‘It’s not over yet. We have a promising lead on the mule’s contact. It seems he’s an Italian who traffics Colombian girls to Japan. It could even be somebody who knows you . . . somebody who maybe fed the police your name. Any ideas?’
Nazzareno was silent for just a second too long for me not to sense something was up. ‘No,’ he said at last, curtly, immediately clearing his throat.
I glanced at Max and Beniamino who were following the conversation on the speaker. Max scribbled something on a sheet of paper then flashed it in my direction. ‘He’s lying,’ it read.
There was no doubt about it. ‘You do know the guy, don’t you?’ I burst out. ‘Look, Nazzareno, this isn’t the moment to jerk us around. We’ve absolutely got to know who it is.’
There was a further moment’s silence, then Corradi hung up.
‘Shit,’ I shouted. ‘What the fuck has got into that dickhead? Does he really want to croak in prison?’
Rossini smoothed his moustache. ‘Let’s forget about Corradi for now. He’s upset and we’ll never force him to talk. Let’s work instead on the Colombian scene, see what the girls can give us. Sooner or later, we’re sure to come up with something.’
The same girl who had given us the information about La Tía now recommended we get in touch with a former hostess, a Colombian woman who had arrived in Italy about twenty years earlier, at a time when Colombian girls were still something of a rarity. She had worked in every nightclub in the area and then, when competition from younger compatriots had forced her out of the scene, she had turned to prostitution, working from home on an appointments-only basis. Later she had got to know an Italian who decided to exploit her business acumen by opening a brothel. It was nothing special, just five rooms at the back of a Latino-style bar on the coast at Lignano Pineta.
The joint was called Puerta del Sol. When we arrived it was heaving. There was a salsa-group playing, and people were dancing close to the tables. We perched on a couple of barstools and in the space of two minutes had identified the working girls. They were all young, all from Eastern Europe, all blonde, and all had faces etched with disappointment. Italy wasn’t such a paradise after all. The barman approached and asked us what we wanted to drink.
‘Go and get the landlady,’ Rossini ordered.
He looked us up and down for a second or two, then decided it was advisable to obey.
Her real name was Luisa Villazimas Serrando, but everyone called her Luisita. A couple of minutes passed and then she made her entrance. Slim and well-dressed, she displayed the arrogant and detached attitude of someone who has carved out a career for themselves and doesn’t want any trouble. Her nostrils were reddish at their base. It looked like the lady had a habit.
She folded her arms. ‘What do you want?’
‘A quiet place to talk,’ I replied.
‘We can talk just fine right here.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Rossini retorted. ‘It’s either your office or one of the backrooms where you get the blonde chicks to screw for you.’
Luisita stiffened. Then she parted her lips just wide enough to show a row of yellowed teeth. It was her way of letting us know we weren’t fazing her. ‘Leave now, or I’ll have the bouncers toss you out.’
Beniamino threw his cigarette butt on the floor without bothering to stub it out first and then gave the lady one of his classic pieces of advice. ‘I saw them on the way in, that pair of jerk-offs. Go ahead and call them. First I’ll cripple them with a bullet through the knee, then I’ll come back with a jerrycan of petrol and burn this joint of yours to the ground.’
Luisita looked him in the eye, while deciding what to do. Clearly she didn’t like what she saw. ‘This way,’ she said.
She led us to a small windowless office and sat herself down on the only chair. ‘I’m listening.’
Beniamino glanced at the desk, littered with bills, then sat on its edge. ‘We’re looking for an Italian who exports Colombian prostitutes to Japan.’
Luisita took her time about answering, which was a mistake. ‘Why come and ask me about it?’
‘Because you’re the oldest Colombian hooker in the business,’ Rossini replied.
‘Besides, there’s just no way you know nothing about it,’ I added.
‘As it happens, you’re both mistaken. I know nothing about it at all.’
