Max lit his first cigarette of the day. ‘That’s not going to happen. We’ll focus our attention on Silvestrin and Boscaro, the Brenta Mafia old-timers. They’ve got to occupy pretty key positions within the organization.’ He turned to Beniamino.
‘You should find out whatever you can about the two of them.’
‘That won’t be a problem. I know the right people. We should be able to get a line on them by this evening.’
I got up. ‘Well, in the meantime, I’m going back to bed.’ Old Rossini took hold of my arm. ‘What’s wrong, Marco?’
‘I’m sleepy and I’m pissed. We could have gotten the same results by simply bringing in the press, as I suggested from the start.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Max hit back. ‘They’ve been forced to shut down a part of their investigation and they now have a clearer idea of what we’re after. There’s still a chance of cutting a deal with them.’
‘In my opinion, there was never the slightest hope of that.’
‘Listen, Marco. It’s not as if we had any choice in the matter. Either Corradi changes his mind and lets his lawyer drag Celegato through the courts, or we have to keep on busting the cops’ balls till they make up their minds to negotiate.’
I didn’t want to discuss it any further. I waved a hand at my associates and headed back to bed.
Beniamino returned to Max’s apartment late that afternoon. He had a smart new haircut and his moustache was trimmed to perfection. He was in an exceptionally good mood.
He poured himself the usual wheat vodka. ‘I’ve had a couple of interesting chats. I dropped in to see Adriana, a working girl from Mestre who used to be Boscaro’s lover, when she was still young and beautiful. For three hundred thousand lire, she told me that Alcide has gone back to dope-peddling big-time. He told her so himself. It seems he pops around sometimes for a little servicing, just for old time’s sake. It would also appear that Adriana, in the course of her work, has seen him in the company of a number of Venetian crooks. She mentioned three or four names to me, including that of Antonio De Toni, better known as “Toni Baeta,” the guy who runs a barber’s shop in Venice, right near Piazzale Roma . . .’
The name rang a bell. ‘Isn’t that the guy you helped escape from Parenzo, three or four years back?’
‘That’s the one. He tried to rip off some Croats with cocaine that was ninety per cent adulterated and they failed to see the funny side. Anyway, I went to ask him for a favor in return and, going on what he told me, there are a number of drug-dealers—Italians, all of them—most of whom were once members of the old Brenta Mafia, who have now set up a new organization consisting of three or four different gangs. Their aim is to reconquer the Veneto area and take control of the entire market for cocaine and ecstasy.’
‘Poor dumb fucks,’ Max chuckled. ‘If they get lucky, Celegato will land them all in prison. If not, the Albanians, Nigerians and Russians will pick them off one by one.’
‘Anyway, right now they’re busy as hell,’ Beniamino continued. ‘They’re on the lookout for contacts and channels through which to purchase Colombian coke. According to Toni Baeta, yesterday’s arrests only hit the tabs side of their business.’
The bottle of Calvados was empty. I went to the drinks cabinet to fetch another. ‘That explains why Celegato is so valuable to the cops. It isn’t easy to dismantle an organization consisting of several different gangs. For a job like that, you need a very well-connected insider to reconstruct its command and personnel structure, as well as the drugs-purchasing and sales channels.’
‘Did Baeta tell you anything else?’ Max asked.
‘Just that the main men in the organization meet at a trattoria called Da Nane, between the Rialto and Piazza San Marco.’
Max nodded in satisfaction. ‘I think we should go and take a look.’
The following day, Max and I caught the train to Venice. Beniamino stayed at home. He was too well known to pass unobserved in the center of the city, especially given that the only way to get around was on foot or by vaporetto. At Venice station we popped into the toilets and re-emerged dressed as tourists: anoraks, mini-rucksacks, woolly hats and cameras slung around our necks. We set off for the Rialto. In Calle dei Fuseri, as we passed in front of the trattoria that Toni Baeta had mentioned to Rossini, we had to quicken our step. Marshal Giaroli was leaning in a nearby doorway in the arms of a girl with long copper-colored hair. And it certainly wasn’t his girlfriend. Presumably she was an agent from the police drug squad, there to keep an eye on the restaurant. We walked straight past him but he didn’t move a muscle.
