‘Beniamino used a handgun.’
‘Well, in that case one can request a further investigation to demonstrate that the traces of powder found on his clothing are not compatible with the gun cases discovered near the security van.’
‘Will it be enough to get him out of trouble?’
‘Providing it can also be shown that he was elsewhere at the time.’
‘So he needs an alibi.’
‘Yes. One good enough to stand detailed scrutiny.’
Beniamino got news to us from his isolation cell by way of a bent prison officer at Venice jail. He was quite sure he would soon be released and he wanted us to organize a convincing ‘performance.’ While the cops had been busy trying to break his stubborn silence, he had been working on his alibi. There were a couple of Croatian policemen whom he paid handsomely to avoid any problems when he moored his boat in a particular harbor on the Dalmatian coast and who would certainly be prepared to testify that on the night in question he was with them, and that at the end of a long drinking session they had let him use their police-issue handguns to fire off a couple of rounds. There was no way the investigators would believe the story but they wouldn’t be able to disprove it either. Rossini was too smart for them. I felt ashamed I had given in to despair. Instead of sniveling I should have realized Rossini would be busy organizing a winning move. Max was still in a sulk with me, but we had other stuff to think about right now, so we declared a truce.
One of the smugglers who worked for Rossini set sail for Croatia. Rossini’s defense lawyer had been told by Sylvie that he would shortly be receiving some important information beneficial to his client’s case, and now all they had to do was wait while the wheels of the law slowly turned. As a matter of curiosity, I went looking for information as to who had actually held up the security van. It only took me a couple of hours to discover that the job had been done by a gang of veteran Bosnians based in Udine. The cops also knew it had been done by non-Italians. In the heat of the moment the Bosnians had been overheard to exchange some words in their own language, but the police still stubbornly insisted on accusing Beniamino of being, if nothing else, the brains behind the robbery.
In the meantime I had continued to follow press reports relating to the murder of Ugo Giachino. He was described as an exemplary husband and father. Colleagues at the private TV station where he had worked pitched in to support his family and it was leaked that the carabinieri HQ in Lodi was working on the theory that Giachino had been set upon by a bunch of Albanian thieves. In other words, the investigators were stumbling around in the dark. They knew perfectly well that nothing had been taken from Giachino.
In the middle of the night, Fat Max knocked on my door. In his hand he had the S and M videos we had found at Jacovone’s hideout in Rome.
‘What are we going to do with these?’ Max added.
‘C’mon. This is just an excuse to drag the issue up again.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I don’t want an argument.’
‘The Master of Knots is due to leave for Japan in three days.’
‘I know.’
‘So let’s talk about it.’
I sighed and told him to make himself comfortable. Max wanted to go back over the case from start to finish, in every detail. I took the view that it was a total waste of time but if it could help to convince him to drop his plans for all-out war I was only too happy to humour him. As I listened, however, I began to see things his way.
As he went back over the recent events I began to see the possibility of reopening our pursuit of the Master of Knots. There were a couple of problems: first, we would have to involve two people, neither of whom wanted anything further to do with us; second, the endgame was morally questionable.
‘Beniamino will never talk to us again.’
‘But it could work, right?’
‘It all depends on Guarnero and Donatella.’
‘Guarnero is wide open to blackmail and Donatella’s in love with money.’
To persuade Flavio Guarnero to talk to us I had to threaten to spill the beans to his wife. He met us in a bar near the Turin police headquarters.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, pointing at Max.
‘He works with me,’ I replied.
‘I’ve only got a few minutes. Got to get back to the office.’
‘We’ve tracked down the Master of Knots,’ I told him, showing him a photograph Fat Max had downloaded from the Internet.
His ears pricked up and he listened carefully to the account we gave him. We omitted a couple of details, such as the death of Giachino.
‘And what more do you want from me?’
Fat Max explained the plan. The cop stroked his chin thoughtfully, then knocked back his drink and, sticking the photo of Chiarenza in his pocket, said, ‘Okay. I’ll do it.’
‘Not you two again!’ Donatella Morganti burst out. She had just returned from the hairdresser’s and I noticed her nail polish was a different color, too.
‘We’ve come to offer you an excellent deal,’ I said with a knowing smile. ‘Plenty of beautiful cash and you won’t even have to spread your thighs.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘Why don’t you invite us in so we can talk it through nicely?’
The armchair Beniamino had shot a hole through had been replaced by a new one upholstered in red leather. Donatella crossed her legs. ‘I’m listening.’
Once again it fell to Max to set out our plan, and Donatella interrupted him several times to ask for explanations. ‘How much were you thinking of paying me?’
‘Twenty million.’
‘I want forty.’
‘That’s too much.’
‘Then ask someone else.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Forty,’ she hit back.
‘All right.’
‘Up front.’
‘Twenty now and twenty when the job’s done,’ I said, handing her the envelope.
