He heard the door swing open behind him, and turned to see one of the officers enter the room. He stepped up to the bed, and stood at his shoulder.
‘Any theories about this one?’ asked Scamarcio.
The officer nodded slowly. ‘Word is that it was the Calabroni boys. Trastevere has been working on an undercover op to sew them up for supplying heroin to dealers in Magliana and Testaccio. We’ve recently taken in a low-level operative who’s started to squeal, so it looked like convictions were in the offing. Filippi was heading it all up: it was a big deal for him, a career-maker. We reckon this is our warning from the Calabroni to let it drop, to ignore the squealer.’
Scamarcio exhaled slowly, relief flooding in. This would make sense. It would also explain why Filippi had been so edgy these past few days. He prayed that this was the truth of it — that the Calabroni clan was more than a convenient cover.
‘You guys ever hear of anyone called Geppo the bookie?’
The officer frowned, and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Is he from Trastevere?’
‘Not sure. He’s dead — he was taken out recently, but I have no idea where he operated. Right now, I need to speak to his associates. It ties up with a case I’m on.’
The officer pulled a mobile from his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.
‘Take a note,’ he said, as he reeled off a telephone number. ‘The name’s Jacopo Brambilla in Gaming Enforcement. Tell him Marco Leto gave you his details. He should be able to help you — he runs all the grasses, so he’ll get you to Geppo’s guys.’
Scamarcio entered the number in his phone. ‘Thanks — I appreciate it.’
‘How do you know Oscar? I haven’t seen you down in Trastevere.’
‘No, I’m with the Squadra Mobile, but our paths have crossed a few times. He’s a good bloke, and I just wanted to pay my respects, you know.’
The officer nodded. ‘If you leave me your card, I’ll be sure to let you know if there are any developments.’
Scamarcio patted his pockets. ‘As it happens, I’m fresh out. But if he wakes up, tell him that Leone called to wish him well.’
The officer seemed surprised, but nodded again: ‘Of course.’
19
SCAMARCIO EXITED THE BORGHESE and found a bench under a battered palm tree in the hospital gardens. He dialled the number for Brambilla.
‘Brambilla — make it quick.’ The man barked rather than spoke.
‘Brambilla, Detective Scamarcio. I was given your details by Leone from Trastevere. I was hoping you might be able to help me with a case, but if you’re busy I can call back.’
Brambillas’s tone softened. ‘No, don’t worry. I thought you were the wife, that’s all. Awful business that, down at Trastevere. How’s the poor guy doing?’
‘He’s not looking great — still in a coma. They don’t seem to know when he’ll wake up.’
Brambilla whistled softly down the line. ‘The Calabroni have no qualms now. These younger boys are worse than their fathers. Where’s the respect?’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘They’re competing with Russia. I guess the game has got a whole lot dirtier.’
‘You can say that again.’ Brambilla paused for a moment. ‘Scamarcio? Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Then, after a beat, ‘You’re that Flying Squad guy who was in the papers last year!’
Scamarcio felt the familiar tightening in his temples. He had hoped that the whole thing was dead and buried, that people’s interest had shifted elsewhere. Evidently not. However much time had passed, he was still the son of the mafioso, the trafficker of traffickers who had pumped cocaine across Europe, had ordered the murders of state officials, and had met his own bloody end at the hands of a traitor from within his own locale. Yet again, the images spooled shakily through his mind like the frames of a deteriorated cine reel: that stifling summer day; the sweet, coppery stench of blood; the whites of his fathers’ eyes looking up to the sky, as if preparing to finally meet his maker; his mother’s sickening cries, her vomit sprayed across the step. He dragged himself back to the present in much the same way as he forced himself awake from the recurring nightmares.
‘Guilty as charged.’
Brambilla laughed. ‘Hey, man, don’t feel bad. I think it’s great you’ve made a go of things and got out from the shit, when thousands fail. You’re a shining example of what this beautiful country might one day become!’ Despite the eulogy, the man seemed genuine, and Scamarcio found himself warming to him.
