See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  Then it came back to her. When they stopped to let the cars enter the roundabout Gino had said, “That’s Roberto Vialli.”

  “I remember,” she said. “Two black Mercedes.”

  “Yes,” said Roberto. “It’s a small world, isn’t it …? But I have to ask myself … were our paths destined to cross, or was it premeditated? Are you three normal, everyday girls caught up in something you have very little knowledge of, or part of a larger plot – to not only bring down the Scarpone empire, but also to destroy the Viallis?”

  “When you saw me in Naples what did my face tell you?” asked Chrissie.

  Roberto closed his eyes to picture the image he had stored, and when he opened them he studied Chrissie’s face again … then finally, like a high court judge, said, “It was an innocent face.”

  She returned his gaze. “Well … there you go, then. Are we up to 90 per cent of trust?”

  Roberto smiled and rocked his hand. “Maybe 85 per cent.”

  Then Armando intervened. “It’s ready, boss.”

  Roberto slid across to view the laptop. He began to click the files and read the data. This took over ten minutes, and the girls sat quietly drinking their coffee as if waiting for the result of a job interview. It was a tense period. Chrissie felt she was creating a rapport with the Mafia man, but at the end of the day it all depended on the information they’d selected. Was it good enough for Roberto to be able to blackmail the Scarpones and include their freedom in the deal?

  Roberto shuffled back into his original position and pulled a face. They feared the worst. “Do you know how much pleasure it would give me to overthrow the Scarpone family?”

  They looked at each other. “A lot,” replied Chrissie.

  “Yes … a lot,” he replied. “In our world all actions should be based on a business logic. It’s never personal: it’s only business. But I have a problem with Zico Scarpone. I hate him with a passion, and it affects my judgement. I make decisions that I know I could regret, but my vision is clouded with the red mist of revenge and the overwhelming desire to be the cause of his downfall. This obsession of mine is to your advantage. I will trust you 100 per cent.”

  “That’s great, Mr Vialli …” said Brenda. “But can we trust you?”

  Roberto’s blue eyes pierced the semi-darkness. “I have seen enough of what is on this data stick to know what can be achieved. If you thought I was going to blackmail Zico for some sort of reward and include your freedom as part of that you are wrong … I’m not going to do that.”

  Chrissie was about to make a run for it, but Brenda gripped her hand.

  Roberto continued. “The families don’t blackmail each other. To use one of your English expressions … it’s not the done thing. But with the details you can provide me of the Scarpone operations I can send the whole thing crashing down. I can wipe them out and put Zico Scarpone in a grave, where he can torment the living no more. Then, for you also, the nightmare is ended.”

  They looked at the Mafia leader, then at Armando, and then at each other. It was Megan who broke the silence.

  “I know we should be jumping for joy that this Zico person is going to be murdered – but we’re just ordinary people, and all this talk of killing shakes us up a bit. In some ways it was better when we thought you were just going to blackmail him.”

  “Megan, you look like a strong lady who has been through adversity – but you are like a two-week old kitten who only knows how to play and sleep and be shown love. You have had no experience of the cruelty of men like Zico Scarpone. I can tell you a hundred stories of his atrocities, but I will tell you only of a recent crime. I asked my people to find out what happened to the boy Fabio who stole the data stick. They learnt that he was tortured unmercifully by Zico in person until he told them what they wanted. Then, so he could never repeat anything of his ordeal, they cut out his tongue, blinded him with a red-hot knife, and chopped off all his fingers. Then they threw him into the streets of Naples as a sign of their retribution. No one helped him or called the police, and it was the following morning when the street cleaners found his body in the gutter.”

  This revelation visibly shocked them but, to his surprise, Megan didn’t flinch or run to the toilets to be sick. She had strength in her voice and determination in her eyes.

