by Cenarth Fox
‘You wanted to say something, Mr Parisi.’
‘Please, call me Luca.’ Jessica said nothing forcing mine host to speak. ‘Ah, you may not have received my letter, Ms Reid, but I wanted to thank you in person. I am seriously grateful to you for getting me off that false murder charge.’
‘Not so lucky with the unlicensed firearms.’
Luca put up his hands. ‘Mea culpa and that will never happen again. But I’m very grateful, and want to make a donation to your favourite charity.’
Genevieve jumped in. ‘Are you offering a bribe, Mr Parisi?’
Luca looked aghast. ‘No, no, no. I’m offering a donation to any worthwhile cause you choose; sick kiddies, lost dogs, save the rainforests, anything. You helped me, and I help you. That’s the way I do business.’
‘And what is your business, Mr Parisi?’ asked a smiling Jessica.
‘Well, you’re sitting in it. I’ve had this restaurant for years.’
‘So the criminal activities for which you were arrested and imprisoned in your youth are long gone?’
‘Long, long gone,’ said Luca, worried the conversation was heading in the wrong direction.
It stalled completely with the arrival of some homemade bread, and a drink waiter with the wine list.
Both women ordered mineral water, and Luca joined them. More banter, disturbing for Luca, followed before the pizza arrived.
The guests ate with their fingers. Luca lost control of the luncheon. With her mouth half full, Jessica took aim at Luca.
‘Mr Parisi, what do you know about organized crime in our fair city?’
Bitch! I offer the woman some wonderful Italian hospitality, and she spits on my pasta. Well, fuck you, lady.
He went to push back his chair in order to speak his mind, when Animal stepped forward and “encouraged” his boss to remain seated. There was an uneasy pause before Luca replied.
‘As I explained, all those bad things I did, happened years ago. Now I’m a law-abiding businessman with a wife and family. If you want information about crime families, you’re asking the wrong man.’
Luca had no idea Jessica could spot a lie from another planet. The tense atmosphere simmered before coffee arrived, and Jessica returned to the fray, wrong footing the Italian yet again.
‘So Mr Parisi, a man with your criminal background, how have you found the Victorian police?’
Luca struggled to stay calm. ‘It’s a long time since my tearaway days.’
‘Bullshit,’ replied Jessica jolting Luca. ‘Only last month you were charged with murder.’
Luca surrended. ‘Okay, you want the truth. That shooting, here in my restaurant, shows just how corrupt the cops can be. They never tried to get to the truth. They just wanted me.’
‘For selling pizzas?’
‘They hate me because I’m successful.’
Luca’s luncheon plan flew out the window. He wanted a powerful ally. Instead, the politician grilled him, giving nothing in return.’
The ladies who lunch sipped their coffee then prepared to leave.
‘Mr Luca, there’s a good chance I’ll be the Premier next month.’
‘I hope you are.’
‘And if I find any corruption in the Victorian police force, I may call on your experience to help me clean up the mess.’
‘Me?’ said Luca, seriously thinking this was a wind-up.
‘How does it go? You set a thief to catch a thief.’
Jessica owned the crook. She didn’t need his money, although if the Party took tobacco funds, why not a drug dealer’s loot? She toyed with the criminal. If Luca’s luncheon had been a card game, Jessica left with the pot, leaving Luca stranded in his budgie smugglers.
Luca baulked. ‘Are you offering me a job?’
‘Hardly,’ smiled Jessica. ‘But I’ve always found the most informed people are those working at the coalface.’ She dabbed her mouth, tossed her serviette on the table and stood. ‘Thank you for lunch, Mr Parisi. I’ll have my staff contact you about suitable charities.’
She slipped on her sunglasses, and headed for the front door, with none of this exit-via-the-kitchen garbage. Genevieve scrambled to keep up, and two waiters fell over themselves to open the door. Luca couldn’t avoid the impression he’d been ripped off.
Lygon Street was crowded, and Genevieve took time to catch her boss.
‘Never again, Jess, never again.’
‘Nice pizza, but,’ said Jessica hailing a cab.
Jasmine wore a sombre suit, flat shoes, glasses, and a plain wig as an unremarkable public servant. Her cover story seemed plausible.
