By the 1950s, Aldrittson Waste Disposals was renowned across Victoria. Their hallmark was fair trade, fair prices and excellent service. As the firm continued to grow, so too did Old Tom’s acts of generosity. He was commonly rumoured to support a variety of organisations among which his favourites were the Salvation Army, Trade Union Movement and Queen Victoria Hospital. Above all else however, he cherished his diamond-like reputation for honesty and integrity. The wags said that even his wife and son, both of whom he adored, ran second to maintaining his reputation.
Santini mused briefly upon the Aldrittson story as he coordinated the day’s activity and waited for Jack, Tom’s son, now head of the family business. Old Tom had died unexpectedly from a heart attack in 1972 never knowing that his beloved Jack, for at least three years prior to his death, had been secretly diversifying their business.
Like his father before him, Jack Aldrittson was tall, imposing, silver-haired and charming – the resemblance ended there. Jack’s life interest was money. Amassing it. He was shrewd, professional and business-like, yet sly, dishonest and ruthless. In 1963 at Melbourne University he had chanced upon Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring. Impressed by her warnings about protecting the environment and reducing the many forms of toxic and other pollution, he perversely saw her plea as an opportunity for plunder. Convinced that many manufacturers were lazy or venal in treating their waste, Jack saw lucrative prospects in toxic waste removal at competitive prices. And so, concealed by a highly respectable disposal trade, Jack, through patience, stealth and cunning created a burgeoning illegal enterprise beneath his father’s nose.
He quickly realised he had a competitor far tougher and more ruthless than himself. The Mafia. While he was discovering Rachel Carson, they were already active. By the time he finished university and perfected his clandestine plans, the Mafia had well and truly claimed the business of toxic waste disposal.
Believing that “fortune favours the bold”, Jack eventually arranged a meeting between himself and Mafia Don, Giuseppe Antonio Pescaro. The occasion was significant for Aldrittson who was fixated with a daring and creative vision for waste disposal and endowed with an asset of value to Pescaro: superb camouflage for an illegal business and the capability of removing most of Victoria’s toxic waste through a respectable cover. His imaginative dream, legitimising the illegitimate, lay well into the future. Instinctively, he knew that Pescaro’s grunt could generate action far beyond that which his own resources could accomplish. Aldrittson foresaw a time when their illicit monopoly would, with appropriate technology and the right political conditions, slide into the open as a government approved toxic waste treatment plant for the whole state. Although the when, where and how of his dream was uncertain, the Don had agreed to a partnership.
Aldrittson had no need to remind Pescaro of Capone’s folly but he did argue for adherence to sound business principles. All aspects of the law regarding their legitimate business were to be scrupulously observed. To minimise conflict and safeguard loyalty, Aldrittson insisted on good pay and regular bonuses to maximise efficiency. The underlying principle was simple – draw no unnecessary or adverse attention to the firm. The Mafia role, naturally, remained invisible.
For those who worked the covert enterprise, only one rule applied: keep your mouth shut. Business boomed and the workers were richly rewarded.
Painstakingly researched dump sites, carefully planned drops, generous pay and fear of exposure among the clients, not to mention the occasional use of Mafia muscle had delivered impregnable protection. Aldrittson’s good fortune had been further bolstered by a generally negative attitude towards environmentalists whom the wider community tended to regard as fringe lunatics. The EPA too was perceived as a toothless tiger. But, as time went by, the green crusaders began making an impact and global warming became a household conversation piece. At the same time, accelerating consumerism fuelled endless demand for the disposal of all kinds of waste. These competing tensions demanded that Aldrittson be constantly and increasingly vigilant with both his workers and disposal sites.
Thus it was a total surprise to Aldrittson when Santini said Danny Browne had become a business risk. Browne was a good bloke who had been with the firm a long time – hard working and never trouble. But, if Santini said Browne was a risk, a risk he was.
At seven-thirty that morning, Aldrittson parked his black BMW in the yard and strode into the administrative building. He greeted Santini briefly on the way to his office knowing that in five minutes, he would appear with the daily briefing and fresh coffee. Shortly afterwards, the aroma of coffee preceded Santini’s presence before he had even reached the door. It was a familiar routine.
