5
Micky threads his Ferrari through the evening traffic without any pointlessly showy acrobatics. He makes a U-turn, takes Via Tempesta as far as Piazzale Zavattari, and then turns onto the outer ring road. Now we’re roaring through Piazza Bolivar, and where we’re heading is a complete mystery to me. He has chosen silence as the distinctive feature of our journey together and I go along with his choice. For that matter, what is there for us to say to each other that we don’t already both know? In two very different ways, we’re the same person, even though physically we’re two different chessmen.
In spite of the most impassioned pleadings of counsel for the defense, a couple of pawns, I’d have to add.
We drive on, roaring through a city part of which is sound asleep while another is just getting dressed and made up for a gala banquet of bad habits and vice. Every night can be considered a special occasion, until a midnight finally rolls around when everyone will realize that none of those nights was special at all.
And that’s not going to be a midnight to look forward to.
We stop at a red light, next to a newsstand. Posters cover the little shack, announcing the lead stories of the newspapers and magazines: the ongoing and hopeless saga of Aldo Moro, the trial of the founders of the Red Brigades, UFO Robot Grendizer, Loredana Bertè and her latest love affair, the FIFA World Cup on its way, Juventus and Torino F.C., TV Sorrisi e Canzoni, the troubles of Italian president Giovanni Leone.
All these different stories intertwined on the same wall, in the same world, in the same life. And I don’t give a damn about any of it or any of them. Maybe that’s because first and foremost I don’t give a damn about myself. I turn my head to look at Micky. I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I wonder if he ever asks questions, or if he’s just pure instinct. Fast cars, fast trips, fast love affairs. And time, capable of outstripping the fastest speed there is, time, which kills you quickly because there’s no memory that can remember every instant.
Micky mistakes my glance for impatience.
“It’s going to take us a little while to get there. We have to go all the way out to Opera.”
I dismiss with a nonchalant gesture all my thoughts of just a few seconds ago.
“Don’t sweat it. There’s no hurry. We have all the time we need.”
I turn my head to watch the road.
All the time we need …
Lucio would appreciate the irony. How much time do you need, anyway? Now that I know who I am, I’d prefer not to know it. Memory is the only way of being sure you’ve even lived. But I don’t remember, so I won’t be remembered.
Micky turns right, leaving Viale Liguria and heading for the on-ramp of the Milan–Genoa superhighway. He asks me if I want to snort a line of cocaine. I shake my head no. He pulls a solid-gold contraption out of his pocket, a tiny container that dispenses one snort at a time. He sticks it up his nostril and inhales powerfully. He does the same thing with the other nostril. Then he snaps it shut and shakes it before putting it away, ready for the next snort.
He turns toward me, gives me a look, and comments: “Good shit.”
I have no difficulty taking him at his word. People like him always have the best of everything.
As soon as we’re on the bypass for Assago, the speed begins to increase and the Ferrari’s eight cylinders start to suck gasoline and give back power. The way mechanical objects work is a game I like, an honest game. I give and I get. Cocaine is a fraud: it leaves people exactly as they are and tricks them into thinking they’re different.
We curve onto the beltway and the speed increases even more.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of dying, to be specific. I’ve already suffered that misfortune. A fatal crash in a car rocketing along at 125 mph would be nothing more than a formal certification of the fact, a red wax seal on a letter that’s already been written and signed.
We take the Vigentina–Val Tidone exit. Before entering Opera we take a right. A short time later our trip is over. Micky decelerates and steers the Ferrari left onto an unpaved lane that intersects with the asphalt road. I can hear the tires crunching over the gravel and, because of the car’s stiff suspension, I can feel every bump and pothole in my spine. We rumble through a couple of curves, and after a short straightaway we see a warehouse and a parking lot cluttered with the decrepit automotive carcasses of a scrapyard. The area is surrounded by a hurricane fence. A few well-meaning streetlights do their best to scatter a little light.
We pull up to a gate. It’s closed. Micky flashes his brights and immediately, on the other side of the fence, the silhouette of a man emerges from the dim shadows. He walks toward us and the twin cones of the headlights reveal a short, powerful individual wearing work pants and a denim jacket, peering with light-dazzled eyes through the mesh of the gate.
He recognizes the car and starts swinging the gate open. We drive past him and through the gate. We continue along the road that leads to the warehouse, past stacks of flattened automobiles, cubist shapes, lifeless relics. A series of totems erected at the cost of a chain of human and mechanical sacrifices, though there’s no one around who seems willing to worship them.
Micky stops in a clearing where a number of other cars are already parked. In the first row I see a shiny new Porsche and, parked next to it, in all its tawdry desolation, Daytona’s old orange Porsche. Speak of the devil. As if he were declaring: This is what I am and this is what I wish I could be. Then there are a couple of Mercedes-Benzes, a 240 and a Pagoda, a BMW 733i, and a string of other cars of various makes and models and engine displacements. All of them intact, motionless, and gleaming, as if to mock the crushed automotive carcasses that surround them. There’s a sense of rust and melancholy in the air that only failure can convey.