Noddy had a cousin, a former Education Department administrator who’d been a naughty boy. He did Murphy a letter-writing favour.
A week before Jasmine dressed down, a letter arrived at Luca’s home from the Department of Pre-School Education. No such department but hey, who cares?
The letter mentioned a combined pre-school, primary and secondary school to be built in Luca’s suburb. Education officials were calling on residents with school-age children to explain the new super-school.
Jasmine, now an education official, rang the Parisi doorbell from out in the street.
‘Hello?’ Sheila’s voice came from a speaker by the gate.
Jasmine let rip. ‘Oh good afternoon, madam. I’m from the Education Department. May I ask if you have any toddlers in your home?’
‘One. What do you want?’
‘I don’t want anything, madam, except to give your toddler the best chance to enter the brand new super-school being built in your area.’
‘He’s already got a kinder.’
‘Ah, but this new school is a crèche, kinder, primary and secondary school all rolled into one. If you start your youngster here, he’ll have the one school for life. Enrolments open next month, and your toddler can be accepted in the first intake.
‘It’s not my decision. His father will decide.’
‘But does his father know about this fantastic project?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did you receive our letter describing the new school?’
Sheila remembered her daughter-in-law talking about a swish new all-age school.
‘Yeah, we got something, but I didn’t read it.’
‘I can explain it in five minutes, and you can tell your son and grandson all about it.’
Sheila paused and said nothing.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but only five minutes.’
There was a buzzing sound, and the rock-solid metal gate swung open. Jasmine stepped inside. Ker-lunk, the gate locked behind her.
Sheila opened the front door, and Jasmine held up her fake ID badge with photo. Sheila gave it a cursory glance.
‘Come in, and please keep quiet. I’ve just got my grandson to sleep.’
They headed to the lounge room, and Sheila had her back to Jasmine as she pointed to a chair.
‘Have a seat.’
Sheila turned and froze. Jasmine held a pistol pointing straight at the grandmother. The phoney official spoke.
‘Call out and you die.’
‘You bitch.’
‘Sit down, keep your hands out front, and shut the fuck up.’
Sheila decided. If she survived this latest outrage brought on by her son’s criminal activities, she would leave his house, kill him, or both.
Jasmine took out her phone, and pressed SEND. The text was ready to go. In the next street, Brendan Murphy got the message, hopped out of his car, and set sail.
Sheila was marched to the front door and, with a pistol in her back, made to open the front gate and front door. They waited. Murphy appeared with malice aforethought. He too carried a firearm.
‘Inside,’ said Murphy, waving his gun. ‘Sit and shut the feck up.’ Jasmine and Brendan had the same dialogue coach.
‘The grandkid’s asleep,’ said Jasmine.
‘Watch the woman,’ said Murphy, and set off into the house.
His pl
an was simple. Find an obscure hiding place, stash the drugs, tip off the cops, and then get the hell out of the joint.
He went into the main bedroom but found no tricky hiding place. Then to the bathroom where he spied a ceiling grate. Perfect, he thought.
He stood on a stool. He needed to remove the grate without making a mess. It proved tricky. He struggled, then bingo. The grate came free. He took the packet of drugs from his pocket, and placed it in the ceiling. Suddenly he heard terrible screaming; weird, hysterical screaming. Loud.
Murphy raced through his full repertoire of oaths as he frantically replaced the grate and the stool, and bolted downstairs.
As he got closer the noise increased.
What the feck?
He burst into the lounge room and saw Sheila, kneeling with arms wrapped around her scared-to-death grandson, who continued to howl.
Then Murphy saw Jasmine. She was lying on the floor partly hidden behind a settee. Murphy sprang to examine her. Blood seeped from her nose and the side of her head. She would need her cat mask for tonight’s webcam. Just as Murphy went to turn and deal with the old bitch, he felt a pistol barrel press against the back of his head.
‘Go ahead, make my day,’ said Sheila in a more dramatic fashion than Mr Eastwood. ‘Drop it.’
Murphy hesitated.
I can take this bitch.
