We sat wordlessly watching an episode of a popular American show in which detectives seek the truth through the lenses of a microscope or in the color of chemical reagents. Lucky stiffs.
Often, I glanced over at our guest out of the corner of my eye. There were unmistakable signs of weariness and tension on her face. She was escaping the horror into which despicable men had forced her, by taking a leap into the void.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ten minutes to closing time and those two still hadn’t asked for the check. I’d recognized Rossini immediately. I’d happened to see his picture in the papers once or twice, but I would have figured it out anyway just from his style. A slightly out-of-fashion double-breasted suit, a regimental tie with a Windsor knot, wrapped eight full turns to get it just right, handmade shoes. The outfit of a topflight gangster. As I walked past their table he “just happened” to stretch out his arm, and his cuff pulled back to reveal his bracelets. Until that moment I’d been certain that it was nothing but a legend, but he himself had chosen to show off his collection of scalps. Each bracelet was a dead man. Poor old asshole, I’d definitely killed more than he had.
The woman wasn’t much to look at. Her features were coarse, as was the French that she spoke, no refinement at all in her clothing. Still, she had the body, the posture, and the alert gaze of someone who was accustomed to action. She wouldn’t be any use to me because that kind of woman doesn’t bring in cash. I’d have to kill her, just as I’d kill her date, but I’d definitely make sure I thoroughly enjoyed her company, in every way imaginable, just to break her spirit before she died. She reminded me of a Spanish woman I’d organized an armed robbery with once. She was so troublesome that in the end I’d had to sell her to two Croatian war criminals just to get rid of her.
I’d taken care not to say hello to Rossini and his girlfriend or treat them as respected guests. I’d sent them my least experienced waiter but they hadn’t batted an eye. I’d watched them closely the whole time. They’d played the part of a happy couple enjoying their night out, tasting specialties and sampling wines as if money were no object, but discreetly, so as not to attract attention.
Now they were nursing a couple of glasses of grappa and talking quietly. The only sound you could hear in the restaurant was the waiters cleaning up and preparing the tables for the next day.
I checked the time. Just six minutes left. I wrote up the check and took it over to them personally.
“The restaurant is about to close,” I announced.
“We’re not worried about that. I’m sure it will open again under new management,” said Rossini.
I burst out laughing. That holdover from a bygone era really was funny. He’d come to announce to me that he planned to take me out. And in my own restaurant, no less.
“I appreciate the kind words,” I retorted. “But don’t think I return the sentiment.”
“I never doubted that would be the case,” Rossini replied solicitously. “We have nothing in common.”
I decided to push a few buttons. “Not necessarily. I might have a few ideas about your guest,” I said in French.
The woman was quick to reply. “If you only knew the ideas I’ve had about you.”
A dangerous whore. One I’d have to put down without a second thought. “Well, see you again soon,” I said, pointing them to the door.
Rossini took a quick look at the check, pulled out a few banknotes and tossed them on the table. “Sleep on that thought,” he suggested with a cordial smile.
I watched them as they walked off arm in arm, chatting cheerfully. Rossini was too sure of himself. Something must have happened that made him think he could come challenge me with that night’s ultimatum.
At last the time came to lock the door and lower the metal roller blinds. After making sure I wasn’t being followed, even though I was certain the old man played fair, I headed for the Centra brothers’ house.
I waited a good fifteen minutes, observing the street, the closed windows, the parked cars. I didn’t spot anything alarming and so I announced my arrival on my cell phone. Togno opened the door. He was irritated.
“Where the hell did you send me?” he burst out as he led the way to the old workshop. “These two are out of their minds. Where did you find them?”
“Everything all right?” I asked, cutting him off. Togno was complaining too much for a foot soldier.
“It was perfectly pointless to bring that poor woman here. Her sweetheart is willing to do anything to get her back safe and sound. It would have been enough just to demand money,” he commented.
“That’s the kind of judgment call that I’ll make on my own.”
Federico immediately changed his attitude. “I’d never dream of criticizing you and you know it, it’s just that I can’t wait to get out of this place.”
“How far along are the negotiations?”
“Tomorrow morning Rosario Panichi is going to the bank to empty out a safe deposit box. What with jewelry and cash, there’s at least three hundred thousand euros in there.”
“I’ll let you know when to call him, all right?”
He looked at me, surprised. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, but tomorrow afternoon we can wrap up the deal.”
I gave him a slap on the cheek, just a little harder than necessary. “I wonder if you understand that I just told you to call him only when I say so?” I asked, enunciating my words clearly.
Togno fell silent. The closer we got to the cellar workshop, the clearer we could hear Furio and Toni’s cackling laughter.
I stopped in a dark corner of the stairs that offered a complete view of the area below. The Centra brothers were playing a card game of briscola with the hostage, enjoying themselves like a couple of kids. The woman was dressed in a white slip stained with red wine. She could barely hold the cards in her hands. She was alternating between tears and laughter.
“What have they done to her?”
