“Tell me more.” He leaned in over the Olivetti.
“Midas Loses Touch, Bites Dust”.
Johnny bit his cigar and hit a few keys. “Porca miseria, Pescatore. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a headline.” I peered over his shoulder at the page.
He typed. “Bites dust.” He looked up. “That mean he kill himself?”
I shook my head. “Just means he’s dead.”
“It’s not enough. You need a hangle, Pete. Something to make people stop in the track.”
“A hook,” I said.
“And what’s Midas got to do with it? The man’s name is Goldoni.”
“You don’t know Midas?”
“Sure I know Midas. Who doesn’t know Midas? It’s just—” He raked a hand through his hair, black shot through with silver streaks. Same with the mustache, but the black looked blue and the silver fake. Feeling his age. “Just get me the story and leave the headlines to me.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” I took a slow breath. “I take it you’re angling for murder?”
“What else?”
“Right,” I said. “So, the usual suspects? The boys in Palermo, jokers in Rome?”
“Later, maybe. For now just find out what happened.” He pulled a big hand down over his face, stopped at the jaw and held it. “I hear the girlfriend found him. Start with her and we’ll take it from there.”
“Girlfriend?” Had to be Julia. “Who’s the girlfriend?”
“The secretary. English, or Irish. Australian?”
“Julia.” I remembered her well. A pretty girl, once upon a time. Cool green eyes, patches of pink in her pale English cheeks. Freckles in summer. Not a girl anymore. She’d been good to me after Eva died. I took a step toward the door. “Witherspoon,” I said. “Julia Witherspoon.”
“Talk to her.”
“Sure.” I turned away.
“Pete—”
I stopped, shot him a slow look, waiting.
He ripped out the page, rolled in a new one and hacked out a line. “Before I forget.” He tore the sheet from the typewriter.
I crossed to the desk and took it from him. A name and a phone number. Joe. I looked up. “Who’s Joe?”
“Giovanni. He’s a friend of mine. Calls himself Joe. Drives a taxi in Lugano. You need help getting around, just call him.”
“What about the Shark?”
“What’s wrong with the train?” Johnny reached for his cigar. “You like trains, Pescatore.” He flicked the cap on his Zippo, lit up and coughed.
“Come on, boss. Gimme the beast for a couple days.”
“Check out the territory?”
“Lay of the land.” He blew a cloud of smoke my way. “Get Anastasia to give you the keys. Keep her in the loop and get back to me tomorrow.”
“No problem,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. He was back punching keys on the old Olivetti, pounding out a story for the next day’s edition of Cronaca Nera Italiana. I picked up the file and walked out.
“Stazz?” No answer, and nowhere in sight, so I walked down the hall to the hack room. She’d set it up with a row of computers, scanners and a couple of printers. She wasn’t there, either.
I pulled out a chair, sat down and opened the file. Some of the clippings were twenty years old, back from when Gigi was in his prime. They told the story of a self-made man, Italian, sixty something. He’d made his name with a junk bond buyout, spent a fortune on wine and watches and used what was left to fund loopy start-ups—kids full of dreams and crazy talk. He’d billed himself as a business angel, but that just meant he was a gambler, and the start-ups were his horses. One pony had plans for TV on the web the experts said was years away. Smells like a winner! Gigi cried, placed his bets and watched that filly turn to gold with an IPO on the NASDAQ. He cashed out soon as the lock-up was over, drank himself silly on Dom Perignon and woke up sitting on a billion dollars.
There were photos of Gigi at the Villa Sofia, standing out front by the gates and smiling, his hand on the hood of a sleek red Ferrari. A fading clip from the weekend FT had him dragging the Swiss into the digital age. There was a break in the record, then headlines again when the tech bubble popped, and then nothing. Went from rags to riches and back again, from front-page investor to loser overnight. And now, fresh off the news sites: Italian money man found dead. Suicide?
I read through it all and wrote up some notes and a list of people I would need to see. Faces kept floating in from the past.
“Pescatore.”
