See Naples and Die
By
Ray Cleveland
Copyright © 2015 Ray Cleveland
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
KINDLE edition
PublishNation, London
www.publishnation.co.uk
Chapter One
A line of trucks waited on the M20 slip road. It was a busy morning, and an earlier accident had slowed the traffic to walking pace. The truckers were all heading north from Folkestone and were used to this kind of delay: it came with the job description.
Half the convoy were European hauliers and the other half were British logistics companies who covered the continent. Once on the motorway the traffic gradually built up speed until they were averaging 50 mph, which was good enough, and which would get them a little nearer their destinations – until the next hold-up.
A British truck carrying refrigerators left the convoy at the A20 junction and drove towards London. After driving for four miles the truck pulled on to a B road and stopped behind a parked Transit van. The truck driver jumped from his cab and opened the rear doors. He waited until the driver of the van joined him.
“Hiya,” said the truck driver.
“Ciao,” said the other man.
Together they started rearranging the refrigerators until a space was created in the middle of the van. Then the driver began to unscrew a square section of wood, which was fastened into the floor. Once all its screws had been removed he stepped away and banged the floor three times with the screwdriver handle. Several seconds passed, and the two men looked at each other. The driver was about to bang again when, with the force of a hurricane, the unattached piece of flooring flew into the air and a large size ten Doc Martens boot appeared from beneath the floor.
The boot disappeared and was replaced by a man’s head. The head looked around and then a torso started to rise, with the man’s eyes quickly taking in his surroundings, and once his full frame was visible he stepped from the hole and stretched his limbs and neck. Creaking sounds came from his joints and he opened and closed his palms and stared at his hands, as if checking that everything was still where it should be. The man was dirty and unshaven, with the look of a dangerous individual – a man capable of anything.
The van driver moved nearer. “Are you Hayk?” he asked.
“No,” said the man. “Hayk is dead,” and he pointed to the floor of the truck. “My name is Tigran Sadorian.”
“And my name is Angelo Tardelli,” said the van driver, and put out his hand. Tigran grasped it and squeezed.
“How many others are alive?” asked Angelo.
“All except Hayk,” said Tigran. And then more fingers appeared at the hole and another dirty ragamuffin began to pull himself out. The truck driver stood back and offered no assistance. He watched until another seven men had crawled from the tomblike compartment. Only Tigran spoke English, and it was obvious that he had appointed himself as the leader.
Angelo gave him a bunch of keys. “There is a van in front of us. Get everyone inside quickly,” he said.
As the men jumped from the truck Angelo turned to the truck driver. “Put the piece of flooring back and wait here. I will get someone to take care of that,” and nodded at the hole. Then he climbed from the truck, looked around, checked the doors of his van, and drove away towards London with his illegal cargo.
Chapter Two
The cruise ship entered the bay of Naples and made for the coastline, then reduced its speed and effortlessly glided towards its destination.
As with every cruise ship entering any port, families in small boats and fishermen on the shoreline waved at the passengers lining the upper deck. In comparison to the poor of Naples they were the elite of other countries – the rich and perhaps even famous people cruising the seas in luxury, and it made a poor man feel good to wave and see them waving back.
As the ship moved towards the Port of Naples it hugged the edge of the bay and ran parallel to the main highway. It was early morning and the road was reasonably quiet, filled mostly with trucks heading in and out of the docks. In a lay-by two kilometres north of the port a trucker was walking back to his cab. A flashing red object from the rear of the vehicle had caught his eye. On checking, it turned out to be a piece of curtain material that had been tied to the end of the container.
He was still contemplating who and why someone would do this when a black sedan drew alongside. The trucker paused and glanced towards the sedan but the tinted windows gave no clues. Then the passenger window slowly dropped, and a smiling face greeted the driver’s stare. The man nodded politely and produced a .357 Magnum revolver, which he pointed directly at the driver’s head. This was a formidable-looking weapon, and always made an instant statement.
The man motioned with the gun for the driver to move to one side. Another man leapt from the rear of the sedan, took the keys from the driver, jumped into the cab, and drove the truck away – taking with him 12,000 bottles of Russian vodka. The man with the gun thanked the driver, then once more disappeared behind the blackened windows. The sedan casually pulled on to the highway and, merging with the traffic, was soon out of sight.
The driver stood alone. He stared at the empty lay-by, with his mind working out how to explain what had just happened and wondering if he would still have a job this time tomorrow. The line of passengers on the cruise ship, like the upper gallery at the London Palladium, had just witnessed the whole thing. The driver looked crestfallen, and the passengers waved enthusiastically.
On closer inspection these cruising ‘millionaires’, most in baggy shorts and T-shirts, looked more like karaoke contestants than Britain’s finest. It was just the usual bunch of holiday makers: villainous Mancunians, decent hard-working tradesmen, struggling shopkeepers, IT consultants, retired factory workers, postcode lottery winners, newly wed fifty-year-olds, and lots of civil servants spending their redundancy money. The citizens of Naples, cheering as the ship came into dock, were not to know that nowhere on this vessel would you find anyone remotely rich or famous. Then again, everything is relative.
