Dominic Fabrizzi, drove from the underground car park of Lygon Court in Drummond Street, Carlton. He had just dined at The Pasta House on Lygon Street and concluded negotiations for his share of cargo stolen from Tullamarine Airport. It was a new scam and running well. He turned left into the narrow divided street and waited for a driver to complete a reverse parking manoeuvre ahead of him. As he watched the the driver’s efforts, three men appeared outside his car: two at the driver’s side and one at the passenger door. Too late, Dominic saw danger. He was blocked in front by the angled car, hemmed in at the side by the plantation and, when his eyes flicked to the mirror, he saw a large silver Landrover right on his tail. That was to be Dominic Fabrizzi’s last view of the world.
A sawn off shotgun roared and a solid slug travelling at a velocity greater than 247 metres per second smashed his window into tiny fragments and blew an enormous hole in Dominic’s head. Bone, blood and brain misted the car’s interior. Without pause, the second man at the driver’s side stepped forward and fired a cartridge of pellets into what was left of Dominic’s face.
As the shooting occurred, the parking car pulled smoothly and swiftly into Drummond Street and disappeared into Elgin Street. The big four wheel drive behind Dominic reversed, mounted the plantation, collected the three men and was swallowed up by local traffic.
The execution was over in 50 seconds. It was 8:00 p.m.
At 8:20 p.m. Spencer Johnson’s mobile vibrated on his chest. He silently cursed, put down his knife and fork and answered quietly.
‘Johnson.’
‘Where are you?’ Fox asked
‘The Squid’s Legs, watching Aldrittson.’
‘Did you deploy assets for his diversionary stunt?’
‘No, why?’
‘News flash a couple of minutes ago. A well known underworld crim, was shot dead in Drummond Street. Details are scant but there was a veiled hint he was Mafia. The people he was out with found him dead in his car just after eight. It doesn’t look good.’
‘Meet me tomorrow at St Kilda baths, 9:00 a.m. It’s not us.’ Johnson looked at the couple in the alcove, they appeared not to have a care in the world. He wondered if Aldrittson had been stupid enough to ignore his advice.
Before their meal arrived, Aldrittson rose and made his way to the toilets. After a few seconds, Johnson followed. The two stood at the urinals. Aldrittson said, ‘Can you see everything okay?’
‘Yeah. Listen, there’s a problem. Did you go against me and initiate your own diversionary campaign?’
‘I bloody did not. We were going to discuss it after this weekend.’ Aldrittson was irritated. ‘Why, what’s going on?’
‘I think a Mafia bloke just got whacked in Carlton. That’s all I know.’
‘Well, I promise you, nothing to do with me.’ Aldrittson felt an icy finger of fear. The cops were not convinced Santini’s death was accidental; Browne’s death was still open; Baker had been onto the toxic dumping, and now this. He didn’t know anything about this death but he was wary. Instinct told him that somehow Pescaro was in the thick of it.
‘So what do you want to do?’ Johnson interrupted Aldrittson’s thoughts.
‘Nothing, it’s not connected to me. Continue as planned. I’m going to see if I can get her back to my place. After that, follow her.’ He was curt, troubled.
Teresa’s phone rang. ‘Yes,’ she said neutrally.
‘Pescaro,’ barked a gruff voice, ‘Fabrizzi’s just been executed in Carlton. Where are you now?’
‘Having dinner with Ben Aldrittson. He spoke with the Premier this morning.’
‘Good. Stay at my Villa tonight. I’ve got things to wind up here in Sydney but I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Co-ordinate until I return. Our people will start ringing information through soon. Keep me informed.’
‘Sure. I’ll let you know if anything further happens. Giuseppe, do you know what’s going on?’
‘Yes,’ he barked, ‘I’ll tell you when I’m back.’ The phone went dead.
Aldrittson returned to find his meal on the table and Teresa standing.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’ve just had a call, one of Giuseppe’s friends has been killed. I have to go.’
Not used to being stood up, Aldrittson was annoyed and had to grapple with his temper. ‘Do you have to go? I mean, can’t Pescaro deal with this? Just because you’ve been informed surely doesn’t mean you have to leave does it?’
