Savage Kiss

by Roberto Saviano

  The last message in the chat was from Tucano.

  Tucano

  What a damn fuck, with a kiss! But next time, we should get there in the morning, because in the evening femminielli have whiskers.

  And the champagne went down the wrong way. He ran into the bathroom, hoping that there, at least, there were four walls.

  * * *

  “Who has whiskers, Luigi’?” It was a Sunday of pure boredom, the kind of day when you leave your phone lying around because you don’t want to talk to anyone. Drago’ told his little sister to give him his smartphone and started to reply, but it died in his throat. On the paranza’s chat, Nicolas, still wrapped around Letizia’s body, had written:

  Maraja

  Tonight. Lair. Meeting.

  THIS IS BUSINESS

  The year before, during Christmas dinner with the whole family gathered, Lollipop had wound up sitting next to an uncle who worked in the PolFer, Italy’s national railway police. For hours his uncle had told him about his job, complaining especially about the thefts of copper, telling him in considerable detail about the hows and whys of the problem. A story that had at first piqued his curiosity, then entertained him, and in the end had simply bored him to death, but which now proved useful. During the meeting at the lair, in a short half hour, he instructed the members of the paranza on the fundamentals, because, if they hoped to fix the little red wagons of the people stealing the copper, they had to know exactly how it was being stolen. That, too, was part of membership in Maraja’s paranza: always being well informed.

  Counselor Caiazzo had given Nicolas the details. The Gypsies used the Bausan Wharf to deliver the copper, showing up in big cars packed with the metal and then jamming it into containers. “But who buys it?” Nicolas had asked. “The Chinese,” the lawyer had replied, but they were too powerful, better forget about that angle. Certainly, they’d be pissed off, but they’d find other suppliers. It was the Gypsies of Gianturco who had to be wiped out.

  After the meeting at the lair, the members of the paranza had set out from Forcella in formation, all six of them, in single file, roaring along at moderate speed. The only one missing was Biscottino—his mother marked him closely and the excuse that he was sleeping over at someone else’s house didn’t work with her. Nicolas hadn’t insisted, there were enough of them, and, after all, Biscottino was too young, there was a risk he might prove a liability in this kind of operation.

  They’d opted for automatic pistols because Uzis against those metal walls ran the risk of ricocheting; better to have a lighter weapon, easier to handle and not as noisy, even though there was bound to be plenty of ruckus. Nicolas would take care of Mojo.

  They were stopped at a traffic light, with cars honking behind them. No bullshit before reaching the wharf, the mission was too important.

  “And how are we going to take them?” asked Drone.

  “We surround them and we take the containers,” Nicolas replied. He’d decided that Engineer D’Elia was going to be too busy celebrating his high-speed trains to worry about demanding the return of the swag. The paranza would sell it off, maybe to the very same Chinese they were about to leave empty-handed.

  “We surround them and we take the containers? Like that?” asked Lollipop.

  “Adda murì mammà, just like that,” said Nicolas.

  Green light. They took off again, still in single file. There was no fear in those questions, just the need to understand the coming moves, clearly, to get the sense that Maraja knew what to do.

  Another red light. This time it was Drago’ who pulled up next to Nicolas.

  “Nico’,” he said, “we’re running the risk of being knocked over here.” Nicolas unleashed a kick at the bodywork of Drago’s TMAX, and Drago’ immediately set his other foot down on the asphalt, recovering his balance.

  “You see?” asked Nicolas. “You didn’t get knocked over.” Green light.

  Until they reached the Bausan Wharf, no one said another word. Nicolas led them to the farthest slip, where it looked like one single multicolored shipping container, so close were they stacked together to save even two feet of space.

  A path just wide enough to let an average-size car through without scratching its sides cut the mass of shipping containers in half. They got to the open patch of asphalt and waited.

  The lawyer Caiazzo had explained to Nicolas that it could only have been the Gypsies, they were the only ones capable of pulling off that job, wedging their way into that one-way street where the only way out was to jump into the water of the bay. That’s why they had the monopoly on copper: they weren’t afraid of becoming fish food.

  Floodlights illuminated the blacktop where a number of automatic stacking cranes stood motionless, as bright as broad daylight, while leaving the shipping containers surrounding it on three sides in utter darkness. The only sound was the sloshing of water against the wharf. Nicolas walked over to a Fantuzzi forklift, a sort of oversized jeep with enormous wheels fitted with an extendable arm, broke the driver’s-side window to get inside, and swung up behind the steering wheel. From there, he could see the entrance to the blacktop area. The other members of the paranza took up scattered positions on top of the containers that had not yet been stacked, so that at a signal from Nicolas—a text in their chat room—they could leap down, weapons at the ready.

  Silence. The water had stopped sloshing, the cables dangled from the cranes without emitting so much as a creak. The whole world seemed sunk in a dead calm, as if an invisible hand had placed the Bausan Wharf under a giant glass bell jar. Nicolas caressed the button of the switchblade knife L’Arcangelo had given him. He applied pressure, not enough to make the blade snap out, until he could feel it make contact with the spring that was just on the verge of triggering, and then his finger released its pressure.

