The Colombian Mule

by Massimo Carlotto

  ‘You’re unbearable, Beniamino, when you do your wise old gangster routine.’

  The head of security at a large department store in Mestre received a call from a floorwalker assigned to the third floor.

  ‘Russo? This is Scavazzon. There are two foreign couples, possibly South Americans, stealing underwear off the shelves.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Russo had worked for the police for years and had acquired a sharp eye for certain kinds of situations. He spotted the four thieves immediately. Their technique was tried and tested, but as old as the hills. The two women used their supposed inability to understand any Italian to monopolize the attention of the shop assistants, while the two men discreetly stuffed underwear into a small travelling bag.

  Russo took his cell phone from his belt and called the Cara­binieri, explaining that the two men looked as if they might cause trouble if arrested inside the store. The Carabinieri intercepted all four shoplifters as they were leaving. A small crowd of onlook­ers formed as the thieves were bundled into the police van. The last to get in was Aurelio Uribe Barragán, better known as Alacrán.

  The thieves were driven straight to the provincial headquarters of the Carabinieri, where they were taken to separate interview rooms, identified and questioned. They were then transferred to prison to await trial, the women to Giudecca, the men to Santa Maria Maggiore.

  ‘What are these two in for?’ the duty sergeant asked as Alacrán and Jaramillo were led into the admissions office.

  ‘Attempted theft of socks and panties,’ replied a young Carabiniere as he removed their handcuffs.

  ‘They’re for trial and deportation,’ commented the officer wearily. ‘They’ll be here two days at most.’

  The new prisoners were again identified, painstakingly searched and their photographs taken. Jaramillo was a good talker and his face was less menacing than Alacrán’s. As he took off his trousers, he asked the duty sergeant, half in Italian, half in Spanish, whether there were any other Colombians in the prison.

  ‘Just one,’ the officer replied. ‘A drug trafficker arrested at the airport.’

  Jaramillo asked him if there was any chance they could be put in the same cell as their compatriot, to keep each other company.

  The sergeant looked at Jaramillo. He shouldn’t really have allowed it, given that the Colombian trafficker was a police collaborator and as such required protection. But these two guys were just petty thieves and the cells were already so overcrowded that the other prisoners were sure to protest if forced to make room for new arrivals. In the end, it was this that persuaded the duty sergeant to let the Colombians have their way.

  ‘All right,’ he said. Then he turned to a young prison guard and gave the order: ‘Accompany these two to Cell 23, Block D.’

  Guillermo Arías Cuevas was stretched out on his bed, enjoying a quiet smoke. Corradi had supplied him with cigarettes, cooking equipment and utensils so he would no longer be forced to eat prison food. Another couple of days and he would even have new clothes and shoes. At last he would be able to turn up for the exercise hour in the yard dressed like a man, free of the shabby, crumpled suit he had been wearing day-in day-out ever since he was arrested.

  Arías Cuevas was also feeling very pleased with his lawyer, who had come to see him that morning. Beltrame had listened with interest when Guillermo told him that he intended to make a voluntary statement to the magistrate clearing his Italian co-defendant of any involvement in the crime. His lawyer had advised him on which details to leave out and which to put in, and had promised to go straight to the magistrate with a request that Guillermo be re-interviewed. The lawyer had even given Guillermo his earnest assurance that he would not be deported to Colombia–and, for Guillermo, that was a matter of life and death.

  As he heard the key turning in his cell door, Guillermo was just thinking that living in Italy might turn out to be quite all right. After a while, he would get back in touch with Ruben and set up a new coke smuggling operation: Ruben would send the mules over while he, Guillermo, would take charge of distribution and sales.

  When the door opened, Arías Cuevas looked up, wondering who it might be. Two men entered his cell, their faces hidden by the piles of blankets, pillows and sheets they were carrying in their arms. The guard closed the door at once, failing to notice the expression of terror that contorted Arías Cuevas’ face the moment he saw, standing before him, Alacrán and Jaramillo.