  “Mr Vialli, we are fully aware of what we’ve been dragged into and the horror of it all. We aren’t as cosseted as you think and we understand this culture exists, but that doesn’t mean we readily accept it or could ever be a part of it. I don’t like to think of anyone having to suffer, not for any reason, but that doesn’t mean I’m unaware that many people get pleasure from inflicting pain. This is your world, and you will do what you have to do. But let’s not pretend the world will be a better place when this monster is gone, because I do know one thing for sure, and that is … there will always be another monster ready to take his place.”

  “You are perfectly correct, Megan. But I am not that monster,” said Roberto. “Mafia families are not all about drugs and crime. We are involved in politics – and not always for our own ends – and we are major investors in construction all around the world. You would be surprised to learn of some of the well-known buildings and bridges that would never have been built were it not for Mafia money. My family is now as much involved in legitimate business as in – let us say – traditional activities, and I would like nothing more than to walk away from criminality altogether.”

  “Then why don’t you?” asked Megan.

  “For the same reason that you cannot simply return your memory stick to the Scarpones. Once you’re in there is no way out. Men like Zico don’t understand anyone who wants to shake hands and say “Good luck”, but I don’t want to do this any more. In their crazy minds that makes you a threat, and we all know what would happen next. No, the only way I can become a bona fide businessman – and you can return to your families – is if Zico is out of the way. You have the key that can make that happen. And, I promise, no one else gets hurt … only the Scarpone devil.”

  “You seem like a nice guy, Mr Vialli,” said Brenda.

  The Italian gangster smiled a ‘nice guy’ smile and said, “Please call me Roberto,” and he put out his hand. They all returned his smile, and one by one shook his hand and said his name. Chrissie was last, and he held her hand a little longer than the others and squeezed slightly as he let it go. She was unsure why he had done that. Was it a sign of attraction? She looked into his eyes, and they told her it was.

  Roberto became serious again. “How long will it take you to retrieve the original data?”

  “Maybe an hour, there and back,” said Brenda.

  He looked around the gay bar. “No disrespect to your choice of meeting place, but I don’t want to spend another hour here. We are staying at the Ritz on Piccadilly. Do you know where that is?”

  “Of course,” said Chrissie.

  “We will go back there and, as you are now under my protection, I will arrange a suite for you to stay in. Would you like some of my men to accompany you to wherever this safety box is?”

  “No, thanks, Roberto,” said Chrissie. “You go and arrange our suite and we’ll meet you in reception in an hour.”

  Roberto wasn’t pleased. “I must insist that Armando and Beppe go with you,” and he signalled to the man by the door.

  “So the man with no name is called Beppe,” thought Chrissie, and suddenly he appeared far less sinister. Give someone a name and you take away the mystery and the menace. Even a wild gorilla is cute if he’s called Simon.

  Chrissie wasn’t in the mood to argue, and in any case it felt comforting to have a couple of minders looking after them. For the first time someone of significance was on their side.

  Roberto talked to Armando and Beppe in Italian and then folded up the laptop and put the demonstration USB into his pocket. Armando waved his arm for the girls to follow, and led them to the door. They were about to step out into daylight when Chrissie felt a hand o
n her shoulder and turned. Roberto stood behind her like a guardian angel. “Be careful,” he said. She smiled and nodded, and then joined the procession of gays and tourists and gay tourists along the road to Piccadilly.

  They had turned the corner towards Shaftesbury Avenue when Megan came to an abrupt halt. “I’ve left my scarf,” she said. “It must have dropped on to the floor in the bar. I know it’s only a cheap thing, but I like it. I’ll have to go back. Stay here. I’ll only be a minute.” And without waiting for approval she turned and hurried away.

  The street ahead had suddenly become crowded with groups of rugby supporters en route to the strip clubs and knocking shops of Soho. There was a rugby league challenge cup final at Wembley at the weekend, and the opposing fans had hit town two days early to prepare. This preparation meant drinking eighteen pints of lager a day, losing a week’s wages in the casino, and singing as loudly as possible everywhere they went. Megan didn’t want to make eye contact with any of them – she didn’t have time for silly banter – so put her head down and pushed past like a fly half going for glory.

