Badfellas
Page 24
Who knows if was the pain of having missed something for so many abstemious years, but Joey sat in his car for an hour, gazing rapturously at this beautiful little bank, a small voice inside him insisting: “Carry on driving, you fool, you know perfectly well how this will end up, think of your daughters, do you really want to go straight back to that hellhole?” and another voice saying: “Isn’t she beautiful! If you miss this chance, you’ll regret it all your life.” In the end, the temptation was too great, and within two days he was back in his cell, with an extended reoffender’s sentence. You can’t help truly sick people like Joey. One day it would all end badly.
As Tom walked past the biggest bank in So Long, on the corner of the Place de la Libération, he glimpsed an odd sight through the window: there was Joey, on the other side of the counter, hurling himself like a madman against a connecting door. For Tom, it was almost painful to see the guy, with his incurable illness, losing all contact with reality, and he even paused for a second before wasting him, wondering to himself if these villains actually preferred the theft itself to the money, the sensation being more important than the reward.
We’d had that conversation a hundred times over. Tom wanted to make me admit that I’d become a mobster because of the adrenalin rush, in the same way as a gambler who is equally excited by winning or losing. I would insist that the only thing that drove us was money. “But how can you love money to such a point?” he would say, and I would try to explain to him that we Cosa Nostra thugs were obsessed by money, but how can such an obsession be explained? Just the thought that our money was piling up somewhere, that it was flooding in, that soon we’d need another place to pile up all those banknotes, that was our obsession, our passion. OK, sometimes we used it to buy stuff, to give pleasure to our families, but that sure wasn’t the object of the exercise. In any case, nobody was worse than we were at spending it. I admit it: we only liked showy stuff. If it was shiny or gold, we’d buy it. Expensive? Priceless? We had to have it. The best stuff was always the most expensive.
The funny thing was that we enjoyed spending just as much as getting stuff for free. That was another passion of ours, just as strong as our love of money: gifts, stuff fallen off the backs of trucks, payments in kind, whether we needed them or not. If we were protecting a guy whose pizza chain was doing well, we’d go off with a few thousand dollars and a couple of pizzas for the road. Same with furriers or bathroom shops. We’d load ourselves up with rubbish that we’d end up throwing away. Tom couldn’t understand this: “What, it’s really worth rotting in jail for that? Or getting a bullet between the eyes? Killing guys? Having trouble around you every day of your life? Ruining your families?” The cop, he just didn’t get it. And I gave up trying to explain it all, because, to tell the truth, I didn’t really understand it myself.
Anyway, Joey finally got three bullets in the kisser, just at the moment the door he was breaking down, the door to God knows what, finally collapsed. Tom then came and joined me on the Place de la Libération. I waited for him, sitting on the merry-go-round, which was still going round.
By the evening, So Long had become the centre of the universe. I found myself reliving the nightmare of the trial: an army of journalists from all over the world, interviewing anyone they could, politicians, “observers”, intellectuals, VIPs, popular singers – as well as the man in the street, whom they found in the street, and who was all too delighted to offer his opinion on the affair. Everybody had something to say about my story, my testifying, my betrayal; some wanted answers from me. I felt I was being tried by the whole of humanity.
That was almost literally true! They poured in from all over the place: TV trucks, helicopters, private jets. A swarm of CNN people, hundreds of reporters, thousands of eager spectators hemmed in by police forces from the four neighbouring départements, as well as special detachments sent in from Paris. All this to try and make sense of what had happened that day in this unknown little dump in Normandy.
The American networks had shared the material they had on my trial, and it was being played over and over again now on European TV. The snitch’s whole history was being retold, and by nine o’clock, everybody knew everything – or at least they thought they did. What was worrying me most was that among the corpses being swept up in the streets, one was missing, the worst one of them all.
Matt Gallone had disappeared. Knowing Matt, there was nothing surprising about that. He was never where you expected him to be. A beat was organized, with a dozen volunteers; his description was circulated; roadblocks were put up. Matt had always dreamed of being public enemy number one, and the great day had come. Quint seemed so sure of himself – he’ll go south, he said. He said that if Matt managed to make it to Sicily, he’d be taken care of by the Cosa Nostra for as long as necessary, years maybe, before going back to the States. He was right, of course, but I dreaded another possible scenario: that he might still be in So Long. Nobody in Europe knew him as well as I did. As long as there was a single breath left in his body, he would continue to carry out his grandfather’s orders. He would choose a thousand deaths rather than one minute of shame, after this day that marked the final downfall of the Gallone clan. I swear to you, I’d have been happy to be wrong about that.