‘Take a seat Bern. What’s happening today?’
Santini placed the coffees on the desk and removed a small note book from his shirt pocket.
‘I assume you heard the ABC news this morning Mr Aldrittson?’ he said, referring to the notebook, his tone low and respectful. Notwithstanding his years at the company, Santini’s formality was genuine and intrinsic to his camouflage.
Curiosity flashed across Aldrittson’s face. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I listened to it on the way in. Was there something in particular?’ Aldrittson sat upright in his chair, his full attention upon Santini.
‘Yes, Mr Aldrittson,’ said Santini in his soft, husky voice. ‘The truck fire. I believe it could have been one of ours. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing all the paperwork for insurance, the manifest is okay, but I fear Danny Browne may have met with an accident.’
‘Have the police called yet?’
‘No sir. It could be some time before they identify the truck but, in due course, we should alert them to the fact that Danny Browne is overdue.’
Aldrittson steepled his fingers. ‘Do you think we should check with Alice Browne, just in case Danny is at home?’
‘Yes sir. Although, not yet – he’s not due back until six tomorrow night. But I will visit Alice at the appropriate time. A phone call is rather impersonal don’t you think? Naturally we’ll wait until after we have contacted the police. I’ve already prepared a note for the pay office to release Danny’s pension quickly and to pay a good bonus. He’s given good service over a long time.’ The dishonesty of this charade caused Santini’s brown eyes to glint with suppressed amusement.
‘I agree. Just make sure it’s set up for the right time. By the way, what was Browne’s destination?’
Santini smiled inwardly. Jack Aldrittson never missed a comma on the manifests. ‘The manifest,’ he said, ‘shows Browne travelling to Mildura for a load of asbestos sludge. He should have been going up the Calder Highway to Bendigo, or perhaps through Marong.’
Throughout this theatre, both men remained impassive.
‘And what time was he due back?’ queried Aldrittson.
‘About six o’clock tomorrow night,’ repeated Santini watching his boss keenly for reaction.
Aldrittson’s pale blue eyes narrowed, his face was stony. ‘Bernardo, this incident is not to be taken lightly. We’ve been running this scam for nearly thirty years. In anyone’s terms, that’s a bloody long time for something so risky and dangerous. I don’t want any snafu’s now, especially as our bigger goal is within reach.’ He continued in flinty tones, ‘This is the first time we’ve been exposed to serious threat. If it all goes tits-up, Pescaro’s wrath will obliterate anything the courts could think up as punishment.’
Santini nodded, his face placid. ‘You asked me to deal with a problem Mr Aldrittson, I assure you, it has been dealt with.’ He withdrew quietly knowing their key business for the day had concluded.
Chapter
FOUR
When Santini returned to his desk the office staff had arrived and were hard at work. He tucked Browne’s pension memo into his day book two days in advance and finished checking the outstanding pickups and deliveries for the next day. His last task was to ensure that interstate and country jobs were spread evenly between drivers, a simple a
ct to keep pay cheques and feelings balanced.
Satisfied, he summoned Martin Judd. Judd was Santini’s understudy but knew only of the legitimate business and had been with Aldrittson’s for three years having joined as a driver. Eighteen months earlier a serious collision had cost him his right leg just above the knee. Rather than sack him, Judd had been brought into the office to learn the ropes. Although paid less than a driver he was happy because he still had a job and Aldrittson’s had been generous with his medical bills. He enjoyed his new endeavour and was a good learner.
‘Martin, I’m going out to a client, keep an eye on things will you. If you get stuck with something you can’t handle, ring the mobile. I should be through by about midday, half past at the latest. Okay?’
Judd nodded.
