I was perfectly aware of that from the moment I saw her at the hotel bar. But I didn’t know how to tell her.
“Do I have to pay to hug you?” I asked.
She chuckled and rested her head on my chest. I caressed her hair and, seeing as she didn’t protest, her face too.
“Is Marco your real name?” she asked all of a sudden.
“Marco Buratti.”
“And do you have a family waiting for you somewhere?”
“In this world, all I have are two friends and a bunch of exes.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“You must really like me,” I joked, “otherwise you wouldn’t be asking all these questions.”
“Please answer me. Paz Anaya Vega doesn’t meet just anyone. You must be some kind of kingpin.”
I’d been waiting for her to ask. I hadn’t been able to erase the memory of her look of disgust when she saw me talking to the Spaniard.
“I don’t deal drugs. They make me sick,” I replied. “I’m a private investigator without a license. I handle cases off the books, and the money I earn rarely comes from legit sources.”
“Were you in jail?”
“Seven long years.”
She let out a sigh of disappointment. “If I ran off with you I’d still have to turn tricks. I’m forty-two and in ten years I’ll be a lot lizard—hunting for johns in gas station stalls. Ten euros for a blowjob, fifteen from the front, twenty from the back,” she said, hard-bitten. “If I stay here nothing changes. I’ll live out my last days in hospice if I don’t die first.”
She pulled away and coiled into a ball at the edge of the mattress.
At that point I stood up and put my shoes back on. “I’ll take you away, Edith,” I said. “You can’t live like this anymore. With the help of my friends, I’ll manage to find you an alternative, by which I mean a place to live and a job. Then you can decide what to do.”
“And if I don’t want to be with you?”
“I’ll suffer the same as any spurned man, but it’s not a bargaining chip,” I answered before leaving.
I was happy to have seen her and told her that her enslavement would be over. For good. I wasn’t expecting anything else.
I wandered around the neighborhood. I stopped to drink a beer and all of a sudden I remembered my promise to Rossini to call Campagna. I switched on the phone that we used to communicate and discovered that over the last twenty-four hours the inspector had tried to call me dozens of times.
“What’s the point of having a phone if you keep it turned off the whole time?” he laid into me.
“Take it easy. What happened?”
“Are you still in Vienna?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll call as soon as I’m off the plane.”
He didn’t sound like himself. He was palpably upset.
“Tell me why, otherwise you won’t find me when you get here.”
“Don’t be a prick, Buratti.”
“Talk. The line’s secure.”
“The Spaniard abducted Marino and Pellegrini. It happened in Munich. They were lured into a trap and fell for it like two fools.”
My advice had worked: the Russian hackers had circulated the intel on Pellegrini and someone sold him out. It wasn’t bad news at all. Sure, we hadn’t planned for Marino to get mixed up in it, but it meant salvation for us and for Campagna. We were no longer at risk of ending up in jail in the Republic.
“You ought to be happy,” I said. “We can turn the page.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry to hear. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to spring for champagne and caviar and celebrate with my friends tonight,” I said.
“I’m begging you, Buratti, I have to see you tonight.”
“Sounds like you still need us,” I remarked suspiciously. “I don’t want to find myself back in the sorry situation of being threatened to do the dirty work for the ministry’s super-cops.”
“Not at all. I swear. On my daughter’s life.”
If I agreed to meet him and get involved, we’d most likely risk delaying our efforts to free Edith from the clutches of Frau Vieira. But in my world, a man doesn’t swear on something that big for a lie or scam.
“All right,” I conceded, “call me when you get in to the city.”
SEVEN
Luckily the exhaust pipe runs along the wall behind me, otherwise I’d have frozen to death already. The problem is the nighttime, when they stop throwing wood on the fire and those bastards keep warm under the covers while I’m down here, naked and chained to a fucking rocking chair that teeters the minute I move.
They’re holding Marino somewhere else. From time to time Paz drags her in and forces her to suck my dick, and when I come she squeezes my balls till I faint. She gets off on little, the Spaniard. She’s devoid of imagination. Were I in her shoes, I’d have dreamed up a freak show.
If I’m not dead yet that’s thanks to the Dottoressa’s stupid idea to infiltrate Balakian’s organization with me. And my ability to improvise quickly. When they caught us, the first thing I did was inform them that she wasn’t my woman but an official from the Italian Ministry of the Interior.
Paz was addled with joy. She thought she’d won the lottery now that she had the chance to take revenge on the cop who had ordered the murder of her husband.
She’d wanted to celebrate with a blowtorch that she’d had made in an abandoned body shop on the outskirts of Munich. But her euphoria didn’t last long: her men started bitching. They weren’t so willing to blow their chances of cutting a deal with the cops and escaping the years in prison destined for them. They understood that their organization was through, and they’d come to terms with that, but the possibility of riding off into the sunset was too attractive to piss away by killing a cop.
They’re still arguing. Paz must be in the minority at the moment, that much is clear, since the pretty Dottoressa hasn’t seen a dick besides mine. She even has her clothes on still.