They put me in quarantine while they decided what to do with me. The hotlines between Washington and Paris were buzzing, and the most unlikely authorities quarrelled over who should be in charge of prisoner Manzoni, claiming reasons of state and security. The American government, the secret services, the FBI, but also all the different branches of the French police, right down to the little captain of the So Long gendarmerie who had been one of the hostages on the big wheel (he claimed that he might never recover from the humiliation of that experience). It was a legal, political and diplomatic headache, to say the least. Myself, I gave up trying to understand anything. I’d been kept in hiding for years, everything possible had been done to keep me invisible, and suddenly my face was all over the place, and everybody wanted a piece of me. Luckily I’m the vicious sort – if I had any goodness in me, I’d have gone mad.
They all agreed on one point: the whole world wanted me, and the whole world must be satisfied. That would be the only way to avoid a political and PR disaster, and to keep the public at bay. People must have the chance to SEE Giovanni Manzoni, and hear him too. Whether I was a living legend, or a criminal bastard, I was obliged to make an appearance. After that, they said, everything would settle down again, and justice could be allowed to take its course.
Tom Quint, more than anyone, was determined to show that I had survived the So Long reprisals. He was the overall winner in the whole affair: in half a day he had got rid of the elite of several branches of organized crime, and the Witness Protection Programme was now famous throughout the world, and shown to be successful – after all, it had protected the life of a snitch with all the ferocity of a pit bull terrier. Already dozens of mafiosi were on the line from all parts of the United States offering to testify. This was the apogee of Tom’s career. But to achieve a completely successful outcome to the operation, I had to agree to appear before the cameras.
And all I wanted to do was to tell them to go hang. I had just been given permission to join my family in the basement of the Town Hall, and I had no desire to be exhibited before a million viewers. I really didn’t feel like being an object of rage and disgust to a whole lot of strangers. The irony was, I aroused a lot of other feelings in the public mind: curiosity of course, but sympathy too, compassion even. And of course a whole gamut of other reactions, from indignation to pure hatred. But indifference – never. And indifference was all I wanted at that moment. I knew already how the little TV interview would play out. I would be bombarded with negative waves and bad vibrations (I believe in that sort of thing), and I didn’t think I’d be able to deal with the consequences of all that hatred.
“You haven’t got the choice,” Tom said. “If you don’t do it, we’ll both be lynched. Let’s get
it over with, this day’s gone on long enough. Then I’ll buy you a drink.”
I asked him if there was any way to get out of that, at least. He burst out laughing and led me up to the cameras. You can picture the scene – a little platform with microphones on it, a hundred journalists, and the whole world watching.
“Gotta do it, Fred.”
“You sure?”
In other words, are you sure you want to exhibit that hardened villain Giovanni Manzoni to the world? I was exhausted by life in general and in particular by the battle I had just fought. I was about to arouse more reflexes of hatred from all sides. All of humanity was about to curse me in every language, spit on the ground, threaten me, point me out to their children. From east to west, north to south, at sea and on the land, in deserts and cities, among the rich and the poor. Surely the world didn’t need this – in fact what it needed was the exact opposite.
That’s when I had my idea.
Belle, my diamond, my princess.
I really would be a proper writer if I could find the right words to describe my daughter’s look. But who could do such a thing?
She said yes at once when I suggested that she take my place – I couldn’t understand why she agreed, but we’d all be the winners. Her face lit up even before she came under the spotlights. And the people saw it, that inner light; they felt it, that inner peace in her heart. When she smiled, each man thought that smile was for him alone. She’s a miracle, Belle. A Madonna like her is made to be seen.
She gave good news about the family, and especially about her dad. It was as though she was reassuring the population of five continents about my fate. For a minute Belle was the most famous and the most watched girl in the world. She left the stage, more glowing than ever, with a little gesture that seemed to promise a return.
Night finally fell on So Long, and everything returned to normality. The inhabitants returned to their beds after this day of madness, trucks began loading up again, and even the police lay low, awaiting new orders. Tom installed camp beds for my little family at number 9 Rue des Favorites, the Feds’ villa. His two lieutenants, each with a pump-action gun, stood guard in the sitting room, while Tom and me leaned on the window sill, knocking back the bourbon we’d been dreaming of all day.
Malavita was trying to sleep, next to the boiler in the basement, wrapped in several metres of bandage. She had had quite enough of this fucking day. The state they’d found her in – who would do such a thing to a dog? When I saw her in that condition, I just wanted to look after her, to help her to recover, and then take her for walks in the forest, play with her in the garden, teach her a few tricks, let her come and go freely, in short give her back a taste for life. I think she felt the same way.
