On the Run

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On the Run Page 13

by Colin McLaren


  As he started to fax the application to police headquarters, he noticed Spud, seated at his desk, swearing loudly at his computer screen.

  ‘What’s the trouble, champer?’ he asked.

  ‘The fuckin’ alert’s gone mad. Look what’s comin’.’

  Leigh had no idea what he meant, despite the briefing Sandra had given him the week before.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Spud, who was studying a list of transactions by Tommy Paul on the MasterCard.

  ‘Fuck. He’s getting around, champer.’

  ‘But why so quick, what’s gone wrong?’ said Spud, puzzled.

  The next page of the MasterCard manager’s email answered Spud’s question. Spud’s covert eye on anyone making enquiries on the passport or credit cards held in the name of Tommy Paul had spat out information he would rather not know, for he wasn’t a Toe Cutter. Leigh and Spud looked at the line that said, ‘Spudly, my old mate. Come and see me NOW!’

  Spud picked up his coat and ran out of the building.

  Spud was panting by the time he got to the lift of the MasterCard building six blocks away. He hit the button to call the elevator and waited, pacing on the spot. A slim, well-dressed girl of no more than twenty stood next to him, also waiting for the lift, take-away coffee in hand. She glimpsed his impatience.

  ‘Card overdrawn, eh?’ she quipped.

  ‘Something like that,’ was all Spud offered as the lift doors opened and he pressed ‘14’. The woman stood back, happy that her button had been pressed. They rode in silence. Spud had too much racing through his mind to be concerned with making small talk to an attractive girl nearly half his age. The lift door opened and the girl glided out, turning left to face a security door and key her code into a contraption on the wall. Spud went straight for the reception counter and pressed the buzzer. In as much time as it would take to place her coffee on a desk the same dainty girl appeared to answer his call. She slid back the glass window and smiled.

  ‘You really are overdrawn, eh?’ she smiled.

  ‘No, I need to see Jake Worthington,’ he said.

  ‘It’s more serious than overdrawn, seeing the Head of Security.’

  ‘No. Yes. I’m not overdrawn. Sorry, can I see Jake?’

  The girl gifted him with another of her perfect receptionist smiles and she glided some more, across a busy office full of data entry workers, till she disappeared altogether. Five minutes passed before Jake opened a side door and welcomed Spud.

  ‘Come in, Spudly.’

  Spud followed behind Jake, as he criss-crossed past the many desks to a back glassed-in office. They took seats and got straight to the point. Jake nodded towards an ethnic-looking man, no more than thirty years of age who was seated at a desk several rows from Jake’s office.

  ‘The guy in the blue checked shirt.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I know who you mean, with the head of hair?’

  ‘Yep, a spy.’

  ‘Go on,’ asked Spud, wanting the full story. Jake handed him a copy of an email he had found that same morning, addressed from the MasterCard office to one Detective Donald Benjamin of the Drug Unit. Spud didn’t have to read it in any great detail to know it was a list of transactions on the Tommy Paul MasterCard, the exact same list Jake had sent him only half an hour earlier.

  Spud stated the obvious. ‘He’s supplying unauthorised information.’

  ‘Seems.’

  ‘Does he know you know?’

  ‘No way. How do you want to play this thing?’ asked Jake.

  ‘Safe. Let’s not let the rat know that the cats know about him.’

  Jake nodded once or twice then offered Spud a cold drink from the kitchen.

  Pretty pleased with himself, Tommy sat on an antique chair that he’d relocated from the writing desk to the tiny balcony of Room 6 of the Hotel Suisse on the waterfront at Bellagio. The French doors to his room were open and the wind from the lake whipped the delicate sheer curtains around his legs every now and then. So far he had spent two blissful nights in the rickety old bed, allowing his wounded side to heal. One of the things he always enjoyed about Italy was the free hospital and medical service, even extended to travellers. The little Aurelia surgery on the road to Bellagio had been more than obliging, as he stepped from the bus and explained his mugging again. Nine stitches later, a course of antibiotics and painkillers were prescribed and dispensed with the addition of a soothing smile from the nurse, and Tommy headed off to find his hotel.

