Alfonso Annatto was difficult to follow. His hectic lifestyle and obvious physical fitness belied his sixty years. Alfonso was a short small-boned man with close-cropped snow-white hair and bronzed skin: an unstoppable terrier of a man.
Annatto spent his days selling lottery tickets. He raced across the city on a vintage, battered, yet devastatingly beautiful, 1961 Vespa GS. The scooter, resplendent in silver with sun-bleached red leather seat, glowed under the high summer sun. Rust-speckled chrome crash bars adorned the scooter, front and rear; a black-painted plywood box fixed to the carrier behind the saddle. Scooter and rider cut quite a dash through Palermo’s historic streets.
The thirty-year-old Vespa had lost none of its pace. GS was an abbreviation for Gran Sport. It came to mean one thing—speed. Alfonso slithered through the streets like a python chasing a rabbit. Overtaking modern vehicles without hesitation. Alfonso’s hands danced across the headset as he scythed through the smallest gap with dexterity and purpose. He changed gears with his left hand, braked with his right hand and right foot; hands and feet choreographed to perfection. The high-pitched buzz of the two-stroke motor echoed from the high stone streets. The buzz of the Vespa represented the soundtrack of a nation. In Italian, Vespa meant wasp. It was perfection, Eamonn eulogised. Perfection…
Finding it impossible to follow Annatto on foot or by car, Eamonn met fire with fire. Via the hotel concierge, he arranged for delivery of a rental scooter. The following day a local company delivered a gleaming black Gilera 125cc twist and go scooter. Whilst not as pleasing to the eye as the vintage scooter, the Gilera kept up with the Vespa with aplomb. Racing through the historic streets of Palermo—ducking and diving through traffic—Eamonn revelled in the thrill of the chase.
Following at a discreet distance, it soon became apparent that Annatto’s business was brisk. Every so often, a waved hand, or a hollered call, would disrupt progress. Annatto would jump on the brakes and pull in to the kerb. After a brief conversation, Annatto reached into the plywood box and pulled out a elasticated wad of lottery tickets and exchange several for cash.
Every few hours Annatto stopped for coffee and a cigarette at one of the many roadside coffee bars.
The only departure from his frantic mobile routine would occur at lunchtime. Annatto would turn into a side street and halt outside a five-storey stone apartment block. The building was a huge multi-windowed stone edifice. Annatto would stall, check the street, then disappear inside for anything up to an hour. How unusual, Eamonn thought. The third day of following Annatto everything suddenly became clear.
On that day, Eamonn leaned against the Gilera eating ice cream opposite the apartment block. Annatto’s Vespa was parked on the sidewalk next to the main entrance.
The midday sun captured on the Vespa’s voluptuously curved rear bubble in a burning golden sunspot.
Eamonn set a hand across his brow and savoured the scene. As he did so, Annatto appeared at a second-floor window and started dragging the curtains closed. Behind him, the naked upper torso of a squat woman passed across the dark interior, swinging pendulous breasts, only just discernible in the gloom.
Eamonn grinned. Licked ice cream. Two hours passed. Alfonso stepped out onto the street with a satisfied grin. He scanned the street, ambled over to and kick started the Vespa to life. A high-pitched drone and blue smoke filled the air. The wasp buzzed off.
Eamonn kicked the twist and go to life, checked behind him, accelerated away from the kerb and raced after the ticket seller.
16
Eamonn woke from a deep alcohol-induced sleep with a startled grunt. The electronic bleeps of the alarm bounced from the walls. He cast a hand out and smashed the travel alarm clock with a palm. The bleeps ended abruptly. He’d set the alarm for nine, since the breakfast service stopped at ten. Five minutes later, with the rising sun breaking through the gaps in the curtains, Eamonn dragged himself out of bed, rubbed his face and broke out of his torpor.
It was the day of the final group stage match against the Dutch. Kick-off was scheduled for 8:00 p.m. Ireland had excelled in the tournament. Secured a one-one draw against the old enemy, England, in Cagliari, and a nil-nil draw against the African champions, Egypt, in Palermo. The result of the crucial Dutch match would decide Ireland’s future progress in the competition to the quarter-finals stage. It was a feat never before achieved by the Irish. All that was needed was a draw. Then the party could really start. For the time being, Eamonn put his macabre plan on hold.
