The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio thought he detected a slight tremor in his voice. ‘As you know, we’re investigating the disappearance of Davide Stasio’s sister and nephew.’

  ‘Yes. How are you getting on?’ He glanced away when he asked this, checking to make sure he wasn’t being observed.

  ‘I believe there’s a financial aspect to this crime, and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.’

  The accountant scratched behind his ear, and looked at him for a few seconds before averting his gaze once more. ‘I think you may have been misled. We don’t really have any dealings with Micky Proietti.’

  Scamarcio lowered his eyebrows. ‘Come on, I was there when he asked to be put through to you.’

  He seemed surprised. ‘Oh, right. That was just about a favour we were doing for him.’

  ‘What kind of favour?’

  Scamarcio could see him struggling once more, desperately trying to come up with something, anything.

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was, erm …’

  Scamarcio hadn’t got the time. ‘I know there’s something going on between Micky Proietti and Davide Stasio, and you need to tell me what you know, fast. Otherwise I’ll have you in front of the magistrates’ quicker than you can say Rebibbia.’

  The man finally looked at him properly now, and Scamarcio observed his resolve gradually crumble. After a few moments, the accountant’s shoulders sagged, and he laid down his briefcase gently on the pavement, plomping himself down beside it, as if his legs would no longer carry him. With his sweat-stained shirt and tousled hair, he suddenly looked like a rough sleeper, exhausted from a day’s begging.

  Scamarcio took a position alongside him on the kerb, pulled out his cigarettes, and offered the box across. The accountant had been about to wave it away, but then seemed to change his mind, his hand shaking as he reached in for a smoke. Scamarcio lit up for him, and the guy took a few greedy drags before leaning back and closing his eyes.

  ‘You a smoker?’ Scamarcio asked, knowing the answer already.

  ‘No, gave up years ago.’

  ‘It’s a tough habit to quit.’

  The man nodded, his eyes still closed.

  ‘So why did Proietti want a word?’

  The accountant took another drag and breathed out slowly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, man, I wasn’t joking about the magistrates’.’

  The accountant sighed. After a few moments, he said: ‘I don’t know what I’m involved in, but I know it’s not good.’

  ‘Tell me. Let’s try to piece it all together.’

  The man opened his eyes and turned to him, his forehead a frown. ‘Listen, Detective, I fell into this by accident. Jobs are few and far between at the moment, so you end up in places that you never imagined you’d see. I always thought I’d be with a top-notch firm, earning six figures, not working for some low-life porn producer. This job was just meant to be a bridge, a temporary solution until I found something better. That something better hasn’t come along.’ He stopped and flicked some ash into the gutter. ‘You need to understand that I never got into all this knowingly. I want you to promise me that I won’t be prosecuted for what I’m about to tell you, because it’s only recently that I began to realise what I was dealing with, and even now I still don’t quite understand it.’

  Scamarcio laid a hand on his arm. ‘There’ll be no consequences for you.’

  ‘You’ll guarantee it?’

  Scamarcio pulled out his notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, tore off a piece of paper, and started writing. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Alessandro Benedetto.’

  ‘I guarantee that Alessandro Benedetto will not be subject to criminal investigation for the information he provided to the police on the business dealings of Davide Stasio and Micky Proietti,’ said Scamarcio, the pen lid moving at the side of his mouth. He dated and signed the piece of paper, then handed it over.

  The accountant scanned it suspiciously, then placed it in his top pocket. He blinked a few times then flicked away more ash, imaginary this time. Scamarcio was wondering if the man was ever going to speak until he said: ‘A large amount of money comes in from Micky Proietti each month.’

  ‘How large?’

  ‘It can be up to 20k a time.’

  ‘Does it come from him personally?’

  ‘Sometimes, but from his department at the channel as well.’

  ‘Is there a reason why it comes in?’

  The accountant bit down on a nail and looked around him yet again. ‘That’s the strange part. I’ve been told to mark it up as payment for projects Proietti has commissioned from us. If a particularly large amount comes in, I have to write it in as contingency for specialist-equipment hire or star talent.’