  It was the perfect retreat for him at this stage of his journey. It was only one-star rated, not that you’d notice. It was stunning. Perhaps the owners hadn’t paid the payola to the local hotel inspector, he thought. Regardless, his trail so far had shown a man staying in superior hotels and eating in grand restaurants. He hoped Massimo would stay on that trail and look elsewhere. More so, he hoped that Massimo would surmise that, once Tommy had feasted at the Ristorante Savini, he had caught a direct flight to Poland.

  The door to the little hole-in-the-wall travel shop in Milano was reopened, this time by Massimo, who thought he had found gold. He sat down facing the only girl in the shop and smiled his best Latin Lothario smile. She returned his smile but hers was only half as confident. Northern Italians are often suspicious of their southern cousins. He placed the newspaper clipping of Cole Goodwin on the counter. She dropped her curious eyes onto the picture. It took the Italian charmer less than five minutes to ascertain that Tommy/Cole had purchased a ticket to Kraków. It took less than a second for Massimo’s smile to disappear and for his hand to come down heavily on the counter as he mouthed, ‘Fuck. He’s in fuckin’ Poland.’

  The phone behind the counter of the Café Azzurra in Griffith was picked up on the third ring by Penny. She had been madly cleaning, looking to knock off early for the night. At one table the old Godfather and two of his trusted lieutenants were on their last short blacks for the day. Otherwise, the café was deserted.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered without interest.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ she repeated. ‘Massimo, ciao, how is Italy? You’ve been home a while?’

  Penny laughed as she received a dose of Italian charm from her caller.

  ‘You’re a naughty man, Massimo.’ She smiled as he spoke, and then placed the handset on the bench before turning to the old Godfather.

  ‘Giovanni, Massimo is on the telephone. He is in Milan.’

  She discreetly removed herself to reset her last table. The old Godfather moved more quickly than he normally would to the telephone, and placed the handset to his ear.

  ‘Buona sera, Massimo.’

  In no more than the time it took for Penny to lay a set of knives and forks, the old Godfather had ended the call. He looked annoyed and walked heavily back to his lieutenants.

  All Penny overheard of the ensuing fifteen-minute whispered conversation was that somebody was in Poland, Massimo had fucked up and had been ordered back to Calabria to look after the tins of artichokes.

  Penny felt troubled by what she’d just heard, especially as it had seemed to relate largely to Massimo. Her detective friend, Leigh, had asked her the previous week for news of anything that she may hear about him. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of these snippets of information, but she had given her word. So, once the old Godfather and his entourage had left, and she had locked up the café, Penny made a quick call to Leigh from her darkened office.

  The modest kitchen at Sandra’s house had no room for the cat at this meeting. Once Leigh had reported back his conversation with Penny, Sandra called them together. They were even more worried about Cole since Spud had found out about Donny. The team also felt a little uneasy about sitting around the office discussing their secrets; hence they found themselves squeezed into a huddle at Sandra’s. They hadn’t been going long before she plonked a large plate of nachos down in the only small space left between them. Of course to keep Spud happy, there was extra guacamole, sour cream and melted cheese. Sandra chipped in between mouthfuls, ‘Don�
�t get too cosy with my gourmet talents, boys. We need to work out what we’ve got.’

  ‘Let’s start with the Mafia,’ suggested Leigh.

  ‘Okay. Let’s see, Griffith was linked to a container out of Reggio Calabria to Sydney eighteen months ago, but customs fucked up and it left the dock never to be seen again,’ said Spud, as he pulled at the corn chips, lassoing one with elastic cheese.

  ‘Why do you think that container was tied in to what Penny told me about tins of artichokes, champer?’

  ‘Because the copy of the manifest from the missing container, which was at the stevedoring office, listed the goods in Italian as prodotti alimentari,’ said Spud.

  ‘Which is?’ asked Sandra curiously.

  ‘Delicatessen food,’ explained Spud.

  ‘And Giovanni’s gang aren’t grocers, they’re supposed to be citrus growers,’ Sandra caught on. ‘But what about Cole? He’s now in Poland,’ she continued.

