a bit car sick.

Joey remembered the old Sicilian saying, “tell the hangman the truth and save the lies for the priest.”

He didn’t feel too well at all.

DON Hector spoke to all gathered at La Casa Lupara Bianca, the house of the white shotgun. He spoke for a long time about the life and death of the great Sicilian bandit Salvatore Juiliano. He was working up to something.

Meanwhile, Luigi Monza sat outside with the other bodyguards. Today was the day Monza was to enter the clan Aspanu and become a full “uomini respettati“, or member of the clan. A Greek had been kidnapped from a ship in Palermo for no reason other than they needed someone to kill for the ceremony and the seaman had offended the sister of a fishmarket worker who was a member of the Lady of Sorrow’s clan, an arm of the Aspanu clan that gave food and cash to the poor. The mafia’s version of the Red Cross.

After the Don’s ranting, rambling speech about the life of Salvatore Juiliano and the death and revenge of the traitors who betrayed him had finished, the facts of which had been altered slightly with each passing year, Monza was brought into the house by Di Tommaso and the Benozzo brothers.

The Greek seaman was brought in through another door, his hands tied behind his back. He didn’t look happy.

“Men of the clan Aspanu, before you is Luigi Monza. He wishes to join our ranks, he has been told what must be done and what must be said, so now we wait.”

Don Hector nodded to Joey and he gave Monza a knife. Monza approached the terrified Greek and cut his throat from ear to ear. The body fell, then Monza bent down and pushed both his hands into the wound and covered his hands in the hot blood, then approached Don Hector and knelt before him and held out his blood-covered hands. The old Don took Monza’s hands in his own and Monza spoke a solemn oath in Italian.

Don Hector helped Monza to his feet and then said to the men gathered the words one member uses when introducing a second member to a third member: “La stessa cosa.” It meant, “a friend of ours.”

All the men gathered yelled “Bravo” and took turns in shaking the blood-soaked hands of the new Uomini Respattati, and kissed him on both cheeks.

“This is the way it is done,” said Don Hector. “This is the only way.”

ON the long flight home from Rome Joey considered the myth and legend of Salvatore Juiliano. A man who from 1943 to 1950 had become a legend in Sicily. The legend varied, depending on what part of Sicily the stories were told. They couldn’t even agree on his grave site. Tourists from all over the world brought flowers to the supposed tomb of the great Sicilian bandit legend, yet the real grave was at Montelepre. A man with two graves and even two names: Salvatore Giuliano or Salvatore Juiliano. The mainland Italian press called him Giuliano; the peasants called him Juiliano.

He was the Robin Hood of Sicily, but was he a hero or a murdering bandit? A man killed by the mafia, but whose padrino was a mafia Godfather. The legend was a myth, a lie, and a contradiction — but as they say in Sicily, today’s lie will become tomorrow’s truth. The peasants couldn’t read nor write, but they believed the English legend of Robin Hood, and that Juiliano was the same. Juiliano had been a young, handsome murderer who created his own myth. He could read and write when others couldn’t, and in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king.

Then came Hector Aspanu, a man whose dark past went back before the war. It seems he too created his own myth from the blood of a thousand Sicilian lies. Who did order the death of Juiliano? Old Don Aspanu, Hector’s mafia boss father, did he order Juiliano’s death? And then in the name of honour and Sicilian revenge raise up against his own father and family?

Joey smiled and thought to himself it was a very evil and treacherous thing to think of his uncle but it was probably the perfect truth. In Sicily the smile of a friend conceals the eyes of an enemy and the Sicilian mafia had always been very good at killing their own friends and relatives and not so good at killing their enemies.

Joey laughed about the Sicilian legends. It was the same with the mafia. The Onorata Societa, La Cosa Nostra. Its whole fortune was based on Turkish morphine turned into heroin in Sicilian laboratories and sold worldwide to men, women and children condemned by the drug to horrific despair. And the men who pocket the money call themselves the men of honour, men of respect. It was all just a lie. The only truth is that the man holding the gun tells the man with no gun what is a lie and what is the truth. A child screaming for a hit of heroin knows only the truth of relief the needle can bring and will blindly agree with anything.

All these thoughts ran through Joey’s head as the big jet droned homeward. It was all just a chess game of lies and blood. The only truth in it was to believe nothing when you fight on the side of the devil. Your greatest defence was to tell the world that God is with you. No war can ever be won or even entered into without two lies for every bullet. This was Joey’s world and understanding it gave him comfort. His life depended on that understanding.

