The Colombian Mule

by Massimo Carlotto

  Doña Rosa stared at him for a moment, then resumed applying foundation to her face and eyeshadow to her drooping lids.

  Outside, I asked Rossini if he had been serious about inviting Aisa and La Tía dancing.

  ‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘You could have danced the tango with Aisa through until dawn. A real shame.’ Then he chuckled long and hard. At Punta Sabbioni, Rossini fetched the rifle from my car and handed it over for safekeeping to a person he trusted. Then he said goodbye to Max and me. ‘I want to spend this evening with Sylvie. I’ll see you two tomorrow.’

  ‘Drop by in the afternoon,’ I suggested. ‘Max and I will go and have a chat with Bonotto tomorrow morning. And could you call Mansutti and tell him we need to speak to Corradi tomorrow afternoon?’

  After a long, scalding hot shower and a quick dinner at Max’s, I went downstairs to the club. Rudy greeted me warmly and passed on some amusing gossip while he fixed me an Alligator. On the way to my usual table, I bumped into Virna.

  ‘Well, well, well. I thought you’d gone for good. Possibly with the dreamboat from your famous investigation,’ she said, looking away.

  ‘Cut it out,’ I snapped.

  She started absentmindedly wiping the empty tray she was carrying. ‘Next week, I’m taking three days off work. I’m going away with a friend of mine.’

  ‘Girlfriend or boyfriend?’ I asked, regretting the question at once.

  She turned towards me with a smile of contempt.

  ‘Girlfriend.’

  ‘And what about our weekend together?’

  ‘Nothing doing, Marco. Right now I don’t feel like spending time with you.’

  I sat at my table, had a drink, and swallowed my rage. After a couple of minutes Max joined me. He ordered a Jamaican beer. It was a good thing I had more pressing problems to solve.

  ‘I’m planning to tell it to the lawyer straight,’ I said.

  ‘Bonotto needs to know what’s happening. Maybe he can come up with some way of pulling us all out of this mess.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And I want to clarify the situation with Corradi, too. He’s our client, after all, and we need to know what he thinks.’

  ‘Fine.’

  I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Bullshit, Max. You’re not “fine” with it at all, are you?’

  ‘You’re mistaken. It makes absolute sense to explore every possible solution that doesn’t require our direct involvement. But I’m afraid it may be a waste of effort. I’m convinced the only course realistically open to us is to engage the cops in direct negotiation. We know enough to blackmail them: either they set Corradi free and clear him of all charges or we screw up their special operation.’

  I ran a hand through my hair. One time, while working on a previous case, Max, Rossini and I had ended up with the Brenta Mafia gunning for us and we had only escaped with our lives by blackmailing an investigating magistrate attached to the Venice anti-mafia unit. It was this same method that Max was proposing we use now. On the earlier occasion, we had threatened to screw up their investigation and it had worked. I reached my fingers down into my glass, took hold of the slice of apple soaked in Calvados and Drambuie and popped it into my mouth.

  Max placed his hand affectionately on my arm. ‘What’s up with you, Marco?’

  I decided to be straight with him. ‘What we’re up against here are supercops. As far as they’re concerned, the law is nothing but a mass of hair-splitting technicalities that prevent them from putting criminals away. So they bend the rules whenever they get the chance—which is all the time. Sure, a negotiation might work. But these guys have long memories and they can fit us up any time they please. One morning you’re getting into your car, the cops stop you and, what do you know, they find a kilo of heroin right under your seat. Or they take your name and plant it in the mouth of some supergrass. You know as well as I do how these people settle their scores.’

  ‘We’ll take care they can’t identify us.’

  ‘Use your head, Max. We’ve been rattling around northeast Italy questioning nightclub hostesses and bouncers and a bunch of other characters not famed for their discretion. “Taking care” isn’t going to do it.’

  Max gave me a sly smile. ‘We’ll find a way of covering our backs.’

  ‘You’ve already got a plan, haven’t you?’

