These Dark Things

by Jan Weiss

  Mourners passed in a steady stream and stopped by Lola to express their condolences: somber men and weeping women, some accompanied by children who were uncharacteristically quiet and still amidst the roiling emotions they sensed all around. Half the old neighborhood had turned out: gents with hair gelled, ladies with permanents, teenage daughters teetering on five-inch heels, self-conscious boys in their fathers’ oversized shirts and ties, and half a dozen widows who lived on their monthly Camorra stipends: a thousand euros or more, depending on their man’s status, and token staples for the fridge. No one from Gambini’s crew, though Frankie had spent most of his life in Zazu’s organization.

  Then, suddenly, Tomas. Bianca crossed her arms, casually brought her hand closer to her weapon. Lola accepted Tomas’s hand and listened to his words. He kissed her on both cheeks and passed on.

  The funeral mass was long. At the end, Lola was wrung out, but there was no escaping the trip to the cemetery itself. Roses and gladiolas covered the coffins. On the way, the cortege rolled by the bent figure of Gina Falcone as she trudged toward the graveyard, pushing her empty cart in front of her. Bianca, on the jump seat, bent toward Lola, whose head rested against the window.

  “He will pay,” she said. “I guarantee it.”

  No one had to ask who she meant.

  Colonel Donati stood with arms crossed before the small group of colleagues in his office. “Bianca Strozzi’s trucks are rolling, hauling away the garbage. A container ship of the stuff is on the high seas already, bound for God knows where. And huge fifty-truck convoys are hauling the bilge to Hamburg and two of the closed landfills the Army has reopened by force.”

  “As long as it’s away from Naples,” said Pino.

  “Exactly,” Donati said. “We have thirty-seven landfills entirely full up and chained shut, just two temporarily reopened. God knows how Rome will resolve the crisis finally, since the Camorra won’t stand for incinerators being built. The farmers are desperate to get the toxic stuff away from their sacred soil, and the restaurateurs and shopkeepers are anxious to dispose of their mountains of garbage finally and get their patrons back. People just hate this situation and are livid with the government. Only the gangs of gypsy boys are regretful. They’ve been getting fifty euros per trash fire and pelting the firemen with garbage when they try to put them out. The citizens have had it and are joining in.”

  “Do you think Gambini will move against Strozzi?”

  “He will undoubtedly make his displeasure known.”

  Natalia arrived late. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No, no,” said Donati. “We were just chatting.” He ushered them over to his desk. “This is what I wanted to convey to you,” he said, and passed across a single sheet with an address. “A tip from one of Cervino’s informants as to the whereabouts of the missing monk.”

  Pino, seeing the address, sat up: the Scampia quarter. Natalia recalled the grim story told to all new recruits of a doctor who’d ignored the plague to visit a sick child in the Borgo Loreto slum. “He’s come to kill us!” a crowd had screamed. Armed with sticks and stones, they went after him and would have killed him if a street sweeper hadn’t run for the Carabinieri, twenty-five of whom arrived on foot and horseback to rescue him.

  “We’ll have to thank the marshal,” she said.

  Donati sensed no irony in her voice, or chose not to acknowledge it. “The prime minister has ordered troops put on alert in the South Central Military Region in case they have to be brought in. That’s all,” he said, dismissing them with a wave.

  After they left, Pino said, “Jesus. Scampia. That’s the worst slum area there is. Totally Camorra territory. You think this is serious information, or Cervino just having his fun?”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Natalia said. “We’ve got to check it out.”

  “Really. Where are we going to get the tanks to go in there? The police won’t go near it. Whenever they have to, they mount major commando operations to do it. Battering rams, body armor, helmets, assault rifles.”

  Corporal Giulio appeared, bearing both a handdelivered envelope for Natalia and the motorcycle courier’s clipboard. She signed for it and tore open a strip along one edge that freed the contents.

  “Important?” Pino said.

  “It seems I’m being sued by the esteemed Professore Marco Lattanza.”