Meanwhile, back in Sicily, a group of Yank mafiosi were sitting in a cafe on the waterfront in the seaside village of Castellammare Del Golfa. Present were Tommy Greco, Tony Rolli, Dominic Scarvaci, Ciccio Folizzi, Filippo Provenzano, Nick Morelli, Fannita Palazzolo and Guido Petrosino.

“Jesus,” said Tommy to Tony Rolli, “one minute the old vampire kisses me and gives me his blessing, the next minute I get a call from New York to tell me I stay as I am and Rocco fucking Rolli, your cocksucker uncle, gets the nod. What the hell has he ever done?”

“He’s killed a lot of people,” grunted Tony in best hard man style. Now that his uncle had been given the nod from Don Hector, Tony didn’t feel the need to be so polite to Tommy fucking Greco.

“Yeah, but I’ve made the family more fucking money,” screamed Tommy.

As this childish show of sour grapes was going on inside the cafe a 1959 Chrysler Royal pulled up outside. Luigi Monza, Franco Di Tommaso and the Benozzo brothers got out of the car all carrying sawn-off shot guns. Each also had a loaded .45 automatic handgun in his belt. Benny had a second thought, put his Lupara back in the car and opened the boot and pulled out an old wartime German machine gun and checked it. Then Benny thought again, put the MP40 back in the boot and pulled out a fully automatic AR 15 machine gun with a 30-round clip.

“Make up ya fucking mind, for Christ’s sake,” snapped his brother Bobby.

Benny smiled. “I’m okay now.”

As the four walked toward the cafe Franco asked Luigi, “Did Don Hector say just Tommy Greco, or everyone?”

“I forget,” said Luigi.

“Better be on the safe side,” said Franco.

“Yeah,” Luigi said agreeably. “All of them, then.” He was never one for arguments over little things like wasting ammunition.

MELBOURNE, 1997. Joey Gravano, Tina Torre and a giant Lithuanian psychopath, Viko Radavic, sat quietly in the lounge bar of the Bagdad Hotel in Johnston Street, Abbotsford.

“I don’t like your choice of pubs,” said Joey to Tina.

“But Cassie said to meet her here,” replied Tina.

Joey thought of Cassandra Connor, the cat in the birdcage girl, and the Collingwood crew’s odd relationship with the Albanians. That’s why he’d brought the big Lithuanian with him as a bodyguard.

“Did ya hear about the little dwarf who was standing in front of this pub last week?” said Joey.

Tina detected a joke and said, “No. Go on, tell me.”

“Well,” said Joey. “He was standing in front of the pub singing ‘21 today, 21 today’ and a really big bloke walked by him and heard him singing and said to the little fella ‘Shut up you little turd or I’ll give you fucking 21, ya little prick.’ So the dwarf pulled out a tomahawk and smashed the big bloke across the left knee cap and the big fella fell to the side walk and the dwarf brained him with the tomahawk, dragged the dead body up the laneway behind the pub, put the tomahawk back under his coat and started singing ‘22 today, 22 today.’ Ha ha.”

Tina laughed, but big Viko Radavic was horrified.

“Jesus, I hope he isn’t outside when we leave. Didn’t anyone call the police?”

Joey and Tina looked at Viko and Tina said, poker-faced, “No, Viko, I think he sings in front of a pub in Richmond now.”

“Thank God for that,” said Viko. “I don’t want trouble with any mad axe-carrying dwarf.”

Both Joey and Tina looked at each other. Viko was hired for size and physical violence, not for his sophisticated sense of humour. He was in no danger of being in the heavy-thinking brigade of the Melbourne criminal world.

As Viko sat quietly, no doubt pondering the thought of some insane dwarf axe murderer who sang in front of pubs, Tina started talking to Joey about movies.

A Johnny Cash song was playing behind the jump. It was
Ghost Riders in the Sky.

“Anyway,” said Tina, a little annoyed, “are you listening?”

“Yeah,” said Joey, “I’m listening.”

Tina continued her movie trivia monologue when Viko interrupted again, raising his glass of vodka.

“Ish fay carter” said the big Lithuanian. Or something that sounded like it, anyway.

Joey raised his glass of whisky and said “La bar danna.”

So, with all correct Lithuanian drinking formalities out of the way, Tina continued. She was a little frustrated.

“If it wasn’t for George Raft no-one would ever have heard of Humphrey fucking Bogart,” she said, and away she went.

