In a Heartbeat

by Sandrone Dazieri

  ‘Inside, please,’ he said.

  His accent was German or Swiss; I couldn’t tell. I went in and he came in behind me, closing the door.

  ‘Listen man, I don’t have the same tastes as Roveda.’

  ‘Raise your arms please,’ he asked.

  I did what he said and he patted me down lightly and quickly. He took my phone. ‘It’s off,’ I said.

  He put it in his pocket and took out a device about the size of a packet of cigarettes and waved it over my body. The device gave off a light sound that changed intensity while it moved.

  ‘You can put your arms down, thank you. Please follow me.’

  We went back outside. He returned to his table and I sat back down in front of the bald guy. There was a second cup on the table and a slice of chocolate cake covered in whipped cream.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘You seemed hungry. They make a great Sacher here; of course, it is not like the one at the Demel in Vienna.’

  ‘Did Roveda like it too?’ The coffee was watered down but I’d been craving one all morning. The cops had messed up the kitchen so much that I couldn’t make one myself. They’d taken all the knives, spoons and every sharp object in the house, including pencils. There were looking for the murder weapon and from what the newspapers said it hadn’t been found in the villa.

  The cake was very good although I didn’t understand why they put jam in it. Chocolate and jam, just the Germans.’

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ the bald guy replied. ‘He was a diabetic.’ I could see the blond guy dismantling my phone. He looked like he knew what he was doing.

  ‘What’s he doing with my phone?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s checking it. They can pick up conversations from mobile phones even when they’re turned off, in some cases even without the battery in it. Next time you want a discreet meeting, leave it at home.’

  ‘Total security.’

  He took a sip from his coffee. ‘You can never be completely secure, only reasonably,’ he said as he pointed to the window. ‘For example, lasers can convert the vibrations of that glass into sound but the passing cars and the background noise of the café give a reasonable amount of security. Maybe someone put a bug in your drink, but I know the bartender, so I’m reasonably certain that he takes the privacy of his clients to heart. So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can tell me what the hell you had going on with Roveda.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I haven’t said anything to the cops about you, for now.’

  ‘If you had anything to gain from it you’d do it, but I have nothing to worry about from any investigation; I’m just an anonymous face in a photo, so this doesn’t inconvenience me in any way.’ Damn, he knew about them. ‘Let’s just consider this an exchange of favours. Go ahead, please ask.’

  ‘Did Roveda buy or sell?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘From the first moment I saw you, I noted something different about you. You didn’t move as I would have expected a man of your age to do and your way of speaking isn’t in line with your supposed level of culture. Now you’re asking me about matters that you should already know about. Is it the result of an accident or a disease?’

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘I understand. Roveda sold.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Roveda worked at an advertising agency. He wasn’t a secret agent. What other kind of valuable information could he possibly have?’ He looked at the tips of his fingers. ‘Did your accident affect your long-term memory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Disoriented, amnesia, a suspect in a homicide but not desperate. Not yet … To be the CEO of ad agency means to have access to sensitive information. For example, what their clients intend to put on the market. It may be the taste of a new drink, the function of a new phone or a television set, their prices, their marketing strategies. It’s often their branding or packaging that makes the difference to the success of a product. How old do you feel, Signor Denti?’

  ‘Twenty-eight, more or less.’

  ‘Middle aged for technology.’ He signalled to the waiter to remove the empty cups. ‘Naturally other types of information are considered valuable. Advertising agencies are always in competition. Most of them are vying for larger corporate accounts. To know exactly what your competitor is offering could win the game. Roveda was always cautious. He didn’t want to hurt the agency that he worked for. Not that much, at least.’

  ‘Roveda killed my mobile-phone project.’

  ‘A client of mine is going to announce a joint venture with a well-known telephone company very soon. In the package there is an agreement to send advertisements via text messaging which uses the same logic that you proposed.’

  ‘They didn’t want any competition.’

  ‘My clients were investing in the stocks of both companies in the joint venture. Any complication would have affected the value of the operation.’

  ‘You knew that I found out about Roveda.’

  ‘Of course. Roveda had assured me, however, that you wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Did he explain how?’

  ‘It didn’t concern me. Are you afraid that you killed Roveda and don’t remember doing it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, the first lie of the day, but you are forgiven.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘Murder is not my field of expertise.’

  The blond returned and gave me back my phone. It was off and looking brand-new. ‘I’m afraid that I must leave now.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  He got up. ‘How do you find this world, Signor Denti?’

  ‘It’s shit, that’s what it is; a world of shit connected to the internet.’

  He reflected. ‘Signor Denti, if you took two sharp blades and face them point to point and push with equal force at each end the blades would remain still. If, however, you changed the force by even a fraction because someone or something moved it—’ He gestured with his index finger, ‘then the blades would slide and someone would get cut. You and Roveda had perfect equilibrium. Neither you nor Roveda wanted to harm the other. Roveda was in the same position as you. Something broke the equilibrium and now Roveda is dead.’

  ‘It could’ve been a coincidence.’