Breakfast at the hotel comprised excellent coffee, croissants and fruit. The bacon offered was as inedible as the cold powdered eggs. Eamonn ordered a pot of filtered coffee, chose croissants and preserves from the buffet. The dining room bustled with Irish and Dutch fans wearing replica football kits. Eamonn stood amongst ranks of fluorescent orange and green and white. Two Irish teenagers played by the breakfast bar. Skidded over the tiled floor. Made a nuisance of themselves.
‘Stop that, silly fecks. You’ll bring the table down.’ Growled an obese Irishman in a replica kit. He was sockless, wore oversized trainers and his skin was the colour of a boiled lobster. Turning to his companion he sighed, stuffed a jam-covered croissant into his mouth and ripped it apart with his teeth. Flushed it down with tea.
The atmosphere between the two travelling armies of Irish and Dutch fans had been—according to press reports—good-natured. Only minor sporadic acts of football related violence had occurred. Those incidents had been past midnight and fuelled by excessive alcohol consumption.
Eamonn decided on a leisurely stroll into the city centre. It was a too good to miss opportunity to savour historic Palermo, and, as he drew near to the city centre, the match day atmosphere. By the time he arrived in the city centre, inevitably, his thirst would need satiating. He imagined dissolving into the crowd, becoming one with them.
He gazed at his reflection in the long mirror on the back of the door. He wore an emerald-green Irish replica football shirt, beige army combat shorts and expensive training shoes. He plunged his wallet and match ticket deep into his right leg zipper pocket. He had plenty of money and plenty of reason to be there. More than ever, he felt his Irish ancestry.
Eamonn strode outside into a striking sun-blessed windless morning. The air was charged with jasmine and cypress. Nervous anticipation bubbled deep in the pit of his stomach.
This is the life...
This is life!
17
Word had spread amongst the Irish fans that they would congregate en masse before the game in the Piazza Pretoria, just off Quattro Canti. The ornate square lay at the heart of Palermo—the recognised focal point of the four historic quadrants dividing the city.
Striding along Via Noce, Eamonn stared wide-eyed at the beauty of the streetscape unravelling before him. He found himself captivated by the textbook geometry of the high residential blocks. Fascinated by the skill of the builders. Marvelled at the precise regimentation of the mullions, transoms, heads and sills, exaggerated by the creeping shadows of the rising sun. Eamonn stalled, stood and admired the verdant palette of amber stone, red, terracotta and washed cream render, accentuated by the radiant brilliance of the low sun. Sun bleached doors, windows and louvered shutters contrasted with the peeling black paintwork of ornate balustrades of Juliet balconies. The high narrow streets provided a welcome respite from the increasing heat of the sun. Inimitable, he mused. Italy, waking under the prismatic Mediterranean sun.
Opening out into the amphitheatre-like square of the Quattro Canti Eamonn paused, awestruck by the breath-taking architecture. Four ornate white palaces—sweeping quadrants of marble—formed the perimeter. To each elevation, erotic sculptures in polished white marble. Depictions of gods and goddesses, kings and queens, secure in recesses.
In the square below, a frothing sea of Irish supporters waved flags, chanted, ran amok and sang at the top of their voices. Eamonn glanced at his Baedekers foldout travel map, established the steps at the seaward end of the square led int
o the Piazza Pretoria. Across the steps linking the two squares a mass of orange, green and white clad bodies sprawled on the ground, lay on plinths and perched atop street furniture. Despite the early hour, many were already drunk. Making his way through the throng, ascending the steps, the vista across the adjoining Piazza revealed itself.
Central in the Piazza stood the priceless Fountain of Shame. Nude statuary adorned every plinth. In the cool-blue fountain below, bare-chested supporters frolicked. Streams of water rose high into the air, gushed over the edges, drenched supporters. Fans had draped green and orange scarves around the necks of the statues. Venus de Milo sported a Groucho Marx mask, glasses, exaggerated false nose and a thick black moustache. A bright pink rubber dildo hung between her legs completed the picture. The good-natured party atmosphere added a Keystone Cops like element. Small teams of Vigili Urbani struggled to apprehend soaking miscreants dancing in the fountain. The crowd roared as another officer got soaked.
