Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores

by Massimo Carlotto

“You mean dog,” I said curtly.

  “Exactly,” he said, adjusting his velvet nut-brown blazer, which hid his sidearm. “They used to sell sewer rat and call it rat musqué.”

  I shuddered to recall the bright collars and cuffs of women’s overcoats. After that, nutria became the fashion. Their numbers skyrocketed after the breeding farms closed, and the provinces in Veneto waited ten years to take remedial action and institute courses for specialized hunters.

  “You shaved your moustache,” observed the inspector. “Lose a bet?”

  “No,” I answered laconically. A woman had told me it wasn’t a good look, said so while slowly riding me during a romp that had, at least at first, promised to be memorable. I decided to avoid other less than stimulating moments by taking a scissors and razor to it.

  The inspector looked askance at the display of baked goods. “They buy these limp-dick pastries for twenty cents and charge a euro for them.”

  “A euro thirty,” corrected the owner.

  “And don’t get me started on the palm oil,” he went on, raising his voice.

  “Don’t,” I said under my breath. Campagna loved preambles. He involved other people in idle talk and didn’t get around to the point until it suited him.

  He stared at me a second then ordered coffee. “Sleep well?”

  I lost my patience. “What the fuck kind of sting operation are we mixed up in? Please explain to me what that piece-of-shit Pellegrini is up to. He murdered a woman in Bern and now—surprise, surprise—he’s vanished into thin air.”

  Campagna absorbed the news while pouring a whole packet of brown sugar in his cup. “I know as much as you, Buratti. They don’t tell me anything. All they give me are orders I can’t make sense of.”

  “Set up a meeting with the witch,” I said, fed up. “And not at the station like last time.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, checking to see that his spoon was clean. “That woman wants to fuck you over. She’s making you do the dirty work and after that she’ll flush you down the can.”

  “I have you to thank. You’re the one who delivered me into the hands of that snake.”

  “Let me reiterate: I’m the low man on the totem pole. I do the bidding of anybody who counts for something.”

  “I still get the impression that she’ll fuck you over too. It’s not like you’re her idea of a model cop.”

  “As long as I stay on the sidelines, I’m not running any risks.”

  “Bullshit. Not even you buy that.”

  He drank his coffee, scraped the bottom of the cup for sugar, and sucked on it pensively. “Meeting you turned out to be a real pain in my ass.”

  “You and your stunts torched your career long before me.”

  “It’s a tough métier,” he remarked grimly.

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Because you’re a bum. I should’ve thrown you in jail the minute I laid eyes on you.”

  I sighed. Once again the curtain fell on our little act. The inspector stood up and walked outside to place a call.

  “Marino will meet you here this time tomorrow morning,” he said when he came back in. Then he turned to the barista. “He’s buying,” he said, and left without saying goodbye.

  Clearly Campagna wasn’t happy about being mixed up with Dottoressa Angela Marino. Neither was I, obviously, but after Bern my chances of getting out of that situation unscathed had gone up in smoke, and now we had to fall in line with that spiteful, dangerous official from the Ministry of the Interior.

  The cold hit me as soon as I set foot outside the café. I reached my car, wishing I had a parka like Campagna’s. My old aviator jacket was totally inadequate, but luckily the heating in the Škoda Felicia, a car built for the colder climes of Eastern Europe, provided quick comfort. I turned on the stereo, which was more valuable than the car itself, and listened to Beth Hart croon “Baddest Blues.” As usual, I had a hard time finding a parking spot around Corso Milano, where I shared an apartment with Max and, more and more frequently, Beniamino.

  During sales season, Paduans stormed the stores like barbarians and clogged the parking lots downtown. When Padua fell prey to shopping euphoria, the bars filled up with people eager to show off their purchases, as if they were trophies. According to a recent study of people’s emotional wellbeing, if you were to judge by emoticons, Padua was the saddest city in Italy. I believed it. Padua was beautiful, comfy as an old slipper, but in the last few years it had lost the bite that had once made it interesting.

  “Padua’s dying,” sang Massima Tackenza, drowning in laws and a mindless urge toward order and cleanliness. The mayor didn’t appreciate the sentiment, so DIGOS paid a visit to the fledgling rap group’s home to have a little chat about free speech. The mayor had bought a gun and was prepared to shoot any robber with the dumb idea of burgling his residence. His bunk about reasonable force had garnered him votes, but the majority split down the middle, and for months an interim administrator had been governing Padua in the lead up to new elections.

  Old Rossini, dressed to the nines, was reading the paper in an armchair in the living room.

  “Campagna was no help,” I told him. “I have a meeting with Marino tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t envy you,” he said flatly. Then he put a finger to his ear. “You hear that annoying hum?”

  I pricked up my ears. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “The Fat Man has gotten it into his head to shed a couple pounds.”

  I found Max in his room, bundled in a brand new tracksuit. He’d laced up a pair of sneakers and was pedaling a stationary bike. I pretended to ignore the damp sheen covering his purple face.

  “Keep your comments to yourself,” he warned, short of breath.

  “All right.”

  “If I have to go to jail, I want to be in shape.”

