“It’s my fault, Marco. My fault and no one else’s,” he blurted out suddenly.
“That’s not true.”
He jerked to his feet, grabbed my hand, and gripped it hard.
“I should have been here with you guys, my closest friends, but instead I abandoned you, I couldn’t even find the strength to pick up the phone to hear your voices.”
“Why not?”
“Because you were there when Sylvie jumped out the window,” he replied in a voice so low that I had could barely hear it. “Every time I relive that scene, you guys are there, and I thought that having you around would drive me crazy.”
“Then you did the right thing by keeping us at a distance,” I replied, totally honestly. “Sylvie’s suicide is a wound that will never heal. The sound of her body hitting the pavement tortures me, I feel a pain so intense it’s almost physical.”
“It was a mistake for me to think that all this suffering affected only me,” he confessed. “I did my best to fight my despair by throwing myself into one robbery after another, just hoping I’d find myself in the middle of a firefight. Only my duty to protect Luc and Christine kept me from starting down the road of no return.”
“And now?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“I’ve come back to settle accounts and to stay. For good,” he whispered. “When I heard that Max had been wounded I suddenly came to my senses, I opened my eyes and found myself on the brink of a cliff, an instant before tumbling into the void. The fat man saved my life.”
“He saved mine too. He shielded me with his body.”
“It won’t happen again. I swear it.”
I wrapped my arms around him to keep from crying. He hugged me hard. Then he went into the kitchen. I heard him rummaging around with the coffeemaker.
I went into the restroom to splash some water on my face. Now that Rossini was here I felt a little calmer. Max’s condition was improving and now Christine, playing the role of the fat man’s courteous and likeable French girlfriend, was there to look after him. No one would ever have supposed that in her purse she carried a high caliber pistol and that she would have used it without a second’s hesitation to protect Max, should the unsuccessful hit man get any unfortunate ideas about coming back to finish the job.
The woman from Marseille had appeared unexpectedly in the surgical wing and had played her part very believably. When she showed up, I’d been sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by the relatives of the other patients. Christine hadn’t so much as glanced at me and I was astonished not to see Beniamino with her. I ran into him a few minutes later in a long corridor; he was slipping coins into a vending machine that dispensed hot drinks.
“I need a cup of coffee,” was the way he said hello. “I drove all night long. I was in Brittany when our friend called. I went by to pick her up and now here we are.”
“Ciao, Beniamino.”
He’d looked at me with clear, tired eyes. “Ciao, Marco.”
“We’re in trouble,” I’d told him. “We need help.”
“The people who need to pay are going to pay.”
I had brought him up to speed on everything that had happened while I drove him back to the apartment that Signora Oriana Pozzi Vitali had put at our disposal. The old bandit had listened in silence.
“I know people like Pellegrini all too well,” he had commented flatly. “They need to surround themselves with victims so they can experience that constant sense of power that keeps them alive. They are well organized, astute, intelligent predators.”
I got the point of what he was saying, but Max and I had made a promise to our client.
“We have to find out the truth,” I emphasized. “We can’t leave that poor woman moldering in her misery for the rest of her life.”
He’d stood up and walked over to me. “I agree. This whole mess is dripping with such cruelty that before we can mete out justice and settle accounts, we need to think of the victims. But I’m not just talking about the Swiss woman or the professor’s family. Pellegrini is feeding on a daily basis on the suffering of Gemma and Martina.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. As I told you, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to interact with people like this. They’re all the same, Mother Nature shaped them all with the same mold, and there’s only one way to stop them, and that’s to put them six feet under.”
“I’m afraid he’s not going to be the only one who’ll meet that end.”
“We’re going to have to move very carefully,” Rossini had concluded. “But no one will go unpunished.”
The next morning we rang the buzzer at Vico dell’Angelo, 34, where Signore and Signora Togno resided. We immediately realized that someone was looking at us through the peephole, and we decided to encourage them to open the door by using the “What, don’t you understand that we’re cops?” method of knocking, which involves a steady pounding and a string of angry obscenities.
It worked. The door swung open and we found ourselves face to face with a woman who looked about thirty-five, frightened and angry. Dark haired, well built and lithe. A pretty face, with soft features. Under other circumstances, I’d have tried to flirt with her.
“What kind of manners do you have?” she asked, stepping aside to let us in.
“Somebody from your department already came by yesterday,” she told us, clearly referring to Campagna. “And I have to say he behaved like a complete jerk.”
“The inspector is a rather peculiar individual,” I commented. “But let me assure you that we are very different from him.”
Beniamino refused to back me up in my little game. “Because, among other things, we’re not from the same department at all,” he specified, his tone cutting. “We’ve never liked cops.”
The woman blanched and slumped onto a taupe-gray armchair that clashed with the rest of the furnishings.