‘That’s good to hear.’ He paused for a beat so he could change tack. ‘Brambilla, you ever hear of a guy goes by the name of Geppo the bookie?’
Brambilla laughed again. ‘Ah, Geppo … Hippo, we used to call him. They say he weighed in at 150 kilos. He didn’t need to shoot his competitors — just sat on them.’ Then, ‘You know he’s dead, got taken out a few weeks back?’
‘I did know that, but wasn’t sure who was behind it. A competitor?’
‘Yeah, but not at the races. Geppo was an errand boy for the Sicilians, but wanted to move up in the world. He was dipping his fingers into some nasty pies.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Loan-sharking and contraband. There were two of them working Salaria. Geppo’s direct rival, Magliotta, had links to the Calabroni. The two camps had been vying for months to get overall control. We think Hippo’s death could trigger a full-out war between the Calabroni, or what’s left of them, and the Cosa Nostra branch here — it could turn ugly pretty soon. To be honest, given all that, we were quite surprised they bothered to take out your friend in Trastevere. We would have thought they had bigger fish to fry right now.’
Scamarcio felt the uneasiness return. ‘Where did Geppo hang out?’
‘Bar Magenta on Via Cagliari. He was there most days — he had a rotary telephone on the wall for his personal business.’
‘And the guy who took him out?’
‘The Spaniard? He’s on Via Nizza, has the bar at the end with the red awning. Bar Stella. He also has a phone on the wall for his personal business. Don’t ask me — must be a Seventies nostalgia thing. That, or they enjoy feeding us dud steers.’
‘He’s Spanish?’
‘Nah, born and raised in Latina. But has a Spanish grandma, hence the name.’ Brambilla cleared his throat. ‘What’s your case anyway?’
‘Geppo’s name came up recently in a rape investigation. We were going to check it out, but now I’m wondering whether we’ll bother. Seems like we’re at a dead end. Literally.’
Brambilla sighed. ‘You can’t prosecute a dead man, Detective, however much of a hotshot you are.’
20
VIA NIZZA WAS GROWING busy with the lunchtime rush. Some workmen were digging up the road, there was dust everywhere, and disgruntled pedestrians were being forced off the pavement into the traffic. Horns blared and babies cried. Someone told someone else to go fuck their grandmother.
Scamarcio pushed his way through the crowd, coughing against the dust. He could see the red awning of Bar Stella up ahead on the left, sandwiched between a dry cleaner’s and a Thai massage parlour. Everywhere you went in the city, there were massage parlours now. It was the new growth industry — they seemed to have replaced tanning salons after everyone started worrying about skin cancer.
The café’s windows were tinted, so that only the top half allowed anyone to look inside. He saw the backs of several men’s balding heads at the counter, and a group of punters playing cards off to their right. He pushed the door and entered. It was cool inside, and the scent of fresh coffee grounds reminded him that he had gone without breakfast. As he approached the bar, the men all turned in unison, making it clear that he wasn’t welcome. He pushed on regardless, ordering a cappuccino, helping himself to a brioche from the cabinet, and
studying the pink pages of La Gazzetta dello Sport. The men at the counter lost interest and slowly returned to their conversation.
Behind him, the card game was in full swing. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a handsome man, taller than all the rest. His dark hair was swept back in a style that reminded Scamarcio of a photo he had seen of Rock Hudson as a young man. He was wearing a well-tailored, blue pinstriped shirt, a small cross visible against his chest. Beneath the table, his legs were crossed in perfectly pressed chinos, and on his feet were expensive suede loafers with no socks visible, as dictated by that season’s fashionistas. No one looked ‘Mafia’ anymore, or maybe they just didn’t look like the old Mafia of the south that he remembered. The style was now super-preppy — dressed-down banker or lawyer. The way most of them saw it, there was little difference between their professions, anyway; they just worked on different sides of the divide.