Eamonn approached a familiar face.
‘Is that you … my American friend,’ said O’Leary. ‘Aren’t you that Irish American fella from the airport? To be fecking sure you are,’ he said, taking and hugging Eamonn by the shoulders, wine bottle clinched in his right hand. ‘Brilliant craic … don’t you think?’ he said, gesturing across the piazza.
‘It is. I’d kill for a drink,’ roared Eamonn, as a hat flew across the fountain like an errant frisbee.
The two men shook hands like long lost relatives.
‘Join us. The more the merrier… Truth is, despite appearances, we’ve only just got started,’ said Patrick, turning to the motley collection of accomplices laid comatose over plinths at the base of the fountain. ‘We’ve just had breakfast. Quarter of an hour and we’ll be heading off towards the stadium. Stopping at a few wee bars along the way. You know how it is… We stumbled across a cracking place. As luck would have it, it’s an Irish bar. You’re more than welcome to join us,’ said O’Leary.
‘If you’re sure?’ said Eamonn with a broad smile, thanking the Gods.
‘Away with you. It’s no trouble. Come on. I’ll introduce you to the boys.’
18
During the afternoon, Eamonn and the group of bricklayers from Limerick downed pint after pint in pub after pub. The banter, jokes and camaraderie between the bricklayers was hilarious. Eamonn found himself enraptured by tales of drinking sessions past, bastard foremen, failed relationships, family disputes, explicit sexual achievement, and the loosest of loose women. No doubt much of it was exaggerated and garnished for effect with a liberal sprinkling of profanity and blue jokes. The Irish could spin a yarn, surmised Eamonn. They could drink, too. Many times, O’Leary and his pals had almost come to blows, until good sense prevailed and the next round was bought.
Eamonn became the celebrity American within the group. Introduced to complete strangers as Eamonn from Brooklyn - O’Leary’s long-lost cousin. By 4:00 p.m. the pub-crawl arrived at The Dubliner Bar on Via Concerto, a narrow side street within sight of the towering Stadio La Favorita.
The street for the week had become a noisy enclave of the Emerald Isle. Irish tricolours hung from every available window, lamppost and balcony. Bunting suspended across the lane. The five hundred strong troop of replica kit-wearing Irish supporters bounced around madly, bellowed Irish ballads in time with the Irish folk trio playing on an impromptu stage next to the pub door. The vivid orange of the Dutch was notable by its absence.
‘Mine’s a pint of porter, Eamonn,’ said O’Leary, above the din of the crowd and the first bars of ‘The Fields of Athenry’. ‘In fact … scrub that. Make it two pints big man,’ boomed O’Leary.
‘On it,’ slurred Eamonn, extending an arm through the throng of bodies crowding into the pub.
The crowd bellowed Fields of Athenry; the final words in each line rising to a crescendo of nationalistic fervour.
At 7:00 p.m., the assembled crowd thinned as people set off at a march for the stadium.
19
The Italians had built the thirty-seven thousand capacity Stadio La Favorita especially for the World Cup. In its design, the architect had an eye to the Coliseum in Rome. The stadium was high and bowl-like with no open corners. It was lit by four massive floodlights. It was an excellent venue for such a passionate and important match. The stadium heaved to the roar of the capacity crowd. A frenzied cataclysm of colour, sound and movement. The Irish supporters easily outnumbered the Dutch. It represented an enormous compliment to the manager Jack Charlton, the players and their recent solid performances. Confidence was high.
At kick-off Eamonn experienced an ethereal sense of detachment. Weird hallucinogenic three dimensional spirals of colour ran through his brain. Extinguished and replaced by flying ants levitating above a green felt baize. The ants became blurred and indistinct. Feeling queer and hollow with hunger, by half-time, Eamonn could bear it no longer.
He raced for the exit. Taking care not to slip on the smooth concrete staircase, he bounded past stewards in yellow vests leaning against austere walls.
‘Buona notte!’
Eamonn waved and ran past.
Reaching the taxi rank, the stadium behind him erupted. Pigeons launched into the night sky. Eamonn staggered towards the taxi with his head down.
