Chopper Unchopped (180 page)

“No,” said Micky. “They are with the Chinese slut. They’ve got her tucked up in some house in Avoca Street over in South Yarra.”

“What are they doing with her?” asked Mark.

“I think they are teaching her to speak Yiddish,” replied Micky, who fancied himself as a bit of a wit.

“If Joey or that fucking Nazi show tonight it’s going to be one hell of a stink,” said Mark, “especially when he thinks the Jews are here.”

“You want him to show?” asked Niko.

“Yeah,” said Micky, “this is what it’s all about, boys. Total rock and roll. Sneaking about, blowing the shit out of each other is okay, but in the end it comes down to this. High noon in front of the Red Dog saloon.”

Neither Niko nor Mark understood exactly what Micky meant by this crazy cowboy stuff. But they got his drift.

OUTSIDE the Albanian Club, Joey Gravano and a handful of brother Sicilians of the no-spika-da English variety pulled up in a 1968 Chevy Impala. Behind them came the German, Ernst Kaltenbrunner, and three of his right hand men in a 1966 Dodge Phoenix. Then came a 1970 Holden Monaro GTS, with five more neo-Nazis, and a 1967 Ford Fairmont with six men in it. A total of twenty men, all armed.

However, they had been misinformed a little about the reception committee in attendance. For instance, they were ignorant about a gang of 37 knife-carrying Maltese mental cases who happened to be in the club. Nor did they know that Micky Kelly and his crew and Bronco Billy and Mark Dardo’s crews were inside. Joey was simply given to believe that Benny and Marven and a handful of Albanians were inside having a drink.

“Let’s kill the Juden Schwein,” said Ernst.

“For a start,” said Joey, “when we walk in try to speak English for Christ’s sake. I can’t understand a word you’re saying half the time.”

“Okay,” said the blond psychopath, whose eyes were the palest, craziest Gestapo blue, like the Slyboy’s.

“Yeah, well, danke mein herr, as they say in the fucking German,” said Joey as he pulled out his .38 calibre police special. His quiet Sicilian mates also produced handguns. Ernst produced a 9 millimetre wartime Luger, but none of his men had guns – only iron bars and German army bayonets.

“You’re kidding,” said Joey to Ernst. “Iron bars and bayonets. You’ll never get a fourth Reich going with that sort of hardware.”

“You paid only for me,” said Ernst. “My troops are here out of the goodness of their hearts. You want me to tell them to go home?”

“No, no, no” said Joey. “I’m sorry, iron bars and bayonets should do nicely. ”

“Okay, let’s go,” said Ernst. “Handa hockjuden hunds.”

Joey shot a corrosive look at Ernst. “We aren’t going in to stick the place up, ya fucking Nazi retard. Handa fucking hock indeed. Speak fucking English or you’ll be getting a bit of old Sicilian right in the fucking head. No wonder you pricks lost the war. I mean, look at the way ya dressed. Doc Martin boots, jeans, an Adolf Hitler t-shirt and ya bloody grandad’s old SS dress uniform jacket. We’ll be lucky if the fucking Jews don’t laugh ’emselves to death. Look at the way ya fucking mates are dressed. What, did they have a sale on flight jackets and Doc Martins at Vic Market” he snarled.

Ernst looked down his nose at Joey.

“You stand there wearing red slip-on shoes and a green double breasted sports jacket and dare to make adverse statements about me and my men. In my grandfather’s day people like you were told to hit the showers and don’t take ya fucking towels,” he said.

“What did you say to me, you big German dog.”

“Dog!” yelled Ernst. “No-one calls me a dog.”

“DID ya hear that?” exclaimed Jasmyn. The music and conversation in the club was pretty loud, but Niko had heard it too.

“Yeah, what the hell was that?” said Niko.

“Sounded like a car backfiring.”

Mark Dardo opened the door of the club and looked out into the dark, then closed the door quickly.

“What’s up?” asked Micky Kelly.

Bronco Billy went and looked out a window into the dark outside. “Fucking bunch of skin heads in some big fight,” he grunted.

Mark Dardo opened the door and walked out onto the footpath followed by Niko Ceka, Bronco Billy, Micky Kelly and Maltese Dave, then Jasmyn and assorted other patrons of the Albanian Club, namely various Albanian mental cases, Maltese criminals and Aussie gunnies from Collingwood.

