The School of Turin

by Dale Nelson

  And they were gone.

  Jack blasted out of the driveway, whipping out onto the street and pulling a sharp and immediate turn to the right, already pushing forty miles an hour. He was up to eighty before he blinked and backed it off, because they were still on a residential street.

  “We wanted to go the other way, actually.”

  “You want to know the first rule of being a wheelman?”

  “Drive like an asshole and don’t listen to directions?”

  “Get yourself lost and try to find your way home. It’s the best way to learn a city.”

  In another life, Jack raced.

  He’d always been fascinated by cars, obsessed with them. As a boy, his walls were covered in Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Panteras, Corvettes, and Mustangs. Though, Jack’s real passion had been Formula One. He got into karting early and was a natural. By the time he could get a driver’s license, he was a sponsored driver and starting to get attention on the feeder circuits for Indy Car. Then, all of that went away, and he was forced to run. Not long after, Jack was in California making a living as a wheelman.

  He drove fast for a living, but not exactly the way he’d envisioned.

  Well, that wasn’t specifically true. A wheelman only drove fast if something was wrong. That had only happened to him once. Most of the time, his job was preparation, and that meant knowing cars on a level somewhere between a high-end mechanic and the automotive engineer who designed the fucking thing. A good wheel had to know the performance specs of nearly every car on the road and had to be able to judge a vehicle’s quality just by eyeballing it for a few seconds. Sometimes that’s all you had.

  You never modified a drop car. That was Hollywood bullshit. Why bring someone else into the calculus who could identify you? You had to be able to spot the right vehicle for the job and steal it, or better, know how to buy it clean and then dispose of it afterward. Usually with bleach, fire, or some combination of the two.

  And you had to be able to drive.

  You had to be able to spot a tail and lose them immediately. You had to be able to plan the getaway route and learn the city well enough that you could have two or three contingency routes for when things went to shit. Because they would.

  Most important of all, you had to drive cooler than a jazz sax at midnight. Panic leads to car chases, and one hundred percent of car chases lead to jail.

  Jack drove for five years before Reginald ever let him inside.

  The Portofino handled beautifully and lived up to every expectation Jack had, everything he’d read about. When he was behind the wheel of that car, he forgot that Viktor was sitting next to him, forgot that not twenty-four hours before they were fleeing a botched heist in Paris’s most exclusive hotel. All of that faded away.

  Jack guided the Portofino into the city center, finding palm-lined avenues bustling with people and a mix of modern and older architecture, all washed white by the constant, unrelenting sun. Viktor would not last long as a tour guide and couldn’t point out anything worth knowing about the city, but it occurred to Jack that he probably didn’t spend much time here. The one fact Viktor did know was that the locals called it Lucentum, which he said meant “City of Light” in Spanish. Interesting, considering that they had just come from Paris.

  Jack marveled at the Ferrari’s handling and found it maneuvered just as well on the winding switchbacks of the foothills as it did in the busy city streets. The color was even starting to grow on him, though it absolutely should have been red. Viktor had stayed largely silent on the ride, seemingly cognizant of the fact that Jack wanted to concentrate only on the car and, other than offering vague generalities, was largely silent on navigating until they neared the city center.

  Driving gave him time to think, to contextualize.

  To weigh Aleksander’s “offer” of employment against what he’d really meant by confiscating Jack’s passport.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Viktor said. He was stalling for time. Why not?

  They found a bar on the southern end of the city center with a view of the ocean. Jack parked the Ferrari, and they stepped out onto the sun-scorched sidewalk. The building was a squat, faded pink-orange with white trim. They found a table under an umbrella, and Viktor ordered a pair of Mortiz pilsners for them.

  “You want to tell me what’s really going on here?” Jack asked.

  “It’s just a beer, Burdette.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  Viktor just shook his head.

