“Sarge. What happened?”
He opened his hands. “I have no idea.”
“Renata?”
He shook his head. “She’s all right, but you don’t want to speak to her.”
“And the kids?”
“Scared, but not hurt.” He lowered his eyes to the muddy ground. Nothing left of the snow. “You must go now, Pete. Go home and forget it.”
Sarge moved off, stepping over hoses, kicking stones aside, and disappeared around a corner. A few minutes later he was back again, a canvas bag hung over his shoulder. “You forgot this.”
My overnighter. Mud on the grip. I took it from him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say nothing.”
“Renata?”
“Leave her alone.” He shook his head. “She’s not well, Pete.”
“Anything I can do—”
“You can go now. Go home.”
I walked back to the car, threw the bag in the back seat and drove away.
The drive to Milan took forever. I kept stomping on the brakes to make sure they still worked. When I got home I circled the block a few times, looking for a place to park. Finally I drove the car onto the sidewalk out front of the corner café. Never a good spot to leave the thing, but I could get up early and move it. A couple of minutes later I let myself in the streetside door and dragged myself up four flights of stairs.
It was late to wake Tina, but I had to see her. I thumbed the bell and held it until I heard the chain and her sleep-drugged voice, mumbling from behind the door, “Who is it?”
“Me. Can we talk?”
“Peter?” She let me in, worry darkening her eyes. “Come in, come in. You look terrible—”
She opened the door. Red yelped and came bounding up to me, leaped up and shoved his snout in my face, goopy tongue slobbering all over me. Tina grabbed him and hauled him off to the kitchen. She poured me a shot of Fernet Branca and sat me down in the kitchen. I ran through the story and told her what I wanted.
She promised to call a friend the next morning and sent me on home with the dog. I was grateful for that. I needed the company.
Eighteen
It was a long night. Red lay sleeping while I sat scribbling, trying to work out where the hell we were. I drifted back to the meal again, to the dark red wine called Il Bugiardo. Bellomo lived in a world of lies and seemed to think I would be happy to join him. He’d opened the gates and invited me in.
I closed my eyes. Gigi Goldoni had gone there before me and would deal from the shadows forever now. I must have been blind not to see the darkness, must have put out my eyes like I had that night so long ago when I saw them together, leaning into each other. I slipped a hand in a pocket, fingered the earrings and felt the image float up from the deep—Eva’s slim, long-fingered hands at her ears, taking them off, falling into his bed, forgetting to take them along in the morning.
It was fading now, a memory like broken glass in my hands.
No. Not a memory, Pescatore. You saw nothing at all, there was nothing to see.
I tore myself away from the shadows and took up Marco’s notebook again. At the bottom of a page I found a note, DC = AB. I flipped back a few pages. There. DC stood for Dry Cleaner. And AB?
I stretched, stood and walked to the shelf against the wall. I pulled out an old copy of A Thousand and One Nights, blew off the dust and padded back to my desk.
Turned out I’d got the story wrong—Ali Baba wasn’t one of the Forty Thieves. A poor, humble man with a family to feed, he’d stumbled by chance on their fabulous wealth, kept a share for himself and left the rest where it lay. Ali Baba was an honest man.
Right. Same old, same old. You could see them every night on the evening news, brazen thieves playing innocent victims.
Something was staring me in the face. Ali Baba. Arabian Nights. Arabs. Abu Dhabi, Dubai. Saudi Money. There! I slammed a flat hand on the desk. Red gave a sleepy woof and ambled in from the kitchen. I dropped a hand to his head and scratched while I told him the tale of Gigi Goldoni’s Arabian Dreams. The good man had babbled for years, I said, about the mountain of cash just around the corner. Due in any day, it would save us all, make everything wrong all right again. It was big money, big money coming soon, coming in soon from the Arabs.
“Listen, Red,” I said. I took his head in my hand and looked deep into his big, brown eyes. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but there are no Arabs. There never were. Ali Baba is the Arabs. And his name is Arturo Bellomo.”