I wrenched around and looked up. There. A quiet smile at the door. Anastasia was back from lunch with a sandwich and a bottle of water. She set them on the table in front of me.
“You have all you need? I give you the clips from this morning.”
“I saw them. Thanks.” I picked up the sandwich and peeled back the foil. “What did you get me?”
“A cosacco.” A Cossack sandwich—the Russian connection. I tore off a bite. Two slices of toast around sliced coppa, soft French cheese, chunks of fresh lemon and mayo spiked with a splash of vodka. I nodded and grunted, satisfied. She gave me a little wave and threw a line back over her shoulder. “Talk to me before you leave. I need story by tonight.”
I turned back to the clippings and made some more notes while I ate and read, closed the file and carried it back down the hall to her desk.
She was sitting there staring at a screen full of code, setting up a story for publication. Johnny had sold her a piece of the business—anything to do with the web was hers—and she’d called it CNI Online. She had news going up from the hacks all the time, comment from Johnny and once in a while a piece from me. She didn’t look up. “I book you room in Lugano.”
“Thanks,” I said. “The Prince Albert?” Five or six stars and a view of the lake, a beauty farm for the one percent.
“No money.” She didn’t bother to smile. “Airport motel.”
“Terrific.” I narrowed my eyes. “How many nights?”
“Two, top.”
I threw my jacket over my shoulder and walked away.
“Pete.” I pulled up short. “You do not love me anymore?”
I threw a look back over my shoulder and saw her break out the smile again. Dangling from her slender hand were the keys to Johnny’s car. I skipped up to her, snatched the keys and leaned in to kiss her. She pulled away, just out of reach, a flickering, mischievous light in her eyes.
“I need story tonight. And Johnny said Rome need feature, too. Front page.”
“Cash,” I said, turning away, biting back the urge to smile. Rome? Front page? I could see it, taste it. “I’ll take cash over glory any day.”
“Eight hundred words, front page story by Pete Pescatore.”
There was no point denying it. I lived for the word and everybody knew it, and for Johnny my stories were always pro bono. A gift for the bonehead.
Three
I found the Shark around the corner under the trees in the street below Johnny’s apartment. She was an old German clunker, navy blue, a diesel that drove like a barge on dry land. I slid in behind the wheel, turned the key and checked the fuel. With any luck I would make it up to Lugano without having to stop and fill the tank. I flicked a look in the mirror, nosed into the road behind the tram and crept along in its wake while I searched for jazz on the radio.
A few minutes later I had Bitches Brew for company, Miles Davis on a Friday morning. Traffic jammed up around the old fairgrounds and it took me a while to get to the freeway. Up ahead in the distance I could see the mountains, a great jagged ring of snowy peaks rising from the flatlands north of the city. I slowed to pay the toll, slid on through and pulled out into the fast lane. The Shark picked up speed and began to thrum and as I drove I drifted into the past.
Maybe it was something in the air, or all that gold dust in his smile, but there was something about him you couldn’t resist. Nobody could. I remembered the day, clear and cold. He led me into the office at
the Villa Sofia and sat me down in a black leather chair.
“So,” he said. “Remember this?”
He threw his right hand out with a jerk, pulled back the cuff and held it out for me to see. A watch. “How much?”
I didn’t get it. It must have showed, because he laughed. “You don’t remember? Two hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs.”
The number rang a bell. The watch. A Breguet, the same one he’d been wearing at the trade fair in Basel years before. “Sure I do, Gigi. Amazing piece. Napoleon had one.”
“That’s right! Napoleon!” He leaned back in his chair. “You do your job right, you get one too.”
“Terrific.” I nodded. “Great piece of machinery.”
A frown crossed his face. He’d heard something. “Tommy?”
The door opened behind my back and someone padded over the carpet, stuck out a hand and said, “So you’re the scribe. Gigi’s been telling me all about you.” A tight smile cracked open in a round, pink face.
“Tommy, meet Pete Pescatore,” said Gigi. “Pete, Thomas O’Sullivan. We call him Tommy.”
