For All the Gold in the World (6 page)

“The people are sovereign,” I reminded him.

“And right now, we're no longer part of the people. Light-years separate us, and we're following paths that run in two opposite directions.”

I wished him goodnight and changed the channel. I found a program promoting revolutionary exercise equipment that, if used for an hour every week, could firm and sculpt every single muscle. Especially the abdominals. I fell asleep after a few minutes.

We were staying in a chain hotel not far from the cathedral. The rooms were brutally rational, carefully designed down to every last detail to provide comfort equivalent to the price, and no more. Conceived to house guests overnight and spit them out in the morning, after a quick shower and a frugal breakfast.

I was dunking a croissant in my
caffè latte
, and in the background, Johnny Cash was singing
A Boy Named Sue
, a renowned talking-blues piece recorded at San Quentin penitentiary. Beniamino had already left to return the rental car and rent out another one from the competition and Max was still snoring. Then I saw Pierpaolo Imbriani come in.

I pointed him to the chair across from me and went on with my morning croissant-dunking ritual. I've never given much of a damn about food, I've always preferred alcohol, but this particular way of breakfasting always brightened my day.

I ran the napkin over my mustache. “I'm pleased to see that you're an influential person in this city,” I pretended to compliment him. “It didn't take you long to find me.”

He sighed. “Jewelers do a great many favors and only rarely ask for any in return. Which means it's easier to get a hard one when you need it.”

The fence was playing the part of the wise man in too irritating a fashion for me to let him go on. “I'm astonished by your visit. My friends and I were already working on convincing you to continue that conversation of ours.”

“I'm sure you were. That's why I'm here,” he said. He looked around before going on.

“I can't stand violence,” he hissed quietly. “It horrifies me. I can't handle it. What happened yesterday makes it clear to me that I need to get out of this mess as soon as I can, and once and for all.”

I wasn't especially good at dealing with violence myself, but over time I'd learned to appreciate its necessity. I'd also gotten used to seeing it up close without getting too upset. But I'd never—never—be able to raise a hand in anger or pull a trigger. Max was just like me. Luckily, we had Beniamino, who knew how to be lethal and who protected us, sweeping away our enemies. Without him, we'd both have long been dead.

“I'm an easygoing professional who's always demanded that his jewelry not be stained with blood. It's a condition of my work,” Imbriani continued. “I was very clear with Gastone, too.

“Then one morning in the shop, when there were no customers and my wife and I were arranging a new collection of jewelry, a guy came in, a Venetian. He spoke a mix of Italian and dialect, and he showed me an extremely finely made bracelet. Do you know anything about jewelry, Signor Buratti?”

“No.”

“Then I won't bother you with the details. In any case, it was a magnificent piece, and I knew it very well because Gastone Oddo had sold it to me. I, in turn, had sold it to a Dutch colleague who, per our understanding, was supposed to place it in Dubai. But he didn't always do as he promised, and he'd made the foolish mistake of displaying in his window.”

“The guy recognized it and he forced the Dutchman to give him your name,” I summarized. I was in a hurry to understand what the story was, and Imbriani was a little slow with his exposition.

“He seemed like a bomb about to go off. He was stifling a rage so intense that he had a hard time talking.”

“So what did he tell you?”

“That his brother had died on account of that bracelet,” he replied, looking me in the eyes. “And that unless I told him the name of the man who sold it to me, he was going to kill me right then and there.

“I tried to reason with him, but he grabbed my wife by the throat and started squeezing, ordering me to talk. I was sure he was about to kill her.”

“The name was all he wanted?” I asked.

“Yes, he opened the door and disappeared.”

“Why didn't you warn poor Oddo?”

He looked down. The moment of shame had arrived. “Fear. My wife had a hard time recovering. And resentment. Gastone hadn't respected our agreement; he'd put us in danger.”

Bullshit. Business partners don't treat each other like that. His silence had cost an innocent woman her life. “What's this guy's name?”

“I don't know.”

“Then I'll need the footage from the video camera in your shop.”