The footpath in front of the club began to fill up, and no wonder. There was the most amazing sight: a handful of Sicilian gangsters led by Aussie Joe Gravano and a dozen neo-Nazis led by Ernst Kaltenbrunner punching the living guts out of each other. One Sicilian was lying in the street, shot, and one Nazi skinhead appeared to be down and out. Kaltenbrunner was using his handgun to pistol whip all comers. They were cutting each other to shreds with iron bars, bayonets, knives and pistol butts. Then it got more willing. Gravano shot a skinhead and Ernst Kaltenbrunner returned fire and shot one more Sicilian.

“This is worth its weight in gold,” said Micky Kelly

If there was one thing Albanians and Maltese both hated more than Italians it was Germans. This insane display was priceless.

It got too much for Bronco Billy to resist. He yelled out and ran into the fight, screaming and throwing punches — and, bang, Kaltenbrunner shot him stone dead. Then Joey Gravano broke free and fired into the crowd on the footpath and one of the Maltese fell wounded, then Micky Kelly fired two shots in return and two skinheads fell. Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka started firing as Joey ran to his car. Another Sicilian and a skinhead dropped. It was pitch black as the Aussies, Albanians and Maltese moved in for the finish.

Gravano started his Chevy and took off as bullets shattered the rear window. Skinheads and one remaining Sicilian ran for their lives but Kaltenbrunner stood his ground, totally alone, apart from the dead and wounded around him.

Kaltenbrunner screamed, “come on, ya fucking dogs, come and get it” and then fired two wild shots, hitting Micky Kelly in the stomach and wounding a Maltese.

Then a volley of return fire from more than a dozen handguns cut the German to bits. The big Nazi fell to his knees but refused to fall all the way, screaming blindly in German: “Juden fucking dog Schwein!”

Then Niko hit him in the head with a final shot and the Nazi fell backward, deader than vaudeville.

Jasmyn held the badly wounded Micky Kelly in her arms. Mark Dardo took charge. “Right” he yelled Mark. “Jasmyn, Dave, get Micky to hospital, tell ’em he got shot in Allandale Road, St Albans.”

“What about Fremont Parade, West Sunshine?” replied Jasmyn.

“Are you two masterminds fucking joking?” screamed Micky. “I mean does it matter, does it really fucking matter? Just get me to hospital. I know the bloody drill. Holy shit!”

“Sorry, Micky” replied Mark.

Jasmyn and Maltese Dave loaded Micky into the back of a Fairmont and drove off. Mark turned to Niko, and the rest of the men gathered.

“Okay, let’s get this shit cleaned up. Shoot the fucking wounded and dump all the bodies in the back of Dave’s panel van and we will bury these dogs. We can’t have all this mess in front of the club.”

Niko put the barrel of his gun to the head of a wounded Maltese and pulled the trigger.

“Hey, Niko” yelled Mark.

Niko looked up. “Yes, brother,” replied Niko.

“Ahh, their wounded, mate,” said Mark carefully. “Not ours.”

“Oh, sorry” said Niko.

The rest of them stood in dumbfounded silence and looked at Niko in disbelief. Niko flushed red with embarrassment at his breach of etiquette. He looked around into the faces of the men gathered and feebly repeated himself.

“I’m sorry fellas,” he mumbled. It would be the last time he’d forget that in polite company you don’t shoot your own wounded.

LATER that morning, Benny Shapiro took a phone call at the house in Avoca Street, South Yarra, where Simone Tao had been an unwilling guest. Benny listened in silence for several minutes, then hung up and turned to Marven.

“If ya fucking read this in a Chopper book ya wouldn’t believe it” he snorted.

“What?” asked Marven.

“Bronco Billy’s dead, which is no great loss. And Micky Kelly is in the Footscray Hospital getting a bullet pulled out of his guts, so it was a good night out at the Albanian Club,” laughed Marven.

“Yeah,” said Benny. “You’d need a fucking corpse juggler to count the fucking bodies. They killed the big Nazi. Ha ha,” laughed Marven.

“Good one. Mark wants us to bring the Chinese moll over to Footscray.”

Marven looked at Benny, and Benny hung his head.

“And so you should hang your head too,” scolded Marven. “She had important information. I leave you alone for fifteen minutes to go to the shops and I come back to a dead chow hanging in the fucking bathroom.”

“She committed suicide,” said Benny defensively.

“I’m not saying she didn’t hang herself,” said Marven, “but only after you did your hands-on trick. Anyway, why did you leave her alone in the bathroom so she got a chance to top herself?”

Benny jumped in. “Because I wanted to give her a bit of privacy while she had a shower.”