“Every time she loses they make her drink another glass,” he explained in a low voice. “She’s already drunk and if you ask me before long they’re going to screw her.”
“See if you can keep that from happening.”
“Not on your life. They’re animals. I wouldn’t put it past them to take it out on me and personally I value my virgin ass.”
“All right. I’ve seen enough,” I said, retracing my steps.
My henchman snickered. “Leaving so soon? Don’t you want to say hello to the two kid brothers?”
“Signora Palazzolo knows me. She always used to come to La Nena,” I replied coldly. And then I snapped. “Would you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve been complaining, you’ve been overstepping some bounds. I’m your boss and I’ve given you a job worth fifty thousand euros. You need to show me some respect.”
“You’re right, I apologize yet again,” he mumbled. “It’s just that I don’t know what’s become of Maria José. There’s no answer on either the home phone or her cell . . .”
“And why would you be making calls to your little wifey-poo while you’re running a kidnapping?” I asked him furiously.
It dawned on Federico that he’d fucked up again and he hastened to explain. “Maria José was supposed to lay a bet on a horse race. Since I couldn’t do it, I wanted to tell her to go see Longoni herself.”
Sergio Longoni. A courier for a network of illegal bookies. He used to spend time at La Nena until I made it clear to him he needed to clear out. “I don’t like the way you’re acting, Federico,” I told him. “You’re reckless, you take pointless risks, and you’re putting us all in danger.”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Giorgio. You can’t really consider this to be a real kidnapping. These two will never report us to the police. They’ll keep quiet.”
I had no interest in wasting time teaching the basics to a brainless vegetable like
Federico Togno.
“Maria José might have gone to stay with some girlfriend, or a relative. She just took a little time off,” I hypothesized, just to see what he’d say.
He shook his head grimly. “She knows that if she’s not always available, I’ll beat her black and blue,” he hissed. “Otherwise you tell me what the fuck the point of keeping her like a lady is if she’s not always available?”
“Maybe she’s pissed off at you and she’s holding a grudge.”
“No. She probably got run over by a car or something, or she’s going to wish she had because the minute I lay my hands on her I’ll beat her like a drum. She made me miss out on a sure thing.”
A sudden intuition. A premonition. I held out my hand. “House keys,” I ordered.
“The keys to my house?”
I was barely able to restrain my anger. “I already have the keys to mine in my pocket, Federico!”
“What do you need them for?”
“I’m going to take a look around,” I replied. “I’m doing you a favor. Instead of going to get some sleep after a hard day’s work, I’m going to make sure that nothing’s happened to your wife.”
He pulled out a key ring and dropped it into the palm of my hand. “Thank you, Giorgio.”
The apartment was immersed in darkness. I switched on the light in the front hall and announced myself so that I wouldn’t be attacked by a hysterical, frightened woman. I noticed immediately that something was wrong. Drawers pulled open, things scattered across the floor. When I got to the bedroom I was sure of it: Maria José had hastily put all her things into a suitcase and fled.
I went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator for something refreshing. Dry mouth, a collateral effect of being ripped off. I had to settle for a bottle of white wine.
As I was uncorking it I wondered just what I’d ever seen in a 500-euro-a-trick hooker like Maria José Pagliaro, what had convinced me she was so special that I chose not to sell her off with the others. I would have gotten good money for her, too. Instead I’d decided it was a good idea to keep her and marry her off to Federico Togno, my disappointing flunky. I’d fooled myself into thinking that I’d created the perfect couple, forever dedicated to satisfying my every wish.
A dramatic mistake. Possibly a fatal one. The only time I’d forgotten the principle that says the superfluous should always be eliminated, and fate was already presenting me with the bill.
Rossini and Buratti were certainly behind that whore’s disappearance. They’d shown up and she’d cut a deal with them. She didn’t know anything about the most important operations, but she knew about the old prostitution ring and everything concerning Togno.
Put that together with the other information they must have assembled and now they had a pretty complete picture of the situation. They knew that I was behind the professor’s disappearance and Rossini had felt obliged to come throw down the gauntlet.
There was no way to settle this matter without paying at least a part of the bill, but I was going to shove that gauntlet up his ass. They too were making a fatal error by underestimating me.
I washed the glass and wiped my fingerprints before leaving. And I took great care not to warn that pathetic cuckold Federico. I had more important things to do.
I went back into town, parked the car, and walked to an old apartment building I had the keys to. I opened the front door and walked downstairs to the basement garages. The one I owned was number 7. It was registered as belonging to an elderly aunt of Gemma’s who of course had no idea she owned it. It contained some old furniture. A credenza held a bag with money, jewelry, weapons, and IDs, everything I’d need to go on the run for a good long time. And get a chance to start over. I checked everything twice. I could no longer afford the luxury of a mistake.
I got home around seven in the morning. Martina and Gemma were still fully dressed, awaiting my orders for the night. They were confused, worried, and afraid to ask for explanations. I pointed at Gemma. “Call your friend Buratti and tell him that I’ll expect him and Rossini at La Nena after it closes. Got it?”
