The Goodbye Kiss (13 page)

    
"OK."

    "You
take the money. We'll split it before you leave. As soon as you've taken care
of your host."

    I
swallowed hard. "You joking?"

    "No.
I can trust you because you wouldn't dream of fucking me. You just can't do
it." He was right. He'd find me anywhere. "Count it and split it in
half," he added. "Throw away the bags and put the cash in two travel
bags."

    The
widow's apartment was sunk in silence. As always. When the television wasn't
on, it seemed as if nobody was there. The phone never rang, the cell rarely.
Calls from old johns worried they hadn't run into her in some hotel. The woman's
solitude was chilling, and solitude was the only aspect of living that
frightened me. When you're alone and lack the wherewithal, you're prey to
somebody else. As she was to me. But that wouldn't happen to me: I'd organize
my life differently and never be in her situation when I was up in years. That
stupid broad didn't know how to look ahead, and she played her cards badly,
acting out the role of the crime boss's widow for too long. But people forget
fast, and she fell lower and lower, till she met me, sinking forever in the
depths of defeat. All she lacked was a violent, unjust death, and I'd provide
that very soon. I went to my room and threw money bags, pistol and shotgun on
the bed. I sensed her presence at my back. I turned slowly and found myself
staring into the eyes of the mistress of the house. She was wearing a black
suit, sheer stockings, patent-leather shoes with high heels. Her hair was
gathered into a simple chignon, and she was made up to perfection. For the
first time she seemed like a real lady instead of some old whore.

    "Are
you going out?" I asked.

    She
shook her head and pointed to the bags. "I saw it on TV. From the
beginning I knew you were setting up some hit, and I was only an inconvenient
witness." She adjusted the cuffs of her silk shirt. "Once I was an
elegant woman, and I want to die elegant."

    I
kept staring at her without saying a word. My silence confirmed her suspicions,
but there was no point in reassuring her. If she hadn't taken off, it only
meant she was ready to die, and I was the one to kill her.

    "Don't
worry. It won't happen tonight."

    The
widow nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs and lit a
cigarette. She ran her hand slowly over the bags. "When my man was alive,
he used to let me count the money from robberies. He'd want me to paint my
nails with a dark red polish from Chanel. Then he'd sit in an armchair and
watch me handle the stacks of banknotes. After I finished, we would make love.
And while he was in me, he would sniff my hands. They smelled like money. Then
he got important and sent others to knock over the banks. He increased the
volume of his business, drugs, gambling, money-laundering, and from then on he
began to have other women. I used to stroll through Milano in furs and jewels,
like a princess, but at night I slept alone. I never stopped loving him, but
I'm the kind of woman who loves one man in her life, and when they killed him,
I became 'the widow.' Forever."

    I
remembered it. The boss was in the courtyard of the maximum-security prison at
Cuneo when a group of killers hired by the Cutolo family surrounded him and
stabbed him to death. He was so despised they ripped his heart out and threw it
in the dirt.

    "After
the funeral," the woman resumed her melancholy tale, "some of the new
bosses courted me for a while. But only for the pleasure of screwing the old
boss's wife. An insult without any risks, the sort of thing cowards do. I
preferred to defend his memory and fuck up my life. Then you arrived. You made me
realize how humiliating it is to keep on living like this. I'm not afraid of
dying anymore; my grave has been ready for so long. Next to my man. I want only
two things from you: don't let me suffer too much and let me be found elegant,
as I am now. I don't want the newspapers to say I went out like a bag
lady."

    I
smiled at her. "Relax. You'll look smart," I lied. My plan
anticipated something very different for her. I changed the subject: "I'm
tired. Count the money, and divide it into two piles."

    "There
aren't many of you left to split the take. True men of honor."

    I
slipped into the shower to wash away the stench of death and fear that seeped
into my clothes and brain. I started to relax and felt glad. Didn't take long
to realize I'd become a millionaire. Not bad for somebody who'd left Central
America with a life sentence on his back. Finally I was rich, and I could think
of building the life that was my due, after so much hard work. Even the widow's
resigned attitude added to my satisfaction. I had no desire for any more
trouble. When I returned to the room, she was still counting. I went into the
parlor, poured myself a drink and switched on the TV. Every channel was showing
special reports on the robbery of the superstore. The images were nearly always
the same: the bodies of the two guards covered with a sheet and the men from
forensics carrying out the investigation. I raised my glass to toast my plan.
Simple, easy and therefore brilliant.

    The
widow came over to me. "Eight hundred seventy-five thousand.
Congratulations." Then she looked at the images that flew across the
screen. "Once the underworld would give part of the money to the widows.
Even the cops' widows."

    "Don't
talk crap. These are tales your boss told you to make you think he was a great
man," I scowled back at her. "Get lost. Go to your room."

    That
night I slept with the pistol under my pillow. I was rational enough to know I
was safe, but it was difficult to manage the tension, and I awoke at the
slightest sound. In the morning I opened my eyes and found the widow sitting on
the bed in her dressing gown. She was wearing her hair loose on her shoulders,
and she smelled sweet and clean. She lit a cigarette and started telling
anecdotes about when she was still somebody. A real pain in the balls. I wanted
to send her away, but it was better to let her chill. She'd create fewer
problems when she quit life on earth. Every so often I nodded, feigning
interest. But as she spoke, my mind was far away, back in that town, back with
Flora. For a few minutes I let myself go with a dream beyond my reach: getting
her back through the persuasive power of money. When I recalled the fucks in
the rear of the shoe store, my cock got hard as marble. I took the widow's hand
and slipped it under the covers. "Make yourself useful," I told her.

