His car pulled up a few doors down from the Café Azzurra, a little restaurant owned by Antonio, a place where Cole and Jude had often met and eaten with the Mafia during their infiltration. It was also the workplace of Penny, Antonio’s one-time bit-on-the-side, who broke down and took to crying on Leigh’s shoulder when the Italians were busted.
He called up Penny’s number, then hit ‘dial’.
‘Hey there, gorgeous, how long before you have five minutes for me?’
He received an answer that settled him into his driver’s seat for a spell, and he reached for a cigarette. As he sucked in the deadly fumes he stared at the windows of the upstairs restaurant, long enough to end the relationship with his gasper. A frumpy middle-aged woman, rugged up in a thick woollen overcoat, walked from the building. She strolled off in the opposite direction to a small, sad-looking car, got in and drove off along Banner Avenue.
Less than five minutes later, the lights went out at the restaurant and Penny, a vivacious 25-year-old one-time local beauty queen, locked the front door. Despite a ten-hour shift she still looked immaculate in her white fitted waitress shirt, hipster black slacks and black shoes. She had made an effort in the past few minutes to refresh her make-up and sweep her long brunette hair into a neat ponytail. Once she pulled the keys from the door lock she jogged across the street, throwing a sleek black fur-lined parka over her shoulders as she ran. She looked cautiously up and down the roadway, seeing the town was as deserted as a state school on Christmas Day.
She opened the passenger door and got in. She gave Leigh a friendly kiss on his cheek.
‘Hello, gorgeous. You know you can cease with the granny kisses and focus on a wet one whenever you want.’
‘Hey, my life’s complicated enough, Leigh. Besides, it’s a long way to drive, just for a quickie,’ she said, tongue in cheek and turning the heater up.
‘What if I told you I was secretly of Italian ancestry?’
‘Then I’d be convinced you are just a no-good liar.’
‘You really are gorgeous, you know.’
‘Just a sweet little country girl, Leigh, doin’ the best I can.’
A police patrol car turned into the street, cruising at a snail’s pace. This gave Leigh the perfect opportunity to lean closely into Penny, who responded with an embrace and a kiss, which held long enough for the patrol car to decide there was no value in interrupting two lovers on such a cold night. When she deemed the police were far enough away, Penny pulled away.
‘It’s the talk of the town, the gaol sentences,’ she said, fingers to lips.
‘Sorry, gorgeous.’
Penny shrugged, knowing that twelve sons of Griffith got mostly what they deserved. She paused, as if having trouble finding a starting point.
‘There’s been anger in town, Leigh.’
‘Go on.’
Penny dropped her pretty face into her hands and held the pose for a minute.
‘Something’s not right. The old boy was at his usual table tonight with other trusted oldies and I heard some stuff.’
‘Just do it slowly, babe … tell me what you remember.’
‘They were talking mostly Italian but I could work out he had paid some guy in Melbourne to make it all go away. To make someone go away—I couldn’t work it out—but he’s got a punk coming in from Calabria in a few days. He’s going to make someone go away. And there was something said about 200 000.’ Penny stopped there, locked in thought, trying to recall the sequence. ‘Yeah, Leigh, 200 000 was said. That must be dollars, yeah?’
Leigh listened to the brave and misguided girl as she told her tale. She repeated herself over and over as witnesses tended to do. Then, once all the details had been vented he enjoyed another granny kiss before it was time to start his engine again. Penny zipped her parka snugly over her lithe body and pulled up the fur-lined hood, tucking some stray hair behind her ears. She quickly jogged down the empty street.
Leigh watched her disappear around the corner, then put the car in gear and headed home, rubbing his spare hand across his whiskers once more, before hitting the on switch to his CD player.
It was a little like a passing parade into the office, with Sandra following Cole, behind Jude, then Spud, who led the way. The four had caught up for an early breakfast around the corner. As soon as they approached their desks, Jude branched off to her newly assigned crew on the other side of the unit. As she walked off, she looked back at Cole a couple of times, poking out her tongue and almost bumping into a neighbouring desk.
