Gang of Lovers (21 page)

“So now do you understand why I have no intention of facing him after the two of you go out that door? What do you have to offer me? Before you answer, let me warn you: I'd sooner kill myself than go on being a whore. First I was Pellegrini's whore, then I was Federico Togno's. I've had enough.”

“You want a new life,” I replied.

“Enough money to start over,” Beniamino added. “A job and a safe place to live. Far away from here.”

“Where?”

“A hotel on the coast of Portugal. I have a friend who just bought the place, and I know that he'd be glad to hire an attractive person who speaks Italian.”

“I've been living a shitty life for all these years and just when I'm about to give up you appear out of the blue and offer to rescue me,” she murmured under her breath as she started to tremble. “It's not like you're filling my head with pretty words, and then you're just going to kill me, is it?”

Too much emotional uproar for a warm morning in late September. I smiled at her. “You're going to have to trust us. Anyway, you said it yourself: you don't have any other options.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Right now you just need to pack your bags,” said Rossini. “We'll have plenty of time to talk at lunch.”

 

Maria José knew enough to give us an exhaustive overview of Pellegrini's criminal pursuits. She had pieced it all together from conversations among her customers, many of them tied to the network of corruption organized by Sante Brianese, and also thanks to her husband's confidences. His boss maneuvered him from La Nena like a puppet on a string, and he'd even pushed him to commit murder.

We were still a long way away from solving the case of Professor Di Lello's murder, but we were finally on the right path.

While Maria José was resting in Christine's bedroom, and while Christine was in the hospital looking after Max, Rossini organized her escape. An old smuggler from Punta Sabbioni who Rossini trusted would come and pick her up at dawn the next day. A powerful speedboat would set off for the Croatian coast where another smuggler would take her to Zagreb airport. It would be hard even for the cops to retrace her route and, most importantly, it would take them a long time to identify her final destination. It all depended on what became of her husband. Right then, I was ready to bet that his future as a paid henchman was no longer all that bright.

The woman from Marseille came back a little after seven that evening. She was tired. She had time for a shower, and then she'd be back at the fat man's bedside. But Beniamino had other plans.

“Get yourself dolled up, I'm taking you out to dinner,” he announced. “Tonight Marco will be taking your place.”

It struck me as a perfect way to take her mind off things until I asked: “So where are you planning to go eat?”

“La Nena,” he replied, unable to restrain a wicked smile. “I made a reservation for 9:30.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“Certainly,” he replied indignantly. “We're going to show up on his doorstep to make it clear that this is a declaration of war, which will give him a chance to choose how to react. It's the least we can do.”

I was tempted to remind him that this very approach had prolonged a gang war that had ruined our lives, but I bit my tongue, opting instead for a useless appeal to common sense. “Giorgio Pellegrini belongs to a different generation, certain niceties are beyond his understanding, and what's more, he'll only take advantage. You're giving him a head start.”

The old bandit threw both arms wide. “Even if he is a piece of shit, I don't intend to stop behaving properly.”

“But why Christine, then?” I blurted out. “I'm the one who ought to be going.”

He waved his finger. “No. I want Pellegrini to meet a ‘dangerous' woman, someone who could gladly send him into the heareafter without batting an eyelash, just for the pleasure of doing a little housecleaning.”

I surrendered and went off to drink a small glass of Calva­dos. At least, that had been my intention, though I couldn't resist and poured myself a double.

 

When I got to the hospital I followed Christine's instructions. Sure enough, she had already softened up the medical personnel not only with tips, but with her own winning personality. Before I knew it, I was sitting by Max's bedside.

“You're growing a mustache,” he noticed immediately. “It doesn't even look all that bad.”

His voice was so labored as to be unrecognizable and overall, he looked like shit.

“You don't look all that bad either,” I retorted with a smile.

“They told me I'd have to change my lifestyle, and in the meantime they've put me on a diet.”

“So I heard.”

“Can you just picture me counting calories?”

“I've got a pretty good imagination.”

“The other day I opened my eyes and sitting by the bed was a beautiful woman looking at me,” he told me, with a trace of a smile. “It was the psychologist. She told me I wouldn't make it on my own.”

I laid a hand on his chest. An unusual thing to do. My dad used to do it when he came in to tell me goodnight. “You saved my life, Max.”

“I didn't mean to,” he said evasively.

I brought him up-to-date on everything that had happened since the minute he'd been shot.

“We're getting closer to settling accounts,” my partner commented.

“That's what Beniamino wants, but he'll have to wait to pull out the guns until we have a complete profile of the gang of lovers,” I explained. “We can't run the risk of one of these bastards getting away and starting up again somewhere else.”

“It was Pellegrini's idea, there's no doubt about it. That guy is a teeming sewer of twisted but brilliant projects.”

 

I had a hard time finding a parking place near the apartment and found myself walking past the place where we'd been ambushed. For the past few days I'd avoided the location, and now I stopped to study the details. I realized that I was still upset. And yet I'd been through far worse.

Maria José was watching TV in the living room. She was dressed to the nines, and the two wheeled suitcases she'd stuffed with everything she was unwilling to leave behind were close at hand.

“It'll be another couple of hours before they come pick you up,” I told her as I poured myself a drink.

“Time's passing so slowly tonight,” she said, flashing me an uneasy smile.

“You're telling me,” I shot back as I sat down next to her.

We sat wordlessly watching an episode of a popular American show in which detectives seek the truth through the lenses of a microscope or in the color of chemical reagents. Lucky stiffs.

Often, I glanced over at our guest out of the corner of my eye. There were unmistakable signs of weariness and tension on her face. She was escaping the horror into which despicable men had forced her, by taking a leap into the void.

