Be Dead and Be Damned: Murder with Malice in Melbourne

By Gerry Burke

Crime:

Murder with Malice

The murder of a controversial figure in a public place creates nervous tension at police headquarters. Chief Inspector Dave Klingendorf and his offsider from the Homicide Squad, the enigmatic Rachel Lyons, fight to keep the case alive while others try to bury it.

In Melbourne

The underbelly of one of Australias most sedate and conservative cities is uncovered to reveal dark secrets and gruesome revelations. The investigators look to the growing mafia influence in the city while those in Chinatown ponder the possibilities of extending their power base.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532038099

Gerry Burke

Gerry Burke received a Jesuit inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, he was employed by an international mining company, which included a three year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative in order to stave off dementia. He has since penned 6 novels, 6 volumes of short stories, and 2 offerings of commentary and opinion relating to Politics, Entertainment, Sport, and Travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of his popular protagonist Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere. Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the centre-point of the author’s humour-laden resume. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim. Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established with ten of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. His last three volumes have received multiple citations. Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses. http://gerryburke.net

Book preview

BE

DEAD

AND BE

DAMNED

MURDER WITH MALICE

IN MELBOURNE

GERRY BURKE

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BE DEAD AND BE DAMNED

MURDER WITH MALICE IN MELBOURNE

Copyright © 2017 Gerard (Gerry) Burke.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3807-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3808-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3809-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017917889

iUniverse rev. date: 11/22/2017

CONTENTS

Author’s Previous Works

Acknowledgments

Main Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Postscript

About The Author

AUTHOR’S PREVIOUS WORKS

From Beer to Paternity

— one man’s journey through life as we know it

Down-Under Shorts

— stories to read while they’re fumigating your pants

Pest Takes a Chance (Finalist: USA Best Book Awards)

— and other humorous stories from the Paddy Pest Chronicles

The Lady on the Train

— more humorous Paddy Pest yarns for children over thirty

Pest on the Run (Finalist: USA Best Book Awards)

— more humorous short stories from the Paddy Pest Chronicles

Paddy’s People (IPPY Bronze Medal: Best Fiction Australia & NZ)

— tales of life, love, laughter and smelly horses

The Hero of Hucklebuck Drive (Finalist: USA Best Book Awards)

— another Paddy Pest mystery

The Snoodle Contract (Finalist: Book Excellence Awards)

— a provocative power play of political perfidy

The Replicants (Finalist: Book Excellence Awards)

— recommended by US Review

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editing: Kylie Moreland

Illustrations: Ben Sullivan

Supporting cover pictorials: iStock.

Alan J. Lerner:

Opening lyrics of They Call the Wind Maria.

In keeping with accepted poetic license, the author has re-birthed the actual introduction of the Quill Awards: the yearly accolades of the Melbourne Press Club.

As a matter of record, Australian currency changed from pounds to dollars in the mid-sixties.

B.%20Acknowledgement%20%20B%26W%20300%20dpi.jpg

Melbourne, Australia

The world’s most livable city for seven years running!

MAIN CHARACTERS

CHAPTER 1

T he man was striding purposefully along the pavement of the deserted shopping precinct, keeping close to the building line to avoid the chill wind blowing directly into his face. He was not dressed appropriately for such hostile weather conditions and the turned-up collar of his once fashionable suede jacket provided little in the way of comfort or wind-resistance. Nor would his open-neck lightweight cotton shirt defy the arctic assault on his person. However, sanctuary appeared within reach as he spied the warm lights of hospitality cutting into the night some two hundred yards away.

In a township of some two thousand residents, many of whom were wowsers and killjoys, one can’t expect more than token commitment to the necessities of the average working man. In this regard, Mother Tucker’s Country Hotel shone like a beacon in the night, especially in June when the nocturnal winds howl like a banshee and the comforts of home are best appreciated with mates rather than kinfolk. The original proprietor of the hostelry had established a magnetic retreat, offering succor and solace for present and future generations, as long as the price of beer remained competitive.

The stranger found the lonely end of the bar and immediately and discreetly surveyed the room for any signs of discontent or objectionable comment. You get that sometimes when you are in a foreign environment, even if you’re not a Mormon. The barman’s name was Bill, and he happily complied with the order, double bourbon with a beer chaser, and recognized this tipple as a popular option of the serious drinker. A welcoming smile might have made him eligible for a small gratuity but he didn’t bother. The stranger didn’t look like much of a tipper. Barmen know and understand these things.

Mother Tucker’s pub is a Federation building, which means it has been around for quite some time. The former proprietor was not well remembered, having departed the scene some two decades earlier. He had deflowered one of the local virgins and departed the district with the parents in hot pursuit. The current owner was not only a woman but a woman of some substance, who had worked hard to establish her credentials in a town awash with discrimination and pejorative perception. These folks were prepared to think ill of anyone. The licensee was presently unmarried and proudly independent, possessing capable management ability, which she generously applied to community issues, if asked.