She felt the weight of it in her hands and stared me in the eye. ‘You’d already decided on the price, right?’
‘We thought you’d like to haggle a little.’
‘You really are a pair of shitheads.’
Guarnero told us to meet him in a supermarket car park not far from his apartment. He was looking weary and his T-shirt was stained with sweat. ‘Chiarenza is catching a flight tomorrow morning out of Malpensa airport,’ he said, handing me a piece of paper with the flight time and number. ‘He tried to book onto an earlier plane but there were no available seats.’
‘What else did you find out?’
He shrugged. ‘Not a lot. He has no police record. He started a career in the parachute regiment, but left the service so he could devote himself to karate.’
‘Married?’
‘Divorced. No children.’
‘And the others?’
‘Graziano D’Introna is the only one with previous convictions; he was put away for indecent assault. The others are as pure as lilies. Each has a family, children, a good job.’
We had nothing else to say. After a moment’s silence, he turned on his heels and walked away.
We picked up Donatella at her apartment and set off for Milan. She criticized my Skoda, saying she had never had a client as shabby as Max and me. She never stopped talking for a second and demanded we stopped and ate at a fashionable and pricey restaurant. The only way to shut her up was to go back over the plan. We found rooms for the night at a hotel in Saronno, not far from the airport, letting her have the only room with air-conditioning so as to avoid further whining. Max and I settled for sharing a hot, smelly, double room situated on the ground floor next to the kitchens.
Fat Max took a miniature bottle of spirits from the minibar. ‘I wonder how Old Rossini is doing,’ he said sadly.
I lit a cigarette. ‘Right now he’ll be stretched out on his cell bed staring at the ceiling like every other prisoner.’
‘Night’s the worst time. I remember . . .’
‘Don’t, Max,’ I butted in. ‘I don’t want to talk about prison. In fact, I don’t want to talk at all.’
‘You worried about tomorrow?’
‘That, too. Even if everything goes well, it’s still the wrong ending.’
‘It’s all we can do.’
Donatella Morganti made her entrance at the airport dressed like a high-class hooker on a business trip. She had put her hair up and was wearing an elegant dark-blue suit. A crocodile-skin bag hung from her shoulder and in her left hand she was gripping a small holdall while her right hand pulled a little trolley along behind her. She made straight for the escalator. Then, after hanging around the boutiques for a bit, she went into a bar and ordered a cappuccino.
Max and I had taken up position near the information desks of the airline on which the Master of Knots had booked a seat to Japan. He arrived a few minutes after we did, with a lot of time to spare before takeoff—he clearly didn’t want to risk missing his plane. He carried a large suitcase in each hand without the slightest effort, and wore a pair of plain-weave trousers and a polo shirt that emphasized his massive pecs. He joined the line at the check-in counter. Max alerted Donatella, who appeared almost at once and went and stood behind him. She tapped him on the shoulder and asked for some information. He turned around and the look on his face was pure amazement, though he quickly concealed it. Chiarenza had recognized her at once. He glanced around instinctively, trying to gauge just how much of a coincidence it was, running into the slave from the Turin hotel video like that. What he saw must have reassured him because he started chatting to the woman, seeming perfectly relaxed. He smiled a lot, displaying white, neatly spaced teeth. After a while, Donatella thanked him and walked off, pursued by his gaze. According to our plan, she’d have used the brief conversation to tell Chiarenza that her flight was delayed and she would be forced to while away the time sitting in a bar. All on her own, unfortunately.
The Master of Knots handed over his baggage and completed the formalities, then checked his watch. There was over an hour until boarding. He walked off in the direction Donatella had taken, caught up with her at a bar, and asked if he could join her at her table. She gave him a big smile and pointed at the chair opposite, then immediately started hitting on him, complimenting him on his physique. I took my cell phone out of my pocket and rang Flavio Guarnero, gave him the name of the bar, and clicked off.
We looked on as Donatella slowly pushed her bags under the table towards Chiarenza with her feet. Then, after a couple of minutes, she got up, shouldered her crocodile-skin bag and asked Chiarenza if he would be so kind as to keep an eye on her baggage while she went to the toilet. He replied with a smile that lingered a long while on his face. Perhaps he was savoring in advance the moment he’d possess and torture the woman. Watching him, I realized he wasn’t the slightest bit afraid and was no doubt planning to return from Japan quite soon. Perhaps he had tried to bring his departure forward as a mere matter of precaution, while waiting to discover who had eliminated Giachino. I told Max what was I thinking.
‘I figure you’re right,’ he sighed. ‘It’s too late now.’