Max noticed my sigh of relief. ‘Were you worried he’d recognize us?’
‘I was a bit. You have a rather distinctive body shape.’
‘I’m not the only obese guy in the world,’ he retorted, clearly irritated.
We wandered up and down the neighboring streets and alleyways, noticing a whole series of people who might be undercover cops.
‘Let’s get out of here, Max. It’s too dangerous.’
We tried again the following day, with the same result. After ditching the idea of monitoring the trattoria, we attempted to take up position outside the homes of Silvestrin and Boscaro in Mestre, but the presence of suspect vans forced us to abandon that too. We then returned to Celegato’s apartment, where we found a Fiat Tipo parked just outside, containing a couple of young men and displaying on its roof the tell-tale aerial that adorns all unmarked police vehicles. After a week of getting nowhere, we called off our investigation. It was no longer possible to interfere with the operation. The cops had got wise to us.
‘We’ve lost,’ Max declared bitterly. ‘If Corradi wants to get out of prison, at his trial he’ll have to play it by the book. He has no other way out.’
‘And one day soon we’re going to have to go and see his lawyer and pass on the message,’ I said, equally bitterly.
It was a while since I had been to La Cuccia. I noticed at once that there was a new girl waiting at the tables. Rudy motioned me over to the bar.
‘How come Virna’s not back yet?’ I asked.
‘That’s precisely what I want to talk to you about. She was supposed to be back at work on Monday, after the weekend, but she phoned in to say she’s decided to move on. She’s working at a sandwich bar in the center of town.’
I waited in silence as Rudy fixed me an Alligator. Then I went and sat at my usual table, listened to the music, drank and smoked. Same as ever. As if nothing had happened. Then I went home and dug around in my collection of blues records, searching for something as sad as I was, to provide a fitting accompaniment to my sense of defeat. ‘Damn Right, I’ve Got The Blues’ by Buddy Guy seemed to fit the bill. I fell asleep halfway through the second track.
Round about midday, I dragged myself out of bed and went next door to Max’s flat to fix myself a cup of coffee. The smell of frying onions forced me to drop the idea. ‘Virna has given up working at the club,’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘I’ll go around and see her one of these days, on the pretext that I’m taking her her last pay-packet.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Sure. I reckon you must have a couple of things to clarify.’
‘I’ll have to come up with something intelligent to say.’
‘It would be a good idea. You don’t have that many cards left to play.’
‘I feel as if I’ve run right out of arguments. I know what Virna wants from me but I can’t give it to her. So far all I’ve done is play for time. But now she’s got me backed up against a wall.’
‘Virna is an intelligent and sensitive woman. You’re making a mistake if you think you can talk her into coming back to you and then play the old trick of forever putting off confronting your problems till later.’
‘Then I’ll lose her.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘I miss her.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Sex with her was out of this world.’
‘I understand what you’re saying.’
‘I think I love her.’
‘Marco.’
‘Yes?’
‘Cut it out,’ Max snapped. ‘You’re like a moronic teenager.’
Then he placed the bottle of Calvados in front of me. ‘Have a drink and pull yourself together.’
‘What’s going on?’ We turned around to see Rossini standing there, as elegant and well turned out as always.
Max sighed. ‘Virna has gone to work at another joint and doesn’t want to see him anymore . . .’
‘Right. So now he’s crying like a bullcalf on the shoulder of the first friend he can find. The old, old story,’ Rossini said, twisting the knife.
I took hold of the bottle and stood up. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Beniamino said. ‘Why don’t you go and get dressed? We need to go and see La Tía.’
‘Trouble?’