“Tell him that there’s no need for this,” she stammered in terror. “I know how to behave. I didn’t tell that cop a thing because I don’t know a thing. Federico phoned to say that he’d be away from home for a few days and not to worry. I understand that something’s going on, but trust me: there’s no need for this.”
“There’s no need for what, Signora?” I asked.
“Would you stop calling me Signora,” she shouted in exasperation. “I know what you’re here to do to me, but I told you, there’s no need. And he knows that I’ve always been a good girl. I don’t understand why he sent you.”
“Why who sent us, Signora?” I insisted.
“You really want to have some fun with me, don’t you?” she snapped. She was desperately looking for a way out. “Let me talk to him, I’m begging you.”
Rossini grabbed a chair and placed it before her. The woman recoiled, afraid he was about to hit her. “We call you ‘Signora’ because we consider you just that, a lady. We don’t care what you’ve done to make a living,” he began to explain calmly, looking her in the eye. “We aren’t cops, but we aren’t working for Pellegrini either. We only came here to ask you a few questions. Maybe we can help each other out.”
“Well then, what do you want?”
It was my turn to talk. “Giorgio Pellegrini. We want him and we want his accomplices.”
She was disappointed and she sneered obscenely to make that fact clear. “Get out of here,” she told us, jerking her thumb at the door. “You don’t know Giorgio. He’s untouchable, and you know why? Because he’s the fiercest man on the face of the Earth. If you dare stand up to him he’ll cut you to pieces, and after he’s done with you, it’ll be my turn next.”
We weren’t going to get anywhere like this. She was clearly terrified of Pellegrini. I tried another approach. “You’re very well-spoken, I’m guessing you’ve been to school, right?”
“The liceo classico, graduated with the highest possible grades.
But then, instead of going on to university like my father wanted me to, I came north and got mixed up with a bad crowd,” she explained. “But I know you didn’t come down here to listen to the sob story of Maria José Pagliaro, a Sicilian girl with great expectations who ended up in the worst of all worlds, did you?”
“We’re interested in hearing anything you’re willing to tell us,” I replied. “But before you say anything else, I want to tell you the story of two people who were very much in love. Her name is Oriana and his name was Guido.”
I showed her the picture of the professor. “He taught at the university. Does that interest you?”
She nodded and stretched out her legs. She was starting to relax. A very good sign. I started talking, leaving out details as needed to protect those involved and our investigation. I took about ten minutes to tell the story because her interest seemed genuine, and I included the part that concerned the woman’s husband, La Nena and its proprietor, and Max being shot.
“Federico didn’t shoot him,” she told us immediately. “At that time of night we were in another club to collect some money owed to Giorgio. A horrible night out.”
She immediately noticed the disappointment on our faces. “You’ll have to look elsewhere, I’m sorry to tell you.”
She pointed to a tray that held bottles and glasses. “Even though it’s only eleven in the morning, a lady can still have herself a little drink, can’t she?”
I hurried to pour out a little cognac into the appropriate glass. She took a few sips while watching us. “You might not have planned to do it, but you’ve forced me to come over to your side.”
“I don’t understand,” Beniamino said in surprise.
“If my husband ever found out that you’d been here, Giorgio would know it an instant later, and he’d force me to tell him every single word you said to me. In the end, I’d wind up dead in a dumpster.”
“Even if you haven’t done anything wrong?” I asked.
“That’s his method,” she replied, cold as marble. “You really don’t know anything about him.”
“All we know is it’s our job to rid humanity of his existence,” Rossini replied.
“That won’t be enough. Now I’m going to tell you a story: there were seven of us girls. Six foreigners and me, the only Italian, because there were customers who wanted only certified domestic pussy. We all lived together in a pretty little house on the outskirts of town. We were managed by a woman named Nicoletta, and she reported directly and exclusively to Pellegrini. One day something went wrong and he had to get his affairs in order. The foreign girls all vanished. A week later, so did Nicoletta.”
Beniamino and I exchanged a glance. Maria José was confirming the rumors about Pellegrini’s involvement in the trafficking of prostitutes with the Maltese mafia.
“I lived in fear,” the woman went on. “I was sure I was about to be murdered. I got down on my knees, told him I was willing to do anything, and Giorgio decided to show mercy. He married me off to Federico Togno, telling me to keep an eye on everything he did and report back, to push Federico to do whatever Giorgio wanted. He’s turned me into a slave who can never say no. You have no idea of what it means to satisfy every desire of a troll like my husband.
“So now do you understand why I have no intention of facing him after the two of you go out that door? What do you have to offer me? Before you answer, let me warn you: I’d sooner kill myself than go on being a whore. First I was Pellegrini’s whore, then I was Federico Togno’s. I’ve had enough.”
“You want a new life,” I replied.
“Enough money to start over,” Beniamino added. “A job and a safe place to live. Far away from here.”
“Where?”
“A hotel on the coast of Portugal. I have a friend who just bought the place, and I know that he’d be glad to hire an attractive person who speaks Italian.”
