Chapter 3.
Hiding Out
I heard the soft music of rain, tap-dancing on the tin roof of the shack, as I slowly woke the next morning. I didn’t smell very good, but, amazingly, after having been kidnapped, committing a murder, absconding from the scene of the crime, and hiding out in a bush humpy the night before, I had slept pretty well.
The chair hadn’t been that comfortable, but strangely, being in this place that I used to stay with my dad, had made me feel secure and protected. Probably I was deluding myself. But it felt like dad was here with me in some way. Then, another part of my brain, that part which had studied psychology, began twittering and chirping and telling me that dad was dead; that he had gone from the Earth, and that I was probably trying to escape reality, and subconsciously give myself some comfort. Whatever.
I jumped up and looked about. I had missed this old shack, but I hadn’t been here for years; not since dad died. As I looked closer about me, I thought it looked like the place also, hadn’t been disturbed for years. There were plenty of spider webs, and a layer of dust covered everything. It was not exactly a five star hotel, but I had memories here: treasured memories.
I walked over to the single, jerry-built cupboard, and grabbed some water, which was thankfully in a glass bottle. Hell! I was thirsty. Then I opened a can of the baked beans, and ate them straight from the can, after rinsing a spoon with some of the water. It was not the tastiest of breakfasts, but I was thankful for it.
I grabbed one of the old towels from the same cupboard, and shook it out. There were a few nibble holes, mouse droppings, and dead spiders, but I ignored them. I stripped off all my clothes, wrapped the towel around my body, and still wearing my joggers, I raced off down through the bush toward the Turon River. Dad and I used to swim here. We also went gold panning, and sometimes, canoeing, here. At the moment, I just wanted to get clean.
As it was raining, I didn’t have to worry too much about encountering any snakes, which generally come out in the hot, dry weather. Another snake incident I remember, happened when I about ten years old. I was swimming in the river on this really hot summer’s day, wearing my favourite yellow bikini, when a pair of red-bellied black snakes, slithered out from under a rock, and began to fight right near where my towel and clothes lay: not a very pleasant memory, that one.
There wasn’t much water in the river, and it wasn’t as clean as I would have liked, but I did feel refreshed, because, there is nothing like a bit of skinny dipping in broad daylight to rev you up, and get you ready for action. I also, acutely felt the vulnerability of being alone, and on the run. And, believe it or not, I had the niggling fear of being seen in my birthday suit, by a stranger, in the cold and harsh light of day. Perhaps, I have more in common with the man that I killed than I thought: I am a wee bit vain.
I jogged back to the shack, clutching the towel, really, only for modesty’s sake, as you never knew who you might encounter out here in the bush. But by the time I got there, the rain had stopped, and it looked like the sun was trying to come out. I put my jeans back on, with an old shirt of dad’s, and then, I grabbed the keys of the van, so that I could examine its cargo in daylight.
I opened the heavy door of the van, and the chemical, plastic smell of the interior brought back some of the horror of the night before. I shivered slightly, and pulled open the glove box again, and took out the logbooks and registration papers. The papers were registered in the name Asper PTY LTD, with an address in the middle of the city of Sydney; probably a rented office in a skyscraper. I grabbed another chocolate, and chewed the sweet and sickly bar, as I continued my examination.
Next, I turned my attention to the back of the van. I opened one of the doors and climbed in, where I could see a mountain of boxes. I lifted several lids, and saw, what appeared to be lots of tinned tomatoes. But of course, it was more than likely that these cans contained something else entirely.
I jumped down from the back of the van, and put my hand out to push the door closed, when a flash of silver caught my eye. I jumped back inside the van to have a look and found a metal attaché case strapped to the vans inside wall. I took it out; it was not locked.
