Suburra

by Giancarlo De Cataldo

  “La Chiocciola is just a stone’s throw from where my grandmother lives. Have I ever told you about Grandma Sandra? She was the one who raised me, after my folks broke up. She’s ninety-five years old and she lives in a world all her own. But she’s a force of nature.”

  “Introduce me to her.”

  “Only if you prove worthy of the honor.”

  It was all going fine. There was the kind of lighthearted back and forth that Marco desperately needed. It was all going fine.

  Then, just as Marco and Alice were getting ready to dig into a Scorfano Imperiale all’Acqua Pazza, or poached scorpionfish, a young couple came through the front door of La Paranza. The young woman looked around, spotted Alice, and her pure and finedrawn face lit up. Dragging the young man behind her, she hurried over to their table.

  “Alice!”

  “Farideh! What are you doing here?”

  “To tell the truth, I’ve never been here before, but he really insisted . . . This is Max, we’re an item. Max, this is Alice and Marco, you know, that nice Carabiniere I told you about . . . ”

  The lieutenant colonel stood up and politely shook the hand that Max was extending to him.

  “Why don’t you join us?” Alice suggested.

  Marco and Max exchanged a glance, and in that brief instant, they said everything that needed to be said.

  “Gladly, but some other time,” the young man explained courteously, “we’re expecting friends.”

  Farideh tried to object. What friends was he talking about? Hadn’t they discussed an intimate evening together, just the two of them? Marco gestured to Tito Maggio and called him over. The chef hurried over to take Max by the arm, piloting him toward another table.

  As he steered Max past Malgradi, the Honorable started to say hello. Max ignored him intentionally.

  Alice noticed that Marco was continuing to follow the young couple with his gaze.

  “Are you interested in that young man? Are you less of a troglodyte than you seem? Am I going to have to change my opinion about your much-touted virility? Still, he’s not a bad-looking kid.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The sudden seriousness in his voice surprised her.

  “Has something happened, Marco?”

  “That young man is a member of the crew that beat the hell out of Farideh’s father.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she reacted, suddenly alarmed.

  “His name is Max, AKA Nicce.”

  “The philosopher.”

  “That’s right. And to tell the truth, he’s the one who tried to defend the old man. But that doesn’t take away the fact that he was there, with Paja and Fieno. He’s one of the Anacletis’ men. Farideh sure chose herself a nice boyfriend.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “I don’t have proof. Yet.”

  Alice, her eyes blazing, threw her napkin down on the table.

  “I’m going over to talk to her.”

  Marco restrained her.

  “Not right now.”

  “Farideh is a friend of mine.”

  “Please, not this second. Tomorrow. Call her on the phone. Go over and talk to her. But not yet. But here’s another thing . . . I’m going to have to do a little research into this Malgradi.”

  “Now how does Malgradi fit in?”

  “When Max walked past him, Malgradi tried to say hello. Max pretended not to notice. Curious, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject, Marco. The fact that I went to bed with you doesn’t mean that I’m at your orders.”

  “But I never . . . ”

  “I’m talking about Farideh. Listen to me, and listen good. I’m going to say it this once, and I won’t say it again. I will never do anything that might hurt that girl. Promise me that she won’t get dragged into this thing. Whatever it is that you have in mind.”

  Marco said nothing. That was a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep.

  A bad-tempered silence settled between them.

  Max was uneasy. The presence of the Carabiniere complicated everything. Samurai had ordered him to send the Honorable over to see him, and on the double.

  “Excuse me for a second, Farideh.”

  Max headed for the bathroom but, at the last minute, after checking to make sure that the Carabiniere wasn’t watching him, he ducked into the kitchen and grabbed Tito Maggio, whose hands were busy with a large oval platter of seafood pasta with tattlers and octopus: Paccheri ai Totani e Moscardini.

  “In exactly ten minutes, go over to Malgradi’s table and tell him that Samurai is waiting for him on Via della Giustiniana. Tell him to get his ass in gear and get over there pronto.”

  “Consider it done, Max. And when you see Samurai, tell him that I bow and take his feet, no, better, I’m under his feet. Since he spoke to them, the Three Little Pigs have stopped busting my chops. That man is a genuine boss, let me tell you.”

  “Okay, okay, but just get going now, go . . . ”

  The message reached Malgradi in the midst of a full-court press as he courted an aspiring starlet, a peppery young thing who had her heart set on the role of the Countess of Castiglione in a period costume picture imminently slated for production. When he told her that unavoidable party business would be dragging him reluctantly away, she flew into a rage. Malgradi promised her the part, and her rage was transformed into honeyed smiles.

  “Come on, I’ll take you home, I have to get on the road,” he said brusquely. And maybe, along the way, a little something would drop into his lap.

  Samurai was waiting for Malgradi at the gate. He didn’t ask him in, and he wasted no time.

  “You have a week from today to get the resolution approved.”

  The Honorable tried to stall for time. The political situation was degenerating. The government was struggling to restore its credibility and reputation. Not a day went by anymore without some bastard prosecutor from the hall of justice launching a new investigation of some pillar of the political community. The tide of hatred was rising. They had to move cautiously, or there was a serious danger of utter collapse.

