I checked my watch. Ten, ten-thirty, maybe eleven. You couldn’t rely on a fake to keep time. It was there for the looks. I dug out the Nokia and dialed. A sleepy voice said, “Pete.”
“Stazz, baby. Darling. Sweetheart. Honey-bun. How are you?”
“You owe me story.”
“I know. But listen, the briefcase, where is it? I got a great idea how to open it.”
She yawned down the line at me. “Tell me.”
“I will when I see you. When do I see you?”
“Story, Pete. I’m waiting.”
“Hang on. Let me get my notes.” I was ready for her. I even had a headline: Take The Money & Run!
“You ready?”
“Shoot me.”
I laid it out for her: The rich were abandoning Italy. They had looted combines owned by the state, bought judges, cops and bureaucrats, passed laws to keep themselves immune and now, with the country sinking fast, the rats were on the run. They were taking hundreds of millions with them, hauling it off to Switzerland, to Lugano and its super-secretive banks.
Anastasia yawned again. “Old story. What it has to do with Goldoni?”
Good point. “I’m getting there.” I plunged on. “First, how does the money get up there? Ever heard of spalloni?”
“Is too soon for lunch.”
“No, no. Spalloni—“ I broke off. She was laughing.
“I know, Pete. They carry bags of money on trails in mountains. You tell me already.”
“Right. So the money from Italy gets to Lugano. What happens? What do they do with it?”
“Black money, yes?”
“Good girl.”
“I am no girl.” Her voice had an edge. “Is black money, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“They wash it. That is your story? That’s all?”
“It’s a good story, Stazz.”
“Good, but old story. What is new?”
I was ready for her. “Man called Ali Baba. Ever heard of him?”
Silence while she thought about it. “Forty crooks?”
“Good girl, no cigar.”
“Why no cigar?”
“Ali Baba is a nickname for a big-shot here in Lugano. It’s not his real name.”
“This man is money washer?”
“I think so. But not just him. He has help. Lots of help from his friends.”
“Yes, yes. Bank people, law people. That is the way.”
She was bored. “You sound like you know all about it,” I said.
“Not me. Nicky knows.”
I was quiet for a moment, so she helped me out. “My ex and his friends.”
“Ohh,” I said, bored now too. I knew who he was. I just didn’t want her to know I was interested. “Sicilians?”
“Nnn. Naples.”
“Right. They know Ali Baba?”
“Ali Baba? I will ask. Call me later.” Another big yawn. “Sorry. That is all?”
“No. The briefcase, Stazz. I need it for the story. The briefcase is the story. Where is it?”
“Trust me.” She hung up.
Trust. It was the dark heart of Italy, the only currency that had any value. Never trust anyone outside your own tribe—your family and maybe a blood friend or two—and never turn your back.
Anastasia wanted more, but Johnny would like the story all right, so I sat down and typed it up. Take the Money & Run—to Lugano. Gray money. Black money. Every year millions were smuggled into Switzerland, cash on the run from the taxman in Rome. Yet the week before they had done it again: some government flack put out the word that untaxed funds could be sent back home, tax owed slashed to five percent. A sleazebag scam and an insult to boot, the law turned black money white overnight. Message from Rome to the people of Italy: Crime pays.
I read it again, a sinking feeling in my gut. Anastasia was right. It was nothing new—same old, same old Italy.
I sighed, picked up the phone and called Johnny.
“Lunch in thirty,” I said. “I’ll buzz you from the street when I get there.” I hung up on his cough and was out the door and on the stairs when I heard the chain rattle behind her door. I stopped. I’d been planning to talk to her anyhow. A mass of red curls appeared in the doorway.
“Buongiorno, Signora. Come sta?” Clementina Romano was one of those people, you said hello and got a two-hour monologue in response. She was my neighbor and my landlady and a magistrate. Sixty going on seventeen. A hopeless flirt. She asked me once to call her Tina. I tried a few times, but it never fell off my tongue very well.
“Carissimo Pietro, where have you been? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
I climbed the steps back up to the landing. “You’ve been busy,” I said.