  Scamarcio guessed what was coming next.

  ‘The thing is that Micky hasn’t commissioned any projects from us. We make porn, Detective, not dramas for prime-time TV.’

  ‘Has anyone given you an explanation for the money?’

  ‘When I questioned it, I was told that Micky was quietly investing in the company, but he preferred to keep things under the radar. It was made clear to me that I shouldn’t ask again.’

  Scamarcio took a long suck on his cigarette. After some seconds had passed, he asked: ‘What happens to the money once it’s come in?’

  ‘A few days later it goes out again.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘A whole load of places — none of them with any immediate connection to Stasio.’

  ‘Give me some examples.’

  ‘Accounts in the Caymans, accounts in New York, a few construction companies around the country — there was even a hospital building project once.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down south. I don’t remember where exactly.’

  ‘Could it have been Calabria?’

  ‘Might have been.’

  Scamarcio’s gut was getting ready to churn; he felt a buzzing between his shoulder blades. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Ever since I’ve been here — that’s getting on for a year now.’

  ‘Were you brought in to replace someone?’

  ‘Yes, the previous accountant left for another job.’

  Or scarpered. ‘Have you noticed any pattern to the activity?’ Scamarcio asked.

  ‘Not really. I mean, there can be busy periods when a whole load of money comes in for a few weeks, and then it dies down again, but I’ve never noticed a routine to it, no.’

  ‘So when Micky called the other day, what did he want?’

  The accountant chewed his thumbnail some more. ‘He told me not to talk to you.’

  ‘Where do you think Micky is getting all this money from?’

  He shrugged. ‘How can I know, but you asked me about Calabria. I mean Stasio’s Calabrian, and he’s made a lot of money, and putting two and two together …’

  Scamarcio didn’t want to put two and two together. He didn’t want to go there. How come this case had been handed to him? Was there a fucking hex on him? Had that frightening old crone who used to hang around the family villa set his life on a path to misery? He stubbed out his cigarette and looked up into the darkening sky.

  No, it was his father who’d done that.

  18

  SCAMARCIO DOWNED HIS NERO D’AVOLA in one, and waited for his other mobile to ring. He knew that Piocosta would be punctual.

  This time, there was no ‘Good evening’; no ‘How are you, son?’ The old man was clearly losing patience. ‘You’ve got two days,’ he barked. ‘I want you in there Wednesday night, lifting those tapes.’

  ‘Why Wednesday? The weekend would be safer.’

  ‘Because we’re running out of time. If you were any help at all, you’d have told me that they
’re planning an arrest on Thursday. I shouldn’t be fucking left to dig this shit up for myself. If you weren’t Lucio’s boy, I’d have shopped your girlfriend to the Cappadona by now.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend anymore,’ said Scamarcio, not really sure why he’d bothered to correct him.

  ‘Whatever, you’ve got until Wednesday. You get in there, you lift that stuff, then you walk down San Vitale, take a right, and we’ll be waiting in a black Mercedes SUV. You just hand those tapes across and dust off your fingers. Case closed, debt repaid.’ Piocosta coughed. It sounded like he had bronchitis.

  ‘What time will you be there?’

  ‘You tell me. When do you want to go in?’

  ‘After midnight. That night sergeant will be on — the place will be emptier.’

  ‘How long do you need inside?’

  Scamarcio had no idea. It could take five minutes; it could take 50. He had no experience in these things. ‘Why don’t you circle the area? I’ll tell you when to pull up.’

  Piocosta coughed again, and Scamarcio heard phlegm being released. ‘Leo, you’ve lived in this shithole of a city long enough to know that’s not going to work. We need to be parked and ready.’

  ‘Be there for 1.15 and make it Via Venezia. There’s CCTV on Via Genova. I’ll meet you where Venezia joins Palermo.’

  ‘OK,’ grunted Piocosta before the line went dead.