  “Social hatred has nothing to do with all this. The truth is that you’re shitting your pants because of Spadino and the murder in Cinecittà. But it’s all your fault. Actually, the blame all goes to your peerless cock. I’m wondering whether the right thing to do might just be to slice it off.”

  “Samurai, please.”

  “Malgradi, I restored the peace. But it’s a very precarious peace. And with every day that passes, it grows more precarious. So you’ve got a week.”

  “I’ll do my best, Samurai, I promise you that.”

  “Promises are smoke, Malgradi. Just remember that everyone is replaceable. A good player,” Samurai concluded, “always plays on more than one table.”

  XXIX

  What was it Samurai had said to him that afternoon at Il Tatami? Servant of peace. You will be a Servant of peace. But what kind of peace? And what’s more, why? Had anyone ever seen a boss like him, always bowing his head and doing what he’s told?

  Number Eight, as always, trusted in his animal instincts. Because it didn’t matter whether you understood things. It was enough just to sense them. And he’d understood everything the first time he went back to Morgana after the ambush.

  He’d gotten all dressed up. With a pair of black leather pants and a white cotton sweater. In his pocket was a five-gram cellophane-wrapped ball of white powder. The very finest. When he rang the buzzer to the apartment on Piazza Lorenzo Gasparri, Morgana had opened the door without even asking who it was. In the stale air of the studio apartment, he’d detected a hint of something pungent in the air. The smell of recent sex. And not his.

  Morgana was half-naked. A black T-shirt, extra large, barely covered her pubic area and her magnificent derriere. She was alrea
dy completely wrecked. Number Eight tried to take her, but all he got for it was an obstinate and hostile rejection.

  “Do you mind if I ask what the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked, shaking her roughly.

  Morgana stared at him with a gaze that combined defiance with commiseration.

  “I don’t like men who hide.”

  “And who’s hiding?”

  “You are. Ever since they shot you, you’ve been running like a rabbit.”

  Number Eight hauled off and gave her a tremendous smack across the face. She fell on the bed and burst out laughing. He frantically yanked out the little ball of coke. He laid out two lines on the coffee table and snorted them both with a hundred euro bill. The shit went straight to his brain, giving him the pleasant sensation of heat dissolving the fog. He opened the door. He turned around one last time and looked down at the big bed.

  “You’ve given me an idea. You bitch.”

  Number Eight went back to the Off-Shore. He stepped into the shower, the prisoner of an uncontainable rage, but also filled with certainty. It was time to become a boss again.

  Midnight had come and gone. He dialed Paja’s cell phone number. Paja didn’t answer until the fifth ring.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m the guy you couldn’t kill.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, come on, Paja. It’s all taken care of, don’t sweat it. I’m just kidding you.”

  “I don’t like it when you kid around.”

  “And in fact, I’m calling you because I want to work together again, just like in the good old days.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We need to straighten out a guy from Casalpalocco who thinks he’s Scarface, he’s starting to become a nuisance. He’s been telling everyone that he doesn’t take orders.”

  “So if you’ve got a problem why don’t you solve it yourself? What do we have to do with Ostia?”

  “Because it has to be clear to everyone that we’ve started working together again. And isn’t that what Samurai wants, after all? Peace, no? You put this piece of shit from Casalpalocco in a wheelchair and all of Rome will know who’s in charge now.”

  “Have you talked this over with Rocco?”

  “Don’t sweat it. He gives his blessing to this thing, too.”

  “For sure?”

  “Why would I tell you a fairytale? What’s in it for me? Check it out, if you want.”

  “Okay, I will. Anyway, I’m not coming out to Ostia alone.”

  “Then bring Fieno with you, no? The two of you can work him over better, anyway.”

  In Paja’s prolonged silence, Number Eight understood that he’d done it. Paja wasn’t going to check things out with Rocco Anacleti in the middle of the night. He’d fallen for it with both feet. And even if Paja called his bluff, well, there would always be another chance. It was decided now.

  “When are we supposed to come?”

  “Right now.”

  “Where?”

  “The Ostia roundabout. When you’re there, I’ll come get you.”

  Number Eight wanted to do it all on his own. Because alone was the only way to do it. And because he’d imagined a thousand and one times just how and where. This was so much better than the zammammero in Cinecittà. Rome wouldn’t stop talking about it for days. Even Samurai would be forced to come kiss his ass. And that slut Morgana would have to go down on her knees and beg him to forgive her.

  He was going to do for Paja and Fieno at the Idroscalo, at the beach in Ostia. That’s right, at the Idroscalo, like that other guy, what was his name, the one who made dirty movies . . . Ah, that’s right, Pasolini. And he was going to do for them the same exact way. A slick piece of work: maybe even Samurai would appreciate it.

