Chapter 12.
Work and Play
I slipped the lycra dress, the shoes, the swimming cap, and wig, into the waterproof backpack. Then, on second thoughts, I also threw in the Glock pistol. I dressed, putting the Speedo swimming costume on underneath the tracksuit pants, sleeveless vest, and baseball cap ensemble.
I packed up my suitcase and tided my room. It didn’t look much better. I dragged and thumped the suitcase down the bald, smelly carpeted stairs, and began to walk through the backstreets. I was making my way to Rushcutters Bay, going through Darlinghurst. It was only a little over a half hours walk away. I had plenty of time.
I wandered by the gelato shop in Darlinghurst and joined the long line of people, who also wanted to sample the cool, sweet delights available within. As I ambled along, eating my Macadamia Crunch cone, my mind wandered back to working in Joe’s Pizza Shop in Leichardt, which amazingly, was only a couple of days in the past. Which makes you think about how fast things can change; I mean, one minute you’re in the middle of something, and then, next thing, that part of your life is over, never to return.
I’d got the job at the pizza shop, as part of a ‘level one’ undercover assignment. I was recommended for this role by Sargent Tiernan and this was endorsed by Inspector Briggs, the head of our unit, as they believed that I possessed the necessary self-confidence, social skills, and ability to adapt. I was furnished with a false identity, which had my parents born in the same village in Calabria, as Giovanni Sciarra, and my fabricated surname was selected from one of those related to this crime family; although, this touch was probably unnecessary, as most people in these villages in Calabria are related. My major problem was that I didn’t speak Italian, but as I was mostly only involved in washing and cleaning at the pizzeria, this hadn’t proved to be a problem.
In all the weeks I’d worked undercover, I hadn’t experience one thing that was mildly suspicious, until I had been kidnapped by the now dead Pasquale Scamardo, delivering the drugs in tomato cans.
I hadn’t even seen ‘The Boss’, who was supposed to collect the nightly takings.
I suppose, in this period of non-activity, I had started to become complacent; forgetting the danger that I had willingly put myself into, as part of my job.
The Sciarra Outfit, an Australian outpost of the Ndrangheta, have very strong bonds with their parent group back in Italy. And taking on the Ndrangheta, is a very dangerous business. This crime group is believed to have been formed in the 1860s, in Calabria, by exiled Sicilians, and since then, they have become known for their extreme brutality. In 1973, the Ndrangheta, were responsible for kidnapping John Paul Getty III, the grandson of oil tycoon, Jean Paul Getty. They cut off the 16 year old boy’s ear, and sent it to his family; threatening to return the boy in ‘little bits’, unless a ransom was paid. A sum of $2.9 million was sent to the Ndrangheta, and the boy returned to his family - minus his ear.
Today, in Europe, the Ndrangheta is believed to control around 80 percent of Europe's cocaine traffic. And their criminal activities contribute about 3 percent to Italy's GDP. Essentially, though, this is a group of terrorists’, who subvert the system of justice, democracy and the public interest, to satisfy their own ruthless greed for power, and wealth.
When I arrived at Kings Cross, a place famous for its clubs, pubs and sleaze, I zipped around to one of the small side streets, where my cousin, Petros, owns a Greek souvlaki shop. I hadn’t seen my cousin for a few months, but I was pretty certain that I would find him hard at work, as he worked 12 hours a day, 7 days a week.
‘Ade re malaka! I can’t believe it!’ Petros boomed, with his hands held out wide.
I smiled at my cousin, who had just handed a food package over the counter, to a skinny looking blonde woman, who had likely come out of one of the nearby brothels. You may think that it is hard to tell the working girls, from the rest, in this day and age, but believe me, there is more than clothes, to the difference. A lot of these women who work the massage parlours, are treated by the customers and wider society, with so much distain; like they don’t have any finer feelings that these women begin to wear their inner outrage like armour. I’d learnt to recognise the glow of that armour from a mile away.
‘Going on a holiday?’ Petro asked, his eyebrows hitting his receding hairline.
‘No, I’ve got a job around here, and I was wondering if I could leave this bag here overnight. That’s all’.
‘You’ve got a job on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Crime doesn’t stop for the holidays, sadly, cuz’.
‘No problem. Bring it out the back here….and I’ll make you a Greek coffee’.
‘No thanks! I don’t fancy drinking mud’, I replied laughing. The fact that I was only of half Greek blood, was an ongoing joke between us.
‘Bloody Skip’, Petros said, as he shook his head in mock outrage. In reality, Petros, loved being an Aussie, and he was a bit of a flag waver. We got on well, but only as long as we didn’t talk about politics.
After I was free of the suitcase, containing a gun, and the proceeds of crime, I set off again, walking toward Rushcutters Bay. I didn’t have far to go.
The wonderful view of the blue water, seemingly fused with the sky, and the contrast of the crisp white boats, hit me with its sublime beauty, as I walked through the park, which led to the boating marina. This was a millionaire’s view, though. Part a world which was throwing away social and moral considerations, and allowing prices and the market to reign, and deliver up the winners and losers: a system which also allowed the Ndrangheta to thrive. I reflected on this, as I watched the luxury yachts, and motor cruises, that bobbed and floated with great gentility, on the silken water; as the sky slowly darkened, on this last summer evening of the year. I couldn’t help thinking that generally, it is very difficult to become really rich, by working on the right side of the law.
Walking up and down the marina, as night slipped in and lights came on, I scanned the many floating palaces that were berthed here. I knew that the Ndrangheta used sailing boats, yachts, and catamarans, to bring in mostly cocaine and heroin from Latin America, and the Dominican Republic. But I didn’t believe that tonight’s party was related to business. Or was it?
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Salvatore ‘The Wolf’ Rattis, slinked into his modest Toyota, which his uncle, Giovani Sciarra, The Boss, had given him. The veneer of modesty was important to the Sciarra Outfit: no flashy suits, jewels, or houses; as the parade of wealth was liable to prick up the antennae of the law, and other crime syndicates. But the Boss had his luxury yacht, and he hardly ever moved from it. Sure, the yacht sailed from Melbourne to Sydney, frequently, but The Boss himself, stayed inside like a turtle in its shell; in his bullet proof cabin, in the throne-like chair, working the numbers. Of course, The Boss was so overweight now, that it would be difficult to move him. Which made Rattis wonder: what was the point of life for the old fella?
Rattis drove to a house in Greenacre where an ice lab was set up. The strong smell of acetone hung heavy, as he got out of the car; which served to remind him that he had taken yet another short cut. He should have found a more remote location for the lab, but he didn’t care much anymore. He could clearly see the whole Sciarra Outfit imploding before long. And he’d go down with it.
Inside, the house was squalid, marinating in toxic vapours, and covered with buckets, tubes and glass beakers. His cousins, Frank and Luca, were lying, fully clothed, but dirty and dishevelled, on a grimy sofa, with an empty bottle of whiskey on a nearby table. He knew that they had been drinking it: the ice that is, added to the whiskey. Rattis sat down next to his cousins, and picked up the glass pipe. Soon he would feel the hit. His mind would clear, his energy would rocket, and the pleasure would flow through him like honey. This is the only thing that matters, he thought.