Bert Wrout - Kill the Morans: The Real Story of the Moran Crime Crew

To Tommy Ivanovic and Paddy Barbaro, the forgotten men

There are only two types of people in this world.

Those who can do jail and those who cant.

Bert Wrout

Just when I thought I was out

Brett Quine

Introduction

Kill the Morans, and all their crew! Those words, allegedly screeched by a callow, hateful shrew called Roberta Williams, sum up the whole Melbourne gangland war as the famous blood frenzy immortalised on TV screens across the nation. The words haunt me still, and the hardest thing Ive had to explain out of this saga, not only to myself but to everybody else, is why did I stay with Lewis Moran knowing he was a dead man walking?

Its a question Ive been asked countless times, by friend and foe alike. In the end there were two overriding reasons. One, he owed me a shitload of money I would otherwise have had little chance of collecting. And the other was a twisted sense of loyalty. At the end of the day, Lewis was a rat. He gave me up without any compunction at all when things got tough. He was a weak, cowardly dog who thought only of himself. Sure, we had many great times, as do any friends when there are no obstacles. But this worm would have masqueraded as a woman on the Titanic to save himself. He died as he lived. He was a craven coward, right to the end.

I suppose the only reasons I can give for such loyalty are pride and integrity. In the world that I lived in, I was proud that I was staunch, owing nobody anything. I had my principles and I found a niche in which to practise them. To my way of thinking, I suppose, I was on show to the world and the public record was something that would remain after I was long gone. Id made no lasting impression in life and I suppose staying beside Lewis was my way of saying to everybody that I was better than him. Even if I was remotely remembered as someone who stuck, I would leave my mark. And thats all that anybody can hope for.

There are many, many wrongs I feel a need to have corrected and there are many underworld secrets to be told. Just some of the mysteries I intend to unravel include the killer of infamous hitman Christopher Dale Flannery Mr Rentakill where Chris was killed, and why. Im sure more than a few people would like to know why property developer Floyd Podgornick committed suicide, which seemed to keep Melbournes daily tabloid salivating like Pavlovs dog for months. To my mind Floyd was murdered. And I will tell you why. How many other murders were carried out, and why, are other exposs I will write about.

I will tell you who was behind Carl Williams, who the media have wrongly thought the main player for his faction. Ill also drop the ball on who executed Alphonse Gangitano and why, and the many killings brutally carried out over many, many years. I will also detail how Lewiss wife, Judy, tried to kill me in front of a dozen people, and much more of the Moran crime clans dirty linen. It all stinks to high heaven and needs to be aired.

Bert Wrout

Chapter 1

Cheap Beer Got Us Killed

Lewis suddenly had that fuck me, shit look in his eyes, just moments before it all happened. Id seen worry on his face before, but not like this. Nothing so near to the real thing, a real threat, and after almost an eternity with Lewis, I could tell. If need be, we could talk without a word.

First came a brief call to Lewiss mobile then that fuck me, shit look. He didnt have to say a thing. It was obvious the call was a warning. In fact, I said, Lets go. We were both known targets for underworld assassins, and we had to move in a hurry. As I turned to pick up my change from the bar I heard heavy boots come up fast from behind.

All shit broke loose. There were wild screams everywhere, and someone shouted Gun! Run! as the boots came closer. People were in absolute panic fear and horror. They absolutely shit themselves. Forget fucken Bin Laden, as far as Im concerned, the terror at the Brunswick Club that night wont be matched by anything Im ever likely to see again.

Were off here, was all I could hear Lewis say, almost calmly, as the gunman ploughed into us. Id turned back around to see the bastard shove a shottie straight into Lewiss groin. He had Lewis pinned to the bar rail like a kid sticks a compass to a fly: hard, merciless and applied with great vigour. Sadistically savoured for a few seconds.

The thing that has really stuck in my head ever since was the look on Lewiss face at that point. He had a shottie stuck firmly into his balls and didnt say shit. Total resignation. No fight left in the bastard whatsoever. At that point, I thought, Lewis, you weak fucken cunt . Heres some prick doing a death dance and Lewis decides to give up the game for both of us. No struggle. Not even a word of reason, anger or protest. We were fucked at that moment.

As if he had read my mind, the gunman turned to me and I swear he smiled under his balaclava his chin went up and cheeks widened before he again faced Lewis and in a split second tossed him back into a passage to our right like a lifeless oversized fluffy toy.

The screams got even louder, mostly from the bar manager Sandra Sugars, Lewis Morans long-time associate, as everything slid into slow motion around me. I was stunned, in shock as much from Lewis giving up as the gunman himself, because we always knew someone would try to settle our funeral plans. But even though I was in a surreal nightmare, I still remember thinking I would not go calmly like Lewis just did. I followed the gunmans path up the passageway where he had taken Lewis, though they were not in sight.

Thinking that they may have been in the toilets just off the passage, I ran in and smashed through a cubicle door. Christ knows what I would have done had the gunman been there I wasnt thinking too clearly. Probably nothing. This haze of rage and fear clouded my head as I ran to the gaming room, but I still couldnt see Lewis or the gunman. I figured Lewis was probably dead by then, as I started to run down the sloped walkway to the front door.

Then another gunman appeared right in front of me. He had a pistol pointed to my head. I pretended I had a gun under my coat and attempted to retrieve it. Worth a try , I thought. It takes balls to try on a gunman with your pretend gun. But this bugger was not easily deterred. He was less than a metre from my face when he spoke, saying, clear as day, Got you now, old man!

Still moving, I said, Go and get fucked! I spun around to try to hit him with a karate kick, but that was about as good as the coat pocket. Shit, I knew I had no idea about karate, although I had seen plenty of Bruce Lee movies. Again, worth a try. And much as I can laugh now, the encounter was about to get very ugly.

The bullet felt like a freight train smashing into the entire right side of my body. Like a steel spiked explosion that rushed through to my core. I was physically shattered but mentally somewhere else. Something had hit me. Something was wrong. But it was mind numbing. There was no pain. And it was too big, too hard and way too fast for me to control or comprehend. Just like I said, a fucken freight train. That was when all motion slowed to a crawl. Even sound was suspended. It was as if all my senses had stepped into another dimension.

Somehow, I stayed on my feet. My mind was so fogged and fucked up I couldnt understand why my right arm, covered in blood, was swinging about in all directions, going this way and that, without my control. I staggered a few steps and realised I was about to go down. As I fell, my body slumped to the left and I hit the floor hard. Much later I learnt the bullet had struck my upper right arm, where it broke in two on impact with the bone and left my arm hanging by shredded skin alone. It had taken out a clear two centimetres of bone, disintegrated beyond recovery such that doctors for a while considered amputation. Both halves of the bullet penetrated my chest wall and did massive internal damage. The bullet was a 9mm cop killer, a cartridge so lethal it is actually banned in the United States. And the dog who shot me, Noel Faure and I have this on good authority later boasted to his mates at his pub in Geelong that he had carved a cross into it.