Closure, page 2
Uncle Col’s sons had their own lives now and no longer wanted to “hang out with the old man,” as they would say, so I was happy to play the “adopted” son. Those Saturday afternoons standing in the outer at the old Junction Oval still form some of my fondest memories of my childhood. The train ride from Reservoir to the city. With luck, on the new silver model, but more often than not on an old red rattler. Walking up the ramp from the underground station at Flinders Street to Swanston Street. Passing along the way, shoe shine stalls where the attendant sold newspapers between shines. Then the visual and auditory assault upon reaching ground level and colliding with the busiest intersection in the city. Catching the tram that would take us down St. Kilda Road, across the Yarra River, passing on our left the Royal Botanic Gardens and the Shrine of Remembrance, picking up more of the football faithful at each stop. Final stop, St. Kilda junction and the short walk to the ground.
Once through the gates, I had to stretch up on tiptoes from the terraced steps, peeking through the crowd, to catch a glimpse of the action on the Oval. The competing smells of the freshly mown grass, beer, cigarettes, hot chips and even - if we were able to get close enough to the fence – the liniment the players had rubbed in to their muscles. Trying to balance a can of soft drink and a meat pie without dripping or spilling anything on my jacket was a rite of passage. Then later, in the fourth quarter, keeping an eye on the circling – and overfed - sea gulls just as much as the game, to avoid being shat on. Then the post mortem of the game on the ride home, trying to figure out how the Lions had managed to lose another one. And finally, on Broadway in Reservoir, a stop at our local fish and chip shop to pick up dinner to take home. After a long day, nothing tasted better than a piece of flake and a couple of potato cakes, deep fried to crispy perfection. Nothing could compare to the smell that greeted you as you unwrapped the butcher’s paper swaddling the hidden delights. The acrid aroma of the vinegar enough to make your eyes water.
Whilst Mum busied herself making a pot of tea, three scoops – one for each person and one for the pot, Uncle Col and I sat down at the small kitchen table by the window overlooking our meagre back yard. We talked of the day’s football games to be played. Carlton was taking on Collingwood in the match of the day, but Uncle Col wanted to talk about Fitzroy playing Footscray. “This was a sure-fire win,” he declared.
With the water boiled and the tea steeped sufficiently, Mum poured – black for the adults, plenty of milk and sugar for me - and sat down with us. She picked idly at the piece of lamanex that had come loose along the edge of the table, her mind elsewhere. Pretty soon mine and Uncle Col’s good natured ribbing over whether Fitzroy could actually win today seemed to relax her. The tension of the morning slowly slipping away. It becoming just another trial to be dealt with then disposed of in the course of life, like so many others she’d faced before.
***
Later that evening Col sat down on his chosen stool at the bar, ordered his usual pot of Abbots lager and took a long draught. Already all present and accounted for was his best friend since primary school, Bert.
- Cheers mate. Aarrhh. That’s better, nothing like the first beer of the day.
- First? Did the day just start over again?
Col chuckled at Bert’s retort. They’d been meeting here at the Cricketer’s Arms on a Saturday night for a “few cold ones”, as Bert would say, “for donkey’s years.” Not the most graceful of pubs in the city, but it still stood the test of time. Over the years, the beer garden had been added out back, a marked improvement over the unofficial trash dump it had been. Thereby, in one foul swoop, making half of the city’s cat population homeless. The large willow tree had been saved during the renovation and now formed the centrepiece of the garden surrounded by a dozen tables and chairs. The Ladies lounge was no longer just for the ladies. Nor was the main bar just for the men. In Bert’s view, the best improvement of all. Not because he was a staunch women’s libber, rather the resulting view was much improved from his vantage point at the end of the bar. And of course, most recently, live music on Saturday nights.
- So what time does the band crank up? Bloody disgrace a man can’t have a quiet beer anymore on a Saturday night.
- Usually not until around 9:00. We’re good for another hour. And you never know, they may be pretty good.