  Scamarcio pinched his nose and took a breath. Was he really going to go through with this? And once he’d done it, would the Proietti inquiry drag him straight back under again? He needed to find out where Micky Proietti was getting his money. And fast.

  He decided to call Carleone in Vice. He’d been helpful on another inquiry, and Scamarcio hoped he might come good this time.

  ‘Ah, Scamarcio,’ said Carleone when he picked up. ‘You pining for your tranny pals?’

  Despite the people his job brought him into contact with, Carleone remained steadfastly bigoted. ‘Aren’t some of them your friends by now?’ Scamarcio asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Carleone, stiffly.

  Why does the squad always push the old guard into the jobs that require a fresh perspective? Scamarcio wondered. But instead he said: ‘Listen, I’ve got a case with a guy who likes to lose his cash at illegal gambling dens. But I’ve got no idea where these joints are. Do they have any kind of vague location?’ Scamarcio felt like a fool asking this, but right now it was his only option.

  Carleone snorted, just as Scamarcio knew he would. ‘That’s like asking which hair on my head should I comb first.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’d guessed that.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘There’s a Calabrian connection,’ he added, not sure if he should be limiting his inquiry this early. But there wasn’t time to trawl the whole of Rome.

  Scamarcio could hear papers being shuffled, a pen tapping a screen. ‘The Calabrians are behind a lot of legal slot-machine places now. Often they’ll terrorise bar owners into installing rigged machines that never pay out, then they’ll keep watch with CCTV 24 hours a day to make sure they get every cent. We know, and the Calabrians know we know, that alongside some of these places, they’re also running roulette tables, Blackjack, craps …’

  ‘Alongside?’

  ‘Sometimes literally alongside — out back or in the block opposite. But they’re never in the same place for long. They’re “pop up” joints — always moving on to a new spot.’

  ‘Who uses them?’

  ‘People with a serious habit. People who need more than a twice-yearly trip to the legal casinos in Campione d’Italia or Venice.’

  ‘So they let anyone in?’

  ‘No, they vet them. Their clients need to be discreet, and they need to be flush.’

  ‘’Ndrangheta money was being laundered through the mainstream casinos, wasn’t it? Didn’t they find them cleaning funds through Sanremo?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of years back, and the anti-Mafia guys believe it’s still happening at other places, too — probably Venice. They don’t have all the evidence yet, though.’

  ‘Could the ’ndrangheta be laundering their money through the dens as well?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Why don’t we just shut them down then?’

  ‘Because they’re always one step ahead. When we get there, there’s never any evidence. They’ve already moved on.’

  Scamarcio chewed on a broken nail, and tasted blood. ‘So people can find themselves in serious debt to these places?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what happens then?’

  ‘The usual. The ’ndrangheta set them to work on their behalf, squeeze favours from them, intimidate them until they pay up.’

  ‘And if they can’t pay?’

  Carleone whistled through his teeth. ‘Scamarcio, don’t take this amiss, but surely you’re the last person who needs to be told what these guys are capable of.’

  Scamarcio felt a flame of anger rising in his chest, but he pushed it down, trying to stay lucid. ‘Do you have anyone on the inside, Carleone? I need to find out what kind of mess my guy was in. I’ve heard he was in deep. I need to know where it happened, who he holds the debt with.’

  The line went silent for a few seconds. ‘Again, don’t you have contacts, Scamarcio?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is that I reckon you might be better wired-in than I am. I know about these places, but that’s about it. I don’t have grasses, as much as I try. All I can suggest is that you look at where they control the slot-machines — maybe someone there could point you in the right direction.’

  It was clear to Scamarcio that he wasn’t going to get any further with Carleone. ‘OK,’ he said, his tone deliberately off. He wanted Carleone to know that he was narked.

  ‘They have a couple on Via Magdalena: Bar Vegas and Bar Cosmos, I think they’re called. We know they’ve got their claws in there. That might be a place to start,’ Carleone added, more placatory now.

