Chopper Unchopped (227 page)

IT’S 1997. Poppa Dardo lay dying in the Western General Hospital in Footscray. The head of the largest and most powerful criminal clan in the Melbourne Albanian criminal world had his family gathered around him.

He whispered to his eldest son, ‘Where is Hacker?’

Hacker wasn’t there. He was still in prison, and not in Melbourne or for that matter even in the State of Victoria. After being told this, the old man called out a dying request. His son nodded. Poppa Dardo had made a blood promise in 1987 to Harris. But with one thing and another – not to mention the fact Harris couldn’t seem to stop shooting people in front of witnesses – the old man had put the promise to the back of his mind. But, now, lying on his deathbed, he wanted to leave the earth with a clear heart that he owed no man a debt or an unkept promise.

So he swore his son to see to it that the promise made all those years before would be kept. So it was that as Poppa Dardo closed his eyes for the last time, the last nail was hammered into the Calabrese coffin. The last request of a dying man could not, and would not, be ignored. As the family left the hospital, one son spoke to another. ‘Tell Conforte I want to see him and, while you’re at it, arrange a meeting with Charlie Hajalic.’

“Who’s Al running with these days?” asked the eldest son.

The younger brother replied, ‘Moore and old Kindergarten.’

‘Good,’ said the elder son. ‘Forget Moore. Gilbert and his crew want him. Arrange a meeting with “Mumbles”. I will go and see De Inzabella myself. The time has come.’

‘What time has come?’ asked young Sally, Poppa Dardo’s granddaughter.

‘When a man dies his debts must be paid and his wishes obeyed. That’s what Poppa Dardo asked for,’ the eldest son answered.

‘Oh,’ said Sally, still puzzled.

PERTH, 1997. Tony Capone was the eldest and most powerful member of the Calabrian crime family from Melbourne, but he wasn’t the only Tony Capone by a long shot. The clan had the comic habit of naming every second male in the extended family ‘Tony’, so that sons, brothers and uncles all answered to the same name. This created trouble for the BCI, ABCI, NCA and the Federal Police, especially when tapping phones. They all spoke in Italian when on the phone and, to white bread Skip coppers, they all sounded alike – like tough wogs with bad attitudes.

The cops listened in to these phone conversations with growing bewilderment – they were between men named Tony about men named Tony. But, in reality, the ‘person of interest’ was little fat Tony, a bull-necked, barrel chested killer who, with heroin money, had established himself as one of the most powerful criminal identities in Western Australia. This was the Tony the police were particularly interested in.

There had been some interesting conversations in certain Italian circles. De Inzabella had given the nod and the Albanians had requested he speak with all other Calabrese clans regarding the matter of Cologne.

The only fly in the pie was the one, but not only, Tony Capone. A one-time legend in Melbourne he – together with Machine Gun Charlie, Frankie Longnose, Brian and Les Kane, Happy Allard, Charlie Witton, Jackie Twist and others – had given Big Mick Conforte and Al Cologne their start.

In wealth and power, not to mention connections, Tony Capone and his clan, who spread from Western to South Australia to Victoria, could not be ignored. It was Cologne’s supposedly great friendship with the shadowy Capone that was his greatest weapon. Cologne counted on the fact that Capone was the one, if push came to shove, who could out-gun and over-ride De Inzabella, Stromboli, Muratore, Italiano, Agillette, Fanucci, Gatto, D’Andrea, Bazooka, Lampedusa, Vasari, Brazzi, Monza, Vittorio and Barzini. The whole lot, in other words. He didn’t have the full-house but he was convinced he held the ace in the pack.

Capone was smart in that he was a Calabrese who actually did do big business with the Sicilians, rather than talk about it. He had even married a Sicilian in Sicily. Then, in South Australia, he married a blonde model – shrugging off the small matter of bigamy. The only man Capone had no hold over was Joe La Borchia and so it was Joe who spoke to Capone.

Tony had lent Al Cologne $100,000 for legal bills and had never been repaid. Capone also hated Harris. So any mention of the Albanians acting against Cologne to repay a debt for Harris could not be mentioned. It was the news that Moore had introduced Cologne to methamphetamines that sent Capone round the twist.

After the death of his mother and father, Big Al had taken to secretly using speed – firstly to lose weight, then to party at night. Capone hated junkies. Any use of drugs outraged him. The fact that he sold millions of dollars worth of heroin and speed was beside the point. His attitude was, if Big Al was using powders, then fuck him. Whether or not Al really was a junkie was Harris’s little secret. After all, it was Hacker who started the rumour in the first place. But as Big Al was fond of saying, ‘the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it.’