The cruise ship docked, and thirty minutes later the first set of passengers began to disembark. Among the second group were three girls who had been thrown together by fate and who were now inseparable. After moving on from their adventurous get-together Megan Penhaligon, Brenda Smith, and Chrissie McGuire had spent the past three months partying. Their windfall from this earlier escapade had given the opportunity to travel and see the world … well, Las Vegas and New York, mostly, with a little bit of Spain and Greece thrown in. And now they had decided on this Mediterranean cruise … sample a few countries, and then it would be time to give the holidays a rest and see how much money was left … take stock, and look at what to do with their lives.
Megan was twenty-seven years old and Brenda and Chrissie were both twenty-nine and, although they were having a great time at the moment, at the end of the day they were three unemployed girls with no prospects and no plan. But that reality check was on hold until the end of the cruise and the return to Liverpool.
The girls descended the gangplank and stood on a vast, flat concrete area. They were dressed as casually as the other passengers but had that something extra – they had a presence about them. Chrissie with her gypsy-black bobbed hair was a true Scouser, born and bred. She had an answer for everything and always stood her ground. If a sign said ‘Danger’, then
to Chrissie that was an invitation. She had an over-the-top attitude to life, clothes, and humour.
Brenda came across as the sensible one. She was slender and elegant. Her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail, and even with her flat shoes she was around six inches taller than Chrissie and two or three taller than Megan. Brenda was the voice of reason when the other two were throwing caution to the wind …
And then there was Megan, with her long, natural blonde hair and a buttermilk complexion. Born in South Wales, she had long ago lost her Welsh twang and acquired a sort of ‘down south somewhere’ way of speaking. Megan looked cute, but had a determined side to her. If you were in trouble then you could do a lot worse than pick Megan Penhaligon to stand by your side. They had been through testing times together, and found more than comradeship. They had put their lives on the line for each other, and something that intense had created a bond that could never be broken.
They stood to one side and watched the other passengers, who were ready for the day’s outings to Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast, being ushered to waiting coaches. The girls preferred to do it their way, and would take local taxis to the same resorts. This way they saw twice as much at half the price.
The holiday reps said this should never be done – it’s risky and you always get ripped off – but they hadn’t found this to be the case at all. These guys were there to make a living by providing a good friendly service and, hopefully, getting more business by word of mouth. You wouldn’t do it in Iraq, but around the Mediterranean it was the best way to sightsee.
It was only just after 9.30 a.m. but the heat was already rising and bringing with it the varied smells of the city, not all of which were pleasant. The girls made their way across the parking area towards a collection of minibuses and taxis, with drivers all forming an orderly queue alongside their pride-and-joy vehicles. A sea of smiles awaited them – the largest belonging to the smallest man, who was at the front of the queue – and who strode forward, arms outstretched in a ‘Let me hold the baby’ sort of way.
“Hello, beautiful ladies. Welcome to Naples. My name is Gianfranco Petrocelli but all my friends, in whom you are included, call me Gino. Tell me, are you English?”
The girls nodded.
“I love England … I love everything about England … if only you could play football …” Gino said this mournfully, with hangdog expression and hand on heart. And then he laughed.
The girls took this jibe in the spirit it was intended and laughed with him. They liked Gino.
He then produced a photograph album crammed with pictures of previous fares he had taken on trips. Written in English, they included glowing references – with names and addresses for verification.
“These are many English people who became my friends,” said Gino sincerely. “I not only drive you to the best places, but I can tell you their secrets like no other tour guide. I am partenopeo. My family has lived in this place since the beginning of time. Your tour bus is going to Pompeii and Capri: we can do the same tour, but you will learn and see much more because I am an expert.”
This final word was emphasised and he pushed out his chest to show just how much of an expert he was.
“How much?” asked Chrissie.
“I will do this for special all-inclusive rate of 120 euros for all three people. And we go wherever you like for the whole of the day,” smiled Gino.
“Done,” said the girls. “Let’s go.”
Gino shook them all firmly by the hand, and then sprinted to open each door in turn and assist them into the car. Brenda and Megan got in the back and Chrissie sat in the front with Gino, their new best friend.
Gino started the engine, which purred into life like a newborn tiger. The car sped along the concrete and, as it neared the exit, the huge expanse became a road that gradually narrowed. As they approached the port gates several cars, three coaches, two mopeds, and a tractor all converged on this single track, not one of them reducing speed. Drivers waved their hands and shouted abuse, while all manner of horns blared like the orchestra from hell – and still no one slowed down. The girls closed their eyes waiting for the carnage, but miraculously everyone merged and proceeded out of the Port of Naples and onwards to their intended journeys. Chrissie opened her eyes and glanced at Gino, who with one hand on the wheel looked as relaxed as Grandad in his rocking chair. He smiled his most charming of smiles and his twinkling eyes said, “Welcome to Italy.”