- Hey Darkie! What’s the name of tonight’s band?
Darkie, as he was affectionately known, had tendered bar at the Arms for longer than anyone could remember. With white hair and skin so pale it was almost translucent, the word was that if he ever set foot outside in daylight he’d turn to dust. Therefore, it was only just he be known as Darkie, and besides, no one alive could remember his real name. He sidled down to the end of the bar towards Bert and Col, mopping up a few stray beer rings along the way. The long bar at the Arms was said to be over 100 years old and made from a fine kauri pine. With all the beer it had soaked up over the years it must have now weighed twice what it did when installed. If that bar could talk, it would be with a very slurred voice.
- Tonight’s a band from Adelaide, I believe, called Cold Chisel. They’ve had a few hits lately, think they might make it big.
Indeed, the crowd had steadily grown since Col had arrived, any available seats had long since been taken and a densely packed crowd was forming in front of the stage.
- Yeah, sure. Like last week’s mob. What were they called? Midnight Oil or something?
- Too right, big bald guy bouncing around like his pants were on fire. Never amount to anything.
- But they bring in the young ones, added Darkie, and they actually spend money. Not like you two old buggers. I’ve seen beers evaporate faster than you two drink.
- Come on Dark, what would you do if we started drinking elsewhere?
- Aarghh, a man can dream…
All three burst out laughing. Truth was they had been friends since childhood, through the thick and thin of marriages, divorces, births, deaths - as well as the important stuff – football.
- Missed you at the footy today Col. The ‘Roys could have used your support. Losin’ to bloody Footscray, what’s the world coming to? What happened, somebody die or something?
- As a matter of fact, yes.
- What? Bloody hell, are you pulling me leg?
- Wish I was, it was me sister-in-law that found him. And she had the little one with her also.
- Jeez. That’s terrible. Must have been quite a shock. Is she under sedition?
- Bloody hell, Bert, its sedation. And no, she’s not. Quite a shock though. And remind me to get you a dictionary for Christmas.
- Hey, shush up, I think there’s something on the news about it now.
Both men turned to the television suspended over the bar, where the local news had broken into the footy replay.
“Early this morning an elderly Thornbury man was found beaten to death in a back lane off of Gilbert Road. Police have now identified the victim as local businessman Dino Mitak. Police continue to ask for any witnesses to come forward who may have knowledge of the attack that occurred sometime between 11 p.m. Friday and four a.m. this Saturday morning. We will keep viewers updated as more information comes to light. Now back to Peter Landy and the football.”
- Bloody hell! Dino? Isn’t he the Yugo that owns the pizza shop round the corner?
- Yeah, but I believe he liked to be referred to as Croatian. Something about hating bloody commies.
- Well, I’m right with him there. Croatian? I thought that was a type of crab.
Col chuckled.
- Jesus Bert. That’s crustacean.
- Huh, you sure?
Col left the question unanswered and pondered on what he remembered of Dino.
- Old Dino, huh. Wasn’t a bad old guy, was a bit of a loudmouth though. You knew him too, didn’t yah Bert?
- Yeah, just in passing. There always seemed something a little dodgy about him.
- Too right. Added Darkie as he passed by. His two sons come in occasionally, a couple of right bastards those two. Whole family was up to no good if the scuttlebutt is correct.
- Bloody shame though, makes you wonder.
- Yeah …, ready for another? It’s your shout.
As Col turned to get the attention of Darkie, Bert slipped a small notebook out of his back pocket and jotted down “sedation” and “Croatian”. Later on that evening, or the next morning if the festivities lasted too long, he’d look up those words and commit them to memory. Perhaps even try to find Croatia on a map. “I’ll be buggered if I’m to look the fool all me bloody life,” he thought to himself.