    Time
stopped, and the wait for Anedda's call became aggravating. The widow began to
lose control of her nerves. She alternated between moments of apparent calm and
crying jags. The TV was constantly tuned into the news programs. One night I
caught my partner showing off at a press conference to report the discovery of
"the robbers' hideout, along with two of them dead, probably Croatian
extremists." I switched it off. No need to follow the news to see if the
investigation had made any progress. Everything was under control.

    I
packed my bags. The ones with the money and the ones with my clothes. Monday my
cell phone rang.

    "Tomorrow
morning they're taking down the road blocks," Anedda quickly announced.
"At ten on the dot be at the restaurant where we ate together." Then
he laughed and added: "With my bag, of course."

    The
widow, however, was sobbing. In silence but uncontrollably. Her eyes were red
and puffy.

    I put
my arm around her shoulders. "You might feel better if you took a nice hot
bath. It'll relax you."

    I
helped her undress and fill the tub with water, salts and bubble bath. Then I
filled the baby bottle with Fernet and grabbed the sleeping pills. When she saw
me coming back, she was terrified.

    "I'm
leaving in three days," I lied to calm her down.

    I put
the nipple in her mouth and rattled off an unlikely string of empty but
sentimental words. She sucked the bottle to the last drop, like a good baby.
Twenty-five minutes later she passed out. I took her feet, slipped them under
my armpits, and grasping her firmly by the knees began to slide her head into
the water. The survival instinct drove her to make a few convulsive movements
in an effort to re-emerge, but they were weak and didn't amount to much. When I
was sure she was dead, I rearranged her body in the tub.

    Then
I started to clean the apartment, removing traces of my presence as well as my
prints. As I combed through the rooms, I made the most of it by searching for
things that might be worth snatching. Lucky I did: I learned the old whore had
tried to screw me. Hidden in a drawer I found an envelope with the line,
"To be read after my death." Inside were a couple pages scrawled with
handwriting that was shaky but completely legible. In the wrong hands they'd
cost me a life sentence. I was trembling like a leaf. A panic attack drove me
to turn the place upside down twice. The next morning on my way out, still
stressed by the idea the widow had hidden other letters, I was hit with the
urge to torch everything. I managed to calm down and convince myself that if I
didn't run across them, then the cops wouldn't either. I finally found the
strength to open the door and leave. I decided not to say a word to Anedda. Any
suspicion about my involvement might make him think I was a potential threat.
And shoot me in the head.

    Ferruccio
the bull arrived in an unmarked police car. I opened the door and laid a bag on
the seat. His share of the loot. He shifted gears and took off, saying goodbye
with a hurried wave. I followed the car with my eyes till it got lost in
traffic. I was thinking I did the right thing to trust a cop who was elegant
outside but rotten inside. I'd later kick myself for it. What's more, being
unable to know or imagine it then would never turn into a good excuse. With a
caper like that, another corpse wouldn't have made the slightest difference.
Simply because you can never trust a cop. They're like whores, always asking you
for one last favor. The favor that fucks you. Instead of dropping the bag in
the car, I should've pulled the pistol with the silencer. Three, four shots
would've taken care of everything forever. Then there'd be no split with
anybody. My mistake was thinking a cop I did business with could always come in
handy. As soon as I stopped playing cops and robbers and entered the real
world, I realized cops didn't count for shit. There was an underworld of
"professionals," each one with his specialty, his contacts, his terms
and his hefty price tag. They were the ones who'd solve your problems. And they
couldn't give a fuck about the law or the police.

    I got
into my Panda. It was transporting more than half a million in different denominations,
all flying the flag of the European Union. I turned onto the highway heading
northeast. I still wasn't clear about my future, but I knew I was moving in the
right direction, where anybody who had balls and brains could go far: the
northeast that belonged to the winners.

    A FEW
DAYS AFTER I turned forty-one, I settled in a town in Veneto. Which one really
doesn't matter. Padova, Treviso, Vicenza-the hunger for money was the same
everywhere. The choice, however, wasn't casual. I moved to where the lawyer
Sante Brianese lived, the professional who was going to be my ticket to the
world of honest citizens. I came across his name in San Vittore: he was
recommended by a former bank manager convicted of fraud and embezzlement. Just
in case I ever needed a shyster.

    "He
doesn't know shit from shinola when it comes to criminal proceedings," the
man made clear. "But he's able to solve the myriad problems that result
from a criminal case, particularly the investment of capital from illegal
sources." In the beginning I had no intention of turning to him. I thought
about managing on my own. But very soon I was forced to realize my act wasn't
together, not even to rent an apartment, and every time I got stopped at a road
block, my criminal past caused me endless headaches.

    Brianese
received me in an office that wasn't flashy, fitted out with simple but
expensive furnishings. His height was average, but he had a trimness that came
from regular trips to the tennis court. An elegant man who inspired trust. The
angular lines of his face made him resemble a nineteenth-century broker, giving
the impression he could solve any problem whatsoever. When I mentioned where I
met the person who recommended him, he told me to put an advance against his fee
on the desk.

    "Fine,"
he said, slipping the banknotes into his jacket. "Now, sir, you are my
client. Speak as freely as you wish."

    Actually
I got straight to the point. I limited myself to sketching my situation: an
ex-con with a certain amount of capital to invest in the restaurant business.