All things considered, they haven’t gone too hard on me either. I doubt they’re thinking of bargaining for my freedom, since I mean nothing to them, but they don’t want to make any false moves right now.
We had only stayed in Munich one night. The next morning they loaded us onto another van and we drove for a long time, four or five hours at least. I’m positive we’re in Austria now, since at a certain point the asshole driving the van and talking exclusively in German said “Salzburg.” And the city of fucking Mozart is the first you pass over the border on the road that runs from Munich to Vienna.
From what I’d managed to spy under the blindfold that I had on for the entire trip, we must be in the hills or mountains, in a remote house surrounded by snow. The thought of making a run for it on foot was pointless. In order to pull it off, I’d have to kill them all, Paz and her three guard dogs. At first there’d been five of them, but two left. Probably to confer with the rest of the gang.
Every once and a while Paz whispers in Spanish the nasty things she has in store for me. For her satisfaction, I play along, but she doesn’t frighten me. She’d already done the best she could do in the cellar of my restaurant when she killed Martina and Gemma. But on several occasions I’ve been far craftier, far more creative. Gifted. And that makes the difference, that separates her from me.
I’ve accepted pain, and she won’t get anything else out of me. Had she delivered me the cocaine with Tobias that morning, I’d have taught her that when you strip someone’s life away, you have to take possession of everything they have inside. If she were in my goddamn chair, we’d already have covered her childhood and adolescence. Paz can’t even imagine the real pleasure of looking your victim in the eye when he realizes he’s facing the mystery of the afterlife after he’s been robbed of everything else.
&n
bsp; And that’s not my fate. It may be small consolation, but in the situation I find myself in, I don’t see anything else that’s positive. So far. Dying still doesn’t suit me.
I have to piss. I have to shout loud and long, otherwise these guys will take their sweet time.
“Hello?! I can’t hold it any longer!”
Here they come. The usual duo. I call them the “monks” because they don’t say a word. They’re ex-soldiers. You can tell by the way they move: cautious, rigid, methodical. The older of the two, a fifty-year-old with close-cropped white hair, I once saw with Slezak. He has snake eyes; likes to kill.
To carry me to the toilet they use a really ingenious system: a snare pole. They slip the cable around my neck, keeping me at a safe distance with the steel rod, and I follow their lead like a good pup.
I take the opportunity to stretch my legs. On my way back I pass by Paz. She doesn’t even dignify me with a look. She’s too busy on her phone.
Another couple of days and I’ll have bedsores. I can already feel the blisters on my cheeks. The smell of food wafts through the room. Someone’s cooking. They’ll bring me leftovers. The other “monk” is supposed to spoon-feed me, but just as he’s about to, he gets up and walks out. He figures feeding me isn’t a necessity.
A car pulls up. Real big from the sound of the engine. The way he raises his voice, must be someone heavy. Paz stands her ground. Someone shouts in pain. They’re working over Marino. Something’s happening. Footsteps. Coming toward me.
Abo Tscherne: I know him well. Before meeting Tobias Slezak, I dealt with him. The first idiot that I tricked into thinking I might be a good buyer. And then there’s Paz, gripping the Dottoressa by the hair. Poor girl, they split her lip. Another guy comes in with a tripod and a video camera. Have they decided to film a porno? A collector’s edition snuff film? It’s a good joke, but I’ll keep it to myself. I doubt they’re in the mood to appreciate it.
The Spaniard picks up an old chair and forces the cop to sit next to me. Abo points to me and barks an order. The errand boy goes out to retrieve a blanket and covers my naked body. No, they’re not interested in shooting just any flick.
Chairs are brought in for Tscherne and Paz. The red light of the camera goes on.
“Say your name,” Abo orders the Dottoressa in the Italian he picked up in jail.
“Angela Marino.”
“What’s your rank?”
“Deputy Chief.”
“What’s his name?”
“Giorgio Pellegrini.”
“Is he a cop too?”
“No. He’s a wanted criminal.”
“And what are you two doing together in Munich?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“But you were the one who furnished him with the new identity of Attilio Sforza and ordered him to kill Tobias Slezak and two of our friends.”
“No, Pellegrini acted alone that time.”
The bitch intends to stab me in the back.
“That’s not true!” I scream.
Paz blows her top. She wants to tear out the liar’s tongue, but they hold her back.
I can’t understand what he’s saying, but it’s clear Abo’s reprimanding her: now’s not the time to lose your cool.
“Was she the one who gave the order to kill Tobias?” Tscherne asks.
“Yeah, I swear.”
“And why would an Italian cop want three dead Austrians on her hands?”
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” whispers Marino.
But now doesn’t seem like the right moment to. I answer him. I tell him everything I know. The cop isn’t happy about it. She tries to interrupt me. But in a situation like ours, it doesn’t pay to be a hero. And if I convince Abo that deep down I’m not such a bad guy, maybe I’ll be spared Paz’s torture and go out with a bullet to the back of the head.
“I suppose that the Austrian and German police know about your activities,” says Abo, grinning broadly.
Marino doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. She changes tack.