“Well, you weren’t too fucking worried about privacy when you were raping her five minutes after we got her through the front door,” retorted Marven.

“I’m sorry,” said Benny.

“Yeah, well, we will leave out the perverted details and just tell the boys she hung herself when our backs were turned,” said Marven. “Okay.”

“We could turn this into a plus,” said Benny hopefully.

“How?” asked Marven.

“Cut her head off and send it to the dagos,” said Benny. “They aren’t to know she committed suicide.”

Marven walked into the bathroom and inspected the naked body dangling from the shower rose with pantyhose. He was thinking aloud.

“Hmm, psychologically that could be a tactical winner. Yes, indeed, I know Micky Kelly would love that idea. Okay, Benny, get her down and cut her head off.”

“Why me?” complained Benny.

“You’re the one who fucked her. You’re the one who left her alone in a locked bathroom and you’re the one who brought up the wonderful idea of cutting her head off,” said Marven. “So fucking cut it off and stop whinging. Bloody hell, Benny, get with the fucking program and we haven’t got all day, either” said Marven. “I promised to take mother to the casino this afternoon, so get with it, okay?”

As Benny pulled a butcher’s knife out of the kitchen drawer, he giggled.

“Did you hear about the Abo on the rape charge? He pleaded not guilty and used the Mabo Defence on the grounds that the sheila was standing on his land, so he got up her for the rent. Ha, ha, ha.”

A loopy Jewish gangster telling Abo jokes. Marven shook his head. “If you tried to earn a living as a comedian, Benny, you’d starve to death,” he said. “Just hurry up and start digging.”

MELBOURNE, February, 1998. Acting Detective Inspector Barry Mann sat in the bar of Barassi’s Hotel in Bridge Road, Richmond, nursing a seven-ounce glass of scotch.

Big Barry was not a happy man. Beside him sat his mate Detective Senior Sergeant ‘Big Jim’ Reeves with an even larger glass of whisky in front of him. There was music coming from somewhere behind the bar, the melancholy sound of Hank Snow singing
My Blue River Rose.

“It’s not fair,” complained Big Barry in disgust. “It’s just not fair. The bloody drug squad.”

“But they did promote ya,” said Big Jim.

“Yeah, promoted and demoted all at the same time. One minute I’m a humble shitkicker in the armed robbery squad. The next I’m an acting big deal shitkicker in the poxy drug squad.”

“The drug squad is not too bad,” said Big Jim. “It could have been worse. They could have bunged ya into the vice squad.”

Barry Mann groaned.

“Yeah, I suppose every toilet has a silver lining. But I don’t understand it, a fucking complaint against me made by that dog Guglameno, a complaint backed up by his dog mates Giordano and Monnello and fucking Capone, and the fucking ESD boot me up and out.”

“Jesus, mate” said Jim Reeves, “you’re an acting inspector. You should be pleased.”

“Charlie and all the boys and you are still in the armed robbers. Why did I get the shaft?” asked Barry.

“Well, someone had to wear it and they pulled your name out of the hat,” said Reeves.

“I’m gonna dead set fix them fucking dagos,” said Barry Mann. “Believe me.”

“I got a better idea,” said Jim Reeves, and handed him a slip of paper.

Barry opened and read it. It had Aussie Joe Gravano’s name and his Domain Road address on it. Then the words Sicilian Controller, Melbourne, Calabrian heroin connection, Aspanu clan, Sicily. Then there was a list of file numbers — state, federal and Interpol. And the entry codes for each.

Big Barry Mann put the paper in his pocket.

“Who give ya this?” he asked.

“Charlie Ford,” replied Jim Reeves.

“Would Charlie like a quick arrest?” asked Barry.

Big Jim mumbled something.

“What did you say?” asked Barry.

“I said,” answered Jim Reeves, “that I don’t think a fucking quick arrest was what Charlie and the crew had in mind.”

Big Barry Mann beamed a wide smile.

“Ha ha ha, so we’re back in the saddle again, hey Jim?”

Big Jim Reeves gave a sly smile.

“Charlie and the boys reckon having you in the drug squad might turn out to be not such a bad idea after all, Bazza. Ha ha.”

Big Barry Mann raised his glass.

“To Cowboy Westlock and Doc Holliday,” he said solemnly.

Big Jim Reeves raised his glass.

“Legends never die, Bazza. Legends never die. Ha ha.”

Mann looked a lot happier. “Ya know, Jim, I was just thinking I might like the drug squad after all,” he chuckled.

