See Naples and Die

See Naples and Die

By

Ray Cleveland

Copyright © 2015
Ray Cleveland

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced,
transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form
or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or
by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written
permission of the author.

KINDLE edition

PublishNation, London

www.publishnation.co.uk

A line of trucks waited on the M20 slip
road. It was a busy morning, and an earlier accident had slowed the traffic to
walking pace. The truckers were all heading north from Folkestone and were used
to this kind of delay: it came with the job description.

Half the convoy were European hauliers
and the other half were British logistics companies who covered the continent.
Once on the motorway the traffic gradually built up speed until they were
averaging 50 mph, which was good enough, and which would get them a little
nearer their destinations – until the next hold-up.

A British truck carrying refrigerators
left the convoy at the A20 junction and drove towards London. After driving for
four miles the truck pulled on to a B road and stopped behind a parked Transit
van. The truck driver jumped from his cab and opened the rear doors. He waited
until the driver of the van joined him.

“Hiya,” said the truck driver.

“Ciao,” said the other man.

Together they started rearranging the
refrigerators until a space was created in the middle of the van. Then the
driver began to unscrew a square section of wood, which was fastened into the 
floor. Once all its screws had been removed he stepped away and banged the
floor three times with the screwdriver handle. Several seconds passed, and the
two men looked at each other. The driver was about to bang again when, with the
force of a hurricane, the unattached piece of flooring flew into the air and a
large size ten Doc Martens boot appeared from beneath the floor.

The boot disappeared and was replaced by
a man’s head. The head looked around and then a torso started to rise, with the
man’s eyes quickly taking in his surroundings, and once his full frame was
visible he stepped from the hole and stretched his limbs and neck. Creaking
sounds came from his joints and he opened and closed his palms and stared at
his hands, as if checking that everything was still where it should be. The man
was dirty and unshaven, with the look of a dangerous individual – a man capable
of anything.

The van driver moved nearer. “Are you
Hayk?” he asked.

“No,” said the man. “Hayk is dead,” and
he pointed to the floor of the truck. “My name is Tigran Sadorian.”

“And my name is Angelo Tardelli,” said
the van driver, and put out his hand. Tigran grasped it and squeezed.

“How many others are alive?” asked
Angelo.

“All except Hayk,” said Tigran. And then
more fingers appeared at the hole and another dirty ragamuffin began to pull
himself out. The truck driver stood back and offered no assistance. He watched
until another seven men had crawled from the tomblike compartment. Only Tigran
spoke English, and it was obvious that he had appointed himself as the leader.

Angelo gave him a bunch of keys. “There
is a van in front of us. Get everyone inside quickly,” he said.

As the men jumped from the truck Angelo
turned to the truck driver. “Put the piece of flooring back and wait here. I
will get someone to take care of that,” and nodded at the hole. Then he climbed
from the truck, looked around, checked the doors of his van, and drove away
towards London with his illegal cargo.

The cruise ship entered the bay of
Naples and made for the coastline, then reduced its speed and effortlessly
glided towards its destination.

As with every cruise ship entering any
port, families in small boats and fishermen on the shoreline waved at the
passengers lining the upper deck. In comparison to the poor of Naples they were
the elite of other countries – the rich and perhaps even famous people cruising
the seas in luxury, and it made a poor man feel good to wave and see them
waving back.

As the ship moved towards the Port of
Naples it hugged the edge of the bay and ran parallel to the main highway. It
was early morning and the road was reasonably quiet, filled mostly with trucks
heading in and out of the docks. In a lay-by two kilometres north of the port a
trucker was walking back to his cab. A flashing red object from the rear of the
vehicle had caught his eye. On checking, it turned out to be a piece of curtain
material that had been tied to the end of the container.

He was still contemplating who and why
someone would do this when a black sedan drew alongside. The trucker paused and
glanced towards the sedan but the tinted windows gave no clues. Then the
passenger window slowly dropped, and a smiling face greeted the driver’s stare.
The man nodded politely and produced a .357 Magnum revolver, which he pointed
directly at the driver’s head. This was a formidable-looking weapon, and always
made an instant statement.

The man motioned with the gun for the
driver to move to one side. Another man leapt from the rear of the sedan, took
the keys from the driver, jumped into the cab, and drove the truck away –
taking with him 12,000 bottles of Russian vodka. The man with the gun thanked
the driver, then once more disappeared behind the blackened windows. The sedan
casually pulled on to the highway and, merging with the traffic, was soon out
of sight.

The driver stood alone. He stared at the
empty lay-by, with his mind working out how to explain what had just happened
and wondering if he would still have a job this time tomorrow. The line of
passengers on the cruise ship, like the upper gallery at the London Palladium,
had just witnessed the whole thing. The driver looked crestfallen, and the
passengers waved enthusiastically.

