The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Foti helped himself to a large forkful of octopus vinaigrette. ‘Very,’ he said after a few chews. ‘If you accept the old adage, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” then you and Greco are a match made in heaven.’

  ‘How do I find him?’

  ‘How long are you here?’

  ‘Just a couple of days.’

  ‘It’ll take me a bit of time to track him down. Leave it with me, and take a stroll around town.’

  ‘That safe?’

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ said Foti, in the tone of a man who still had it all under control.

  Why was Foti helping him, he wondered. Could he be trusted? He looked at him shovelling more seafood into his mouth, and sensed that he was enjoying their encounter. What was in it for him? Did he detest Piocosta that much that he hoped to play a part in his downfall?

  ‘What did he do to you?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Piocosta.’

  The line of Foti’s mouth dropped, and he swallowed the last bites slowly, smoothing a hand around his neck as he did so. It was a strange gesture. It was almost as if he was thinking about strangling himself.

  His lips moved, but Scamarcio didn’t catch the words. ‘Sorry, Mr Foti, could you repeat that?’ he asked.

  Foti’s lips moved again, and this time Scamarcio thought he heard him say: ‘Killed my boy.’ The words were barely above a whisper, and Scamarcio immediately felt sure he must have misunderstood. ‘Sorry …’

  Foti let out a slow, painful sigh. ‘It was back during the wars. Piocosta was pushing it. It was a tinderbox down here, but he wouldn’t step back, wouldn’t tone it down. Even your dad tried to rein him in at one point, but he just wouldn’t listen. We started asking ourselves who was actually running the show — whether Lucio Scamarcio had control of his man.’

  Foti began speaking faster, a new fragility in his voice. ‘Angelo Talarico was driving my boy to his piano lesson out in Santa Magdalena. My wife had this bee in her bonnet about Taddeo being “accomplished” — that was the word she used to use. Angelo drove straight into an ambush that day.’ Foti paused for a moment to clear his throat. ‘Piocosta had raised the stakes, and the Macris wanted revenge — didn’t really matter who.’

  He took a breath. It sounded like he was sucking in the air around him. Scamarcio was reminded of the last breaths of a drowning man.

  ‘They had to bring my son home in pieces,’ said Foti. ‘The boys wouldn’t let me go to the place where it happened; they wouldn’t let me see him. Even though I kicked and screamed, they wouldn’t let me.’ He wiped his huge nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘The Macris wouldn’t have staged that ambush if Piocosta hadn’t been baiting them, daring them, pushing them to their limit. He cranked the whole thing up to a level where it didn’t need to be.’ He sniffed. ‘No general should sacrifice his men for his own personal advancement. It’s the first rule of warfare. As far as I’m concerned, Piero Piocosta should have been punished for what he did. I lost respect for your father after that. He’d lost control of his lieutenant.’ Foti sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I’d be happy to see Piocosta pay his dues. And you, of all people, have good cause.’

  Scamarcio’s mouth felt dry. He needed to swallow, but his throat caught. There was too much emotion in the room. He wanted to open a window, let some of the grief out. Foti was staring intently at Scamarcio now, trying to convey some meaning, some secret message, that Scamarcio could tell Foti couldn’t bring himself to articulate.

  ‘My boy would have been about your age now, a little younger maybe. And there you are, all the way up in Rome, trying to do good work.’ He paused. ‘Are you doing good work, son, or has Piocosta properly got his claws in?’

  ‘I’m OK — for the moment.’

  ‘You know,’ said Foti, his voice shaky. ‘You should do your best to keep it that way. Down here, it’s nothing but shit and suffering. There’s no rhyme or reason to it anymore. This isn’t the way; it doesn’t serve any of us. If my boy was still alive, I would have wanted him to get out, just like you did.’ He got up from the chair, the scraping sound sending Scamarcio’s nerves rattling.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone I said that — those old fuckers will think I’ve gone soft. Now you just go take a stroll, and I’ll be back with your info in an hour.’ And with that, Foti left the room.

  Scamarcio had wanted to ask what he’d meant by ‘you, of all people’, but the timing felt wrong. It was clear that Foti wanted to be left alone with his grief now.

