The Goodbye Kiss (11 page)

    "You
need ammo?"

    I
shook my head. "Won't have time to reload."

    Anedda
opened the canvas bag. Pulled out a pump rifle with a collapsible stock, two
high-caliber revolvers, and a.22 caliber semiautomatic with a silencer. An
execution-style weapon. Killers once snubbed it because of its weak stopping
power. Then the American mafia started using it with good results, and it
became the thing. I picked it up to get a feel for it. The clip was loaded with
full-metal-jacket bullets.

    "Where'd
they come from?"

    "A
souvenir of a search," he answered with a smile. "When you're a cop,
you get into the wholesome habit of taking mementoes. Terrorists always had plenty
of them."

    He
handed me one of the revolvers: a.357 magnum, Spanish make. "Put it next
to the shotgun. It might come in handy."

    I
covered the weapons with a rag and again ran my eyes over the room, memorizing
details. Then I followed the cop to the rear of the house. He slid back an old
iron lid eaten by rust. I looked down. The bottom of the cement cistern was
covered by a couple fingers of rainwater. That enormous grave would hide the
bodies of our five accomplices.

    "We'll
dump them here."

    "We
can't," I objected. "Within four or five days the rotting corpses
will have this whole place stinking to high heaven. All the fields around here
are cultivated."

    "We'll
throw some wooden planks on the lid and cover it with dirt. They'll rest in
peace for a good stretch."

    Wednesday
19:00

    "The
nifty thing about this city is cocktail hour," said Ciccio Formaggio as he
entered the bar. "The counters are packed with all kinds of goodies, and
you might as well skip dinner."

    "Did
you get the cars?" I asked, heading for a table that was set apart from
the rest.

    "Yep.
An Escort station wagon and a Renault 21. Makes that don't attract
attention."

    "They're
not wrecks, I hope."

    "No."
He sounded certain. "I've driven them, and they handle like a dream. But
just to be on the safe side I changed the oil, the filter and the plugs,
checked the tires and filled the tank."

    "Bravissimo!"
I complimented him, smiling.

    "I'm
a pro," the idiot responded, pleased with himself.

    "When
will you take them to the garages?"

    "Friday,
late morning. The cops often make the rounds, hunting for stolen cars. At this
point even they know the • trick."

    The
waiter brought us two Negroni and a plate filled with tidbits. "You don't
want any?" Ciccio asked in amazement, stuffing his mouth with peanuts. I
didn't answer. He really was a greedy dimwit. I resumed talking about the hit.
Told him the name of a bar in Porta Romana where he'd give me the garage
receipts.

    "Come
with the inside guy. I want to look him in the face before we meet again to
split the cash."

    The
ex-terrorist shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Look, this is just what
I wanted to talk about. The guard that tipped me on the heist doesn't want
anybody to see him. Not even to take his share. He wants me to bring it to
him."

    I
grinned. "Your buddy's trying to pull a fast one. If the police get
suspicious and grill him, he can always say he talked to you, and you, the
ex-con, took advantage of his good faith and organized the robbery. His word
against yours. He'll stash the money somewhere, you'll end up in jail, and then
he'll have a high old time."

    Ciccio
Formaggio stared at me. He was visibly racked with doubt.

    "You
think he wants to fuck me? Because you know, I'd stick him in a second, right
in the belly," he whispered in a punchy tone.

    I
placed a hand on his arm. Like a real friend. "He won't be able to fuck
anybody if he meets all of us. If we know who he is, we can always get revenge,
even if it means confessing his role in the crime."

    He
still wasn't convinced. Against my better judgment I was forced to reveal part
of the plan. "We'll have to cover our asses and take out two of his
co-workers. This security firm is going to be turned inside out like a sock.
You do realize we have to grab him by the balls so his nerves don't get to
him."

    Ciccio
nodded. "Shit, two killed," he said in a low voice. "I'll see he
shows up at the meeting. Don't worry."

    
Friday 19:30

    The
inside guy was a big kid just under thirty. As I suspected, he had as much
brains as Ciccio Formaggio. He thought he was entitled to some of the wealth he
protected daily for a starvation wage. He ventured to the fringes of the criminal
underworld because he knew honesty would guarantee him a skinny pension, at the
most. But now he wanted to pull back. The time had ended for shooting the
breeze and whispering secrets in the bar, where it seems easy enough to grab
life by the throat. Now the thing was for real, and the money took on a
slightly different color. It could buy the cars and women that had always been
beyond his reach, but it could also lead straight to jail. And security guards,
even if they took the plunge, were never popular.

    I
read all this in his eyes. Eliminating him had become a necessity. In front of
the first cop who asked him the simplest question, he'd spill his guts. Another
loser.

    I
acted nice. Dealt out winks, slaps on the back. The inside guy was called Ausonio.
That night I probably killed the last dude who bore that name. I offered them a
drink. Only one round. I was in a hurry to finish up because I really wanted to
kill them. I felt the weight of the gun in one of my jacket pockets. In the
other I kept the silencer. I spent the afternoon practicing so I could screw it
on fast. I'd count to five and be ready to fire. The guard unbuttoned his cheap
leather. A bulge in his sweater showed he had a gun in his belt. He wouldn't
even have time to think about using it.

    "Here
are the keys and the garage receipts," said Ciccio as he passed me an
envelope.

    "Did
you come by car?" I asked in a chatty tone.

    "In
his," answered Ciccio, pointing his thumb at his partner.

