The Goodbye Kiss (8 page)

    I
told him everything, without leaving out a single detail.

    "What
do you want from me?" he asked when I finished. "You don't expect me
to put on a ski mask, do you?"

    "Of
course not," I came right back. "You'd only have to show me which
people to contact for the heist. I'm out of circulation. And I don't want to
turn to the hoods I met at San Vittore. They know who I am, but I don't trust
them. If something goes wrong, they'll squeal right away."

    "And
that's it?"

    "There's
one more thing, but it has nothing to do with pulling off the heist. Let's just
say it'll make divvying up the take easier."

    He
sneered. "How many you want to knock out?"

    "Two
are already dead, but they don't know it yet. The jury's still out on the
others. I was thinking of getting them all together for the split… and then
using your help to dole out some lead."

    He pulled
out a gun and poked it in my side. "You might get the idea to kill me
too."

    "The
idea might be mutual."

    Ferruccio
slipped the Beretta back into his holster and changed the subject. "So you
want me to get you some desperate characters, guys with nothing to lose."

    "Hard
to find?"

    He
burst out laughing. "Not at all. Once they were rare, but now they go by
the kilo. This country has turned into an elephant cemetery: they all come here
to die."

    He
grew serious again and started counting the cash. He stuffed my share into a
paper bag and told me to beat it. He'd get in touch on the cell phone. He
didn't ask where I was staying. Either he already knew or he didn't give a
fuck.

    I
hailed a taxi and had him drop me two hundred meters from the widow's place. I
found her still in dreamland. I lifted her bodily out of the tub and laid her
on the bed. Then I went back to the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror.
The cheek was swollen, but the wound had stopped bleeding. I ransacked the cabinet
and found disinfectant and bandages. I’d have a scar. In an emergency room a
surgeon could've closed the flaps of skin with a few stitches, but the cut
looked exactly like what it was: mutilation. Better avoid any complications.
The house was quiet. I threw myself into an armchair and smoked a cigarette. I
had to solve the problem of stashing my savings. I couldn't put the widow to
sleep every time I went out. What with the pills and the Fernet I'd kill her.
Too soon. I always thought she'd have to die. After the robbery I couldn't
leave behind a blabbermouth. At this point she knew diddly squat, but she'd
hung around hoods too long not to link my stay in Milano with the hit on the
armored truck. A heist worth half a million euros with two dead bodies on the
tarmac isn't the sort of news that passes unnoticed. If Ciccio Formaggio had to
be eliminated because he might let slip one word too many, the widow was sure
as shit to talk. For revenge. For the satisfaction of holding her head up one
last time. I'd have to find a way of getting rid of her without rousing
suspicion. The neighbors had already noticed me. I stood up and began to wander
around the joint, searching for a hiding place. In one room I found a wardrobe
that was too heavy for her to move by herself. I went back to the bedroom to
make sure she was still asleep. I divided the cash into bundles and slipped
them into freezer bags. Then I tacked them to the back of the wardrobe. I
pushed it against the wall and checked to make sure the bags couldn't be
spotted. It wasn't such a hot moneybox, but I didn't have anything better at
hand.

    I
changed my clothes. The widow had woken up but pretended to be asleep so she
wouldn't have to deal with me.

    "I'm
going out. You stay put and watch TV. You're paid to do this too."

    When
I reached the street, it hit me I didn't know where to go. I had no desire to
revisit the spots where I used to hang as an ex-con, flat broke and desperate.
I started walking aimlessly. It was a pleasant evening at the end of September,
and I walked on and on, window-shopping, people-watching. I stopped in a
restaurant filled with people eating, drinking, chattering away. I was the only
one who had nothing to do but take in the scene. I was on pins and needles till
the waiter served me my risotto. At a certain point, the chef came out of the
kitchen. From the way he acted I guessed he was also the owner. He began to go
from table to table, asking customers if the dishes met with their approval.
Occasionally he'd sit for a few minutes and make small talk. It was a gracious
gesture that people appreciated. My turn came. The guy sized me up, figured I
was just a chance customer, and went no further than to ask me quietly whether
I was pleased with the meal and the service.

    Without
answering I pointed to the chair on my right. "May I offer you a glass of
wine?"

    He
was taken aback for a moment; then he satisfied me. With a wave he had a glass
brought to him.

    "I
used to work in a place that served food and drink," I told him.
"Like you, I was treated with respect by the customers. You know what I
mean?"

    The
chef nodded and adjusted his neckerchief. He was about fifty, thin but
muscular. His smock was spotless, and his hands were clean and well cared for.
A winner.

    "Seeing
as how I'd like to get into a different line of work," I went on, "I
asked myself if opening a restaurant might be a good investment. Of course I
like working with people-"

    He
emptied his glass. He didn't have the slightest intention of talking to me.
"I don't know where you worked before, what sort of place it might have
been, but being a restaurateur is a serious matter," he began to explain
in a smart-aleck tone. "One must know the trade and have a broad knowledge
of the wine industry as well. Perhaps a pizzeria would be a more suitable
venture. Good or bad, everybody eats pizza," he concluded as he stood up.
He politely held out his hand and went over to another table.

    "Pizzeria
my asshole," I thought as I kept my eyes on him. I wasn't going to invest
my money in some third-rate business. These days even the Chinese were opening
pizzerias. With the risks I was running to guarantee myself a decent future, I
deserved something better. I needed a good reputation, and only the finest
people could provide me with that. The ones with the fat wallets and the right
circle of friends. I'd open a classy place. Obviously without trying to act the
part of a restaurateur. I'd limit myself to hiring professionals, and I'd be
the boss, dividing my time between the account books and the customers' tables.
It was only a question of money. When you're on the fringes with time in the
slammer, life's an uphill race. And everything costs double.

