Chapter 13.
Knife in the Draw
Agent Jarvina Hofer had been very busy. She had discovered that Pasquale Scarmado had been engaged at the time of his death, to Giovanni Sciarra’s granddaughter no less. The engagement party had taken place at the Al Fresco Function Centre, which looked over the water, near Five Dock. His fiancée, it was said, was a very clever and beautiful young woman, who was being held back by the misogynistic attitudes of the Ndrangheta, who generally viewed women as subservient and inferior. What was unclear, however, was whether this young woman actually wanted to get out of the life of crime that she had been born into, as some said. Or, whether she saw herself as the next boss of the Sciarra Outfit, as others proclaimed. And what were her reasons for getting engaged to Pasquale Scamardo, who didn’t seem like he was the sharpest knife in the drawer?
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After his hit, Salvatore ‘The Wolf’ Rattis, was feeling brilliant; like the world was his for the taking. He didn’t bother waking up his zonked out cousins, but decided to head to Angel’s Place, and get a girl.
Rattis was not a very deep or analytical man. It would not have occurred to him that he was treating a person like a commodity: a product to buy or sell. He simply saw women as objects, placed on the planet to serve men, in whatever capacity was required. This attitude was common among many gangsters, and it seemed fixed, incapable of change. What had changed, though, was that women born, or married into these crime families, were more often rebelling against the patriarchy. Though, often, they paid for this rebellion with their own lives.
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It was 9 p.m., I was sitting at the restaurant overlooking the marina and its flock of yachts, which were worth a king’s ransom, sipping on a white wine, and biding my time, waiting to see which yachts were hosting parties tonight. Two yachts had already left, to sail around the harbour, but I was sure that these were not related to the Sciarra Outfit, because the first group had been of Asian appearance and the members of the other group were all pretty much over 60, and had American accents.
It was just after 9.30. p.m. when the Sciarra Outfit began to arrive, stepping out of fairly modest cars, but wearing expensive, sharp looking Italian suits and couture dresses. I watched as they headed toward a 50 metre yacht, which was subtly lit up, as though keeping a low profile, despite its luxury status, and exorbitant price tag. I could see sofas, armchairs and low tables spread out across its front decks. I imagined that the dining room was inside somewhere, probably on the upper deck.
About twenty people had boarded the yacht so far. So I decided it was time for me to get on there too. I walked down near the water, where the luxury yachts and sea craft were lined up, and took off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the ground. Just wearing my swimming costume, I took the swimming cap from my waterproof backpack, placed it on my head and slipped the pocket knife into my cap. Then, securing my backpack onto by back, I edged into the water and began to swim through the salty, chill liquid, very silently, toward the Sciarra superyacht.
As I neared the yacht, I swum around and found the anchor line and soon proceeded to climb the slippery rope, by pinching the rope between my feet, and pulling myself upwards. Grabbing the knife from my cap and flicking it open, I plunged it into the hull of the boat and stepped onto the handle. I was able to use knife, and the rope, to lever myself over the side, and into the boat.
I quickly moved into a shadowy corner and slipped off my wet swimming costume. I opened my backpack and rolled the lycra dress over my wet body; put on my blonde wig, took out my shoes and folded out the heel, and slipped the dangerous looking stiletto shoes onto my feet. I took out the Glock Pistol and checking the bullet chamber, I slid the gun under my wig, at the back of my head.
I tottered over to the side of the boat, and looked out to the marina, and saw a group of women arriving, who were most likely some of the sex workers from Angel’s Place…..although one of them was plain ugly, with wiry, black hair, chunky glasses, and a long black dress, reminiscent of a potato sack. Probably some old bird from the old country, I thought. Then, I noticed that she was carrying a huge cake. The goon standing at the entrance to the boat, simply waved the group on, in a bored manner, and went back to his conversation with another man, who was sucking on his cigarette as though it was his mother’s teat, as the group walked up onto the deck.
Keeping to the shadows, I slunk around the side of the yacht, until I came to the deck where the other guests were lounging on sofas and standing around in intimate circles, chatting and drinking white wine or cold beers, and eating dainty foods off plates, which were held, or resting on small tables.
‘You’ve got to go in there sweetheart’, said a muscular, middle aged man, smoothly, as he sidled up alongside me. He pointed for me to go through the doorway in front, and I gave him a smile of thanks. This man may have been an attractive, silver fox, but he was undoubtedly a criminal and a murderer. And that was a very sobering thought.