If the stranger had been more alert, he might have spied the proprietor’s name on the entrance plaque near the front door, and even marveled at the style and grace of this den of antiquity. However, when one is tired and thirsty, comfort and hydration become urgent issues. The man’s priority was to catch the eye of the barman, rather than absorb the architectural wonder of this heritage classic.

Not all heritage classics boast a balustrade that overlooks the room below but this one did, and mine host Fran Webster frequently parked herself by the banister to scrutinize her customers in the saloon bar and evaluate the size of their wallets. Some of her skills were uncanny and she frequently anticipated the amount of the day’s takings by watching for less than ten minutes. Her presence on the poop deck also curbed Bill’s profit-sharing inclinations as he sometimes had his hand in the till when the ponies weren’t running his way.

The appearance of the new arrival at the end of the bar was an unanticipated pleasure by the woman on high. Perhaps it really wasn’t a pleasure—more of a shock. He was leaner than he used to be and might have been down on his luck, but she still recognized his confident demeanor and practiced awareness. The fellow had his back to the corner wall, but his perimeter sweep was one dimensional. If the stranger had glanced up, he would have locked eyes with his ex-wife and ordered another slug of whisky.

For the damsel with a degree in détente, the descent from the second floor was slow and considered, giving her time to cogitate on the likely reason for this unannounced visit from her most irritating paramour. There had been no bitter parting and relations were cordial, further sweetened by the passage of time and the fact that he was unaware of her place of abode. It had been seven years since the little woman had loaded all her belongings into the back of her recreational vehicle and headed for the countryside, leaving the aforementioned paramour comatose in their apartment. After much effort and soul-searching, the lady had realized she was no match for her salacious competitor, the ubiquitous Jim Beam.

Hello, Jack. Long time no see.

Jack’s reaction to her greeting was genuine surprise, on the back of initial confusion based on lack of recognition. Her blonde highlights and curled extensions were a recent grooming choice and lavishly recommended by Kyle, the main man at The Mane Salon on Main St. This didn’t look like the gal he married but she was still an attractive woman.

Bloody hell! gasped the perplexed lawyer, for that’s what he was: J.T. Webster, mouthpiece for the mob and delegate for the dispossessed, dispirited, and dysfunctional. It is hard to know whether he really was pleased to greet his former wife, who would surely seek an explanation for those alimony checks which always seemed to get lost. Maintenance support for one’s ex-spouse is so important these days. In this case she had given up her promising career as an exotic dancer to help him advance his professional aspirations.

You look fabulous, sweetheart, but what are you doing in this backwater? I’m on the run but what’s your excuse?

A business venture, my darling! My partner moved on to his celestial reward and I was left this place which, at the time, didn’t seem like a generous gesture; but I have turned it into a nice little earner. I see you and Jim are still pals.

If ever Jack needed Mr. Beam by his side, this was the time. He hadn’t counted on meeting any old friends and he knew the woman standing beside him boasted a social network which included bad people with big mouths. He wasn’t sure how sympathetic she would be when he told her of the gangsters who were after him with evil intent. Why didn’t he try harder with his alimony payments?

Probably the only mate I have left. I’ve screwed-up, Fran, and my life is in danger. You can’t tell anyone you’ve seen me—even your cousin Rebecca. I’ll bet you’re still in touch.

We are, actually. The fact that you were boning her behind my back is of no consequence. Family is family. I gather this is also where your trouble lies.

The legal eagle stared blankly into her eyes and marveled at her intuition. Yep, Sammy the Snake was supposed to be mafia and one of the scariest mobsters in town. Jack felt he should keep a lid on the intimate details, but it is always best to be honest. After all, he was a lawyer.

I’m afraid so. One of my clients was unaware I was taping all our meetings. It was inevitable that regrettable indiscretions would find their way onto the recordings, but I didn’t anticipate being exposed. How was I to know my secretary was on Sammy’s payroll?

The lawyer misinterpreted Fran’s sigh to be an indication of sympathy, but it was probably a taciturn lament harvested from historical memories. Her former husband’s reputation as a clever clogs may well have been self-promulgated because he had a knack for getting himself into trouble; and she had seen it all before. The offer of temporary refuge was testimony to the lady’s benevolent nature, or was it a reflection of the realization that if it were not for this man she might still be an exotic dancer?

It’s a sad tale, Jack, but not so surprising. Although I may regret it, I am happy for you to hole up here until the dust settles. You can work off your rent by helping Bill with his duties. Your digs are in the basement, not on the executive level.

You could tell by the man’s smile that these arrangements were more than suitable, and it was a measure of the fellow’s confidence that he was sure he would eventually climb the ladder of opportunity, which would lead to the top floor. For now, he would make do with the rising damp.

C.%20Fran%20%26%20Jack%20300%20dpi.jpg

Jack Webster with ex-wife Fran!