Red cocked his head, puzzled, so I tried again. “Arab money? It was always cash from Arturo Bellomo, a load of filthy lucre to run through the laundry. Through Gigi Goldoni’s Magic Laundry.”
That was good. I rummaged for my notebook and scribbled a note—Gigi Goldoni and the Magic Laundry. A Fairy Tale. I grabbed Red again and scratched him for a while, sat back and told him the rest of the story. “And the final deal, the one Gigi was working on when he died, was another arrangement with Mr Bellomo. Except the whole thing went sideways. Something went wrong, Red. I don’t know what, but something went horribly wrong.”
Red whimpered in sympathy with the mood in my voice.
What now? Bellomo’s words sliced again through my head. The brakes do not function as well as they should. The rest of his message, though he left it unsaid, ran something like this: Your friend Marco was writing a story that threatened to blow us all out of the water. It was not a smart move. Your old Alfa Romeo sped into a curve and flew off the road into Lake Lugano, your poor wife Eva at the wheel, Marco the Muckraker at her side. Accident? Think again, Pescatore.
It was a terrifying thought.
I flopped onto the bed and grabbed an hour of low-grade sleep. Bellomo had me hooked and was reeling me in, me and the briefcase and whatever it carried.
Minor problem: Anastasia had the briefcase.
I called her. No answer.
A cold shower got me up and running. There was a note from Tina tacked on my door with instructions—Feed him, take him out for his morning stroll—and a promise to call me that afternoon. I snagged Red with a leash and walked him down the stairs into streets fallen silent under the snow and a pale gray sky. I let him loose and he shot off up to the corner where two or three men were standing around outside the café, bundled up against the cold.
I sniffed and felt the bite of smoke in the air. Acrid, foul. Scorched plastic and paint. Somebody must have torched a car again. It happened in the neighborhood every once in a while. A debt disregarded, a bill left unpaid would be settled with gasoline and a match.
I rounded the corner heading for the café. A fire truck stood in the street beside a burned-out chassis on the sidewalk. The wreck was still smoking and the stench of burnt rubber burrowed into my brain. I stared at it. I’d parked it. Left it right there the night before. Where. No. It was mine. My beautiful FIAT Cinquecento.
A neighbor sidled up. “Hai visto? E’ la tua, no?” It’s yours, right?
I nodded, shivering, staring down a hole into darkness.
“I thought so. What happened?”
I shrugged, turned away and hurried off. Red bounded after me, wanting to play. We tramped around the park through the snow while I did what I could to still my nerves. The walk seemed to help, but the fire went on burning, the fire at Sarge’s place on the lake and the fire so close it scorched my hide.
Nothing to be done. “Look on the bright side, Red,” I said. “We won’t have to worry about the brakes anymore.”
Red looked up at me, woofed and ploughed his nose back into the snow.
A tram driver paced back and forth at the stop, smoking. I picked up the dog and climbed on board, punched a ticket and thumped onto the hard wooden bench. The driver flicked his cigarette into the snow, climbed up and took his place at the controls. We pulled away a few seconds later.
I dug out my phone and made a couple more calls. Anastasia didn’t answer. Johnny picked up and gave me a message. “Some woman c
alled, German accent. She read something you wrote and wants to discuss it. In private.”
“Heidi? From the lab in Locarno?”
“She didn’t leave a name.”
“Number?”
“She’ll call you, Pete. I gave her your number.” A cough ripped his lungs and tore down the line. When he was done with it he said, “What’s the matter, Pescatore? You sound like your dog just died.”
I looked down at Red. He looked up at me. “Dog’s okay.”
“Terrific. So what’s the problem?”
“Can’t talk now, Johnny. I’ll be there in a few.”
Twenty minutes later I picked up the dog and swung down off the tram and took him over the road. No sign of Anastasia. No Billy Bob.
My hands were still shaking. Ashes fell through my brain.
