Dead in the water, Billy Bob Decker slumped into a chair, his belly rolling over his belt beneath a rumpled white shirt and straggly tie. I peered at the tie. Busty ladies in bunny ears and the name of a gentleman’s club in Dallas.
“I’m off,” said Julia. “Pull the door shut behind you when you leave.”
“Jules, baby. You can’t leave me here with this … Texan.”
“You’re a big boy, Pete.” She turned and walked off down the hall. “Call me.”
Billy Bob heaved a sigh.
“Coffee, Billy? Looks like you’ve had a few too many.” I clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Course, nothing like the other day. Man…” I launched a search for the coffee pot, opened cupboards and drawers and made a lot of noise while I worked up a story.
“Take a seat, Pete. You’re making me seasick.”
“What’s the matter, Billy? Too much rum in the bilge? I can hear it sloshing around in there.” I found the pot in the sink and coffee in a cupboard and set about making a good strong dose. He needed it.
“Pete. Sit down.”
I ignored him.
“Where is it?”
“Where’s what, Billy? What are you talking about?”
“The briefcase. From the Villa Sofia. The one I had with me the other night.”
“In the car, bubba. Don’t you remember?”
He rubbed his temple. “Frankly, my dear, no.”
“Now there’s a surprise.” I gave silent thanks to Anastasia. Good job, Stazz—his mind is a blank.
Another deep sigh from the Texan lady-killer. “Drop it, Pete. Just tell me where it is.”
“Right where you left it.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the car. Your car. The Merc. Man, were you wasted or what? I had to stop you from trying to drive.” I was shaking my head. “You need help, Billy. I mean—get a grip. Have you thought about twelve-step?”
Billy Bob rolled me a stony look. I set a cup of coffee in front of him. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Whatever.”
I added milk and sugar and sat there watching him drink in slow motion.
When the buzz kicked in he said, “Where is it. The Merc.”
I reached into a pocket and came up with the keys, dangled them in front of his eyes. “I parked it in town.”
He grabbed them. “Let’s go.”
I shrugged. He stood, stopped and stared at the floor, bent down and snatched up a piece of plastic. Yellow. He snorted, “Julia.” He shook his head, like he was knocking water out his ears. “She tell you her theory?”
“Found them in his pockets. That’s all she said.”
Billy Bob righted his head and held up the little yellow brick to the light. “Masons, Pete. They’re everywhere.”
“Masons?”
Billy Bob pushed a brick across the table. A little yellow brick.
A light went on. “Oh, those masons.”
“According to Julia, they’re the ones who killed Gigi. Secret lodge in Lugano, reporting to Rome.”
“News to me, Billy.” Wonderful news—Johnny would love it. I could give Anastasia first grabs for the net, and Johnny could write it up for print.
“She’s out of her mind, Pete. The Vatican has nothing to do with it.”
“Course not.”
Fantastic! The Masons, Rome, now the Vatican. A headline came to mind. SWISS SUICIDE LINKED TO SECRET MASONIC LODGE IN THE VATICAN. Nah. Too long. So what would Johnny do with it? Something about the P2, no doubt. Flashback to the 1980s: The secret Propaganda Due lodge is discovered by a pair of investigative magistrates. The press gets wind of it and plasters the story all over the country. The P2 has a thousand paid-up members from government, industry, the media, the parties. They have a plan, too: drag Italy back to the good old days before World War II. Exposed to the light of day, the P2 shrivels up and dies. But now … CNI DIGS UP VATICAN PLOT TO RESURRECT P2.
Billy Bob clumped back down the hall, grabbed a black leather jacket from a hook on the wall and stooped to pick up a brain bucket—navy blue, silver stars on either side. Dallas Cowboys. I followed him out and pulled the door shut behind me.
In the street sat a steely black machine, gleaming in the dark. Billy Bob climbed up on it. I heard a click and the engine coughed and settled into a guttural sputter. A Harley. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
I stepped up, threw a leg over, leaned back and called out, “Hi-yo, Silver! Awaaay!” Billy Bob shook his head from side to side and we roared off into the rain.