MELBOURNE, March 1998. Gaja Jankoo sat quietly in the Earl of Lincoln Hotel in Church Street, Richmond, drinking vodka and lemonade and waiting for her uncles Jonas and Jouzas, otherwise known as Johnny and Joe.

They walked in. “Little Gaja,” said Uncle Johnny, and slapped her on the bottom.

“Your jeans too tight,” said Uncle Joe. “Your bum on show.”

Gaja flushed. She was dressed a bit on the sexy side to be meeting her uncles. The jeans were old, torn and faded and so tight they fitted like a second skin, and the t-shirt was a punky number that did little to contain her tits. The joggers were acceptable but the earrings in both ears and the nostril and left eyebrow made her uncles look at her strangely. They ordered a Bundaburg rum each.

Johnny said, “You look like a whore, little Gaja.”

“Ake shik e bonka,” replied Gaja. Which, translated, meant she was telling him to go shit in a bottle — a common and comic Lithuanian insult.

Johnny Jankoo laughed. “I didn’t say you was a whore,” he said soothingly. “I just meant you’re dressed a bit slutty, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” said Gaja, “but don’t worry about that. What about cousin Viko?”

They nodded. The death of Viko Radavic had to be avenged.

“I’ve done some checking with a friend of a friend over in Collingwood. Cassie Connor reckons it was the Albanians, Mark Dardo and Niko Ceka. Cassie tried to tell me it was Joey Gravano’s fault because he was behind the death of Russian Frankie Lepetikha and cousin Viko killed Lepetikha for him. But cousin Viko was working for Gravano as a bodyguard on the night he was shot and Gravano got a bullet into Ceka after he shot Viko, so I don’t see how anyone can blame Gravano.”

Johnny Jankoo said something in Lithuanian which, translated, meant “I’ll cut his head off.”

“So it is Ceka and Dardo,” said Johnny.

“Albanians,” said Joe. “We best be sneaky about this. Uncle Vlad won’t like for us to start big war with fucking Albanians.”

“This isn’t a war,” said Gaja, “it is family personal private honour, revenge for the loss of a family member. It’s our business.”

Johnny and Joe nodded.

“Okay, we will fix Dardo and Ceka. But Gaja,” said Johnny, “next time we meet wear proper lady’s dress and pull all the shit off your face. You look like a sideshow slut, fucking ridiculous.”

“Uncle Jonas,” said Gaja to Johnny, “I love you but ya can bash ya fashion tips up ya arse.”

Joe laughed. “I like the jeans and t-shirt,” he said.

Gaja turned to her Uncle Joe.

“Oh that’s nice, Uncle Jouzas. So I’ll just tell my father that his brother fancies me, will I?”

As Johnny and Joe left the hotel Joe said to his brother “Young Gaja got no sense of humour, Johnny. None at all.”

“I blame Australia,” grumbled Johnny. “Good girls all turn to bad girls in this country.”

SICILY, 1998. In a bar next to the airport, the Don’s bodyguards Franco Di Tommaso and Luigi Monza sat drinking grappa and waiting for Joey Gravano’s flight from Rome.

“If it wasn’t for bad luck,” said Franco, “fucking Aussie Joe would have no fucking luck at all.”

Luigi Monza nodded.

“Yes, Joey has done wonders in international cities all over the world but in Melbourne everything he touches turns to shit.”

“Yeah,” said Di Tommaso slyly, “nothing cuts a man down to size more than returning to the old home town. Don Hector was born in Monreale but you notice he don’t live there and he don’t like to visit much, either.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” replied Monza. “Melbourne has become for us what Ireland became a long time ago,” said Franco.

“How do you mean?” asked Luigi.

“There is no mafia family, clan or operation in Ireland” said Franco. “England, yes. Even Scotland. But we gave Ireland back to the mad dog Irish a long time ago.”

Monza seemed surprised. “I didn’t know we had no interest in Ireland. We sell them guns, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” said Franco, “through America. We supply American Irish and it goes on from there. But how can you operate a business in a land where on any Saturday night somebody might put a gun at your head and ask you what religion you are, then shoot you?”

Monza thought about this in silence, then he said: “But the heroin trade in Ireland, we are behind it.”

“Yes,” said Franco. “We supply a few local crews, but we have no Sicilians on the ground. It’s a bit like Melbourne. We leave it all to Calabrians there: we pull the strings, while they get shot at. I think sooner or later Melbourne will end up a no-go zone. Even the Asian gangs who’ve spread all over the world mind their manners in Melbourne. The old-time Australian crooks are too hot to be stood over.

