Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 (19 page)

knew who they were connected to. Someone powerful, for

sure, or they wouldn’t have dared throw their weight

around in this arrogant way. There was a name out there, all right, but she preferred not to think too much about who it might be.

But all this paled into insignificance compared with

what happened next. She had admitted bringing the car to the underground depot run by Lorenzo, who ran the place for Roberto, who in turn ran all manner of things for…

‘Where did you get it?’ demanded one of the men.

He was the one she had been most afraid of all along wrongly, as it now turned out. For no sooner had she

repeated the line she used with Lorenzo - ‘I saw it on the street, unlocked and with the key in the ignition’ - than the other man, to whom she hadn’t so far paid much attention, grabbed Daniele as he ran past, still yelling ‘Putta!’, and hauled him up to perch on his knees. Then, still smiling, he took out a pistol and aimed it at the back of the

child’s head, which he was holding in such a playfully

tight grip that Daniele had no idea what was happening. ‘Putta!’ he yelled, encouraged by this welcome male attention. ‘Putta!’

‘For Christ’s sake, Sabatino!’ the other man hissed,

loud enough to be heard.

So that’s the deal, she thought, the good cop and the

bad cop. Not that they were cops, of course, but the pattern was the same.

‘Oh, putta!’ shouted the one called Sabatino, mimicking her son’s voice and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Where did you get it?’

If only there was a simple answer, she would have told

them. But there wasn’t. She’d seen the news, and knew

now who the owner of the car was. And she knew - or

rather, like everyone else, didn’t know - what had

become of him. All she was sure of was that some gang of terrorists was involved, and that the lean, cruel,

unknown young man across the room had just cocked the

revolver pointing at the nape of her son’s neck, his blank eyes boring into her like some scary trick’s cock.

‘From a client!’ she blurted out.

‘When?’

‘Friday night.’

‘Who was he?’

“I don’t know! I hardly saw him.’

‘Putta! yelled Daniele merrily.

His mother started to weep. For the first time, the child looked alarmed. Sabatino slid his pistol back inside his jacket.

‘Go and play outside,’ he said.

Daniele glanced at his mother, who nodded.

‘But no tricks!’ warned the other man.

The woman held her arms open to her son, who came

runnning.

‘Go and see Aunt Clara,’ she told him. ‘But don’t say

anything about these men being here/

‘Same as usual?’ lisped Daniele brightly.

His mother sighed and nodded gravely.

‘Same as usual/

Daniele turned bravely away, pleased to be helpful. He

went out, closing the door behind him, same as usual,

leaving his mother alone with the strange men.

‘I’d never seen him before/ the woman said. ‘He asked

for some very … unusual services. But the money was good, so I agreed. I got into his car and we were about to drive off to his place when the accident happened/

‘Accident?’

This from the other man, the one whose name she

didn’t know.

‘A truck hit us from behind/ she replied, shrugging.

‘One of those yellow ones that pick up the rubbish. My

trick got out to argue with the driver. And that was the last I saw of him/

‘Oh, come on!’ Sabatino jeered aggressively.

There was no telling what might have happened if the

other man’s mobile phone had not started beeping. With

an expression of annoyance he flicked up the mouthpiece and started speaking quietly, turning away so as not to be overheard. That broke their rhythm and gave her a chance to regroup, not that she had any idea what to do with it.

‘Did anyone else see this?’ demanded the one calling

himself Sabatino, more to stop her overhearing what his partner was saying than in hope of a positive answer.

‘No, I was the only one on that..
p>

She broke off with a frown.

‘That’s odd!’

The reply was brutal:

‘What’s odd?’

She looked up at him. This was the moment. They

would either kill her now or not. At least Daniele would be safe.

‘There’re two femmenielli who usually work the opposite corner. But you know what? They haven’t been there,

the last couple of nights. I never thought about it until now. They’ve disappeared, just like…’

The other man snapped his mobile phone closed and

stood up.