  Pino and Natalia changed into their work uniforms: black epaulet-shirts with red piping at the collar, sleeves rolled up; black fatigue trousers that looked like cargo pants; wine-red berets with the silver badges bearing the Carabinieri insignia: antique flaming grenades and the stylized initials of the king who had created their first company. Embroidered over the right shirt pocket and bordered in red was the word CARABINIERI. A badge over the other pocket announced rank.

  Pino signed out two hand-held radios and a 12-gauge Franchi SPAS-15. Natalia took an AR-70 assault rifle and extra magazines in a shoulder pouch. As they left the station, Cervino appeared alongside, similarly dressed and armed.

  “Mind if I join you, Captain?”

  “Not at all, Marshal Cervino. We could use the company.” Together they got into the unmarked Alfa Romeo: Pino behind the wheel, Natalia beside him. Cervino, in back, strapped on his bulletproof vest. The headed due north on Via Toledo, what was once the old Roman road.

  Scampia’s forty-five thousand residents lived in poverty. Three fifths of the young males were unemployed, and nearly all the women. It had been like that since the sixties, when Scampia’s first public housing towers had been erected: twenty-story slums.

  On the way, Pino and Natalia decided not to wear bulletproof vests so as to signal less of an expectation of trouble. The shoulder of the road all the way there was piled high with garbage bags and litter of every description. The stench increased with the temperature.

  The three carabinieri arrived and rolled toward their destination. The towers were surrounded by sun-baked dirt lots. There was no landscaping between the high-rise buildings, and there were no commercial businesses in sight: no stores, no cafés, no plazas with lovely fountains. No trees either. Instead, a garbage-strewn desert of abandoned cars and furniture and toys and crutches surrounded the structures. The skeletons of three elevator cars were out front, too, being used like huts by some early-bird dealers.

  Natalia said, “This looks like deserted derelict housing. Except there are lights in windows and people going in and out. I expected a bustling drug market.”

  Cervino cocked his weapon. “Too early. It won’t really crank up until the afternoon, but it’ll go on late into the night. In another hour or two, this will all be an open-air bazaar for pills, cocaine, marijuana, hashish, heroin, kobret, glue.”

  The car jolted through potholes.

  “Dealers’ apartments are fitted out with heavy metal front doors,” Cervino said. “So are the main entryways. There are armed sentries on the roofs and in the halls.”

  The alarm was sounded, a shout between the lookouts: “Maria, Maria.”

  “Why are they shouting ‘Maria’?” asked Pino.

  “Slang for ‘cops,’” Cervino answered, staring up at the balconies. “You don’t have to worry about the lookouts. The vedette aren’t armed.”

  Locals rushed back into the buildings, and reinforced doors clanged shut. Windows were shuttered with steel.

  “At least they haven’t put up any roadblock checkpoints,” Pino said.

  “They will,” said Cervino. “We need to be quick.”

  Pino pulled off the main road onto a rutted single lane that led in. Natalia could see tomatoes growing in pots on the balconies. And men with binoculars flanking them.

  “They’re very interested in us already,” Cervino said.

  A man on the fourth floor flipped open his cell phone and spoke into it. In the next moment, he hurled a string of firecrackers down onto the asphalt below. They popped madly. It was the signal to withdraw. The narco traffickers and the few shaky customers edged toward the building,
along with some young moms pushing strollers.

  “Great,” Pino said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Proceed,” Natalia said. “Benito is supposed to be in Tower Building D, on the left.”

  As they got out, Pino tossed Natalia her flak vest and slipped into his. She didn’t argue, just put it on.

  More steel doors slammed shut.

  “The place is impregnable,” Cervino said.

  A woman emerged from the tower with three children. She’d put on a jacket over pajamas, and must have been trying to get her children safely to school. Her long black braid was halfway down her back. How, Natalia wondered, did she manage to survive here? The kids, all girls, were neatly dressed. The mother smiled at the three carabinieri, while the two oldest girls just stared. The youngest gave Natalia the finger.