  Max got to his feet. ‘Let’s just say I have a couple of ideas. We’ll talk them over tomorrow when Rossini gets here.’

  I watched him as he made for the door, and when it closed behind him I just sat there staring at it blankly until I heard the voice of Eloisa Deriu launching into ‘Non so se tu’, a ballad by Bruno de Filippi, the grand old man of Italian jazz. Sitting at another table, my friend Maurizio Camardi took his soprano sax out of its case, assembled it with a few deft movements and stepped onto the stage to join the other musicians. I downed three Alligators, one after the other, after which I felt a great deal better.

  Following my advice, Renato Bonotto had had an elegant little wicker basket installed on his secretary’s desk where clients could leave their cell phones before entering his office for a consultation. He came out to greet us in person. ‘I’m pleased to see you. I went to see Corradi yesterday and the attitude he is taking towards his trial . . .’

  I raised a hand to interrupt him. ‘Let’s forget for a moment about Nazzareno’s attitude. We’ve uncovered the back story of his arrest.’

  Bonotto fell silent, keen to hear what we had to say. I glanced at Max. Reports were his job.

  Max stretched his legs and rested his hands on his gut. ‘We are now in a position to make a rough reconstruction of the entire sequence of events. On the twenty-sixth of December, Guillermo Arías Cuevas, a Colombian national, landed at Venice airport with a belly full of cocaine and was immediately stopped on suspicion. He admitted possession, decided to cooperate with the border police, and provided a physical description of his Italian contact. As the police report states, he removed one of his shoes “without any prompting,” and handed the agents a piece of paper bearing the address of the Pensione Zodiaco, a small hotel in Jesolo, where he was supposed to meet the purchaser that afternoon. The police and the Guardia di Finanza quickly set a trap and Bruno Celegato fell right in. On reaching the police station in Jesolo and realizing he was facing a long spell in prison, Celegato, in his turn–following, as it were, the mood of the moment–decided to cooperate with the police investigation. He confessed to belonging to an organization involved in the manufacture and distribution of super-ecstasy. He mentioned that, as well as some former members of the Brenta Mafia, the said organization included a Finanza marshal. It’s this snippet of information that must really have given the police something to think about . . .’

  ‘I can just imagine,’ said Bonotto. ‘The chance arrest of a Colombian drugs mule throwing open a hugely important line of enquiry. At that point they would have made a couple of quick phone calls to get authorization to set up a special operation.’

  ‘While making quite sure they weren’t going to get tied up in red tape,’ Max added. ‘Their first move was to make Celegato an inside agent so they could follow the movements of the criminal organization and figure out its command structure and personnel. But things weren’t that straightforward. The Colombian had been arrested and the investigating magistrate was waiting to hear the outcome of the stakeout at the Pensione Zodiaco. Also, by this time, there were a lot of police and Guardia di Finanza officers in the loop. It was at this point that Celegato himself suggested Corradi be arrested instead of him. The decision to betray his best friend was no accident. Nunziante, the station officer interrogating Celegato, had sworn years previously to take revenge on Corradi for the killing of two patrolmen during a botched raid on a jeweler’s shop in Caorle. Your client, as you will recall, was accused, tried and eventually acquitted owing to a shortage of hard evidence. Cel
egato, however, knew for certain it was Corradi who fired the shots, because Celegato was also involved in the Caorle job. So Celegato serves up Corradi’s head on a silver platter, providing Nunziante with a couple of details that never emerged during the enquiry into the deaths of the patrolmen, and that pin down Corradi as the killer. Of course Corradi can’t at this point be retried for the Caorle killings but, if they let him take the fall for Celegato, he’ll be inside long enough for it to make no difference. So the police and the Guardia di Finanza go to the Pensione Zodiaco a second time, take up position along with the mule in the hotel room, and draw Nazzareno into the trap with a phone call informing him that Victoria, his woman, has been taken ill. As soon as the mule sees Corradi, he yells at him to make a run for it—just as an accomplice would—and this lands Corradi straight in jail.’

  ‘They were lucky Victoria couldn’t be reached on her cell phone,’ the lawyer remarked.