I stole through the doorway, and came into a room where buffet tables were set out with elaborate finger foods and a large glass-fronted fridge was filled to bursting with Asti Spumante, and various brands of beer. A waitress dressed in a black dress and white frilly apron tuned around, and pointed to another door. I went through and wandered into a deserted and dark luxury, lounge room. I opened another door and found a huge, but very handsome man glaring at me.
‘You’re late’, he growled, his white teeth shining weirdly under the lights. The others are already inside’. He moved aside, and revealed a small staircase going downward.
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I merely smiled and stepped onto the stairs, and down I went. There were obvious security cameras all around me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, and my feet moving one after another. I came to a single door; I didn’t know what to do. Should I knock?
Slowly the door slid open, without me doing anything, and I stepped into a large room, where an obese man was holding court, on a custom-made red, velvet throne. All eyes tuned my way and I could see some of those eyes narrow, with a mix of what seemed to be jealousy and suspicion.
I was trying to keep my cool, despite feeling like I was a mouse caught in trap. Also, the room was stuffy and claustrophobic; its only window shuttered against the night. Then I recognised Tika from her Facebook page. I decided to take a chance.
‘Sorry Tika, I got your message late’, I said breathlessly.
‘What? Wait a minute’, Tika spluttered. Then, she gave me an odd sidelong look and said, ‘well, yeah, you took your time’.
And that was that.
Now the scene that greeted me was this: the group of five women in various states of undress were draped all about the gross, old man, who I believed to be Giovanni Sciarra, sometimes known as John Merlo. I couldn’t be exactly sure, as the photo I had seen of him was of a much younger and thinner man. However, I believed that I had walked right into the Ndrangheta boss’s lair.
Tika, who was petite, with long black hair, was perched on one knee of the great lump of wobbling flesh, and a buxom blonde, was on the other knee. It was a very strange scene, like a show or act was going on. It occurred to me that these women were here to bolster the old boy’s ego; to let him play act that he was young and virile, but in reality, he was probably a toothless tiger: in one sense at least. I also thought that it was very odd that the Sciarra family members’ were out mingling and eating and drinking on the decks, while the head of the Sciarra Outfit was being entertained by a pack of prostitutes. But I suppose that this group of criminals has shown time after time that they have no morals; only a strange and warped religiosity, whereby they believe strongly in the idea of forgiveness, as a licence to do absolutely anything, and be absolved.
I noticed a security monitor on the w
all, which was surveilling several locations on the yacht, all on the same screen. I noticed the dark part of the yacht, where I had entered the boat, flash up onto that screen. Either I had been lucky, Sciarra hadn’t been watching, or, he was onto me, and waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The lady killer in the chair crooked his finger, as he impaled me with his pale eyes. I walked toward him, trying to think what my next move would be. I didn’t want to end up providing an erotic service to the old fellow; that would be a bridge too far in the line of duty.
‘Vieni qui tesoro. I want you to massage my feet’, he commanded in a highly accented voice.
I walked forward, and got down on the thick, golden carpet, which was no mean feat, in such a short dress. I slipped off his loafer style, leather shoes, which were finely made and beautiful, although misshapen by his boat-like feet, and slowly rolled down his silk socks, in what I hoped was a sensual fashion. I got to work.
The door slid open; I didn’t turn around, but I could feel a wave of recognition travel through the room. A voice spoke; a voice I knew.
‘There’s a woman here with a cake. She says you ordered it specially, and she won’t go away until you have laid eyes upon it’, said the woman.
‘Sounds very suspicious to me’, said another voice. Another voice that I knew.
‘Bring her here’, said Sciarra. ‘I will deal with her myself’.
The door opened again and the pair left to collect the woman with the cake. I could feel the room hum with fear and anticipation, as thoughts and suspicions spun about. I could feel these women looking at me, and trying to work out what I was up to, and what my presence here may mean for them. These women had taken a gamble in getting mixed up in this crime outfit. Or, they had realised too late, what they had got themselves into. Most of them only wanted to make a buck.
The door opened again.
‘So, signora, I ordered this cake, eh?’ the bloated old toad, whose feet I was patiently massaging said, dangerously, as he reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a gun.
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