‘Let’s go!’

Sabatino frowned.

‘What is it?’

‘De Spino. He wants us now.’

They headed for the door. There the one who was not

called Sabatino turned and stared levelly at the woman.

‘Not a word of this to anyone else, or we’ll be back. If not for you, then for your kid.’

She sat trembling as the door closed behind them. De

Spino, she was thinking. She couldn’t place anyone by

that name except Dario, but he was just a small-time fixer and scam artist. It was a joke to think that someone like that could get a pair of ruthless thugs like these to drop everything and come running. It must be another De

Spino. The old order was breaking down, and new men

she had never heard of were taking over. She was out of tune with the times, with the new Italy. Soon no one

would want her, even on the street.

It was only then that she realized that the two men had said nothing about the money Lorenzo gave her for the

car. A slow smile spread across her tired face. Maybe it was time to pay a call on Grandma in Avellino. She was

always complaining that she never got to see Daniele.

They would be safe enough there up in the mountains for a while, by which time the whole episode would hopefully have been forgotten.

Qualche cosa di nuovo

It was not yet two when Zen left the Squillace apartment, replete with several bowls of pasta e ciceri, a celebration of making the most of what you have: chunks of chickpea

bathed in oil and pasta under a dusty blanket of aged

Parmesan. The sanctity of lunchtime might have been

eroded farther north, where people hastily gobbled sandwiches at work just like Americans, but here in Naples the

traditional three-hour ora di pranzo still commanded

widespread respect. The streets outside were quiet, the corridors and stairs of the building deserted. It was therefore a surprise to Zen to find the porter already on duty.

He had already had one unnerving encounter with this

Cerberus, who evidently took his responsibilities

extremely seriously. When Zen had appeared on his way

in, an hour or so earlier, he had leapt out of his wooden sentry box in the hall and quizzed him with an air of

haughty scepticism as to his business there. As agreed, Zen explained that he was Signora Squillace’s cousin

from Milan, down here on business for a few days. The

porter telephoned upstairs to check that Dottor Zembla

was indeed known and expected, and only then, with

some evident reluctance, allowed him to enter.

So the sight of the porter patrolling the hallway was not at first a welcome one. But it immediately became clear that the attitude of this functionary had changed dramatically.

Perhaps he too had had a good lunch, or perhaps a

few glasses of wine had softened his mood. At all events, he greeted Zen with deference and even warmth, and

escorted him in person to the street door with a variety of bland but amiable comments about the weather.

Zen had summoned Pasquale before coming down,

and the familiar yellow Fiat Argenta was already waiting at the kerb. The porter hurried over to open the rear door for Zen, and made a great fuss about accepting the tip

offered in return for these courtesies. Then he closed the door behind Signora Squillace’s suddenly honoured

guest, and looked across at two young men sitting in a red Alfa Romeo parked on the other side of the street. The

driver, wearing a white sweater with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed arms, said something to his companion, in dark glasses and a Lacoste T-shirt, who put

down the magazine he had been reading. Gravely, deliberately, the porter nodded once.

Inside the cab, Pasquale reached back and handed his

passenger a blue plastic bag marked ‘Carmignani Toys Since 1883’.

‘Don’t worry, duttd. It isn’t a toy/

Zen opened the bag and looked at the box inside. It

showed a photograph of a mobile telephone.

‘Already?’ he said in astonishment.

‘Eh, eh! We make a sale, we deliver the product.’

Zen sighed.

‘Unfortunately I can’t pay you, Pasquale. My wallet got snitched outside the Questura and I can’t get to the bank until tomorrow. I’ve already had to borrow some money

from a friend to pay someone else off.’

‘Gesu, Gesu! A few years ago, I could have made a few

phone calls and your wallet would have been returned

within the hour with every last lira intact. But that was the old days, before they locked up Don Raffaele. Nowadays everything’s chaotic. There’s no respect, no organization!