On leaving the port everything had to turn right and then sort itself out at the first roundabout. Gino needed to go straight on, so moved into the middle lane. Once again horns blasted out a wall of sound, and in order to join the roundabout everyone accelerated.
“This can’t always work,” thought Chrissie, but half trusted their driver. This time she kept her eyes open and then, for what seemed no reason, Gino braked. All the surrounding traffic and the horn section had stopped to allow two large black Mercedes access to the roundabout.
Chrissie had the best view and as the cars passed by she pushed her face and ruby-red lips against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of who was inside, but all she could see was president-black glass. Inside the second car the back seat passenger had no such obstacle, and could see quite clearly. For a brief second he looked directly at holidaymaker Chrissie McGuire from Liverpool, England, and as he did so a hand from the dark side shook his spine and he knew for certain their paths were destined to cross again.
The two Mercedes took the third exit, which was a signal for the bedlam to start again.
“What was that, Gino?” asked Chrissie. “Were they funeral cars?”
Gino laughed. “You could say that. They were Mafiosi. That was Don Roberto Vialli, and you must respect the families … always.”
“You’re making it up,” said Brenda from the back seat. “The best tour guide with the best stories.”
For a moment Gino was slightly serious. “No, no … they are the Camorra – the Naples Mafia. Three families make up the northern clan. They are the Viallis, the Capecchis, and the Scarpones. They are all ruthless, and if you disrespect them in any way you will be sleeping with the fishes.”
“Ha! You got that one straight from The Godfather,” snapped Brenda.
“No, beautiful English rose. They got it from us,” said Gino matter-of-factly.
They drove out of Naples towards Pompeii, with Mount Vesuvius a fantastic sight in the distance. A geological and historical masterpiece, it had been placed on earth to terrify and inspire generations of mere mortals. It dominated the entire region.
Gino, as promised, never stopped talking – and it was all interesting, with lots of humour and anecdotes thrown in. By the time they reached the car park at the foot of Vesuvius they had a working knowledge of the history of Naples, and knew every member of Gino’s family by name.
They bought their tickets and spent the next two hours walking around the ruins of Pompeii in unbearable heat. The sun was high in the sky and their hats offered little protection against the burning rays shimmering down, baking every living thing like potatoes in a huge microwave. It was certainly an incredible place but enough is enough, and they were glad to call it a day and return to Gino and the sanctuary of the most expensive but delicious ice cream ever.
Once refreshed they were ready for the next part of the excursion, and set off for the Isle of Capri. They had only driven maybe half an hour when they had to stop at a line of stationary traffic. There were people up ahead running around and shouting, and the girls could definitely see bodies lying in the road. The commotion was building in ferocity, and Gino got out of the car to assess the situation and to add his own voice and arm-waving to the melee. After much animated posturing Gino returned to the car, seemingly unconcerned about the bodies littering the road ahead. He got into the car and sighed.
“Factory workers on strike,” he said. “They lie in the road and disrupt everything. The police will come and carry them into their vans, but more workers take their pla
ce. So I have to say … no Isle of Capri today.”
“So what else can we do?” asked Brenda.
Gino thought for a moment. “We could go back to Naples and I could give you the city tour.”
“Great,” said Chrissie. “What do you think, girls?”
“To be honest, that sounds better than another tourist trap,” said Brenda.
“Yes,” said Megan. But can we stop for something to eat on the way?”
“Tell you what, Gino,” said Chrissie. “Can you take us somewhere in Naples? Somewhere you would go to eat. It doesn’t matter what it’s like. We can adapt to most things and, anyway, that’s the kind of city tour we want. Like Bren said, we’re tired of the tourist trail.”
“No problem, ladies,” said Gino. I will show you the back streets of Naples. I will show you a city you will never forget.”
Gino did a three-point turn and accelerated away from the workers’ rights demonstration. As they went around the first bend five police cars, three large black police vans, and a newspaper reporter raced past with lights flashing and sirens wailing. This was just what the factory workers wanted: more confusion, disruption, and publicity.
Chapter Three
Fabio Zanetti was a runner – an odd-job man for the Capecchi family. He was the bottom tier of the organisation. He didn’t commit any actual crimes, but he was always around. The Capecchis would send him with messages to the other Camorra families. Fabio wasn’t a threat to anyone, so he was allowed to pass through all the clans without too much attention. He was given this freedom because he was openly naive, almost simple-minded – or so everyone believed. But Fabio was far from being backward … and he had a plan.
On this day he had delivered a package to Zico Scarpone. When he arrived some of the guys were transferring crates of Russian vodka from one truck to another. Fabio helped them: it was good PR. When they had finished both trucks were driven away to their respective destinations, and Fabio was offered coffee and cake. He was sitting quietly in the kitchen when Zico took a phone call. Whatever the call was about it caused a great deal of excitement and everyone raced off in a fleet of limousines, leaving only Fabio and a couple of broken-nosed wise guys in the house.
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