Sohlberg and the White Death

by Jens Amundsen

  ~ ~ ~

  Domenico Pelle could not help noticing the extra attention that Zappia lavished on Giancarlo Imerti. Pelle’s mind raced with dark and unhealthy thoughts. His rival had obviously gained the upper hand. Disliked within his own family and the Condello Family, the devious Giancarlo Imerti had somehow obtained the trust of the old don. It was bad news for someone like Domenico Pelle when the # 2 Pasquale De Stefano allowed a capo bastone or underboss of his arch-rivals in the Condello-Imerti Family to marry into the Zappia family.

  Zappia sipped his wine. “This is so delicious. No?”

  All three men gave their silent consent. None objected.

  The capo crimine sighed the weary sigh of those burdened with crushing obligations and awful secrets. “I admit that all of her father’s problems may have left Angela a little unbalanced. She might be a religious fanatic. But she harms no one with her superstitions. Did you know that Angela has this old priest come here to the chapel and say Mass every day? . . . She also brings over a Jesuit priest to talk with me over lunch every Tuesday and Thursday. He wants me to put things right with God. Imagine that. Me put things right with God. How about God putting things right with me?”

  His three guests murmured in agreement. Perhaps God did owe the don. Perhaps God had gone overboard in collecting more than what was due from Francesco Zappia for his many sins.

  Fifteen years ago his oldest son had stupidly killed himself by driving his Ferrari 360 Spider off a rainy winding road at 112 mph. There had been rumors that the brakes and steering had been tampered with by some Judas inside the family or perhaps from the family’s sworn rivals—the Nirta-Strangio Family.

  Two years later the don’s other son died when his Piper Saratoga mysteriously and inexplicably fell out of the sky. Again rumors suggested that someone had tinkered with the engine. Then his youngest daughter announced at the family’s most recent Christmas dinner that she was a lesbian about to marry another woman.

  The four men took in the last drops of the grappa. The fiery warmth of the 90-proof liquor distracted them from the heat of the day. But nothing could distract Pelle and Imerti from the mystery as to why the boss of bosses had summoned them to his home. Normal protocol required that all business be transacted only between Zappia and Pasquale De Stefano—his Number Two man.

  “I called you here because I’m going to retire before it’s time to elect someone else.”

  Only the warbling nightingales and buzzing bees interrupted the stunned silence.

  “I want each of you to go to all of the families . . . and call a meeting of the families two months from now. Tell them that someone else must be elected to take my place. Pasquale has a list that I made for each of you . . . it tells you which family to visit.”

  The three men refused to display any emotion in front of Zappia. That would’ve been bad form. It might also send the wrong message as to their personal ambitions in a post-Zappia administration. The momentous announcement was followed by another shattering decision by the retiring capo crimine who turned to his Number Two Man and softly said:

  “Pasquale. I’d like to spend some time with Giancarlo. I don’t want him to go on to Switzerland with you and Domenico. I need to discuss the matter of Angela’s future marriage possibilities with some young man of honor in his family. We have a lot to talk about . . . I want to hear from him about the most suitable candidates for Angela. So. Giancarlo will stay here with me for a while. He might even have dinner with me and Angela. You two go on. Okay?”

  Only the most experienced and expert observer of body language would have noticed the triumphant smirk on Giancarlo Imerti’s wolfish face or the terrible rage in Domenico Pelle’s august visage.

  ~ ~ ~

  A stoic Domenico Pelle nonchalantly walked with Pasquale De Stefano towards the Mercedes-Benz sedans that were parked in the driveway. The two men approached a gargantuan S600 Pullman Guard. The armored limousine was bullet-proof and engineered to withstand military-grade small-arms projectiles, grenades, and other explosive charges.

  A squad of De Stefano bodyguards circled ominously—like vultures waiting for the wounded to drop dead. Domenico Pelle however was not going to beg for his life. Nor would he whimper in fear. Domenico was only furious that he would not live to see his careful plans come to fruition.