But before that she had a score to settle, and as quickly as possible. And that’s exactly what happened that very night, after everyone had gone to sleep. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Not for her it wasn’t. It fell into her mouth, freshly cooked.
She heard the basement window squeaking, and felt someone’s presence, and then saw a shape in the dark. The intruder had no idea that the dog was there, in the dark, still alive. She recognized him by his smell, or maybe just by instinct. How could she forget him? You never forget, and you never forgive. What people say about all that is just crap.
In the dark, Matt had found the stairs that would take him up to me. He was prepared to die just to get my guts, and avenge the honour of his family and every other mafioso. Omertà would have the final word.
He must have frozen when he heard the growl. A fucking dog? Yes, it was that fucking dog he’d beaten up that afternoon. He didn’t even know what it was called.
Malavita.
One of the many names Sicilians call the Mafia. Malavita, lowlife. I always thought it had a more melodious sound than “Mafia”, “Onorevole Società”, “the Octopus”, or the “Cosa Nostra”. The Malavita.
Since I’d been forbidden to refer to my secret society under any name whatsoever, I could still call my dog anything I wanted, and shout her name everywhere, just for old times’ sake.
From the condition of the body when they found it the next morning, it seemed that Malavita had leaped at Matt’s throat and torn it out with one bite. And I’ll lay a bet that she then went straight back to huddle against the boiler and go to sleep, content at last.
Epilogue
An American family, the Browns, moved into an abandoned house in the small town of Baldenwihr, in Alsace.
As soon as they moved in, Bill, the father, found a little shed at the bottom of the garden, and decided to make it his study.
FRAMED
Tonino Benacquista
“One of France’s leading crime and mystery authors.“
Guardian
Antoine’s life is good. During the day he hangs pictures for the most fashionable art galleries in Paris. Evenings he dedicates to the silky moves and subtle tactics of billiards, his true passion. But when Antoine is attacked by an art thief in a gallery his world begins to fall apart. His maverick investigation triggers two murders – he finds himself the prime suspect for one of them – as he uncovers a cesspool of art fraud. A game of billiards decides the outcome of this violently funny tale, laced with brilliant riffs about the world of modern art and the parasites that infest it.
In 2004 Bitter Lemon Press introduced Tonino Benacquista to English-speaking readers with the critically acclaimed novel Holy Smoke.
PRAISE FOR FRAMED
“Screenwriter for the award-winning French crime movie The Beat That My Heart Skipped, Tonino Benacquista is also a wonderful observer of everyday life, petty evil and the ordinariness of crime. The pace never falters as personal grief collides with outrageous humour and a biting running commentary on the crooked world of modern art.”
Guardian
“Edgy, offbeat black comedy.” The Times
“Flip and frantic foray into art galleries and billiards halls of modern Paris.” Evening Standard
“A black comedy that is set in Paris but reflects its author’s boisterous Italian sensibility. The manic tale is told by an apprentice picture-hanger who encounters a thief in a fashionable art gallery and becomes so caught up in a case of art fraud that he himself ‘touches up’ a Kandinsky.”
New York Times
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Crime paperback original
ISBN 1–904738–16–8/978–1904738–16–9
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SOMEONE ELSE
Tonino Benacquista
“A great read from one of France’s best crime writers. A tale peppered with humour, unpredictable twists and a healthy dose of suspense. It all makes for a cracking read, with witty insights into the vagaries of human nature.”
Guardian
Who hasn’t wanted to become “someone else”? The person you’ve always wanted to be . . . the person who won’t give up half way to your dreams and desires?
One evening two men who have just met at a Paris tennis club make a bet: they give each other exactly three years to radically alter their lives. Thierry, a picture framer with a steady clientele, has always wanted to be a private investigator. Nicolas is a shy, teetotal executive trying not to fall off the corporate ladder. But becoming someone else is not without risk; at the very least, the risk of finding yourself.
“Benacquista writes with humor and verve. This novel is less a mystery than a deftly constructed diptych of existential escapism: each story offers a unique map to new possibilities in the midst of suffocating lives.” Rain Taxi
“This has been a big hit in France, and it is easy to see why – Thierry’s attempts to slip into a story by Simenon and Nicolas’s explosive encounter with vodka make for unexpected, cynical comedy.” The Times
“Exuberantly written, Benacquista’s book is another triumph for the genre-bending approach to crime fiction.”
Tangled Web
Winner of the RTL-LIRE Prize.
£9
.99/$14.95
Crime paperback original
ISBN 1–904738–12–5/978–1904738–12–1
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