The Goodbye Kiss (7 page)

    I
didn't answer. Had a look around. A pig sty. "With all the money I gave
you, you could afford something better."

    She
shook her head. Through the movement of her hair, I saw a bitter grimace ravage
her face. It lasted no more than an instant, long enough to realize she was in
my grip again. My dough had so disgusted her she gambled it all away. Down to
the last euro.

    "So
you blew it at the casino?"

    "I
wish. A backroom game was enough."

    I
didn't have much time. I increased the dose. "And now you're broke again,
forced to service retirees."

    "What
do you want?" she repeated.

    "I
want you to get on a train, go back to your place in Milano and put me up for a
couple months. I'll pay you well."

    She
stared at me. She knew I was looking for a hideout. Definitely a hood's widow.
"But no funny business. I'm fed up with your garbage," she hissed
like a snake.

    Maybe
the lady felt entitled to think we could switch roles, seeing as how I needed
her apartment. Her skittish rebellion turned me on as I hadn't been for ages. I
took in the wrinkles on her neck, her sagging tits, the puckers of cellulite
around her thighs. I pulled her by the hair and made her stretch out on the
bed, face down. From the nightstand I grabbed the bottle of Fernet Branca she
used to rinse out her mouth after blowjobs, and I wedged it delicately between
her buttocks. My hand remained motionless for an endless minute. I wanted her
to be completely aware of what she was about to suffer. She took it like a pro.
She knew she was a loser, stuck on the bottom rung of the ladder that was her
scene. She was trying her best to show me she'd fallen in line again.

    I
tipped Anedda the exchange would go down within forty- eight hours. He told me
he identified the courier from the license number. The car belonged to an
Italian woman, a resident of Milano who was formerly a streetwalker, now
retired. She lived with somebody called Jesus Zamorano, a Bolivian with a
record for drug dealing.

    That
same night the bull arrived with his squad, a group of forty-year-olds with the
look of experts. They belonged to the anti-terrorist generation: they were the
ones who chased us down and kicked our asses. We met in the parking lot of a
pensione, on Venetian terra firma. Anedda made me a sign to follow him. He
handed me some contraption that looked like a cross between a cell phone and a
straight razor.

    "It's
a stun gun," he explained. "Stick it in the Bolivian's ribs, press
the button, and he'll hit the ground, out of commission for about ten
minutes."

    "I
would've preferred a real gun."

    He snorted
with impatience. "It's better to avoid a shoot-out and corpses in a
department store. This thing is more discreet. "

    Suddenly
I got it. "You don't have any intention of nabbing the courier."

    "Of
course not. He's my gift to some Milanese colleagues. I owe them a couple
favors. You need to be generous in these cases. Busting the Barese will make a
big enough splash."

    Things
were hopping at the club that night, and the Barese was smiling, satisfied with
the way business was going. I would've liked to know where he stashed the loot.
Maybe abroad. But he didn't strike me as a guy who wanted to be far from his
cash. Blue Skies was a real gold mine, and I guessed he put aside at least a
million. He'd drop a wad on the lawyers, but he'd have more than enough left to
get by. Once he got out of jail.

    Some
bruiser tapped me on the shoulder. It was the Kosovar who came to pick the
girls. He sized them up for a while, then pointed out seven.

    "That's
thirty-five grand." My tone was gruff.

    "No
problem, bud."

    I
avoided eye contact so he wouldn't see I knew they wanted to fuck me over. They
planned to take away the dancers without shelling out a cent. I sure as hell
couldn't show up at the meeting armed with the stun gun Anedda gave me. They'd
slit my throat. I decided if I couldn't find a more suitable weapon, I'd call
off the deal.

    The
last customers left the club at four. I dashed home. Packed my bags and stowed
them in the Panda. After a few hours' sleep, I jumped into the shower and drove
to Treviso. I checked the battery on my cell phone for the zillionth time.
Anedda was going to ring me as soon as the Barese got close to the store.

    The
call came a little after eleven. I was wandering around the housewares section
on the top floor.

    "He's
on his way in," the cop warned me.

    I
slowly approached the escalator. From above I spotted the Bolivian strolling
between the shelves of toys. He also got a phone call and headed for men's
wear.

    They
used the same dressing room to make the exchange. As the Barese walked away
with the cocaine, I reached the closed door. Behind it the courier was probably
counting the cash. When he opened it, I poked the stun gun in his chest, and he
collapsed without a whimper. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
Checked the brief case. Full of banknotes. I frisked Zamorano: under his
jacket, on his left side, he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun. A
forty-centimeter toy loaded with shot for boar-hunting. The ideal weapon to
bring to a business meeting with the Kosovar mafia. I left the dressing room
and quickly walked away, taking the stairs. On the street I noticed a good deal
of confusion. A crowd of on lookers surrounded two unmarked police cars. I got
to the parking lot, hid the briefcase and shotgun under the seat and drove back
to town, careful to avoid the slightest infraction of the traffic code. I got
to Blue Skies, which was empty at that hour, and commandeered the van they used
to make all kinds of deliveries. The previous night I snatched the keys that
were always next to the cash register. I started rounding up the dancers who'd
been picked to work in the clubs in Pristina. They all lived around there. I
knocked on door after door, telling them a dragnet was in process and the
Barese had ordered me to hide them. None of the girls found it strange. The
tale was believable, after all. The van had no windows in the back, and they
couldn't see where I was taking them. I was meeting the Kosovars in the parking
lot of a shopping center outside Mestre. A gang of five guys led by the bruiser
who showed at the club. They started to walk towards me, smiling. Immediately I
saw what was coming. They'd surround me, giving me a warm welcome, and one of
them would stab me. Discreetly. A lunge at the heart, the blade skillfully
slipped between the ribs. Then they'd hold me up, like a friend too drunk to
stay on his feet, and push me into a car. I beat them to it: I leaned my back
up against the van and pulled the shotgun out from under my jacket. The thugs
stopped short, keeping their hands in plain view. True professionals. The
message was clear: a request for a truce so we could deal. Sweat was streaming
down my face and neck. It ran into my eyes and burned the hell out of them, but
I wasn't going to lower the gun for anything.