Santini left the office. He was a compact man, only 170 centimetres tall with wavy, receding light brown hair, a man whose dress sense suggested he might have invented the word “neat.” Almost sixty-one, his longish, unlined face and pleasant mouth belied his years. He looked barely fifty. Dressed in sharp, understated clothes and well-polished shoes, Santini, with his soft clear speech conveyed a mild, low-key image of respect, attention and efficiency. He had worked hard developing this persona as it enabled him to be inconspicuous. Now, it was like an old coat – familiar, comfortable and natural.
In reality, Santini exercised great authority as Pescaro’s trusted Consigliere. No one at Aldrittson’s, including Jack, suspected his double life or his influence inside the firm. Indeed, by the age of eighteen, Santini was already a tough and feared standover man who had cut his teeth on the Queen Victoria Market murders. Over time and inside Aldrittson’s, he had risen in Mafia ranks to his current status.
The market deaths of 1962 had caused the Victorian Government to bring in John Cusack, a highly skilled investigator from the USA. Cusack was thoroughly familiar with the ways of the Honoured Society and well placed to advise police about Mafia violence. His final report was informed and insightful. Anticipating Cusack’s advice, Pescaro had counselled patience, reduced activity and cessation of hostilities. He predicted that Cusack would either be ignored or forgotten. Ultimately, he was proven correct: Cusack was forgotten. In time, Mafia business was as strong as ever.
During this lull Pescaro laid his plans for control of the infant toxic waste racket and thoughtfully placed the young Santini before Old Tom Aldrittson. Santini’s intrinsic efficiency, strong work ethic and respectful nature would, he knew, appeal to the old man. In no time, Santini was part of Tom’s staff. His new role sheltered him from the fall-out of the bloody market murders and covertly granted Pescaro influence inside the company. When Jack finally met with Pescaro to discuss a partnership, he had no idea the event had been stage-managed by Santini.
As Pescaro saw it, owning a treatment plant for toxic waste was akin to owning a mint. And he wanted that mint. It was only the impeccable reputation of Old Tom’s business combined with Jack’s scrupulous care of their scam that allowed the partnership to remain as Pescaro had, on many occasions, contemplated removing his partner. Permanently. Ultimately, however, he had contrived an ingenious situation where, under certain conditions, Jack’s business would transfer to one of his legitimate blind companies.
From the beginning, Aldrittson and Pescaro discussed various means of legalising their black waste activities. They were, however, constantly frustrated by governments of both persuasions. Now, their long wait seemed almost over. In the current political climate, Jack scented the possibility of victory. Environmental issues had become prominent in public and political consciousness and an all encompassing toxic waste treatment centre would be of enormous public value.
Through adroit management and the occasional accident involving potential competitors, Pescaro and Aldrittson achieved a situation where most producers of toxic waste took advantage of their services. Even the hospitals, substantial producers of contagious bio-waste and, in their own world, advocates for strict accountability, were more interested in getting stuff off their premises than knowing how it was dealt with.
Over time, and with Santini’s malign influence, both the legitimate and illegitimate arms of Aldrittson’s business expanded. Pescaro virtually controlled both a money making and money laundering facility of almost endless capacity. Privately, he sometimes sentimentalised to Santini that Capone would proudly have included him in the Outfit. This seemed especially true since it was Capone who first devised the tactic of “legitimising the illegitimate” through labour unions.
Santini stopped his car outside a set of imposing, black, wrought iron gates in South Yarra’s prestigious Glover Court. The Court hugged a generous sweep of recreational space on both sides of Alexandra Avenue along the River Yarra where Como Park and Herring Island enhanced the parkland vista at this corner of the waterway. Here, on a bluff above Williams Road, Pescaro enjoyed spectacular city and river views.
Entering the gates, Santini drove through manicured gardens and stopped before the modest, but gleaming, two storeyed Villa del Rosa. Although not lavish in size, everything about the place bespoke class and style; from sparkling French windows and tasteful drapes to the discreet but generous balconies and beautiful hand crafted slate roof.
The care and love lavished on the house and grounds was the work of Pescaro’s long time, and now ageing, husband and wife domestic team: Concetta and Carlo Di Ponti. Concetta tended to the household chores and meals while Carlo maintained the house and grounds.