Leigh lay sleeping on the floor between two desks, snoring his head off and every now and then making a lip-smacking noise. Sandra playfully flicked a few droplets of water onto his face, causing him to stir madly, thrashing his arms about, until he realised where he was.
Cole offered him a coffee. Leigh kept his voice hushed, and urgent. ‘We’ve got work ahead of us, guys. A Calabrian punk’s coming to town.’
24th April
Sandra charged along the international arrivals concourse at Tullamarine Airport. Trailing behind was Leigh, mobile phone glued to his ear. They hadn’t counted on so many excited Italian families waiting to greet long-lost relatives. With all the skill of a bull in a china shop, Sandra forged her way through the hordes. At the customs security door, a flash of their ACA identification gained them entry to the sealed customs investigation area. Sandra took a few deep breaths as Leigh finished his call.
‘It landed ten minutes ago,’ gasped Sandra.
‘Slow down, sweetheart, we’re here. The rest is up to Spud.’
‘And us,’ Sandra snapped. ‘We’ve no fucking idea who this punk from Calabria is.’
‘No, but we’ve worked out a short list. It could only be one of four on this jumbo jet.’
Sandra and Leigh were hidden behind the two-way glass in the customs security area, able to watch unobserved. Passengers queued at the immigration desk.
‘Is Cole coming?’ asked Leigh.
‘No. Didn’t want to be seen. We’ll show him photos of the dude later.’
The customs shift supervisor swaggered confidently across to Sandra, coffee cup in one hand, the other running through the gelled hair of his tired head.
‘Here they come,’ he said as he took a gulp of his long black, his fourth for the day.
‘Can I get you both a coffee?’
‘Two cappuccinos,’ suggested Leigh.
‘It’s Nescafé black, or it’s Nescafé white.’
‘Pass.’
‘How many have we got?’ queried Sandra.
‘A near-full flight, 367 and ten mortadella.’
‘What—no salami?’ said Leigh.
‘The route?’ asked Sandra.
‘Milano to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Melbourne.’
‘Emirates Air advises there’s only four possible males who joined the flight in Milano from Calabria or Sicily. We haven’t got any ages though,’ added the customs officer, ‘but you’ve got to get lucky with one of them, surely?’
‘What if he joined the flight in Hong Kong?’ asked Leigh.
‘No one knows he’s coming into the country, so why would he go to the trouble with all that shifty stuff before he even gets here?’ asked the customs officer. ‘My staff are watching the stampede and will direct any lone males into your aisle.’
‘Good luck, champer.’
‘Don’t need luck, mate, we do this all fucking day long.’
Spud sat proudly in his customs booth trying to look efficient in his pale blue uniform complete with epaulettes and a pocket full of pens. One after the other, mostly Italian passengers stood to semi-attention in front of him with their schmoozing smiles. A few with a mouthful of gold teeth to complete the look. All of them overtired and in need of a bed.
The first was a university professor travelling alone. Spud gave him an Italian ‘Benvenuto’ greeting and stamped him through immediately. A little further along the queue came another lone male, an ageing, very rotund doctor from Costan
za in Calabria. Hardly a ‘punk’, Spud thought, as he quietly stamped his passport and waved him through. Ten passengers on and his arm started to get weary. The customs guys ushered the lone males towards Spud, in between grumpy couples and noisy kids. He faced his third lone male, a 20-year-old Calabrian with iPod earphones and far too much wiggle-jiggle and high-fiving to be seriously considered any threat to the ACA. Or anyone.
Right at the back of the queue, and watching cautiously, was his fourth lone male. Just the sight of him was enough for Spud to want to bet a month’s wages on the outcome. He plonked his passport on the desk, a 32-year-old ‘farmer’ from Plati, the centre of organised crime in southern Italy. Spud knew well this N’Drangheta stronghold in Calabria, a village in the foothills of the remote Aspromonte Mountains, home to hundreds of hidden caves where unfortunate kidnap victims were stashed, awaiting a ransom.
