“Do you work at home or out on the street?”
“For now on the street, Senhor. For a home, I need more money, maybe some other day.”
“How much did you make last night?”
“Not much. There is recession. It’s so hot out.”
“How much, I said.”
“Hundred.”
“You want me to believe you?”
“I swear it on my mother’s head, I only made hundred!”
“Give me your purse.”
Lorena clutched a sparkly dingus to her bosom, a handbag she’d probably bought for five euros at the street market on Via Sannio, and grimaced in consternation.
“Why you so mean to me? I can make you so happy . . . ”
“Give me that fucking purse!”
“Hundred fifty, Senhor. I swear on my sister. I made only hundred fifty.”
Terenzi got to his feet, with a vague smile on the round moon face dotted with patches of stubble left over from a half-hearted shave, and without a word, grabbed Lorena’s genitals and started to squeeze.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”
“And that’s nothing, my girl. Come on, the purse.”
Prophylactics, lipstick, a vibrator, and, there it was, three hundred euros. The marshal shook his head, in a display of chagrin.
“What a sly little person you are, eh?”
“Excuse me, Senhor,” Lorena whimpered, “I never tell any more lies.”
“All right, I want to believe you because you seem like a likable girl, Lorena . . . but this money’s confiscated.”
“What am I supposed to do, I have to pay my debts! How can I do that?”
“Then get busy, you have all the goods you need, sweetheart.”
The marshal pocketed the roll of banknotes, then gestured for Lorena to sit down. The tranny obeyed.
“Well, now that we know each other, let me explain how it works. As long as you’re out on the street, you take a block and make it yours . . . do you understand me when I talk to you?”
“What is ‘block?’”
“You have a point there, I ought to make things simpler. You choose a section of the street and you don’t move from there. You work, you pick up your customers, you do your business, and no one will come and bust your chops. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Fine. And everything you earn, half goes to me.”
“Half, Senhor?”
“Yes, I know, you have a point, I’m being generous, but what can I tell you, I’m just in a good mood today. Don’t overdo it with the gratitude, eh?”
“Grazie, Senhor.”
“What are you doing, getting smart?”
“I? No, never in life, no, no.”
“All right. For the payment, here’s how we do: I’ll come by, or one of my men will, every Tuesday. No, Tuesday’s no good, that’s when the Moldavan girls are at the gas station . . . Let’s say Thursday, all right?”
“All right. Can I go now?”
Terenzi unzipped his pants and walked over to Lorena.
“What, in such a hurry? Now that we’ve become friends, let’s have some fun.”
Just as things were at their nicest—no doubt about it, trannies have an extra gear or something, the marshal was thinking to himself between one moan and the next, it’s no surprise they’ve chased the regular whores off the street, it almost seems like the trannies actually enjoy it, they’re not like those fucking refrigerators from Eastern Europe—right when things were at their best, someone knocked on the door.
“Marshal?”
The guard. Brandolin. An asshole from Friuli, a new recruit. An idiot like all Friulians. Oh, he’d fix him good, later. Two weeks cleaning toilets, at the very least.
Lorena stiffened, and loosened her grip.
“Keep going, who the fuck told you to stop? Yes? What is it? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!”
“Marshal, you’d better come immediately.”
In the tone of his underling, Terenzi perceived the nuance of urgency that heralds an impending pain in the ass. It would be an error to underestimate it. After all, it hadn’t been long now since they’d entrusted him with that “reputationally challenged” Carabinieri station, and business was gong splendidly.
He put a hand on Lorena’s head, heaved a sigh of resignation, and got himself together.
“We’ll finish up with you later.”
He went to open the door. He found himself face to face with young Brandolin’s beet-red face, as well as a guy with longish hair who looked like a bona fide son of a bitch, and a stunning blonde who was worth ten Lorenas. Two well-heeled citizens. Probably someone had burgled their apartment and they were here to file a complaint. Their appearance had intimidated Brandolin, who felt shy about collecting their testimony all on his own.
Terenzi put on his finest military demeanor and addressed the unfortunate guard in a peremptory tone of voice.
“Brandolin, I’ve told you a hundred times that civilians aren’t permitted in this wing of the station.”
And that was when something astounding happened. The guy who looked like a bona fide son of a bitch stopped Brandolin with a decisive glance just as the young officer was about to offer an excuse, took a step forward, came to a halt in front of Terenzi and, eyeing him arrogantly, with a gaze between the amused and the defiant, asked a question.
“Why, Marshal? Is there something you don’t want people to see in there?”
This was simply out of this world! Who the hell did this little asshole think he was?”
Terenzi saw red.
“How dare you? I’m the commander of this station! Brandolin, the IDs of these two individuals.”
With a slow and studied gesture, the two civilians handed the marshal their badges. Terenzi turned pale. And snapped to attention. Lieutenant Colonel Marco Malatesta, Captain Alba Bruni. Fuck, from the ROS.
“At your orders, Colonel, sir! At your orders, Captain, ma’am!”