  ‘Take it easy, hombre, easy,’ whispered Alacrán, as he sat down beside Guillermo on the bed and wound an arm around his shoulders.

  Alacrán talked to Guillermo for over an hour, explaining that he had been sent over to Italy by La Tía to make quite sure her little nephew didn’t take it into his head to tell the police about matters relating to the family. His auntie had forgiven him and was really looking forward to him getting released from prison and returning home to Bogotá. She was going to place him in a high-ranking position within the organization because, one way or another, he had demonstrated that he had cojones. Alacrán then asked Guillermo to tell him the name of his Italian offloader but Guillermo said he didn’t know the man’s identity.

  While Alacrán tried to reassure Guillermo–who didn’t believe a word of what he was hearing–Jaramillo went to the toilet, expelled from his rectum a small plastic tube and checked its contents. He then prepared a cup of very sweet coffee which Guillermo, worried only that they would slit his throat, drank without suspecting a thing. A total idiot, mused Alacrán, giving Guillermo a big hug and kissing him on both cheeks. The two new inmates then made their beds and settled down to watch TV.

  Guillermo lay wide awake all night and was amazed to be alive the following morning, when Alacrán and Jaramillo were taken to the court. As soon as they were out of sight, Guillermo called the guard and demanded that his compatriots be transferred to another cell block. The guard, however, explained that there was no need, since the two Colombians were sure to be deported as soon as the trial was over.

  Arías Cuevas heaved a huge sigh of relief. He had never been so afraid in his life. He slipped on his shoes and went down to the yard for his hour’s exercise. After about a quarter of an hour, he felt a bit tired and short of breath, but thought nothing of it. He hadn’t closed his eyes all night. He was bound to feel exhausted.

  Bonotto called me on my cell phone. ‘A colleague of mine in Venice by the name of Francesco Beltrame, appointed by the court to represent Arías Cuevas, has just phoned me with an excellent piece of news. Cuevas has decided to make a voluntary statement putting Corradi completely in the clear. The investigating magistrate has scheduled a new interview for next week.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear that.’

  ‘Of course, I doubt if it’s enough to prevent him being indicted, but at the very least it blows a huge hole in the prosecution’s case.’

  ‘Right. I think we might call off our investigations for the time being. What do you say?’

  ‘Maybe that would be best. I’ll be in touch.’

  I waited till the evening to pass on the news to my associates. Sitting in the club at my usual table, we ordered ourselves a round and drank a toast to our success. ‘It’s always such a pleasure to fuck over the cops,’ Rossini commented.

  I didn’t take Virna home that night. I stayed behind at La Cuccia with Max, drinking, smoking and talking about prison. Every now and then you feel the need to do that. But you have to have been there to understand it.

  ‘It’s strange,’ I said. ‘I’ve been out for years now but every now and again it still comes back in a rush, flooding my mind like acid. Just when you think you’re over it, it kicks in again. Do you know what I mean? They say time helps you forget, but that’s bullshit. Prison is still right here with me, like a wedge stuck right in the middle of my life.’

  Max the Memory wiped the beer foam from his moustache.<
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  ‘It’s something you’re never going to get over, Marco. You didn’t reckon with prison the way that I or Old Rossini did. Beniamino has always seen it as an occupational hazard, whereas you ended up in prison by mistake, hauled in during one of their interminable round-ups. And they convicted you even though they knew perfectly well that you were totally innocent of any offence, let alone terrorism. Those days they were just so desperate to crush the movement.’

  ‘What was the worst period for you, Max?’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘The worst period for me was what they termed Personality Observation. Shrinks, counsellors and social workers, armed with their stupid questionnaires and endless interviews, attempting to find out whether or not prison had “rehabilitated” me.’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘The way you talk about it, I get the feeling you’ll never be over it either.’

  ‘You’re right. They forced me into “choosing” to humiliate myself totally, just so I could get out of prison. But what about you? What was the worst time for you?’