‘I don’t know. She’s been spreading the word on the Colombian hostess scene that she wants to meet us. I guess we should go and see what she wants.’
Doña Rosa had talked Signora Gianna into giving her a couple of easy chairs. We found her comfortably ensconced in one of them, while Aisa applied polish to her fingernails. She greeted us with highly suspect friendliness and a sly smile.
Rossini took a chair and sat down facing her. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk business,’ she replied, adopting a harsher tone.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘I need you to tell me something, information that is important to me. In exchange, I have some information I think will be of great interest to you.’
‘What do you want to know?’ I asked.
‘The first time you turned up here, you knew who I was, who Guillermo was, and you even knew Aurelio’s nickname, Alacrán. You can only have gotten this information direct from Colombia. Nobody in Italy knew me, not even Celegato was able to connect me to my nephew. In a few days’ time, I’ll be going home and I don’t want any surprises. I want to know who your contact is.’
Rossini and I glanced at one another. La Tía was frightened. She figured that whoever had supplied us with our information knew she was in Italy and might decide to play some kind of trick on her.
‘What are you offering us in exchange?’
La Tía scrutinized her nails then, deeming Aisa’s handiwork satisfactory, held out the other hand. ‘Over the last few weeks, I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve spent a long time chatting with Colombian girls who work the clubs and, above all, I’ve asked the right people the right questions. I’ve discovered that the man who’s in prison accused of being Guillermo’s offloader is called Nazzareno Corradi. I’ve also met Victoria Rodriguez Gomez, his extremely beautiful girlfriend . . .’
‘Get to the point,’ Rossini cut in.
‘Take it easy, hombre, let me tell it my way,’ La Tía snarled. Then she resumed calmly. ‘I made a couple of phone calls to Bogotá, asking for information about Celegato, and in the end I discovered that a certain somebody has not been telling you the truth.’
‘And who might that be?’ I asked, trying to appear unconcerned.
‘You go first.’
‘I do hope this isn’t some kind of trick, because if it is . . .’ Beniamino hissed.
La Tía stared him out. ‘You haven’t yet lost your bad habit of threatening me.’
Rossini, in a gesture of utter scorn, raised his hand a fraction, then asked me to do the talking.
‘We happen to have some acquaintances among the Colombian guerrillas. It was FARC who passed the information on to us, and the photographs too,’ I said.
Doña Rosa sprang to her feet. ‘Marxist sons of bitches,’ she spluttered. ‘If they know I’m in Italy, they’ll place someone at the airport to follow me and try to get at Alacrán.’
‘It seems your man used to take a great deal of pleasure in cutting the throats of political activists and peasants,’ I continued.
‘They were all of them guerrilla fighters,’ La Tía retorted.
‘Sure. Whatever. Now it’s your turn.’
Rosa Gonzales regained her composure and sat back down.
‘One of the girls that Celegato took with him to Japan is a cousin of Victoria’s. That’s not all. About a year ago, a girl from Bogotá who had been working in the Jesolo area moved to Milan. Victoria asked her to do her the favor of not cancelling the lease on her apartment in Jesolo. Victoria said she would pay the rent herself and swore the girl to secrecy. The fact is that Señorita Rodriguez Gomez has a love nest. If I were you I’d go and see who she meets there.’
I was so shocked I didn’t know how to react. Beniamino went on smoking calmly. ‘The address?’
‘I don’t have it. I obtained this information at the end of a long process of secret-swapping between Colombian girls. But I know how to spot bullshit in a stream of otherwise truthful gossip. This information’s reliable.’
‘It can’t be Celegato,’ I said, getting into the car. ‘We followed him several nights running and he never met up with her.’
‘Sure. But what about during the day?’
I remembered that Victoria had told Max she couldn’t stand being alone in the evenings in that empty house and felt the need to wander from club to club. I mentioned this to Rossini who, in the meantime, had recalled another detail.