  A metallic noise, followed immediately by another, softer one. And then, again, silence. Maybe one of his men had gotten a cramp, from waiting like that, beached flat on top of the shipping containers. A sudden flash of light made him raise his head. A repeated flash, as of headlights rapidly being turned on and off. A signal. His eyes focused straight ahead of him, he held his breath. Nothing, it was just a car flashing its brights at another. Was he leading his paranza to slaughter? If the Gypsies were armed with submachine guns, would they even have time to draw their pistols? The lawyer had told him loud and clear: those guys are penniless bums, they don’t even carry knives. Nicolas went back to pushing the button on his own switchblade, and this time he snapped it open. Clack. In that dead calm, the sound seemed to echo among the containers. They all heard it, and Nicolas knew it, because in turn he heard the sound of creaking sheet metal. They all raised their heads to see if someone was coming, he decided, and they all stayed there waiting, for fear that lowering their heads too suddenly might make noise. And in fact, a few seconds later, Nicolas heard a succession of other booming metallic noises. The boys had gone back to their initial resting positions.

  It was twenty minutes past eleven. Caiazzo hadn’t given them a precise schedule, he’d just muttered something about “around midnight.” Another forty minutes like this is more than we can take, thought Nicolas. Five minutes went by, and then a distant buzz broke the stalemate. Cars. Big engines. Coming closer. The Gypsies were arriving. And they were there ahead of time.

  Four big Mercedes cars with only their parking lights burning stopped at the center of the blacktop, with their engines still running. A dozen or so men got out of three of the four cars, and went around to open the trunks, while the doors of the fourth remained shut tight. He’d already prepared the text that he’d send the others—“Rock ’n’ Roll”—but before sending it, he made sure that Mojo was one of that group of men. An enormous silhouette was moving between one automobile and another; the floodlights of the wharf backlit him so that only his silhouette could be seen. Nicolas recognized him from the way he moved: you never forget your own jailer, you never forget the man you’ve promised to murder.r />
  Maraja

  Rock ’n’ Roll.

  “Freeze!” “Sons of bitches!” “Hands up!” “Piece-of-shit Gypsies!” From atop the shipping containers, Pesce Moscio, Lollipop, Drago’, Tucano, and Drone fired a few shots into the crowd.

  Four or five of the Roma took to their heels immediately, eluding pursuit as they dodged away around and behind the shipping containers. There was no need to go after them, Nicolas’s plan was to slaughter their captain, and then the rest of them would slink back to their filthy trailers. Briato’, who had taken up a hiding place behind a forklift because, with his leg in that condition, he wasn’t eager to make the jump, went over to one of the Roma who had obeyed the paranza’s shouted commands and stood there, both hands held high. He swung the butt of his pistol and cracked it against the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground. “No did nothing,” the man said over and over, but Briato’ ignored him and delivered another solid blow, this time to his nose. Two Roma next to Mojo gestured to the car with its doors still closed to drive away. The driver put the car in reverse, but Lollipop and Drone each unloaded a clip of six bullets, riddling the tires and hood, which now started to exude a plume of smoke. Pesce Moscio drew his pistol and took careful aim. He shot one of the Roma who had tried to wave the lead car off. “Ua’, I’ve become quite the sharpshooter.”

  The lawyer had had a point, thought Nicolas, these guys didn’t even think of bringing weapons. He pulled back the hammer on his gun, and the other members of his paranza followed suit. They opened fire on the Roma as they tried to get away.

  Then there was no sound left but the rumble of Mercedes engines turning over. The members of the paranza exchanged glances as they stood, panting, pistols hanging at their sides, like so many cowboys who had fought off the attack on the stagecoach and were now surveying the field of battle. Mojo was missing. Nicolas left his men to exchange high fives and chest bumps and walked over to the lead Mercedes. He threw open the rear passenger door. There were three children and a dog that immediately started snarling at him. On the floor between the seats, Mojo had joined his hands in a mute plea, and was darting his eyes at the children.

  “Make that dog shut up!” Nicolas shouted, pointing his gun right at the dog’s jaws. It was a powerful-looking dog, a snarling mass of muscle. The children led it behind their backs and Nicolas lowered his handgun, using it to wave Mojo out of the car, and fast. Mojo continued to hold out both hands, clasped in a mute plea, without moving.

  “Maraja,” Mojo said. “We friends, right? Me saved you. You can’t shoot me. Me saved you.”

  “Mojo, my man, this is nothing personal. This is strictly business. And business is what you’re out of.” He shut the door and went around to the other side of the car, ordering Drago’ and Tucano to come over. “Get that sack of shit out of the car!” Drago’ and Tucano threw open the door and dragged Mojo out onto the asphalt. He sat down, legs crossed, the members of the paranza in a circle around him. “Me beg you. Me always loyal to you. Me make you rich,” he said, swiveling to face each of them, hands clasped, as if in benediction. Nicolas slowly walked around the outside of the circle, snapping his switchblade open and then folding it shut immediately. The wind had once again started to blow gently; his nostrils were met with the smells of exhaust fumes from the boats and ships moored not far away.

  “Me make you rich!” Mojo repeated.