As Santini mounted the steps, the panelled mahogany door was opened by a young woman wearing a smartly tailored black suit. Teresa Marchese was Pescaro’s private secretary. In her early thirties, she was an attractive woman with a pale clear complexion, steady grey-green eyes and an expressive cupid-bow mouth which perfectly complemented her fine oval face. Her dark hair was softly bobbed and although she stood only 163 centimetres, her trim appearance concealed a well toned, strong and athletic body. Marchese was far from being merely a waifish and perfectly tailored personal assistant; she was also a woman of intellect and outstanding business and financial acumen.
She lead Santini along the wide, tessellated hallway, her slim heels tapping sharply. ‘Giuseppe is taking coffee right now, would you care for some?’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. She was polite but cool towards Santini. When she stopped outside the library Santini nodded, acknowledging her invitation and walked inside.
The library was exquisitely furnished and hung with a variety of expensive paintings in oil and watercolours. Ceiling height windows opened onto a spacious garden, pool and the Melbourne skyline. Facing the door, a crammed book case filled the entire wall. Before the books stood an elegant French desk which, curiously, brought a touch of femininity into this otherwise masculine room.
Pescaro sat comfortably in a leather chair, The Age newspaper across his knees, a cigar smouldering in a tray nearby. At seventy-four, Pescaro was trim, tanned and alert. Lined and hawklike, his avian appearance was accentuated by a sharp, beaky nose. Thick white brows seemed to bring a permanent glower to his face. Beneath the rampant brows, deep set brown eyes hinted intelligence, shrewdness and power. Pescaro was a man used to being obeyed.
‘Sit, Nardo,’ said Pescaro without rising. The deep resonant voice never failed to surprise Santini: it was so unexpected from a man of both his years and slightness. Santini sat opposite.
‘What outcome from Browne’s death?’ Pescaro cut to the chase.
‘None yet Don Pescaro, but I think the police will struggle to find the fire was deliberate. The load was prone to combustion and the explosive was located on one of the bogies. It will look as if a spark from the brakes ignited some leakage. On top of that, the chemical mix was blended to produce an intensely hot, destructive fire.’
‘Nardo, there are big risks with this death, especially as we near the end of our project. Refresh my memory: why was it necessary to kill Browne?’ The question, as Santini knew, was not an idle one. Having risen fro
m soldier to lieutenant – and now Consigliere – in a violent and bloody career, Santini was ever-mindful of Family supremacy. Members who broke Omerta, or whose violence was excessive, had a limited future. Although long time friends, Santini neither presumed upon that friendship nor underestimated the Don’s ruthlessness. For Pescaro, there was only Family business.
‘Don Pescaro, you have known me a long time. You know how well I scent danger, even when none is apparent. As Aldrittson’s foreman, I keep a close eye on the staff and can truly say I am good with them. About six months ago I noticed small changes in Browne. He looked tired, he began arriving late for work, occasionally he complained of a crook guts and his sense of humour vanished. All this was uncharacteristic of the man. I watched him. About three months ago his colour looked bad, ashen. He had become thin and sometimes I heard him vomiting in the toilets. He never said a word. I overheard him arranging tests he didn’t want his wife to know about. Later I acquired copies of the results. Cancer. Not just cancer, but a type I discovered could be triggered by some of the liquids he dumps. Last week, he spoke to me about the Walwa business, freaked out by the thought of the EPA catching him. He went on and on about how the stuff we dumped caused cancer. Knowing he was a strong and decent family man, I sensed real danger that with his condition he might dob us in. He had nothing to lose. In truth, there was nothing tangible, but my radar was screaming. There was no choice, I had to remove the threat.’
‘Okay,’ said Pescaro, ‘how is Aldrittson taking it?’
‘His only concern is you and what you might do if the shit hits the fan.’ Santini smiled wryly, ‘he had no qualms about dispensing with Browne and will soften the family’s pain with a good cash payout. I think he’ll be okay.’
‘Are the coppers on it yet?’ Pescaro spoke thoughtfully as he chewed an almond biscotto.
No Witness, No Case Page 2