I’ll put the word about, duttd, but I’m afraid you can kiss your money goodbye.’

‘The money’s not that important. The real problem is

that my police identification card was in there too, and without that…’

He broke off, realising his slip.

‘So you are in the police!’ exclaimed Pasquale triumphantly.

“I was sure of it/

Zen gestured awkwardly.

“I didn’t want to … inhibit you. Sometimes when people know you’re a policemen, they feel less free to offer

certain services of an irregular nature/

Pasquale put the car in gear.

‘Very thoughtful, duttd. I appreciate your delicacy. So your ID was taken too. Is that all?’

‘All? It’ll take months to get a new one/

The taxi accelerated violently away. ‘Ma quante maje?’ Pasquale demanded rhetorically. ‘A few days at most/

Zen laughed.

‘You’ve obviously managed to avoid too many dealings

with officialdom very successfully, Pasca. From the

day I put in my application for a replacement card, it will take a minimum of…’

‘Twenty-four hours, duttdl Maybe even less, depends

on the workload. I’ll need a photograph, of course/

A pause.

‘You’re offering to get me a fake?’

Pasquale took both hands off the wheel and turned

around indignantly to protest.

‘A fake? Do you think I’d try and fob you off with a

fake? This is the real thing, duttd, indistinguishable from the original. Handmade in Aversa by some of the best

artisans in the business. The printing, the paper, the

stamp - all genuine! A work of art that’s even more

authentic than the original!’

‘How much?’

‘We can talk money later,’ Pasquale said expansively,

glancing in the rear-view mirror. ‘Nothing excessive,

though. And think of all the trouble you’ll save yourself.’

Zen did so.

‘All right/ he said, holding up the plastic bag. ‘But I already owe you for this/

Pasquale shrugged.

‘Forty-eight hours, same as cash. After that I might need to apply a little interest, just to cover my outgoings. But if you want to run a line of credit, I can get you the best terms in town. What name would you like on the card?’

As they sped down the slope of the Vomero, Zen replied

that his own name would do nicely, thank you very much, and then mentioned the other little matter which he was hoping that Pasquale might be able to help him with. But Pasquale did not seem to be listening to Zen’s story of a missing American sailor with his usual deferential concentration.

His replies were perfunctory and abstracted, and

he kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. His driving had become uncharacteristically erratic, too, involving apparently unmotivated stops, last-minute turns down side

streets, and several complete rotations of a roundabout.

‘Have you got an escort, duttd?’ he asked at length.

‘An escort?’

‘Couple of men detailed to follow you about in a red

Alfa. No, don’t look round!’

Zen shook his head.

‘Hmm/ said Pasquale.

They drove along the seafront to Via Partenope, where

Pasquale abruptly pulled up in front of one of the luxury hotels facing the bay.

‘Get out here/ he told Zen. ‘Make as though you’re

paying me off. Then go into the hotel and walk straight through the lobby to the rear exit. I’ll meet you there.’

Bemused but compliant, Zen got out and pretended to

hand Pasquale some money through the window. On the

other side of the street, a red Alfa Romeo had come to a stop opposite them. Zen turned and entered the hotel

while Pasquale roared away, ignoring the pleas of a waiting couple who needed a ride to the airport. Through the

revolving door, a wide strip of carpet led across a marble lobby with lots of uncomfortable-looking reproduction

antique chairs. A doorman in livery loomed. Zen handed

him a 10,000-lire note and pointed outside, where the

youth in dark glasses and the Lacoste shirt was trying to cross against the ferocious traffic.

‘That rent boy’s trying to blackmail me,’ Zen whispered.

‘He’s threatening to tell my wife if I don’t pay him twice what we agreed. Can you kindly stop him pestering me?’

‘No problem, sir,’ the man replied suavely. ‘But in

future, kindly consult the concierge. He can provide

someone whose discretion is guaranteed, twenty-four

hours a day, with room service if desired/