CHAPTER 2

S amuel Viper was the son of an immigrant from Palermo in Sicily and had overcome many obstacles to emerge as a feared member of the family. For a start, his father was Jewish and such accidents of birth usually preclude entry into the Cosa Nostra. However, it was rumored that Sam’s mother enjoyed relations with the all-powerful Don Corleone, who was honored to become the boy’s godfather. The much-feared New York olive oil trader took the lad under his wing and had him performing all manner of family related tasks. By the time he was ten, the youngster was able to gut a miscreant and firebomb his vehicle. It was an unenviable apprenticeship and reprisals were in the wind. As Sam’s mother yearned to return to the place of her birth, Leon the patriarch hustled his clan onto a rusty old steamship and set sail for Italy, only to find that conditions in the old country were desperate and future prospects appeared grim. With these thoughts in mind, he had no hesitation in recommending a deviation from their original travel plans—a passage to Australia.

The burghers of Melbourne have long regretted the fact that the new arrivals decided to decamp in their conservative town. After all, Sydney was the brash new world of opportunity at the time, and fast money was easy to get. So were fast women. Nevertheless, after an initial internment in a migrant facility, the Vipers settled in the outskirts of Australia’s second city and proceeded to buy up the cheap land, which would eventually be transformed into a lucrative food bowl. They would become market gardeners.

For a man who once farmed oranges in Palestine, this type of manual labor was acceptable to Leon Viper and he made a fair fist of it. Sam had served a different master and, quite frankly, hard work under a hot sun wasn’t to his liking. Now in his early twenties, the city life and the availability of good-time girls proved more appealing to the kid with an appetite for the high life. Although disappointed with this decision, his father understood the lad’s priorities and arranged temporary accommodation for his son with his friend Luigi, the undertaker. The youngster would rent out a room above the funeral parlor and would share meals with the Santori family. He wasn’t expected to help out with the embalming unless the corpse was one of Sam’s victims.

Historians have waxed lyrical concerning the Italian migration during this period, but the simple fact was that, notwithstanding the numbers coming into the country, their death rate was above expectations. Needless to say, if a Neapolitan Neanderthal was heading down-under, it would be another countryman who would be digging the hole. The funeral director was not short of work. His was also the only burial service to offer double-decker caskets on demand. One could bury the evidence as well as the corpse, and you didn’t even have to attend the service.

Sammy wasn’t running with any particular mob, but he was making a living as the middle man in these body disposal activities. He didn’t realize the precarious position he was placing himself in. If you know where the bodies are buried, you may well be deemed to be a loose end. Perhaps it was his gregarious nature and trusting spirit which endeared him to his fellow mobsters. Luigi had no hesitation in nominating the young man for membership of the Calabria Club, a haven for southern Italians and, in turn, a networking opportunity for all manner of ambitious scoundrels.

It was at the aforementioned club that Sam Viper met Jack Webster and was happy to receive his business card. The attorney was a guest of one of the members and a regular invitee. In contrast to their funeral arrangements, the Calabrian and Sicilian offenders preferred a non-Italian to represent them in their frequent court appearances. They were acutely aware that the Irish had the legal profession all tied-up, and realized the beaks were more likely to be lenient if approached by one of their own.

Folks were not critical of this situation as it was the English and Irish who got here first. Sure, they were convicts but even lawbreakers can better themselves and who would have thought their prodigy would now be lawyers and judges? All the same, changes were needed. That St. Patrick’s Day March had to go and what on earth were these Australians eating? Meatloaf, peas and sprouts?

Melbourne wasn’t ready for the Italian invasion as the city had recently been visited by the Greeks, who turned the place upside down to become the largest Hellenic outpost west of Athens.

It was a major government initiative (The Snowy Mountains Project) which was the magnet that drew post-war immigrants to this part of the southern hemisphere. The British were offered a ten-pound boat journey and skilled Italians were guaranteed employment in the highlands, where the hydro-electric scheme was taking place. It would have been easier to go to China to recruit a workforce but the political commentary was openly racist. Labor leader and former immigration minister Arthur Caldwell is famous for his oft-repeated statement Two Wongs don’t make a White.

So, it wasn’t the smell of chop suey wafting across the suburbs but souvlaki and pizza. Victorians embraced the latter taste treat and flocked to Carlton for the Roman experience, washed down with a vino of suspicious pedigree. Sammy the Snake would often dine all’aperto in Lygon Street and watch the world walk by. He thought most of these people had far too much money to spend and wanted some of it.

The snake man didn’t always eat alone. Sometimes he would break bread with his friend and business partner, Tony the Toothpick. Antonio Mazzini was a waiter in a nearby restaurant and could use a knife better than any of his customers. The investigators always recognized his tradecraft, as he left a toothpick in his victim’s nose after he had stabbed them in the back. If the toothpick had not been there, the cops might have been looking for a politician; such was the level of unity within government ranks.

Dominic Catanzaro was the third member of the gang and a very elusive chap. Dom the Cat could slip over rooftops and uneven surfaces with dexterity and his raids on the luxury homes of the glitterati was the stuff of legend. Sam put it about that this lone wolf was too clever for the likes of the constabulary and was possibly some kind of socialite renegade with inside information. This was disinformation. Sammy always drove the get-away vehicle and Tony was on stand-by with his shiv, and ready to use it.

Compared to the exploits of Vito Corleone, Carlo Gambino, and the New York and Chicago mafia, the deeds of these local misfits were unremarkable but it was a start. Leon Viper was now the largest market gardener