  Eventually she looked up to get her bearings and caught sight of Roberto getting into a black Mercedes. The car moved slowly away from the pavement, avoiding the drunken crowd. As the vehicle was alongside Megan looked over to give a wave to their new-found saviour but Roberto, in the rear seat, was looking the other way. Her eyes travelled to the driver, and she froze. It was the man with the scar – the one who had shot at them in the Earls Court hotel. She didn’t want to believe it, but there was the proof. Roberto wasn’t trying to protect them at all: he was just another double-crossing lying mobster.

  She forgot about the scarf and ran back to the other girls … but how could she tell them what she had just witnessed while Armando and Beppe were supposedly guarding them? And how were they going to get free from the two probable hit men? She realised now that this was more than likely the plan: wait until they retrieved the data and then push them all under a train … that Beppe, especially. She thought, “He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  She caught up with them as they waited outside one of the theatres. “Didn’t you get it?” Brenda asked, noticing the absence of the scarf.

  “Um, no … I didn’t. I must have dropped it somewhere else.”

  “Never mind, Megan. It was a bit rubbish, anyway,” said Chrissie, and started to walk on.

  “Wait,” shouted Megan. “I really need to use the loo.”

  “Why didn’t you go in the bar?” said Chrissie impatiently.

  “I didn’t want to go then. You know how quickly these things happen to us girls. You start to believe things are okay but then they’re not.”

  “What’s she talking about?” thought Chrissie.

  Megan pointed inside the theatre doors. “They’ll have toilets in there. Come on … we may as well all go.”

  “I’m not wandering around the theatre when it’s closed,” said Brenda.

  Megan was becoming agitated. “It’s not closed. See, there’s a matinee on. No one’s around the box office now, and the toilets will be nearby … Come on.”

  “I don’t need to go,” said Brenda defiantly.

  Megan gripped her arm. “Yes, you do.”

  Now they were both on Megan’s wavelength, and Chrissie turned to Armando. “We need to use the facilities … women’s problems …”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” he replied.

  “That’s not necessary,” said Megan.

  “No, I will come with you,” he insisted.

  They had no choice, so went inside and looked around. The theatre bar area was sure to have toilets, and so they followed the signs around a couple of bends until the bar was directly ahead – its doors wedged open, awaiting the interval rush. The ladies’ toilets were along the corridor on the left and they went in, leaving Armando patrolling outside.

  “So, what’s this all about?” asked Chrissie. Megan told them what she had seen.

  “Are you sure it was the same man?”

  Megan put her finger and thumb three inches apart. “I was that far away from him in Earls Court, and I’ll never forget his face or the shape of that scar.”

  Chrissie was most affected by this development. Not only did it crush all hope of a solution to their plight, but she was actually starting to have feelings for Roberto. Normally she was an excellent judge of character, and she truly believed he wanted to help. It hurt that she could be so wrong. She shook herself to regain a focus.

  “How are we going to lose the ‘Chuckle Brothers’?”

  Brenda had been checking around the cramped room, and there was no other exit.

  “This is what we do,” said Megan. “I’ll go out and say I need to buy something from the bar and I’ll walk that way. If he comes with me then you leg it down the corridor. For a moment or two he’ll wonder why you’re running, and then he’ll try and decide whether to go after you or stay with me.

  “I’m betting he won’t be able to help himself and he’ll start after you … and then I run the other way. All theatres have a back entrance, so try and find it and make your way back to Wimbledon. They don’t know about Mrs Grimshaw’s so, for the time being, we’re safe there. We’ll meet in that coffee shop we went to with Bruno.”

  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one they had. Megan left the toilets, and they heard her talking to the Mafia man. Brenda peeped through the crack in the door and saw them both crossing the floor. She waited until they reached the bar and then, grabbing hold of Chrissie’s hand, she burst out of the ladies’ room and ran down the corridor. Sure enough, Armando saw them as they rushed past the open doors on the opposite side of the lounge and – just like Megan had predicted – he paused, looked at her, then back to the corridor, and then said, “You’ll stay here if you know what’s good for you,” and sprinted after them.