The two women nodded like a couple of marionettes. “Pack your bags for a week’s vacation, I want you out of here by noon.”
“But this morning I have my pilates class, and a massage too,” my wife replied.
“Shut up!” her girlfriend ordered her, then asked me: “Where should we go?”
I shrugged. “Wherever you want. I don’t care,” I replied. “I want this house empty by no later than noon.”
Gemma shot to her feet. She’d understood the gravity of the situation. For the first time I hadn’t given them a specific order and the alarm bells going off in her head must have been deafening.
She took my hand. “Giorgio, please,” she stammered.
I jerked my hand away and locked myself in my bedroom. I was sleepy and right then all I wanted was some shut-eye. I needed to be fit and rested if I wanted to put Plan B into motion. Salvage whatever can be saved, screw the enemy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
This is Gemma.”
“I recognized your number,” I replied, realizing that it was 7:30 in the morning.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Are you doing this on his orders?” I asked. By now there was no point in pretending any longer.
“I have a message from Giorgio,” she replied. “I could tell you over the phone but I don’t understand what’s happening and doubtless you know more than I do.”
“Fine. But I name the place.”
“You don’t trust me,” Gemma stated bitterly.
“No, I don’t.”
For a few seconds she said nothing. “Well, where then?”
In situations like this one I always chose bars in shopping centers. I knew one in Vicenza, just outside the toll barrier on the autostrada, which also happened to afford the protection of a fair number of armed security guards.
“At eleven o’clock,” I said.
I went into the bathroom to freshen up after a night in the hospital with Max and, while I was there, took a look in the mirror to see how my mustache was coming along. The problem is that once the hair starts coming in, you have to choose a style, and I just wasn’t ready. I needed a woman to give me proper advice.
Maybe I could ask Gemma, even if she didn’t seem to be in the right mood. Pellegrini had made her a messenger, and that could only mean he had a clear plan in mind. By now, there were no doubts about the inevitability of a fight, and as far as I was concerned, that came as a relief. The risk of winding up murdered or in prison serving hard time was a constant source of concern, but the whole story and its protagonist, Giorgio Pellegrini, were so atrociously tawdry and cruel that we needed to put an end to it, and urgently. That was what was right, and what was necessary.
In the kitchen I found Beniamino and Christine having breakfast. The old bandit was wearing a pair of his legendary silk pajamas. The woman from Marseille wore only a white T-shirt that barely covered her bottom. Both of them were eagerly sipping from cups of espresso and milk, and dipping long, hard, sweet biscuits in their cups. I hadn’t seen those biscuits since I was a boy.
I made do with a cup of coffee while I briefed them on my conversation with Gemma.
“Do you think this is an ambush of some kind?” Rossini asked.
“No,” I replied. “Pellegrini has something in mind, but if I know his type I think it’s something more refined.”
“I think so too,” said my friend. “So you’ll go alone. I have to get my hands on some equipment. Christine’ll keep an eye on Max.”
“Do you really think he’s in danger or is this just a standard precaution?” I asked dubiously. “One more gun might be useful, since we don’t know how many men Pellegrini might have.”
“Max is our weak point,” he explained. “Handsome Giorgio respects
no rules and is perfectly capable of stooping low enough to kill a wounded man, knowing the effect that it would have on us.”
I shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about it,” I whispered. Then I turned to Christine: “Say, why isn’t Luc around?”
Christine shot Rossini a look. They exchanged a brief glance and then both burst out laughing. “My husband’s laid up in bed with a gunshot wound, too,” she confessed, amidst the laughter. “He caught a blast of shotgun pellets in the seat of his pants from a farmer who caught him stealing a chicken from his henhouse.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I married a chicken thief,” she added, laughing so hard that tears came to her eyes.
Rossini too was laughing unrestrainedly. Soon I joined in. What a jerk, that Luc, shot in the ass like a rank beginner.
I got there a little ahead of time, parked my Felicia, and took a look around the shopping center, idly window-shopping. Some of the shops were closed, others announced they would soon be under new management. An embarrassment of sales and special offers. Even the wealthy city of Vicenza was showing signs of the financial crisis in a temple of urban consumption. I stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes. The tobacconist asked if I cared to try my luck with any of the countless scratch & win lottery cards wallpapering the shop. I thanked him, knowing that there were thousands of counterfeit scratch & win cards in circulation. I was tempted to tell him so, but there were other customers in the shop. The one standing right behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “If you had bought one, which one would you have chosen? Sorry to bother you, but luck has been turning her nose up at me for a while, and I was thinking you might be on her good side.”
I pointed to one and slipped out of the store with a sigh of relief. Being lucky at gambling is something that comes to only a select few. I knew one or two and, naturally, they were women.
Gemma came in, holding Martina’s hand. When I sat down at their table I realized that Pellegrini’s wife was shaken, confused.
Gang of Lovers Page 17