Bert had “done it hard” as they say. Tall, at over 190 cm and slender. He was constantly hitching up his pants, usually as a punctuator to one of his jokes. He had thick wavy hair with streaks of grey and copious amounts of brylcreem to keep it in place. Bert also wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, seemingly always at the butt end of someone’s joke. His latest misadventure was a “sure thing” betting scheme that his mates at the R.S.L. had dragged him into, of course the only sure thing being that he was the one left holding the bag.
A returned serviceman from WWII, he came home from New Guinea, with the Military Medal for bravery, a case of malaria and to a home where his wife had taken in a lodger to help pay the bills. Not uncommon at the time, but not many lodgers also happened to be your wife’s former boyfriend down from the country. It only took Bert three years to catch on that something was up and someone had to go. Unfortunately, it was two against one so Bert was out on his ear. Never one to be downbeat about anything, he still believes he came out the winner. “That bastard is now stuck with both the bitch and the mortgage,” he’ll happily tell you.
Now in his sixties, he had just a year remaining before he was eligible for retirement and to collect his old age pension. He joked to himself, “then I’ll be free to travel.” The reality was the pension, combined with the meagre amount he collected as a returned serviceman, would be just enough for him to keep the unit he rented off of Darebin Road in Northcote. With (hopefully) enough left over for a few beers at the weekend. In the meantime, he happily worked long hours for the Northcote City Council maintaining their many parks and gardens and enjoyed his off time at the Arms with his mates.
- Looks like the band is about to crank up. Time for me to head home to the missus Bert. You headed out too?
- Nah, think I might have another and catch a few tunes.
- Sure, check out the skirts more like it. See ya’ mate.
As Col exited, the band launched into their first song. A sonic eruption of guitars, drums and keyboards. Jimmy Barnes leant into the microphone stand, legs spread wide, looking as if he’d fly off the stage if he didn’t keep a tight grip.
The heartfelt lyrics of a man crying into a glass of tequila, of a girl that held his heart like a blackjack dealer, of being tired of the same old merry-go-round, belied the searing rock beat.
The small area in front of the stage was packed with close to a hundred souls all moving and grinding as one with the music.
- Jeez …, I’m getting old, Bert lamented. He slowly turned, hitched up his trousers, squeezed through the pulsating crowd and headed for the door.
To the left of the exit, squeezed into a back corner table sat Luka and Stefan, the sons of the very recently deceased Dino Mitak. Both stared into their beers that sat on the table in front of them nestled on sodden Victoria Bitter beermats, and both looking absolutely shattered.
- You think it’s okay to be leaving Mum alone?
Asked the younger son, Stefan.
- Yeah, we won’t be here long. I just had to get out of the house and clear my head for a while. Know what I mean?
- So what are we going to do?
Luka leant back and ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and breathed deeply. Both sons wore their hair long over the collar. They wore jeans and work boots. Luka a short black leather jacket with the collar upturned. Stefan a jean jacket. Luka was also several inches taller and vastly more intimidating than Stefan. He had always been the one to call the shots for his younger, more introspective, brother.
- Like do what? Find out who killed him and take care of the fucker?
- Well, that too. But what about the business? We don’t know shit about construction. The old man kept he’s cards close to his chest there.
The sudden slap of Luka’s palms on the table would have raised many a glare from surrounding tables, but for the volume of the band.
- Don’t worry about that shit, Luka spat out. He’s got people to take care of that. We need to find out who done him and avenge his death. You got it?
- Yeah, Luka, yeah. Got any ideas?
- No. Not yet. Dad was a secretive bastard. But when I do, fucking payback will be swift.
Luka stood and signalled to the waitress for another round. Stefan turned to the stage and studied the band. The lead singer, bent low at the waist, still throttling the microphone stand.