Brandolin, in an effort to stifle his laughter, let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
Lorena chose that exact instant to materialize on the threshold of the interview room. She let her long forefinger with its enameled fingernail slide along Terenzi’s forearm and, in the most nonchalant voice imaginable, said: “Well then, Senhor, I’ll be going.”
Marco stared at Terenzi.
The marshal cleared his throat.
“A . . . normal territorial roundup, Colonel, sir.”
“Well, Marshal, is there any reason to detain this lady any further?”
“Go ahead, go,” Terenzi muttered, on the verge of hysteria.
Lorena cleared out, swinging her hips.
“Territorial roundup,” Marco observed sarcastically, once they were alone in the Carabinieri station commandant’s office.
“He was screwing her,” Alba pointed out.
“My compliments on your finesse.”
“Ah, the air smells of shit in this place.”
“I can’t say you’re wrong.”
Terenzi reappeared. He was carrying four file folders with yellow covers. Now the marshal was all smiles and bows. He was acting the jovial host. As he was gathering the documents they had asked for, he had taken a few minutes to get in touch with a colleague from the old school, someone who knew the ins and outs of the entire command chain.
This had been their exchange: “Malatesta? You’re in deep shit, Carmine. That guy is a tremendous pain in the ass.”
“But I have no beef with him, and vice versa.”
“Just as well. But watch your step. I’ve heard that he’s half crazy.”
“And he had to come pick on me of all people?”
“Be careful. He’s one of Thierry de Roche’s men.”
“Well
, that’s great news!”
The colonel hefted the file folders.
“Is this everything?”
Terenzi shrugged his shoulders.
“I thought I’d made myself clear, when I asked you for everything you had on Spadino and all the other subjects with ties to him.”
“Well, this is it, Colonel! There’s nothing else, in the whole barracks.”
Marco and Alba split up the files and started studying them. There were three files—he had been brought in for questioning once and arrested twice. But they already knew that from the computer records. The police reports were much more interesting. On two occasions, Spadino was in the company of a pair of individuals whose identities were included in the report, right down to their noms de guerre: Zuppa, Dario, AKA Paja, and Scavi, Luca, AKA Fieno. No doubt about it, the Roman underworld remains true to form, eh! From another report, Paja and Fieno appeared to have been detained along with a certain Max. His moniker: Nicce. Pronounced like the philosopher. So who is this supposed to be? The intellectual of the group?
“Spadino . . . Paja and Fieno . . . Nicce . . . what do we know about these people, Marshal?”
“Well, what you see written there . . . ”
This time it was Alba’s turn to address him.
“Excuse me, Marshal, but you attended the police academy, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did, Captain!”
“And during the courses you took didn’t they teach you that the most important things aren’t what’s written in the report? Come on, don’t waste our time: what do we know about these people?”
Terenzi, still obsequious, tried to minimize.
“But, no disrespect intended, I would rather call them stray dogs. Two bit thugs . . . small fry . . . that’s right, small fry . . . ”
Terenzi was sweating. Marco felt himself fill up with the exhaustion of the night spent chasing ghosts in Ostia. He didn’t like Terenzi. And nothing was adding up.
“Now listen to me, and listen carefully, Terenzi. You say: small fry. Let’s say you’re right. All the same, put together lots and lots of small fry and you have a sizable catch, a major haul. A full school of fish. And every self-respecting school of fish has a pilot fish. The one who sets the course and assigns the tasks. Now, let me ask you this: who is the pilot fish right now in Cinecittà?”
Jesus Christ, Colonel, what do you have, a crystal ball? The sweat by now was designing alarming dark rings under the armpit of Terenzi’s shirt. Oh, sure, the name, you can find it for yourself, this fucking name, I have no interest in winding up eaten by dogs, personally speaking!
“Colonel, sir, on my honor. This is a quiet beat. The last murder around here was a year ago, and it was about some guy’s wife cheating on him. There’s no protection racket because, with the downturn, everyone knows, the fishing isn’t good, if you know what I mean. Sure, the occasional street fight among third-world immigrants, but nothing much. You know, they’re always the ones who cause the trouble, the zammammeri. Ah, and then, if I’m going to say it all, there’s also the occasional zecca, goddamned ticks, grubby lefties, roaming around, they congregate at an occupied movie house, the Arcobaleno. They say that these are theater people, but to me, they’re just zecche, plain and simple. In any case, I’ve got a couple of infiltrators, the situation is under control. Trust me, Colonel, sir: zecche and zammammeri, they’re always the ones who cause trouble, but otherwise . . . ”
Marco Malatesta didn’t move a muscle.
“On my honor . . . ouch!”
Zecche and zammammeri. The same language used by Spartaco Liberati. The same culture. The same fear. The Carabinieri Corps was preparing to celebrate its two hundredth anniversary. And it still couldn’t rid itself of miserable wretches like Terenzi.
And the problem is that many, far too many, continued thinking the way that the various Terenzis did.
Zecche and zammammeri. And all the rest was just fine, Madame Countess. Maybe they might have a more sophisticated way of conveying it to you, but that was the culture.
A putrid, tenacious culture, hard to kill off. Marco knew it all too well. Because for far too many years, it had been his culture too.