‘Triplo concentrato di pomodoro,’ muttered Alfonse to himself. Or at least it sounded something like that. Written Italian was never the author’s strong point – ‘Beretta’ being about the only Italian word he spells with any confidence. But, I digress … Al was making an olive oil, onion and garlic sauce. Beside him was the Hot English Mustard, his secret weapon. He never told anyone that the fire in his dishes came from this particular condiment. Big Al not only claimed to be an intellectual, but also a great cook. No Italian would ever admit to adding a tablespoon of Hot English Mustard to any dish. But the English had created a mustard hotter than the devil’s bottom. Alfonse would invent his own dishes, then claim it was his mother’s or grandmother’s old secret passed on to him.

Nine times out of ten, a dog wouldn’t eat it. But, tonight, his good friend and great legal, political and social adviser was coming to dinner.

The fridge was full of French champagne, but the puzzle for Al was whether the delicate tongue of his adviser would pick up on the fact that a Calabrese dish had been laced with Hot English Mustard. Even if she did, she was not to know that this was a trick that had been used in Lygon Street pizza parlours for years, always in secret.

Al’s own mother had introduced him to Hot English Mustard as a child. He now threw it around the kitchen so much that just getting near some of his creations made your eyes water. Hmmm! thought Al. Will I add the Calabrese fire to this truly home-cooked Italian dish in the usual way? Yes! Why not? How far he had come. One night he was out with the crew smashing people with billiard cues. The next night he was cooking up a storm for a respected member of Melbourne society.

Terry Domican was on the phone to him from New South Wales regularly. Big fucking business. Tony Capone loved him. Jimmy Kizon was up his arse every weekend. Alfonse mixed with the gliteratti and the gutter with ease. One night the kick-boxing, the next the ballet. It was all the same to him.

‘Easy on the garlic,’ thought Al. ‘But then again, who would notice the garlic amid the mustard?’ His mind turned to Harris. ‘I wonder what that mental case had for dinner tonight in his cell. No matter. That’s where the mad dog belongs, in a cage for life.’

The newspapers and media seemed to have a love and hate affair with Harris. Alfonse couldn’t read a paper or turn on the television without hearing Hacker Harris laughing at him. Al nodded to himself. Conforte was right. Harris played the media like a fine violin. The whole country saw him as little more than a scallywag comic and seemed to forgive him the river of blood he had swum in all his life. Harris this, Harris that, the no-eared mental case won’t stop. Alfonse continued his cooking. ‘I’ll outlive you fat boy,’ he thought, adding a couple of dollops of cream to the sauce. He was quoting what Hacker had said to him so many years ago.

‘Fuck it,’ said Alfonse, ‘too much mustard.’ Sometimes in the dead of night, Big Al dreamt of Hacker Harris and wondered what the two of them could of achieved had they been friends rather than enemies. After all, they did start as mates.

‘DO it now. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. NOW!’ Joe La Borchia stood screaming down the telephone. Joe was in the Da Renato Restaurant in Palermo, Sicily and was talking long distance to Poppa De Inzabella himself. De Inzabella put the phone down and made a call to Mick Conforte.

‘Mick,’ said De Inzabella, ‘It’s time to have a talk to Charlie. Tell Charlie if he can fix it then he can have half. I’m sorry, Mick. But it all needs to be sorted. No bullshit. Morto. Just talk. But take Charlie, the Albanian, and the blue-eyed man. The Albanian will do the talking. Trust me Mick. Al can come out of this OK if you can fix it. Talk to “Mumbles” but sort it out for Christ’s sake. It’s all gone too far. The Calabrese has to bow out with grace and allow others to continue. Set up the meeting. You have my word Mick. No tricks. Just talk. Al knows this has been coming. If he agrees, all debts are forgotten and he goes on the company pension list. He won’t suffer money wise. Set it up please Mick. One more phone call from Sicily and they will have me hit. Al doesn’t understand. It’s all gone too far. This isn’t one of Hacker Harris’s books.’

‘OK,’ said Mick before hanging up the phone.

It all came back to Mick setting up a meeting with men who had known Hacker Harris for over twenty years. You didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure out who had spun this web. But, life must go on and to continue then a little death must happen now and again. Conforte shrugged.

‘Fuck Al. He wanted to party. Now he has to rock and roll.’