After a while I felt the bike slow and saw the Hotel Royale float by on the left. I knifed a hand into the wind beside Billy Bob's head, shouted instructions and waved him on around and up the hill to the garage. We took the spiral ramp down to where I’d parked the Merc. He nosed the bike up beside it and lowered his boots to the concrete floor. The bike shuddered and fell silent. I pushed back, swung off and stood there, dripping wet and shivering. Billy Bob pulled his thick head from the brain bucket.
I turned to the Merc. I’d left the trunk popped. Someone had closed it. The tires had been slashed and a long, silver scratch ran along the left side from the driver-side mirror to the tail light. I dropped to a crouch and examined the damage. “Ooh, that’s bad.”
Billy Bob swore, stomped around to the back, opened the trunk and swore again. I skipped back around to join him.
Nothing. The trunk was empty.
He lowered the lid and let it fall shut. A soft thud. He turned to me. A frown plowed furrows through his forehead. Not what you’d call a happy camper.
I took a slow breath and waited while he worked his way back around the Merc to the bike. “It’s time we had a little talk, Pete. Just you and me.”
“The Royale?”
He shook his head. “The casino. You drive.”
“Campione?”
He nodded.
Ten
It had been a few years since I’d driven the freeways in L.A., but I knew right away it was a Harley to die for. Billy wrapped his arms around my waist and kept his belly in my back as we purred down the road and over the bridge, powered down the exit and curled around to the north.
Campione d’Italia had been home to a casino since the 1920s. They’d knocked down the old one a few years before and put up a concrete monster. We rolled down into the underground garage, parked the bike and rode in silence up to the bar.
I sank into a black leather sofa and closed my eyes. Glasses clinked. Gamblers mumbled, chattered, laughed. The piano man fumbled through a medley of evergreens. Pretty Woman. Stormy Weather. Yesterday.
Billy Bob flopped on the sofa beside me and waved a waiter over. “Johnny Walker,” he said. “Ice.”
The waiter gave him a nod and shifted his gaze to me.
“Glass of white,” I said. “No bubbles.”
I waited for Billy to spill the beans. It didn’t take long. “How much you know about Gigi’s business?”
“Less than you, bubba,” I said.
He jerked forward. “What about the guy looks like Dr. Zhivago?” He paused, waiting for my brain to kick into gear. “You remember him?”
I put on a frown and stroked my chin. The scene came back. They were in Gigi’s office, Zhivago set to pop a gasket, waving his arms and yelling at Gigi. I threw a glance at Julia and saw her smile. She rolled her eyes for me, turned away and shut herself in with the two of them. She came out again about twenty minutes later, Zhivago on her tail. He clamped an envelope under his arm and stopped to light a cigarette, all charm and honeyed smiles again.
“You and Tommy used to call him something. A nickname. Ali Baba?”
“It wasn’t me and Tommy. It was your friend from Milan, Marco something. You remember Marco?”
Did I remember Marco. Short answer: yes. He had been a friend of mine, so to speak. A good friend of Eva’s. Lived with his mother next door to my place in Milan. “What about him?”
Billy Bob shook his head. “He was on his way to
see Gigi when they drove off the road.”
“Eva,” I said. I could barely breathe. “Eva was driving. They were on their way here.”
A sigh rolled through him. “Pete—” He stopped himself. “What’s the worst way to die? For you, I mean. Pete Pescatore.”
Humor him, Pescatore. He knows something. “Drawn and quartered,” I said. “Boston Pops playing My Way for the crowd, sixteen violins and a harp.”
“They’ll do it.” Billy Bob grabbed my drink and tossed it down. “They’ll find out what you fear the most and have the boys deliver it. In person.”
“They?”
“Same people as got to Marco, Pete.”
A fluttering in my gut. Worms. “So what are you saying?”
“Drop the story. It’s bad for your health.”
“What story?”
“You heard me.” Billy Bob flagged the waiter and pointed at our empty glasses. The man took note and went away.
“What’s in the briefcase, Billy?”