  The server brought their beers, and they drank them in silence. Jack made a few attempts at conversation but stopped after Viktor’s one-word answers. Jack decided to take this for what it was—a cold beer in the hot sun and a far cry from cold, damp, dangerous Paris.

  Jack enjoyed an unobstructed view of a marina and the sea beyond. At some point, Viktor stood and walked out to take a phone call. Jack texted Vito and asked when they could speak. He didn’t get a response. When their drinks were done, Viktor said, “We can go now.” He left some euro on the table to cover the beers, and they walked back to the car.

  “I’ll show you a better way home.” Viktor said when they were moving. He guided Jack to the N332, which ran along the coast. There was too much traffic for them to really open the Ferrari up, but the view was incredible. They returned to Aleksander’s home, and Jack parked the Portofino. It was just about five, and the sun was turning from a blazing yellow disc to a more muted molten gold. “Dinner is at nine,” Viktor said, “but there will be drinks before.” Jack forgot how late the Spanish dined. Aleksander must have gone native.

  Jack went up to his room, and his phone dinged. Verrazano. Jack walked back outside to the patio and, finding no one there, headed toward the path that he and Aleksander had walked earlier that day. When he was far enough away from the house, Jack made the call. He didn’t think that Aleksander was sophisticated enough to bug his room, but he also wasn’t taking any chances. He also didn’t trust Spanish construction to be soundproof.

  The old thief picked up on the second ring.

  “Vito,” Jack said, “it’s good to hear your voice.” They hadn’t spoken in over twenty years, not since Jack’s panicked flight from Turin in 1997. Jack always hoped Vito didn’t blame him for what happened or how it went down, but he could never know what Bartolo would have said. How he would have played it. Jack knew from Enzo that Bartolo blamed him entirely for Castro getting that close.

  “How are you, my boy?” Vito’s English was always serviceable, if not heavily accented. His voice was light. If there was any hostility, anger or recrimination, Jack couldn’t detect any. “You’ve done well for yourself,” he said, before Jack could answer him. “I’m proud of you.”

  The words sounded strange in his ears, familiar and yet foreign. Like an estranged father.

  Jack and Vittorio had an interesting relationship. Vito was Jack’s connection to Niccolò Bartolo and the School of Turin. Vito and Reginald LeGrande had worked together in the eighties when Reginald spent time abroad. Their last job together had gone sour. They were robbing a safety deposit bank in London and had gotten away with it, but most of the crew was rolled up shortly after the job. The idiots were spending money like sailors on shore leave.

  Vito and Reginald both knew they couldn’t move the goods right away. Instead, they hid their portion of the take near London and went back to Italy with a little walking around money and the intent of coming back for the rest of it. However, once the other members of the crew were arrested, they both knew they had to walk away and disappear. Reginald returned home to the United States. Several years later when Jack had to cool off after their armored car depot job went bust, Reginald sent him to Turin to look up Vittorio. Reginald said that Jack needed some “finishing.” It took a long time for Jack to work his way into Vito’s good graces. For the first few weeks, Vito assumed that Reginald sent Jack there to figure out how to get the London take, or make Vito try to get it to see if the authorities were st
ill watching it. Eventually, Jack earned Vito’s trust by showing that he was a good, if yet unpolished, thief. Vito took Jack under his wing, and once he’d proven himself, he’d introduced him to Bartolo.

  Jack thought about trying to get back in touch with Vito over the years but always fell short of dialing. He knew Vito was arrested, convicted, and served about five years in prison for his involvement. He also assumed that Vito blamed him for that. Jack was never sure if the other members of the School thought he set them up, since Jack and Enzo got away and the rest did not.

  Jack didn’t care about the others. They were just common criminals to him.

  Even Niccolò Bartolo, who was a teacher and a mentor and was as instrumental in the creation of Gentleman Jack Burdette as Reginald was, Jack wasn’t necessarily sad to see him in the wind.

  Because Bartolo also scared the shit out of him.

  Yet Vito had always felt remorse for losing that friendship.

