Suburra

by Giancarlo De Cataldo

  “This government is dead and you know it as well as I do. How much longer can it hold together? A month? Two months? And after all, I have the impression that not a single one of the things we discussed has actually come to pass, or am I mistaken?”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “And nothing seems to be moving forward, as far as I can tell.”

  “Malgradi continues to insist that the resolution is ready. There’s just a technical delay.”

  “Hmph! Pericle Malgradi talks and talks and talks. But I’ve been thinking about his brother, Temistocle. He definitely seems to be operating on another level. And we need a new sheepdog to herd our flock. Don’t you see them? Look, look how tame they are as they graze. They’re little lambs. They’re just waiting for someone to show them the way.”

  “You, Your Excellency, see further than the rest of us.”

  “It’s no accident that the Church is two thousand years old, my dear Benedetto.”

  Pericle Malgradi continued moving back and forth in an agitated manner, pacing the roof garden like a pinball in play. He’d overdone it with the coke. He was run through with continual tremors, incapable of keeping his arms and legs under control. Once again, he tried to anchor himself to Rapisarda, who had made his way to the buffet and was stocking up on raw goat-milk caprino cheeses from the Oltrepò Pavese. He absolutely had to tell him. Right. Because then there was that other problem that needed to be taken care of.

  “General, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bother you again with that matter we discussed on the Capitoline Hill, do you remember? That man of yours from the anticrime unit.”

  “Of course, I remember. I remember very clearly. I’ve looked into the matter, but let me tell you again, deep down Colonel Malatesta is a good officer. Perhaps just a little undisciplined. Sui generis, we might say. Idiosyncratic.”

  “Allow me to insist. This isn’t a matter of discipline, we’re talking about highly placed subversives within the corps. Now, now, Mario, let’s take this seriously.”

  Rapisarda couldn’t have agreed with Malgradi more. Malatesta was a pain in the ass. And yet there was something shameless and, more importantly, reckless and panicky about the way the Honorable was pestering him. And then, there was that foam in the corner of his mouth. A little self-control, for pete’s sake. Times weren’t easy, after all. If it all collapsed around him, the last thing he wanted to do was let people run up debts that they very well might prove unable to repay. So, caution was the byword. Malgradi wanted Malatesta? Well, he could have him if it turned out to be necessary. But before trading the carpet, he had to see the camel. And could he still see the camel?

  The general shook off Malgradi with the excuse of a phone call.

  Malgradi stood stock still, in shock.

  What the hell, was the general avoiding him? What is he, afraid of being bugged? Do I have a wire on me now?

  He started touching himself all over, scratching as if infested by a wave of fleas.

  Calm down.

  He realized that Spartaco Liberati was giving him a baffled look.

  “Listen up, asshole. I asked you to get busy on that asshole Malatesta and I still haven’t heard a thing. Zero is the score so far. You’ve just jerked off a little, nothing more. Don’t force me to talk to Samurai. Don’t force me, you won’t like how it turns out.”

  “But he’s the one who sent me.”

  “You see? So get moving. Now. There’s no more time to waste.”

  Liberati withdrew in as orderly a fashion as he could muster, renouncing the opportunity for his usual request for cash: Malgradi was unmistakably beside himself.

  The Honorable’s cell phone vibrated. Malgradi read: “Good job, better and better! Just keep it up!” It came from a foreign phone card. That was Samurai’s hack-proof system. The tone was ambiguous: it could either be one of sincere approval, or it could be a veiled threat. Malgradi looked up and found himself face to face with Michele Lo Surdo. The accountant had a worried expression.

  “We’re fucked, Your Honor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all been posted on a blog.”

  “What do you mean by ‘all’?”

  “All of it. The project, the feasibility study, New City, the beachfront concessions in Ostia. There’s even a photograph of Samurai. I don’t know if you understand what I’m talking about. All of it. Except for you. Strange, don’t you think?”

  Malgradi took refuge in an idotic smile. A burst of narcotics surged up his verterbae, clamping his temples in an intolerable vise. The Honorable pirouetted around and then crashed to the floor.

  A minor, insignificant collapse due to the stresses of a life spent in the service of his country, as the newspapers would report the next day.

  XLII

  Being a disgusting mess was a fine art. And Spartaco Liberati excelled at that art. Samurai had decided that it would be Liberati’s job to fight back the effect of that post that had sprung up like a mushroom on the web. And that when he went after it, there was no point in taking half measures. A nice fat avalanche of mud, during the peak listening time on Radio FM 922.

  Hey guys, I’m just poisoned this morning. Poisoned sick. And for once, the problems that A. S. Roma are having don’t have a thing to do with it. Listen to what I found online: “I know. I know that Rome belongs to them. Adami, Sale, Anacleti, Perri, Viglione. Do these names mean anything to you? I know. I know that New City is their Trojan horse, and that it’s going to suffocate us in a vise of reinforced concrete, all the way from EUR to the sea. I know. I know that these characters aren’t some good-natured trenchermen, but murderers inspired by another murderer, Samurai . . . ”

  So you might say to me: what of it? What the hell do you care about this garbage? I care, I care, believe me. And you ought to care about it too, my dear listeners. Because here we’re talking about Rome, our own Rome. And the city’s future.