‘Do you remember the first time we went to Corradi’s house to talk to her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘At one point, when she was finding it hard to cope with our questioning, she picked up a framed photograph and clasped it to her bosom. The photo showed Corradi, Victoria and, standing between them, a man who had his arms round both of them.’
‘Celegato!’
‘Yeah, Celegato. Who’s to say which one she was thinking of at that moment?’
‘It just doesn’t seem possible. I’m inclined to think La Tía is making a mistake or she’s told us a lie.’
‘I don’t think so. It all adds up. For Corradi to walk into the Pensione Zodiaco trap, Victoria had to be unavailable on her cell phone and, what do you know, that evening she was at the Black Baron where there’s no signal. I suspect Celegato told her to go there and, well, make herself unobtainable.’
We drove to Ormelle and stopped on a country lane that gave us a good view of Corradi’s house. Victoria’s Alfa Romeo was parked in the drive. Just after dark we saw her come out to feed the two rottweilers. Beniamino started the car. ‘We’ll come back in the morning.’
On the way back to Padova, I glanced over at the bracelets on my associate’s left wrist. There were two new ones. One was slender with a catch shaped like the head of a serpent; the other was thicker, with a catch consisting of two miniature anchors. The scalps of Mansutti and Kupreskic.
The following morning we saw Victoria leave home at ten. She stopped for breakfast at the main square in Oderzo and then resumed her journey, all the way to San Biagio di Callalta, near Treviso. She drove into the forecourt of a recently built condominium, parking her car alongside Celegato’s yellow Saab.
Rossini shifted into reverse and we returned to Padova.
As soon as he saw our faces, Fat Max knew the result of our stakeout. ‘She’s seeing that rat, isn’t she?’
I nodded, still struggling to take it in. ‘I’d never have believed it,’ Max continued. ‘She seemed truly, sincerely, devastated by Nazzareno’s arrest.’
‘And all the while she was hanging around us, just trying to work out whether we were following the Celegato lead,’ I replied.
‘They must have been seeing each other for a year
or more,’ Old Rossini said, thinking aloud. ‘Ever since she got hold of that love nest.’
‘And as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Bruno leapt at the chance to put his romantic rival out of circulation. Which is why, of all the people he could have sold to the cops, he chose poor old Nazzareno,’ I added.
‘I don’t understand all the secrecy,’ Max said. ‘Victoria and Corradi weren’t even married. They were both perfectly entitled to pack their bags and leave any time they liked.’
‘The rules of the criminal underworld,’ Rossini explained.
‘You don’t get involved with a friend’s woman. Not even if she leaves him.’
I abstained from any comment. ‘This afternoon we had better go and see Bonotto and pass a message on to Nazzareno. He needs to know about Victoria. Maybe this new blow will make him change his mind. Who knows?’
‘Sometimes I don’t understand you, Marco,’ snapped Rossini, getting heated. ‘Surely you don’t want him to go to the trial and rat, do you?’
I tried to restrain my anger but failed. ‘I don’t get you either, Beniamino. It’s not about ratting. Just tell me why the fuck that poor hapless bastard, a man innocent as charged, should have to grow old behind bars? To save the asses of his woman and his best friend, both of whom have betrayed him? Or to protect cops who took the law into their own hands to fit him up?’
Beniamino smashed his fist down on the table. ‘Rules,’ he shouted. ‘You don’t get out of prison by accusing others.’
It was my turn to yell. ‘Don’t you realize how absurd it is to stick to the rules when drugs are involved?’
‘That makes no difference. Even if he was accused of paedophilia, he would still be obliged to remain silent.’
‘Calm down, the two of you,’ Max broke in, refilling our glasses.
‘Answer me this, Marco,’ Rossini continued, lowering his voice. ‘If you were in Corradi’s shoes and you discovered it was Virna and Max who had put you behind bars, would you tell your lawyer to drag them through the courts?’
The Colombian Mule Page 15