“I am always busy, and now I have a new baby.” A big, sad smile washed away in the crinkles around her eyes. She patted the head of a pup in her arms. It had a smooth, shiny coat of long red hair, the same color as hers but no gray at the roots.
“Good looking dog,” I said. “A setter?”
“Irish setter,” she said. “He’s adorable, don’t you think?”
“Handsome,” I said. I liked dogs. I had dogs when I was a kid in L.A. Used to run along the beach for miles. “I had a mutt just like him once. What’s his name?”
“Red,” she said, and smiled again. “Isn’t he a beauty?”
“He’s terrific. Wonderful.” I reached out a hand and gave the pup a pat on the head. He nipped at me. I wrapped a hand around his snout. “Uh, Tina, can I ask you something?”
Tina shook her head. “It is I who must ask you a favor. What are you doing, in this moment?”
“Talking to my landlady.”
She laughed. “I see. Well, I will stop talking and let you go for a walk. The dog likes to walk.”
“Does he.”
“Yes. Here.” She pushed out her arms and managed to dump the dog into mine. “I will answer your question when you come back.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s Marco’s birthday. I will visit the cemetery. He is forty today.”
Forty. Marco would have been forty. If he hadn’t died in the lake with Eva. If they hadn’t—
I set the mutt on the doormat. Tina disappeared and came back with a leash, hooked up Red and gave me a little wave as she disappeared behind her door.
I dug out the phone and called Johnny to say I was running late. He said we should try a new sushi place not far from the Arco della Pace, the peace arch in the park. “Sounds good,” I said. “They take dogs?”
“Sushi, Pete.” He coughed. “Fish. No dog.”
He broke my silence with a cackling wheeze. I hung up on him, picked up the puppy and carried him down the stairs to the street. We followed the tram tracks to the Arco della Pace and on to the sushi. Johnny stood smoking outside the door. I roped Red to a streetlight and pushed inside.
It was one of those places designed to rush customers in and out. I picked up a tray and a pack of sushi under cellophane and a can of beer and shuffled to the register. Johnny heaped up sashimi and sushi rolls, ordered miso soup for two and paid. I led the way to a white plastic table and chairs and pulled out a chair.
“So how was your trip?”
“Not so good,” said Johnny. The meeting in Rome had not gone well. The print edition was running up debt. Subscriptions were down, ad income sinking. As for the web site, it got plenty of hits but was still losing money.
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“You asked.”
“Come on.”
“I’m thinking of learning how to use a computer.”
“Welcome to the nineteenth century.”
He missed the crack. “I figure Mario can show me the ropes.”
“Johnny—”
“All right, all right.” He held up his hands in surrender and sighed, downcast. “I can’t pay you.”
“Nothing? Not even expenses?”
“Expenses, yes. But that’s all.” He wouldn’t look m
e in the eye.
“Better than nothing,” I said.
Surprise lifted his eyebrows. His eyes lit up. “So you’re with me?”
“Sure,” I said. “It beats writing about watches.”
“Great.” He speared a hunk of raw fish. “So what have you got for me?”
A young woman in white appeared from the kitchen and set down black wooden bowls full of soup. Floppy seaweed and tofu cubes. I slurped a sip and gave Johnny what I had so far. It wasn’t much. Black money, spalloni, Gigi up to his neck in debt and working on a deal to save his hide. I mentioned the briefcase our light-fingered Russkie had lifted from Billy Bob. It was important, I said. The case was the key to the story.
Johnny was already shaking his head. “You never learn, Pete.” He forked in a load of a sushi and starting talking around it. “How many times I have to tell you? Corruption is boring. Tax evasion is worse, puts people to sleep.” He cracked open a beer. “You have to give them what they want.”
“Blood.” I said. “They want blood, right?”
“Yah.” He was nodding. “Blood, sex and tears,” he said. “And money.”
Same story, different day. “OK, so let’s talk about blood. Stazz said you had news on the autopsy?”
“Right. I hear the doc from Varese is up at the lab in Locarno today. It shouldn’t take him more than a couple of hours.”