Johnny buzzed me in. Red took off up the stairs. I called for the cage and rode up to the office, whistled for the dog and pushed in the door.
“Porca miseria, Pescatore. You look terrible. What happened?”
“They torched my car.”
“What?”
“There was nowhere else to park last night, so I left it on the sidewalk out front of the cafe. It’s a write-off, Johnny. My car is a ghost.”
The cigar fell from his lip. He snagged it, brushed ashes off his desk and clothes and said, “Any idea why?”
“No clue.”
“Kids on drugs?”
“Kids on drugs look for money, Johnny. My car was a relic, you said so yourself. It didn’t even have a radio.”
“So what are you thinking?”
I wasn’t sure what he knew anymore so I sank into the sofa and went over the story. I went from A for Ali Baba to B for Bellomo and the briefcase, C for casino, D for the deal and F for the fires. From G for Gigi’s Magic Laundry I skipped to L for Lego and The Liar wine and jumped back to B for the brakes that failed and sent Eva and Marco sailing into the lake.
Johnny let me talk, smoking and nodding every once in a while as he pounded out notes on the old Olivetti.
“Trouble,” he said, when I came up for air.
“You’re telling me.”
“Thing is, how does it all hang together? There’s no story here, not yet. All we got so far—“
“Is a clusterfuck.”
Johnny chomped the cigar, peered through the smoke and said, “One word or two?”
“One.”
“Spell that for me?”
I gave it to him. He echoed every letter with the clack of a key and a satisfied grunt.
“It’s a wonderful word,” he said. “Means what, group sex?”
“You wish. It just means everything’s all screwed up.”
“So unscrew it.” He threw back his head and cackled through a cough.
I looked at the dog and shrugged. Red whimpered. “Right,” I said. “I’ve got Mario’s phone thing with me, so all I need now is the briefcase.”
“Which is where?”
“Stazz has it. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Johnny shook his head, smiled again. “Clusterfuck. I like it.” He bent over the page and hit a few keys. “By the way, she called. Said to tell you she’s on her way.”
“Hoo-ray.”
Johnny shot a look up over his glasses, puzzled.
I pushed on. “Listen, about this job with Bellomo and the boys. What do you think?”
“No brains, Pete. Tell him you’ll take it.”
“No brainer.”
“What did I say?” A cough. “He’ll pay you, right?”
“Sure.”
“So what are you waiting for? The Bolshie and I can run the show while you go underground.”
“Underground?”
“You go work for whatshisname, Ali Baba. Stick your nose into everything. When they find out you’re a spy and hold your feet to the fire, you run.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Why?”
“I don’t do pain.”
“I thought you were a journalist.”
“Yeah, but—”
“What’s the problem?”
“My inner coward is telling me no.”
“Tell him to quit whining and get on with the job. I want the story.”
“And blood, you said.” I sat back and breathed in smoke for a while. Smoke and fire. “I can’t show up without the briefcase, Johnny. You know that.”
“So get it from Stazz and take it with you. You got the software from Mario, right? You open up the case, take pictures, lock it up again and hand it over.”
“Easy as pie.”
Johnny shrugged, leaned forward over the Olivetti and said, “Get out of here, Pescatore. Do some work for a change.”
“You need to announce my resignation.”
“Nobody cares.” He didn’t look up.
Anastasia showed up around noon in a full-length Siberian gray wolf fur, snow in her hair and rings under her eyes. First thing she said when she saw me, “You owe me story.”
“Likewise, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’.”
“Honey bun, my love. I sent you the story. Didn’t you see it?”
“Masons?” Scorn darkened her face. “Vatican? Paranoid fantasy, worth dick.”
“Tell me what you really think, Stazz.” I was not happy. I didn’t like her language, and there were fat Texan fingerprints all over her smile. “Johnny loves it.”
“Only make worse.”
“So, my darling, what is it you want?”
She shot me a look to petrify and said, “Story: Italian business man shot in Lugano. Six days dead already. What happened? Why? Who? You know?”