  ‘Yeah, and Massimo’s got the big smack and has been sent home to look after the artichokes,’ Leigh added.

  ‘Method of smuggling a massive shipment of ecstasy,’ said Spud.

  ‘And Donny?’ asked Sandra.

  ‘He was always an arse-wipe,’ Leigh replied. ‘Interesting that he’s wandered into our lives. He’s been suspected of selling out jobs for ages. Even the Toe Cutters have got an interest in him. His mouth came up on a listening device a year or two ago. He stinks.’

  ‘Well, if the Toe Cutters are interested, and they know he stinks, there’s our opening at last. Who’s handling his file?’ asked Sandra. The three of them looked at each other and none of them had the answer.

  ‘I’ll see their analyst and get a referral,’ offered Spud.

  ‘And I’ll get an email to Cole and let him know he’s not alone,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Leigh said with a newfound enthusiasm.

  Sandra thought for a moment as her two close mates tucked into the last of the nachos. She then offered up a comment that was perhaps more in line with something Cole might have said had he been there.

  ‘Look, if we’re going to do this—get in bed with the Toeys, I mean—then let’s do it properly. Keep our mouths fuckin’ shut and get on with it and bring Cole home safely.’

  She pushed the now empty plate aside, and placed her open fingered hand on the bench top, as Leigh and then Spud placed their hands one on top of the other.

  11th June

  While the tiny village of Plati, nestled on the edge of the Aspromonte Mountains, offered some magnificent views of the Mediterranean coastline below, it was not a town visited by tourists. But back in the summer of 1972 the region had been put on the map, in a moment that gave one of the poorest regions of Italy a lustre that shone for many years.

  A group of local fishermen, from the seaside village of Locri, overlooked by Plati, waded with their old wooden-hulled vessel, Judas, out into the magnificent blue of the Mediterranean Ocean. They had done this every morning of their lives, as had done their fathers, chasing the plentiful runs of swordfish and deep-sea marlin. On this particular morning, as they urged forward in the warm, shallow water, the half-dozen men stopped dead and stood in utter astonishment. Lying supine on the water’s edge was a pair of perfectly preserved, two-metre-tall, solid bronze statues. The two elegantly bearded warriors of Riace proved to be one of the most remarkable representations of the Hellenic period dating back to the fifth century BC. Despite the smarts of all the world experts, no one was ever able to say how they arrived at that particular location, how they could be so wonderfully preserved and, more intriguingly, why they had never been discovered previously. Both warriors, when found, seemed to be looking towards the Aspromonte Mountains.

  Plati had one other claim to fame: it was the headquarters of the N’Drangheta, the local name for the worst criminals in Calabria: the Mafia.

  The three most infamous regions of Italy each had its own name for the ‘Mafia’. The Cosa Nostra were the mobsters of Sicily; the Camorra were the gangs in and around Naples. While each organisation was in the main content to busy itself with its own rackets, standovers, murders and demands for payola, every now and again, when it suited them, they would join forces. Such a union usually only came about to further a complicated drug importation or solve a distribution need. Otherwise, the neighbours kept pretty much to themselves, taking care of business as their corrupt conglomerates thrived and spread throughout the world.

  Each of the regional Mafia organisations had become specialists in specific crimes, which to some degree helped them co-exist harmoniously. The Cosa Nostra had long been the experts at payola, tickling every till in Sicily for a monthly or weekly kickback. They also had large shareholdings in the passenger ferries and car rentals on their island, as well as contacts at most customs offices throughout Italy. The Camorra were slightly more commercial than the Sicilians, specialising in the illegal disposal of hazardous waste materials, as well as taking control of the construction industry down south. Their biggest money-spinner, however, was running the multitude of illegal sweatshops, which produced the highly profitable ‘made in Italy’ fashions sold to tourists everywhere. Business was booming.

  The N’Drangheta were far more down-to-earth in their crimes and were also considered the most violent. Their specialities were the kidnapping of the wealthy—hiding them in the caves surrounding the Aspromonte Mountains until distraught loved ones coughed up the ransom—and global drug trafficking.