***
Dino Mitak migrated to Australia, as did many Yugoslavs, at the end of the World War II. The vast majority were escaping the communist regime of General Tito, the leader of the Russian- backed Partisans during the war. Several resistance groups operated throughout the Balkan states against the Germans, and more often than not, against each other. As the allies retook the Balkans and chased the retreating Germans back to the fatherland, Tito’s Partisans filled the resulting leadership vacuum setting up a communist state. The newly formed Yugoslavia was a jigsaw puzzle of six vastly different nationalities that fought both for and against the allies during the war, but now were collectively ruled under the iron fist of Tito.
The Australian government, needing cheap man power to feed the burgeoning post-war economy, was not one to quibble about the semantics of European politics. All were welcome, so long as nothing too irregular showed up on a cursory background check. So tens of thousands of “new Australians” from Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Montenegro, Macedonia and Slovenia – collectively Yugoslavs, made the long journey to Australian shores and their new home.
Dino arrived in 1945, at age twenty-two, through assistance provided by the Catholic Church. Tall, with a shock of black hair, piercing brown eyes, muscular, but severely undernourished, he made his way from the docks of Port Melbourne to the address given to him by the priest in Genoa. How he managed the trek from the Balkans in the aftermath of the world’s most deadly conflict and make it to the Italian port city is an entire story in itself, but Dino was not one to dwell on the past. Better to look ahead and build a new future.
Gunvena House was one in a row of Victorian styled, red-bricked, terrace homes in Drummond Street, Carlton. All featured extensive wrought iron work that framed both upper and lower front porches. It was owned by the Victorian diocese of the Catholic Church and was used as a half-way house until its occupants could find employment and other suitable living arrangements. As it turned out, Dino would not be a resident for long. Naturally affable, a quick learner and already having a good smattering of English, he quickly gained steady employment and began his new life.
Part of that new life involved meeting his soon to be wife, Silvia, who was the daughter of the cement contractor to which he was employed. Silvia had led a sheltered life as the only child of her widowed Italian father. So when the brash young Dino came along, she didn’t stand a chance and was soon swept off her feet. Luckily, Dino fit the major requirement Mr. Matera had for his daughter’s hand, he being Catholic. By 1948, they were married and shortly after, were expecting their first child. Luka, was born in 1949, followed by his younger brother, Stefan, in 1954.
Silvia’s father passed away in 1960, therefore it was to her and Dino that the family business passed, Sylvia being the sole living relative. Matera Cement now becoming Mitak Construction Pty. Ltd. Dino, the business owner, went from strength to strength. Mitak Construction became one of the largest building concerns in the city and Dino one of the wealthier residents of the northern suburbs.
The construction business in Melbourne, and the associated bidding practices for projects, had long been rife with graft and a haven for organized crime; however, nothing had ever been proven against Mitak. It was to this narrative that the police now searched for Dino Mitak’s killer.
Also coming under close scrutiny were the business practices of the family pizza shop in Thornbury. Paradise Pizza was owned by Luka and Stefan, neither were interested in construction, in fact neither were really interested in working, period. This was Dino’s gift to them so as to not let his son’s just coast by in life. They played no active part in running the store, Aldo (there Albanian friend from school) took care of that, but as absentee owners they had found their niche. Show up once or twice a week, entertain friends, throw in some small time drug dealing, kick back and share in the profits. Much to Dino’s chagrin, it still fell to him to make sure Aldo had what was required to keep the shop operational.
***
For the next week, both daily newspapers had a field day with the murder of Dino Mitak. Even with the recent spike in violent crime, homicide was still a fairly rare occurrence in sleepy old Melbourne. And if you factor in that the vast majority were solved virtually overnight, a killing with no immediate leads made for sensational headlines.
The morning Sun started the assault by suggesting links the family may have had to organized crime. The evening Herald, not to be outdone, concentrated on simmering tensions between rival Yugoslav gangs. Despite all the media attention and headlines, the police remained without a tangible lead. Family members were quickly eliminated as suspects, having rock solid alibis. Gang leaders were rounded up but no new information was gleaned. Informants within the gangs backed this up revealing no “hit” was ordered and talk on the street was that no one was taking credit.