  Scamarcio could have solved the issue with a quick call to Piocosta. But that would have resulted in two problems: one, the old man would have wondered why he was interested in the gambling op, and word would soon spread; and two, he would create a new debt, which he would then use to manipulate Scamarcio with. Instead, Scamarcio rang Francesco Moia, a PI he’d used a few times in the past.

  ‘What’s cooking?’ said Moia, who seemed to be in the middle of dinner. Scamarcio could hear slurping. He imagined a long, greasy strand of spaghetti being sucked up into Moia’s gummy mouth. Moia was a good detective, but he didn’t take care of himself — he was an alcoholic, and addicted to sugar. Scamarcio had heard that he was in danger of losing his left leg to diabetes.

  ‘Have I disturbed your dinner?’

  ‘Nah, Scamarcio. No worries.’

  ‘You working on anything right now?’

  ‘Times are lean. The men of Rome are too busy worrying about their finances to cheat on their wives.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s a tragedy. How can I help you, Scamarcio?’

  ‘I need to find out about a debt a guy I’m investigating has with the ’ndrangheta. It was run up at their illegal gambling dens in the city. I need to know how badly burned my guy is, and who he holds the debt with.’

  Moia whistled. ‘That’s a lot of man-hours, Scamarcio. I’m not going to have that kind of thing done and dusted in an afternoon.’

  Moia was as slippery as an eel.

  ‘I hear you. Money’s no object, but time is. I need this fast — I’ll pay you a weeks’ wages if you solve it for me in 24. You’ll be rewarded for the speed of the result.’

  ‘Why the hurry?’

  ‘There’s a kidnapping involved — a woman and her son.’

  He heard the clang of fork against dish.
‘This that Proietti thing?’ asked Moia, more alert now.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Jesus — is that preppy Proietti wanker in hock to the Calabrians?’

  ‘Smells like it to me, but I’m not certain.’

  ‘I always thought that nothing could surprise me anymore, but this ain’t bad.’ Moia fell silent for a beat, then asked: ‘You couldn’t get on the inside track then?’

  Scamarcio felt like screaming. He took a breath. ‘No, too risky.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Moia, sucking up another strand of spaghetti. ‘I’ll finish my dinner then I’ll be straight out.’

  ‘Vice told me to start at some slot-machine joints on Via Magdalena.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mumbled Moia, sounding sceptical. ‘I’d rather try the ones on Via Regnoli. Lower profile, less busy, less risky.’

  Moia never ceased to amaze him with his inside knowledge. He should have called him first, and not bothered with Vice. ‘Whatever you think best. Keep me updated.’

  ‘Regular phone?’ asked Moia.

  ‘Regular phone.’

  19

  SCAMARCIO HAD HEARD NOTHING from Moia overnight, but hadn’t really expected to. Moia only ever called if he had news. He never liked to be distracted from the hunt.

  When Scamarcio arrived at the squadroom, Garramone was perched on his desk waiting for him, looking down miserably at Via San Vitale.

  ‘Everything OK, Sir?’

  ‘We’re not getting anywhere with Stasio.’

  ‘What, nothing?’

  ‘Proietti hasn’t paid any more visits. Stasio hasn’t said anything of interest.’

  Scamarcio knew what was coming.

  ‘You sure about this Stasio angle, you sure they’re up to no good? Cos I’ve got a lot of man-hours on this, and I can’t keep it up forever. We need to be seen to be getting results. There’s too much pressure from the media.’

  ‘At this stage, it’s just a hunch, but I’m confident it’s going to turn up something.’ Scamarcio had already told him about his talk with the accountant, about his suspicions that Proietti might have got himself into debt. He hadn’t, however, mentioned the potential ’ndrangheta connection. He wanted to give that one time to play out. For this reason, he hadn’t told Garramone he’d hired Moia. He should have run it past the boss, but it seemed wise to keep things simple for as long as possible. That said, there was always the risk Garramone would pose the ’ndrangheta question himself.