On closer inspection these cruising
‘millionaires’, most in baggy shorts and T-shirts, looked more like karaoke
contestants than Britain’s finest. It was just the usual bunch of holiday
makers: villainous Mancunians, decent hard-working tradesmen, struggling
shopkeepers, IT consultants, retired factory workers, postcode lottery winners,
newly wed fifty-year-olds, and lots of civil servants spending their redundancy
money. The citizens of Naples, cheering as the ship came into dock, were not to
know that nowhere on this vessel would you find anyone remotely rich or famous.
Then again, everything is relative.

The cruise ship docked, and thirty
minutes later the first set of passengers began to disembark. Among the second
group were three girls who had been thrown together by fate and who were now
inseparable. After moving on from their adventurous get-together Megan
Penhaligon, Brenda Smith, and Chrissie McGuire had spent the past three months
partying. Their windfall from this earlier escapade had given the opportunity
to travel and see the world … well, Las Vegas and New York, mostly, with a
little bit of Spain and Greece thrown in. And now they had decided on this
Mediterranean cruise … sample a few countries, and then it would be time to
give the holidays a rest and see how much money was left … take stock, and look
at what to do with their lives.

Megan was twenty-seven years old and
Brenda and Chrissie were both twenty-nine and, although they were having a
great time at the moment, at the end of the day they were three unemployed
girls with no prospects and no plan. But that reality check was on hold until
the end of the cruise and the return to Liverpool.

The girls descended the gangplank and
stood on a vast, flat concrete area. They were dressed as casually as the other
passengers but had that something extra – they had a presence about them.
Chrissie with her gypsy-black bobbed hair was a true Scouser, born and bred.
She had an answer for everything and always stood her ground. If a sign said ‘Danger’,
then to Chrissie that was an invitation. She had an over-the-top attitude to
life, clothes, and humour.

Brenda came across as the sensible one.
She was slender and elegant. Her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail, and
even with her flat shoes she was around six inches taller than Chrissie and two
or three taller than Megan. Brenda was the voice of reason when the other two
were throwing caution to the wind …

And then there was Megan, with her long,
natural blonde hair and a buttermilk complexion. Born in South Wales, she had
long ago lost her Welsh twang and acquired a sort of ‘down south somewhere’ way
of speaking. Megan looked cute, but had a determined side to her. If you were
in trouble then you could do a lot worse than pick Megan Penhaligon to stand by
your side. They had been through testing times together, and found more than
comradeship. They had put their lives on the line for each other, and something
that intense had created a bond that could never be broken.

They stood to one side and watched the
other passengers, who were ready for the day’s outings to Pompeii and the
Amalfi Coast, being ushered to waiting coaches. The girls preferred to do it
their way, and would take local taxis to the same resorts. This way they saw
twice as much at half the price.

The holiday reps said this should never
be done – it’s risky and you always get ripped off – but they hadn’t found this
to be the case at all. These guys were there to make a living by providing a
good friendly service and, hopefully, getting more business by word of mouth.
You wouldn’t do it in Iraq, but around the Mediterranean it was the best way to
sightsee.

It was only just after 9.30 a.m. but the
heat was already rising and bringing with it the varied smells of the city, not
all of which were pleasant. The girls made their way across the parking area
towards a collection of minibuses and taxis, with drivers all forming an
orderly queue alongside their pride-and-joy vehicles. A sea of smiles awaited
them – the largest belonging to the smallest man, who was at the front of the
queue – and who strode forward, arms outstretched in a ‘Let me hold the baby’
sort of way.

“Hello, beautiful ladies. Welcome to
Naples. My name is Gianfranco Petrocelli but all my friends, in whom you are
included, call me Gino. Tell me, are you English?”

The girls nodded.

“I love England … I love everything
about England … if only you could play football …” Gino said this mournfully,
with hangdog expression and hand on heart. And then he laughed.

The girls took this jibe in the spirit
it was intended and laughed with him. They liked Gino.

He then produced a photograph album
crammed with pictures of previous fares he had taken on trips. Written in
English, they included glowing references – with names and addresses for
verification.

“These are many English people who
became my friends,” said Gino sincerely. “I not only drive you to the best
places, but I can tell you their secrets like no other tour guide. I am
partenopeo
.
My family has lived in this place since the beginning of time. Your tour bus is
going to Pompeii and Capri: we can do the same tour, but you will learn and see
much more because I am an expert.”

This final word was emphasised and he
pushed out his chest to show just how much of an expert he was.

“How much?” asked Chrissie.

“I will do this for special all-inclusive
rate of 120 euros for all three people. And we go wherever you like for the
whole of the day,” smiled Gino.

“Done,” said the girls. “Let’s go.”