“We're in Liège, Signor Buratti; here, discretion counts for more than security does.”

“Can you at least describe him for me?”

“Forty years old, average height, light brown hair; he wasn't ugly, but his face was creased and tired.”

“Is that all?”

“His hands,” Imbriani added. “They were callused and beat-up.”

I stared into his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out if he was trying to trick me with that bullshit, but he seemed satisfied with his shrewd description.

I went back to my cup of
caffè latte
without saying another word. I wouldn't even look at him. After a little while the fence stood up; he left a photo of the bracelet and headed off, mumbling a farewell.

Johnny Cash had just started in on
Bonanza
, the theme song from the famous TV series. Famous for me and the people of my generation, I mean. I'd never missed an episode, and it was quite a while before it dawned on me that those cowboys, with their sound principles, had none of the allure of real pioneers. They were nothing but members of a clan, forever fighting to defend their patrimony.

I wondered if the guy who had extorted Oddo's name out of that idiot Imbriani was part of a clan.

 

* * *

 

Padua.

We'd returned the night before from Belgium with a decidedly flimsy lead from a treacherous, untrustworthy man. Max would follow up on it. Beniamino had gone back to his speedboat and I'd gotten up early to go meet Cora.

The jazz woman was reading the paper, glancing at her cell phone every now and then to check for texts or see what time it was. I went over to her table, flashing a smile.

“What's the first thing a jazz singer does when she wakes up?” I asked.

The woman sighed. “She gets up, gets dressed, and goes home.”

I took a seat next to her without being invited. “I apologize for that sleazy musician's joke but I didn't know how to strike up a conversation.”

“Doesn't it seem a little early to be bothering a lady?”

“A lovely lady,” I emphasized. “But anyway, yes, this is hardly the ideal time of day, but last night I couldn't come to Pico's. Otherwise I would have declared myself at just the right moment.”

She eyed me carefully. “Now that you mention it, your face isn't new to me.”

“We've seen each other here, too, sitting at adjoining tables.”

She held out her hand. “Cora, pleasure,” she introduced herself briskly. “And now I'd like to go back to reading my newspaper.”

I ignored her words. I'd made up my mind to play the game out to the very end. “I know that you took voice lessons at my friend Maurizio Camardi's school, and I also know your real name: Marilena.”

“And which name do you prefer?”

“Cora. To me, you're only Cora, in a green dress with green shoes. Jazz woman.”

She seemed to like what I'd said, but her silence muffled my enthusiasm. I stood up to stave off further embarrassment. “I believe we'll meet again in this café. You're always welcome to share my table should the fancy strike.”

“Do you actually like me, or do you just think it's worth giving it a try because I must be ‘easy,' like all jazz singers?” she asked suddenly, touching her hand to her cheek.

“I like you a lot, more than a lot,” I said with conviction. “It's been quite a while since a woman made my head spin like this.”

“No kidding,” she replied, her tone ambiguous; then she went back to reading.

I stood there looking at her in silence for a few seconds. No doubt about it, Cora knew how to floor a guy. I left the café stumped, but definitely more in love.

 

I swung by home. Max was sitting at his computer and gestured to me that he still hadn't found out anything.

I put in my earbuds to continue the treatment Catfish had prescribed. The second CD was entitled
I'm In Deep
, after the song by the
 
Altered Five Blues Band. The music made me particularly clear-minded and capable of analyzing my encounter with my Cora. It didn't take me long to realize that this was a complicated situation. On the one hand, I couldn't tell her the truth because that would mean betraying my pact with her husband. On the other, it was wrong to start a relationship based on a lie. Luckily, at the moment, the chance of anything really happening was decidedly slim and I had all the time I'd need to rack my brain for a solution. For the nth time, circumstances were against me. And that couldn't be an accident. I was slipping inexorably into a wallow of self-pity when I saw the fat man coming toward me with a worried grimace.

“I want seafood,” he announced. “I've already talked to Beniamino. We'll go to Punta Sabbioni, hop on his speedboat, and head for that little restaurant we know in San Pietro in Volta.”