    "Perfect,"
I said. "I'll take you to see the place where we'll meet to split the
cash."

    "Do
I really have to come?" Ausonio stammered timidly.

    I
spread my arms. "Nobody's forcing you. But if you don't, the hit's off,
and my partners'll be sore as hell at you. They'll think you've made us waste
time and money, and they'll want to teach you a lesson."

    The
kid turned pale and bowed his head to his chest. He was starting to go bald and
had a case of dandruff that hadn't been treated right. "I don't travel in
your circles, and there are certain things I don't know."

    "It's
true," Ciccio intervened in his defense. "You've got to be patient
with him. He ain't one of us."

    "Now
he knows the rules." I cut him short.

    "OK,"
the guard blurted, "I'll go in all the way."

    I stood
up. "Follow me."

    I got
into my Panda. They took Ausonio's Tipo. I led them into the country, outside
Cusago. Turned down a dirt road and drove within fifty meters of the abandoned
house. Slipped on a pair of leather gloves. Climbed out of my car and got into
theirs. I sat in the middle of the back seat.

    "That's
the place," I said as I took out the gun and the silencer. "Don't
turn up before eleven tomorrow night. Signal you're here by flashing your high
beams three times."

    They
were concentrating on my words as they looked at the house. I took off the
safety, raised my arm and shot Ausonio in the head. Blood sprayed across the
windshield. I shifted the weapon to the head of the dope, Ciccio Formaggio.
Pulled the trigger. Another spray of blood. The silencer effectively muffled
the shots. The ejected shells clinked against the window on my right. The car
was filled with the smell of cordite and the sudden silence of death.

    To
avoid leaving any trace I had to gather the shells and stow the gun. I also had
to remove the guard's semiautomatic, take the can of gas from my car, set the
fire and slip away fast. I had no time to lose. Every second you spend at a
crime scene for no reason is pure folly. I was aware of it, yet I calmly took
my cigarettes and lighter from a trouser pocket. And smoked. An entire
cigarette. I stretched out an arm and switched on the light inside the car.
Took their wallets and poked around their lives. IDs, cards, photos. Ausonio
smiling between two elderly people: Mamma and Papa. I abruptly ripped it in
half. Ten minutes later I lit a second cigarette. Two drags, then I tossed it
into the gas-soaked interior.

    Saturday
11:30

    The
Spaniards were always late. They came in the bar with their hands thrust into their
pockets. Pepe went to the counter and ordered a spremuta, freshly squeezed
orange juice. Javier headed towards my table. I handed over the car keys and
the receipt. He left in silence. His comrade paid for the drink. On his way
out, he limited himself to a vacant glance in my direction.

    Saturday
14:00

    Another
bar, another neighborhood. Romo Dujc, alias Cerni, was sipping a soft drink.
Never anything alcoholic before laying your eye on the barrel of a precision
rifle and pulling the trigger. Tonci Zaninovic, his partner, sat at another
table, his eyes fixed on the street.

    I
tossed the envelope on the table. "Keys and receipt."

    The
Croat nodded. That day nobody wanted to talk.

    Saturday
20:32

    After
the robbery I managed to reconstruct the facts from the newspapers and the
eyewitness interviews aired by Lombard and national channels.

    The
armored truck arrived punctually at eight-thirty in the evening. The security
guards spent two minutes checking the surrounding area. Then the driver and
another guard climbed out, opened the steel door and removed the money bags. At
that moment, they were cut down by a number of shots. Gianni Casiraghi, the
driver, 41, separated with two daughters, was hit square in the face and in the
throat. Walter Salemme, 29, married with a four-month-old baby, was hit in the
temple. He died before he reached the ground. A Renault 21 pulled out from a
row in the parking lot, speeding towards the spot where the bags had been left.
Eyewitnesses were certain a woman was behind the wheel. In the meantime the
shooters continued to fire at the rear door of the truck to prevent the other
guard from returning the shots. But their effort was pointless. Antonio Donati,
33, married with no children, seeing his co-workers shot with lethal precision,
lay flat on the floor of the truck, praying and sobbing. Terror had simply
stopped him from seizing the radio microphone and sounding an alarm at the
central office of the security firm. Two men got out of the Renault. One
gathered the four bags; the other covered him, holding two guns. The newspapers
had a field day, offering their readers computer-drawn diagrams and implausible
hypotheses. The only accurate conjecture said it was likely the gang included
an inside man. Ciccio and Ausonio had already been discovered, but car and
bodies had been burnt so badly it would take time to determine their
identities. The robbery made front-page news for several days, not only because
of the two deaths, the funerals attended by high-ranking prelates, and the city
in mourning, but also because of the size of the haul: eight hundred and
seventy-five thousand euros. Unlike the usual drill, the authorities released
only vague statements of little interest. The dynamic of the robbery and the
discovery of some twenty Russian-made shells on the roof immediately put them
on the trail of a dangerous foreign gang. A difficult investigation, where
every detail could prove useful only if it wasn't made public.

    Saturday
21:15

    The
gas station closed at 19:30. I parked the Panda behind the self-service car
wash so I wasn't seen by the local cops. My presence could've aroused the
curiosity of some passing patrol. The Croats' Escort arrived, followed closely
by the Spaniards' Renault. I turned the key in the ignition and led them to the
house. I was happy. Happy and excited by the idea of becoming rich. The last
task would be dropping the bodies of my accomplices down the old cistern.