I kick myself for the asshole I am.
I’m here for other reasons and to run other risks. I have no time for dreary animistic reveries.
If I make one false move tonight, I could wind up looking like one of these stripped automobiles, just waiting to be handed over to the tender loving care of the crusher.
Micky gets out of the car and I follow suit. I follow him toward the building on our left. We walk along the outside wall of the structure for a certain distance in the inadequate light of the overhead lamps. We walk around the far corner, and on our left we see a sliding metal door. There’s a man standing guard. Having heard our footsteps, he’s already walking toward us. He’s a completely different-looking type from the squat guy at the gate. He’s dressed in a dark brown suit and has the appearance of a man who would ring a doorbell and pull a trigger with the same unruffled calm: maybe the trigger of the gun sticking out of his belt, visible through his unbuttoned suit jacket.
When he recognizes Micky, he relaxes slightly.
Without a word of greeting, my friend comes right to the point.
“We have an appointment with Tano.”
The guy looks me up and down before deciding that my escort is reference enough for my admission. Then he jerks his head toward the interior and opens the smaller door carved out of the sliding metal door.
We walk through the door and suddenly we’re in another world. On the side of the warehouse we’ve just walked into, we’re surrounded by all the equipment and machinery needed for the operations of the ostensible host company. Workbenches, metal presses, lathes, and other heavy machinery I couldn’t identify. In front of us are the glass doors of a painting department. There’s a diffuse odor of solvents, milled metal, and lubricant. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if this shop was used not only to scrap cars with regulation certificates of demolition but also to modify the appearance of vehicles of much murkier provenance.
But the real surprise comes with what we see on the opposite side of the interior space. Under the lights hanging down from the ceiling and on a modular wooden floor is a genuine miniature casino. There’s an American-style roulette wheel with a croupier, a long craps table, and another table where a number of people
are sitting, both men and women, playing what looks to me like blackjack. I think I catch a glimpse of Daytona’s double comb-over, among the card players. There’s even a little bar, with a man and a blond woman leaning against it, waiting for their drinks. Three men dressed in dark suits mingle silently with the crowd, keeping an eye on everything that’s going on.
When Tano Casale does something, he does it right. I’m pretty sure that tomorrow morning, none of what I’m looking at will be here to greet the light of day. The tables will be broken down, the green felt and the black curtains covering the high windows of the warehouse will all be gone. There’ll be nothing but a warehouse full of people cutting metal with oxyacetylene blowtorches, hammering, and waving paint spray guns and airbrushes. But tonight there’s still plenty of time for anyone who wants to hunt for a lucky card or a winning number. They just have to pay their dues, winning occasionally and losing almost inevitably, as required by the rules of the game.
I follow Micky as he walks across the warehouse floor, heading for a door that looks like it leads to an office. Before we have a chance to knock on the door, it swings open and a man walks out. His face is swollen, and a stream of blood is pouring out of his nose. He’s doing his best to stop the blood with a pocket handkerchief. Another man with a powerful physique and a face that’s probably seen more than one bout in a boxing ring holds him firmly by the arm, pushing him along toward the exit and concealing him from the view of the other players.
Micky knocks twice on the doorjamb, and then walks through the door, which has been left wide open. I follow him through. Inside we see two men. One is sitting down at a desk piled high with paperwork and the other is on his feet, leaning against a zinc filing cabinet.
The one sitting down is Tano Casale.
He looks to be about forty-five, with slicked-back hair. There are a few streaks of gray around his temples, and not a trace of gray in his thick, dark mustache. His eyes are determined but his right eyebrow, crisscrossed by a small scar, gives him a slightly quizzical look. His big hands resting on the desktop convey an idea of strength and of a person who knows how to use it.
He sees us walk in and nods hello to Micky. The nod is followed by a smile that says the boss likes Micky. My friend must be a reliable worker and a good earner. What I hear about Tano Casale is that he’s a man of his word and that he recognizes and rewards merit.
“Ciao, blondie.”
“Ciao, Tano.”
Micky, for all his airs as a man of the world, is intimidated. He points to me.
“This is Bravo, the person I mentioned on the phone.”
Only then does Tano seem to notice my presence. He looks me up and down without a word and his face hardens.
“Bravo? What kind of a fucking name is Bravo?”
A voice emerges from my memory and echoes in my head. It sounds like sandpaper on rust.
… hold still, youngster, don’t give me trouble. If you make this easy on me, I’ll make it easy on you and try not to make it hurt too bad. Understand? That’s it, don’t squirm. Bravo!
I shrug my shoulders.
“Maybe it’s not a name, maybe it’s just an involuntary shout of approval I get from people.”
Tano bursts out laughing.
“Nice answer, kid—bravo!”
“You see? You said it, I didn’t.”
Maybe my ready wit has made a good impression on him, or maybe not. Still, when the smile fades he looks at me differently. He waves me over and points to the steel and Formica chair in front of his desk. Micky can tell he’s no longer needed, and he leaves before anyone has to ask him to. The other man remains standing, on my left. Maybe he’s trying to intimidate me, but I ignore him.