  ‘That’s true. But, even if she had been, they’d have made another attempt at a later date. The decision to frame Corradi had been taken. It was just a matter of time.’

  ‘So who killed the Colombian?’ Bonotto enquired.

  ‘Killers from his own syndicate. They were afraid he would talk,’ I replied concisely. It was better if Bonotto remained unaware of the role La Tía had played.

  Bonotto selected a sweet from a silver bowl on his desk and unwrapped it slowly. ‘Can you produce evidence to document the existence of the super-ecstasy outfit and the special operation?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Max, who then brought Bonotto up to speed with our latest investigations.

  Bonotto sucked thoughtfully on his mint. When he finally spoke, it was with great bitterness. ‘Given what we now know, I could put Celegato and the police officers on the witness stand at the preliminary hearing and make mincemeat out of the lot of them. If it weren’t for the fact—and it’s this I wanted to discuss with you when you arrived just now—that Corradi doesn’t want to involve Bruno Celegato in the trial. He made it crystal clear to me yesterday that he’s not interested in getting out of prison by pointing the finger at someone else. Even if that someone else used to be his best friend and has betrayed him in the vilest possible way. He has instructed me to defend him using nothing but the evidence that emerged during the police investigation.’

  There was a long silence. Bonotto called his secretary and ordered the usual coffees. ‘My client’s attitude to the trial is nothing short of suicidal,’ he resumed. ‘And, quite frankly, I don’t understand it.’

  I poured a full sachet of sugar into my coffee. ‘Corradi is almost sixty. The fact is, he has lived his entire life according to a particular rulebook . . .’

  ‘I’m well aware that my client is a man of his time, but I’d like you to appreciate my position. I can’t see how I can defend a client to the best of my ability—as my professional ethic obliges me—without availing myself of evidence that could acquit him.’

  ‘Fine. But what do you want us to do?’ Max asked.

  ‘Try to talk him round. I’ve got an appointment with Victo­ria tomorrow. Maybe she can make him see sense.’

  ‘Does Victoria know about Celegato’s part in all of this?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not yet. Corradi hasn’t yet told her anything.’

  ‘Then cancel that appointment, Avvocato. I know enough old crooks like Nazzareno to be sure of one thing: their code of conduct doesn’t allow for the women they love to interfere in decisions of this kind.’

  ‘Marco is right,’ Max said. ‘She’d only make matters worse. We’ll find a way of broaching the subject with him. But we can’t promise anything.’

  ‘All right,’ Bonotto said reluctantly.

  As we were leaving his office, Bonotto asked us pointblank, ‘In Corradi’s shoes, what would you two do?’

  I looked at Max, who just shrugged. ‘The same as him . . . I think,’ he said.

  *

  Beniamino arrived at Max’s apartment earlier than expected and in a foul mood. He grunted out a greeting, took off his coat and threw himself on the couch. ‘We’ve got a problem. A big problem.’

  I thought I would try guessing. ‘Mansutti?’

  ‘You got it. Our prison corporal is scared shitless. I called him yesterday evening and to begin with he absolutely refused to set up any more phone conversations with Corradi. In the end I managed to calm him down and got him to explain what the fuck was going on. It seems that a team from Prisons Intelligence has gone into Santa Maria Maggiore. They’re investigating the killing of the Colombian and generally poking their noses in everywhere. Today’s phone call to Corradi will be our last.’

  Modelled on the US experience, Prisons Intelligence teams were a recent innovation in Italy. They operated inside prisons, spying on the activities of Mafia leaders and other gangsters held at the state’s pleasure. In Italy, however, the Prisons Administration Department had had the bright idea of making it the prime objective of the units to nurture a new generation of grasses and supergrasses, especially among those belonging to foreign-based criminal organizations. For several years now, the legal profession and many of the country’s politicians had been demanding the disbandment of the units, claiming they were responsible for a series of outbreaks of violence that had created grave tensions among prison inmates, and above all alleging that they habitually recorded conversations between prisoners awaiting trial and their lawyers.