“Today’s Sunday, Johnny. It’s Switzerland. The lab is closed.”
He shrugged. “It’s what I hear.”
“They in a hurry or what?”
“Could be.”
“Get him in a coffin and nail down the lid?” I dipped a finger in my soup. It had cooled. I picked it up and drank straight from the bowl, set it down and peered at my sushi. California roll? “What else do you hear?” I tore off the plastic and picked up the chopsticks, poured soy sauce and mixed in a dab of the green stuff. Wasabi.
“The police have traced the gun,” said Johnny. “A SIG Sauer. Swiss Army issue. Guess what—it wasn’t registered to the victim.”
“Goldoni was Italian. Why should he have a Swiss Army pistol?”
“Guess who owns the gun, Pete.”
“Sergio Ungaretti, the accountant. Ex Swiss Army, kept Gigi’s books.” I soaked the salmon in soy. “I told you, I know the man.”
Johnny went quiet. “The bullet killed Goldoni came from Ungaretti’s gun.”
“That I didn’t know.” The room felt colder. “You sure?”
“I got it straight from the horse.”
“Mouth,” I said. “Straight from the horse’s—“
He was shaking his head again. “That’s his name.”
“Who?”
“My source.” He raised a finger to his lips. “With the Swiss police.”
I sighed and dug out my notebook. Codename: Horse. “So, did the horse say if they’d picked him up yet?”
“Nope. Ungaretti filed a report. Claims the gun was stolen.”
“So Ungaretti’s a suspect?”
A shrug lifted the big man’s shoulders. “Follow the money.”
“You always say blood.”
“Blood, sex, money. Whatever.” He drank and set the glass on the table. Traces of foam glistened in his mustache. “Give me something I can work with, Pete.”
I was waiting for that. I smiled. Drum roll. “Freemasons,” I said.
Sparks flew from his eyes and set his hair on fire. “Dimmi tutto.” Tell him everything.
So I did. I told him about my visit with Julia. About the little yellow bricks in Gigi’s pockets. They were a sign, I said—irrefutable evidence of a demonic, perfidious Masonic plot run out of the Vatican with help from Palermo.
Johnny liked it. He loved it. He wanted more.
I broke it to him: “It’s a load of crap, Johnny. You know that.”
Undeterred, waving his chopsticks, he leaned across the table, lowered his voice and whispered, “You remember Calvi?”
I scrunched my forehead into a frown. I didn’t have to think. Roberto Calvi, Italian banker, found dead in London in the early eighties, hanging by the neck from scaffolding under Blackfriars Bridge. In the days and weeks to follow, rumors surfaced he’d been laundering mob money through the Vatican bank. A London court later called it suicide, and twenty five years after his death the case opened up again in Rome. The Italians concluded that the man found hanging from Blackfriars Bridge had been helped to his death by persons unknown.
“God’s banker, they called him,” I said. “What about him?”
“He was already dead when they strung him up under the bridge, Pete.”
“So they say.”
“It’s true. And you remember the bricks?”
“What bricks?” I was rattling his chain. Everybody knew about the bricks. Persons unknown had stuffed bricks into Calvi’s pockets—after they hung him up on the scaffolding. Ordinary, run-of-the-mill red bricks.
“In his pockets.”
I let him hang for a while, ruminating as I ate. “Oh, those bricks. So?”
Johnny waited for me to get it. Finally he said, “Masons.”
I tilted my head at him, puzzled. “Ohhh, now I get it.” Red bricks. Yellow bricks. Masons. Murder. “I’d forgotten you were such a conspiracy nut.”
Johnny reached for his beer and emptied the can into his glass. “I believe in conspiracy.”
“And I believe in facts.” I raised my glass and offered a toast. “To the facts. The facts, all the facts and nothing but.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“You shouldn’t. You don’t believe it.”
“Conspiracies aren’t fantasies, Pete. Conspiracies are plans. Secret plans, but real all the same.” He drank. “A conspiracy is a fact.”
