'Don't go into any details/ Zen continued. 'Refer all supplementary questions to me.'
He put the rabbit back on the bedside table and turned to Valeria. It was only then that he realized that he was naked.
"I haven't had time to get dressed/ he explained apologetically.
'One of my men was killed in a gunfight last night. I'm rather shaken up.'
Valeria set the coffee down on a dresser just inside the door. She was wearing a thick ivory-coloured towel robe.
Judging by the expanse of shoulder, leg and upper chest visible, she wasn't wearing anything else.
'How horrible/ she said with the same fixed smile.
Zen didn't bother making any belated attempts to cover his genitals, but naturally Valeria studiously avoided looking anywhere in that direction. Nevertheless, she somehow got the impression that one particular item was rather more prominent than it had been when she first came into the room. Whether or not this was in fact the case, the mere idea was enough to produce a spectacular blush which served to emphasize the contrast between her body and the garment loosely wrapped around it, secured by a single twist of belt. This only made matters worse, and the next time she didn't look there was no further doubt.
They were saved by the telephone, which began chirping and beeping and ringing and buzzing from its various locations all over the house. Valeria's rictus vanished along with her blush. She turned briskly away, closing the door behind her. With an effort, Zen pulled himself together and started to get dressed.
When he emerged, ten minutes later, the salon was filled with sunlight streaming in through the open doorway leading to the balcony. Valeria, now also decently clad, leaned over the railing. A light breeze ruffled her hair.
'Good morning/ she said, as he appeared. 'Did you sleep well?'
'Very well, thank you/ he replied, taking her cue that this was to be their first meeting that morning.
'That was Orestina. Apparently their evening ended better than it began. They met some people who invited them to something called a "rave". I'm not sure what that is, exactly, but they seem to have had a good time.'
From the balcony, there was a magnificent view extending right over the city to the coastline near Pompeii and the brooding mass of Vesuvius. From the gardens and terraces below, a heady mixture of scents awakened by the sunlight rose up to envelop them. In the middle distance, Zen could clearly see the cranes and warehouses at the port. And that grey block, slightly to the left, was the Questura.
'Well, I'm glad someone is/ he said resignedly.
Cava semplicita, quanto mi piaci The Greco, at the foot of Via Chiaia, seemed to Dario De Spino the right sort of venue for his purposes. Its slightly faded gran caffe elegance, the sense of tradition and history, the waiters in their starched uniforms, to say nothing of the view of the former Royal Palace and of the San Carlo opera house — all this was calculated to impress the pants off these two babes who'd grown up in some mosquito ridden hovel in Hoxha's Albania. They'd think they'd died and gone to heaven!
Not that Dario was interested in removing their pants himself, although he had been known to dip into the other side of the gender pool from time to time, both by way of demonstrating his versatility and confirming that he was better off where he was. But his resources in that respect were already overstretched, what with Mohammed out at Portici — a thirty-minute commute each way, on top of everything else — and the demands of social life here in town. With his extensive range of business interests, it was essential to remain on good terms with a large number of people, many of whom could get distinctly snippy if he didn't make a pass at them every so often.
No, Dario's interest in the albanesi was, he would have been the first to admit, purely professional. And from that point of view, the outing had already been a success.
Even in the bizarre gear they had brought with them from that Stalinist hell-hole, they were getting plenty of attention on the street. By the time Dario had taken them to the sweat-shop in Via Spagnoli and fixed them up with some of the fake designer duds they run up there, he would need a cattle prod to keep the young studs at bay.
It also wouldn't do them any harm to see the conditions in those airless bassi, where children, young women, mothers and old crones stitched and sewed from morning to night for piece rates that would make the plaster Madonna on the wall weep tears of blood. If they took exception to Dario's proposition, once he finalized it, he could ever so gently remind them of the alternative.
But that was still some distance in the future. For now, all he wanted to do was to wean them away from the idea this Alfonso Zembla had given them that their long-term salvation lay with Gesualdo and Sabatino. The trick was to demonstrate that he was a much more important and well-respected figure, and, given his actual reputation, this needed to be approached with some care. Which was another good reason for choosing the pricey Caffe Greco, where it was extremely unlikely that they would run into anyone he knew — or that still more embarrassing class of people he did not know, or had forgotten, but who turned out to remember him only too well.
There was little risk of that sort of unpleasant encounter here. As he escorted the girls in, they caught sight of themselves reflected in the antique mirrors in their ornate frames, and gasped. At one end of the marble bar an elegant gentleman in a superb suit of slightly old-fashioned cut was holding forth to two younger underlings each carrying about a million lire's worth of tailoring themselves.
Carefully choosing a moment when none of the trio was looking his way, Dario nodded respectfully.
'Buon giorno, cummendatbl' he murmured. 'Comme state? Sto' bbuono, grazzie.'
He turned to his two charges with a confidential air.
'One of the top men in the Regional Council. If Vitale sneezes, half the city catches a cold. I would introduce you — he's a great admirer of female beauty, even at his age — but I know those two with him and I can guess what they're talking about. It'll be all over the papers tomorrow, but for now discretion is the key word. No, don't stare!'