Old Rossini picked up the phone receiver and hit her on the head with it, not very hard, just hard enough to make her understand the direction in which the conversation was heading. Then he bent down over her and whispered in her ear.
‘No more bullshit. Otherwise I’ll cut not only your face but those of your hookers, too. After that, I’ll have the joint closed down. You’ll end up turning tricks outside the army barracks for a living.’
The lady touched her head, assessing the damage. She must have taken quite a few beatings in her lifetime. ‘I’ve got family in Colombia. If I talk, the prostitution rings back home will take revenge. I’d rather blow army grunts.’
Luisita had guts to burn. I decided to change tactics. ‘We’re seeking the individual in question for a reason that has nothing whatever to do with prostitution, and nobody will ever know it was you that gave us the tip-off.’
She lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. ‘I have to know the truth. I need to know I can trust you.’
I looked at my associate, who nodded his assent. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘It has to do with coke, a Colombian drug mule killed in prison, and an Italian who was arrested instead of the man whose name we’re seeking. That’s all I can tell you.’
Luisita finished her cigarette. ‘The man you’re looking for is from Venice. His name’s Bruno Celegato. He used to work as a sailor, when he was younger. He’s always been involved in trafficking. When he was working the boats, he got to know gangsters from all over the world, but somehow he never became a boss himself.’
‘So where can we find him?’
‘The last time I saw him was at least three years ago. He was living in Mestre.’
I touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’
On our way out, I took a look at the bouncers. It was a good thing Luisita had fallen for Beniamino’s bullshit threats. They were big guys with boxers’ broken noses: they would have beaten us up with professionalism and spite. I would have folded at the first blow. Rossini would have defended himself, playing dirty the way he had learned on the streets of Milan, using stools and bottles as weapons. But he would have ended up on the carpet just the same. Later he would have exacted revenge and the two goons would have paid a heavy price for their handiwork. One time, a Turkish bouncer, after a dispute in a swish nightclub near Varese, had surprised him with a straight jab to the chin. The Turk was using a knuckleduster and Rossini passed out even before he hit the deep-pile carpet. A couple of weeks later, he waited for the guy outside his house, and shot him through the left elbow with a .357 magnum.
Out on the street, I took my associate by the arm. ‘Was it really necessary to hit her with that phone?’
‘Yes, it was. I didn’t enjoy it, but it had to be done.’
‘I don’t agree.’
Rossini flew into a rage. ‘You’re just a fucking amateur. Don’t bust my balls with this crap of yours. That lady makes her living off the back of young girls. Do you really imagine she doesn’t raise her hand to them when they don’t feel like going to one of the backrooms to get fucked by some yokel?’
I raised my hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right. Let’s go after Celegato.’
Rossini took his cell phone from the pocket of his overcoat.
‘I’m phoning Mansutti. Tomorrow, we’re going to have to have a little word with Nazzareno.’
The following morning, the three of us met in Max’s kitchen for breakfast. Rossini was still smarting from our altercation the day b
efore. Max took his side.
‘Under the circumstances, it was necessary, Marco. That’s all there is to it. Physical violence, blackmail and money are the springs that make people want to talk. They’re the only available tools and we have no option but to use them. Without them, none of our cases would ever get solved.’
I decided to let it go, and changed the subject. ‘Bonotto’s expecting us. You ought to come too, Max. It’s time we took some important decisions.’
On our arrival, the secretary told us we would have to wait. Bonotto was busy with another client. We gave her our cell phones, made ourselves comfortable in the waiting-room, and began flicking through the usual heap of magazines. I settled down with an automobiles monthly. Apparently Skoda was about to launch its latest model. I decided I would go and take a look at it once I had finished the case and received my fees. I had done over 200,000 kilometers in my old one. It was time to trade it in.
Avvocato Bonotto accompanied his client to the door, then came over to greet us. He told his secretary to phone the bar and have four coffees sent up. From behind his desk, he surveyed us thoughtfully. ‘Something important must have come up, if all three of you are here.’
