by Ian Fox
He glared at her, but then looked down at the floor. “Do you really have to bring this topic up now? My head hurts and I have to go back to work later. I’m taking the night shift again.”
“I’ve been putting up with this for years and years, and now I’ve really had enough of it.”
“What have you had to put up with? What do you mean, you’ve had enough?”
“I’m fed up with living off promises. I want something real for a change. I want to have a decent vacation, that’s all.”
He thought about how to get her off his back. “OK, fine. We’ll work something out.”
“What do you mean, fine?”
“I mean I’ll give it some thought.”
The hard-edged look on her face disappeared. “And when will you know for sure?”
“I have to look at the bank account and see what money we have coming in. Maybe we can swing it. I should know in a few days.”
“I’m really glad to hear that. Really.” She looked at the light in the ceiling, then at him, and then went into the bathroom.
Simon breathed a sigh of relief. He had succeeded for now. The problem was that his bank account was so low he couldn’t even dream of the kind of vacation she wanted. But this he’d have to tell her another time.
Chapter 10
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A black limo almost twenty feet long pulled onto a side road. Inside, three well-dressed men sat in silence. The car was moving less than fifteen miles an hour, hampered by a dense fog making it impossible to see ahead. Were it not for the tall streetlamps on the right side of the road, the driver would not have known where the edge of the pavement was.
At a certain point, the car stopped. As if by agreement, the men all opened their doors at the same time.
“Where does this asshole live?” asked one of the three, a tall man around fifty years old. He had a long face, dark-brown hair, and piercing black eyes that were always on the lookout.
“Down the road a bit, Carlo,” answered a younger man with a goatee who went by the name of Jack.
“You can’t miss it,” said the third, a black man, who was also young.
Carlo spit out the stub of his cigarette and swore loudly. “Yeah, of course he can afford to have a beautiful house since he’s been making money off me. He’s in for a surprise, that damn son of a bitch.” He lit a fresh cigarette.
The two younger men walked behind him. After a while one of them asked, “But shouldn’t we give him another chance, boss? Seems to me he was serious last time.”
“No way. Five times now he’s cheated me. Something about that guy gets on my nerves.”
“I only said it because earlier this month we already took care of another guy who owes you money. I don’t know, but it seems like a lot to me for one month. The cops might get suspicious.”
Carlo’s black eyes shot through the man. “No way, I said. I’m not going to let up when I’m being taken for a fool!”
The three men marched in step, like soldiers.
“Here it is, boss.” The man pointed at a spacious yard bordered by a tall wire fence and dense, spiky shrubs.
The black man tried to open the gate, but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s no good, boss. The thing’s locked.”
Carlo shook his head in disgust, grabbed the man’s shoulder, and shoved him aside. “You really are a wuss. Let Jack do it.” He turned to the man with the goatee. “You’ve got exactly two minutes.”
Jack smiled, sure of himself, and took out a little container not unlike a woman’s manicure case. For some time, he poked around in the lock with a narrow-pointed tool until at last he heard that familiar click telling him the gate was unlocked.
“Took long enough,” Carlo said, irritated. “I think you might be a little out of practice.”
“I’ve never seen this kind of lock before, boss. Sorry.”
Through the thick fog they walked up the drive until they came to the elegant portico of the house.
“This isn’t too smart. Let’s go check it out round the back,” Carlo said in a low voice.
The other two followed, looking constantly in all directions.
“This door seems better to me.” They were at the back of the house, in front of a pair of double doors that separated the yard from the interior of the house. “Get it open!”
With the help of his tools, Jack opened this lock too, and in much less time than it had taken for the one on the gate.
They cautiously went inside. The air was thick with the smell of baked fish and oil.
Carlo Vucci made a face as his eyes sliced through the room. He said to the other two, in an almost soundless whisper, “I hate it when people cook fish in the house. That’s what restaurants are for.”
From upstairs came the sound of a Beethoven sonata. The two younger men smiled and waited to see what their boss would tell them to do.
Carlo pointed to the stairs that led to the second floor. “I bet you anything he’s up there screwing some whore.” He spat his cigarette out on the floor. “And I bet he’s paying her with my money.”
The closer they moved to the top of the stairs, the more they could hear the sound of muffled moaning mixed in with the piano music.
Carlo turned toward the other two. “What did I tell you?”
The two younger men chuckled.
When they reached the room from which the shrill sounds were coming, Carlo stopped and lit another cigarette.
“Smoking’s a filthy habit. I know I should quit,” he whispered to the two men. Then he grabbed the door handle and stepped inside the darkened room.
A grotesquely obese man was lying on the bed with his eyes closed, savoring his pleasure as a lively blonde bounced up and down on top of him. This went on for a while, until finally he opened his eyes and looked in horror at the dark figures that had appeared in his bedroom out of nowhere. From the shock of it all, his fat eyes bulged with incredulity and it looked as if he was about to scream.
The woman, who had long, blonde wavy hair, had her back to the uninvited guests and wasn’t aware of them.