‘Yes,’ she said evenly, ‘Giuseppe’s in Sydney. I’m really sorry about this I was looking forward to spending a lovely evening with you.’ She smiled warmly and collected her purse. ‘We can try this again another time.’ So saying, she left the restaurant.
Aldrittson was dumbfounded. He wondered what Fabrizzi’s death really meant.
Chapter
THIRTY-FOUR
Teresa let herself into Pescaro’s villa shortly after nine. Going straight to his office she commenced retrieving messages from the protected phone bank. They were all much the same – Dominic Fabrizzi had been murdered: the job was professional, the killers unknown. The capos had responded by immediately committing soldiers to finding out who was responsible and why.
At eleven o’clock, capo Emilio Barracusa phoned. He was angry. He told Teresa he believed the Russian Mafiya had executed Fabrizzi and they were planning more. He had learned they were pissed off with Pescaro’s vice-like grip on criminal activity and were ready to take him on. They wanted power and wealth. According to his sources, they were not prepared to negotiate.
Teresa rang Pescaro and relayed the news.
He sounded grim. ‘It’s just as I thought. Bring the capos together tomorrow. I’ll get a 9:00 a.m. flight home. Organise someone to collect me. Keep me informed.’ He hung up.
The phones continued ringing. Three hundred soldiers across Victoria had gone to work within an hour of the event and, by midnight, Teresa had the makes, models and colours of the two stolen cars used for the ambush. By 1:00 a.m. she had eight Russian names, men who possibly were involved in the planning and execution. Their homes were now under Mafia surveillance.
By 2:00 a.m. her information had been converted to a database with names, addresses, vehicles, family members, telephone numbers, frequent haunts, and arrival dates in Australia. Finally, Teresa sent e-mails overseas seeking information about the eight Russians and their backgrounds. She particularly wanted to know their specialist skills and criminal activities. That she could achieve so much in so little time was due to the reach of Pescaro’s network, dollar power, which always brought results, and some heavy intimidation by his soldiers.
At 2:30, Teresa dropped into bed, tired, but pleased with her efforts since the murder. She suspected the police were still scratching their heads about the who and why of the killing, if indeed they were even interested in the death of a Mafiosi.
At 6:30 she rose, washed, and commenced a punishing routine of aerobic and martial arts exercises. Soon after seven Pescaro rang and confirmed his flight at 9:00 a.m. She finished her routine, breakfasted, showered and rallied the capos for a meeting at Luciano’s Warehouse in Faraday Street, Carlton.
After that she checked the e-mails. Valentin Chernamenko was an ex-KGB Colonel and intelligence officer with a double degree in science and economics. Like Teresa, he was a martial arts exponent and had a reputation for brutality. Sergei Vitalev, an outstanding tri-athlete in the old days of Soviet Russia had competed at the 1988 Seoul and 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. He was a trained soldier with special skills in weapons and explosives. Leonid Silverstein was a renowned Vor with many convictions for violence including rape, homicide and serious assault; he was an enforcer, arsonist and extortionist. Anatoly Bilyenko, another ex-soldier, held degrees in mathematics and computer science. He had a formidable reputation for innovative frauds, rip-offs, money laundering schemes, blackmail and tax dodges. The other four Russians, all Vors with many convictions between them, were less illustrious tha
n their colleagues.
Teresa entered the information into her database noting the Russian Government had not recorded any convictions for these men. She supposed it was glad to be rid of them. She printed two copies of the dossiers, including photographs, then e-mailed a file to each of the capos. With nothing more than the previous night’s information and the overseas e-mails, Teresa made an assumption that Chernamenko was probably their ring leader.
She rang Barracusa and asked that Chernamenko receive special attention. One by one she rang the remaining capos to pass on her thoughts about Chernamenko and to request that each of the four principal Russians receive special scrutiny. Every capo was asked to bring their latest intelligence to the meeting.