  “That’s not happening.”

  The Fat Man looked down at his handlebars and pedaled faster.

  I returned to the living room. “I hate to see him like that,” I mumbled.

  “He hasn’t gotten over the Switzerland debacle.”

  That makes two of us, I thought, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  Max reappeared a half hour later wearing a sponge robe and cradling a fruit-and-veggie smoothie. He took the first sip like a kid being spoon-fed cod liver oil.

  Rossini and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “How about a quick drink in the square then fish at Punta Sabioni,” said Beniamino.

  A look of sheer relief materialized on Max’s face. “I’ll go get changed.”

  The following morning I woke up early. After a smoke and coffee I calmly prepared my shaving cream. I needed to collect my thoughts one last time before meeting Dottoressa Marino.

  It was snowing in Central and Southern Italy, and under the snow the earth was rumbling. As usual, an emergency brought out the best and worst of Italy. Fortunately the sun shone on Padua, despite the freezing temperatures. On the street I stopped into a store advertising unbeatable discounts to buy something heavier than my old jacket.

  “Eskimos are back in style,” confided the young clerk, as if she were sharing a secret. After sizing me up and tallying my age, she figured I was a remnant of the counterculture era.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t all that nostalgic. I eyeballed a simple blue parka with particularly thick lining. “I’ll take that one,” I said, and headed for the register.

  I parked a block from the café. On my way over I passed a black sedan, fresh from the car wash. The man in the driver’s seat was talking on his cell phone. He was Marino’s driver, clearly. I’d find the others waiting for me in the warmth of the café.

  The moment I walked in, the owner nodded toward a table in the back where the Dottoressa was sitting with Inspector Campagna and another cop,
younger, who stood up and walked over to me. Wholesome-looking, except for his weasely eyes.

  “You know the drill,” he whispered in his thick Calabrian accent.

  I raised my arms and spread my legs.

  “Don’t be cute,” grumbled the agent, discreetly patting my sides. “No need to put on a show.”

  “Everybody in the neighborhood’s already pegged you for cops.”

  Angela Marino sighed. “Leave him be, Sergeant Marmorato. Buratti doesn’t pack a firearm in public. He doesn’t have the balls.”

  She kept her eyes on me as I sat down. “Unlike Beniamino Rossini, who wears a bracelet for every man he’s killed,” she went on. “It’ll never be too late to lock him up for life.”

  She had a pleasant voice, which made it all the more difficult to swallow her bullshit. I looked at Campagna, who was inconspicuously shaking his head, warning me not to react. I didn’t intend to, not in the slightest. It was my second time meeting that hyena, and I knew she was doing everything in her power to provoke me in order to remind me who was in charge.

  Once again, she wore her hair in a ponytail. Maybe she wore her hair that way for work, or maybe she wore her hair that way all the time. Two gold aquamarine earrings dangled from her ears.

  She took a sip of water. “Nice of you to show up. We were beginning to run out of patience,” she said. “I’ve earmarked three kilos of coke for you and your friends. For me to plant where I want, when I want. You know how many years you get for that? At least fifteen with my recommendation.”

  “We were looking for Pellegrini,” I interrupted.

  “I know. He told me. He thinks your objective is to eliminate him.”

  Well look at that, I thought, pretty Angela has a direct line to Handsome Giorgio.

  I feigned indignation. “Pellegrini’s wrong. All we want is to find out who could have it out for him so bad as to murder Martina and Gemma so brutally. Because there’s a long list of people who have a score to settle with the guy you’re protecting.”

  “Bullshit. You wanted to eliminate him and slink off.”

  I tried changing the subject. “Did Pellegrini inform you he killed Lotte Schlegel, his hostess in Bern?”

  “Giorgio had nothing to do with that. It was probably the people who took out the wife and friend.”

  “It was him all right.”

  “Maybe it was you,” she shot back.

  I put up my arms. “What? Threatening to throw us in jail for trafficking isn’t enough for you?”

  The woman smiled. “I can top that.”

  I pretended to surrender. “What do we have to do?”

  “Investigate the death of Martina and Gemma.”

  “Why us? Isn’t that Homicide’s job?”

  “With your connections, I’m sure you and your friends have a better shot at uncovering the killers.”

  What she’d said was half true. I pressed on. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  The cop stood up, and Marmorato mimicked her. “From now on we won’t tolerate anymore funny stuff,” she said. There was venom in her voice. “Inspector Campagna will provide you with the pertinent information.” She began walking away but turned around after a few steps. “I tapped my people at Interpol to get a clearer picture of your criminal contacts in Slovenia and Croatia. The local authorities cooperated. In the future, it won’t be so easy to rely on your cohorts and hideouts,” she added smugly. “Running isn’t a viable option anymore, Buratti. You should think about turning on Rossini, once the case is closed, in exchange for immunity. For you and that derelict Max the Memory.”

  “Three kilos of coke are more than enough to get what you want. You don’t need me.”

  “You’re capable of nailing Rossini for every bracelet on his wrist.”

  “You’re wrong. I’d never do that.”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied. “You all act tough at first. But when you’re facing life in jail, you’ll turn on anybody.”

