Aldrittson offered Kindler land, tax incentives, transport points and significant relocation benefits in return for continuous employment and steady growth. He believed Hart Lite would crack not only the Australian market, but the international scene too. State government trade support almost guaranteed that. Hart Lite had pioneered, and perfected, a radical new method for converting solar energy to electricity using a technique almost 150 per cent more efficient than any other comparable product. Kindler had pioneered a radically different conversion method which, like many things in nature, was simple. Moreover, his new methodology was inexpensive.
Given mounting public pressure to reduce fossil fuel emissions, hostility towards nuclear energy and rising ambivalence towards wind turbines, the efficiency, effectiveness and cost of the new, green, solar technology was appealing.
Aldrittson’s true motivation for enticing Kindler to Victoria was quite different – he wanted a share of a potentially enormous global market. The two men agreed to stay in touch and when Aldrittson obtained the go-ahead, Kindler would relocate.
Grant, the New South Wales Premier, needed only to provide tax relief to Kindler to forestall the hijacking of Hart Lite. Aldrittson thought Grant short sighted. But Grant was driven by voters bitter about huge tax benefits to the wind industry. Pointed questions flew thick and fast inside and outside Parliament about the amount of power the turbines could generate, their reliability, disruption to rural peace and their siting. Frequently these giant structures were established on the most picturesque areas of coastline or inland hills. Grant wanted no further backlash.
So Kindler had laid on wine, women and song in a debauched cruise along Sydney harbour commencing early Saturday evening and concluding around three o’clock Sunday afternoon. Kindler had agreed upon a one per cent sales royalty to Aldrittson one year after the company’s establishment in Melbourne, an outcome that thrilled Aldrittson. He was equally pleased for having bedded five different women during the cruise and the last thing he wanted tonight was to talk about Santini. He had made his decision about that gent and didn’t intend confiding in his father. All he wanted now was sleep.
Aldrittson parked beneath his units at the corner of Alexandra Avenue and Chapel Street, Prahran. Perched more or less on the edge of the Yarra, the complex provided magnificent views across the city, was central to Aldrittson’s work place, gym and favourite night life. It was also in the middle of his electorate. As always, he got a buzz from the expansive views of the twelfth floor. He went straight to his phone and checked his messages. Spencer Johnson’s hearty voice bellowed, ‘Benny my boy, this is Spencer. I have positive news on your current project. I don’t know what you’ve got in mind but be careful. I can help with resources if you need them. The fees will be the usual.’ The import of Johnson’s cryptic message was clear.
Aldrittson took his bags to the bedroom, unpacked and threw his washing in the laundry basket. His cleaner would deal with it tomorrow. He jumped into the shower and felt fatigue slide away as energy trickled back through his veins. He had scarcely dressed when the doorbell rang.
Jack Aldrittson stood at the door looking drawn and pallid.
‘G’day Dad, come in. Are you okay? You don’t look so flash.’
‘Yeah … yeah, I’m good son, good.’ He sounded distracted. ‘What was your weekend in Sydney like?’
‘Fine. Got laid, got paid and got made. You know what it’s like. Had a bloody good time actually. Now, would you like beer, scotch or brandy?’
‘Beer’s fine, Son.’
Ben waved vaguely towards a large, comfortable armchair.
‘Sit down while I get organised then we’ll talk.’ After handing his father a cold Heinekin, he settled himself with a Jameson’s on ice. ‘Your timing’s impeccable Dad. I’ve only been home about twenty minutes. So … Santini and Pescaro have been cooking up a storm have they?’
Jack looked quizzically at his son. ‘Yeah, that’s about right. I had dinner with Pescaro last night and he frightened the living shit out of me. He as much as told me he had seriously considered removing you and me to take our business for himself. And, I’ve got to tell you, he has very little time for you – thinks you don’t show enough respect He told me your aspirations outweigh your abilitiy. He wants Santini to teach you a lesson … well, he didn’t quite go that far, but, I’m bloody certain that’s what he meant. And that’s another thing – that fucking Santini has always been his man from day-fucking-one. Bottom line is, he wants our scam legitimised before the election. I’m buggered if I know what’s eating him, but I know, he’s not kidding. He mentioned something about new pressures. Vague as shit. But, I don’t much like the alternative. The little bastard even threatened to harm you and pointed out the effect that would have on your mother’s health.’