And at times, Marco had had to call on all the resources of his personal belief system to keep from succumbing. Because there was another thought that was bothering him. That the miserable wretches might actually be the majority, while he, and a very few others, were just hopelessly outnumbered, a tiny minority. The clean face that they liked to show off at official ceremonies but that they ostracized and shoved aside when the going got tough and real interests were at stake.
But he couldn’t let himself give in to pessimism. Pessimism is just a byway to death. Marco was increasingly convinced that he had his finger on the wound. A purulent wound that was infecting Rome. It was from here, from this outpost commanded by an officer straight out of an operetta, certainly unfaithful, probably corrupt, it was from here that they would have to set out to put a halt to the contagion. That is, unless it was already too late.
He jumped to his feet.
“All right, Marshal. Alba, get the files. We’ll hold on to them for further examination. Is there anything we need to sign?”
“Of course not, Colonel, sir!”
“Good. Keep your eyes open, Marshal, it’s important.”
“At your orders, Colonel, sir!”
Terenzi escorted the officers to the exit, all the while offering a profusion of smiles and prostrations. He stood there for a moment to contemplate the lady captain’s imperially fine ass—I’d give odds of ten to one that the colonel is screwing her, then they come out here to preach moralistic sermons, these assholes—then he went back into his office, turned the air conditioner up to full, and from his extension made a call to Rocco Anacleti’s private cell phone: a Swiss SIM card registered to a nonexistent shopping center.
“The ROS are getting upset about this thing with Spadino,” he began, without any preamble.
“I don’t want any pains in the ass, Tere’.”
“Which is why I’m here.”
“Good boy. And make sure you behave the way you’re supposed to.”
“That’s why I called you. To tell you to be on the lookout.”
“Did you mention any names?”
“What do you take me for?”
“For what you are: a piece of horseshit crushed underfoot by the master’s boot,” he replied, in Romansh.
“But if you talk in Gypsyish, I can’t understand you, Rocco.”
“I said: for the monthly payment, let’s take care of it tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s fine.”
At that exact instant, Marco and Alba, in a little bar just five hundred yards from the Carabinieri station, were sitting in front of cups of steaming hot coffee and promoting, in the field, the young Giordano Brandolin from Tolmezzo to the rank of “special agent.”
His first duty: to surveil Terenzi, observe, report everything, even the most seemingly insignificant detail.
Brandolin had just left the bar when Lieutenant Gaudino phoned. The roundup in Ostia had turned out to be a very good idea. The clever bastards had obviously gotten rid of all compromising material, aside from two grams of cannabis destined to be filed away under “personal use.” And that, in and of itself, was suspicious: as if they were expecting a raid, from one moment to the next. Which means that not only did they know about the ambush, as was predictable, but they’d certainly been involved.
“And what do they say about Samurai?”
“Nothing. Lips sealed, awkward expressions, the occasional faint smile.”
But that wasn’t the news.
“Cesare Adami, Number Eight, him and none other, the boss. He looks like he’s lived through a tsunami.”
“Where is he now?”
“Here with me.�
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“We’re on our way.”
Alba stifled a yawn, ran her hands through her hair, and followed him.
The bandits were going back to their bad old ways, Marco mused when he found himself face to face with Cesare Adami, AKA Number Eight. Ugly, dirty, and nasty. An anthropological profile, you might have said. The thing they needed to do was restore the old boundaries, he decided, draw them in a sharp, clear manner, and make them impregnable once again. There’s us and there’s them, so we have to know, listen, and see. And act, above all, we have to act.
Nonetheless, while Number Eight swore up and down that he knew nothing about ambushes and shootouts, and that the marks he had on his face and arms were nothing more than the result “of a lively night with my girlfriend, Morgana is her name, give her a call and she’ll confirm,” he found himself evoking the mocking, and in its manner stern, image of Samurai. Could it be that any link existed between the chilly boss and this brute? It was possible. In his day, Samurai had preached a holy alliance between the aristocracy and the horde. Could he have succeeded in putting that theory into practice? In that case, who was Number Eight, actually? The small-time boss he claimed to be, or yet another marionette dancing to Samurai’s strings? Or somewhere in the middle, between the two? Or had Samurai really left the scene, as he claimed? In that case, was it the new recruits that Marco ought to be concentrating on?
Us and them. Us and them. How much of this filth is a result of our weakness? From our desire to be like the ones we say we’re trying to combat but whom we actually admire? And what is it about them that we admire? Their freedom? Their ruthlessness? The shitty lives they lead? There was a dynamic that he knew all too well. After all, until he made up his mind to get out, that had been his own story.
He realized that Alba and Gaudino were both staring at him, waiting for him to make a decision. Number Eight, too, was scrutinizing him, and behind his mask of obtusity, Marco was able to decipher without difficulty the features of a lucid, animalistic ferocity. Suddenly, the truth became clear to him.
Number Eight had killed Spadino. Or, in any case, that was what the people who tried to rub him out believe. Spadino was one of the Anacletis’ men. Ostia attacks Cinecittà, and Cinecittà hits back: the war has begun. A Mafia gang war. Because you had to call things by their name.
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