by Cenarth Fox
‘She’ll give it, young man, whether you want it or not,’ added Dorothy.
‘Work alone, away from the company, and trust nobody.’
Bernie blanched. ‘Work alone?’
‘Any one of your colleagues could be a spy for the company.’
‘I really don’t think so,’ replied Bernie, thinking of Lois.
‘You think I am crazy?’
‘You are crazy,’ added Dorothy, passing the tea.
‘I could tell you stories to make your hair stand very tall. If you make a discovery, the company will know everything. They will use your discovery, not to help mankind, but to make money. People above you will claim it is their discovery and you will be drafted.’
‘Shafted,’ added her partner.
‘So,’ said Annuska, ‘did I tell you what you wanted to hear?’
Bernie hesitated. ‘I believe I should respectfully decline to answer on the grounds I might incriminate myself.’
The women warmed to their young visitor. Annuska continued.
‘Perhaps when you have developed your idea, and think I can be trusted, you will call again. Slowly is how to make your theory proved.’
‘Prove your theory,’ corrected Dorothy. ‘Have a biscuit, young man.’
Going home, Bernie’s mind fizzed.
Are there spies at Labcope? Surely not.
There were. As Bernie headed back to Cremorne, the Hyphen sat in his South Yarra home, reading an email from the Labcope librarian. Her report detailed Bernie’s recent inspection of Dr Eszes’ research notes.
So Slim of R & D is looking at research produced by that whacky Hungarian dyke. Why? What is that smug prick planning?
The Hyphen reached for his phone, dialled a number then spoke.
‘It’s your Labcope contact. I have another job for you.’
5
LUCA PARISI knew the drug trade well; he knew how to obtain drugs, sell them, “clean” the takings, and, most importantly, how to avoid the law. But Luca had a new rival, Brendan Murphy. Born and bred in Belfast, Murphy excelled at hatred and violence.
The Irishman attempted a takeover of Luca’s patch. His associates approached the druggies, the worker ants, who sold Luca’s goods.
‘Want some gear?’
‘How much?’
‘Try before you buy.’
Genius marketing. The addict snaffled the free sample.
‘Nice,’ said the addict. ‘Emma chisit?’*
(*Australian for ‘How much is it?’)
‘Usual price but we give credit.’
More genius marketing. Talk about an offer too good to refuse.
And so Murphy moved in, and Luca’s drug income collapsed.
It was payback time.
At Luca’s next meeting, his “staff” looked nervous. An angry Luca made everyone nervous. The word from the street was all about Murphy, the Irish prick who muscled in on “our” territory. Luca seethed.
‘Irish prick. Who the fuck does he think he is?’
‘He’s givin’ away free samples and free credit,’ said Animal.
‘You want we match the offer, boss?’ asked ex-builder’s labourer Jim, so-called because his mates could not pronounce Giambattista.
‘No way,’ snorted Luca. ‘We fight fire with a fucken cruise missile. Where there is fear, there is respect. Scare ‘em, Animal, give his pushers a slap, something special.’
Animal grinned. Other people’s pain was his drug of choice, and that night Luca’s army waited by an inner-city lane. Animal paced in the shadows, pretending to be a druggie on heat. A Murphy car pulled up, and one of his pushers approached Animal, Luca’s phony addict.
The pusher had barely started his spiel when the sounds of breaking glass and terrifying screams exploded. The pusher spun around.
Using a tomahawk and sledgehammer, two of Luca’s crew smashed the windows of Murphy’s company car. The driver lost control of his bodily functions, and the top of a couple of digits for good measure.
Alas, the driver was not alone in Trouble City. As the pusher turned to the commotion, Animal thrust a knife towards Murphy’s minion.
Now there are conditions and diseases of the buttocks, which can be bloody unpleasant, but few provide as much exquisite pain as a blade plunged into one’s gluteus maximus. The screaming of Murphy’s men reverberated in stereo.
By the time the cops arrived, the weeping wounded, along with Luca’s entourage, had fled, although only one team repaired to St Vincent’s Emergency. The hospital staff called the police. Unsurprisingly, the victims could not remember anything about their attackers.