  As he disappeared Megan ran towards the box office. She was making for the stairs to the circle and the darkness of the crowded theatre when Beppe decided to look in from outside. Their eyes met, and he rushed towards the entrance door. Megan bounded up the stairs, knowing he would only be seconds behind her.

  After two flights she came into the foyer and kept on running. She swept past two sets of double doors, which led into the seated circle area and beyond – then she found herself rapidly approaching one more set of doors and, at the very end, a fire escape. She made her mind up to go for the fire door. Her eyes fixed on the chrome emergency bar, and her hands were already raised to push it down when the double doors on her left opened and a dozen people sprang out – all of them trying to be first to the bar for the interval drink.

  Megan crashed shoulder to shoulder into a large man with a handlebar moustache, and the impact spun her around. As she did two complete turns she caught sight of Beppe, who was having the same problem with more groups pouring through the other exit doors. She had been forced to one side and, with her momentum gone, the fire escape wasn’t an option any more. So she pushed against the crowd towards the inner circle.

  She got to the edge and looked over to the stall seating below. It was far too high to jump. She looked back, and an ice cream girl was making her way down the steps towards her … and behind the girl was Beppe. More from instinct than anything else Megan ran to the edge of the circle, which was as far as she could go, and looked down again. If she jumped she would break a leg – at least – or, more than likely, her neck. Beppe had pushed past the ice cream seller and was now simply walking towards her.

  Megan looked around for inspiration and saw the thirty-foot length of curtain that ran down this side of the theatre. Without hesitation she sat on the edge of the circle barrier, gripped the curtain, and threw her legs over. A woman nearby screamed, and everyone sitting below looked up. Megan held the curtain as tightly as she could and tried to climb down, but her grip loosened almost immediately. She was about to fall when her hand felt the pleated rope of the large tie-back holding the curtain in place. As her f
ingers lost their strength on the heavy velvet material she grabbed the tie-back, which pulled apart and unravelled. Megan went into free fall but she held on to the rope which, when she was halfway down, suddenly stopped. It had unravelled its full length, and pulled tight. Her arms felt like they had been ripped from their sockets, but she was safe … Then her weight dragged the screws holding the tie-back from out of the plaster wall and she crashed the remaining eight feet to the ground, narrowly missing the last row of seating.

  Like an animal that’s been hit by a car her instinct was to get up and run and she made for the stage, throwing herself up and charging into the wings, then away down a corridor towards the dressing rooms and rear exit. The remaining theatre audience applauded wildly and Beppe cursed and smashed the ice cream seller’s tray into the air, sending free choc ices and tubs down to the spectators below.

  The theatre exit was easy to find, and Megan was soon exploding out into the street. She caught her breath and checked for broken bones. Her left wrist hurt but didn’t feel broken, and there was a large lump on the side of her forehead. She surveyed the street and there, perhaps fifty yards away and standing at the T-junction, was Armando. He was looking right and left and not towards her, so she quickly turned and hurried away in the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue. She ran across the road, forcing the traffic to stop and the drivers to blast their horns in wild annoyance. Then she walked briskly through the streets of Chinatown and made her way to Leicester Square and the first train away from there.

  Her resolve had been strengthened by seeing Armando. If he was still searching then chances were that Chrissie and Brenda had also escaped. Now she even allowed herself a contented smile, and her heart began to beat with the rhythm of an easy-listening band rather than of AC/DC. She could see where the Chinese restaurants ended and the throngs of people travelling through Leicester Square began, and she felt safety was just around the corner.

  She hadn’t noticed the car drive slowly past and stop a few yards ahead, nor an average-looking man with short brown hair and a Marks & Spencer suit step from it. The man deliberately stood in front of her and held out his hand palm up, as if directing traffic. Startled, Megan stopped dead six inches away from the hand. Then she noticed he was holding something … something shiny, like a badge of some sort.