  ‘Things were different when I was inside. And in the special prisons, they just laid into us with batons. In those days the screws demanded respect, insisted we refer to them as superiori. I could never do that.’

  Guillermo’s weariness never let up. Quite the reverse. As time went on, he felt weaker and weaker. On the fourth day, he decided he had better go and see the prison doctor and so, in accordance with prison regulations, when the guard did his morning round, Guillermo had his name entered on the list.

  Mid-morning he suffered a respiratory collapse. He just managed to bang on the metal panelling of his cell door to alert the guard. But the guard told him to be patient: it wasn’t his turn yet. The third time he collapsed he didn’t get up again, and so the guard sent for the nurse.

  He was still alive when they put him in the ambulance-boat. He died on the Grand Canal, which, despite the freezing weather, was crowded with tourists.

  The doctor on duty at the A&E department of the Santissimi Apostoli hospital filled out the death certificate and ordered that the body be transferred to the forensic medicine department for autopsy.

  Max, Rossini and I were still sitting at my table when Rossini gently kicked my foot. I turned and saw Bonotto coming towards us. I checked my watch—it was a few minutes before midnight. Max motioned towards the only free chair. The lawyer passed a hand across his face. He seemed upset.

  ‘The Colombian’s dead. Murdered. Poisoned.’ Bonotto spoke softly so the customers wouldn’t hear. ‘Rat poison. The police doctor told me they discovered a large amount of Warfarin, the stuff used in rat pellets, in the Colombian’s blood. Apparently rats eat them and then die a few hours later. That way, the other rats don’t make the connection between the food put down for them and death.’

  ‘A professional job,’ Rossini commented.

  ‘That’s just what the investigating magistrate said before he ordered Corradi to be thrown into solitary confinement. He’s convinced my client wanted to get rid of his principal accuser. And did so.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ I objected. ‘The Colom­bian was on the point of changing his statement.’

  Bonotto threw his arms out wide. ‘Was . . . All the judge knows is that Beltrame had requested a fresh interview so the Colombian could place a voluntary statement on the record. For all he knows, Arías Cuevas might have provided further evidence against Corradi.’

  Max offered Bonotto a cigarette, but he declined it with a wave of his hand. ‘I assume you’ve come here for a specific reason, Avvocato,’ Max said.

  ‘Sure. We’ve got to demonstrate right now, before the formal investigation gets under way, that my client had nothing whatsoever to do with this killing. Otherwise I’m going to find myself having to defend him in the High Court on a murder charge. He’d be facing a life sentence. I’ve already had a word with the governor of Santa Maria Maggiore and he gave me a clear indication that in order to avoid any awkward questions he’s considering supporting the Public Prosecutor’s case.’

  I drank a sip of Calvados. ‘We’ll clarify the situation as soon as we can. We’ll be activating a communication channel that should give us some useful information very fast.’

  The lawyer got up and pulled the usual yellow envelope from the inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘Okay. I knew I could count on you. I hope you’ll have something for me by tomorrow.’

  We watched him weave his way rapidly between the tables as he made for the door. ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t Corradi,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘Wasn’t the cops either. So who killed the guy?’

  ‘Excellent question,’ said Rossini, putting on his overcoat.

  ‘Let’s go and have a little chat with Corporal Mansutti. If we hurry, we should find him at the nightclub pawing that girl from Thailand.’

  It was a freezing cold night, as black as pitch. The roads were icy but Rossini insisted on driving his powerful and flashy mobster’s car with his foot hard down on the floor. ‘Someone is playing dirty,’ he said, fiddling with his bracelets.

  I turned up the heating. ‘That’s about the only thing we know for sure. The problem is we haven’t got the slightest idea as to who or what is driving events. It can’t just be police headquarters’ appetite for revenge.’