  Gaetano Foti never returned to the bar. Instead, a small boy showed up with a large crate of sinopolesi olives. Scamarcio noticed a small scrap of paper taped to the inside. ‘You Scamarcio?’ asked the boy.

  When Scamarcio nodded, the boy pushed the box across to him and ran off. Scamarcio found himself hoping that he was a grandchild; that Foti had had other children. Then he wondered why he was feeling so sorry for an ageing mafioso who had probably dispatched hundreds to an early grave. The answer was quick to come: he and Foti had shared a similar fate; they’d both been caught up in a madness that was bigger than them. Back then, there had been no other options; there still weren’t. If it hadn’t been for his mother, how many lives would Scamarcio have taken by now? He sighed and turned away from the bar. He cast his eyes around the empty square; the shops had shut, and the old men had left. It was time he did the same — this was not a place to linger.

  23

  THE SCRAP OF PAPER FOTI HAD TAPED to the olive carton told Scamarcio that the little Greek could be found by asking for Mirco in a bar in Germaneto, Catanzaro’s southern suburb. But Scamarcio knew that the motorway from Polisto would soon pass by Rocca, the village where Scamarcio had lived when his father had been gunned down. He asked himself yet again if he wanted to visit the family villa. Did he really want to drive up the gravel driveway, with phantoms murmuring through the cypresses, and nightmares becoming real? Did he really want to stand at the base of those steps that had been splintered and stained by his father’s blood?

  The turn for Rocca appeared on his right. He swallowed, and gripped the wheel tighter. He felt hot, then cold, and the back of his shirt grew sticky with sweat. In the distance, a crow’s orphan cry echoed out across the hills — lonely, forgotten, abandoned to its fate. He ignored the turn and drove on.

  Scamarcio switched on the radio and lost himself in Fabrizio De André for a while. He thought it over: could he really expect to use a man like the little Greek and then step away unscathed? He tried to work through the alternatives. But, yet again, he couldn’t find any.

  ‘Andrea is lost, he’s lost and doesn’t know how to get home,’ sang De André.

  Scamarcio knew that he had been shown a way out of the well. If he didn’t take it, there might not be another.

  The individual who called himself Mirco was a huge tank of a man. He was at least 6 foot five, and his enormous tatooed biceps strained through his Mad Max T-shirt. His neck was thicker than that of any rugby player Scamarcio had seen, and with his sunbed tan and coarse, dark hair shaved to a buzz cut, he fitted every archetype of the big-time enforcer. As he drew closer, Scamarcio’s attention was drawn to a red-and-green tattoo on the inside of the thug’s left forearm. He’d expected to read a woman’s name — something like ‘Maria’ or ‘Sara’ — so was surprised when he finally made out the word ‘Jesus’.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ barked Mirco once the barman had pointed Scamarcio in his direction.

  Scamarcio held out a hand, which Mirco didn’t take. ‘I’m the son of Lucio Scamarcio. Gaetano Foti suggested I speak with your boss. It’s about a matter regarding Piero Piocosta.’

  At the mention of Piocosta’s name, Mirco’s rat eyes narrowed, and he adjusted the waistband on his baggy Nike sweatpants. ‘What?’ he hissed.

  ‘I have a business proposition for Mr Greco. I just need ten minutes
of his time.’

  Mirco raised his chin and studied Scamarcio slowly from his shoes, to his cords, to his cotton shirt and leather jacket, until he stopped at eye level. His expression said, You are a preppy twat. His lips said: ‘Why would he bother? I’ve never heard of you.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Scamarcio, ‘could you just pass the message on? I can give you my number, so you can call if Mr Greco wants to speak to me.’

  Mirco scratched at the back of his neck and frowned. ‘No need. Wait here.’

  He nodded at the guy behind the bar, then turned sharply, his pristine white trainers squeaking on the floor tiles. He stopped, and looked back at Scamarcio for a moment before making his way through a side door. Scamarcio swallowed, and approached the not-so-friendly barman. His nerves were on fire, and the back of his shirt was damp again, but he managed to cough out enough words to order an espresso.

  He’d only just finished the coffee, the black eyes of the barman on him all the while, when Mirco was back.

  ‘Follow me,’ he snapped.

