The Goodbye Kiss (9 page)

    "Talk,"
ordered Cerni in Italian. He sounded like a cop. The job must've been imprinted
in his DNA.

    "I
work for the police," I explained. "I help the bulls hunt down
fugitives. For money. I'm not a patriot like you. I tracked you down, but
instead of selling you out I thought I'd offer you a job."

    Cerni
translated for his buddy. Then he set his eyes on me again. "What kind of
job?"

    "A
robbery. An armored truck."

    "We've
never done a robbery."

    "You
only have to stand on a roof and pick off two guards." I made the gesture
of aiming and firing. "Snipers," I added.

    They
muttered to one another. "How much money for each of us?"

    "Not
less than a hundred thousand. With that kind of cash you could guarantee
yourselves a decent escape."

    "Why
should we trust you?"

    "Because
you're in deep shit. If you're forced to hide abroad, it means your friends at
home have unloaded you. You've been judged expendable, and the only way to save
your asses is to find enough dough to cross the ocean and leave Europe
behind."

    "What
if we don't accept the offer, maybe because we don't trust you? Informers
betray everybody, with no exceptions."

    "Then
you better find another hideout because the cops'll be here soon."

    Romo
sneered. "We could kill you now so you won't go tell your friends, the
cops."

    I
shook my head and put on a rueful look. "You disappoint me. I took you for
smarter. You really think I'd come here without taking the necessary
precautions? "

    He
stood up. Grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. "I don't like having
to trust an informer."

    "You've
got no choice." I cut him short, my tone hard. "I didn't sell you out
because you're crack shooters, and the robbery earns me more. That's it."

    They
talked to one another again. Of the two, Tonci seemed more pliable.

    Romo scratched
his bristly beard. "OK, we're in. But watch your step, Dago: we'll get
even."

    I
dismissed the threat with a wave and proceeded to lay out the details of the
heist. I learned they commanded a pretty good arsenal. It contained two Russian
precision rifles, Dragunovs, with ten-shot clips and infrared sights. You take
a liking to the tools of your trade and never get rid of them.

    Romo
translated Tonci's question about how the loot would be divided. They weren't
stupid. Already spotted the moment when they'd be most vulnerable. My answer: I
still had to work it out. Romo made clear they wouldn't do the job without
knowing all the details. I told them not to worry and headed for the door.

    I had
a coffee to unwind. Those two guys gave me the willies. Dangerous fanatics,
pros at inflicting violence and cruelty. Going back over the conversation, word
by word, I reached the conclusion they'd try to snatch the whole purse. They
had nothing to lose and might decide not to leave any witnesses hanging around.
The meeting to split the cash risked turning into a shoot-out. My plan,
however, anticipated an execution.

    I
decided to look up the Spaniards. Took the tram. Always preferred to travel by public
transport. That way I could more easily make out whether I was being followed.
Besides, I liked looking at the city through the window, checking out streets
and the traffic.

    Nobody
was home. Their host had to be at work. Since it was eleven in the morning, I
thought they might be in the neighborhood doing some shopping-if they hadn't
decided to stay in shape by knocking off a bank. Found them in a bar instead.
As I passed by the window I spotted them, busy biting into cornetti and
drinking cappuccini and frappes. I went inside, grabbed a chair and sat at
their table. The two men reacted by slipping their hands into their jacket
pockets, searching for the reassuring butts of their guns. I challenged them
with a look. The woman did nothing but stare at me. She was the leader. No
doubt about it. I rested my hands on the table to show I didn't have any bad
intentions.

    "Pepe,
Javier and Francisca. Pleased to make your acquaintance," I said in a
friendly tone, speaking Spanish and using their noms de guerre.

    "Who
are you?" she asked.

    "Somebody
who knows everything about you."

    "You're
a comrade?" asked Pepe.

    I
sneered. "Once upon a time I was. Now I've stopped dreaming and dedicated
myself to making money."

    "Who
are you?" repeated Francisca. "You speak Spanish like a
Mexican."

    I
gave her the once-over. She was a stinger, really beautiful. Dark hair and
eyes. Perfectly oval face. Big tits. Long legs sticking out of a miniskirt. The
low-heeled shoes didn't go with the outfit: she probably wore them in case they
had to make tracks. What a shame she wasn't my type. Not only was she too
young, but she came off like one of those ballbreakers who never knuckle under.
Especially to a man.

    I
ignored her questions and ordered my third coffee of the morning from the
barista. Lit a cigarette. Only then did I speak. "I'm a police informer. I
would've sold you to the cops, but it's just your luck I need you for a certain
job."

    "What
kind of job?" asked the woman.

    "A
robbery. An armored truck. One hundred thousand a head."

    The
three of them looked at each other. The two men were pointing their guns at me
through their jacket pockets. They would've been happy to fire, but the place
was too crowded.

    "We
don't work with scum," said Francisca.

    I
smiled and looked her in the eye. "Then start running," I flashed
back, pointing at the door. "You can bet your little Italian friend, his
girl and the people at the community center are going to have a rough time."

    "Motherfucker."
Pepe insulted me. "They know nothing about us. They think we're three
Spanish comrades on vacation."