“No.”
“What do you know? You know anything?”
“You’re the one with the facts, my dear. They’re in the briefcase. Give me the briefcase and you’ll have your answer.”
“OK, we go. Now.”
She turned on her heel and stalked out. I got up, hauled the dog to Johnny’s office and told him we were heading out.
“Destination?”
“I have no idea. Brezhnev’s bride is on the warpath.”
Johnny tilted his head, frowned, rolled his eyes and wished me luck.
“Take care of Red for me? Thanks, old man.” I pushed the dog through the door, waved and ran out and down the stairs.
I caught up with Anastasia in the street, smoking a cigarette as she strode along. No sign of the Lech. Gray skies gone colder.
“I have news,” she said. “I like your friend.”
I swallowed hard. “He’s a likeable guy.”
“He’s big.”
I swallowed again. “Good for him.”
“Very big, you understand?” We arrived at the Shark. She extracted the keys and put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Johnny.”
About what, I wondered. “My lips are zipped,” I said. “You want me to drive?”
She handed me the keys. I stood there, unable to move. “Tell me about Billy Bob,” I said. I did and did not want to know. “How big?”
“A big Yank, like you said.”
“I said that?” I opened the door for her.
“He said you tell him I like big Yanks.”
It was true. “Yeah, but that was just, you know, to get him interested.”
“This was not enough?” She ripped open her fur to reveal her splendid dancer’s body and, with an elegant sweep of her hand, laid out her wares. “You had to pimp?”
She looked hard at me, challenging. I shifted my gaze to the sidewalk. She slid into her seat, took a look at my face and burst out laughing.
I slammed the door and took a deep breath, worked my way around the Shark and slumped in behind the wheel. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” I said. “I’ve been calling you for days. You never answer. I was worried.”
“And I was busy.” She wriggled out of her fur and bundled it up and tossed it over her shoulder. “Worry is not productive. Worry not, write m
ore.”
She leaned forward and sent a long, slim finger to the radio. We listened to the news while I made my way across the city to the highway heading north. Just past the prison a few miles up the road she punched the radio off and said, “So. You like to hear my report?”
“Only if you promise to leave out the good parts.”
A smile danced over her lips. “I promise.”
“Shoot.”
“He is like Nicky. Same type,” she said.
“Nicky?”
“My husband. Ex.”
“Right. I knew that.” A groan rose up from the dark inside me. I didn’t like Billy Bob in the first place, and now she was telling me he was like her old man. A slick, handsome lawyer from Naples, Nicola “Nicky” Napolitano had moved out but was still a big part of her life. She still found him very attractive.
“I like your Tex. He is interesting man.”
A yawn crept up and pried open my jaw. “Tell me about him.”
Big yellow arrows and cones on the road funneled traffic into a single lane, slowing us down for the story. Billy Bob liked whisky, dancing and sex, she said, and was full of stories about the good old days growing up on a ranch in west Texas. He’d broken wild horses and could sing like a train, rumbling and rhythmic, buckets of sad old country songs. From the ranch he ran off to college in Austin, got a law degree and a job with a company run out of Dallas. From there he’d made his way to London, Amsterdam and Lugano.
The single lane opened up again and a black BMW roared up behind us, headlights flashing, its driver a dick-brained king of the road. I flipped him the bird in the rear view mirror and drifted over slowly, slowly into the right lane. I’d been living in Italy long enough to know what drove them crazy.
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s all you know?”
“Of course not.” A slow smile. “But you tell me leave out good parts.”
“That’s right.” I had to work to keep the mask in place, deadpan indifference to her praise of Big Yank. “You think he knows we’ve got the briefcase? Has he asked you about it?”
“I give him same story—he have too much drink and lose it.”
“Did he tell you what’s in it?
“No but I have good idea.” It was Anastasia’s turn to yawn. She retrieved her coat from the seat behind her, made a pillow and curled herself up into a furry ball. “He thinks is worth a lot.”
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 14