  Scamarcio scrabbled for cash in his pocket to pay, but the grunt just dragged him away, muttering: ‘Leave it, doesn’t matter.’

  Scamarcio followed him through the side door into a narrow alleyway that smelt of rotting vegetables and summer drains. Mirco seemed to be making his way towards a dim light at the end. As the light grew stronger, they emerged into a carpark, Mirco striding past the rows of cars at a brisk pace. Beyond was a small residential street lined with nondescript apartment blocks. They crossed the road, and Mirco headed for a mud-brown building, impatiently holding the glass door open for Scamarcio. They took the tiled steps up to a large, carpeted lobby, where Mirco swung a right and approached a door built into the panelwork. It was made from the same wood as the paneling, and was barely visible. He rang a buzzer, and a heavy who looked much like Mirco opened the door from the inside. They stepped into a large room, where around ten well-built men were playing cards or watching the football on TV. None of them looked up when the two of them passed by. Mirco carried on walking until he stopped outside a second door and knocked. Scamarcio thought he saw a flicker of anxiety cloud his features.

  ‘Come in,’ said a soft, surprisingly small, voice.

  Mirco pushed the door open, and they entered a dimly lit room. There was plush burgundy carpet underfoot, and an aroma of sandalwood in the air. A tall, long-limbed man sat perfectly upright behind an ornate oak desk, its thick round legs banded with gold. His face was extremely lean, his cheeks almost sunken. He had penetrating, bluey-grey eyes and a long beak of a nose. As Scamarcio approached, he noticed his expensively tailored tweed jacket and finely polished brogues. A quick scan of the walls revealed a series of framed portraits of racehorses. There was something about their faces that reminded Scamarcio of the man behind the desk.

  ‘So, Leone Scamarcio, son of Lucio, what a pleasure,’ said the man, rising from his chair and extending a hand.

  Scamarcio didn’t detect any sarcasm. He shook the hand of the man he now presumed to be Dante Greco, and took a seat opposite him.

  ‘Can I offer you a coffee, some tea, perhaps?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Scamarcio wasn’t sure how to play this. He’d been expecting hostility. After a moment, he said: ‘I hadn’t realised you knew my father.’

  Greco leaned back against his leather chair, his long, bony hands resting neatly on his lap, and studied Scamarcio. ‘We met several times. I had a lot of respect for him, actually. Your father was a decent man.’

  This was the first time Scamarcio had heard that said about him; but, given the speaker, he couldn’t take the comment too seriously.

  ‘Leone, I know you’re in the police, and I’m sure you’re aware of who I am and what I do. No doubt you wouldn’t be calling on me unless you felt that you had nothing to lose, so I’m very curious as to why you’re here.’

  ‘Why do you think I have nothing to lose?’

  ‘I read desperation in your eyes. And why else would a high-profile policeman make a public visit to one of the ’ndrangheta’s most powerful bosses?’

  Scamarcio nodded. He was surprised by Greco’s directness. ‘My father and Piero Piocosta were always close.’

  Greco snorted, but said nothing.

  ‘Piocosta seems to think this closeness should extend to his relationship with me. But I’m trying to make a clean breast of things up in Rome. I don’t want Piocosta on my back.’

  ‘How did you allow him to get there in the first place?’

  ‘I thought I could call on him for certain pieces of information.’

  ‘You grew up in the life, Leone. You should have known that he would never just leave it at that.’

  ‘I underestimated him.’

  ‘Then you’ve been foolish.’

  That was the polite way of putting it. ‘I’ve spent the last day visiting some of my father’s old associates. They suggested that you might be interested in helping me solve my problem with Piocosta.’

  Dante Greco suddenly threw back his head and laughed. It was a thick, guttural laugh, too deep for his lean frame somehow. Mirco joined in for a moment, then something in Greco’s expression made him stop.

  When Greco had recovered his composure, he said: ‘Do they think I have a deathwish? That I’ve lost my marbles? That rabble down in San Alberto may have all gone senile, but I haven’t.’

  Scamarcio no longer knew how to read the atmosphere. He couldn’t tell whether Greco was angry or genuinely amused; whether he was about to have Mirco beat him to a pulp, or invite him over for dinner. Scamarcio chose to remain silent and to allow Greco to explain himself.