  ‘There is no such thing as coincidence, only things not yet understood. Work out what or who moved the blade and you’ll have the answer to what you’re looking for. I hope that it will also be to your liking.’ The blond put a grey overcoat on the bald man’s shoulders. ‘If you try to contact me again you’ll find the numbers disconnected. I’ll be in contact with you if you can make it through this test.’

  I sat until I had finished my cake, although that frozen fish in the shape of a human had made me lose my appetite.

  How did Roveda keep the Ad Exec at bay? The answer came with the second cup of watered-down coffee. With Salima. The photos. In the old days I would’ve shown them around to my friends but for the Ad Exec they were a major problem. Monica’s father wouldn’t have appreciated a family scandal, let alone the reaction from The Flock. The Ad Exec was clean now. If anyone had found out he ran the risk of losing everything. He would have lost all his social connections and his rich girlfriend. If Roveda had had to resign the Ad Exec would have had to follow him out.

  Roveda had found out that Bonanno was organising something against him, which was why he had the Ad Exec tailed. The Ad Exec was stupid; we know that. But so stupid as to get himself caught with his hand in the cookie jar? It seemed too much. There was more to it. That’s without factoring in the missing cash. That was another piece of the puzzle that I couldn’t work out. Roveda, as rich as he was, wouldn’t have cared about three hundred grand. Spillo came to get ten thousand off me before leaving town. If he already had the money it made no sense to come to me.

  When I got out of the car I was even angrier and more confused than before. Every time I thought that I’d
found the last piece of this puzzle another piece would appear. Would I ever find that last piece that could explain everything? Dammit! I would have loved to talk to Spillo again. Apart from the Ad Exec and Monica’s father, he was probably the only one who knew the whole damn story.

  The day that I’d met him he’d told me that I could find him through ‘Esposito.’ It was a familiar name, and I was sure it didn’t come from my distant past. I didn’t have that name in my address book and in Milan there were probably a thousand Espositos. To go through each one in the White Pages seemed like a waste of time. The cops would’ve found me on the computer covered in cobwebs when they finally got to me.

  It was eleven in the morning, too early to go back into Italy. I wanted to do it during rush hour to blend in with motorists going home from work, around six in the evening. I walked around the city. It would have been a nice place to retire if I was contemplating political exile. In Via Nassa there was a smart open-air shopping mall. I stopped in front of a window that had high-tech gadgets inside. There was that white thing that I had seen dangling from people’s ears (Learn: iPod. Learn: MP3. Learn: 1000 Songs in Your Pocket). The idea of filling my head with music was very attractive but the saleswoman disappointed me. ‘You have to put the music in yourself with your computer,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t have a computer anymore.’

  ‘Oh … wait. I think that we still have the U2 Special Edition iPod.’

  ‘Their latest CD is inside as a bonus.’

  ‘Are they still famous?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘It only comes in black. Is that OK?’

  ‘It’ll match my jacket.’

  She brought it to me. On the polished metal back there were engravings of the band’s autographs. Cool. I tried to turn it on but the battery wasn’t charged. The saleswoman sold me a car charger as well.

  ‘Make sure that you don’t lose the receipt just in case you need it for the border control.’

  I was about to tell her that if they stopped me the receipt was the least of my worries. I stopped with my mouth open. The receipt!

  While the saleswoman looked at me I emptied my wallet out onto the counter. Oh God of The Flock, please, please tell me that I didn’t throw it away … There it was, wrapped around a credit card: Coffee 0.80. The first day I had seen the receipt and I understood that liras didn’t exist anymore. The date was illegible but at the top you could still read Giovanni Esposito, Corso di Porta Ticinese, 83.

  Esposito.

  That’s why the Ad Exec never wrote it down: he knew that place and he had known it for twenty years.

  It was Oreste’s.

  2

  The Swiss Guards stopped me at the border. Insurance and documents were in order, but the stamp that the public prosecutor had put on my ID made them suspicious.

  ‘You can’t enter with this,’ said the cop.

  ‘I forgot my passport at home, I just realised it now.’ I gave him my signature Trafficante smile. I must’ve come across so innocuous that they didn’t give me any hassle. After all I was going back, wasn’t I? He checked on the computer and saw that there were no warrants and asked, ‘Did you buy marijuana?’

  ‘What?’ I was befuddled.

  ‘Don’t tell me that you don’t know that you can buy it in Switzerland. At least in some areas.’

  ‘Like in Holland?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said while a German shepherd sniffed around my car. ‘You can buy it and sell it in authorised, stores but it’s prohibited to ingest it or smoke it.’

  ‘So what are you meant to do with it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, but on the bags that we confiscate they write: wardrobe fresheners.’ He closed the trunk. ‘Funny, huh?’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Half the kids who come through here every weekend come for that reason. If we stopped all of them then there would be a queue from here to Geneva.’ He closed the boot. ‘All clear.’

  I thought that he was joking with me but I learned later that he was telling the truth. The law changed later, however, and the sellers and cultivators had to close shop. It upset an army of consumers whilst making dealers everywhere rejoice.