  Bartolo may have taught him how to be a proper thief, but it was Vito that taught him wine.

  “Where are you at these days?” Vito asked.

  “Oh, here and there,” Jack said, and that got a throaty laugh on the other end of the phone. “How’d you get my number?”

  “I’m still in touch with Enzo. I asked him first if he thought it’d be okay for me to get in touch.”

  A cold feeling washed over Jack.

  There are few things worse than learning a secret about someone you trust from someone else.

  “Enzo never mentioned it to me.”

  “I asked him not to,” Vito said. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to call.”

  “I can understand that,” Jack said, and he could tell the remorse in his own voice.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “I was mad at you for many years. I thought you sold us out.”

  “I never did that,” Jack said, voice soft.

  “I know that now. Enzo told me, and eventually I believed him. I don’t know why you warned him and not the rest of us though.” Vito’s tone was still even, more questioning than accusatory.

  “I was afraid of Bartolo,” Jack said in a flat voice. “I didn’t know who I could trust. I thought that … I don’t know, I’d grab Guilia and I’d run. I wasn’t expecting her to—”

  “I can’t say that surprised me much.”

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  “No. And thinking about it is just going to eat your soul. One thing that it took me too many years to learn was to not carry hate around in a handbag. But all I know is this, Nico found out that Castro was a cop. He put things together fast and assumed that you were in on it. Guilia is a survivor, but she’s not the type who is comfortable just surviving. It’s important that you know the difference, because you didn’t then.”

  Jack said nothing. He just stared out over the sun dappled Mediterranean and the millions of diamonds thrown across her surface.

  “Why now? After all these years?” Jack asked. “I think I know what you found, but why tell me?”

  “As to the first part, I didn’t get in touch with Enzo until I heard he retired. I figured, what the hell? It’s hard to make new friends. You know, people that weren’t in the life don’t know what you went through.”

  Jack knew that all too well.

  “Enzo and I talked a lot on the phone, and I eventually went to see him.”

  “At his place in Calabria?”

  “Yeah. I saw the picture of the two of you on the boat, and I figured what the hell? Took me a year or two to build up the nerve.”

  “And what about the second part? What’d you find?”

  He hoped that it was just nerves, but Jack felt eyes on him.

  Vito laughed. “When’s the last time you were in Rome?”

  Jack closed down his phone and walked back up to the house. Rafael Castillo was sitting on the patio sofa, the outdoor fan turning lazy circles over his head. There was a pitcher of water, charcuterie, crackers, and some nuts arranged on the tables, as well as a small basket of bread and what appeared to be a small pot of honey or preserves. There were three water glasses and three wine glasses on the table as well. Castillo was wearing an ocean blue polo, tan pants, and driver moccasins. He smiled and stood as Jack approached. They shook hands.

  “You look a little more rested than the last time I saw you,” the lawyer said, smiling.

  “You’d think I’d be used to how quickly things change in this business,” Jack said, returning the smile.

  Castillo sat and indicated for Jack to join him. Jack sat down and studied the man across from him, who remained silent for a time. When they parted last night, which already seemed a week ago, Castillo said everything was handled in Paris and that Jack had nothing to worry about. He could read on Castillo’s face that the lawyer was waiting for him to ask for reassurance that it was, indeed, handled. The lawyer was testing Jack’s nerve. Jack held the silence for another handful of seconds and then said, “I assume we’re not drinking water.”

  Castillo smiled and nodded, as if conceding the point. He reached down to a small bag near his feet and drew out a bottle of wine with a brightly colored label that featured a slightly cartoonish image of a man pushing something into an oven.

  “This is a 2010 Dominio del Águila tempranillo,” Castillo said, “from the Castilla y León region. After our conversation last night, I wanted to show you something that wasn’t the typical fare from Rioja.”

  “Where is Aleksander?”