The Texan turned his gaze on me, his eyes gone slow and glassy. “Where is it?”
“You left it in the Merc. In the trunk.”
“Bullshit. You stole it.”
“You’re hallucinating, Billy. Delirium tremendo.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Pescatore? You need a biometric. It won’t open without it.” He showed me a fist and flipped me the middle finger.
“Likewise, I’m sure.”
“You scan the fingertip and you program the lock. You follow me?”
I wasn’t good with detail. “Get to the point.”
“Gigi’s dead. You’ll never get the briefcase open.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Damn!” he spat. “I knew you had it. You’re screwed, Pescatore. You and your lady friend, whatshername—Ludmila? Svetlana?”
“Anastasia.”
“You’re in over your head. Both of you.”
“Yeah? Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” I retrieved my notebook from a pocket. “What’s in the briefcase, Billy Bob?”
“It’s not important.”
“That explains it.” I opened the notebook.
“Yeah,” he said. The frown on his face turned into a question mark. “Explains what?”
“Why you were playing Santa Claus.”
Another frown. I’d confused him. The waiter set the refills in front of us. I grabbed mine and waited for Billy’s brain to warm up.
“Oh,” he said, finally. “The villa.”
“Good man.” I let him narrow the focus to the boxed-in roof terrace at the Villa Sofia. “I saw you up on the roof and came running to get you. You with me?”
He nodded.
“So who were the dudes in white shirts out front? The goons in the BMW.”
He thought for a moment, staring down from the window to the black sedan and the two men scuttling up the drive. “I think they work for Zhivago.”
“Yeah? Interesting.” I made a note. “And you?”
He raised his eyebrows. Furry, dark.
“Who do you work for, Billy?”
“Mother Teresa.”
“She’s dead,” I said.
He threw me a long, wary look, the whites of his eyes shot through with red. “Come on, man. We’re the good guys.”
“Sure you are, Billy. And I’m the next pope.” I drained my glass, hauled myself out of the sofa and walked.
“Pete—” he called out after me. “About your wife—”
I froze, whirled and strode back to him.
“Have a seat.” He was pale now, looking drained and puffy around the gills. He slapped a flat hand on the seat beside him. I took a breath and sat down.
He began by saying he was very sorry to drag my poor dead wife into things, because Eva had nothing to do with it.
“It was Marco they were after at the time. Eva was just—what’s the word?” He slapped his forehead, knocked something loose. “Collateral damage.”
I reached for the wine, saw the fingers still shaking. It was another man’s hand, another man’s life. Trembling fingers clamped the glass and carried it to my lips. Icy wine flowed down my throat.
Billy Bob leaned in close, “They ever find the car?”
The voice sent me scrambling down into a cave where the walls were lit with photographs. There—Eva as a child with flowers. Eva on a bicycle. Eva in her wedding dress, smiling all over. And there, years later, Eva standing with Gigi. They are close, too close. Eva pulls away. Gigi pulls her back, pulls her closer, too close. And one last photo in black and white, the last I ever see of her, taken at the Villa Sofia that night. We’re due to celebrate Arab money, everybody heading to the casino for dinner. I tell her I will join her later, walk her to the car and hand her the keys. She gives me a kiss and calls to Marco. Marco skips up and climbs in beside her. She waves to me and drives away. I stare after her for a good long while, turn and trudge back inside, back to Julia and the press release. We go over it, again and again, on the phone with Gigi from the casino. It’s midnight by the time we finish, and gone two in the morning before we make it to the party. I go looking for Eva but cannot find her. I have a drink with Julia, worried now. I call again. No answer. Another couple of drinks while I wait. I call Marco. No answer. I call Eva again. She does not answer. Ever.
The voice. And again, louder. “Pete!”
I crawled out of the cave, back up to the smoke and the empty jazz. Billy Bob’s question lay waiting there. Did they ever find the car?
My old Alfa Romeo. “No,” I said. “I figure they stopped looking.” I got up, tossed him the keys to the Harley and walked.