This to Libera, who was ogling one of the younger men with a directness Dario attributed to her unspoilt innocence.
Who knows, he might actually have a couple of virgins on his hands here! From everything you heard, the Albanians had a code of behaviour which made the Sicilians look frivolous. Libera's ingenuous eye-contact certainly had a remarkable effect on the recipient of her attentions, who was now listening to the elderly buffer whoever the hell he might really be — with little better than half an ear. Dario slipped a 5,000-lire note to a passing waiter.
'Give that to the barman. The name's De Spino. He's to treat me like a regular, but with respect.'
The girls could hear this, but of course they understood the local dialect about as much as Dario did Albanian.
And the results were certainly gratifying.
'Dottor De Spino!' the barman called out as they approached, his expression a perfect mime of deferential goodwill. 'What a pleasure to see you again. And such charming young ladies! What may I have the honour of serving you?'
They ordered coffee in various forms, all minutely prescribed as to strength, quantity, heat, and presence and abundance of milk and foam. This ritual took the best part of a minute, following which De Spino broached the matter in hand.
'Yes/ he mused, as though the idea had just occurred to him, "I could introduce you to so many people, people who really count, moving in the top ranks of society.
Whereas those two lads upstairs… They're pleasant enough fellows, but frankly they wouldn't be allowed past the door in the sort of houses I'm talking about.' "I thought they were friends of yours/ replied Iolanda pertly.
Dario De Spino smiled in a wise, worldly, mildly self deprecatory way.
'A man like me has to mix with all manner of people/ he murmured, waggling his hand to illustrate the degree of social flexibility involved. 'Many of them think that they are my friends. If I allow them to cultivate this illusion, it
is because it suits my purposes.'
A shrug of vast condescension.
'Gesualdo and Sabatino are useful to me in various ways. They are of the people, you understand, the lower orders, and move naturally and widely in that milieu.
Then again, they are linked to one of the most powerful criminal clans in the city. That makes them extremely helpful for facilitating… various enterprises.'
The effect on his listeners was all he could have wished.
'You mean they're gangsters?' gasped Libera, openmouthed.
Dario gave a pained look, as if gently reproving her crassness.
'Everyone in Naples is more or less a gangster, my dear.
It's a question of degree. So far as I know, neither Sabatino nor Gesualdo has been blooded…'
'Blooded?' repeated Iolanda with a look of alarm.
'A technical term/ Dario returned, inspecting his fingernails.
"I mean that as far as I know they haven't killed anyone yet. Not in the line of work, at least. Their private lives are, of course, another matter. But there is no question that they are intimately associated with various figures whose activities are — how shall I put it? — of considerable interest to the authorities.'
He smiled apologetically.
'But enough about them! What interests me is you, and your problems. The question is, where do we go from here?'
He did not have to spell out what 'here' meant. It was clear from his companions' disconsolate expressions that they appreciated the position only too well. Their attempts, the night before, to make contact with the two young men recently installed upstairs had ended in the most abject failure.
Libera made the initial approach, appearing at the door of the upper apartment to solicit Gesualdo's assistance with a time-honoured line: 'Excuse me, but our lights have gone out.'
Gesualdo summoned Sabatino, and the two men came downstairs, located the fuse-box and threw the switch which De Spino had deliberately tripped. Catching sight of their friend as the lights came on, they gasped.
'What the hell are you doing here?' demanded Sabatino.
'You're not the only ones who have friends all over town/ Dario responded, holding up his hands. 'Let me introduce you. This is Iolanda 'And I'm Libera/ said the brunette. 'So pleased to meet you. We've just arrived in Naples and we're just desperate to find work.'
'We'll do anything rather than have to go back to Albania/ wailed Iolanda. 'Anything!'
'These two know all sorts of people/ De Spino put in.
'Right, lads? I'm sure they'd be only too happy to give you a leg up on the situation, so to speak.'
But Gesualdo and Sabatino had not seemed at all happy.
On the contrary, they had been brusque to the point of rudeness, and immediately retreated upstairs again after making it very clear that they wanted nothing whatever to do with the tenants of the lower flat or their problems.
'I've got quite enough on my plate as it is!' said Gesualdo when De Spino came to plead for his charges. 'It may be difficult for you to appreciate, Dario, but some of us have work to do. On top of which, as I thought I made clear to you in the car, I'm feeling emotionally shattered at the moment.'
'Besides/ said Sabatino, 'how would it look for us to get hooked up with a couple of single women, however innocently, on the very day our 'nnammurate left town?'
In vain Dario De Spino had tried to persuade them that their scruples were ridiculous in the new Italy of the nineties, when the tired old ideas of life as a perpetual guerilla war between the sexes were at last being broken down.
'Why don't you take them under your wing?' Gesualdo had retorted. 'You know as many people as we do, and your reputation certainly can't suffer from hanging out with a couple of illegal immigrants with legs up to here.'