    "I
know the score. You think the police and the judges won't jump on 'a new
criminal element in the area' to square accounts with a community center that's
always breaking balls?

    Won't
be the first time it's happened in Italy. It's business as usual."

    I
watched them. I knew perfectly well what they were thinking. Others would've
hit the door and felt no qualms if somebody wound up in jail. But not comrades.
Consistency, a sense of responsibility, militant solidarity. I recognized their
confusion. It was identical to what I'd read in Gianni's face at that Parisian
brasserie. They'd accept my offer. They couldn't carry the shame of a betrayal
to the grave. Good for them. They'd die happy.

    "Fuck
off," ordered the woman. "We have to talk. We'll meet here tomorrow,
same time."

    I
walked till lunch. I chose a restaurant carefully and phoned Ferruccio the
bull. He asked me where I was. Twenty minutes later I saw him come in,
impeccable and elegant as always. The wine I'd chosen wasn't to his liking. He
had it switched without asking my opinion. A cop's cockiness.

    "Did
they go for it?" he asked.

    I
told the whole story, down to the smallest details. As I always did with him.
Even shared my suspicions about the Croats' plan to whack us and make off with
the cash.

    "The
Spaniards might also be tempted," Anedda figured. "This way they
could lay out two Croatian fascists and a police informer."

    I
hadn't thought of this. His reasoning was flawless, but I knew too much about
far-left idealists to think it had a real chance of happening. Still, to be on
the safe side, it was best not to take anything for granted.

    "When
we split the cash, you'll have to be there, hidden, ready to show at the right
moment to help me smoke them."

    .
"Seven's too many," he remarked.

    "Five,"
I corrected. "Ciccio Formaggio and his inside guy will check out the night
before."

    "You'll
see to it?"

    "Yes."

    He
adjusted the knot in his tie. "Five's not so few, but it can be done.
We'll have to find an abandoned house in the country."

    "That's
your job. You're the Milanese."

    For
the umpteenth time he discreetly surveyed the joint, searching for faces he
recognized. Reassured, he stood up and left without paying his share of the
bill.

    The
widow had gotten drunk. I found her stretched out on the couch, face down. The
room stank of smoke and liquor. I threw open a window. Made some strong coffee
and filled the tub with cold water. That bitch drank just to dodge me.

    The
next morning only Maria Garces, alias Francisca, showed up at the bar. Her hair
was tied back, and she wore jeans that accentuated her ass and legs.

    "Alone?"

    "Better
one in jail than three."

    "Right.
You can never be too careful. So what did you decide?"

    "We
can't let someone innocent pay for us. The problem is you offer no guarantee of
safety. This could be a trap. After the heist you shoot us in the back or turn
us over to the police. And once we're gone you can denounce our Italian
comrades. With scum like you we can never be sure."

    She
enjoyed insulting me. She was indignant, angry, especially because she knew I
had them boxed in. "If you're finished with the bullshit, we can move on
and discuss the plan." I spelled out the operation without saying the
place and date, just as I'd done with the Croats. When she asked me who the
other players were, I mentioned only Romo and Tonci. As soon as she heard they
were Ustashi, she started to spew insults. I let her vent for a while. She
chilled out when I told her after the split they could slit each other's
throats if they liked. From her expression I could tell the Spaniards had also
considered this angle. Ferruccio saw right through them. Apart from that idiot
Ciccio Formaggio and the inside guy, all the other players were keen to
eliminate the competition. But I wasn't worried at all about the Spaniards. No,
the Croats were the ones who bothered me. And Anedda. He was an unknown
quantity. I thought him capable of anything. Even of saving the last bullet in
the clip for me, once the others were eliminated. I had no intention of laying
him out. In days to come he could still be useful. But I'd have to keep my eye
on him, and if he wanted to try and fuck me over, I'd pay him back in the same
coin.

    "I
want to see the place and the armored truck when it collects the money. I want
to check the escape routes." The Spaniard started making a list,
distracting me from my thoughts.

    I
shut her up with a wave. "I'll show you a video. I don't want any
fugitives buzzing around my hit. You might fuck everything up. It goes down in
ten days." On Saturday I'd film the whole scenario with a video camera,
and the following week we'd enter the field.

    She
stared at me, boiling with hatred. "More and more this robbery stinks like
a trap."

    "The
only thing it stinks like is money, but you're too obsessed with your role as
the true blue militant to realize it."

    She
raised a hand to slap me. "We're in a bar," I calmly reminded her.

    She
lowered it. "Try and fuck us, and it'll be the last mistake you
make."

    I
sighed. She was unbearable. It'd be a pleasure to blow her away. I cracked a
smile. "We'll meet here in exactly one week, same time. And bring your
litde friends. I'll introduce you to the rest of the group."

    I met
Ciccio Formaggio for lunch. He started to grumble when he caught the prices on
the menu. "Where the fuck have you brought me? I can't remember the last
time I got fleeced like this."

    I
snorted. "What balls! You're about to fill your pockets with thousands,
and you whine about a restaurant bill?"

    He
turned chipper again. "So how's it going?"