  At least something interesting had come up with this stricter control. I found out that the car wasn’t registered in my name but in Monica’s. I should have known that it was too luxurious for the Ad Exec. It was probably worth more than all the money that he used to have in his bank account. I’m sure that the girlfriend paid for their holidays as well.

  I got to Milan around 9pm and went immediately to Oreste’s. I didn’t rush in because two cop cars were parked in front of the bar. I preferred to go around the block and listen to How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb on my new iPod (it was better than any Walkman I had ever had). The cops left about half an hour later through the front door. Oreste had been talking to them but they weren’t taking him away or anything. He had walked them out the door, shaking his head as he watched them leave. He looked the same as in the dream I had had when I fell from the stairs at the Islamic Cultural Centre. It wasn’t a dream; it had come from the Ad Exec’s memory. Oreste was still big but with less hair and a white moustache.

  The bar was the same as fourteen years ago. There were hard-boiled eggs under a glass display and slices of cake in plastic wrappers. The dirty ceiling fans hadn’t changed and neither had the stench of rancid beer. The tables were the same as when I had met Max, that bastard, and placed the same way: so tightly that it was impossible not to bump into your neighbour behind you.

  Oreste’s wife waited on clients. She’d turned into a whale with dyed hair and looked like she’d been crying. Customers were few: a couple of Arabs dressed like metal-heads and a guy with no teeth sucking on a meatball. In my dream, Oreste’s welcome was festive; in reality it was notably less so.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ he said. He seemed exhausted. ‘Ten minutes we close,’ he said to the others.

  ‘So soon?’ protested the young Arab. ‘It’s not even eleven.’

  ‘I’ve had enough for tonight and it’s not like you’re making me rich.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Trafficante, if you want to drink, you can drink standing.’

  ‘If you always treat your customers like this then don’t complain if they don’t come back. Just give me a cognac.’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘What about a beer?’

  ‘Good choice, something quick and easy that doesn’t cause a hassle.’ He took out a bottle of Stella from the fridge and popped it open with his thumb.

  I drank from the bottle. It was warm. ‘Oreste, we have to talk.’

  He looked at me. ‘Make it quick.’ Then he said to the guy who was sucking the meatball, ‘Hey, no smoking, how many times do I have to tell you?’

  Outside in the back of the bar there was just enough space for two rubbish bins and a cat going through them. I sat on the step and lit a cigarette. Oreste was drying his hands on his apron.

  ‘Is it OK to smoke here?’

  ‘Don’t mess with me.’

  ‘Is your name Giovanni Esposito?’

  ‘And so what?’

  ‘Everybody calls you Oreste.’

  He lit the butt of a Toscano cigar that he’d taken from his jacket pocket. ‘When I bought the bar in ’76, it was already called Oreste’s. I tried to explain that in the beginning, but no one gave a damn. It was the same with the guy who used to sell me mozzarella for toast. The brand was Lodovico, and they called him Lodovico, because it was printed on the car. They even put it in his obituary: “Joe Bloggs aka Lodovico”. So what’s up?’

  ‘I have to talk to Manzi.’

  I was expecting a surprised expression that would’ve meant keep on looking but Oreste shook his head. ‘You just missed him. Did you see the cops who were here before? They got him. What the hell was he thinking hiding out at his sister’s place with the cops out looking for him? He must’ve been stupid. He didn’t even tell me anything about it. The ba
stard just said that he was staying over while they were painting his house. Painters, my arse, damn him.’

  ‘Is Manzi your brother-in-law?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? I told you that when I gave you the phone number. I don’t know why he wanted to be a private detective in the first place. He was a cobbler his whole life then all of a sudden he changed his job.’

  ‘A cobbler?’

  ‘Yeah, a frigging shoemaker.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He made shoes. Are you deaf?’

  ‘Esposito is a southern Italian name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Listen here, you prick, I was born at the Magolfa.’ The Magolfa was round the corner from the bar. Oreste hadn’t moved much in his life. ‘Anyway my brother-in-law had a shoe shop in Porta Genova called Ciabattino Lampo. I told him to keep it going, it was a good job, but he didn’t listen. God knows why they even gave him the license.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are the cheques good?’

  ‘Do you have them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Spillo had mentioned that they were people who appreciate discretion. Damn, the Ad Exec didn’t get one thing right! I thought Spillo’s hands were those of a killer; instead he’d got his hands from his job. He stitched and made leather uppers. The Ad Exec had been out of the scene for a while, and Oreste had seemed like the logical choice. He knew everybody, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut. It’s too bad that he had a brother-in-law who had screwed everything up.

  ‘It’s better that you wait until the end of the month to cash them.’

  ‘I thought so. Let’s go back inside. The beer’s on me, but don’t get used to it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We went back inside. The only one left was the guy with the meatball, which was still there, whole, on the table. Oreste would probably put it back in the display window.

  ‘We’re closing!’ he yelled.

  ‘See you later, Oreste. I don’t think that we’ll be seeing each other anytime soon.’

  ‘I hope not. It’s better to get rid of bad luck as soon as possible.’