  The three walked on, weapons cradled: Natalia with her shotgun, Cervino and Pino each with assault rifles. No use. The building was locked down like a prison.

  “This is impossible,” Natalia said, eyes fixed on the armed men overhead. “The three of us aren’t going to storm the place. We’re not even going to get in the lobby.”

  Pino nodded. “If he was here, he’s been moved to another flat by now or been spirited away out the back.”

  “If he’s in there at all,” Natalia said, “they’ll move him again the moment we withdraw.”

  Glass shattered. The three turned toward the sound. A small band of young kids was gleefully smashing out the windows of their unmarked car and making off with whatever they could manage to strip away in a hurry.

  “Hey!” Cervino shouted and jogged toward them. The youngsters scattered like bugs.

  Luckily the engine started. They drove back to the station slowly, without talking.

  While Cervino rushed off for an “important” meeting, Natalia and Pino returned the weapons to the armorer.

  “Now what?” Pino said.

  Natalia flipped through her notes. “We did hypothesize the possibility of his hiding out in that blind persons’ residence. Do you want to try that?”

  “Why not? At least the nuns won’t point guns at us or break our windows.”

  The Sisters of Charity ran the mission house for the blind. Most wore street clothes, but all shared the same beatific, well-scrubbed look.

  The mission house was a modern, four-story structure on a leafy street in the hilltop Vomero section that overlooks Old Naples. In the distance, Vesuvius coughed out a thin white cloud of smoke. Freighters and ferryboats put out to sea. A hawk glided by on the thermal currents.

  The gates were rusty. A caretaker swept leaves in the courtyard. On a bench sat a nun in full habit, chatting with several old people. Standing at their approach, she identified herself as Sister Carolina.

  Natalia showed her a picture of Benito. “We’re looking for a young man who may have come here recently, looking for shelter.”

  “Yes,” said Sister Carolina. “I recognize him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, yes. Very polite, soft-spoken. We don’t see many young people. Not any newcomers at all, really. These days, the young non-sighted or sight-impaired go elsewhere for training. They get jobs, lead normal lives. Our residents—well, a few can read some Braille, make potholders, that kind of thing, but not enough to manage out in the world. The young man you are inquiring about came to us on Tuesday.”

  “Is he here now?” said Pino.

  “I’m afraid not. Unlike most of our residents, he had some funds and paid for a week. He left early, though, after only a few days.”

  “Did you know he is a monk?” Natalia asked.

  “He didn’t mention it, but I had the feeling he was a religious, too, like us. A monk and a priest visited him.”

  “Did he give a reason for cutting his stay short?”

  “Not precisely. But two ladies came for him. They said they were relatives.” Sister Carolina hid a smile with her hand. “He seemed surprised. Actually, I don’t think he knew them at all. But he went along. I worried a little that he didn’t realize who they were.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They were terribly nice but scantily attired, heavily made up. You know, low-cut tops, miniskirts.”

  “Fallen women?”

  “I hesitate to say, but I suspected it, yes. Prostitutes. He couldn’t see, of course. They made an incongruous trio.”

  Natalia and Pino thanked the sister and departed. On the street, they pondered their options.

  Natalia asked, “How many brothels does Gambini run in Naples?”

  “Five.”

  A man was selling flowers from the back of a truck. The partners didn’t speak until they were out of his hearing, walking along Via Cinarosa.

  “We need to find out which one he’s hiding in. We won’t get the manpower to simultaneously raid all five.”

  “Right,” Pino agreed. “And if we raid just one Gambini brothel and it’s the wrong one, he’ll get instantly moved.”

  “Damn.”

  “Who might know, or find out for us?”

  * * *

  15

  * * *

  An enormous glass ceiling soared in the century-old Galleria Umberto mall. The shops were beyond Natalia’s budget, and it had been here that her father toiled long hours mopping the black-and-white tiled floor.