“Sure it is,” I said. “And everything bad that happens in Italy is the fault of some secret fact.” I lifted a slice of tuna on rice, drowned it in soy sauce and downed it. “What’s the point?”
“Whoever put the bricks in Calvi’s pockets was sending a message.”
“Yeah. It was a secret code, right? Two bricks in the left pocket, one in the right, says Meet me on the steps of St. Peter’s at noon.”
“Smart-ass.”
I was getting to him. Conspiracies were serious business. I wasn’t showing enough respect.
“So in your view, Pescatore, what is the meaning of the bricks?”
“A red herring.” I inhaled another tuna roll and washed it down with a splash of beer. “A distraction, a decoy.”
Johnny frowned.
“Think bloodhounds, boss. Something to throw them off the scent, get everybody barking up the wrong tree.”
“Got it.” He didn’t look too sure.
“Come on, Johnny. You think the bricks were a message? What did it say? Don’t Mess With The Masons or You’ll End Up Like This? I don’t think so.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with that?”
“Whoever killed Calvi wanted us to think it was the Masons. But it wasn’t.” I frowned and reached for the beer. “Or maybe it was the Masons—This is what we do to snitches.”
“Snitches?”
“Canaries. Traitors.” I set the beer down. “Calvi betrayed the Masons.”
A frown. “You know that for a fact?”
“Facts have nothing to do with it.”
Johnny growled, snatched a pen from a pocket, scribbled something on a napkin, and handed it to me.
I deciphered the script: SWISS BANKER SUICIDE — THE CALVI CONNECTION. I sighed. He took back the napkin and scribbled again: GOLDONI SUICIDATO COME CALVI DAL VATICANO. I sighed again. Suicidato meant murder made to look like suicide. It was possible, in theory. Julia thought so. Johnny was sure. His headline suggested that Roberto Calvi and Gigi Goldoni had both been murdered by the Vatican. I looked up at him. “You need a question mark.”
“You think so?” With some reluctance he penciled one in.
“And maybe you should drop the Vatican bit.”
He bristled. “Why?”
“There’s no proof.”
He frowned and scribbled again, tacking a phrase onto the napkin headline. I read it. L’OMBRA LUNGA DELLA P2. The long shadow of the P2.
“Oh that’s good,” I said. “Very Italian. Very nice.”
Johnny ignored me. “Why was Roberto Calvi killed?”
“You’re asking me?”
“He owed people money.”
“I still don’t see where Goldoni fits in.”
“He owed somebody money. You said so yourself.”
“Wrong,” I said. “He owed everybody money. Everybody who worked for him, everybody who bought his shares and tried to cash them in again—the secretary, the accountant, even the lawyer.”
“You?”
“Sure, once upon a time.” I shrugged. “I wrote it off. But I hear he was a regular at Campione—the casino. Maybe he lost a lot more there. And maybe somebody we know helped him out. So to speak.”
His eyes lit up. “You know what?”
“What.”
“I bet Ali Baba is a Mason, Pete.”
“Right. And that’s his real name, too.”
“Of course not.” Johnny thumped the table, rattling the glasses and the cans. “But he’s on the list, whoever he is. He’s got to be.”
I drew a blank.
“You remember the list, Pete. The P2 lodge?”
I should have known. “The P2’s dead, Johnny. Shut down thirty years ago.”
“Says who? What if they’re back? Maybe they’re called the P3 now.”
I gave up. There was no point in arguing. “So what’s the story?”
He spelled it out for me. Take the Money & Run to the Masons. “They help move your money to Lugano, to a network of professional money-launderers, run by a mystery man called—“ He threw his arms open wide, an invitation to deliver the answer. “Come on, Pete … “
“Ali Baba?”
“Bravo. And the good part is, we don’t know his name—maybe Gigi Goldoni was the mystery man.”
“I’m confused.”
“Good. It’s the name of the game, Pete. Keep them guessing.”
It was time to reel him back to Earth. “Blood, Johnny. Where’s the blood?”
“The Masons,” he said, like it was totally obvious. “The Calvi connection.”
“I don’t get it. Connect me. Spit it out, Johnny.”
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 9