    A
lady and a gent passed by, pushing a shopping cart. They got the drift and took
off.

    "Money
tomorrow," said the leader. "Today not possible."

    "You
ugly mother fuckers. You wanted to rip me off. Beat it or I'll shoot."

    They
piled into two high-powered cars and burned rubber as they left. I threw open
the sliding door of the van.

    "Out,"
I shouted at the girls. "The club's been shut down. Go find another
job."

    The shotgun
I still held in my hand was the most persuasive argument for them. They
hightailed it, no questions asked. I climbed into the van, wracked by anger and
fear. I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. Hard. To hurt myself. What a
dope I'd been. For a shitty thirty-five thousand I risked getting killed. In
future I'd have to be less reckless. Otherwise I'd never make it.

    I HAD
TO LEAVE THE WIDOW'S PLACE to meet Anedda. But I couldn't leave her alone with
my money. In that fucking apartment I couldn't even find a decent hole to hide
it. Once the old floozy was alone, she'd jump at the chance to rummage through
my bags and blow my savings at the nearest casino. I searched for some
solution. In the end I went to buy a baby bottle in the pharmacy downstairs and
a liter of Fernet in a grocery. The widow was taking a bath. I held her nose
shut, stuffed two sleeping pills into her mouth and chased them with the
nipple.

    "Suck,"
I ordered.

    She
probably thought this was one of my pranks. She obeyed, frightened. She
couldn't wait for me to take off and leave her in peace. I sat on the edge of
the tub and lit two cigarettes. Slipped one between her lips.

    "Don't
dream of spitting up."

    In
her eyes I saw she wanted to let loose one of her typically unpleasant remarks.
But she held back. More from resignation, I think, than fear. I waited about
ten minutes. So she wouldn't drown, I removed the stopper and the water started
to drain.

    "When
I come back, I want to find you here."

    "Let
me go to bed. I'll have a long sleep. Soaking wet I might catch cold."

    I
sighed. I was in no mood to make concessions. "No. Stay put."

    Ferruccio
the bull told me to meet him outside the McDonald's in front of the central
train station. I had a vise-grip on the briefcase with the money. All of it. It
was up to him to give me my thirty percent. A gang leader's role instead of a
cop's. You start off like a shining knight, but in time you get your hands
dirty, not to mention your heart and brain. He pulled up in a Fiat Brava. Stuck
his hand out the window to signal me to get in.

    "Have
you seen the papers?" he asked, pleased with himself.

    I
shook my head.

    "And
the TV?" he insisted.

    "I
don't watch it, and I don't read newspapers. I couldn't give a fuck."

    "What
a shame. The operation got loads of attention, and my colleagues in Veneto had
to chill out. The chief of police personally complimented me."

    I
nodded ceremoniously. Anedda parked on a side street with little traffic. He
pointed at the briefcase. "How much?"

    "Two
hundred on the nose."

    He
elbowed me in the cheekbone. A sharp jab, precise and powerful, delivered with
an ease that comes from practice and training. My vision went blurry, and I leaned
my forehead on the dashboard.

    "I
heard about some strange goings-on in a parking lot in Mestre," he hissed
in a rage. "Some dude with a sawed-off shotgun held off a gang of
assholes, while a bunch of trashy broads busted out the back of a van and took
off in every direction like a flock of chickens."

    It
was no use contradicting him. Anedda would've taken me out. "I did
something stupid."

    He
elbowed me again, this time in the ear. An interrogation technique. In his long
and honored career, he must've beaten quite a few leftwing students and
workers. I knew he needed to vent and it was better to keep quiet.

    "You
wanted to rip me off, but because you're such a prick- head, you risked fucking
everything up. If the carabinieri or the revenue officers had collared you, we
would've all wound up in jail."

    He
pulled the key from the ignition and raked it across my cheek. In silence I
took out my handkerchief and tamped the wound. I lowered the visor, wiped the
dust off the mirror with my fingers, and checked the cut. A couple centimeters
long. No big deal. Just something to clarify our relationship now and in
future.

    "You
need to be taught a lesson," the cop went on more calmly. "Instead of
thirty your share'll be ten percent."

    I shook
my head. "Give me thirty, and I'll let you in on something that'll make
you rich."

    "What
is it?" he gibed. "Another close-out sale on whores?"

    "An
armored truck."

    He
lit a cigarette. "How much?"

    "Half
a million for sure, maybe three quarters."

    "I'm
listening."

    "I
want thirty percent."

    "You'll
get it only if the offer interests me."