  The little Greek studied him for several moments, then said: ‘There are certain things we long for in life, but going as far as to make them happen … Wisdom is knowing when something is out of reach; when the cost of pursuing it is too high.’

  Scamarcio felt as if he were being played. ‘That’s a surprisingly defeatist attitude from someone like yourself.’

  Greco raised an eyebrow. ‘How dare you judge me.’

  Scamarcio felt the molecules shift around him, felt them change their charge. He shrugged, and tried to keep his tone neutral. ‘I assumed that we might find common ground.’

  ‘Well, you assumed wrong,’ said Greco, staring at him hard.

  ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

  Scamarcio rose slowly from the chair, but, as he did so, Mirco pulled out a handgun. In the semi-darkness, Scamarcio couldn’t tell what kind of weapon it was, and this troubled him.

  ‘Calm down, Mirco,’ said Greco testily.

  Mirco just looked confused and stood there, still levelling the gun at Scamarcio.

  Greco sighed as if all this weighed on him personally. ‘I feel sorry for you, Leone. I know you witnessed your father’s death, and no boy should have to live with that. I understand why you went into the police; it makes perfect sense to me. I’m sure if your father was still alive or had died an easier death, you would have stayed put down here and taken the path that had been carved out for you. But fate prods us and pushes us, and steers us off into uncharted waters.’ He sighed again and tapped the edge of the desk a few times, seeming to think something through. ‘What I fail to understand, though, is your readiness to take me for a fool. All this bullshit about wanting Piocosta off your back — why not just come out with it and give me the real reason? Everyone down here understands why you’d want him gone. We don’t need a lie.’

  Scamarcio’s face must have been a mask of confusion, because Greco pushed back from the desk, his cold, blue eyes narrowing, his hard face contorting into a frown. ‘They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but twenty years is a long time to let it cool.’

  ‘But I’m not out for revenge. I …’

  Greco didn’t let him finish. ‘What are you so ashamed of? We invented the conc
ept!’

  ‘But why revenge? Revenge for what?’

  Greco shrugged. ‘For your father’s murder, of course.’

  Scamarcio felt dizzy, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. It was as if the walls of the room were falling away; as if he was being spirited somewhere else, to a place completely removed from everything he’d always known. Low cheers were coming from the card game outside, followed by the distant fragments of a far-off conversation. Then, suddenly, he was back in the room again, where Greco was staring at him with a strange mixture of concern and suspicion.

  Of course, realised Scamarcio, this was where it had all been heading: the oblique comments from Morabito, the hints from Foti. This was where they’d wanted to lead him. His mind flashed on Piocosta, and for a moment he struggled to believe it could be true. But then as quickly as he’d doubted it, he understood that it was possible. This murdering, filthy dog of a man had ordered the hit on his father, had had him executed in front of his wife and son. Then he’d tracked the son to Rome, tried to exploit him, tried to ruin him — tried to destroy him, like he’d destroyed the father. Piocosta was a monster; he was disgusting, subhuman. Scamarcio saw that now. He wanted to lash out and hit someone: Mirco — no, Greco — for delivering this news.

  Dante Greco was still studying him closely. Scamarcio was vaguely surprised to read what looked like alarm in the old man’s eyes.

  ‘I thought you weren’t being straight with me.’ Greco paused, and looked down into his lap as if it held the answer to a complex puzzle. ‘How can you call yourself a detective and not know?’ He was shaking his head. ‘It beggars belief.’

  ‘I never came back. This is the first time in twenty years.’

  ‘But surely someone would have told you? Your mother?’

  ‘Why would she know?’

  Greco frowned, but said nothing.

  ‘Why did Piocosta do it?’ asked Scamarcio, half-guessing the answer.

  Greco rose from the desk and poured himself a coffee from a cafetiere on the sideboard. ‘The word was that they had some kind of deal, that your father would step aside at an agreed time and allow Piocosta to take the helm. But then your father had second thoughts. He no longer wanted Piocosta at the top — he was unreliable, a loose cannon. Piocosta, of course, decided to take matters into his own hands at that point.’ He gestured to the cafetiere in his hand. ‘You sure you don’t want a coffee?’