His well-travelled Italian passport revealed far too many visits to Amsterdam, Frankfurt and New York for Spud’s liking. No doubt documenting the career history of a very busy Mafia lieutenant.
Spud looked up at the security camera and then back at the passport.
‘You are a tourist, sir? Welcome to Australia.’
‘Non parlo Inglese, Signore.’
‘You enjoy travelling, I see.’
‘Scusa, Signore. Non parlo Inglese.’
The stony-faced ‘farmer from Plati’ with the physique of a welterweight boxer pulled a brilliant demonstration of a foreign traveller unable to communicate on any official level. Spud took an instant shine to him. He scanned the passport and brought down his stamp.
‘I think you’ll enjoy Australia, Signore Massimo Cattiloco.’
In less time that it took to stow his passport in his back pocket, Spud’s hard-nosed Italian suspect had headed off to the baggage claim carousel.
Massimo carried his cheap and well-travelled powder-blue suitcase out into the arrivals lounge. He faced a flood of tearful faces, and moved confidently through the crowd, making a bee-line for the taxi rank. In the queue ahead of him was a heavy-set woman with a mop of dyed blonde hair, a beige tweed coat and a fake Prada overnight bag. Sandra had him covered. All she needed to do was press the call button on her mobile phone, and that would alert the others as to which cab to follow. When Sandra found herself two spots away from a cab door, she quit the line as if she had forgotten something, clicking her fingers and mouthing an annoyed Fuck as she stormed off.
Before too long Massimo was in the back of a taxi on his way to the city. Sandra immediately transmitted the rego to Leigh, who was waiting patiently near the freeway entrance.
Half an hour later the taxi was held up at a set of red lights at Flinders Street—peak hour on Friday night. Horns blazed incessantly, a cacophony familiar to any Italian moving through traffic. It seemed to worry the taxi driver more than the passenger.
‘Sorry, mate, for slowing you down. There’s not long to go.’
‘Okay, driver. It’s okay.’
‘You must be buggered, mate, all the way from Italy.’
‘Very tired.’
‘You speak good English, mate.’
‘Sometimes.’
Within five minutes the taxi was opposite the famed Flinders Street Railway Station. Massimo looked across and up at nine antiquated clock faces over the main entrance, and then down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand bearing the words, ‘ Flinders Street Stazione alle diciotto’. The main clock, the one that told the actual time, told Massimo he had fifteen minutes to find an Australian version of an Italian espresso before his 6 p.m. rendezvous. He converted the note into a small handful of confetti and let it fall to the floor of the cab. Fumbling through his pocket he came up with a lone hundred dollar note and handed it to the driver as he alighted, opening the door to another chorus of car horns. The taxi crawled forward with the driver now sporting a very pleased look on his face as he tucked the note into his shirt pocket.
Four cars behind Leigh sat in his hire car, mirrored shades and American baseball cap. His keen eye was fixed on Massimo, who was expertly playing the casual tourist as he walked towards the Station. Leigh parked the car in an empty space on the street, and quickly scampered across the road to follow Massimo. As he did, something made him look back at his vehicle, probably the ‘Clearway’ sign prominently displayed at the nose of his bonnet. He walked on.
For the next fifteen minutes Leigh dogged his target, as they wandered through the busy railway station from platform to platform. He hadn’t had so much fun since he was in the surveillance unit years earlier. Up flights of stairs, between news stands and coffee shops. Leigh whispered to himself, ‘Come on, Hades, prince of the underworld, you can do better than that.’
He couldn’t help but break into a smile at one café where Massimo ordered a short macchiato. To see what was actually presented—a near-full glass of murky brown dishwater, posing as coffee, with a touch of milk. That was the only time Leigh saw a reaction from the Calabrian. Mr Cool-as-a-Cucumber pushed the coffee away, flicked his right hand under his chin to mouth ‘Non mi piace’ before moving away from the kiosk and down onto Flinders Street again. The most intriguing observation of this insignificant exchange was that Massimo walked calmly away without even paying for the drink. A very confident man, thought Leigh.