  An hour later we pulled into the car-park at the Bulli & Pupe nightclub in Prata di Pordenone. The bouncer immediately recognized Rossini and insisted on accompanying us in person to the bar. Rossini stopped a waiter he knew and murmured something in his ear. The waiter nodded and Beniamino gave me a wink. Mansutti was there all right.

  I leaned on the bar as our drinks—on the house, as always—were poured. I looked around the dance-floor. The prevailing color was blue. The lighting, calculated to create a mood of bogus intimacy, made the atmosphere even heavier. The girls at the tables were all displaying an exaggerated interest in their clients’ chit-chat. As I filled my nostrils with the scent rising from a glass of excellent Calvados, I felt a hand brush against my wrist.

  I turned round to encounter the eyes of a beautiful young woman looking back at me.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘My name’s Jana. Want to buy me a drink?’

  I took a good look at her. The cone of light from an eyeball downlighter in the ceiling of the bar lit up one side of her face. I glanced down at her breasts and then at her legs. The tops of her hold-ups were peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt. I motioned with my thumb to the barman to give her a drink. He poured her a glass of champagne and passed her a numbered card, which she slipped into her handbag. When the bar closed, the cards would be counted and the girls paid in cash. To the girls, every drink their customer purchased was worth 10,000 lire. In that kind of business, every little helped.

  ‘My name’s Jana,’ she said again. ‘I’m from Poland. Do you know Poland?’

  I shook my head. I felt a little uneasy but there was nowhere I could go. Rossini was busy saying hello to a couple of hostesses he knew well, and I would just have to wait till he got back before I could talk to Mansutti. Meeting the screw at a nightclub was not a wise move, but we were in a hurry to find out precisely what had happened at the prison. There was no time to wait for him outside the usual osteria. I tried to focus on my drink.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk?’ the Polish girl asked.

  ‘No, I don’t. But if you want to have another drink, you can stick around.’

  ‘Solitary type, right? Problems of the heart, no doubt. If you want, we can go somewhere nice and quiet to talk it over.’

  Jana was clearly a very determined hostess, the kind that doesn’t let go of a client till she has squeezed him dry. I had no choice but to be rude to her and she stalked off, muttering something doubtless unflattering in Polish.

  Rossini arrived at long last and beckoned me to follow
him. Mansutti was entertaining his new flame in a private booth, and not at all happy to see us. He had one of his hands stuck down the girl’s cleavage and left it there as a sort of challenge until Rossini told the girl to leave. She promptly obeyed, and as she edged past I handed her a couple of 50,000 lire notes.

  Mansutti wagged a finger at us. ‘I know exactly why you’re here. But I’ve got nothing to say about the killing of that Colombian.’

  A malicious grin cut across Rossini’s face. Moving with lightning speed, he seized Mansutti by the testicles and squeezed hard. The jailer’s mouth fell open in pain and surprise. Without making a sound he slid to the floor, curled up in the foetus position, and vomited. Rossini helped him on his way with a couple of powerful punches to the kidneys. Then he settled himself back comfortably, with one of his elegant chamois leather shoes resting on Mansutti’s cheek.

  We sat and observed Mansutti’s contortions for about five minutes. When he had pulled himself together, Rossini yanked him up by the lapels and sat him back down in his chair. The blue lighting accentuated his pallor. One side of his face and hair was covered in vomit and he stank like a drain.

  ‘You’re nothing but a slobbering piece of shit,’ Rossini reminded him. ‘We have a deal and when I snap my fingers I want to see you jump and dance like a performing flea.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘That’s up to you, dickhead.’

  I handed Mansutti a glass of fake champagne, which he gulped down thirstily. ‘Tell us what happened to the Colom­bian,’ I urged him in a fatherly tone of voice.

  ‘The duty sergeant made the big mistake of assigning to his cell a pair of fellow Colombians who’d been brought in for attempted theft. They’re the only ones who could have poisoned him. They were there for just one night. The next day they were tried and deported. The governor wants to cover it all up. Otherwise he, his deputy, and all the daytime officers are in deep shit.’