“No wonder the rest of Australia call Melbourne Mexico. It’s hot there, and I don’t mean the weather. If Joey can’t convince the Don that he can sort this shit out, the Don will pull him out and bring him back to Sicily. Joey’s a good money mover, and he carries out orders.”

“Also,” continued Franco, “the Don wasn’t too fucking pleased about the Chinese lady’s head being tossed through the front window of the Sicilian soccer club in Carlton. Joey has no true idea of how much money the death of the China doll cost the Don.”

“Drink up,” said Monza, “his plane is coming in.”

MELBOURNE. Tommy Monnella, Al Guglameno and a few others sat in the back of the Regio Calabria Club in West Brunswick playing manila with Micky Mazzara and Bongo Bonventre.

“I’m telling ya Al, it’s none of our shit. Let fucking Gravano sort out his own shit,” said Monnella.

“Personally, I don’t like the Sicilian snake and if the fucking Jews blow his wife up, I don’t care. And if their Chinese whore accountant gets her fucking head cut off I care even less, and if every Albanian in Melbourne goes to war with every Sicilian I care even less again.”

Al Guglameno nodded, then spoke.

“Ya know, Tommy. If ya keep walking back and forth across a busy street, sooner or later ya gonna get hit.”

Tommy agreed, but thought to himself that if you held a policeman’s hand while crossing back and forth you might not get hit. Al’s good luck with the Melbourne police and legal system was the worst-kept secret in town. Everyone knew it, but no-one dared speak of it.

Tommy bit his lip and looked down at his cards. He was still thinking. All Gravano’s enemies got killed, and all Guglameno’s got arrested. Ya wouldn’t need to be a genius to figure it out, but if the men under Guglameno suspected, then the Sicilians above him must certainly suspect. And when Sicilians suspect a man, they kill him just to be on the safe side — unless they have a reason.

Tommy tossed his hand in. “That’s it, I’ve had enough. I’m going home.”

It was 6.30 in the morning. They’d been playing cards all night. “Okay,” said Big Al. “I’ll see ya tonight, Lygon Street. Then we’ll hit that joint in King Street with a few of the boys.”

“Yeah, okay” said Tommy, “see ya later, mate. I’m going home, okay.”

“Yeah,” said Al. “See ya, Tommy.”

As Monnella walked outside he checked the empty street, then walked toward his 1969 Chevy Corvette. Johnny Kingston had just sold it to him for $17000, a dead set steal. As he got into the car he could hear a faint whistling sound. Then the street exploded into a ball of flame. Tommy Monnella and his Corvette erupted in a fireball that rose 30 feet into the air, sending fragments through solid brick work like a thousand full metal jacket bullets. It was as if the car had been hit with a flying bomb and the explosion was heard for a mile in every direction. What was left of Tommy Monnella was all over the neighbourhood, and looked like bolognese sauce.

BENNY looked at Marven as he stood with the big Carl Gustov anti-tank gun. “I think my arm and my collar bone is broken,” complained Marven.

“You’re not meant to hold it. You’re meant to mount it and fire it,” said Benny as he took the weapon from Marven.

“Yes,” said Marven, “my left arm collar bone and, I think, some ribs are definitely broken.”

Mad Benny helped Marven to his car and put the anti-tank gun in the boot.

“Well, now I get to drive your car,” smiled Benny.

“Get me to hospital,” said Marven.

“Well,” said Benny, “we could have used a land mine but oh, no. You were hell-bent on using a fucking anti-tank gun. Let this be a lesson to you. Hacker said you had to mount it. You’re lucky to be alive yourself.” Benny was rather enjoying Marven’s embarrassing predicament.

“In future we will stick to the land mines. Agreed?”

“Okay,” said Marven, “just get me to fucking hospital.”

SICILY. When Joey Gravano got off the plane at Punta Raisi Airport he was surprised when Di Tommaso and Monza were there to greet him, as it was generally a job for the Benozzo brothers. Joey was a high-ranking member of the Aspanu clan and if not met by the Don himself it was good manners to be met by his uncle’s personal bodyguards. It meant either of two things: Di Tommaso and Monza were climbing the clan ladder or Joey was slipping down it. This thought danced in Joey’s head as he was shown to a bashed up old 1955 model Ford Thunderbird. So the Don hadn’t even sent his own car to collect Joey. No need to guess any more: Uncle Hector was pissed off.