  But I say to you: can people just slander the families of respectable people without so much as showing their faces? Can they shamelessly libel Rome? No. No, they can’t. “I know, I know, I know . . .” But what the fuck do you know? Who the fuck are you? Pasolini? And after all, excuse me for saying it, but this whole thing with Pasolini—Pasolini this, Pasolini that . . . if he was still alive, by now he’d be a hundred! What, didn’t anything else even happen in the meantime? And we’re still talking about Pasolini!? Go on and get the hell out of here.

  New City, they say. Okay, so? What’s wrong with New City? As far as I can tell, they’re a solid company with plenty of cash, cold hard cash, guys! And they say: tons and tons of cement are about to flow into Rome. A great project! I personally hope this project actually goes through! What, are you going to turn up your noses if we finally get some jobs around here? What, the bricklayers and construction workers who’ve been scraping by on account of this damned recession, where are we supposed to send them to eat, your house? They can fill their mouths with growth and development, but they ought to rinse their mouths out and take off their hats when they talk about Samurai. They say he’s a killer? Miserable cowards. Now just because someone’s had some problems when they were a kid, are they supposed to be a monster for the rest of their lives? Believe you me: Samurai is better than Keynes! And sure, okay, I know that you don’t all recognize that name, but now let me explain.

  John Keynes, that’s actually how you pronounce it, was an English economist, and during the Great Depression he used to say: put the people to work. And what could be better in terms of putting the people to work than a nice big project involving lots of cement? What’s that you say? No, sorry, it’s Ottavio, from the control room: ah, do I know who spreads these lies? Okay, let me tell you who it is. I talked to a friend of mine who’s in the postal police. He says that the website is anonymous, that it actually comes from Hungary. Oh, sure, Hungary! This is s
tuff from around here. And I know . . . now it’s time to use that phrase . . . I know that what’s behind it is the dainty hand of an old friend of ours. Do you remember that Alice Savelli who’d already trained her sights on the good guys from Cinecittà? Well, I say that she’s behind it! And you can have her! A young woman from a well-to-do family, with plenty of money, who acts all alternative and progressive . . . Now, of course, alternative is just a manner of speech in this case . . . because everyone knows that she’s dating a Carabiniere, a guy who returned to Rome the other day but already thinks he’s the big boss in charge . . . and maybe he’s the one who gives her the tips she publishes . . . Alice, listen, you can use all the gates and bars and protection in this world, and maybe they’ll never even catch you, because you know how to work the internet, you or whoever’s doing it for you . . . but you can be certain that the street knows things and understands them. So you know what? Savelli, can you hear me? Or rather, can you hear this chorus, growing louder? It’s the voice of Rome. Rome is spitting you out! And now, let’s kick back. Randy Crawford and her One Hello, a negress, but with a fabulous voice.

  Michelangelo de Candia fiddled around with the control panel of the Renault 4 car stereo and, as he lowered the volume, turned to Marco Malatesta, sitting beside him, with a wink.

  “Not bad, this Crawford. A little dated, but then our friend Spartaco is no spring chicken. Though I’d say we’ve heard enough. Am I wrong?”

  Marco was on his iPhone. He was telling Alice about Liberati’s attack.

  “Don’t go home. Swing by Ponte Salario as soon as you can, no wait, better, I’ll come pick you up. I can get you to a safe place . . . What do you mean, ‘you already have a safe place?’ Alice, listen to me . . . What the hell! She hung up on me . . . ”

  “Impulsive and tough. There you go, two more adjectives to string along with the trite and obvious one, ‘beautiful,’” Michelangelo pointed out.

  “Take me to my place, please. I need to find her.”

  “That sounds like a confession,” de Candia commented drily. “And in any case, it’s a little late to change your mind. You should have thought of it before. They already knew about you. They put two and two together. Anyway, I doubt they’re going to do anything violent.”

  “I need to find her,” Marco said again, stubbornly.

  The prosecuting magistrate pulled over.

  “We already talked about this, unless I’m mistaken. And we’d also come to a conclusion, if I’m remembering rightly. That spreading the news was a very bad idea. Tell me, Marco, what is it that Alice and you have achieved, eh? I’ll bet the hubcaps on my Renault 4 that before the afternoon is over, the website is going to be shut down. The state shouldn’t waste time chasing after anonymous posts. What’s more, now all they know is that we know. And above all, they know that we’ve decided to play dirty, which is to say, not by the rules. Which means that this is the beginning of a very different game. Of course, one without rules. And so, why are you surprised?”

  Marco tried to stammer out a justification of some kind.

  “I don’t like having to wait, unable to move. You should have figured that out by now. There are things that, at a certain point, just need to be done. Period. After all, Rapisarda went too far, and I just saw red.”

  “So the roster of impulsive fools numbers two. Now don’t you start pretending to be a white knight on a rearing stallion. What you did was stupid.”

  “All right. What we did was stupid. Now can I consider myself to have been scolded sufficiently and go try to find Alice?”

  “Luckily,” Michelangelo continued, ignoring him, “someone else decided to take this terrible idea and run with it.”