We shook hands and Tommy O came into focus. Bald pate, stony gray eyes staring into mine, one of them just a little off course. It was hard to look back at him, but I held his gaze. He dropped my hand and stepped away, stood there like a butler, stiff and silent.
“We can use a man like you,” said Gigi. “What do you say?” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed my hand, flashed his billion-dollar smile and roared, “Welcome aboard!”
A burst of radio static blew Miles and the memory away. The south Como exit flashed by on the right. I caught a glimpse of the lake and slowed for the tunnels leading up to the border.
There wasn’t much of a wait that morning. The Italian guards tossed a glance at the plates, looked up and waved me on through. A few yards further on the Swiss pulled me over, sold me a road sticker and let me go.
About twenty minutes later I took the south exit to Lugano and drove straight down to the lakefront road. I made a left at the lights, tooled on past the Hotel Royale and the art museum, made a left again and nosed down into the underground parking. I checked my tie in the rear view mirror, climbed out and shut the door. My back was sweaty from the drive, so I threw my jacket over my shoulder, gave the Shark a pat on the head, turned and walked out into the sun.
I figured I’d start with the accountant. I dug out my phone and ran through the names until I found him. Sarge.
A nice young lady with a metal voice said sorry this number is no longer in service. I hung up on her and dialed again. It took two or three rings before she picked up. “Hello, Pete.”
“Renata. Telepathy?”
“Caller ID. Italian number.” A sigh. “You heard the news.”
“Yeah. Bad news.”
“Yes.” Her voice was on the edge of breaking. “What do you want?”
I steadied myself. “I was looking for Sarge. I called the number …”
“Let me give you the new one.”
“Hang on …” I fumbled for a pen. “Shoot.”
She gave me the number and fell silent.
“How are you holding up?”
A few seconds passed before she said, “You better ask Sergio.”
“Renata?”
The line was dead. I stood there for a while, staring out over the lake to the past.
Sergio “Sarge” Ungaretti was a chartered accountant. He’d kept the books for Gigi and his companies, the investment fund and the start-ups we bet on.
“Ungaretti.”
“Sarge!”
“Con chi parlo?” He didn’t recognize my voice.
“It’s me, Sarge.” I waited. Nothing. “Pete. Pete Pescatore.”
“Pete? Oh, so you heard. It’s terrible, terrible news.” The voice sank to a whisper. “Where are you?”
“In town. You free for lunch?”
“Hang on.” He gave it some thought. “Pizza. Same time, same place.”
“I’ll be there.”
The hard bright light slanting in off the lake threw sharp winter shadows into the streets. I found a kiosk with a rack of Swiss papers and foreign press—The Financial Times, Le Monde, a couple of the big German dailies. I picked up the local Corriere del Ticino and ducked into a cafe.
Italian entrepreneur found dead. A secretary had discovered the body at Mr Goldoni’s home in the Paradiso district in Lugano. Police had found no signs of a break-in, no indication of foul play. Suicide seemed likely, an autopsy would have the last word.
A respectful paragraph listed the highlights of Gigi’s career. The early years with IBM, the junk bond buy-out that made him rich and the IPO that made him a hero. That was about it. No lowlights, no rumors, nothing from the last ten years. Maybe it was too soon for a real obit, or maybe that was all he would ever get. Maybe nobody wanted to remember the story, how they’d fallen for his spiel, been taken in by his visions of wealth and glory. He’d made a few early investors rich, but the rest of us had gone down with the ship, spellbound by his old sweet song—fresh money from the Arabs, coming soon, coming soon.
The cappuccio was cold and the croissant two or three days old. I left a coin on the counter and walked out. The hard bright light and the shadows were gone, the weather darkening to suit my mood.