When told the news, Luca and Murphy had vastly different reactions.
Consequently, war broke out between two crime lords, the Italian and the Ulsterman. They began life as good Catholics although both now only attended church for a funeral, of which there were plenty.
The gendarmes were chuffed the crims were at war with each other. So long as collateral damage did not raise its bloody head, crims killing crims meant bodies were interred, not incarcerated — savings all round.
Luca seldom swore in public. Unlike most criminals, he worked hard at looking like a good citizen. His theory being that if he dressed and behaved as a law-abiding and polite member of society, his neighbours would trust and accept him, and the cops would be less inclined to consider him a person of interest.
Hardly. To the cops, Luca was a ravenous wolf in sheep’s clothing, and various law-enforcement agencies had most definitely marked his card. However, being on their radar did not put Luca inside.
Like many a top crook, Luca remained at large. He maintained clean hands, using lackeys at the coalface to perform his criminal activities. If they got caught, these low-ranking lawbreakers knew that to grass meant death to them and their family.
Luca had two goals — to make as much money as possible, and to impress his Mafia connections back in Calabria. Luca wanted to deal with his Italian fellow criminals, the ’Ndrangheta, not just because they could supply quality gear or knew where he could find same, but because he wanted respect. Luca just had to become the Down Under Don.
Dealing drugs was not easy. He faced competition — the Belfast boy a prime example — and Luca found demand for drugs constantly changed.
From heroin in laneways to cocaine in penthouses; from good old pot to ecstasy and ice, and from Bute to Carfentanil — which drugs would be fashionable next year, next week? Should Luca import the finished product, or make his own? God it was tough being a crime lord.
But the boy done good. Washing the money through his Lygon Street restaurant and gambling forays became the final link in the chain.
Until Murphy made waves, Luca’s money rolled in, the cops could not nail him, and if they tried, Luca believed in the ’Ndrangheta proverb: “The only thing that can’t be bribed is the weather”.
Brendan Murphy became Luca’s sworn enemy. Murphy and Luca had identical investments and, in the words of many a cowboy in many a B grade Western, “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us”.
Murphy played dirty. He had anger, vengeance and fear tattooed all over him — literally. He saw Luca as a dago, an Iti, a feckin’ spaghetti-sucking wog. For Murphy, ruling Melbourne’s underworld was less important than smashing Luca’s empire. Hate is a powerful stimulant. Murphy, the ex-IRA street fighter, went in hard with his simple plan.
Because Luca offered no credit when selling drugs, he avoided outstanding bills but left himself open to a takeover. Murphy took over.
Murphy’s free samples and credit whacked Luca’s hip pocket hard, and the Italian was not having it. The bashing and brutal maiming of Murphy’s men was a statement of intent, a textbook example of payback.
Murphy knew all about tit for tat. He grew up in Belfast. And so it started. You pinch my patch, I smack your boys. You smack my boys, I smack your family. A code between warlords did not exist, but if it did, the only rule would be, “there ain’t no rules�
��.
Of course, Luca knew Murphy would hit back hard, but even Luca did not expect the double whammy the Irishman had in mind.
It was the perfect tit for Luca’s tat. It scared the shit out of the Italian, but worse, it brought the cops to Luca’s front door. Bugger.
News of Luca’s savage attack on Murphy’s men caused the Belfast boy angst. He fumed. His blood pressure surged. His motto in life could be found in the “biblical” verse hanging on his parlour wall.
An eye for a feckin’ eye.
We all have different types of sleep. When we experience deep sleep, we are harder to wake and, if woken, we might become disorientated. Some reckon 3am is the time of deepest sleep with our body clocks in lock-down. It is the perfect time for unrighteous villains to ply their trade.
If you are planning a hit, the fear a 3am attack creates is greater than if the victim is awake or nearly so. Deep sleep, plus sudden and life-threatening activity, equals serious fear.
Murphy’s hitman had clear instructions. The target was tattooed on his brain. The driver repeated Luca’s address, and explained his exit route with the skill of a London cabbie reciting The Knowledge.