I unclipped the locks. As I opened the lid, I saw that the case was filled with stacks of money, and a stainless steel Taurus PT92 handgun. And so, again, I came to the fork in the road. I already had the roughly, ten thousand dollars from the dead man’s wallet, but this case appeared to contain hundreds of thousands of dollars. However, I quickly reasoned, this money would help me survive, as I pitted my wits against the Sciarra Outfit, and, as I tried to fight my way back to my old life. But, I had to admit that, in reality, my old life and my fledgling relationship with Agent John Johnson were most likely over. There could be no going back. Ever.
I took the attaché case out of the car, and carried it into the shack, where I took down a really old and dirty, canvas knapsack, which was hanging on the back of the door, with various old coats; I shoved the money, and two guns into it. Then I grabbed the last bottle of water, and threw it on top of the money. I ran back to the van, to retrieve the rest of the chocolate bars, and left the car key in the ignition, taking the other keys. Feeling very much like a fleeing fugitive, I took one last look about me, felt a rush of sadness, and disappeared into the bush.
About an hour later, I was creeping around out the back of the old Globe Hotel in Sofala. I could see dad’s old mate, Chook, from the side window, with his mouth working away nonstop. Chook was never lost for a word. He had opinions about many things, and he often felt it necessary to share these thoughts with any available audience.
Chook was serving at the bar of his hotel; pulling ice cold beers for the locals, and the tourists who blew in wanting to experience the remnants of the oldest surviving gold rush town in Australia. I needed to get his attention somehow.
Skidding around the side of the building, like a bat out of hell, came Bunyip, Chook’s blue cattle dog, snarling and barking. Well this was inconvenient! As I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention to myself.
‘Get down you great mong!’ Chook roared, as he exploded out of the backdoor. But he stopped, as though snap frozen, as we came face to face.
‘I’ll be stuffed! Cleo, me luv! Come in, come in. Long-time no see’.
‘Look Chook, I’m actually in a bit of trouble, at the moment, and I don’t want to be seen’.
‘Fair enough’, answered Chook reasonably. ‘Come in through the back here, and go up the stairs, and then scoot into the first room on the right. I use that as a bit of an office. I’ll get Dawnie to take over the bar, and restrain this dog, and then we’ll talk. Hokie doke?’
‘Thanks Chook’, I smiled.
‘I’ll be with you in a tic luv’. He nodded, and disappeared back through the door, with the bar towel hanging over his shoulder.
I whipped through the open doorway, and sped up the stairs. I had really missed this old place, with its timber shingles, and cool, covered verandas, and ghostly memories of times long ago.
The village of Sofala, these days, only consists of a few streets which huddle together. But back following the gold rush of 1851, Sofala was a bustling, vibrant town, with 40 licensed hotels, which spread 16 kilometres along the Turon River. Sofala’s growth and optimism, however, was short lived, and by 1853, many miners were moving off to other gold fields. My mum’s ancestors had merely moved south to nearby Wattle Flat, along Oaky Creek, and continued gold mining there for some years.
I opened the door immediately right of the staircase, and entered a small, sun-lit room, with an old timber divan, a spindly legged desk, and rickety chair. I sat on the faded, bottle-green divan, and breathed in the old, dusty smells, and listened to the groans and creak of the building; I was soon thrown back in time, to when my dad was still alive. I remembered curling up on the sheep skin rug in front of the huge, sooty-brick fire place, in the downstairs lounge room, and listening to dad and Chook, tell yarns about
their youth. Dad told how he came out from Cyprus after the war in 1974, as a teenager with his parents. Chook talked of growing up in Sofala, with his brave and battling single mother. I returned to the present, and felt a deep sense of melancholy. All those times were long gone. Dad was gone.
‘So tell me luv. What’s the go here?’ Chook asked as he stepped into the room, and closed the door.
I filled him in on the events of last night, and Chook shook his head, looking at me with soulful, brown eyes.
‘You need to make sure that you don’t come within cooee of those thugs, luv, or you’ll come a gutser. Though I reckon those kind of mug lairs, would stand out like dog’s balls around here’.
‘I’ve got a bit of a plan, Chook. I just need to use the internet for a while.’