I picked up his chunky desk-top lighter and lit a cigarette.
‘We’ve discovered the identity of the late Arías Cuevas’ Italian contact. His name is Bruno Celegato and, according to information dating back three years, he lives in Mestre.’
The lawyer’s eyes fell open with surprise. ‘Celegato. He used to be a client of mine. I defended both him and Corradi when they were tried for the murder of those two police officers. As far as I know, he is—or was—Corradi’s best friend.’
Max, Rossini and I glanced at one another. We couldn’t tell Bonotto about our direct line to his client, but we now possessed an explanation for the way Nazzareno had behaved on the phone the previous day.
‘That explains,’ said Rossini, thinking aloud, ‘how the cop, Nunziante, found out that Corradi killed the two patrolmen in Caorle.’
The coffees were brought in, giving us some time to arrange our thoughts.
‘How are you thinking of proceeding?’ the lawyer asked.
‘Well, given the involvement of the law enforcement agencies, with the greatest possible circumspection,’ Max replied.
‘For the time being, we can reasonably assume Celegato struck a deal with the police and Finanza to frame Corradi. But before we make any kind of move, let alone anything involving the courts, we’re going to have to clarify every single aspect of this case. And that is going to entail some careful investigative work.’
‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ Bonotto objected, sounding worried.
Beniamino opened a packet of cigarettes and looked the lawyer in the eye. ‘The quickest way would be to drop in on Celegato and ask him to tell us what’s going on. I’m sure he’d cooperate, but if he’s in that tight with the cops, we could end up in trouble ourselves, at which point there would be nothing more anybody could do for your client. You’re going to have to be patient, Avvocato.’
‘Go and talk to Nazzareno,’ I urged the lawyer. ‘Get him to tell you every last detail that might possibly be of help to us. Talk to the investigating magistrate too, and see what you can find out.’
‘Okay.’ Bonotto buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring in the file relating to the trial for the jeweler’s shop robbery in Caorle and the killing of the two patrolmen.
He flicked through it and then handed me a newspaper cutting with a photo of the two accused men. ‘Unfortunately I can’t help with Celegato’s present whereabouts. At the time of the trial, he was still living in Venice at his mother’s place.’ I shook his hand. ‘Don’t worry. Finding him is the least of our problems.’
After lunch, as we savoured our liqueurs, we discussed the best way to handle Corradi. I had wanted to broach the subject earlier, but Old Rossini hadn’t wanted to spoil his enjoyment of the pastissada de cavàl that Max had prepared for us, or indeed the bottle of Amarone that he had decanted an hour earlier, treating it as if it were holy water.
‘I don’t wish to talk about piece-of-shit snitches while I’m eating delicacies,’ Rossini had stated, leaving no room for argument.
As the Calvados, vodka and grappa came round for the second time, I glanced at my watch. ‘Our telephone appointment is in ten minutes,’ I said.
The time galloped past, and when I dialled the number I just had to hope everything would go okay.
‘Ciao, Alligator,’ Corradi said, sounding like a zombie.
I dispensed with greetings. ‘Your best friend. Bruno Celegato. It’s thanks to him you’re in prison. And you also have him to thank for tipping Nunziante off about the two patrolmen. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I still can’t believe it.’
‘I can understand that it came as a blow, but we really need something we can work with. I mean, if we could just find out the terms of the deal Celegato has struck with the cops, maybe we could find a way of getting you out of prison.’
‘I know nothing whatsoever about it. I had no idea he was trafficking coke.’
‘What about his trips to Japan?’
‘Sure, he always talked about that. It was Bruno who first got me interested in Colombian women.’
‘There’s really nothing more you know?’
‘I give you my word. After the Caorle job, we decided to quit working together. All I knew was what he kept telling me up until just a few days before I was arrested, which is that he was involved in nothing but prostitution.’
‘Do you at least know where he lives?’