“You don't look like somebody who's in the mood to celebrate.”

He shook his head decisively. “No. We've always worked twisted cases, but this one is the worst yet.”

“Obviously on the way over you'll tell me all about . . .”

“No,” he said, cutting me off. “When you tell a story twice, there's always a chance you'll leave out crucial details. Plus, I need to think.”

Max was a man of his word. He split a pack of cigarettes with me, but said not a word—except to complain that it made no sense to spend a small fortune putting a stereo system into a car so old it didn't even have air conditioning.

June had come, dragging with it a mantle of oppressive heat. I promised I'd talk to the mechanic, even if I already knew the answer.

Beniamino was fresh from a night on the high seas. He'd transported an old fugitive who, after many, many years in Bulgaria, had decided to come back and turn himself in to the cops—though not until after he'd seen his two daughters.

“It broke my heart,” said Rossini. “He looked like a homeless bum. He'd calculated his pension wrong, and going on the run has its costs.”

“Then where did he find the money to pay you?” I asked, knowing the fares my good friend charged.

Old Rossini opened his eyes wide in surprise. “The passenger traveled gratis, Marco.”

Of course. I should have guessed. The outlaw heart and its rules. I apologized; I'd opened my mouth without thinking.

To lighten the mood, Max started in on the air conditioning.

“This love affair of yours with old Å kodas is the affectation of a radical-chic old schoolmarm,” Beniamino piled on as
Sylvie
's powerful engine roared to life.

I refrained from responding. We were all tired, on edge, and worried about what the fat man was about to tell us.

Luckily, the trip was short and agreeable. The water was calm and a slight westerly wind provided a perfect antidote to the heat.

I was always happy to go to San Pietro in Volta, a charming little town on Pellestrina, one of the largest islands surrounding Venice. I liked lazing on the benches or walking along the waterfront. It was a place where time went by at a different pace.

That day, after tying up, we immediately slipped into a well-known restaurant. In silence, we ate our antipasti, which had been paired with an ice-cold white pinot.

When the waiter took our plates away, announcing the arrival of the
risotto agli scampi
in just five minutes, Beniamino turned to Max with an impatient gesture. “So, what have you found out?”

“The man who roughed up Imbriani and spouse in Liège to get Oddo's name is called Kevin Fecchio, forty-three years old, a goldsmith by profession.

“The company in the Vicenza area where he still works was founded by his older brother Maicol—that's the Venetian version of Michael. Maicol was considered a real artist and he was the one who designed a successful line of jewelry, starting with the bracelet that wound up in Imbriani's hands. Business was going well, in fact it was booming, until the day that three armed robbers burst into the workshop and cleaned the place out. Before they made their getaway there was a struggle, and Maicol caught a large-caliber bullet in the gut. Kevin and the other employees were tied up and couldn't get help to him in time. He died after many hours in excruciating agony.”

“Spezzafumo and his boys killed Maicol, so his little brother took revenge by murdering Oddo and his housekeeper and carting off two million,” I summed up.

“That's exactly what seems to have happened,” Max the Memory confirmed.

I turned to catch Beniamino's gaze. He was as flabbergasted as I was. The hand of a goldsmith, a businessman, might be behind the massacre in the villa. It was hard to believe.

“And that's not all,” Max preempted us. “Kevin is now a prominent figure. Not only has he gotten the company back on its feet, he's also an activist in that more-or-less grassroots political movement protesting the lack of public safety. He's one of the first who leapt to defend the deli owner who shot and killed the would-be robber of Sinti origin a few months ago.”

The fat man turned on his tablet and showed us Fecchio's Facebook page. He had a lot of followers. I skimmed the comments. It was the unfiltered voice of the Venetian heartland expressing itself. The voice that could be heard on television, read on the front pages of the newspapers. Mayors who were hailed for declaring that the Roma had no right to stay in their towns. Shopkeepers who fought back by opening fire, killed would-be robbers, and became heroes. Torchlight parades, T-shirts. Fear, exasperation, hatred. Lynch mob moods. And votes: So many votes that they ended the argument.