‘Oh yeah. I’ve got an ancient old lap top computer that I use’, he said, as he pulled the suitcase -looking, technological dinosaur out of his drawer. ‘It works, though, and it suits me down to the ground’.
‘Thanks Chook’, I murmured. ‘I’m going to use a search engine which won’t track me, and then I’ll erase my search history. But, even so, I would hide this thing for a while, if you can’.
‘No worries luv’, he replied, as he set up the laptop on the desk.
Chook shuffled off to make me a ‘big fry up’ for lunch, and I set down to work.
First, I searched online, on the various social media platforms, to see if there were profiles in the name of Pasquale Scamardo or Dino Fuda. I had a hunch there would be, as the main thought in the mind of narcissists’ is, look at me!
Pretty much straight away, after searching the surname ‘ Scamardo’, in Sydney, on Facebook, I found ten people. Five of those people led me to a profile called, ‘Italian Stallion’, where I saw familiar photos of the dead man, as he posed on his leopard skin bedspread, with the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in the background. In most of these photos, Scamardo had his clothes on, but there was one of him working out at a gym, with no shirt on, displaying his distinctive Crucifixion tattoo. I found it interesting how career criminals are often hyper-religious. I wondered if this was down to mere cognitive dissonance, which allowed discrepancies between beliefs’ and behaviours. Or, if it is because the belief in redemption… later, allows for criminal activities, now?
However, I wasn’t surprised to find the dead man displaying himself on the internet, as I am endlessly amazed how naïve most people are about what they publically reveal online; not realising how much information they are showing to anyone in the world, who cares to look. In this case, I formed the view that, Pasquale Scamardo was the dead man’s real name, as he was connected with various people with the same surname. And, I was now sure that, he had lived somewhere in East Balmain, near the ferry terminal, as several of his photos showed the location from where they had been uploaded.
Next, I sent an email to Sargent Tiernan, explaining that I had left the van with its cargo of tomato cans, which were most likely full of illicit drugs, near a shack on the way to Hill End.
Then, I checked online, to see if the suspected don of this particular organised crime cell, called the Sciarra Outfit, was in the country.
The Organised Crime Squad, for which I was an agent, believed that a well-known Melbourne businessman, known here as John Merlo, was actually Giovanni Sciarra; a crime boss who had a long and extensive crime history back in Italy. We believed him to be involved in international drug trafficking, using many legitimate front businesses, as part of drug operations. It was only recently that, we had received a tip off linking Joe’s Pizza in Leichhardt, as being a front organisations used by the Sciarra Outfit.
We also believed that, this particular organisation, gathered its members only from those related to the boss by blood or marriage; which would mean that Pasquale Scamado, was likely some kind of relative to Giovanni Sciarra.
This Merlo/ Sciarra character may have been a more recent arrival on the Australian criminal scene, but his Ndrangheta cell, a name coming from the Greek for courage or loyalty, fitted into a network of crime families, who had originally arrived in Australia in the 1950’s. Before this time, Italians had had a very distinguished association with Australia, with two Italians, Giacomo Matra and Antonio Ponto, travelling with Captain Cook on the Endeavour, during his voyage in 1770. And later, many Italian gold miners’ were part of the 1850s gold rush. Indeed, it was Raffaello Carboni, who wrote down his eye-witness account of the important Australian, historical event, Eureka Stockade.
But back in the 1970s, the inhabitants of Griffith, a town in south-western New South Wales, had long noticed that some of their neighbouring farmers, of Italian descent, seemed to be unaffected by industry downturns or droughts. And they were puzzled by where the money came from, to build the big palatial, nouveau riche mansions that they lived in. Rumours and mutterings swirled and swarmed. But the first public realisation that, the Calabrian-crime gang, known as the 'Ndrangheta’ was operating in these parts, far away from its Calabrian home, was with the disappearance of an anti-drugs campaigner, Donald Mackay, in 1977. This disappearance would be revealed, as being Australia’s first political assignation, instigated, to stop this man’s crusade against the marijuana trade.