  I’m done. . . . My dead eyes will see no more tomorrows. I wonder if they’re going to kill me today or tomorrow. Gun or garrote? . . . Knife or poison? I’m getting blamed for the mess over that stupid missing chemist. Why else would the don have so openly favored a rat like Giancarlo Imerti with the honor of an invitation to have someone in the Imerti Family marry into Zappia’s family?

  The two men slid into the rear seat of Zappia’s limousine. Pelle was surprised that Pasquale De Stefano had not asked him to go in another car. That would have meant that he would be driven off to be killed within hours if not minutes. Pelle appreciated the small gesture which nevertheless left him mystified. He wanted to ask De Stefano, “Exactly what the hell is going on between Zappia and Imerti?” But he could not. After all a consigliere is the Wise One who foresees all outcomes. He would let De Stefano pick when and where to disclose the truth about the relationship between the don and Imerti and whether Domenico Pelle would live or die.

  Maybe they will kill me sitting here next to Pasquale De Stefano. Maybe he wants to see me die.

  The rich smell of leather and luxury inside the Mercedes-Benz left Pelle with a distinct impression—if he was to be killed then he would definitely be murdered outside the car. Blood spatter and other leaking body fluids would certainly ruin the armored limousine that cost more than $ 1,200,000 U.S. dollars. The bodyguards’ Mercedes sedans and SUVs would also be ruined if he was shot or killed inside the expensive vehicles. He remembered the shocking sight and smells of a thieving caporegime in the Vottari Family whose bladder and bowels emptied out as he was garotted in the office of the underboss who discovered the embezzlement.

  “Do you mind?” said Pasquale De Stefano. “I’m going to take a nap.”

  “No. Go ahead. I might also take a nap before we get to Switzerland.”

  “By the way. Don Zappia meant no disrespect. He didn’t want to upset you or distract you from your duties with this business with Giancarlo.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. I knew you would. By the way . . . Fabrizio Morabito will be taking over for Giancarlo . . . who is no more after midnight tonight.”

  “It had to be done.”

  “He had it coming. The whole thing about marrying Angela was to hook the pig. . . .”

  Domenico Pelle shivered. Hook the pig was one of the worst punishments that could be handed down by any family.

  “Like Don Zappia I also hate perverts,” said De Stefano. “It’s too bad. I wish that we could’ve stayed and watched that pig Giancarlo enjoy the hook that rips him from his little posterior hole all the way around . . . slicing though his two deviant glands and his bladder and stomach . . . all the way up to that rotting abscess of pus called his heart.”

  Even for a hardened Domenico Pelle the sights and smells and screams of hooking the pig were a little too much. A surgically sharp 4- or 5-inch stainless steel hook was anally inserted into the rectum. A half-hour or more was allowed to let the person reconsider and confess their sins. The hook was then slowly pulled to rip the perineum and scrotum and everything else on the way up to the ribcage while avoiding major arteries and veins. If the condemned passed out then the pulling was temporarily stopped until the convict was revived for his next round of penitence.

  ~ ~ ~

  De Stefano looked out the window. “Did you know that Giancarlo violated Angela when she went to his mother’s funeral many years ago? . . . She was just twelve at the time.”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “The pig likes young girls. Very young. He’s been doing this since he was a teen. The Condellos and Imertis had heard rumors. Six months ago Angela finally tol
d her uncle. We investigated. The Condellos and Imertis investigated. Many women and girls stepped forward. Then his wife found the pig’s filth in his computer a few weeks ago. Videos. Pictures. You name it. That’s when the Condellos and Imertis gave us the green light to end him. What disgusting filth.”

  “The final straw.”

  “No. The final straw was his stupid drinking. He always gets sloshed and starts blabbing.”

  “I’ve seen that.”

  “Turns out that the pig recently told an underboss in the Condello Family that he had maybe made a mistake on his last trip to Columbia . . . that he had unfortunately gotten drunk and bragged to the Columbians in Medellín that we had this chemist who was going to make us billionaires with a legit business. The moron even told them they’d have to drop coke prices because the addicts in Europe would soon not be needing Samper’s product as much.”

  “Wait. He told Carlos Samper and his people about our plans to go legit?”