Carlo Vucci casually took out his gun, which was equipped with a silencer, and pointed it at the man’s piggish face.
The man put up his hand as if he thought this would protect him from the bullets, and screamed, “Please! Noooo!”
The woman froze and opened her eyes. “What? What did you say? Am I going too fast?”
Carlo smiled, lifted the revolver, and struck the woman on the head. Without a single sound, she fell onto the bed, then tumbled to the floor. She was lucky—if she had turned around and seen them, her life wouldn’t have been worth a damn.
The fat man screwed up his face when he saw her lying there on the floor, and right away pulled up a silk sheet to cover his nakedness. He grabbed his head and started whining. “Jesus, Carlo, what are you doing? I’ll give you back your money. I promised you I would. Hold on, I’ve got it right here, in the next room.”
Carlo Vucci looked at him in surprise. “What? You have the money? So where is it?”
The man climbed out of the bed, tried to step over the woman, but out of clumsiness his foot landed on her hand. “Oops! I’m sorry, darling!”
With a concerned expression, he looked down at her and said to Carlo, “You really didn’t have to hit her. I don’t know what you were thinking, coming here to my house uninvited like this, and all because of a little money.” With the sheet wrapped around him, he waddled out of the room. “There’s no reason for you to get so upset. I’m an honest man. You know that.”
Vucci followed him. “Five times I’ve told you to get me my money. I thought I made myself perfectly clear last time, when I said what to expect if you didn’t give it back.”
The fat man nodded and even chuckled a couple of times. “Sure, sure. But I had some problems. I didn’t have the money until a little while ago. But I have it now.”
He opened the lid of a battered wooden chest and bent over it,
looking inside. As he did so, the sheet fell to the floor so that they could all see his fat naked ass. Without bothering to cover himself up, he rummaged through the chest, all the way to the bottom, until he pulled out some yellow plastic shopping bags filled with bound stacks of bills.
Jack said, “Wow, that’s a helluva lot of money.”
“I think it should be enough to cover my debt,” the moon-faced man said, and only now wrapped himself in the sheet again.
Vucci stared at him in anger. “Why didn’t you call and say you had the money?”
“I was about to do that. Only got it today,” he said as if bored by the whole thing.
“What a liar! Because of you I’ve wasted valuable time!”
“It’s true, Carlo. I swear it.” He said this with a mocking undertone.
“You’re a damn liar! Every word that comes out of that filthy fat mouth of yours is a lie!”
“I swear, Carlo! What can I say to make you believe me? C’mon, don’t act so weird.”
“There’s nothing you can say to me. Nothing at all. I am totally sick of you.”
He reached inside his jacket, pulled out the revolver, and put it against the fat man’s head. At the same moment, the two men next to Carlo jumped back to protect themselves from any possible bloodstains. With a choking noise that echoed down the hallway, the fat man fell with all his weight on the wooden floor, causing it to shake a little. His mouth was still strangely open, as if he had something more to tell them.
Carlo Vucci said, excitedly, “Did you see how that asshole lied to my face, looking straight in my eyes? I can forgive a lot of things, but not that—when somebody looks me straight in the eye and lies.”
“Boss, let’s get out of here. The hooker could wake up any minute,” the black man said.
“Why should I give a damn about some whore? I’ll do the same to her as I did to him. How ‘bout it? Whaddya say I kill her too?”
“Come on, boss, we’d better just go. She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
He nodded his assent and wiped off his shoes with the sheet the man had been dragging behind him. “Damn it all, I always mess up my shoes. And they cost me a bundle.”
The three men went downstairs and left the house as if nothing had happened.
Chapter 11
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Special Agent Steven West, a twenty-seven-year-old African American with short hair and a pleasant symmetrical face, was examining on his computer screen the pictures from the scene of the crime that had taken place two weeks earlier. He observed with disgust the images he had seen with his own eyes. The shapeless male body, with six bullet wounds to the head, was photographed from different angles. Due to the number of shots, the victim’s face was unrecognizable.
“Obviously a Mafia killing,” said Sandra Grant, a special agent who worked on nearly every case with him and had a desk in the same office.
They had been working together for more than six years and got along extremely well. Sandra was a few years older, with short, dark hair and glasses, which gave her an intellectual look. She was plain, with thoughtful, questioning eyes.
Steven crossed his arms. “I agree, but I don’t know who it could be. The victim was killed in the evening, without anyone hearing or seeing anything. The only evidence we have are two cigarette butts dropped near the bathroom. Whoever did this is obviously a cool character, being able to smoke after all this, but at the same time very stupid since the DNA in the saliva can certainly be used as evidence.”
Sandra moved her chair closer to Steven in order to see the photographs. She thoughtfully studied the details. While she was working out how the man had fallen to the floor, her cell phone rang.
“Hello? Yes, of course. Aha, thank you.” She hung up. “They’ve finally established who the victim is. His name is Paulo Gratti. He’s thirty-five years old and has twice been charged with theft. Spent three years in prison for sexual harassment and five for money laundering. Seems it really is a Mafia killing.”