“I’ve been living a shitty life for all these years and just when I’m about to give up you appear out of the blue and offer to rescue me,” she murmured under her breath as she started to tremble. “It’s not like you’re filling my head with pretty words, and then you’re just going to kill me, is it?”
Too much emotional uproar for a warm morning in late September. I smiled at her. “You’re going to have to trust us. Anyway, you said it yourself: you don’t have any other options.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Right now you just need to pack your bags,” said Rossini. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk at lunch.”
Maria José knew enough to give us an exhaustive overview of Pellegrini’s criminal pursuits. She had pieced it all together from conversations among her customers, many of them tied to the network of corruption organized by Sante Brianese, and also thanks to her husband’s confidences. His boss maneuvered him from La Nena like a puppet on a string, and he’d even pushed him to commit murder.
We were still a long way away from solving the case of Professor Di Lello’s murder, but we were finally on the right path.
While Maria José was resting in Christine’s bedroom, and while Christine was in the hospital looking after Max, Rossini organized her escape. An old smuggler from Punta Sabbioni who Rossini trusted would come and pick her up at dawn the next day. A powerful speedboat would set off for the Croatian coast where another smuggler would take her to Zagreb airport. It would be hard even for the cops to retrace her route and, most importantly, it would take them a long time to identify her final destination. It all depended on what became of her husband. Right then, I was ready to bet that his future as a paid henchman was no longer all that bright.
The woman from Marseille came back a little after seven that evening. She was tired. She had time for a shower, and then she’d be back at the fat man’s bedside. But Beniamino had other plans.
“Get yourself dolled up, I’m taking you out to dinner,” he announced. “Tonight Marco will be taking your place.”
It struck me as a perfect way to take her mind off things until I asked: “So where are you planning to go eat?”
“La Nena,” he replied, unable to restrain a wicked smile. “I made a reservation for 9:30.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Certainly,” he replied indignantly. “We’re going to show up on his doorstep to make it clear that this is a declaration of war, which will give him a chance to choose how to react. It’s the least we can do.”
I was tempted to remind him that this very approach had prolonged a gang war that had ruined our lives, but I bit my tongue, opting instead for a useless appeal to common sense. “Giorgio Pellegrini belongs to a different generation, certain niceties are beyond his understanding, and what’s more, he’ll only take advantage. You’re giving him a head start.”
The old bandit threw both arms wide. “Even if he is a piece of shit, I don’t intend to stop behaving properly.”
“But why Christine, then?” I blurted out. “I’m the one who ought to be going.”
He waved his finger. “No. I want Pellegrini to meet a ‘dangerous’ woman, someone who could gladly send him into the heareafter without batting an eyelash, just for the pleasure of doing a little housecleaning.”
I surrendered and went off to drink a small glass of Calvados. At least, that had been my intention, though I couldn’t resist and poured myself a double.
When I got to the hospital I followed Christine’s instructions. Sure enough, she had already softened up the medical personnel not only with tips, but with her own winning personality. Before I knew it, I was sitting by Max’s bedside.
“You’re growing a mustache,” he noticed immediately. “It doesn’t even look all that bad.”
His voice was so labored as to be unrecognizable and overall, he looked like shit.
“You don’t look all that
bad either,” I retorted with a smile.
“They told me I’d have to change my lifestyle, and in the meantime they’ve put me on a diet.”
“So I heard.”
“Can you just picture me counting calories?”
“I’ve got a pretty good imagination.”
“The other day I opened my eyes and sitting by the bed was a beautiful woman looking at me,” he told me, with a trace of a smile. “It was the psychologist. She told me I wouldn’t make it on my own.”
I laid a hand on his chest. An unusual thing to do. My dad used to do it when he came in to tell me goodnight. “You saved my life, Max.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said evasively.
I brought him up-to-date on everything that had happened since the minute he’d been shot.
“We’re getting closer to settling accounts,” my partner commented.
“That’s what Beniamino wants, but he’ll have to wait to pull out the guns until we have a complete profile of the gang of lovers,” I explained. “We can’t run the risk of one of these bastards getting away and starting up again somewhere else.”
“It was Pellegrini’s idea, there’s no doubt about it. That guy is a teeming sewer of twisted but brilliant projects.”
I had a hard time finding a parking place near the apartment and found myself walking past the place where we’d been ambushed. For the past few days I’d avoided the location, and now I stopped to study the details. I realized that I was still upset. And yet I’d been through far worse.
Maria José was watching TV in the living room. She was dressed to the nines, and the two wheeled suitcases she’d stuffed with everything she was unwilling to leave behind were close at hand.
“It’ll be another couple of hours before they come pick you up,” I told her as I poured myself a drink.
“Time’s passing so slowly tonight,” she said, flashing me an uneasy smile.
“You’re telling me,” I shot back as I sat down next to her.
Gang of Lovers Page 16