Chopper Unchopped (234 page)

He was a good mate of Mick Gatto and his best friend was probably old Lewis Moran. Well one thing about the Munster he could always read a form guide and he knew that once the war was well under way, he would be on Carl’s ‘to do’ list.

Why he didn’t get in first, I’ll never know. He started carrying a gun for the first time in years, but he would have known it was only a matter of time. The word is he got a shot away when they came for him. He missed. They didn’t.

Shot dead in the back of a Carlton restaurant on March 23, 2004

HITMAN Andrew Veniamin was shot dead by Carlton identity Mick Gatto in a Carlton restaurant. Gatto was charged with murder, but was acquitted on the grounds of self-defence.

Benji was no great loss. He killed at least five blokes and he must have been on drugs if he thought he could go up against Mick Gatto.

Gatto was a real lion and Benji was a mangy Maltese cross with dreams of being a tiger.

I have known Mick for 30 years and he was everything Alphonse Gangitano wanted to be. Legitimately brave, tough and calm, he didn’t need to bash people to get respect or prove he was a tough guy. People just knew he was a man who, when he talked, you listened. Now Mick was always the enterprising type and he ran the two-up for years. He didn’t do much jail time and that was because he was smart enough to keep ahead of the posse.

As they get older, crooks with a brain look to move out of the world of cops and robbers and branch into business. I myself moved into the world of the arts, writing, movies and painting – subjects that fit my sensitive nature.

Mick moved into mediation and problem solving. I thought that was a perfect fit with his skills and temperament.

Then he got dragged into the Carl Williams fiasco. Mick was going sort of legit. He had nothing to do with the drug business. He left that to the bottom dwellers, but Williams was so shit frightened of Mick he thought the Big Fella would come after him. That’s why he was desperate to see Mick dead.

They had a meeting at the casino to try and sort things out. Why the casino? It is a nice open place with plenty of cameras. No-one pulls an ambush when there are closed circuit videos everywhere so it can be a good place to chat.

Mick told Carl that as far as he was concerned he would keep out of what was going on, but if Carl was stupid enough to come looking he would end up second best.

Williams should have listened, but dickheads like Benji said they should go after Mick.

It was like a rubber duckie raising the attack flag to a battle ship. It was only going to end one way.

Carl wanted Veniamin to do the job and he certainly had the track record. He had fixed up Frank Benvenuto, Dino Dibra, Nik Radev and Paul Kallipolitis and Victor Peirce for sure and probably had a hand in a few others, too.

But with respect to that crew they were lightweights and middleweights, while Mick was a true heavyweight. I have always admired Mick. Unlike many of the Carlton Crew, he has real dash and doesn’t need to show off with unnecessary violence. But when he gets cross, someone gets sad.

The really tough man doesn’t need to prove it. The gangster who pistol whips a nobody when he has his team around him to back him up, does it because he is trying to prove to himself that he is not a coward.

And no matter how many times he does it, the truth never changes.

When faced with a true enemy, he soils his nappies. The number of times Chopper has had to listen to so-called tough men crying when they are on the receiving end makes me want to throw up in an airsick bag.

Some of the biggest gangsters turn to pussycats when in jail and they don’t have their crew with them to make them look good.

Once I heard the word that Benji might be gunning for Mick I knew it was only going to end one way. And deep down so did Veniamin. He told police that he expected that he was going to get knocked.

It was only a matter of picking the time and the place. Andrew lost the plot – so they put him in one.

He forgot the old rule: a good big man always beats a good little one.

Tiny little Benji was silly to try to pick on a giant like Mick Gatto. Of course, it was a clear-cut case of self-defence.

Gatto was at his usual table at his favourite restaurant in Carlton when Veniamin walked in and sat down. Now to get between Mick and his veal scaloppini is a dangerous move at the best of times, but during an underworld war, it was a downright stupid.

Many people have dined with Mick when they have had a problem and often (for a substantial fee) they get a good feed of pasta and their problems fixed at the same time.

But this was different. There would be no time for chitchat and dessert-of-the-day.