Ben examined his father intently. He was a tough old bugger, not easily frightened, not known for giving up, ruthless when he wanted to be. They had had their differences, often volatile, particularly over politics but, by and large, they were mates. Like most men, they did not talk about their relationship, just got on with it. Ben now saw fear in his father’s eyes and realised, for the first time, he was stronger than him. Until today, he had seen himself as his father’s equal, now he believed he was better. He placed no weight on Pescaro’s opinion of him.
Not that he under-rated Pescaro; one did not become a Mafia Don without considerable talent, albeit, malevolent talent. With his father directly connecting Santini to Pescaro he inferred that Santini was the latter’s “Rottweiler”. After his recent meeting with the man, he saw Santini as a cunning, ruthless, thug, a man to be watched.
In a harried tone, Jack continued. ‘He told me things about Santini I would never have believed possible. He’s killed people. Lotsa people. He’s blown up places, extorted and heavied people most of his life, including while working for me. I never had a bloody clue. And I sure as hell didn’t know Pescaro and Santini were an item. Sneaky bastards. I’m worried about Pescaro’s threat that Santini will teach you a lesson. What do you think we should do?’
With a calm he did not quite possess, Ben Aldrittson attempted to soothe his father’s fears.
‘Dad, I think it’s pretty straight forward. Last week Santini asked me to get a briefing proposal for our waste strategy ready for Meadows. I told him the scheme was unlikely to be passed this close to an election, but he wasn’t interested. He wants the briefing I am to give Meadows by next Thursday.‘
‘Did he tell you it’s for Pescaro?’
‘No, although I wondered what the urgency was. And, like you, I didn’t know those two bastards were on the same team. But look, it’s nearly ready and by Thursday it will be. Don’t worry. My difficulty will be getting Meadows to hear me on the bloody thing any time in the next six months. You know what election campaigns are like. Sometimes I think the “clever people” driving the party machine haven’t got a fucking clue about what John and Betty Citizen want. Until election day, until a result, a lot of water passes beneath the campaign bridge that counts for very little. I know, I’m part of the process.’
‘Your attitude astonishes me Ben. I’ve just told you Pescaro’s considered bumping us off and you’re as cool as ice. And what about Santini? You never even told me the little shit spoke to you, how come?’ Jack’s rapid fire questions betrayed his anxiety.
‘Dad,’ said Ben in a calm voice, ‘when Santini met me last week he said you asked for the plan, not Pescaro. I did think it was odd at the time because you and I had already agreed not to proceed for another twelve to eighteen months. But,’ he lied, ‘with my election activity beginning and government work in Sydney, I saw no reason to ring you. He made your request sound very plausible. As for Pescaro, I don’t know what he’ll do. You’ve both been developing this plan for years, you know him better than I do. What I don’t understand is this sudden rush for action. I can only do as I was asked. Everything will be ready on the due date and I’ll do my best to get it before
Meadows. However, as I told Santini, the timing is up to shit. Maybe if they’d asked for this twelve months ago things could be different, but, with the election soon, he’s got Buckley’s. I think Pescaro’s pissing in the wind … posturing. Unless there’s an agenda we don’t know about. If Pescaro wanted to do something to us, he would just do it, there wouldn’t be any warning. The important thing is, we’ve learned Santini’s not to be trusted. If I were you, I’d be going through his work. Check what he’s been up to, get on top of it; see if he hasn’t concealed things from you; re-familiarise yourself with what he does. Do it soon because now we know he’s Pescaro’s plant and he could have been doing anything.’