MICK Conforte’s car was parked in front of Mad Charlie Hajalic’s home in South Caulfield. Charlie was the only man in Melbourne who could talk to not only the Albanians but also Harris’s old crew as the work that needed to be done could not be done by an Italian.

There would, after all, be a funeral to attend. However Big Mick kept telling himself that it was just talk. Talk, talk.

De Inzabella had already been on the phone to Charlie and Charlie knew that this would be the last talk. As Mick sat in Charlie’s bedroom, he began to cry. It was all too much for Conforte. Talk, he keep telling himself. Just a talk. De Inzabella talked to people in his own home or out in the backyard. Conforte didn’t want to admit it. But he knew in his heart that this talk would be the last one for his old friend Alfonse. While Mick sat in Charlie’s bedroom, Geoff Kindergarten rang. Then there were three phone calls from the Albanians. After that Charlie made two cryptic phone calls. Mick could smell the shadow of Hacker Harris in the room. After all, hadn’t Mad Charlie and Hacker grown up together? Just as Mick and Alfonse had done. ‘Mi Spiace Alfonse’, said Mick to himself. (I’m sorry Alfonse).

‘You tell people you’re in the Mafia,
You make fucking damn sure you’re a fucking Sicilian.’
– Joe Pesci

IN the end you can be as mobbed up, plugged in, connected, crewed up, teamed up and as Italian as Mussolini’s bum hole, but if you’re not a full-blood Sicilian, then you’re just another ipocrita (hypocrite). A fucking allucinazione (hallucination). You can wear all the dago suits you like and stuff your face with pizza and chatter in Italian with your crew, friends and even hangers on. Even kid the newspapers and the police that Robert De Niro is alive and well, living in fucking Templestowe and eating fettuccine and salad in Lygon Street. But in the end it is only that – an hallucination. Many men live out a criminal hallucination. But no man does it with the pomp and style of the Italian.

Meanwhile, in Melbourne, Mick Conforte and Alfonse Cologne (nicknamed Al Cologne) were at Happy Allards’ two-up game in Port Melbourne. It was one of the many places where they were paid protection money. Jesus, Hollywood has spent billions scaring the shit out of the world with the word Mafia. Any Italian criminal or crew of criminals would be totally stupid not to take full advantage of it. So I guess they cannot be blamed for stepping into the shoes already made for them. Unfortunately, now and again, these nitwits piss off a real Sicilian, a true Mafia guy, just like in the movies.

These peanut brains are supposed to be loved and respected yet when they are killed not one shot is fired in return. Why no fire? Because the poor dead fool never was Mafia to begin with. It takes the nod from one Sicilian and the rest of the make believe boys will fall into line. After all they have spent their lives creating their own dreams under the shadow of the Sicilian Armaiuolo (gunsmith). Dream merchants can’t fight back because their whole world is make believe. Their image is illusion, heroin, methamphetamine, prostitution, gambling, rar, rar, rar! That’s all real to them but shoot one of the monkeys and see what happens. A thousand threats along with a thousand flowers and tears or death notices and then fucking nothing.

Life is the biggest movie of them all.
The only problem is, you only get to see it once.
– Martin Scorsese.

‘MICK will get you in. “Mumbles” will leave the gate open and turn off the security system. Just remember to turn the alarm back as you leave’, instructed Charlie.

The Albanian replied, ‘You’re coming with us.’

Charlie was taken aback by this. He was a middleman. He always had been. Neither a Mister Little or Big. He just put the two together. Charlie was a ‘fixer’ who preferred never to soil his hands. The last time he tried such a game he had been shot in the guts at the front of his own home. Appalled, he replied, ‘No, I’m out of it.’

The Albanian stared hard at Charlie. ‘You’ve been playing fucking gangster all your life. You betray Hacker to go with Al. Hacker was your dearest friend. Now you want to set up the biggest hit in Melbourne and keep your fucking hands clean. You know the man with Blue Eyes doesn’t like you. Rod Attard is in with Blue Eyes. They are all old crew-members of Hacker. My father loved Hacker. Conforte will set it all up. La Borchia flew to Sicily to see Monza. My own family has talked to every Calabrese family and crew in Melbourne. They all know that Monza gave the nod. Shit, even Capone in Western Australia has said he will ignore it. I’m telling you now, Charlie, for once in your life, show some dash. You’ve made ya money. You’ve done well. The only man with any guts in this town has spent half his life in prison while the “festivo” boys have laughed’. The Albanian used an old scarchi slang word meaning festival or party boys. ‘If you don’t come, Charlie, I swear Monza will think you’re a fucking weak “furetto” (ferret).’