Then he heard the sound made when you cock a Glock. Murphy put down his weapon. He could never live down being shot by a woman in the house of his bitter rival. Sheila kicked the gun across the room.
The frantic grandson had settled a tad having watched Grandma whack the woman, and now corner the man.
‘Good boy, Ange,’ said Sheila. ‘Now go and get Billy’s lead. It’s by the back door. You know, when we take him for a walk. Go and get Billy’s lead for Grandma. Go on.’
Angelo looked at his smiling Grandmother. She was in charge. The bad people were quiet. He set off then returned with the dog’s lead, and gave it to Grandma.
‘Good boy. Now I want you to go back to bed, and Grandma will come and read you a story. Okay?’
Angelo trusted Grandma. She loved him, and cared for him. Despite their frightening episodes, they were best buddies. He did as he was told.
‘Listen bitch,’ said Murphy, ‘let me go, and I won’t kill your feckin’ family.’
‘Listen prick,’ said Sheila. ‘Speak again and I’ll put the first slug up your arse. Now put your hands behind your back … slowly.’
Murphy was ready to explode. The pistol, constantly pressed against his skull, reduced his options to zero. Sheila worked smart.
With her free hand, she slipped the loop of the dog lead over Murphy’s left wrist, then grabbed his other wrist and pulled it closer. She wrapped the lead around both wrists and pulled. This locked Murphy’s wrists together. He struggled, and she pressed the pistol harder. That hurt. Murphy didn’t move. With his hands bound tight, she stood and ordered him to stand, and move to the kitchen.
‘I can’t move, you daft shite.’
Sheila moved back a little, and aimed the gun at her grandson’s fluffy toy, on the floor beside Murphy. Poor Teddy. She fired. Murphy shat himself. He didn’t cry for his mother but veered in that direction.
‘You’re feckin’ insane,’ he screamed.
‘Please keep the noise down, sir. I don’t want the police here just yet.’
Murphy went very quiet. Worried became his middle name.
‘Now get up and walk to the kitchen,’ said Sheila, and this time the Irishman did as ordered. He stopped, facing the sink.
Sheila opened a drawer, and grabbed some masking tape.
Kneel,’ she snapped, but Murphy refused to move. She pressed the gun against his bum crack, and the Irishman knelt sharpish.
‘Head up,’ she said. Murphy lifted his head as Sheila opened the cupboard door under the sink. ‘Head in,’ she said. The gun went to his head. ‘Head in.’
Murphy’s head disappeared inside the cupboard with his face up against scrubbers, sponges and sprays. Sheila used her knee to close the door trapping the Irishman. With her knee pressing hard against the cupboard door, silently she put the gun on the benchtop, and grabbed the tape. She wrapped tape around his wrists on top of the dog lead. He would need serious time and effort to get free.
‘Head out,’ she snapped, moving her knee. Murphy’s head appeared, and in a flash Sheila had masking tape around his face covering his mouth. He gurgled and garbled. With speaking no longer possible, Murphy’s humiliation was complete.
Not only captured by a woman, but by a feckin’ old age pensioner, the mother of me sworn enemy!
Sheila hadn’t finished. She was sick to death of the crap she’d copped from her brute of a husband, her criminal son, and now his lunatic enemies. Now she was in control. Now she would make a statement, and a big one at that.
She ordered her prisoner back to the lounge room, picked up Murphy’s gun, made him wait while she wrapped tape around the unconscious Jasmine’s hands and feet, then shoved Murphy to the garage, opened the rear door of the family’s 4WD wagon, and pushed her prisoner. He had no choice, and ended up face down on the floor with the door slammed and locked.
The roller door and front gates opened. Sheila took off. She headed towards Sunbury, left the main road, and drove along a dirt track. She pulled in amongst a copse of trees leaving her car hidden from view.
She opened the rear door. Poor old Murph was bound and gagged, and all thanks to the bitch with wrinkles. She dragged at his feet. He made noises of complaint.
‘Then crawl out yourself,’ she snarled.
It was bloody difficult. Murphy wiggled his way out of the vehicle, and made to lie face down.
She’s going to shoot me here and leave me. Feck!