As a matter of fact, Dario had already decided that he was going to do just that, but in his own good time. First he wanted to collect the commission which the Squillace family were offering if he managed to get Gesualdo and Sabatino off their backs, which in turn involved getting Libera and Iolanda on to theirs. The question was how.
'They're so cold!' complained Libera, producing a cigarette from her bag and looking around helplessly. The young man she had been eyeing earlier immediately sprinted over with an outstretched lighter. He seemed inclined to linger, but De Spino gave him a look which soon sent him back to his companions.
'The other Italian boys we've met have been all over us/ Iolanda commented. 'But those two…'
A light suddenly appeared in Libera's eyes.
'They're not… how do you say?…faggots, are they?'
'They're as normal as you or 1/ Dario assured them blandly. 'They're just distracted by their personal and professional responsibilities. The problem is how to get their attention.'
Iolanda finished her coffee and set the cup down with a bang.
"I think we should try killing ourselves/ she said.
XVI
Passi subito!
In retrospect, there were plenty of clues to what was about to happen, but, as so often, Zen did not spot them until it was too late.
To avoid awakening the suspicions of Pasquale — who knew him as Alfonso Zembla, a humble employee of the port authority — he had asked to be dropped outside the Central Post Office and then walked around the corner into Piazza Matteoti. Like so many streets and squares in Naples, this piazza has been renamed more than once, most recently to celebrate the most famous victim of the Fascist era. In this case the renaming also constituted a symbolic act of restitution, for the square in question is the one which Matteoti's opponents had chosen as the heart of their administration, and is lined with monumental buildings erected to serve the needs and proclaim the might of the new Italy.
Similar structures are to be found all over the South, even in quite small and seemingly insignificant towns. Elsewhere, Mussolini appeared above all a dramatically unique figure, unlike anyone who had preceded him on the political stage. Whether you supported or opposed him, his novelty was undeniable. But to Southerners he was a familiar figure, a capo who ran the toughest mob in town and ruthlessly disposed of anyone who got in his way; a man who demanded and commanded respect, fear and grudging admiration. Those who supported him would be protected, those who did not would be destroyed.
This was a code all Southerners had imprinted in their genes, and after decades of fine talk and patronizing neglect from the proponents of liberal democracy, it was a relief to have someone finally cut through all the bullshit and tell it the way it was, the way they knew it always had been and always would be. And they were rewarded, for the Duce kept his side of the bargain. In return for the overwhelming support they received south of Rome, the black shirts extirpated every other species of banditry which had plagued the area for centuries, capital investment flowed south, jobs were created, and the secular temples of the new regime began to rise. Police stations received particular attention. The Polizia dello Stato was the creation of Mussolini, who was always suspicious of the loyalty of the Carabinieri with their royalist, elitist traditions.
When it came to constructing a suitable headquarters for the Fascist police chief, named after the ancient Roman quaestor, no expense had been spared. In Naples, the result was a building resembling a monstrous enlargement of one of the granite blocks from some aqueduct or amphitheatre.
This trick of perspective may have been partly responsible for Zen's failure to spot the clues until it was too late.
Riveted by this spectacle of petrified power, he failed to take proper notice of various persons in his immediate vicinity. The beggar, for example, his left arm picturesquely drooping inside his shirt, his haggard and unshaven face piteously appealing to the Christian instincts of the passers-by Or the street kids, the scugnizze, swarming all over the wide pavement in a continually shifting envelope of ordered chaos. And to one side, at the street corner, a skinny male in his late teens revving the motor of a scooter and scanning the scene with apparent idleness, as
though awaiting the arrival of a friend or lover.
Such were the individual elements, but it was only in retrospect that Zen was able to describe the way in which they meshed together, and to identify the purpose of the machinery or the signal which set it in motion.
Everything happened very quickly. First a sudden manoeuvre of the scugnizzi blocked his path with their boisterous, high-spirited chase game. While he waited for them to disperse, the beggar closed in, beseeching charity with some long incoherent narrative. Zen had barely started to reach for his wallet when both he and the beggar were surrounded anew by the street kids, none of them more than twelve years old, settling around them like a flock of starlings, uttering weird high-pitched yelps. Something flew over Zen's head, away towards the man seated on the scooter, and at the same moment a grip like pliers closed on his rump in an agonizing pinch.
He whirled around indignantly, but the offender had already melded back into the juvenile collective, which was on the move again, streaking away across the piazza into the ambient bassi, there to dissolve without trace in the porous tenements and alleyways. With a shrug of resignation, Zen turned back to settle accounts with the beggar, but he too had vanished. He was about to continue on his way when the noise of a revving engine attracted his attention, and there was the beggar, inexplicably clinging to the pillion of the scooter with both hands as the machine roared off around the corner and disappeared. It was only then that Zen realized that something else had gone — his wallet.
The uniformed policeman cradling a machine-gun outside the Questura denied having seen anything with a massive shrug which suggested that such incidents were very common, principally the fault of the victim, and in any case too trivial to warrant his attention. Zen proceeded to pull rank, thus at least giving himself the satisfaction of seeing the man cringe, only to realize that one of the items in the missing wallet was his police identification card.
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