For the moment, there was little more to do. She would collect Pescaro and brief him on the way home. She had no doubt he would be savage about the newspaper headlines she had seen on the net this morning:
Mafia Hit in Carlton
Mob Man Slain
Underworld Assassination
The task now was straight forward. Assembling facts, examining options and devising plans was something she did well. She would be central to all aspects but field action – that would fall to experienced capos. While they dealt with that, she would also organise another funeral. At the moment, she was on top of things and perceived satisfaction with her effort from her colleagues.
Current events now put Aldrittson on the back-burner. Even so, she wondered why his previous resistance to accelerating the waste scheme had softened. Nor had she missed his probe about Santini’s death. He was not the solicitous type – there would be a reason for asking. Pescaro was suspicious of Santini’s death and had heard a whisper among police that the “blow-out” on the bridge was a set-up. If that was true, they were looking at another murder. Idly, she wondered if Ben Aldrittson was somehow connected to Santini’s death. It was an interesting thought but one she felt had no legs. She was, however, keen to return to his unit. From her first visit she had been constantly niggled by a feeling that she had missed something, something important.
As for the death of her parents and Angelina, she had pondered many options and all were frightening in their consequences. Of significance was that in the Mafia world, these murders were a mere formality while in the normal world, they were serious unsolved crimes. It was up to her to change the status quo but as the event had occurred so long ago, and in view of current circumstances, there was no urgency.
With that thought she realised she had slipped effortlessly into the role of co-ordinator in Pescaro’s absence. Dealing with the dark truth behind the death of her parents and her feelings of ambivalence and uncertainty about her place in the Family would have to wait for a better moment.
They raced, head to head down the length of the pool. Johnson, the big man with arms and legs as thick as posts smashing his way through the water like an exploding chaff cutter. Fox, the bronzed slim man, knifing forward like a circular saw. After ten laps neither was relenting – they were like a pair of giant pistons finely tuned to the same rhythm but with wildly differing styles. The two had agreed fifteen laps, the loser to buy breakfast. Johnson possessed in crude power what he lacked in finesse, yet to onlookers, the older, slender man was toying with him. They turned for the last time, nothing to separate them. Johnson powered away leaving Fox in his turbulence. Fox grinned under water, lifted his rating and cruised in to touch a body length ahead of Johnson.
They received a spontaneous cheer from other swimmers aware that a serious contest had taken place. The two men, grinning like fools, raised their arms and pumped them to their well wishers.
‘Your turn mate,’ said Fox laconically, scarcely puffing, ‘when are you going to learn that, in here, you can’t beat me?’
Johnson, still stoked from his final sprint said, with a huge grin on his face, ‘That’s never going to stop me from having a go you old bastard.’
They scrambled from the pool and towelled off. After dressing, they strolled to Amarello restaurant for breakfast and sat outdoors, protected by a glass screen from the cold winds off St. Kilda beach.
‘Okay Spence, what do you know?’
‘Nothing more than I’ve heard on the news. I’ve quizzed my copper mates and, apart from his identity, all they can tell me is it was a professional hit. What about you?’
‘A little more than last night. I started thinking about what Holmes and Stanley said last Saturday so rang a friend. Russians. No doubt about it. Moving against Pescaro. My friend says they’re frustrated because they can’t get their hands on serious money. They’re having a go.’ Fox looked thoughtful and spoke quietly. ‘He doesn’t know the size of the contest, but reckons the Russkies believe they’re in with a chance. I don’t know much about them apart from their brutality as crooks.’
Johnson was quiet for a few moments. ‘If a shit fight does start, it will be savage. Aldrittson is getting what he wanted whether he likes it or not. I told him an event like this would be unpredictable and create fear in the community. I’m bloody glad we’re not involved.’
Fox nodded sagely. ‘I’ll second that. I’ve said before that I think Aldrittson is a dangerous fool. Do you think he might have had a hand in this too?’
‘He says not and I believe him. I think he considered my advice and concluded the ride was too wild, even for him. He just hadn’t gotten around to telling me.’
‘So,’ said Fox, a smile twitching on his lips, ‘do you think we have a role in this?’