According to Mick, Veniamin kicked him under the table and said he wanted to see him privately. Kick Mick? Why would he do that? But Gatto said it happened, so it must have.

The two men walked to a small area next to the kitchen, well away from prying eyes.

Apparently Veniamin went in first to the dead-end corridor, which meant he had no plans of an ambush at that point.

It was such a narrow area that if Mick had fallen the wrong way, it would have blocked his escape. Plus there were several of Mick’s best mates at the table who would have been able to back up there and then.

Veniamin left his car keys and mobile phone on the table, so he obviously hadn’t planned a shooting. You can hardly kill the boss and then go back to the table and ask for your keys so you can make a quick getaway.

So what happened in there?

There was an argument. That’s for sure. Mick said later that Veniamin pulled a gun and fired a shot. He then took the gun off Benji and shot him dead.

Now Benji was in no position to argue as he had lost interest in the matter once he was shot twice in the neck and once in the head. A good .38 will do that.

Mick came out after the shooting, apologised about the bother and declared that Veniamin had said he’d killed ‘Graham’ and then ‘he tried to kill me.’

Benji could hardly quibble.

Now it may have looked bad for Mick, but I had no doubt he would be acquitted. Because, you must remember, dear reader, the survivor always owns the crime scene.

I have been involved in several complex self-defence cases and have always come out in front.

In June 1987, I shot drug dealer Sammy the Turk (Siam Ozerkam) dead outside Bojangles Nightclub in St Kilda by popping him in the left eye from point blank range with a little sawn-off .410 shotgun and the jury agreed with me that it was self-defence. I think they would have given me a medal if they could.

I agree with Mick that it must have been self-defence. It would probably be churlish to raise the fact he had a body bag in the boot of his car, but I suppose, like a good boy scout, he was just being prepared.

While Mick may have had no choice that day, it did put out a message – that he wasn’t going to pay underworld mice to do his dirty work and if the other side wanted to come after him, then they had better be prepared to suffer the consequences.

Compare that to Tony Mokbel – a fat idiot with too much money and too much time on his hands. Mokbel always got others to do the dirty work for him and hid in the shadows – Mick cast his own shadow and didn’t need to hide behind others.

Now Gatto was arrested at the scene and was locked up in solitary confinement for 14 months. I reckon you can tell a lot about someone on how they do jail time. Most of the plastic gangsters go to water once inside, but Mick just got on with it. He lost thirty kilos inside by shadow boxing. I was never as fit as when I was inside, bench-pressing massive weights and eating healthy foods. The trouble is on the outside there are so many distractions that the fitness campaigns are always the first casualty.

Gatto went to the Supreme Court, gave evidence, looked straight at the jury and told them he should be given the keys to the city for getting rid of someone like Veniamin. Of course, he was right and the jury agreed.

He was acquitted and left, his reputation undamaged by scallywag suggestions and foul rumour that he had the gun hidden in the corridor and Veniamin was unarmed. Perish the thought – and perish the hitman.

I do know that when Margaret and I wanted to see the Rolling Stones, I had a chat to Mick’s very good friend Dave ‘The Rock’ Hedgcock. Dave was Alphonse’s old bodyguard, but we are all allowed a few mistakes in our life. I had breakfast recently with him and another old Melbourne legend: karate expert Bob Jones. Dave is heavily involved in the security industry and was able to organise a couple of tickets for me and Margaret to go to the Rolling Stones. They were in the VIP section about six from the front. I was told Mick Gatto had a helping hand in that. I gave both of them one of my boxing paintings that I’m told hang in their homes.

Mick still knows a lot of people.

Shot dead in the Brunswick Club, Sydney Road, March 31, 2004

LEWIS Moran was a mean old pickpocket who began pumping the drugs out when his stepson Mark and son Jason showed him what sort of money you could make.

Lewis was savage on a dollar. Cash was his God and he would pull the coat of the Devil if he thought there was a quid in it.