After about ten minutes Chiarenza began to check his watch and crane his neck to see if Donatella was on her way back over, looking on with interest as a group of police officers walked into the bar. When he realized they were heading his way he jumped out of his seat, but there was already a plain-clothes cop positioned behind him who quickly put his handgun to the back of his head. Then they handcuffed him and led him away while two of the officers collected the bags, including Donatella’s. Her holdall contained the videos documenting the torturing and killing of Helena, Mariano Giraldi, and Barbie Slave, plus the rope flower discovered in the hotel room from which Helena had been abducted. Our personal compliments to the Master.
EPILOGUE
Old Rossini was released from prison the following week, after the Guardia di Finanza had arrested a Bosnian as he was trying to cross the border with a bag full of cash. In exchange for a promise of exceptional leniency, the Bosnian had squealed, enabling the cops to arrest the entire gang that had done the security-van job.
Rossini came by the club the same evening he was released. There was a lot of hugging, then Beniamino suggested we go up to my place so we could talk things over, away from any indiscreet ears. The moment he stepped over the threshold, he pulled a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. It carried the news of the Master of Knots’ arrest and the uncovering of a vast illegal pornography network. Chiarenza had handed the investigators the names of his accomplices. Only one of them, Michele Narsi, had evaded capture. The investigation promised to be sensational and the more lurid aspects of the case had aroused considerable press interest.
‘What the fuck does this mean?’ he asked, struggling to control his anger.
I cleared my throat, trying to find the right tone of voice. ‘You weren’t around,’ I replied. ‘We had to make do.’
Max supplied a detailed account of events while Rossini listened and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he snorted finally. ‘You went to a cop and a hooker for help putting that piece of shit in prison.’
‘He was about to skip the country.’
‘He deserved to die.’
‘He won’t have a great time behind bars either.’
‘By the way,’ Max asked. ‘How have these last couple of weeks been?’
Beniamino stared at him like he was crazy. Then he slapped his hand down hard on the table. ‘It says here that the Master of Knots was convinced that the murder of Giachino had nothing to do with his gang’s activities,’ he yelled. ‘That bastard would have come back from Japan and we would have been able to resolve this in our own way.’
‘It’s true,’ I admitted. ‘We realized that too late. We rushed things. Just like you did when you whacked that moron Giachino. The fact is, right from the start we were operating in a world about which we knew nothing and that’s always how mistakes are made.’
Old Rossini got up, I noticed a new golden bracelet dangling from his left wrist: the scalp of Ugo, the cameraman. He must have bought it immediately after his release from prison.
‘I’m going back to Sylvie’s place,’ he said, and left without saying goodbye, closing the door gently behind him.
‘He’s not in a great mood,’ Fat Max remarked.
‘He’ll get over it,’ I said. ‘Try not to go on about prison so much, otherwise he’ll get seriously pissed off.’
‘All right, I’ll keep my tongue on a leash. Shall we go back down to the club?’
‘There’s no rush. Besides, I want a word with you.’
‘What about?’
‘I’ve decided to offer you a partnership. A fifty percent share.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Thanks, but I’ve not got enough money to . . .’
‘I don’t want any money.’
‘I don’t get it. You’re offering me a half-share in La Cuccia?’
‘Including the headaches.’
‘But, Marco, why?’
‘We’re friends. That’s all.’
‘I can’t accept.’
‘Yes, you can. This place is doing pretty nicely and you need some security, too. In our line of work, you never know what can happen, so it’s wise to have your ass covered.’
Max stared at me. ‘That’s not the only reason, is it?’
I lit a cigarette. ‘No, it isn’t. I’d like you to have the financial peace of mind to choose freely what to do with your life.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘In that hotel in Turin you said you weren’t happy with your life.’
‘The work we do rules out other
choices.’
I shrugged. ‘We’ll stay friends in any case, and besides, to be honest, I envy you the fact that you still have dreams.’
Max remained silent for a long while. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then don’t waste your breath.’
He gave my shoulder a big squeeze and returned to the club. I calmly finished my cigarette, feeling satisfied. I’d done the right thing. Then I picked up my cell phone and called Virna. ‘Do words still mean anything between us?’
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
I met her in a bar in the center of town and found her more beautiful than usual. I said a couple of things of no importance, then drank my glass of Calvados straight down and began to talk. I told her who I really was and why I’d chosen the work I did. Why it was so essential to me to go stirring up shit and playing hide-and-seek with gangsters, cops and magistrates, how it gave some meaning to my life. I opened up in a way I had never done with anybody, and when I finished I looked her in the eye.
‘The worst of the heat’s over,’ she said simply. ‘At last we can breathe again.’
She smiled and stroked the back of my hand with a finger. She always did that when she wanted to make love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Massimo Carlotto is one of the best-known living crime writers in Europe. In addition to the many titles in his extremely popular “Alligator” series, and his noir novels, he is the author of The Fugitive, which tells the story of his arrest and trial for a crime he didn’t commit, and his subsequent years on the run. Carlotto’s novel The Goodbye Kiss was a finalist for the MWA’s Edgar Award for best novel.
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