Gino shook them all firmly by the hand,
and then sprinted to open each door in turn and assist them into the car.
Brenda and Megan got in the back and Chrissie sat in the front with Gino, their
new best friend.

Gino started the engine, which purred
into life like a newborn tiger. The car sped along the concrete and, as it
neared the exit, the huge expanse became a road that gradually narrowed. As they
approached the port gates several cars, three coaches, two mopeds, and a
tractor all converged on this single track, not one of them reducing speed.
Drivers waved their hands and shouted abuse, while all manner of horns blared
like the orchestra from hell – and still no one slowed down. The girls closed
their eyes waiting for the carnage, but miraculously everyone merged and
proceeded out of the Port of Naples and onwards to their intended journeys.
Chrissie opened her eyes and glanced at Gino, who with one hand on the wheel
looked as relaxed as Grandad in his rocking chair. He smiled his most charming
of smiles and his twinkling eyes said, “Welcome to Italy.”

On leaving the port everything had to
turn right and then sort itself out at the first roundabout. Gino needed to go
straight on, so moved into the middle lane. Once again horns blasted out a wall
of sound, and in order to join the roundabout everyone accelerated.

“This can’t always work,” thought
Chrissie, but half trusted their driver. This time she kept her eyes open and
then, for what seemed no reason, Gino braked. All the surrounding traffic and
the horn section had stopped to allow two large black Mercedes access to the
roundabout.

Chrissie had the best view and as the
cars passed by she pushed her face and ruby-red lips against the window, trying
to catch a glimpse of who was inside, but all she could see was president-black
glass. Inside the second car the back seat passenger had no such obstacle, and
could see quite clearly. For a brief second he looked directly at holidaymaker
Chrissie McGuire from Liverpool, England, and as he did so a hand from the dark
side shook his spine and he knew for certain their paths were destined to cross
again.

The two Mercedes took the third exit,
which was a signal for the bedlam to start again.

“What was that, Gino?” asked Chrissie.
“Were they funeral cars?”

Gino laughed. “You could say that. They
were Mafiosi. That was Don Roberto Vialli, and you must respect the families … always.”

“You’re making it up,” said Brenda from
the back seat. “The best tour guide with the best stories.”

For a moment Gino was slightly serious.
“No, no … they are the Camorra – the Naples Mafia. Three families make up the
northern clan. They are the Viallis, the Capecchis, and the Scarpones. They are
all ruthless, and if you disrespect them in any way you will be sleeping with
the fishes.”

“Ha! You got that one straight from
The
Godfather
,” snapped Brenda.

“No, beautiful English rose. They got it
from us,” said Gino matter-of-factly.

They drove out of Naples towards Pompeii,
with Mount Vesuvius a fantastic sight in the distance. A geological and
historical masterpiece, it had been placed on earth to terrify and inspire
generations of mere mortals. It dominated the entire region.

Gino, as promised, never stopped talking
– and it was all interesting, with lots of humour and anecdotes thrown in. By
the time they reached the car park at the foot of Vesuvius they had a working
knowledge of the history of Naples, and knew every member of Gino’s family by
name.

They bought their tickets and spent the
next two hours walking around the ruins of Pompeii in unbearable heat. The sun
was high in the sky and their hats offered little protection against the
burning rays shimmering down, baking every living thing like potatoes in a huge
microwave. It was certainly an incredible place but enough is enough, and they
were glad to call it a day and return to Gino and the sanctuary of the most
expensive but delicious ice cream ever.

Once refreshed they were ready for the
next part of the excursion, and set off for the Isle of Capri. They had only
driven maybe half an hour when they had to stop at a line of stationary
traffic. There were people up ahead running around and shouting, and the girls
could definitely see bodies lying in the road. The commotion was building in
ferocity, and Gino got out of the car to assess the situation and to add his
own voice and arm-waving to the melee. After much animated posturing Gino
returned to the car, seemingly unconcerned about the bodies littering the road
ahead. He got into the car and sighed.

“Factory workers on strike,” he said.
“They lie in the road and disrupt everything. The police will come and carry
them into their vans, but more workers take their place. So I have to say … no
Isle of Capri today.”

“So what else can we do?” asked Brenda.

Gino thought for a moment. “We could go
back to Naples and I could give you the city tour.”

“Great,” said Chrissie. “What do you
think, girls?”

“To be honest, that sounds better than
another tourist trap,” said Brenda.

“Yes,” said Megan. But can we stop for
something to eat on the way?”

“Tell you what, Gino,” said Chrissie. “Can
you take us somewhere in Naples? Somewhere you would go to eat. It doesn’t
matter what it’s like. We can adapt to most things and, anyway, that’s the kind
of city tour we want. Like Bren said, we’re tired of the tourist trail.”