He was a top thief and could work the races as good as anyone, but when he started to be spoken of as a Mr Big, I knew that the mice were now the kings of the jungle. Like his kids, Moran loved to pull a shooter, as long as he knew the other guy was A) pissed, B) unarmed, C) a pacifist, D) a squarehead.

He never went up against anyone who would fight back. He was another one of his crew who would blab on about getting the Chopper, but I think he did his best work under the doona.

When his kids got bowled over, he finally decided it was time to get Carl and he offered a contract, but he was so tight, he was only prepared to stump up $40,000 even though Williams and his mates were saying they would pay up to $200,000 (even though they lashed some of their teams and didn’t cough up the cash. The sap who shot Jason got $2500 in the hand. I get more for a painting. And there’s less mess to clean up too).

Some would think that with all that money, Lewis would have had a great life. But he was always just a sour old turd. He would spend most of his days watching the cooking channel on cable TV and looking for new recipes. I think in the end he didn’t even like horses too much, even though he was an old SP.

Everyone knew Lewis was not long for the world. He tried to carry a shooter, but Light Fingered Lewis had arthritis and could no longer carry a gun.

Even one of the main Purana detectives, Filthy Phil Swindells, jumped the witness box to get Moran’s bail curfew changed so he wasn’t going home at the same time, which would make him a sitting duck for a hit. Filthy Phil is generous like that, but he couldn’t save Lewis from himself.

Moran seemed to have lost the will to survive and he went to the Brunswick Club for a beer every night even though Mr Magoo with a water pistol could have popped him off.

He used to get his beer cheap and that was enough for tight old Lewis.

As long as his beer had a good head, he didn’t seem to worry that he was able to get his shot off.

Now, I happen to know one of the men who pleaded guilty to the murder. He told the police his team was promised $150,000 for the hit and was shortchanged $10,000. It must have been GST (Gun Shot Tax).

Lewis had been married to Judy Moran. Judy’s first husband, Leslie Cole, was shot dead outside his Sydney home in November 1982.

Cole was Mark’s real father, which was why he looked nothing like Jason.

So Judy lost two husbands and two sons in four murders. That has to be some sort of record, even in Melbourne.

She wrote a book after all the funerals. If you missed it, you can pick it up in the science fiction section of those places where you buy books for 50 cents a kilo.

Judy even tried to bag The Chopper, but as I always say, ‘sticks and stones can break your bones, but bullets kill your family’

She bags me, but I didn’t kill her kids.

I saw a picture of her crying after Jason was plugged and you had to feel for her but then she puts the war paint on and turns up at all the Moran funerals like some sort of creature from another galaxy.

Hey Judy. Why don’t you put your hand up?

You can marry one no-hoper, but two?

And how come both your sons turned out to be violent, vindictive, drug-dealing, scum-sucking, weak-gutted fools?

Did you ever try to stop them? No.

Judy, when you were heading off on a five-star holiday or going to the Flower Drum to get a gutful of beef chow-mein and oysters and French bubbly, did you ever wonder where the money came from? Judy was the most dangerous of all the Morans, particularly when armed with chopsticks if you got between her and a hot wok of Mongolian lamb.

When Jason came home from jail and started driving a silver BMW, did you think he got that from the parole board for being prisoner of the year?

When you turned up at Jason’s funeral, you said, ‘All will be dealt with, my darling.’

How dumb was that? It was a clear message to Carl and his crew to keep going or your mob would come after them.

Best if you had stuck to sticking a dim-sim in your mouth when you opened it instead of making statements that get your family and his friends knocked.

And then after Williams finally pleaded guilty to four murders, you complained because they dropped the one for killing Mark.

You bleated that Williams had killed most of your family but you seemed to have forgotten that your boys started it when they shot Carl in the guts back in 1999.

They started it, but they didn’t have the dash to back up.

You called for the hangman to be brought out of retirement.

Funny, I didn’t hear you calling for capital punishment when Jason was in the frame for Alphonse’s murder.

Judy wrote in her ‘book’ that she wanted to thank her barber for the hairstyles she wore to all the funerals and the person who gave her lovely shoes. What a fashion statement – crocodile tears while wearing crocodile shoes. God help us all.