‘Ireland! Ireland!’
Ireland must have scored. Equalised!
Eamonn dragged open the taxi’s rear door and dumped himself into the Fiat.
‘Holiday Inn on Viale Regione Siciliana, please driver,’ said Eamonn.
‘Si! No problem,’ said the driver, checking the door mirror.
20
Eamonn saw nothing of the following morning. Waking at 1:00 p.m., he called room service and ordered a chilled litre bottle of San Pellegrino sparking mineral water and a cheese and cured ham baguette. A meal that was heavy on carbs and low in vitamins. Ten minutes later, the concierge’s son delivered his order. He devouring the sandwich like a decade long castaway reunited with Burger King. The life flooded into him. Chastising himself, he chased two aspirins down with water.
No drinking! Stay sober! Fool! You’ve work to do!
With only two days until his return flight to the States via Dublin, Eamonn was angry with himself.
Self-control! That’s your problem. As O’Leary would say… You’re a fucking eejit. She knew too… She knew all right! She always knew better!
Eamonn stabbed the television to life. Irish manager Jack Charlton’s smiling craggy face filled the small screen. The interview had been filmed outside the stadium after the previous night’s historic draw and Ireland’s unprecedented qualification to the World Cup quarter-finals. Subtitles in Italian conveyed Charlton’s words along the bottom of the screen.
‘We prepared right. Trained well. Ate well. We drank a little. Tonight ... that will change!’
The Irish, Eamonn chuckled, the irascible Irish! There was no stopping them!
She’s wrong… I can control myself… I can! I’ll show her… I’ll damn well show her…
Eamonn succumbed to a shallow and disturbed sleep. Mischievous dream devils plagued his every sleeping moment.
21
The following morning, Annatto took a different route. Usually, he would travel south towards the port area, doubling back inland to service his regular customers in the labyrinth of streets surrounding the world-famous Hotel Garibaldi. Eamonn wondered whether Annatto was taking a day off of work? Could it account for this new route? Was he visiting friends or relatives? Or taking a ride in the country?
Passing onto the road designated SP-1—known to locals as the Viale Leonardo da Vinci—Annatto sped up, turned inland and sliced through traffic. Eamonn glanced at the speedometer—fifty miles per hour and increasing. Taking a firm grip on the Gilera’s handlebars, he elected a more cautious approach. With uncharacteristic pragmatism, he had extended his stay in Palermo. What point rushing? Rushing meant risk. Risk increased the chance of capture and imprisonment.
If an
earlier opportunity arose, then he’d take it. Fate could be helpful. Eamonn raised a gloved hand. Flicked open the helmet visor. Dispelled condensation. His breathing quickened. Heart raced.
At the junction with the Via Castellana near Borgo Nuevo, road workers operated a stop-go system through a lane closure at the main intersection. Fortuitously, the delay provided an opportunity for Eamonn to recover lost ground on Annatto. The old man sat at the head of the line of waiting traffic balancing the Vespa with his feet. Eamonn rode past the stationary cars to within two car lengths of Annatto. Annatto revved the Vespa. Tried hard to influence the road workers to speed things along. The moment the stop sign revolved to a green ‘GO’, Alfonso gunned the throttle.
Not this time, thought Eamonn. You’re not getting away…
Ahead, a smooth ribbon of tarmac snaked up the side of a mountain. Half way up, on a small plateau, sat the picturesque village of Piano del Occhio. Whitewashed houses glowed rich ochre under the rising sun. A sharp contrast with the cool greens of the cypress-clad mountain.
22
The wasp-like Vespa engine gasped, stuttered and rose to a high soprano.
My advantage, thought Eamonn.
The Gilera’s automatic transmission provided a continuous supply of torque, whatever the gradient. Eamonn had to keep on top of the throttle. The sign at the base of the road read Strada Bellolampo. Eamonn had never ridden a road like it.
Annatto’s silver Vespa—radiant under the sun—wound its way up the mountain. Annatto hit the apex of each bend like a super bike challenger; crossed the road at every opportunity. His was the shortest route. Despite the gradient, the Vespa maintained forward momentum. Annatto was familiar with the snaking road.
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 4