Joey sat in the back of the car and relaxed. It was no use worrying. It was futile to try to escape punishment or death in Sicily. You could ask for a second chance or you could negotiate, but what would be would be. The hardest thing to run away from is the thing you fear most. Joey didn’t fear death and in Sicily a man lived longer by going to meet death and making a deal with it.

Joey knew as the old car drove along that he was either on his way to die, or to be given an ultimatum: fix the Melbourne fuck-up or else. One way or the other, Joey knew that Melbourne had turned into a stone in his uncle’s shoe. Pietro Baldassare had been blown away at Tullamarine airport with Joey standing two feet away. Joey hadn’t even been able to protect his own wife in Melbourne. And he knew that the business with Simone Tao’s head was the last straw. After all, Joey had introduced her to the clan, and now there were millions of dollars locked in accounts all over the world, and the only person who could unlock these accounts was the now headless Simone Tao. Yes, Joey was in trouble.

Monza spun the big car left, off the coast road.

“Where we going?” asked Joey.

Franco turned his head.

“Relaxio, Joey. Take it easy. The Don is at Montelepre.”

Joey sat back but his brain was speeding. Montelepre La Casa Di Lupare Bianca, the house of the white shot gun. Yes, thought Joey, he was in trouble all right. Only formal clan business took place there. Jesus, thought Joey, had it come to this? Surely he was entitled to one more chance. He was the victim of bad luck — not of high treason or foul treachery, for God’s sake.

The house was surrounded by a high whitewashed stone wall. Behind the well-guarded gate was a small sunlit courtyard. The only shade was from a giant lemon tree that had grown up through the solid stone floor. In its shade was a table and six chairs. And at the table the old Don sat, smoking a big cigar and drinking grappa. In front of him sat a bowl of black olives and a plate of fried sliced salami. Next to him sat the Benozzo brothers, nursing double barrel shotguns. A charming domestic scene, mafia style.

Joey was patted down for a weapon. This was more a routine than anything, as he’d just got off the plane, and was hardly likely to have been given anything by the pair who had met him. Still, in Sicily it paid to take no chances, and the Don’s personal helpers didn’t take any.

Joey greeted his uncle warmly in Sicilian. The old man nodded.

“Sit down, nephew,” said the Don. “Relaxio, Joey. Grappa?”

Joey nodded and took a glass of the home made wine.

“So tell me, nephew. Are you just a fucking stupido or are you trying to destroy us all?”

“Please, uncle” said Joey.

“Don’t fucking uncle me,” said the Don. “The graveyards of Sicily are full of my nephews, grandchildren, not to mention half my sons. But they died for their treachery. I’ve never as yet had a relative killed for being an idiot. Now tell me, nephew, why should you live. Come on, give me a reason.”

THE international escort service provided top of the range female companionship to gentlemen all over the world. It had branches in every big city. If a client had enough cash he could order up what he liked and within 24 hours some walking wet dream could be either delivered almost anywhere. If the client was living in a tent in some Arabian desert and had a mobile phone and an American Express Gold Card the service would be able to provide a 24-carat gold whore. It was organised, professional business and the ladies earned big money for themselves and a fortune for the firm.

Miss Donna Allan had spent a wonderful month in Thailand as the guest of a group of lovely Russian gentlemen involved in the heroin and arms industry. Mr Vladimir Zijit and Mr Grigor Zijit, two nice Russian brothers, and a dozen or so of their business colleagues, had kept Donna entertained for thirty days and nights. Then they had put her on a plane to Melbourne.

Donna had given away all pretence of being an air hostess and resigned from British Airways to take up what she loved most, full time. She lived for excitement and loved the company of violent and dangerous men. She liked to be treated in a cavalier fashion sexually at the hands of a clientele that demanded discretion and secrecy. A clientele as sexually and as morally perverse as Donna herself.

She sat her shapely arse in her first class seat and wiggled her hips about. No, there was no great discomfort. This was surprising, as one of her new Russian friends had, with the help of a little lubrication, inserted a plastic container about ten inches in length up her bottom. When her Russian friends had asked if she would be good enough to accommodate them in this matter, Donna had been more than happy to help out.

The plastic tube was watertight and hollow and contained twelve ounces of pure China white heroin. It was a sample her Russian friends wanted delivered to their friends in Melbourne. Donna had a phone number to ring, just in case, but was told that Mr Mark Dardo and Mr Niko Ceka would meet her at Tullamarine airport. The arrangement was that Donna would remove the tube in the ladies room after take-off and replace it before landing. Donna required no payment for this. If a girl couldn’t help her friends, it was a sad world indeed.