  Max filled the pasta pan with water and placed it on the stove. ‘Do you reckon Mansutti will stand up to questioning?’ For an aperitif, Old Rossini poured himself two fingers of wheat vodka. ‘I doubt it. And if he blabs, Marco and I are fucked. We’re going to have to eliminate him.’

  I looked at him without saying a word. There was no need to.

  ‘Come on, Marco, don’t jerk me around. You know as well as I do what this guy is like. He’s only on the take because otherwise he couldn’t pay for his hookers. The man’s got no balls.’

  I looked to Max for his opinion. ‘The murder of a corporal in the prison police wouldn’t pass unobserved. The Prisons Intelligence unit would be sure to refocus their investigations on Mansutti and it’s just possible someone saw you together.’

  ‘Who said anything about murder?’ Beniamino retorted. ‘I was thinking more in terms of a road accident. Preferably tonight. He goes to the nightclub, fools around with his Thai chick and then, on his way home, drives into a tree or ends up in a ditch.’

  ‘I see you’ve got it all worked out,’ I scowled.

  The old gangster got up and came towards me. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Marco. I’m happy to kill Mansutti. He’s the kind of bent cop you just can’t trust. You remember the time I had to slap him around? Well, I read in his eyes that night that if I ever ended up in prison, he’d see I paid. I put my money on the wrong horse. End of story.’

  I nodded. Corrupt prison officers like Mansutti could be two-edged swords. ‘When’s the accident? Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’ll take care of it on my own. Mansutti was my mistake.’

  We ate in silence, watching the news on TV. Then it was time to phone Corradi. I turned on the speakerphone.

  ‘This is going to be our last chat, Nazzareno. It’s no longer safe.’

  ‘Do you have any news?’

  ‘Celegato is not just any old police informant. He has infiltrated a major criminal organization and the reason he ratted on you was so he could do his job better. We’ve gathered enough evidence for you to leave the preliminary hearing a free man.’

  ‘Would I have to put others inside?’

  ‘Yes. Celegato, some dope peddlers, and the cops that fitted you up.’

  ‘Then nothing doing.’

  ‘You’re the client.’

  �
�What would you do, Alligator?’

  I decided to lie. ‘I’d fuck Celegato and enjoy the rest of my life.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘The alternative is prison.’

  ‘I’m not going to stoop to his level.’

  Beniamino decided to intervene. ‘This is Rossini.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you.’

  ‘My answer to your question is as follows. I’d blow up the cops’ special operation and then see how the pieces fall to earth. They can’t just use you as a kleenex. You’re a man.’

  ‘That’s exactly the way I see it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about your friend Bruno? If you ask me to, I’ll take care of him.’

  ‘No. That’s my problem. If I get the opportunity to settle that score, I’ll take it. But these are not matters I can delegate to others. Alligator?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘If things go badly, I want to be sure Victoria is looked after. Will you help me?’

  ‘Sure. That I can do for you free of charge.’

  I hung up, removed the card from the cell phone and chucked it in the bin. It was best to be rid of it. It was no use any more and once Mansutti was dead, the cops might fancy taking a look at the call records.

  ‘It seems Max has a plan for putting the skids under the special operation,’ I told Rossini. The old gangster just grinned and made himself comfortable on the couch.

  Corporal Vincenzo Mansutti was a worried man. As part of their investigation into the killing of the Colombian prisoner, the men from the Prisons Intelligence unit were attempting to discover the identity of the prison officer who had reported to Bonotto the sequence of events surrounding the murder, thereby giving the lawyer the leverage to oblige the prison governor to redirect the murder enquiry. They suspected that the culprit was a low-ranking officer who had probably been attached to the Venice prison for some time and also that he had done it not for the love of justice but for money. The list that the unit had compiled comprised fifteen names, including Mansutti’s. He wondered whether, under the circumstances, it was such a good idea to go to the nightclub to see the Thai girl yet again that evening, but he couldn’t think of a single valid reason not to.