The pizzeria was there where I’d left it a few years before, ten minutes up from the lakefront road. I peered in through the window. Square-cut slices with canned tomatoes and cheap mozzarella on greasy metal trays behind glass, coals in the wood-burning oven behind. I whirled away and moved on. A few doors down was a shop that sold high-end mechanical watches, the sort that cost more than a Maserati. I zoned in on one that looked familiar and remembered I’d written it up for a customer: An exceptionally elegant date display on a silver-grain dial, framed by a satin-brushed rose gold case. I stared through the window and wondered again why anyone bought them. Seventy-five thousand Swiss francs. What was the point? You needed a bodyguard just to check the time.
“Pescatore!”
I looked up. Sarge came ambling down the street, rolled up and offered a weak yellow smile. “Good to see you, Pete. You’re looking well.”
“Thanks.” I looked him over. He’d put on thirty pounds and lost a chunk of his hair. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
He laughed. “Still a good liar. You always were.”
“Look who’s talking. Numbers lie too.”
“Ain’t it the truth.” He’d learned his English from the movies. “You writing a story for Cronaca Nera?”
“I didn’t know you read it.”
“Once in a while.” He grabbed the Corriere from under my arm. “When did you hear?” He opened the paper.
“Got a call this morning. You?”
“Middle of the night.” He had his head in the paper so I walked him down the street while he read. At the door to the pizzeria he looked up, grunted and tucked the paper under his arm. “You still write about wine?”
“Once in a while.” I pushed in ahead of him. A short, flabby little man in black stepped up with menus and a tired smile. “Table for two,” I said.
“In the back,” said Sarge. The waiter led the way in past red and white checkered tables with plastic flowers to a spot right next to the restroom. There was nobody else around.
“So,” he said as we settled in. “I recommend the pizza.” He floated a grin, pleased with himself and his sparkling Swiss wit.
I opened a menu and studied it for a while. Nothing had changed. I hated Swiss pizza. Chocolate they could handle, and mechanical watches, but not pizza.
“I’ll have a Napoli,” I said. It was hard to get a Napoli wrong, unless the crust came out black, the dough half-cooked or the pizza-man forgot to rinse the capers. “New phone number, Sarge. You got a new job?”
He nodded. “BGSB.”
I drew a blank.
He filled it in. “Banca del Gran San Bernardo. It’s a bank.”
“Ahh, righ
t.” Like it had just slipped my mind. “Bean counter to banker in under five years. Not bad.”
“I do all right.” He didn’t want to talk about it.
I pushed on. “So, Sarge. How you been? Boys all right? The wife?”
“All good. Renata’s a sweetheart.” There was something going on behind his eyes. “And you? How’s the writing business?”
“Good,” I said. “The Swiss pay on time.”
He snorted, contemptuous. “Italy—how long do they make you wait these days, three months?”
“Six, if you’re lucky. Sometimes a year.”
A grunt. “What about that food mag in New York, what’s it called, Whine & Dine?”
I gave him a sour smile. “It’s called Slow Food, Italian Style.”
“Nice,” he said. “Must be good for a few free meals.”
I narrowed my eyes. It sharpened the focus on his face. “I never tell them who I am. And I pay full price for everything I eat.”
“Sure, Pete. So what’s in it for you?”
“I like good food,” I said. “All there is to it.”
“I believe you.” Not.
I surrendered. “OK, Sarge. If the food’s any good, I write the place up. If it’s truly great, I write a rave review and wait till I get my hands on a copy. Then I go back.”
“With the magazine.”
I nodded. “I leave it open on the table, help the waiter discover who wrote the review—“
“Et voilà!” He gave a soft laugh. “The chef comes out, all smiles, and the meal is on the house.”
“And the wine,” I said. “Don’t forget the free wine.”
“You do know how to milk the cow.”
“Nice metaphor, Sarge. Swiss?”
A scowl. The waiter waddled up, pen in hand. Sarge did the honors, looked up and said, “Wine?”
“Whatever you like.”
He ordered a local Ticino Merlot, slapped a pack of cigarettes on the table, lit up and smoked in silence for a while. Then he popped a forefinger from his fist, raised it to the side of his head, cocked his thumb, and fired. “Boom!” he said. “Shot in the head.” Blue smoke curled up from the cigarette.
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 2