  Lost in sentiment, she didn’t see Lola until her friend whistled to get her attention. Lola had commandeered a prime table and three chairs. One was piled with shopping bags from Ferragamo and Armani, among others. Balm for the grieving mother and new widow. Each purchased garment, Lola told her, was black. “To match the circles around my eyes,” she said. She was wearing a beautiful gray headscarf knotted on the side. The ends brushed her pale cheek. “Haven’t been out since the funeral.”

  “No more police guard?” Natalia scanned the hall.

  “No. But you’re here. Also one of Bianca’s gun molls.”

  “Where?”

  “Six tables to your right. The brunette in subdued Chinese red and espadrilles, trying to pass for a tourist. And, hey, I’ve got a spiffy new Glock. In my handbag.”

  “Christ, Lola. What are you doing with a Glock?”

  “Accessorizing. You’ve got a 9-millimeter, why shouldn’t I? What every girl needs: a manicure, a pedicure, a Glock. Look what I bought.”

  Lola pulled out a wad of tissue from a Versace bag and unveiled a black silk jacket. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? The buttons are the darkest red garnets. I’ve decided: no more trash, no more designer copies. I’m going for the classical classy look—heartbreak and despair.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Natalia said.

  “Mmm. Matches my mood.”

  “Black and expensive?”

  Lola folded the garment and returned it to its bag. “That too, but no. Sanguinoso.”

  “Bloodthirsty?” Natalia fixed her friend. “Don’t do anything impetuous, Lola. Think of your two children.”

  “I do, and I think of my third boy too. He comes to me in my dreams, all black and burning. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

  “Lola, you can’t assume the blame for others’ actions.”

  Lola snapped her fingers and a waiter appeared. She ordered coffee for them both and checked out the other patrons as she lighted a thin black lady’s cigarette. “What’s so important that you have to ask me?”

  “The prime suspect in Teresa Steiner’s murder. We haven’t located him as yet.”

  “The blind monk? Gambini’s nephew?”

  “Right. Might you know if he’s hiding somewhere in Naples?”

  “You think Gambini is helping him hide?”

  “Very possibly. Blood is blood.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t your old professor. Yeah, I might know someone who might know.”

  The waiter hovered a few feet away. Lola glanced over. “He’s a little too interested in our conversation, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I think you have an admirer, is all.
He can’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Must be the grief. It’s like pregnancy. Makes you shine like a moonbeam. He’s cute. Looks a little like Frankie at that age.”

  “He looks like a thug.”

  “Exactly.” Lola dialed a number on her red-lacquered cell phone. “Give me a minute,” she said, rising from her seat. Hand over her other ear, she conversed with someone, then returned to the table. The call had taken seconds. “You’re right. He’s at Cavelli’s. In a room on the second floor.”

  “Gambini’s brothel on the waterfront?”

  “Right. Via Cortese.”

  “You don’t waste time,” Natalia said.

  “My time’s running out too fast to waste it. There are things that need doing.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “And I yours, cara mia. I couldn’t have survived this without you and Mariel.”

  Natalia said, “This is more trouble for you if Gambini finds out you tipped me.”

  “It’s trouble for you if your bosses find out you’ve been hanging out with an undesirable like me.” Lola stubbed out her cigarette. “He can’t do anything more vindictive than he’s done already. The kids and grandma are gone. Hidden. He won’t be able to trace them.”

  Natalia and Pino walked into Cavelli’s Bar. A second unit was blocking the back door used by patrons for discreet exits. The bartender was unpacking a carton of liquor, arranging amber and green bottles on the mirrored shelves. Higher up hung a black-and-white photo of a girl in a string bikini. Next to her, a faded reproduction of Giotto’s Madonna and Child.

  “Fratelli Bianchi,” he said in a loud voice. The White Brotherhood. What the nether dwellers call militarized police, usually out of earshot. The bartender made it a public announcement more than a greeting. Not that anyone was in the place yet.

  A banquette hugged one wall. Three tables occupied the middle. The jukebox pulsed with the Mario D’Esposito Ensemble. An ordinary bar. Only the conoscenti knew about the rooms upstairs.