  The black Alfa Romeo 156 sedan cruised effortlessly up the hill towards Plati. Massimo, in the passenger seat, glanced back along the road towards the ocean. He and his driver, his cousin, Pino, were only one bend away from entering the town. At no more than five feet in height, Pino had to be propped up on three folded sheepskins to allow him a proper view through his putrid windscreen. The texture of his face resembled dry, cracked soil and his greasy black hair appeared never to have seen a comb in its forty years.

  Pino couldn’t resist throttling the engine and hurling gravel into the air before coming to an awkward stop in the piazza. He killed the engine and stepped from the vehicle, his head only just above the roof of his pride and joy. Massimo took a more worldly approach to getting out of the car. He stepped effortlessly onto the piazza and strolled in a classic bella figura manner over to the dull little Café La Vista. Before he had taken more than a half-a-dozen steps, a feisty teenage girl sprinted from a nearby doorway. She waved both arms madly in the air.

  ‘Uncle Massimo! Benvenuto!’ She leapt excitedly towards him from almost a metre away. His strong arms caught her in mid-flight. She proceeded to cover every inch of his forehead and cheeks with sloppy kisses.

  ‘Did you bring me a present, a koala bear, Uncle?’ she pestered. Massimo eased her feet gently back onto the ground.

  ‘No, little Lydia. I didn’t bring any koalas, no kangaroos and no crocodiles either,’ Massimo replied. He looked her carefully up and down.

  ‘I’m not little any more, Uncle,’ Lydia said defiantly.

  ‘Off home, little miss movie star. I have business with the Godfather. I will see you later for dinner with your mamma and papà.’

  As Lydia sulked seductively back home as instructed, she called out ‘Ciao, Papà’ to her father, seated near the entrance to the café. Massimo shot her a final cheeky-uncle wink, then redirected his attention and shot a friendly smile at his three mates, including her father, his cousin Giuseppe, who sat lounging in the sun with three identical espressos. He flicked an offhand nod towards Pino, to the boot of the car and the powder-blue suitcase.

  ‘Ciao, Massimo!’ the mini chorus broke out. Each man stood in turn to shake Massimo’s hand and to kiss both cheeks. They were pleased to see him.

  ‘Ciao, amici,’ returned Massimo as his gaze drifted around his home village. He signalled to the peasant-faced old waiter for a coffee and dropped his weary body into a seat, splaying his legs in the sun.

  ‘So, the kangaroo’s come home?’ />
  His friend Illario’s question brought a raucous laugh from all seated, which became louder with his cousin’s enquiry, ‘What about the women?’

  Massimo stood tall, made the shape of a large hourglass and pumped his right arm vigorously as he answered. ‘Bellissima, Giuseppe.’

  The laughter was joined by a short round of applause. The old waiter brought Massimo’s espresso.

  The conversation turned to the old Australian Godfather. ‘A good man, with a great world’ was Massimo’s assessment.

  His three partners broke into another chorus, this time ‘Bravo, bravo’, elated at the good fortune of their Australian connection.

  Pino walked towards them, leaving the boot lid up. He was carrying a modified Kalashnikov assault weapon, the AK 74 Polish Army–issue automatic rifle. He struggled with the powder-blue suitcase in the other hand. The little man also had a Browning MKI 9mm semi-automatic pistol tucked inside his belt. He dropped the rifle to the ground near the table and let the suitcase fall over the top of it, hiding it. He heard the ‘Bravo’ compliments and took them as meant for him, which brought yet another round of guffawing from the four amici. Pino pulled up a chair to join them at the table.

  ‘Are you home to stay now, Massimo, or running from the Polizia?’

  The still-laughing Massimo explained that everything he did was now another man’s problem.

  Illario was the one to ask the question on all their lips, ‘But Massimo—are you here to help with the artichokes?’

  ‘Si, si. We have much work to do. Australia is waiting.’

  Massimo went on to explain that the Australian Godfather had requested the delivery of another shipment of ecstasy tablets. He added that the old Don had enlisted the special services of the head of the police to help with the safe delivery.

 

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