Luca and his family slept soundly; deep, deep sleep. Suddenly their world exploded as bullets smashed through windows and doors. The noise woke the suburb. Dogs barked, babies cried, and parents panicked. Luca leapt out of bed, screaming at his wife.
‘Put Ange under his bed and stay down.’
Luca raced downstairs. He needed a weapon. How could he protect himself and his family without a firearm? He stopped.
Shit. People have already rung the cops. They will be here in my house. An innocent victim would call the cops.
He left his gun in its hiding place, grabbed his mobile, and called triple zero. He gave his details to the dreaded pigs.
The filth arrived pronto. They walked, sauntered even, around his home; uniforms first, then detectives, and finally forensics.
The fucken police are standing in my lounge room.
‘And have you any idea who may have done this, sir?’
‘Not a clue, officer,’ replied Luca. ‘Perhaps hoons on a joyride, or criminals with a crap GPS.’
Luca loathed this interview and crime-scene situation. His plan to be a “normal” citizen blew up in his face.
How the hell can I remain low-key with a pile of cops in my home?
Murphy played a blinder. He frightened the life out of Luca’s family, but far worse, he exposed his rival to the cops. Murphy handed the police an open invitation to walk into Luca’s home, and look at everything. No need for a warrant. This was a crime scene to be investigated. Murphy had logic in his lunacy. Luca could not decide which scenario he hated more — Murphy’s attack or the cops invading his home.
This drive-by shooting was tit for tat 101. Luca bashed Murphy’s boys. Murphy shot up Luca’s home. So now, it was game on. The ball was back in Luca’s court. But how would he return serve?
The police departed and Luca relaxed a touch. Big mistake. If he thought getting rid of the cops meant the end of his misery, he was deadset wrong. His troubles multiplied. First his wife, and then his mother fired both barrels.
‘Our son could have been killed,’ screamed Kellie.
‘I was in the kitchen just before the shooting.’ Sheila berated her son. ‘Five minutes later and I’d be dead.’
Luca had no time for bawling women. ‘Go back to bed, I’ll fix it.’
‘Fix it! You couldn’t fix a lid on a fucken jar,’ yelled Sheila.
Luca began to crack.
I have hit you before, Ma. Do not tempt me.
The adults eventually retired. Luca would have been warm to cuddle due to his boiling blood. Sheila wanted out, but where? Kellie turned a blind eye to hubby’s business activities, but not when her home became a war zone. She too wanted out, but where? Luca faced a mutiny.
And then there was Murphy and his treachery. Good luck, Luca.
Murphy loved a fight. As a hardened criminal, he took great satisfaction from revenge. And in his mind, he proved his manhood by accepting reprisals, and wore any wounds as a badge of honour.
But hang on. What about a double whammy?
A lightbulb pinged in Murphy’s baldhead. He buzzed, remembering the Belfast priest who coached Murphy’s football team. Before the game, the priest tried to stir his players.
‘Now den lads, let’s be gettin’ y’retaliation in first.’
Of course. Hit Luca again before he responds to my shooting. But this time make the response a deadset killer.
Murphy’s plan was simple. He would frame Luca for murder. It sounded perfect, and often the simple plans are best. All Murphy needed was a body, shot dead of course.
Now Luca would not kill one of his own, unless they grassed. But Luca would willingly murder one of Murphy’s men. Luca would love that.
So to frame the Iti, Murphy needed one of his drug runners to top himself with Luca’s gun in Luca’s home, and have the cops rock up.
Feckin’ unbelievable thought Murphy. That would be twice the cops would stroll into Luca’s joint, and this time they would find a murder victim. Oh, Luca, me lovely boy, get y’self out of that shite, y’wog bastard.
Murphy needed to keep his plan secret. If someone discovered the plan, his business, his life, was over. He could not trust anyone to carry out the plan. He had to do the job himself.
He asked his cronies about Luca’s home.
‘No chance, boss,’ said Noddy, so-called because he had big ears. ‘He’s got cameras, alarms, and probably fecking landmines. Italians are big on family, and there’s no way the prick would ever put his kid in danger.’