T
en minutes to closing time and those two still hadn't asked for the check. I'd recognized Rossini immediately. I'd happened to see his picture in the papers once or twice, but I would have figured it out anyway just from his style. A slightly out-of-fashion double-breasted suit, a regimental tie with a Windsor knot, wrapped eight full turns to get it just right, handmade shoes. The outfit of a topflight gangster. As I walked past their table he “just happened” to stretch out his arm, and his cuff pulled back to reveal his bracelets. Until that moment I'd been certain that it was nothing but a legend, but he himself had chosen to show off his collection of scalps. Each bracelet was a dead man. Poor old asshole, I'd definitely killed more than he had.

The woman wasn't much to look at. Her features were coarse, as was the French that she spoke, no refinement at all in her clothing. Still, she had the body, the posture, and the alert gaze of someone who was accustomed to action. She wouldn't be any use to me because that kind of woman doesn't bring in cash. I'd have to kill her, just as I'd kill her date, but I'd definitely make sure I thoroughly enjoyed her company, in every way imaginable, just to break her spirit before she died. She reminded me of a Spanish woman I'd organized an armed robbery with once. She was so troublesome that in the end I'd had to sell her to two Croatian war criminals just to get rid of her.

I'd taken care not to say hello to Rossini and his girlfriend or treat them as respected guests. I'd sent them my least experienced waiter but they hadn't batted an eye. I'd watched them closely the whole time. They'd played the part of a happy couple enjoying their night out, tasting specialties and sampling wines as if money were no object, but discreetly, so as not to attract attention.

Now they were nursing a couple of glasses of grappa and talking quietly. The only sound you could hear in the restaurant was the waiters cleaning up and preparing the tables for the next day.

I checked the time. Just six minutes left. I wrote up the check and took it over to them personally.

“The restaurant is about to close,” I announced.

“We're not worried about that. I'm sure it will open again under new management,” said Rossini.

I burst out laughing. That holdover from a bygone era really was funny. He'd come to announce to me that he planned to take me out. And in my own restaurant, no less.

“I appreciate the kind words,” I retorted. “But don't think I return the sentiment.”

“I never doubted that would be the case,” Rossini replied solicitously. “We have nothing in common.”

I decided to push a few buttons. “Not necessarily. I might have a few ideas about your guest,” I said in French.

The woman was quick to reply. “If you only knew the ideas I've had about you.”

A dangerous whore. One I'd have to put down without a second thought. “Well, see you again soon,” I said, pointing them to the door.

Rossini took a quick look at the check, pulled out a few banknotes and tossed them on the table. “Sleep on that thought,” he suggested with a cordial smile.

I watched them as they walked off arm in arm, chatting cheerfully. Rossini was too sure of himself. Something must have happened that made him think he could come challenge me with that night's ultimatum.

At last the time came to lock the door and lower the metal roller blinds. After making sure I wasn't being followed, even though I was certain the old man played fair, I headed for the Centra brothers' house.

I waited a good fifteen minutes, observing the street, the closed windows, the parked cars. I didn't spot anything alarming and so I announced my arrival on my cell phone. Togno opened the door. He was irritated.

“Where the hell did you send me?” he burst out as he led the way to the old workshop. “These two are out of their minds. Where did you find them?”

“Everything all right?” I asked, cutting him off. Togno was complaining too much for a foot soldier.

“It was perfectly pointless to bring that poor woman here. Her sweetheart is willing to do anything to get her back safe and sound. It would have been enough just to demand money,” he commented.

“That's the kind of judgment call that I'll make on my own.”

Federico immediately changed his attitude. “I'd never dream of criticizing you and you know it, it's just that I can't wait to get out of this place.”

“How far along are the negotiations?”

“Tomorrow morning Rosario Panichi is going to the bank to empty out a safe deposit box. What with jewelry and cash, there's at least three hundred thousand euros in there.”

“I'll let you know when to call him, all right?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear, but tomorrow afternoon we can wrap up the deal.”

I gave him a slap on the cheek, just a little harder than necessary. “I wonder if you understand that I just told you to call him only when I say so?” I asked, enunciating my words clearly.

Togno fell silent. The closer we got to the cellar workshop, the clearer we could hear Furio and Toni's cackling laughter.

I stopped in a dark corner of the stairs that offered a complete view of the area below. The Centra brothers were playing a card game of
briscola
with the hostage, enjoying themselves like a couple of kids. The woman was dressed in a white slip stained with red wine. She could barely hold the cards in her hands. She was alternating between tears and laughter.

“What have they done to her?”

“Every time she loses they make her drink another glass,” he explained in a low voice. “She's already drunk and if you ask me before long they're going to screw her.”

“See if you can keep that from happening.”

“Not on your life. They're animals. I wouldn't put it past them to take it out on me and personally I value my virgin ass.”

“All right. I've seen enough,” I said, retracing my steps.

My henchman snickered. “Leaving so soon? Don't you want to say hello to the two kid brothers?”

“Signora Palazzolo knows me. She always used to come to La Nena,” I replied coldly. And then I snapped. “Would you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? You've been complaining, you've been overstepping some bounds. I'm your boss and I've given you a job worth fifty thousand euros. You need to show me some respect.”

“You're right, I apologize yet again,” he mumbled. “It's just that I don't know what's become of Maria José. There's no answer on either the home phone or her cell . . .”

“And why would you be making calls to your little wifey-poo while you're running a kidnapping?” I asked him furiously.

It dawned on Federico that he'd fucked up again and he hastened to explain. “Maria José was supposed to lay a bet on a horse race. Since I couldn't do it, I wanted to tell her to go see Longoni herself.”