Sheila set to with scissors, cutting Murphy’s clothes. They were more Kmart than Ralph Lauren, and the garments proved easy to remove. His sweat glands got busy.
She cut up the legs of his pants, the sleeves of his shirt, and the rest of his garments. His not-changed-for-a-week underwear came away easily. The weather was mild but the ignominy and fear were white hot.
Before long, the Irishman was naked. This was top-shelf humiliation. It was the equivalent of a rusted-on ex-IRA hitman, kissing the arse of an Englishman, while thanking the Limey for hopping over to the Emerald Isle and rogering the Irish.
Suddenly Murphy felt a sensation on his back. Sheila had grabbed a can of spray paint from the garage before they left. She painted him then threw away the remnants of his clothes.
‘This is for shooting up my family, you Irish turd.’ Then she jumped up and down on his lower back, and kicked him hard in the ribs — thrice. His agony endured.
With her phone, she took photos of Murphy in various positions. He would never pop these prints in his family album.
All done, Sheila spat on Murphy, hopped in her car, and drove off, missing his body by a whisker. En route, she rang two TV stations and asked for the news department. Before long, cars and a helicopter were heading in Murphy’s direction.
To put it simply, Murphy was fecked. He could hear cars, and when he managed to get to his feet, he thought about heading towards the road for help. What he didn’t know was that on his back were the letters PEDO, courtesy of Sheila’s body painting. She used American English but her message was clear.
Being a typical male, he was not keen on exhibiting his genitals to the world, but his hands would not oblige. Talk about privates on parade.
When he broke cover, he tried to get a car to stop, while at the same time, turning sideways or even raising one leg. No go, as John Thomas insisted on waving to the crowd. When he turned his back for modesty, he revealed a certain painted sign. The car accelerated, and left him exasperated in a cloud of dust.
Then he heard a helicopter, and unbelievably felt grateful for the cops. Alas, it wasn’t his day as the TV chopper swooped in for a closer look.
As Sheila drove home, Luca and hi
s wife arrived first. Once the garage door went up, they knew something was wrong. Luca ran to his secret hiding place for his gun, while Kellie ran inside, calling to her son.
In the lounge room she heard noises. Jasmine had come to with one giant headache. Kellie examined the trussed stranger as Luca arrived. Kellie raced to Angelo’s bedroom while Luca “interviewed” the visitor.
Jasmine mumbled the facts about Murphy’s plan, and Luca switched from rage to fear. The fear dropped when Kellie returned.
‘Ange is asleep in his room. He’s okay.’
Luca resumed his chat with Jasmine. ‘Where’s my mother?’
Before Jasmine could answer, the front gates and then the garage door opened. ‘Watch her,’ barked Luca. ‘If the bitch moves, hit her with this.’ Luca picked up a marble ashtray, which had previously become acquainted with Jasmine’s scone.
Luca raced to the garage with gun drawn. His mother stepped out of the car, saw the gun and scoffed. Luca remained hostile.
‘Where is he? Where’s Murphy?’
‘I’m fine, thanks for asking,’ said Sheila, handing Luca the intruders’ weapons, before walking past her son heading inside. Luca followed.
‘Mum, where’s Murphy?’
They reached the lounge room. ‘Oh,’ said Sheila, ‘she’s still alive. Is Ange okay? I sent him to bed.’
‘He’s fine,’ said Kellie, not having a clue about what had happened.
Sheila took out her phone, and showed her son and daughter-in-law photos of the well-known Irish nudist.
‘This is how you treat naughty boys. No bullets, no beatings, just good old-fashioned humiliation.’
Luca looked at the photos and remained speechless. Sheila spoke.
‘This arsehole now has his arsehole in Myer’s front window. His face and family jewels have gone, what do they say, viral, and his reputation as a kiddy fiddler is instant world news. And that, my son, is how you fuck your enemy. Now, I need a brandy.’
They didn’t need to worry about Jasmine. She would never talk.
12
AT HOME WITH ALBERT on his lap, Bernie watched the news showing a naked man wandering beside a highway. All footage was from a distance. Guarded in their comments, the police appealed to the public for help in identifying the man. Apparently, drugs were involved.