  He didn’t have a lot of time. But all the same, he got ready with great care. Eyes closed, naked, flat on his back on the bed, he relaxed the muscles of his neck and back for a solid fifteen minutes. He snorted just the right amount. Then he got into his F. C. Barcelona track suit and concealed the Smith & Wesson .38 in a black fanny pack. From the bar at the Off-Shore he grabbed an iced bottle of Veuve Clicquot and three champagne flutes that he arranged in the cup holders in the driver’s side armrest in the Hummer. He turned on the engine and adjusted the temperature and humidity of the interior. He checked the level in the apple-scented air freshener. He fastened his seatbelt and drove the few miles separating Coccia di Morto and Ostia at a speed that never went over the legal limit, listening to “My Heart Will Go On” by Céline Dion, from the Titanic soundtrack. How he had loved that movie. Forget about Pasolini, he’d watched Titanic three times.

  Paja and Fieno’s BMW had sailed straight down Via Cristoforo Colombo with the car windows wide open.

  And it had been a strangely silent journey, because Fieno’s nose told him there was something not right about that late-night phone call from Number Eight.

  “Hey, Paja, do you trust this guy?”

  “I don’t know. But what does it matter? If there’s a guy to beat bloody, good. If there isn’t, and Number Eight’s being an asshole and starts getting funny ideas, there’s always this.”

  Paja pulled open the black bouncer’s jacket that he’d put on before getting in the car, revealing the butt of a Beretta 7.65. Fieno flashed a smile that looked more like a grimace and, instinctively, fished around in his pockets for the chrome-plated steel knuckleduster with skulls in relief.

  “Did you talk to the boss, though?”

  “Number Eight says that he talked to Rocco himself.”

  “Sure he does. And you trust him?”

  “I pretended I did when I was talking with him. Anyway, I tried calling Rocco. The phone was turned off. I left a message.”

  “You’ll see, he’ll call back. And anyway, if he’s pulling some bullshit, this time, as God is my witness, he won’t live to tell the tale.”

  When the BMW pulled over on the right side of the Ostia roundabout, the Hummer was already there. Number Eight got out and walked over to the driver side window.

  The three men looked at each other in silence for several long seconds. Number Eight smiled.

  “So you decided not to wear helmets this evening?”

  Paja didn’t blink.

  “Where is this guy we’re supposed to take care of?”

  “My guys picked him up and they’re waiting for us. Want to get in and ride with me?”

  “Why should we get in your car?”

  “Because I know where he is. And I don’t like processions of cars in the middle of the night.”

  Paja looked at Fieno, who nodded his head yes. They parked the BMW and got into Number Eight’s SUV; the car started off along the waterfront, heading toward Ponente.

  Sitting in the back seat, Paja carefully watched the road. Fieno, in the front seat, captivated by the control panel of that oversized jeep that glittered and glowed like a Christmas tree, continued to crack his knuckles and flex his right hand, opening and closing it so that the knuckleduster fit the hand nice and warm.

  “Isn’t this the way to your house?” asked Paja.

  “Ah, I see you know where I live.”

  Fieno interrupted him.

  “Do you or don’t you understand that you’re not funny?”

  Number Eight lifted a hand off the steering wheel in a gesture of surrender.

  “I get it, I get it. I give up. I won’t do it again. Mamma mia, hey . . . you want a drink?”

  The bottle of Veuve Clicquot and the three champagne flutes made the rounds of the SUV. Number Eight lifted his glass till it was level with the rearview mirror.

  “And just try telling me that this ain’t peace! To your health.”
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  Paja and Fieno lifted their glasses without excessive enthusiasm. But they drank to the last drop, and came back for more.

  “So where did you have Scarface taken?”

  “To the Idroscalo.”

  “Nice shithole that is!” Paja pointed out.

  Number Eight nodded theatrically.

  “Right you are. But once the city graders have finished their work, you can bet on how beautiful er uoterfront, er front . . . how the fuck do you say the name?”

  A few months ago, the graders had already plowed under the shacks of forty or so illegal squatters. The story they’d told to explain their actions was that the whole area was going to become the nature reserve of the Tiber delta. “A small patch to be restored to the enchantment of nature, in order to repopulate the avifauna of sea and lakes.” And why not after all, the nature reserve of my testicles, Number Eight had laughed to himself as he watched the graders crushing drywall roofs and walls. He’d told an old ex-con to go to hell when he’d begged on his knees, pleading with him to spare at least his shack from destruction.

  “Next time, don’t vote for them.”

  The Hummer rolled to a halt on a broad expanse of sand and dirt, flat as a pool table. The work of the bulldozers after that of the graders. Number Eight pointed out to Paja a wilted patch of low vegetation that had miraculously survived the demolitions, wedged in among the heaps of rubble and garbage. It could hardly be seen in the darkness.

  “Denis and Morgana brought the asshole out there. They tied him hand and foot and told him they were going to call the police, and that he would be taken home. Now you two go over to him, introduce yourselves, and give him a nice thorough beauty treatment with the compliments of the Sales and the Anacletis. Do a good job now. I don’t want him ever to be able to walk again.”

  Paja wasn’t even slightly convinced.

  “You want to explain the reason for this whole production? Couldn’t we just lay him out on the sidewalk in front of where he lives, this asshole?”