‘Yeah. Mestre, Via Tevere twenty-one, third floor.’
‘What car does he drive?’
‘A yellow Saab convertible.’
‘Don’t go blurting this all out to Victoria. Nobody must know we’ve identified him.’
‘I have no desire to talk about this to anyone.’
I hung up. ‘So there we have it. We don’t know a fucking thing.’
Max put the lid back on the pastissada. ‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to tail him.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘That’s the part of this job I hate the most. It’s time-consuming, boring as hell, and utterly unpredictable.’
Rossini pulled on his overcoat. I did the same. There was no point complaining.
*
Via Tevere was a side-turning off Via Cà Rossa, a long road that snaked its way through Mestre and then out to a district known as Favaro Veneto. It wasn’t the best place for a stakeout. Both the police and the Carabinieri had barracks in the neighbourhood and the streets were patrolled constantly. We had parked my Skoda about fifty meters from the block of flats where Celegato lived, in a spot that gave us a good view of his car.
As the third squad car went past, Rossini erupted in irritation. ‘Look, Marco, we can’t stop here. In half an hour at most, they’ll be asking us for our ID.’
‘You’re right. What we need is a van.’
Rossini knew just where to look. There was a friend of his back in Punta Sabbioni who, despite his clean criminal record, had a weakness that he needed at all costs to keep from his wife. And, as it happened, he owed Rossini a lot of favors.
Three quarters of an hour later we drove into Punta Sabbioni. Rossini told me where to drop him and asked me to wait in the car-park of a restaurant he pointed out to me. When I saw him pull up in a little Japanese van, I knew the whole stakeout was going to be utter torture. There was a sign on the side that read: ‘Pescheria Irma. Fresh and deep-frozen fish and seafood.’
I lowered the car window. ‘You can take that right back where you found it. I’ve absolutely no intention of stinking like a mullet for the rest of my days.’
Beniamino wagged his index-finger at me. ‘You’ve made up your mind to piss me off, right? I’
ve put my entire business on hold for this crappy investigation of yours and you have the nerve to play the fine-nosed fop?’
‘There’s no way we can stay shut up in that thing for hours on end.’
He flashed a deadly smile at me. ‘Yeah? Go tell that to Corradi.’
I got out of the car and into the van. The stench was intense even in the driver’s cabin. But when we got to Mestre and parked outside Celegato’s place, and there was no choice but to hide in the back, it was like being pitched into the hold of a fishing-boat. Rossini never batted an eyelid. I took out a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. Absent-mindedly, Rossini pulled it back out and threw it on the floor. ‘No smoking in here,’ he said, ‘these goods are perishable.’
‘Tell me you’re joking.’
‘Not at all. Right now I quite fancy a cigarette too, but we can’t. The owner of the van would notice and that would mean bye-bye van.’
I looked at him as if he were raving. ‘Do I take it you’re intending to use this trashcan for other stakeouts?’
‘Sure. The fishing trade is a great cover here in Mestre.’
By the time Celegato decided to go out, it was almost ten o’clock. He looked nothing like the photo Bonotto had handed us but closely fitted the description that the Colombian had given the police. We slipped out of the back of the fish-van and climbed into the cab. Celegato got into his Saab convertible and headed for the centre of town. There he stopped, went into a bar and played billiards till around midnight. He then came out, got back into his car and drove to the train station. After circling a couple of times, observing the hookers, he stopped to talk to a blonde in her early twenties, probably an Albanian. They haggled over the price and the exact nature of the services, then the woman got in and they drove to a nearby hotel and went inside. A little later he drove home.
‘We’d better hope this was one of his duller days,’ I commented.
Rossini fidgeted with his bracelets. ‘Given the number of cops in this neighbourhood, we can only really stake out his flat after about four in the afternoon, once it starts getting dark. And unless we get lucky, this isn’t going to get us anywhere anyway.’
The Colombian Mule Page 9