‘No way. I’m even thinking of telling my police sources what you heard but, after that, I’d say stand clear and let them get on with it.’
‘Any ideas about what’ll happen?’ asked Fox.
‘I’ve thought of little else since your call last night. I reckon Pescaro will hit back with a wallop. Last night I saw that woman Aldrittson is moony over. She’s a piece of class – and she’s Mafia. My impression is she’s a lethal cocktail. If she’s involved in pay back, I’d say the Russkies could be in for a surprise.’
‘What do you mean?’’ enquired Fox.
‘I spoke to Aldrittson last night after the girl left the restaurant. He told me Pescaro had called her after which she pretty much walked out on him. He was livid. I followed her cab straight to Pescaro’s. That’s why I think she might be involved with their response. She’s got a look about her, you know it – smart, sharp, focussed.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Righto mate. Thanks for breakfast. If I hear anything, I’ll call. Similarly, keep me informed. Otherwise, like you, I’m just going to keep my head down.’ He rose and left.
Chapter
THIRTY- FIVE
In dribs and drabs Pescaro’s team arrived at Luciano’s Warehouse. They sat for coffee, then quietly disappeared upstairs. Felipe Luciano had come from the old country in the fifties. Well versed in Mafia business, he was now too old to be active. He ran a good restaurant and maintained a well equipped meeting place. Every imaginable piece of technology was there including movement sensitive infra-red cameras and expensive, discreetly placed CCTV on the restaurant approaches. For meetings as important as this, Felipe himself monitored the dozen or so screens.
Shortly before eleven, Pescaro and Teresa entered from Dorrit Lane. Pescaro had been briefed, freshened up and gone directly to the warehouse. Right now he had no plan other than to hit back – very hard and very swiftly.
The Don worked his way around the room with a word to his capos: Emilio Barracusa, Frankie Argolia, Eduardo Masseria, Vito Franse – Fabrizzi’s lieutenant – Alphonse Catena and Salvatore Moretti. Soon after, they moved to a large oval table where Pescaro sat with Teresa on his left. The capos waited expectantly.
‘I regret these circumstances but we are here to decide what shall be done. Before that, a few details. I have known about the Russians for some time. In fact Eduardo has been watching them for me. At the beginning they were not troublesome; they concentrated on their own kind. In the last few months, I watched as they
subtly expanded and became more predatory. I thought they would come to me so we could arrive at a sensible arrangement. After all, around the world our two groups have, in the main, been able to wash each other’s hands. Instead, they began encroaching and foolishly I watched with curiosity.’ There was a trace of sadness in his deep strong voice. ‘I believed that as they ran up against our people and our strength, they would rethink their actions and approach me. I was wrong and I have been complacent. I underestimated their arrogance and hunger. Well, no more. They have made a grave mistake. They will not only be punished for Fabrizzi’s death, but learn how unforgiving we are. I have but two objectives: I want to hurt them hard and hurt them swiftly. We are here to discuss the best way to do that. You’ve all got Teresa’s information. These bastards are skilled, clever and unafraid. We have to put them off balance and keep them that way. But,’ he paused looking around at them all, ‘it’s been a long time since we were at war. And that is what it will be. I take counsel from the great warrior Sun Tzu who said victory is the main object of war but if denied too long, soldiers become battle fatigued and morale suffers. I believe that warning demands decisiveness. A word of caution here – a deal is a deal. While our system of governance works well, there are always opportunists and manipulators. If another state – let’s say Queensland – decides to work with the Russians while we’re down, that could be perilous for us all. Remember that. No one benefits from a long war and enemies are everywhere. Speed and effectiveness are vital to our response. A public war is bad for business. We can accommodate the Russians as long as they understand we take a percentage of everything they do. But we can only do that if they understand they must approach us for a “sit-down” – not the other way around. Okay, Milo, what do you have?’
Barracusa’s specialty was the brothel trade. He was tall, curly haired, dark and well manicured. Due to gifted ring craft and extraordinary anticipation, he bore little evidence of his younger years as a successful middleweight boxer. His voice was gravelly and he spoke tersely.
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