Tano offers me a thoughtful tone of voice and a piece of flattery.
“All kidding aside, I’ve heard good things about you. You’ve put together your little network, you seem to know what you’re doing, and, best of all, you seem to respect boundaries.”
He points to the door that the guy with the nosebleed walked through a little while ago.
“Not like some people, who think they’re smarter than me and come to my casino and try to sneak in some late bets under my nose. You wouldn’t believe how stupid some people can be.”
He pauses.
“But don’t let’s talk about disagreeable things. Micky tells me you have a deal for me.”
“More than a deal; I’d say a trade.”
“I’m listening.”
I stall for time and light a cigarette. Then I sweep my hand in a gesture that includes everything that’s happening in the warehouse.
“I’d have to imagine that with all this money coming in, the biggest problem you have is how to spend it.”
Tano smiles like a cat thinking about mice.
“We always know what to do with our money.”
I nod agreeably and continue. And I wonder if he’d have the same purr in his voice and glint in his eye if he were telling someone to cut my throat.
“All the same, sometimes it’s good to make things a little easier on yourself. I have the name and address of a guy who just hit the jackpot on the soccer lottery and won himself 490 million lire. He’s willing to sell this winning lottery ticket for a modest gratuity of ten million lire.”
Just to forestall any misunderstanding, I volunteer the terms I have in mind.
“I wouldn’t touch a cent of it. I promised him that money as an incentive and because he strikes me as an honest person. And, most important of all, a reasonable person.”
I’m sure that Tano understands exactly what I’m driving at, but he wants to hear it from me.
“Go on.”
“Oh, I don’t think there are any difficulties from that point on. If you buy the winning ticket, you have a certain sum of money in hand that you can spend without having to worry. Moreover, it would be tax exempt, since it’s winnings from a state-run lottery.”
Tano Casale looks in my direction, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even see me. Then he turns his head to meet the gaze of the man standing next to the filing cabinet. In exchange he receives a look of circumspect approval, confirming a decision that he’s actually already made internally. He addresses me once again in an untroubled voice.
“This we could do. We’d have to look at just how, but this is something we could do.”
After a pause he turns to the second part of the matter.
“Now what about you? What do you get out of this?”
“I just get to keep doing my job without a major headache. There’s a problem between Laura, one of my girls, and one of your men.”
At this point, everything happens very quickly. The guy standing next to the filing cabinet, a man of average height with bulging eyes and a mouth with a nasty sneer, grabs me by my jacket lapels and heaves me up out of my seat. I find myself shoved against the wall, his deranged eyes about a foot from mine, and his breath, which hardly reeks of violets, hissing his cold fury. I’m not all that surprised. This is fairly ordinary behavior from Salvatore Menno, aka Tulip.
His boss, from behind the desk, intervenes.
“Salvatore, leave him alone.”
My aggressor ignores him and smashes me against the wall once or twice.
“You nasty goddamn pimp, what the fuck do you want here?”
Any fuck you’ve got, I reply instinctively, in my head.
This last would have prompted a round of applause from Lucio, if he ever knew. But I don’t think that Tulip would get the joke. Even if he knew, I still think he’d miss the point.
Tano Casale stands up suddenly from his chair. He doesn’t yell, but it’s worse than if he had.
“I told you to let him go. Go back to where you were.”
Even a psychopath like Tulip shits his pants when Tano Casale speaks in that tone of voice. I can feel the vise grip loosen and I’m free. He walks backward, with my death still dancing in his eyes, until he’s standing next to the filing cabinet again.
I ignore my adversary and I speak to Tano. With a cool calm that’s nothing like what I’m feeling inside.
“Since the hen that squawks is the one that laid the egg, at this point I hardly think I need to name names. Laura is a girl who works for me and your man wants to force her to be part of his harem.”
Instinctively, Tulip takes another step toward me. Tano halts him with a wave of his hand. The only way left for Tulip to let off steam is with words, and he speaks them with flecks of whitish foam speckling the corners of his mouth.
“Laura’s a whore, and you’re making a living off her pussy.”
“That may be. But she’s a whore with free will, and she can be a whore when and with whomever she pleases. No matter what she does, she’s the one who decides. I don’t impose, I simply propose, without duress and, above all, without fists.”
The threat comes as no surprise.
“I’ll have your hands cut off at the wrist.”
I turn to look at him, and I stare him straight in the eye.
“So you’re too scared to do your own hand-cutting in person these days?”
Tano’s voice, slightly raised, cuts sharply through this little exchange of compliments.
“That’s enough! And I mean both of you!”
He goes back and sits down at his desk. He speaks to Tulip without looking him in the face.
“Salvo, go in the other room and see if everything’s under control.”
That request is tantamount to a get-the-fuck-out-of-here, loud and clear. Reluctantly, Menno heads for the door, covering his humiliation with a dignified, unhurried pace. Just before he walks through the door, he gives me a look that contains a complete road map of his intentions. I know that he’s not likely to get over this particular humiliation anytime soon and that, in any case, I’ve just made an enemy for life.
A Pimp's Notes Page 6