  “Yes. That’s why Samper has to be the one who’s somehow behind the kidnaping of our chemist. . . .”

  Pelle nodded. He no longer had any need of Sohlberg and Laprade. His plans for them had to be fast-tracked to a logical and beneficial conclusion—the two detectives must be exterminated without fail.

  De Stefano snorted in anger. “Can you believe that? . . . Giancarlo Imerti allowed a stinking Columbian drug lord to ply him with drinks and 9-year-old girls. . . . Giancarlo ruined a lifetime of silence on our activities because he couldn’t control his mouth or zipper. The merda never once broke the omertà until he got drunk with the Columbians.”

  “It’s incredible to think that he blabbed about our Ultra project.”

  “A mistake like that is not acceptable.”

  Domenico Pelle nodded and then he yawned as the memory of his rival began to fade away. He remembered what one of his American professors at Harvard Business School used to say. He repeated the man’s witty maxim:

  “The higher the profit margin the lower the margin of error.”

  Pasquale De Stefano sighed. “Indeed. There’s no margin of error in our business.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Both men slept through most of the one hour trip on the road up north to Como. They picked up Fabrizio Morabito at his palatial summer home on Lake Como. The 36-year old underboss was the grandson of Morabito Family boss Giuseppe Morabito—Don Peppe u Tiradrittu—Don Peppe the Straightshooter.

  Fabrizio Morabito specialized in the rigging of bids for construction projects of public works throughout the European Union. He also employed threats, blackmail, and a few well-timed executions of general contractor executives to make sure that the 'Ndrangheta earned billions of euros in profits from sub-contracts for public and private construction projects.

  The son of Don Peppe the Straightshooter had ascended to the # 2 position in his family after a pair of disasters. In 1996 his father was accidentally shot to death while sitting—in police custody—between two police officers in the backseat of a police vehicle. In 2004 his grandfather was captured and then incarcerated at a high-security prison after a 12-year run from the law.

  The good-looking underboss slipped into the car and wasted no time. “How did it go?”

  “The pig got hooked,” said Pasquale De Stefano. “By now he should be half the man he pretended to be.”

  Fabrizio Morabito chortled.

  The 30-something underboss reminded Domenico Pelle of a younger and more handsome version of himself. But there were two exceptions to their similarities and those two exceptions made Pelle happier and less jealous.

  Exception # 1: Fabrizio Morabito had a glass eye in his right socket.

  Exception # 2: Morabito’s right eyelids blinked all the time—like the turn signal of a car that the driver forgets to turn off.

  Fabrizio’s eyeball had been famously lost to a 12-guage shotgun pellet during his teenage years. At sweet 16 a dying Lina Morabito had shot her younger brother with his own shotgun while she and her lover were dying on the floor thanks to her brother’s slashing knife work. The day before Lina had announced that she was pregnant and going to marry the 22-year-old son of their Tunisian maid.

  “Giancarlo Imerti is not an honorable man,” said Fabrizio Morabito while he blinked away. “He did not deserve an honorable death.”

  “Think about it,” said De Stefano. “In a couple of hours Giancarlo Imerti will finally become a useful human being . . . Zappia’s men will grind what’s left of him in the industrial wood chipper that they use for the olive trees and the orchards . . . he’ll be good organic fertilizer . . . bone meal just can’t be beat . . . . . there’s lots of calcium and phosphorous in human bones. Did you know that?”

  “No,” said Fabrizio as his right eye blinked furiously. “But recycling is supposed to be good for the environment.”

  The three men laughed. They eventually got bored of talking about Imerti and his many sins.

  Domenico Pelle felt hungry now that he knew that he would live to see tomorrow. He pulled a compartment lid between the seats and said:

  “Anyone want something to drink or eat?”

  The three men took the vermouth and roasted almonds and dried apricots that Don Zappia stocked in his limousine. The Punt e Mes apéritif was Zappia’s favorite vermouth because its bitter and sweet flavor represented human existence. The apricots and roasted almonds served to remind him and his guests that death always comes along with life because apricot pits and raw bitter almonds contain tiny amounts of deadly cyanide.