When it was revealed that the Calabrian-Ndrangheta was operating in Australia, making a fortune from cultivating and distributing drugs; the weight of the law fell, and key criminals went to jail. However, all too soon, the scrutiny and outrage melted away. This was a grave mistake, as these organised crime families were agile, with deep roots in crime: overseas, and in Australia.
The next generation of the crime family members, merely stepped up to the plate, and swung into action, moving into harder and more profitable drugs. They began to extend their tentacles into law enforcement, the public service and paying off judges, as police attention meandered elsewhere. The Ndrangheta, largely free of scrutiny, become cagier, and more daring, going underground, to darker regions.
And yet, the Ndrangheta, and the mafia, have long painted themselves in romantic and idealistic terms, as being invisible ‘men of honour’, but, their reality is actually rooted in: corruption, greed and money.
In more recent years, it was revealed that the long-time dead, campaigner against drugs, Donald Mackay, who once stood as a candidate for the House of Representatives, against Al Grasby, a man who went on to become a famous and prominent Australian Politician, and later Minister for Immigration, had truly been fighting the Calabrian Ndrangheta. It was revealed that, Grasby, who had not only divided himself between his wife in one city, and his mistress in another, had been in the pay of the Calabrian criminal network. It was his job to spread their nefarious influence.
By 2007, various execution style killings and gangland style murders, alerted the authorities to the fact that the Ndrangheta in Australia, had never gone away. The Ndrangheta, which had grown bigger and stronger right under our nose, had now infiltrated both sides of politics; resembling the Hydra of Greek mythology, with the many heads: when one is cut off, two grow back. The only way to stop these heads growing back after amputation was to burn the stump, as each head is severed from its blood source.
That is what we needed to do: cut and burn.
Before I finished with the computer, I sent an email to John Johnson, who was a fellow agent and someone whom I had fancied from afar, for a couple of years.
Johnson had divorced six months ago. Last week, he had invited me out to dinner at his local Thai restaurant and we had a great night, and got on really well. Only two days ago, I had casually asked him, if he fancied coming over to my little flat in Chippendale for dinner, and he had accepted. I had been hopeful that things might move in a more romantic direction. That didn’t look too promising any more, but I thought that, I could still let him know that I was alive.
I shut down the computer, just as Chook opened the door, bringing a delicious aroma into the small room. He set before me a plate of fried eggs, tomatoes, bacon an
d chips, and, as I was feeling really hungry, I tucked in greedily, without giving a thought to calories or cholesterol.
Hearing raised voices and the thump of running feet coming from the bar, Chook shot of down the stairs, as I munched on crunchy chips. A moment later, he was back.
‘A few blokes just came into the bar, all in a lather, going on about a load of police cars heading up the gravel road toward Hill End.’
‘Looks like I better be leaving then Chook, before they come down here, and start looking around’.
‘Maybe you can hide out here luv’, Chook said, looking concerned.
‘Thanks Chook, but I’ve got a few things I have to do. But I could do with a lift into town.’
‘Righto. I reckon, Dawnie, can handle the bar for an hour or two. There’s only two locals in at the moment any hows’.
I rose from the chair and hefted the bag of money and guns over my shoulder; grabbed an old army hat, hanging from a hook behind the door, and rammed into onto my head.
Chook checked that the coast was clear, and then, we shot down the stairs and fled along the deserted road toward the little wooden shack, where Chook lived with Dawnie. We pulled back the decaying door of his old garage, which was covered with pungent smelling creepers, tumbling about with abandon, and walked toward Chook’s 1968 Suzuki T20 X6 Hustler motorbike. He handed me a cracked looking old leather jacket, and a helmet, which I put on. I shoved the army hat into my back pocket. Chook zipped up his own jacket, and slipped his helmet on, and we were ready to go.
We rode slowly and cautiously down the main road and turned to the right and bumped over the bridge. As we straightened up, a police car whizzed by us, on its way toward Hill End. We roared away in the opposite direction.