    I
paid the check and hit the street again. When I got tired, I ducked into a
movie theater. An American picture. Boring.

    I
went back to the widow's. When she heard the key turn in the lock, she ran to
shut herself up in her room. For a moment I was tempted to leave her in peace,
but I was bored stiff and wanted to amuse myself. I knocked on the door. I made
her come back to the living room-on all fours.

    Ferruccio
the bull didn't contact me for a week. On Saturday I cased the superstore again
to verify the schedule and movements of the armored truck. But it was the only
time I managed to shake off the boredom. The city spat me out like a foreign
body, and my only distraction was restaurants. Two a day. I only went into the
ones that seemed top-notch to me.

    Same
McDonald's as last time and same car. Anedda drove fast in traffic, constantly
checking the rear-view mirror. He was always on the look-out.

    "I
found the right people," he announced. "Three Spanish anarchists, two
men and a woman. On the run from another robbery. And no way to beat the rap."

    "Who
else?" I pressed him.

    He
chuckled. "Two Ustashi Croats. War criminals. But perfect shots."

    I
shook my head. "It won't work. They'll never agree to work together."

    "Oh
yes they will," Ferruccio shot back. "They're real desperate, and they
need the cash. Besides, they don't have to work together. The Croats will be on
the roof and the Spaniards in the car retrieving the money bags."

    It
rang true. Not a bad idea. "And even if they croak, nobody's going to give
a damn, right?"

    "Right.
Under the seat are two files with all the information about them, including
photos and current addresses. There was enough to arrest them, but I managed to
change the program. You've got ten minutes to read the files. I can't let them
go."

    I
started with the Croats. Romo Dujc, alias Cerni the Black Shirt, 44, and Tonci
Zaninovic, 42. Soldiers in the seventy-second battalion of the military police.
Charged with participating in various ethnic cleansing operations. The report
indicated they were snipers. This was the only detail that interested me. I
studied their photos. Ugly. Dangerous. It wouldn't be easy to get rid of them.
They were holed up in the Giambellino quarter, in a small apartment rented to a
Croat prostitute. Patriotic solidarity.

    I
shifted to the Spaniards. Sebastian Monrubia, 39, Esteban Collar, 36, and Maria
Garces, 31. Noms de guerre: Pepe, Javier and Francisca. She was a fly piece of
ass; the other two wore the grim looks of militants sworn to self-sacrifice.
Whacking them wouldn't be a problem. The Spanish authorities were after them
for a robbery that went south, one cop dead, another seriously wounded. They
were hiding out at the home of an Italian comrade who hung around a community
center. His phone was tapped.

    I put
the files back under the seat and lit a cigarette. "I'll contact both
groups tomorrow."

    "How
do you plan to approach them?"

    I
expected that question. It was the most difficult step in the operation. The
pretext had to be convincing. Very convincing. "I'll tell them I'm an
informer, and I've picked them out. But since they're such a slick crew, I
won't sell them to the cops. Instead I'll let them in on a robbery that's a
sure thing and very profitable."

    Anedda
turned to look at me. "Can't you think of something less dangerous? They
don't strike me as people who take kindly to informers. You're risking a bullet
in the belly."

    I
shrugged my shoulders. "It'll be hard to make them swallow the idea that some
crook has tracked them down. Better a half-truth."

    The
cop let me out at the Cadorna station. I walked till I got hungry. Then I went
into a restaurant.

    I
rang the bell of the Croats' hide-out at eight in the morning. I chose to confront
them when they were still groggy from sleep. The girl answered. Her surname was
Bazov, her Christian name unpronounceable. On the street she called herself
Luana. There's nothing worse than a whore with a complicated name. She came
from Vukovar. A refugee in her country, a refugee in Italy, then the life. She
opened the door with her eyes half-closed. "What do you want?" she
mumbled.

    "From
you, nothing. I want to talk to Cerni and his partner, Zaninovic."

    She turned
a whiter shade of pale, then sprang back wideawake. She shook her head, on the
edge of panic. "I don't know these men," she lied.

    I
gave her a nasty pinch on a nipple. Another little trick I learned from the two
Romanians at the club. "Go call them," I ordered.

    Scared,
she slammed the door in my face. I could've given it a push and forced my way
into the apartment, but I couldn't rule out the possibility the two guys were
there eavesdropping, armed and ready for anything. I sensed the presence of
somebody eyeing me through the peephole. I didn't move a muscle. It was Cerni
himself who opened the door. One hand on the knob, the other holding a large
automatic.

    "Ciao,
Romo," I greeted him. "I want to talk to you."

    He
stuck out his head to make sure I was alone. Then he fastened his eyes on me.
He was strapping, his face creepy. His girlish mouth fought against his shaved
skull, his skinhead sideburns and the sagging flesh on his chin. Pale blue
eyes. Shifty, like a hunted animal's. When I looked into them, I knew for
certain this fucker wouldn't go down easy before he gave us his slice of the
pie.

    He
nodded at me to get inside. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, he slammed
me against the wall and frisked me. He did it like a pro. After all, he'd been
in the military police for a good part of his life. He directed me into the
hallway with the gun. We went into a roomy kitchen where his partner was
waiting for us, armed with a pump rifle. He aimed it at my face. If he squeezed
the trigger, my head would've been ripped from my body. Romo barked an order,
and Tonci lowered the weapon. I smiled at him. He was tall and thin, with
muscles sculpted by years at the gym. His head was shaved too. He had a pig's
face and a pointy blond goatee. The classic executioner. They steered me
towards a chair. The table was still set from the night before. Plates and
cutlery for two. The girl must be on the street before dinner. I lit a
cigarette.