  “I’m right here,” the Serb called from inside the house before he emerged. He was wearing slightly baggy, light blue linen pants and a white, short sleeve button-down and no shoes. He had a wine opener in his left hand, which he handed to Castillo. “I wouldn’t want you to start the drinking without me. Apologies for having to step out this afternoon. I trust Viktor was an adequate host.”

  “He was most generous with his time,” Jack said.

  After a few moments’ pause, Aleksander said, smiling, “Well, are you going to tell me about it, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

  Jack smirked. “It was amazing. I haven’t driven the 488 yet, but the reviews I’ve read have all compared the Portofino favorably to the 488. It’s a big improvement over the California, which I still thought was a great car, and I’ve put that one through its paces.”

  “What’s the phrase you Americans use? Drive it like it’s stolen?”

  “Yeah, but I actually did steal one of those.”

  Everyone laughed, and Castillo poured the wine, then he introduced it. He spoke of how the winemaker apprenticed in Bordeaux for many years before returning to his homeland to make wine, bringing with him the techniques that he’d learned in France. “Perhaps I am biased, but I’m a simple man and the son of a farmer,” Castillo said with mock self-deprecation, “but I much prefer Spanish wines to French.”

  Jack tasted the tempranillo. It was an intense, bold expression, initially spicy on the tongue but then fading to a blackberry. It was amazing. They enjoyed that bottle over the course of an hour, discussing wine and the strange marriage of chemistry and artistry required to produce it. Castillo asked many questions, mostly related to the growing, which seemed out of genuine curiosity to compare to what he knew from his father’s experience as a grower.

  Jack was thinking on two levels as he drank and participated in the conversation, much of which revolved around him. On the superficial level, Aleksander and Castillo asked about wine and Jack’s business. He was careful not to reveal too much and was on guard for questions that, perhaps, probed too deeply into that life. On the deeper level, Jack was thinking through the conversation he and Aleksander had earlier, as well as the implication of his confiscated passport. To say nothing of the growing suspicion he had about Paris in general.

  Low-level paranoia was healthy, if not necessary, in this business.

  Too much was crippling.

  The difference between the two was often razor thin.

  Jack
set down his glass, and Castillo refilled it. He didn’t realize that he’d been quiet for some time.

  “Ours is not a profession that one simply checks out of at the end of the day. You carry it with you,” Aleksander said, in a way of understanding Jack’s silence even if he didn’t know the source of it. Jack admitted that it was strangely comforting to be in the company of people who got it.

  A second bottle of wine appeared, this brought by a man wearing a chef’s coat. Aleksander introduced him as Javier, a chef that worked for him several times a week. Javier was once an executive chef at a hotel in Barcelona but moved back home to Alicante to be near family and live a quieter life. Now, he had a business as a personal chef and wine curator. He introduced the next wine as a Godello, which was a dry white that he paired with an appetizer course of a selection of tapas. They then moved to the outdoor table for the main course, a Valencian-style seafood paella.

  During dinner, and despite Javier’s periodic appearance with a new plate of food or refresher on wine, the conversation went where it inevitably would—to the trade. Mostly, they spoke as old thieves and how they would have handled some of the famous scores. Jack learned a little of Aleksander’s background here and some of the work he’d done in the past. At various points in the conversation, Aleksander or Castillo would probe into a job that Jack had allegedly pulled, but ever cagey, Jack reminded them that his entire operating model was to take small scores that wouldn’t garner much attention. The point, he said, was to pull the jobs that no one would notice and take things that only insurers would miss.

  “And that, my friend, is why you’re still working,” Aleksander said.

  “That is also why I’m not in jail,” Jack countered.

  Castillo was particularly interested in Jack’s time in Turin. Jack described it as a whirlwind, a nearly lawless time. “You would just walk into a coffee shop in the afternoon, and there would be a bunch of men standing in the back, chain smoking. Someone would ask what your specialty was, and you’d get put on a crew to go out that night. It was insane.”