The Calabrian’s timing was perfect. Once he stepped onto the street, a late-model white Holden Statesman came seemingly out of nowhere. Despite the hubbub of traffic and pedestrians the Statesman stopped right in front of Massimo. Leigh’s target, running strictly to rule, didn’t look left, right or behind. He simply opened the rear passenger door and threw himself and his suitcase onto the seat. Leigh stood in the crowd watching the vehicle pull away, before his attention was diverted to the opposite side of the roadway, where his hire car also pulled away, chained to the rear of a tow truck.
Inspector Mack stood alone at his office window, looking down on the crowded street below. His face held the unmistakable look of worry. For ten minutes he had been gnawing at his small fingernail, biting it dangerously close to the quick as he thought his secrets through.
He decided on a walk around the office instead. It was amazing what sort of information could be gleaned moving from desk to desk, from crew to crew, immersing himself in the fascinating reading contained in the various investigative files perched on each detective’s desk. He thought no one knew, in fact he was almost certain no one suspected, that every now and again, late at night, he would code himself into the deserted office. And make delicious work of the photocopying machine. Under the guise of legitimate business, he duplicated information reports and secret memos contained in the files left behind on desks. The desks of his hard-working honest detectives.
The garden shed in his cupcake-pretty house in well-to-do Malvern was home to his Sidchrome toolbox, tucked neatly away among the pesticides and snail bait. The perfect place to stash confidential photocopied documents before his secret go-between could broker a buyer for the information. He’d done well these past few years, amassing a battler’s fortune, squirrelled away in shares, cash buried among the azaleas and his secret apartment in southern France. A booty that no one knew about except Dorothy.
He had met and married Dorothy only half-a-dozen years ago, after he got his two now adult daughters and his chubby, dull ex-wife off his hands. The last years with the ex had been a difficult juggle, what with the affair with Dorothy, which he had kept quiet from everyone. Not because it was an affair as such, but because she carried the surname of ‘Wakelin’, a family of bad-arse bank robbers. He had met his little dove on a 5 a.m. police raid. There she’d been, sitting pretty in a bed not nearly grand enough for her, he thought. Wearing nothing more than a cheeky smile. Her gangster husband had fled moments earlier with the lovely, leaving Dorothy to face the music. The rotter never came back home. Neither did the money Mack was chasing.
It was love at first sight for Mack and Dorothy, so he rented her an apartment two streets aw
ay from the family home till he could erase his past. Eventually they married in Paris, soon after his divorce. And the rest had been sexual bliss, at least until recent pressures had fallen heavily on him.
Dorothy was more disappointed than Mack at her husband’s passing over as the new deputy commissioner three years earlier, and that drove her scorn.
Until this massive social blow, she often saw herself strolling along the roads of fashionable Malvern in her new life as the wife of a deputy commissioner, lunching with the girls, keeping hairdresser appointments in the finest salons and offering up the juiciest gossip to an envious ladies’ tennis team.
If Inspector Mack were honest about his entrepreneurial activities of the past few years, he would probably say that his wife enjoyed the risk more than he. She was used to it. He recalled sadly the months after being passed over for high promotion, how depressed his wife had become, and how disheartened he had felt.
Then the dinner invitations had dropped off. As did the sex with Dorothy. That was when he began to suspect that she had strayed. But by then he was almost defeated, lost and completely uninterested in confronting her. Until the day petty greed graduated to outright corruption: when a go-between made an initial approach on behalf of a Romanian drug syndicate.
Donny Benjamin, a less-than-average detective on the drug unit, had his fingers in more pies than a Beechworth baker. He made the simple proposition after a dozen beers one night at the police club. For Mack to photocopy a confidential ACA report on the status of an investigation into Romanian drug dealers in Australia. In exchange for $50 000. An obscene amount of money, Mack thought, for ten minutes’ work, and who would even care—everyone hated Romanian drug dealers.
On the Run Page 4