  As the car sped towards Switzerland the trio of gangsters remembered that whenever Two Kings Zappia partook of the apricots and almonds in the car he would always say:

  “Life has the seeds of our own destruction. That’s why a man has to be careful and always consider the consequences of what he is doing and about to do.”

  ~ ~ ~

  De Stefano took a folded page out of his suit’s inside pocket. He handed it to Morabito. “Here’s a list of families that you need to contact. Tell them that Don Zappia is retiring and that they must choose his replacement within eight weeks.”

  A look of surprise crossed the face of the newest # 3 Man to Francesco Zappia. “Of course. I’m sorry to hear he wants to step down.”

  “Great men like Francesco Zappia don’t step down from nothing. They step up to bigger and better things.”

  “You’re right,” said the blinking Morabito. “This Ultra deal is going to be beautiful.”

  The mobster trio lapsed into the felicitous silence of the wealthy and the accomplished. Each of them thought about the billions of dollars and euros that each of their families would soon be enjoying.

  While sipping and munching away at Zappia’s sacramental appetizers the three men sat back to relax and enjoy the final leg of their 123-mile trip on the scenic E-35 Highway to Switzerland.

  Chapter 25/Tjuefem

  MEGGEN AND ZURICH, SWITZERLAND:

  AUGUST 5, OR THREE MONTHS AND

  25 DAYS AFTER THE DAY

  The Italians left the highway at the Como Monte Olimpino exit in the suburb of Sagnino on the northern city limits of Como. Switzerland lay less than a mile away. They snaked through a maze of roads until they reached a small bridge that crossed the little Breggia River.

  On the narrow residential street of Via XXV Aprile they turned left into Via XX Settembre. A couple of customs guards stood next to a yellow building that had an aluminum overhang jutting over the road with the official word DOGANA. That was the only notice that they were about to pass a customs checkpoint into Switzerland.

  The Italian guards waved them through.

  “Welcome to Switzerland,” said the bribed and efficient Swiss border guard after the briefest of pro forma glances at the fake identity documents of the Calabrian gangsters.

  The crossing at Sagnino rarely had a border guard on the Swiss side. The guard had been posted there by his superiors to make sure that the Italians were not harassed by any of the local police wh
o occasionally pulled over suspicious Italian cars inside the Swiss border. An honest cop would certainly be interested in taking a closer look at a heavily armored limousine and its convoy of bodyguards.

  Domenico Pelle and his co-passengers smiled at each other. They always felt safer and better when they were inside Switzerland. Afer all the country is nothing less than a luxury spa for the soul and the pocketbook of the ultra-wealthy whose ill-gotten fortunes need soothing.

  ~ ~ ~

  Twenty miles inside Switzerland the limousine and convoy abandoned the E-35 Highway. They wended their way into the countryside through a narrow asphalt road that sliced through a verdant valley north of the twin towns of Torricella and Taverne. The vehicles pulled into a lonely overlook that afforded a superb vista of the Swiss Alps. Bodyguards jumped out of the cars and they fanned out to set up a secure perimeter. After receiving the all-clear the three men walked to a bench where they could sit and enjoy the inspiring views of distant snow-capped peaks.

  “This is a good place to talk in private,” said Domenico Pelle to Fabrizio Morabito.

  Pasquale De Stefano disagreed but he kept his silence. He hated the chill under the shadow of the mountain. The older he got the colder he felt. He wondered if that would change in the bright future that Zappia and Pelle often spoke about in such warm and glowing terms. The old # 2 Man sat on the bench. He appeared to fall asleep with his hands clasped over the dome of his belly—like some cardinal dozing off at some boring church function. De Stefano’s eyes may have been tightly closed but the mobster was wide awake.

  The consigliere Domenico Pelle sat down with the older man on his left and the younger man on his right. Pelle looked forward to explaining the ins and outs of his side of the business to the newly inducted # 3 Man. Fabrizio Morabito reminded Domenico Pelle of an enthusiastic acolyte receiving his first catechism lesson.