‘You are so bloody right about that. The cunning little shit set me up with Pescaro and all these years let me think I’d done it. The prick must have been laughing his head off.’ Although still unhappy, Jack was more settled and had regained some colour. ‘You obviously have things under control. Maybe when Pescaro gets the plan he won’t have too much to complain about. We’ll have to wait and see what happens next. My impression the other night was we were both dead meat but it mightn’t be so bad. In the meantime, I’m gunna have a bloody hard look at what that shit-wit Santini has been doing.’
‘Good,’ replied Ben, ‘let’s leave it at that. The bastards have put us on notice and we can play that game too. I’ve got no bloody intention of being fucked over by them.’
Chapter
TWELVE
Santini relaxed in front of TV. It was eight o’clock Sunday evening. He sipped the Jacob’s Creek Cabernet Sauvignon opened for his meal earlier. Turning down the volume, he reflected on his day with Giuseppe Pescaro.
The old Don was charming company. They’d enjoyed a great tussle over a game of bocce on the rolling back lawn, an exquisite alfresco lunch, fine wine and even finer thick coffee. In truth, they had both enjoyed a day off together. Pescaro had raised business only once – Ben Aldrittson. Santini told him he had no reason to think his message to Ben had gone unheeded.
He settled deeper into his chair. There was no Mrs Santini. Sometimes he regretted that but he had chosen his course and there was no place in his cold, dark and often violent world for a wife and family. As he mused upon the notion of family, his mind wandered to Ben Aldrittson. In a strange way, he was family; he had known him since birth, seen him grow up, develop and harden into quite a tough nut.
He pondered his warning to Aldrittson a few days earlier and smiled at the reaction. It wasn’t personal, just business. He had to be certain Aldrittson understood the plan must be provided when Pescaro wanted it. Santini thought of Ben as a pompous prick. He did however, acknowledge and respect Aldrittson’s network of contacts. To be fair, it was primarily due to his extensive reach and manipulation that much of their black waste concept had come so far.
His own actions were meant to show Aldrittson promise without actual harm, and without, he hoped, generating too much fear. Pescaro would be taking a similar line with Aldrittson senior.
He relaxed, sipped more wine and idly wondered. What if he had pissed Ben off? Would he retaliate or just meekly comply? He recalled an incident ten years earlier. Pescaro had become enmeshed in a short but vicious struggle for control of a protection racket in the Sunraysia District of northwest Victoria.
Leonardo Falcone, a Griffith capo working for the Sydney Mob, considered Pescaro’s interest intrusive. To the contrary, Pescaro had strictly confined his activity to Victoria, an arrangement agreed at a Mafia “sit down” in the 1940s. Then, the bosses thought Australia’s population too small and the country too large to operate on anything other than state boundaries. It was agreed there would be only one Don per state and no cross-border encroachment. For this reason, there was no capo di tutti capi, or boss of bosses. Occasionally, at border towns, as people moved around, lines blurred, practices shifted and matters sometimes became a little tense. Overall, the original agreement held well. That sit down had also decreed that anyone flouting the arrangement would taste traditional justice.
Falcone commenced expanding the territory of his Don, Lindoro Riina. At the same time, he was skimming off the top by quietly entering Sunraysia and breaching the long standing agreement on borders. Santini investigated and after talking to several growers, decided Falcone should be told to quit while he was ahead. That was a mistake of underestimation on his part.
On his way to Griffith, Santini was run off the road by a truck. His car had barely stopped rolling when bullets whacked into the upturned body. He had crawled from the back window and hidden behind a tree. Seconds later the petrol tank exploded. His attackers had been slack and failed to check whether he was dead or alive, they merely assumed he had been incinerated.
After hitching a lift to Hay, Santini spent a week under the radar nursing his scrapes. He had reviewed his options and considered potential actions that could be taken by Falcone. Falcone’s most likely choice would be to go to Mildura and eliminate Pescaro’s snitch.
Santini took a bus to Mildura, hired a car in Falcone’s name and drove to Nichol’s Point. Nothing seemed amiss at the grower’s home. He decided to return each nightfall for the next week.