Steven raised his upper lip in displeasure and held it there for a few moments. “Why did we have to get this case? As far as I’m concerned, it’s not even worth investigating who the murderer is. Let them kill each other.”
Sandra shot him a reproachful look. “We have to find out who the murderer is. It’s our duty. The rest doesn’t matter.” Again the phone rang. “Where? … When? … Of course, we’ll leave right away.” She turned to him. “Another murder. Come on, you’re half asleep.”
He let his hands fall lazily to his side. “Damn, why today? Do you realize how foggy it is outside? It’ll take us at least two hours to get to the crime scene.”
“Quit moaning! Let’s go.”
Chapter 12
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“At this speed I won’t get there until the early hours,” Carlo Vucci grumbled.
Will, the black man behind the wheel, said, “Boss, I would drive faster, but the fog is so thick, I can’t.”
“Yes, yes, step on it, please. My wife will be wondering where I am. I feel we don’t spend enough time together lately. I’m too busy.”
Both men in the front seat nodded, showing him they understood. Will accelerated gently.
“My God, you know the route by heart. Faster, please, I don’t have the nerves for this.” Carlo wearily dragged on his cigarette, which was threatening to go out at any moment. He had to open the window, as the smoky air inside was thicker than the fog.
The limousine driver sped up. Staring ahead, he prayed they wouldn’t hit anything large. Visibility was down to fewer than ten yards.
Carlo picked up his cell phone and stabbed at it, dialing the number. “Darling, I’ll be home soon. … Don’t worry. … Yes, I’m hungry. … Of course, me too, see you.” He put the phone down beside him and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Damn it, didn’t I tell you to go faster?”
Will said, “If I drive faster we might hit someone. I think it’s better—”
“Faster!” Carlo snapped. “What do I care if we hit something? The car is fully insured.” When he burst out laughing, the men laughed with him.
The vehicle accelerated even more.
They drove on, no longer laughing. The man who was driving kept a sharp lookout, the other was thinking what to buy with his next paycheck. Vucci was a generous employer. He paid those loyal to him well. If they weren’t loyal, he got rid of them.
A young girl ran across the road and screamed when she saw the black limousine bearing down on her. It was so sudden that the driver barely had time to turn the steering wheel. Luckily he missed the girl, but the vehicle hit a high curb at full speed and crashed into a metal fence. Before the three of them realized what was happening the limousine was rolling down a steep slope.
To their misfortune, the girl had run across the road just before a long bridge over the river, so they broke through the railing and rolled down the riverbank. A screeching sound assailed the ears of the girl’s mother as she took her in her arms. The big limousine ended up in the water and engulfed in a disturbing silence.
The first to gain consciousness was the driver, who felt cold water pouring onto his feet. Seeing what was happening, he screamed. Looking to his right he saw his bearded colleague, who had blood all over his head and was unconscious. Then he turned and with horror realized that Carlo Vucci wasn’t in the vehicle. He shook his friend, who woke immediately.
“We have to get out of here. Now!” the driver said.
The ice-cold water was already at waist level. They pushed against the door with all their strength, but it wouldn’t give. The driver thought of opening the sun roof. They climbed onto the car roof and jumped into the water in a matter of seconds. A few minutes later they lay, gasping, on the riverbank.
“My God, where is Carlo?” groaned the second man.
“I don’t know. Maybe he got thrown out while the vehicle was rolling over. Let’s have a look around.”
Su
re enough, they found him some minutes later lying unconscious on the bank with his feet in the water. His legs and stomach were covered in blood and at first he didn’t even look alive.
“Let’s call an ambulance,” Will said.
Half an hour later, Carlo Vucci was taken to hospital.
The two men huddled in the waiting room, their elegant clothes filthy from earth and sand, waiting for someone to tell them how he was. If their boss was dead they would be out of a job. That was the last thing they needed, since before, both of them had worked in a factory and had hardly earned enough to make ends meet.
Finally the doctor showed up, saying, “I’m Dr. Patterson. Were you with Mr. Vucci?”
They nodded.
“Tell me what happened.”
They briefly described how they had toppled down the riverbank.
Dr. Patterson shook his head. “I thought it would be something along those lines. Mr. Vucci has severe head injuries and minor stomach injuries. Everything else is OK. Obviously the vehicle rolled over him. He’ll need surgery.”
The men were surprised. “You mean to say he got crushed by the limo?”
“Yes. His arms and legs are OK, but as I said, he has serious head injuries.”
They both grimaced. Will asked, “And when will you know more?”
“Hard to say. In a few moments we’ll operate. First his head, then his stomach.”
“What are his chances?”
Dr. Patterson pulled a face. “I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. His condition is very serious. We can only hope for the best.” Then he left.
Jack called Christine Vucci and, with dry lips, waited for her to pick up the phone.
“Hello!”
“Christine, it’s me, Jack. I’m sorry to tell you we had a real bad accident.”
“What? What happened?”
“The fog was so thick we couldn’t see much. … We fell into a river and—”