  “That’s your goal is it, nail Rossini?”

  “Not my main goal, obviously. But why not take advantage of the situation? Giorgio testifies to the few murders he witnessed, and you testify to the rest.”

  Suddenly I got it. “Sending Beniamino to jail is Pellegrini’s idea, am I right?”

  “He put it out there during negotiations. Involving you gives us the added opportunity to shut your gang down for good.”

  “We’re not a gang,” I answered, indignant.

  “An opinion that’ll definitely pique the interest of the High Court,” she trilled, exchanging a playful look with Sergeant Marmorato.

  “There’s one thing I don’t get, Dottoressa.”

  “Make it quick. I’m busy.”

  “You’re presuming we’ll accept being blackmailed for some bogus crime. I mean, in the end you’ll do everything in your power to screw us over no matter what. Tell me, what’s in it for us?”

  “Wake up, Buratti. This is a contest to see who’s most willing to peddle his ass,” she snapped, fed up, as if she was talking to an idiot. “Prove you’re willing to sacrifice everything in the name of justice and there’s a chance you can save yourself.”

  She turned heel, and Marmorato followed. The Dottoressa had made herself clear.

  I snatched Campagna’s wrist. “What, none of your usual repartee to lighten the mood while that bitch measures our coffins?” I asked. I was livid.

  The inspector wriggled free. He’d gone pale. “Don’t make hay, Buratti.”

  “You were fucking played,” I seethed. “Slithering around to please her won’t help you: you’re one of the scapegoats and fall guys too.”

  “You’re forgetting we’re both cops.”

  “Is that right? Too bad you count for less than zero to Angela Marino. She despises you, and she’ll torch your career as soon as you’re no use to her.”

  “Keep dreaming,” he said, standing up. He took a disk out of his jacket pocket. “It’s the copy of the double-homicide report, updated yesterday.”

  “You really think she’ll let you testify in court that she ordered you to deliver a homicide report to me?”

  “Maybe I’ll play her game,” he spat. “Maybe I don’t know what the fuck to do. Not one of my colleagues will lift a finger to defend me against that bitch.”

  I shot to my feet and he backed up. “Think, Campagna. If you’re the last cop she’d want to work with, why did she come to you?”

  “Because she knows I covered for you when you forced Pellegrini out of Padua.”

  I threw up my arms, exasperated. “And what are you going to do to avoid military prison?”

  “I don’t know, Buratti. Maybe nothing. After all, I committed a crime.”

  “Cut the bullshit. You took the only shot you had at getting justice.”

  He sighed. “You and your partners are criminals. You’ve got absolutely nothing to do with justice.”

  “Neither does Dottoressa Marino,” I replied.

  “She’s different. She was born and raised on a planet of special ops at the ministry. She doesn’t think like a beat cop.”

  “That’s exactly why we’re the only ones you can count on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I spelled it out for him. “We should team up, Campagna. It’s the one chance we’ve got of walking away from this.”

  He stared at me a long time then silently withdrew.

  “Think about it!” I said loudly. Everyone but him turned around.

  I walked over to the register. First time in my life I was stuck paying for three cops.

  The owner waved my money away.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s O.K.”

  “I insist.”

  “In Albania I used to
watch Italian television in secret,” she began. “It was forbidden. But every night, when state TV stopped transmitting, I would tune in to Italian TV. I would watch till morning, because there was something magical about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. When I arrived in Italy, I realized it was the light. Our lights were always weak and sick-looking. They never lasted long. Staring at a light bulb broke your heart. To read you had to use an oil lamp or candles. My first night in Brindisi I swore to myself I would never give up that light. I’ve always been careful to keep out of trouble. Italian trouble, Albanian trouble. Understand?”

  I nodded. “I apologize. I won’t come back.”

  I exited and lit a cigarette. The taste of tobacco mingled with the stink of the trash burner in the distance. The air in Padua is filled with fine dust that only rain can get rid of, but there hadn’t been a drop for weeks.

  I half turned to see the woman from the bar. She’d stepped out from behind the counter to help an old woman into her coat. She could have told me to get lost. Instead she’d chosen to confide something intimate to me to help me understand the importance of what she had and what I had almost jeopardized.

  I felt guilty. I stopped a man with white hair protruding from an old flat cap as he was entering, the paper tucked under his arm. He must’ve been on his way for a coffee or a glass of white wine. He’d stick around all morning, reading the news, offering his own running commentary.

  He was suspicious, and my smile didn’t assuage his suspicions. I took two fifties from my wallet and asked him to give them to the owner.

  “Why don’t you give them to her yourself?”

  “It’s an old debt. I’m too embarrassed.”

  He put out his hand and took the money. He had two wedding bands on his ring finger.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  I had nothing to share with my friends but bad news, so I took my time delivering it. I drove through Padua listening to Gina Sicilia’s “Allow Me to Confess” and holed up in an osteria, one of the last places left where people still played cards. I lost at scopa, lost at briscola, offered everybody a round, gorged on meatballs and boiled eggs to avoid stomach cramps from the cheap wine, and got my fill of gossip and filthy jokes.