Joey couldn’t care less about the movies, but Tina had a very interesting tactical and strategic point that he agreed with. Just then, the big Lithuanian started laughing like a drain.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha” Viko guffawed. “That was joke! Ha ha ha.”

“What?” asked Tina icily, looking as if she’d like to hit him with a tomahawk. “Humphrey Bogart or Montgomery Clift?”

“No,” said Viko, “fucking dwarf with axe.”

Both Joey and Tina smiled and nodded patiently while the big Lithuanian sat laughing to himself and repeating “21 today, 21 today. Ha ha. I like that. Ha ha.”

Then Viko beamed a large smile.

“My birthday yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Tina. “Happy birthday, Viko.”

“Yes,” continued Viko, “my wife give me root and pair of shoes.”

Joey and Tina were a bit comically shocked at this remark.

“That was nice of her,” said Tina, trying not to laugh.

“No, not really,” said Viko, “they both too big!” He laughed, then said delightedly, “I make joke too, ha ha.”

Joey and Tina laughed with him.

“Very good, Viko, very good” said Tina.

Meanwhile, Joey made a mental note not to bring Viko drinking with him again. Paid insane killers should not be encouraged to accompany their betters on social outings.

As all this was going on a 1950 Plymouth coupe pulled up outside the pub with Mark Dardo at the wheel, and Niko Ceka beside him holding the late Fracoz Lepetikhas Israeli-made .50 calibre automatic handgun.

“Micky Kelly said leave the Sicilian alive. Don’t ask me why. Just pop the Lithuanian. He was the one who got Fracoz.”

Niko got out of the car and walked towards the pub door. Inside, Joey was telling another joke. And the music behind the bar changed from Johnny Cash to the magic sound of Dick Dale, King of the surf guitar.

“Oh,” said Viko, “a bit of the old
Pulp Fiction
music. I like that movie,” he said, interrupting Joey’s joke.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Joey impatiently. “We’ve all seen it. Do ya want to hear this fuckin’ joke or what?”

“Yes,” said Tina.

Viko went silent. He half-realised he was doing the wrong thing. Joey continued: “There was this Irish guy who appeared in court recently and got 12 months jail for fucking a goat.”

“And,” interrupted Viko delightedly, “his little brother get 18 months jail for acting the goat. Ha ha. Everyone know this joke.”

“That’s it,” said Joey, really annoyed. “This is the last time we bring this retard out drinking with us, Tina. Bodyguard or no bodyguard.”

“Who you call retard, you little dago pipsqueak” said Viko.

“You, ya big drongo” said Joey.

“If your wife not here, I snap your neck, fucking Sicilian shitkicker,” said Viko.

“Don’t push it too far,” said Joey, reaching for his gun.

“Ha ha ha,” laughed Viko. “Mafia couldn’t win war with girl’s school volleyball team.”

“That’s it!” yelled Joey, going for his gun out just as Niko Ceka opened the door of the lounge and aimed the barrel of the big automatic at the big Lithuanian’s head.

Tina screamed: “Ruberia, Joey! Rubena!”

She thought the hotel was being robbed, and was screaming “Robbery!” in Italian. Joey pulled out his .38 police special revolver and aimed at the door and fired almost at the same time as the Albanian squeezed the trigger on the big automatic, letting off three massive blasts. Two of which missed, but the third hit Viko Radavic full in the face. A hole the size of a finger tip appeared in his left cheek bone and a hole the size of a golf ball blew out the back of his head. The giant staggered up, screaming and charging at the door before he dropped.

Joey pulled the trigger of his .38 twice as he grabbed Tina and threw her to the floor. One slug smashed into Niko Ceka’s chest, but the giant Lithuanian got in Joey’s line of fire as he charged his attacker. The Albanian backed away, wounded, and let three more rounds go full into the massive chest of Viko Radavic.

The Lithuanian fell forward and brought the Albanian down with him. Joey grabbed Tina and they ran out the back door. Mark Dardo jumped out of the old Plymouth coupe, dragged the Lithuanian off the screaming Niko and helped him to his feet. Niko Ceka said “give me your gun” and Mark handed over his .45 automatic and Niko emptied the clip of seven rounds into the giants body.

“You’re hit,” said Mark.

“Yeah,” said Niko, “fucking dago dog shot me, Draco.”

“Come on,” said Mark Dardo, “We get you to the doctor. I know one in Footscray.”

As the Albanians drove away Viko Radavic opened his eyes and laughed weakly, the death rattle in his throat.

“Ha ha ha, 21 today.” Some sense of humour.