Scamarcio guessed that this had to be the Spaniard. As if in answer to his thoughts, an old 1970s phone trilled against the wall, and the elegant man gently laid down his cards and rose from the table. A waft of expensive cologne hit Scamarcio as he passed. He watched him lift the receiver, and hold it to his ear. After a minute or so had passed, he said ‘OK’, carefully replaced the receiver, and returned to the card table. As he took his seat, Scamarcio realised that the eyes of each of his fellow players were upon him — evidently, they’d been watching him watch the Spaniard. He briefly weighed it up: he knew when he was outnumbered, and this did not feel like the time or place for a chat with Magliotta. He’d take a rain check, save it for another day when maybe one or two henchmen were around, rather than eight. The eyes at the card table tracked him as he paid the barista, refolded the newspaper, and left.
He entered the dust cloud of the street, glad of the momentary camouflage, the anonymity. He reflected on Magliotta, on his clothes and natural elegance. How things had changed. His father had never cared about all that: he’d been too busy running a burgeoning business to bother with fripperies; besides, he would have called it ‘poofterish’. A real man rolled up his shirtsleeves and got on with life — he didn’t shop for the latest brogues. He wondered what his dad would make of the new-found ‘metrosexuality’. Did it in some strange way connect with the new violence, the new ruthlessness? Was it, in fact, a response — some kind of compensation?
The dustbowl heat was cloying and intense, and he decided to take a left into an alleyway that he felt sure had to connect with Via Velletri. He anticipated the cool of the shadows and the dampness of the stone, but instead the sweetish stench of fresh sewage hit him immediately. He decided to switch back to Via Nizza — the heat was preferable to the smell — but all at once he felt someone push up against his back, felt the sharp point of something metallic against his spine. It had been a foolish move going to Bar Stella: that much was immediately clear.
‘Don’t move.’ It was a deep voice, but he sensed a younger man, someone who wasn’t completely in control. A waft of rank breath hit Scamarcio. The blade pushed tighter against his spine.
‘What do you want?’ he said, deciding to play the innocent. ‘I’ve just got a few notes — two twenties and a ten, I think. That’s it. My credit cards are at home.’
‘I don’t want your money,’ said the man.
Scamarcio felt the heat course along his spine to his neck. He wanted to get hold of his Beretta, swing back with his right arm and knock the man’s blade arm away, as his training had taught. But what if the man was left-handed? There was no way of knowing from this angle.
‘What do you want?’ he repeated.
‘To help you.’
Help him see the error of his ways, no doubt. Help him never to return to Bar Stella, or bother the Spaniard again.
‘Help me with what?’
‘Your investigation.’
Scamarcio felt the blade loosen slightly, and took a moment to deal with his surprise.
‘Strange way of helping someone — holding a knife to their back in a dark alleyway.’
‘Shut up and listen,’ said the man. ‘I have information, information that you need …’ He broke off. Scamarcio had a sense that he was looking behind him, watching out for someone.
‘There’s no time,’ said the stranger, panicked, the words faster now. ‘Elba, go to Elba, go now. It’s happening there, that’s the key. Go now and save a life.’
Scamarcio felt the blade release, and then heard the sound of footsteps running away. He swung around, but whoever it was had already left the alleyway. He rushed towards the sunlight of Via Nizza, scanned left and right, but saw no one in the crowd — no one who looked any different from the thousands of dusty office workers, eking out a life.
Part II
21
In the old town, the heat clung to the stone and made her nauseous. She squinted skywards and was dismayed to see no threads of white, no traces of grey. It would be an afternoon like all the others, smothering and unforgiving. She eased back against the bench, her dress moulding against her damp skin. She studied the villa, suffocating under dense webs of ivy: the roots were pulling at its brickwork, pressing down on its fragile diamonds of glass.