  Malatesta furrowed his brow and gave him an inquisitive look. A sly grin appeared on De Candia’s face.

  “Aside from anonymously posting your I Know, have you and Alice at least taken a look at the reactions online? I’m not a fan of the social networks, but there’s one thing I think I’ve figured out. That it makes sense to throw a rock in the pond only if then you’re going to bother to see what effect it has, right?”

  “Did someone else post something on the blog?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “Then why didn’t I see it?”

  “Maybe because you went to bed too early,” de Candia smiled.

  “Maybe,” Marco smiled back. “What’s written in this new post?”

  “They posted old court transcripts concerning Samurai. The trials for armed robbery and armed gang activities in the Eighties. Criminal conspiracy with Dandi and Freddo. An attempted murder in 1985, and something a little more recent. In 1993. The robbery of the vault of the bank inside the hall of justice.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Do you know how many convictions upheld on appeal Samurai has had for his turbulent past as an armed revolutionary?”

  “Nothing serious, if I’m remembering correctly what I read in our archives. Aside from the five year sentence he got when he was just a kid.”

  “Good memory. But what I told you was that our friend posted the court transcripts of the investigations involving Samurai, not his prior convictions. And there’s a piece of real news in those court transcripts.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “Do you know the name of the prosecuting magistrate who spoke for the prosecution in all the trials that Samurai faced?”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Ah, but I will tell you, like it or not. Dottor Manlio Setola.”

  “I would have bet on it!”

  “And let’s add another detail: he made a mistake or two in those investigations.”

  “Are you telling me that he gave Samurai a hand? That there was collusion?”

  “Take 1993. The robbery in the vaults at the hall of justice. Do you remember what happened? Maybe not, you were probably just a kid then, am I right? Maybe you weren’t even a member of the force yet.”

  Marco’s mind was shot through by a lancing lightning bolt of memory of that night at Il Bagatto. Samurai’s breath, as he was deciding to show him clemency. The scar on his temple started to pulse. There were too many things about him that de Candia didn’t know.

  “That’s right, I was just a kid. And a kind of out of control kid, too.”

  “Well, for that robbery, Lothar, Mandrake, and Botola, three veterans of the old gang, were sent to meet their maker, and two twisted Carabinieri went to prison.”

  “Let me guess. Setola was the prosecuting magistrate who conducted the investigation.”

  “You’re perceptive, I see. But there’s a detail, and a decisive one. Mandrake and Lothar wound up roasted and dead in the armored car they used for the robbery, while our friend Botola shut his eyes once and for all with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  “What about it?”

  “The pistol that killed Botola is a very rare weapon. A Mannlicher. And it’s a weapon with a past. It was fired the first time in 1985, in a murder for which Samurai was a suspect. Young Setola investigated and only a miracle could save our friend Samurai from life without parole.”

  “Let me take another guess. The miracle really happened.”

  “That’s right. The Mannlicher, back in 1985, disappeared mysteriously from the high-security evidence room and Samurai, at the request of the prosecuting magistrate Setola, was acquitted during the preliminary investigatory phase. For eight years, that pistol remained a phantom. Then, suddenly, it reappears at center stage in the robbery at the hall of justice, where it’s used to blast open Botola’s skull. All Setola would have had to do was add one and one. The Mannlicher is practically Samurai’s signature. Which would mean that Samurai was a member of the crew behind the knockover at the hall of justice. But once again, this time . . . ”

  “Setola fails to notice . . . He doesn’t make the conectio
n.”

  “Exactly. The only thing that the investigation even moved were a few rags here and there. The lead involving the pistol is not only not followed up, but from what we read in the transcripts published on the blog, it was considered by the district attorney’s office, and here I quote from memory, ‘to be of no investigative interest or probative value.’ At the end of the day, then, three bandits in the boneyard, two Carabinieri punished in exemplary fashion, Samurai loose on the street, and with him, his Mannlicher.”

  “Samurai has had Setola by the balls for the past twenty years . . . ”

  “Yeah. And probably not just Setola. A considerable number of the safe deposit boxes plundered in the ’93 robbery belonged to men in the security services, lawyers, and magistrates.”

  “Sweet Jesus Christ.”

  “That’s it, I’d say.”

  “We need to get word out about the level of protection this murderer enjoys.”

  “Get word out to who? These court transcripts are on the blog, I told you.”

  “In the form they’re in, only you can understand those transcripts.”

  “Wrong, my dear Marco. Samurai understands them and Dottor Setola understands them.”

  “Then let’s go have a chat with Setola.”

  “I don’t think this is exactly the day for it, you know. Doesn’t one fuckup seem sufficient to you for today? This stuff can prove useful. But right now isn’t the time to use it.”

  “You’re right, Michelangelo. In part because at this point, Setola is going to be shitting his pants at the thought that someone might figure out what you just figured out.”

  De Candia nodded.

  Marco felt the scar stop pulsating. He stared at de Candia, who stared back. They said everything that needed to be said, without speaking a word. The prosecuting magistrate opened the door of the Renault 4.

  “Now you go find her, I’m going to take a walk. Inside this tin can of a car the air has become unbreathable.”