For All the Gold in the World

by Massimo Carlotto

  “Exactly what do you want from us?” I asked in a low voice.

  “I want you to stay out in plain view.”

  I pretended I hadn’t understood. “Explain yourself.”

  “I want you to investigate. Or at least pretend to. We don’t care which,” she explained in a bored voice. “The important thing is that you give the impression you’re searching for whoever committed that double murder, and that Pellegrini fall for it sufficiently that he stays in touch.”

  “You don’t need us to arrest him.”

  “True enough. But we have other priorities.”

  “And we’re the pawns who can be sacrificed.”

  “I’m glad to see you understand. For that matter, you have quite the bill to pay. I don’t know how on earth you’ve managed to stay out of jail these past few years, but the time has come to put an end to your fucking shenanigans.”

  The policewoman’s flat sincerity made my blood run cold. “You don’t have any evidence against us. Not even a hint of a lead, otherwise you wouldn’t be playing dirty tricks like planting drugs aboard the Sylvie.”

  “We’ve collected a series of rumors that could turn into the pages of a deposition any day now.”

  “Horseshit.”

  She shook her head. The ponytail brushed her shoulders. “I’m sorry to give you more bad news, but Giorgio Pellegrini told me all about the Swiss woman and your activity as unlicensed investigators. A nice little story worth three life sentences without parole. One apiece.”

  Suddenly it dawned on me. That piece of shit was once again angling for judicial immunity so he could go back to playing the model citizen, and he’d made himself available to the cops. As a show of good faith he’d told them, in his own way of course, the “truth” about the events that had forced him to run from the law. But that would never have been enough to keep him out of jail. Pellegrini must have offered them a much tastier dish—probably that he’d been operating as an undercover agent, and that something had gone horribly wrong, and that it had cost Martina and Gemma their skins.

  I looked the woman in the eye. I was certain that the idea of dragging us into it had been hers. Pellegrini had sold us down the river and she had come to the conclusion that we might turn out to be useful.

  “Pellegrini lies as easily as he breathes,” I said. “He’s fed you a line without giving you any evidence.”

  “We don’t need any,” the policewoman reminded me. “And in any case, Giorgio is so convincing that it’s a pleasure just to listen to him.”

  She pulled my cigarettes and lighter out of my jacket pocket. “Smoke, Buratti. I know it’s what you need more than anything else right now. Then you’ll leave and get something strong to drink. Calvados, of course, which you’ll savor while listening to that negro music.”

  That contemptuous display of details about my private life managed to drag a smile out of me. The conceited policewoman had read our files and listened to secondhand gossip, but hadn’t the slightest idea who we really were. She judged us according to parameters straight out of the police academy, things that didn’t apply to us. Our outlaw hearts noticed the difference, rendered the abyss that separated us impossible to bridge.

  Now an official from who knew which division of the intelligence services was convinced she had me by the balls, taking it for granted that I’d talk my friends into stooping so low as to work for them, to march toward the enemy fire like so many puppets on strings. She had no idea how wrong she was. We had no generals, no masters dominating our lives.

  “It strikes me as unnecessary to point out that we’ll keep you on a long leash, but don’t try to take advantage,” the policewoman added from the door. “We’re fast at picking up runaway shitheads.”

  Island of Prvic´, Dalmatia.

  The tourists had already left for the season and the bay where we’d dropped the Sylvie’s anchor was dark and silent. The water was chilly and still.

  I’d reached my friends, hightailing it out of Padua the exact moment they let me go. I’d picked up an emergency cell phone and alerted them.

  We’d arranged to meet in the port city of Šibenik, which I’d reached by train and bus. That’s where Beniamino and Max had picked me up.

  I wasn’t on the run. The policewoman’s words were to be considered with the utmost seriousness. It was just that we needed a little time to talk and make some decisions that were of fundamental importance to our future.

  The situation was deadly serious. The minute I came on board I apologized to my friends for having been careless enough to entertain a conversation with Pellegrini.

  “You couldn’t have guessed it would turn out to be a booby trap,” said Max.

  The salt air had done him good and he’d lost a few pounds. His face was baked by the sun and his long hair hung down his neck. Rossini, too, was looking well. His smuggling operation was back up and running, moving goods and people across the Adriatic, and the fat man had been keeping him company.

  “It was going to happen sooner or later,” had been his only comment, as he uncorked a bottle of Istrian Malvasia.

  We indulged in a lavish dinner before settling down to deal with harsh reality. A long and exhausting discussion during which I was forced to repeat over and over every last word uttered over the phone and at police headquarters.

  A little before dawn, in the parlor of the Sylvie, silence fell as Max set about making the first espresso of the new day.

  “There’s only one sure thing about this situation, and that’s that once again Giorgio Pellegrini is the linchpin of some obscure criminal operation,” he reflected as he filled the demitasse cups.

  “And his death would have the benefit of clearing the table,” old Rossini put in. “All we should do now is find him, kill him, and then settle matters with that bitch from the intelligence agency.”

  “And the same for Martina and Gemma’s murderers,” I concluded.

  Neither of my friends objected. The plan was drawn up or at least sketched out, and there was nothing more to add. Max turned on the radio and tuned it to a station that was broadcasting the six o’clock news. Beniamino switched on the winch and hoisted the anchor.

  I went on deck and sat on a chair in the stern to enjoy the view of the sea, the sky, and the island. After days of tension I finally felt tranquil. I didn’t have the faintest idea how things were going to turn out, but I’d share my friends’ fate and we’d hold our heads high. I couldn’t hope for better.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Massimo Carlotto was born in Padua, Italy. In addition to the many titles in his extremely popular “Alligator” series, he is also the author of The Fugitive, Death’s Dark Abyss, Poisonville, Bandit Love, and At the End of a Dull Day. One of Italy’s most popular authors and a major exponent of the Mediterranean Noir novel, Carlotto has been compared with many of the most important American hardboiled crime writers.