Someone laughed: a cluster of German holiday-makers had gathered at the doorway, and were passing round a flask of something, talking noisily, forcing others to turn and watch. She saw her husband hunched over a tattered map tacked to the wall, his wide shoulders stooped, his dark hair thinning. She wondered what had claimed him in these passing years. It was as if his soul had left his body, and a beaten, darker form had taken its place. She pushed away a damp strand of hair and breathed in the afternoon scent of honeysuckle. Why had they come? So many dusty kilometres for what? A new start, the sudden return of old feelings?
A bell chimed, and the Germans began to shuffle inside. Fabio turned and waved at her to follow. She pressed her lips into a thin smile and pulled herself up, the heat sapping her strength, pressing her to stay put under the meagre shade of the fly-bitten palms. She tried a brighter smile, but he had already gone. He never waited these days, barely acknowledged her silent presence.
As she entered the courtyard, her skin prickled against the sudden cool. The cluster of tourists had already moved on. She breathed in the earthy dampness of the stone, and imagined that this was her villa, her summer retreat far away from everything and everyone. A shard of laughter splintered out across the stonework, and she followed. The group had gathered around a statue, a young guide explaining its history in faltering English. Fabio caught her gaze and rolled his eyes. She turned away, unwilling to share the joke, tired of his arrogance. ‘17th century, present from a Tuscan duke, marble from Abruzzo’, the guide stumbled on. Her mind was so full; everything was painful, circular, exhausting. She looked up, searching for an image to divert her. One of the Germans was staring at her, and she turned, instinctively seeking out her husband for protection. But she could no longer see him in the room. No doubt he’d wandered off, bored, believing he knew it all already. She scanned the far corners of the hallway to the chambers beyond, but she couldn’t find him there. Perhaps he had stepped outside, needing some air. She headed back to the courtyard, her heels tapping on stone, shattering the sleepy silence of the afternoon. The wall of heat hit her as she stepped into the sunlight, almost forcing her back. She closed her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them, she expected to find him leaning against the wall, enjoying a cigarette, perhaps keen and exciting again like his twenty-something self. But the gardens were empty. What was he playing at? Now what was he trying to prove? She kicked several small stones, sending them scattering across the cracked earth, and headed back inside.
OFFICER PARODI THREW down his sandwich. He had been attempting to finish it for the last ten minutes, but the phone had been ringing nonstop. First it had been the xenophobic mayor of Porto Azzurro complaining about a gypsy festival that had run in
to the early hours, then it was a tourist from Bologna claiming that a ‘tiny’ boy had snatched her camera, and finally it was the Milanese woman for the fifth time asking if there was any news of her husband. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that the guy had done a runner, although no one had the balls to break it to her. Needless to say, they wouldn’t be wasting their precious resources trying to track him down. Like so many poor fellows these days, the man did not want to be found.
For the fourth time, Parodi edged the sandwich aside and attempted to swallow the remaining bites. ‘Police,’ he said.
He heard a ghost of a voice at the other end, fragile and scared. Not the Milanese again, he prayed.
‘Can you help?’ He could barely make out the words. ‘Something awful …’ She was speaking English, and he was struggling to understand. They had been given courses last year to help them deal with the summer tourists, but he had never taken to it and had found the weekly homework irksome.
‘What problem?’ His brain ached.
‘Our daughter — she’s, she’s disappeared.’
‘Where?’
‘The beach at Fetovaia. She was playing in the sand and then …’ The woman stopped. The words were getting harder to make out. ‘I don’t know — she, she vanished, she disappeared.’ Sobs overcame her, and the last words were whispers: ‘We’ve looked everywhere — we don’t know what to do.’
Parodi struggled to remember the vocabulary they’d been taught. Now he wished he’d paid more attention instead of flirting with Rita from customs.
‘How old?’
‘Seven, seven years old.’ The woman broke down again.
The sergeant sighed and pushed away the sandwich, defeated. This call spelt trouble. And God help them if Ignazio Calo had already sniffed out the story.
The Few Page 9