At nine o’clock on the fourth evening, a black Celica pulled up at the house; Falcone and one of his men stepped from the car. Santini was concealed by a thick Oleander bush at the corner of the front veranda. Falcone strode to the front door while his thug snuck around the back. Santini followed him. While Falcone talked to the grower, Vincenzo Rizzi, his thug entered the house.
Santini drew his knife and silently crept after him. A wide, darkened veranda stretched across the back of the house providing access to a central passage inside. Santini heard angry voices at the front of the house. The fearful cries of a woman joined in. Falcone’s man was in the passageway moving quietly through the gloom to the front. As Santini eased the flywire door open and stepped inside, the latch snapped audibly. Tense with concentration, the man whirled, gun in hand then fell to the floor with a grunt as Santini’s heavy knife ploughed into his chest. Blood sprayed the polished floor. His hand twitched and the gun fired aimlessly into the wall. In the following silence, Santini moved quickly. He grabbed the gun from the quivering hand and bounded into the lounge room. Falcone held Rizzi’s wife in front of him, an arm tightly around her throat, a revolver pointed steadily at Rizzi’s head – all of them frozen near the front door. Santini used the oldest trick of all. Standing stock still, arms by his side, the gun concealed behind his leg he said in a low voice, ‘Cut it out Falcone, you’re finished.’
Falcone snarled, ‘Not yet Santini, I’ve got a little surprise in store for you.’
Santini nodded and said, ‘Me too. Shoot him Ludo.’ Rizzi’s wife fainted. Hampered by the woman’s dead weight, Falcone spun in the direction of Santini’s nod. Smoothly, Santini raised his arm and shot Falcone in the side of his head. Rizzi too collapsed to the floor.
Constructive experience mused Santini – never underestimate an adversary. He considered Aldrittson weak but recognised his gutsy performances in Parliament. Perhaps weak was not quite the term for Aldrittson, Santini reflected, the stakes were high and Aldrittson had much to lose. He reconsidered his opinion and concluded that familiarity and, yes, even a touch of arrogance may have caused him to underestimate Ben Aldrittson. Okay. What could Aldrittson do? He liked power, had contacts, unlimited wealth and influence, and, thought Santini, while he does confront people, he’s bloody sneaky about it. Aldrittson had only two choices: comply or retaliate. The more he thought about Aldrittson, the more he leaned towards his own underestimation of the man. He took a large gulp of wine and reached for the phone.
‘Pronto?’ The deep voice spoke softly.
‘Don Pescaro, I’ve been thinking about my recent meeting with Ben Aldrittson. I’ve no grounds for alarm, but you know I am careful. I think we should take precautions.’
Santini listened to Pescaro’s thoughtful silence.
‘Anything else Nardo?�
��
‘No Giuseppe, that’s all.’
‘I’ll deal with it Nardo, ciao.’
In the empty house across the road, Fox listened to the cryptic conversation through a pair of tiny speech activated microphones hidden at Santini’s front window. Having established that Santini and Pescaro were together for the day, he had taken a closer look at Santini’s house. In a cap and Red Cross vest, Fox doorknocked both sides of the street canvassing for donations. He grinned and felt good at the thought of someone in the Melbourne Red Cross office opening an envelope with $132 and a “good luck” card inside.
Knowing Santini was not at home, Fox had planted his bugs under the ploy of creating sufficient noise to wake the dead or, in this case, bring Santini to the door. Santini’s neighbour emerged to check out the fuss. Fox explained who he was then left after receiving a $5 donation from the man. His success was marked by this captured conversation.
Fox dialled Spencer Johnson’s hotline.
‘Yes.’
‘Fox. Santini’s radar just kicked in. Far as I can tell there is nothing either we, or Aldrittson, have done to trigger his warning bells. He just asked Pescaro to take precautions in regard to Ben Aldrittson.’ Fox spoke succinctly.
‘Thanks mate. I might get Little and Jamieson back on the job. Perhaps split them and have one watch your back. I’m not yet sure just what Aldrittson has planned, but he must be untouchable. And, we can’t afford to underestimate Pescaro, he’s got big resources. Anything else?’
No Witness, No Case Page 6