Two floors down I found a roulette table and made a few bets and lost and walked away from the table back into the past, chasing a wine red Alfa Romeo around a curve and over a cliff to the bottom of the lake.
“May I help you, sir?”
It took me a while but when I broke the surface I found her waiting. I stepped back and looked her over. A slinky young thing in a little black number, looked a bit like that Bond girl, the French one. Succulent. Luscious. “Depends,” I said, “what’s on the menu?”
“You never know,” she said. She had a high, breathy voice. “But a girl gets thirsty.” She winked at me from under fake eyelashes thick with mascara. “Buy me a drink?”
“Some other time, kid.” I saw a flash of disappointment before her face turned to stone. I left her there and ambled off to a slot machine. I played for a while but there were too many ducks that couldn’t walk straight. Later I found the elevator and rode it down to the basement garage. I stepped out into the cold, dank air and rows and rows of shiny black Mercs and BMWs. No wine red Alfa Romeo convertible. No. Gone. Forever.
An exit sign led me up and out and down a path to the lake. I held my face up into the rain. It was time to go home.
I dug out my phone and punched up a number.
“Pete?” Johnny’s voice, foggy with sleep. “It’s the middle of the night. Are you all right?”
“I need a ride.”
“I can’t help you, Pete. I’m in Rome. Where are you?”
“I’m at the casino in Campione.”
“Call Joe. I gave you the number. Remember?”
Joe. “Hang on.” I fumbled for my wallet, fished out the page with the name and number. “Got it. Thanks.”
“I’ll be back in Milan tomorrow morning. Meet me for lunch.” He hung up.
I called Joe and told him where to find me. He showed up twenty minutes later.
“Morcote,” I said.
“Sure. You got an address?”
“It's a bed and breakfast, right on the water. Ungaretti.”
He knew the place.
I climbed in and shut the door. I pulled back my sleeve and had a look at my watch. Nice watch. I looked up at the sky. Dark. “Forget Morcote. Can you take me to Milan?” I could grab my bag another time, next time I saw Renata.
Joe said sure and gave me a price. I sai
d that was fine by me and that our friend Johnny would pick up the tab. On the way to the border we got to talking. A friend of his told him a story, he said, about the dead man, Goldoni, poveretto. The friend used to drive him to the casino, drove him there every week.
“When was this?”
“Couple years ago.”
“And then what? He stopped going?”
“I guess.”
In the silence that followed I made a few notes and then drifted back to Billy Bob. He wanted the briefcase and he wanted it bad. And bad things could happen if he didn’t get it back. Like what happened to Marco and when they got Marco they got Eva too. Eva was collateral damage.
Pain flared in my chest.
It wasn’t an accident. I shut my eyes and sank back down with the memory of Eva to the bottom of the lake.
Eleven
Sunday morning I woke to a church bells and a song, a choir chanting in the back of my skull. They had funny voices, but the tune was familiar. They sang faster and faster: Followthe Followthe Followthe Followthe Follow the yellow brick road!
Munchkins! I threw back the covers and thumped to the bathroom. Things were no better under the shower. I couldn’t get the critters out of my head. I shaved and made coffee and went back over the story from Julia, built up the scene again, piece by piece. Gigi’s slumped against the wall in his kitchen, she finds him there, the gun still in his hand. His right hand. He signed all his papers with his left. No reason to pick up the gun with his right. Unless he did it on purpose. Some kind of a message. A telegram, in code, his last will and testament, tossed overboard.
The Munchkins roared back, demanding I follow the yellow brick road. To the Masons? Right. A second cup of coffee finally shut them up. I belched and picked up the mail. Electricity. Gas. A letter from New York. I tore it open. A check? Yes! Finally. For a piece I’d written on Tuscan wines. Super Chianti: Don’t Tip the Tuscans. I stared at the check and felt a smile spread over my face. It was enough to liberate my car from the shop.
I had a FIAT 500, a classic cinquecento built in the seventies, one of the last to roll off the line. I’d parked it too close to the tracks one night and the tram coming round the curve the next morning had smacked the damn thing into the road. It had cost me a fortune to fix it.
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 8