Mick Gatto: The day I shot dead Andrew Benji Veniamin

BOOK EXTRACT: MICK Gatto writes about the day he shot dead hitman Andrew Benji Veniamin.

Mick Gatto

MICK Gatto writes about the day he shot dead hitman Andrew Benji Veniamin.

The underworld - by its very definition - is a hidden world. And for most of my life, that's where I've made my living: out of the spotlight, under the radar, quietly doing my own little thing.

But in 2008, the Underbelly television series propelled me into the limelight. I became a household name. I couldn't go out without being stopped in the street and asked for a photograph or autograph.

And with the success of the series, the people behind Underbelly said they were going to make a movie of The Mick Gatto Story with or without my input so I knew I had to put pen to paper.
I wasn't prepared to let them tell my story from underworld gossip, police files and court transcript. I wanted it told as it really is.

I have done my best to be as honest as possible. There are some areas where I haven't been too specific, for obvious reasons.

But beyond that, I've tried to give an open account of who I am, and how I got to where I am today.

Looking back on my life, I certainly regret a few things I did, particularly when I was younger.

If I had my time again there are a lot of things I would change. I definitely would have avoided going to jail and dragging my family through all that heartache. But you can't undo what's done.

My life changed forever the day I shot dead Australia's busiest hitman.

It was Monday 23 March 2004, and Andrew Benji Veniamin had dropped in at La Porcella restaurant in Carlton for a chat.

We were standing in a back room, talking, when I told Andrew that he could no longer be trusted and I didn't want to see him any more.

My most vivid memory of that day is the look on his face. His eyes started spinning in his head and his whole expression changed. He went from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde.

I couldn't believe it. I thought he was about to throw a punch. But he produced a gun. I don't know where it came from - the back of his pants, I think.

I froze for a moment, then my boxing reflexes saved me as I pushed the gun away. It went boom, straight past my head.

I was convinced the bullet had hit me, but it hadn't; it just left gunpowder marks on my jacket. The noise was deafening.

I grabbed hold of his arm and turned the gun on him, squeezing his hand on the trigger, forcing him to shoot himself. And I kept squeezing.

I had no idea how many shots were fired until much later. It was like one explosion after another, it was such a small room.

Then I fell on the ground on top of him. He was gurgling and gasping, and I pulled the gun out of his hand. And as he lay there, blood bubbling out of his mouth, I knew he was gone.

In the months that followed, as I lay awake in my prison cell at night, that vision of him lying gurgling on the ground played over and over in my mind.

My plan that day had been pretty simple. I had to finish painting the garage door at home, meet a few people to talk business over lunch, then visit my cousin Roy at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. And that would be it.

I jumped in the car and took off, picked up Ronnie (Ron Bongetti, a long-time gambler in his mid-seventies and a close friend) and drove to La Porcella.

It had become my office, a place where I'd meet builders, businessmen, union officials, friends.

Most days I was there. I felt safe, because I was confident that the police had the building under surveillance.

Three months earlier, my close friend Graham Kinniburgh had been shot dead outside his home. I'd made it my mission to find out who killed him. Six people had also been shot in the few months before Graham was killed, and word was out that I was next. And so I was carrying a gun again, or making sure one was nearby.

That Monday, I had a talk with a few people. Lunch was fish and salad. It wasn't bad. I used to enjoy the food there. I met quite a few people that day and, luckily, most were too busy to stay for lunch, or they would have been caught up in what happened next.

I'd met Andrew Veniamin three or four years earlier. He was introduced to me as a man with a tough reputation. There were rumours he was a paid killer. Andrew was very ambitious, but had become increasingly erratic. Four days earlier he'd called me and we'd spoken for the first time in a while.

I'd been trying to talk to him for some weeks, but his phone was always turned off. I wanted to know what he was up to, as he was closely involved with Carl Williams, and I suspected both of being involved in Graham's murder.

As they say, you keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

At about 2pm, I phoned Andrew and, for the first time in weeks, his phone rang. And he answered.

“Are you around, mate?” I asked.

“Yeah, I am. I can be there soon.”

“All right,” I said. “I'll see you.”

He rocked up a few minutes later, came in and sat down.

After a while, Andrew kicked me under the table and said, “I want to have a chat.”

“Yeah, no worries,” I said.

I stood up and started to walk into the street but instead Andrew headed to the back of the restaurant.

I'd often gone out there for a private conversation so I followed him. When we got to the back room he turned to me. “Look, I keep hearing that you still think I had something to do with Graham's death.”

“Well, I've got to be honest,” I said, “that's what everyone's saying.”

I also thought it myself. He may not have pulled the trigger, but I strongly suspected that he was somehow involved. I still do.

“But I wouldn't do that,” he protested. “You are a friend of mine, and I wouldn't harm anyone that's a friend of yours.”

I knew this was untrue, and so did half of Melbourne. Andrew was the hot suspect for several killings. And I told him so.

“They were f------ dogs, anyway,” he said. “They deserved it.”

And that's when I said, “Mate, I don't want you in our company.”

“You can't be trusted; it’s as simple as that.”

I meant it.

That's when he blew up. “Yeah?” he said, and took a step back.

Andrew was a lot smaller than me - he'd fought as a boxer and kickboxer in the lighter divisions,  but he was quick.

Luckily, I reacted in time, because there's no doubt he tried to kill me. If I hadn't reacted, I'd be dead, and he'd be doing twenty years jail.

Moments later, as I walked from the room holding the gun, I tried to be as cool and calm as I could, but my heart was racing at 100 miles an hour.

I walked back into the restaurant and grabbed the owner.

“You'd better ring the police and an ambulance,” I said. “He just tried to kill me and he's finished second best.”

Then I washed my hands and got on the phone. I rang my lawyer first, who said he'd send someone straight down. Then I called my business partner.

Then I called my wife, Cheryle, and told her to get our daughter to come home.

“What?” she said, then started screaming. “What are you talking about?”

“Some rat's just tried to kill me, but he's finished up second best,” I said. “Don't worry about it; it'll be all right. Just grab the kids and go to someone's house and let things cool down.”

Because I knew there'd be retaliation. I also knew there would be newsflashes on television, and that my family and friends would think that it was me that had been killed. I wanted them to know I was okay.

I still couldn't believe what was happening. I was sure then and I still am that Andrew did not come to La Porcella that day to kill me. He simply came to ask me something, but one thing led to another; he lost his temper, and pulled a gun.

I knew I would be arrested and questioned so I sat around waiting for the police and they started coming from everywhere. They were throwing all sorts of questions at me, and I said little.

“The only thing I'll tell you is it was self-defence,” I said. “He tried to kill me and he finished off worse. And I've got no other comment.”

I could have left the scene but I had nothing to hide. As far as I was concerned it was a case of self-defence, and I was confident that once the police had done their forensic tests, I'd be released.

Instead, I was charged with murder and spent the next fourteen months in custody, unable to protect my family and friends as the killings went on.

This is an edited extract from I, Mick Gatto by Mick Gatto and Tom Noble (Victory Books), RRP $29.99, available at all good bookstores.

Mick Gatto or Melbourne University Publishing were not paid for this extract.