‘What about his restaurant,’ asked Murphy?
‘He’s there most nights,’ added Shorty, who was six six in socks.
‘What you planning boss?’ asked Noddy.
Murphy paused. His crew hung on his every word.
‘I’m gonna top that feckin’ Iti m’self.’
There was a murmur of surprise and delight followed by something amazing — a round of applause. Hardened crims actually put their hands together. They were rapt. It was a trifecta. Luca would be dead, Murphy’s empire would rule Melbourne, and the boss himself was to do the deed. If only they knew Murphy’s real intention.
The Belfast boy chose his youngest and least experienced gang member.
‘Don’t take him, boss,’ pleaded Noddy. ‘The kid’s a deadset liability.’
‘He’s small enough to get over the fence and in that back window,’ replied Murphy. ‘Just make sure you’re ready once Luca’s been hit.’
Noddy’s big ears twitched with concern.
The three men waited till near midnight. It was a Monday, and the restaurant would be empty or nearly so. The plan was to break into the back of the restaurant, bail up the kitchen staff, have one of them call for Luca, and then, when the drug lord arrived, hit the prick with a few rounds where no surgeon need ever go.
That was Murphy’s public plan. His other plan remained secret.
The teenager, Hoops, smaller than a jockey, accompanied his boss. The duo crept down the Carlton lane. Both were carrying. Murphy had the weapons, Hoops the steps. They stopped at the back fence of Luca’s restaurant. Murphy gave Hoops a bunk up. He scaled the fence, couldn’t handle the locks, so Murphy used the steps. Once inside, Murphy handed Hoops a gun.
Lights from the kitchen lit the yard, and the intruders crept towards the back door. Inside, pots and pans rattled and banged. An Italian song played on a flour-dusted radio. Garlic smells lingered. Suddenly the back door opened, and Murphy pulled Hoops back against the wall. A kitchen hand dumped food waste in a bin.
A click disturbed the employee, who looked and, in the dim light, saw Murphy’s gun pointed straight at him. His scream died.
‘Call out and you’re dead,’ hissed Murphy.
‘Don’t shoot, please,’ he begged.
‘Is Luca inside?’ The kitchen ha
nd nodded. ‘In da restaurant?’ More nodding.
‘You got a weapon in da kitchen?’
Even more nodding.
‘Where?’ demanded Murphy.
This time nodding wasn’t an option.
‘There’s a pistol behind the knives, and a shotgun in the freezer.’
‘How many people are in da kitchen now? Show me fingers.’
The terrified worker gave a V for Victory sign. Murphy moved towards the man who dropped to his knees and wept. Murphy whipped his pistol across the victim’s temple, and the man fell, knocking rubbish bins.
Someone called from the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’ The chef appeared, saw his fallen co-worker, and knelt. Terror sprang from the darkness as Murphy’s pistol pressed against the back of the chef’s skull.
‘Shut da feck up.’ The chef’s hands shot up. He was familiar with Mafia rules. ‘Stand slowly, slowly,’ ordered Murphy.
The chef entered the kitchen where a man, washing dishes, saw the trio. Even the suds fell silent as the third employee copped instant fear.
Murphy spoke to Hoops. ‘If they move, shoot ‘em.’
Murphy crept towards the knives on the work surface, and collected the hidden gun. He gave orders to the chef.
‘Get Luca to come to da kitchen. Tell him dere’s a problem wid da oven. And make it feckin’ believable. Warn him and you die.’
The chef and dishwasher endured chest pain. Murphy nodded.
The chef moved to the swing door leading to the restaurant, opened it a little, and called.
‘Hey boss. We got a problem with the oven. She no good.’
‘How bad?’ called Luca.
Murphy pointed his gun straight at the chef.
‘We is gunna need the main man. She broke bad.’
‘Okay,’ yelled Luca. ‘I’m coming.’
The temperature in the kitchen raced into the red zone. Luca’s footsteps got louder. Hoops had never killed anyone or anything before, and his trigger finger had the shakes. The chef decided to call out just as Luca pushed open the door.