  “We’re already rich,” said Nicolas, without stepping into the circle. Mojo looked around wildly to understand where that voice was coming from, but all he could see was the other members of the paranza, sniggering.

  “Maraja, if you kill me—”

  Nicolas stepped into the circle, and, before Mojo could even finish his sentence, he completed his performance of The Godfather with which, at the New Maharaja, the whole episode had first begun. He snapped open the switchblade that L’Arcangelo had given him as a gift and planted it deep in Mojo’s belly, then hauled up on it, slashing diagonally, up and up, until he sliced into his chest, leaving behind a streamer of blood—just the same as De Niro had done when he’d killed Don Ciccio, the man who, back when Don Vito Andolini, before his last name became Corleone, was just a snot-nosed kid, un muccusiello, had murdered his family. Mojo stared up at him, round-eyed and uncomprehending, and unlike the members of the paranza all around him, he didn’t even know the script of his own death.

  “And now,” said Nicolas, once he was sure that the man had stopped breathing, “let’s take this nice present back to the sewer where Mojo lived.”

  “E i guagliuncelli?” asked Drago’. What about the kids? Nicolas nodded his head; this time Drago’ was right. He went back to the car. The children hadn’t moved from the back seat and they seemed to be clutching at the dog like a lifeboat.

  Nicolas observed the three boys huddled on those filthy seats, covered with open food packages, rags, crumpled paper, and empty bottles. They sat there staring at him, paralyzed; only the dog had continued to snarl, the slobber streaming down her neck to her collar. She was a young dog, though no longer a puppy, but clearly not one of those animals that issue meaningless threats. The whiteness of her coat wasn’t kindness, it was purity. A pure concentrate of power and destruction. Nicolas aimed his Desert Eagle at the center of her massive forehead, but the oldest boy implored him: “Don’t kill us, we’re begging you!” Then a sly glint appeared in his gaze: “You can make a bunch of money with this dog! And then when she’s all grown up, she can have puppies, and you can sell them,” he said again.

  “What money?” Nicolas asked as he lowered his gun, for no real reason other than that he liked that bitch, and she deserved respect.

  “She’s a Dogo! A Dogo Argentino! You know about Dogos?”

  He knew about them, everyone knew that they were the best when it came to dogfights, but he’d never seen one before. Still, now he realized that their reputation was well deserved.

  It was the eldest of the three boys who was talking to Nicolas, and he must have been sure that, if he kept distracting the man who had killed his father’s boss, he’d save both the life of the Dogo and his own life and those of his brothers, who were clinging to each other, stunned, their senses dulled by the slaughter.

  “I like this championess, here.” The boy realized he’d done it, put the collar on the Dogo, and handed the leash to Nicolas. Then he gave her one last kiss on the head goodbye, whispered a few words that were neither Italian nor Neapolitan, and then pushed her out of the car. “Go on,” he said, “get going.”

  The dog had a pair of eyes that understood everything, and maybe that’s why she walked away from the Mercedes without looking back.

  “Guagliu’,” Nicolas said to his crew, leaning over the Dogo, who was no longer snarling, “let me introduce you to Skunk.”

  * * *

  They drove all the way to Gianturco, their mission not yet fully accomplished. After pulling the copper out of the trunks and hiding it in certain empty shipping containers to which Counselor Caiazzo had directed Nicolas, they had set out for the Roma shantytown. With a little effort and a few scratches, Nicolas had managed to hold Skunk still, clamping her between his legs. The dog had started barking ferociously, but then she’d realized that there was nothing to be done and had subsided into yelping. With that siren going in the background, they arrived in Gianturco, where they found the Gypsy camp swarming with people. Maybe they were all expecting their men to return home after the job on the wharf, thought Nicolas, who waved his hand in a signal to his men to start shooting: this was the beginning of the stesa.

  They fired at human height, right into the sides of the trailers, at the cars, and against the scrap metal that the Roma used as laundry baskets, clotheslines, tables, and chairs.

  “Fucking piece-of-shit Gypsies!” “If you touch the trains again, you’ll wind up deader than Mojo Vileda!” “That copper belongs to us!”

  It was like being in a pinball machine where, every time you hit the bumpers, they bounced into
the air. They rode through the camp twice, wallowing in the mud and stirring waves of filth. The Roma ran this way and that, like ants when you rip open their earthen anthill.

  Nicolas stopped at the entrance to the camp and the others gathered around him. They had performed well and there was going to be a nice reward for each and every one of them. But it was time to head home now, he needed to feed Skunk.

  A DERANGED PLAN

  He’d taken ’a Koala’s Kymco to the garage. That night, locked up in there, Dentino slept dreamlessly, untroubled. He’d put his vendetta off for a day; he had something to do first.

  When lunchtime rolled around and his mother knocked, this time he opened the metal roller gate. They found themselves face-to-face after all these many months. His mother’s eyes immediately filled with tears, in part due to a surge of emotion, but especially because of the state to which that son of hers had been reduced. If it hadn’t been for those distinctive chipped incisors of his, she would have taken him for a stranger. In particular, his eyes frightened her. He gave her a hug.