“If you think you stand to gain something by bartering the life of an Italian official, I’d advise you to stop this interrogation,” she says, recovering that arrogant vein that always set her apart. “The more details that emerge, the narrower your chance of a deal becomes, until walking away with your life becomes a luxury none of you can afford.”
I look at her, amazed. Threats! Abo shifts in his chair. He’s not as stupid or clouded by a thirst for revenge as the Spaniard.
“I can give you the name of a go-between to contact,” adds the Dottoressa, “but you have to keep this business confidential. It’s in everyone’s best interest.”
“And who would that be?”
“Inspector Giulio Campagna at Padua Central Police.”
That’s rich. I was expecting her to come up with Doctor So-and-So from the ministry. But a local cop is a shock.
Abo and the Spaniard go out to argue in peace. The errand boy filming the interview stays behind to guard us, but he’s checking the quality of the video. He’s distracted. And as far as I remember doesn’t speak Italian.
“Campagna’s a bit player,” I say to Marino under my breath.
“I couldn’t involve the men who are looking for me right now. Besides, Campagna’s the right man: he’s in contact with Buratti and his partners, and they know how to reach this fucking crew.”
“There’s some murky stuff in that little head of yours. While you wait for the rescue team, you open an avenue for diplomacy.”
“Keep dreaming, Giorgio,” she adds. “No one wants you alive.”
I’d already figured as much, so I amuse myself by needling her.
“You’re not tickled by the idea of me telling people how good you are at giving head?”
“Bet your ass I’m not.”
The guard orders us to shut up. A little time passes before the bosses return to the room.
“It’s a deal. We’ll contact the cop and give him a copy of the video,” says Tscherne. “We can be confident everyone will be satisfied in the end, since the Italian police can’t allow it to wind up in the papers.”
Paz snatches Marino by the hair. “Do you understand? It’s not your life that’s important but the fear of a scandal. That’s the only reason you’ll save your skin, but you better watch your back for the rest of your life, because I’m never going to forgive you.”
The Dottoressa doesn’t accept terms that easily. She wants to know, she won’t relinquish control of the situation entirely. A cop to the core. “How did you find us?”
The Spaniard laughs. “Money. I paid some Russian hackers to circulate Pellegrini’s photo online with a notice: ‘Attention, Killer, Piece of Shit Colluding with the Italian Police.’ The news went viral and interested parties sold you out.”
So, Balakian made a small fortune. Six million of the ministry’s slush funds, plus whatever Paz coughed up.
The Spaniard leads Marino out of the room, and I see my opening to talk to Abo. “Put in a good word with her for me?”
“I’m the grandfather of two children,” he says. “Whenever I go see them, they cry because you made them orphans. And my daughter Sabine does nothing but ask me, ‘Have you found Guntmar’s killer yet?’”
Now I remember him. He was the youngest of the trio. I shot him as soon as I stepped out of the bathroom.
Abo puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Sabine is a strong woman. Just like her mother. There wasn’t a woman in the Hells Angels with balls like her. The only thing I’ll ask of Paz is your heart. Sabine will be happy to have it for a keepsake.”
EIGHT
Inspector Campagna looked like a shadow of the man I’d met in Padua not long before. His puffy eyes glazed over, his beard grown out, his jacket and pants rumpled.
&nbs
p; I agreed to meet him in an old beer hall in Rennweg, not far from his hotel. I was alone. Max and Beniamino refused to come with me. They didn’t understand why I felt obliged to listen to what the cop had to say. We’d finally gotten out of the game and now we had to rescue Edith, deal a blow to Frau Vieira’s organization, and head home.
Yet here I was, sitting in front of Campagna, confused to be staring at his cellphone and holding a pair of headphones that he’d handed me.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” I asked.
“Watch. More importantly, listen,” he answered. “A package from Vienna containing a video card arrived at the station. Addressed to yours truly.”
I took a sip of beer and did what he asked. The only two actors in the video were Marino and Pellegrini. She was disheveled, her lip swollen, and he was naked, tied to a chair, with a blanket covering him from the waist down. I watched and listened, and my stomach turned. I regretted not having listened to my friends.
“She’s clever, the Dottoressa. Never fails to disappoint,” I snapped. “You’ve at least figured out why she put you in the middle of this, I hope?”
He nodded. “Because we’re the couple of the century: I’m the way to get to you and you’re the way to contact Paz Anaya Vega’s gang.”
“Have you shown the video to anyone yet?”
“Of course. I’m a cop, Buratti.”
“Not the most clever one either. If you’d pretended not to have received it, we’d all have made out just fine.”
“I know a senior official in Rome,” he began. “A good guy, someone I trust blindly. He used to live in Veneto, then he was promoted and transferred to the ministry. As soon as I discovered what was going on, I hopped on a train to go talk to him.”
“And?”
“A shockwave has rattled the inner recesses of the ministry and more than a few heads are going to roll. Now everyone is saying that Marino is a hothead who acted alone and neglected to follow proper rules and procedures. Her whole team has been called back to Italy.”
Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores Page 16