Morabito surprised him by rising shakily in his wheelchair and releasing the lock on the gate himself, his wife looking on with concern.
‘Come in then, Leo. Let’s get you a drink.’ He turned to his wife. ‘I’ve known this lad since he was in nappies. I first saw him when he was just two days old.’
She smiled nervously.
‘Get him a juice then — snap to it.’ He clicked his fingers, and she shook her head at him before retreating inside the house. Scamarcio sensed that the act was for his benefit; it was the wife who was the boss now.
Morabito wheeled back quickly towards his spot under the orange trees. There was a little marble table by the fountain, and he picked up a pair of glasses with ridiculously wide lenses and put them on. He motioned Scamarcio to a stone chair.
‘You’re the spitting image of your father,’ he said, leaning forward and squinting at him once the glasses were on. ‘I can’t see your mother in you at all.’ Scamarcio thought he detected a note of disappointment. ‘So what’s this personal business? I would have thought you’d want to stay well away from here.’
‘I’m in trouble,’ said Scamarcio. ‘You’re one of the few people who can help.’
Morabito just frowned and continued to stare.
‘You have much to do with Piero Piocosta these days?’
Morabito snorted. ‘As little as I can manage. Why?’
His wife returned with a jug of iced water and some orange juice. She laid the drinks on the table, and had been about to sit down when Morabito said: ‘Listen, Margot, can you give us a minute?’ She sighed and rolled her eyes, then turned back towards the house.
Scamarcio wondered how much she knew about Morabito’s old life. But instead he asked: ‘Why do you avoid Piocosta?’
‘I wouldn’t say I avoid him — I just don’t go out of my way to maintain contact. You didn’t answer my question. Why the interest?’
‘He’s been making things uncomfortable for me up in Rome.’
Morabito chuckled. It quickly became a cough. When he finally had control of it, he said: ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Piero was always an opportunist. You must seem like the prize picking — his best friend’s boy risen so high.’
‘I don’t trust him.’
‘Well, of course not.’
‘I thought that, being Lucio’s boy, he’d look out for me …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re an asset, that’s all; there’s never any special treatment. Piero isn’t sentimental; he doesn’t let anything get in his way.’
Scamarcio fell silent. This was what he’d suspected, but to have it so readily confirmed did not make it any easier to digest. ‘He was always around when I was a kid, but I realise now that I know so little about him.’
Morabito shifted in his wheelchair so he could sit up straighter. ‘They were thick as thieves, Piero and your father; you couldn’t put a blade of grass between them. I remember I raised doubts about Piero once, and your father just wouldn’t have it, just didn’t want to hear. After that, I gave up.’
‘Why did you have doubts?’
‘I thought some money had gone astray and that Piero knew where it was.’
‘Just the once?’
Morabito sighed, and rearranged the red blanket on his knees. ‘Several times, actually.’
‘Did you have any thoughts on why he was stealing?’
‘Greed, I suppose. Why else do people steal?’
‘He seems to be based up in Rome now. I get the feeling that he’s climbed to the top …’
Morabito raised an eyebrow. Scamarcio noticed that the skin on his forehead was dry and flaking.
‘You know, after your father died, Piocosta didn’t hit it off with the new capo. Pecoraro didn’t trust him, and pushed him aside. But then, about five years later, when Pecaro died in that car accident, Piocosta found himself back as minister of war to Angelo Calabrese, and from there on in, he just rose and rose. While a lot of the old guys decided to call it a day, he just kept going. Last I heard was that he was working out of Catanzaro, but handling certain interests up in Rome.’
‘Certain interests?’
‘You forgot the lingo now?’
‘Government money?’
‘Government money.’ Morabito poured a tall glass of orange juice with a trembling hand, and pushed it across to Scamarcio. ‘Have a drink, boy, it’s hot.’
Scamarcio nodded his thanks. ‘So when he went to work for Calabrese, where were you?’
‘Oh, I was with Calabrese, too. But I didn’t stay long. We didn’t really see eye to eye — I thought he was too much of a risk-taker. And I wasn’t that happy about having Piocosta back in the fold. I just told them I wanted to wind down. I’d just met Margot, and I wanted some peace finally. Those years took it out of me.’
Scamarcio understood. The wars of the 1980s had taken their toll on everyone, one way or the other.
‘So besides the fact that Piocosta works between Catanzaro and Rome, you don’t know much more about his life now?’
Morabito took a breath. ‘I know he’s powerful. I know you should tread carefully. You were bold in coming here. How did you know I wasn’t still in up to my neck with him? You took a risk.’
‘I had to — I’m out of options.’
Morabito leant forward in the wheelchair and wagged a gnarly finger at him. ‘Listen. Whatever he’s got on you or got you into, I don’t want to know, but you need to understand one thing. Your dad and he were close for a time, but I don’t think it was always the case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t think that things were that good between them in the weeks before your dad died.’
A gust of wind whistled through the garden, and the branches of the orange trees began to stir, releasing another troubling mix of memories and emotions.
‘How so?’ asked Scamarcio, feeling confused, feeling that he was finally home, but that he had to get away as soon as possible.
‘They were arguing. About what I don’t know, but I walked in on rows several times. As soon as I entered, they stopped.’
‘Was there any particular issue at the time that might explain it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but I guess you need to remember that Piocosta’s sole goal was the accumulation of power. That’s what drove him.’
Scamarcio’s chest felt hollow.
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Morabito. ‘All I’m saying is that Piocosta was always out for himself.’ He folded his hands in his lap. ‘Why don’t you talk to Gaetano Foti? He was well in with Piocosta, but he’s safe for you now because they fell out badly. Gaetano might have more of a handle on what he’s become.’ He pinched his nose and sniffed. ‘What are you really hoping to achieve with all this?’
‘I dunno,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I guess I’m just trying to understand Piocosta better so I can work out how to solve my problem with him.’
‘There’s only one way to solve that kind of problem.’
‘That option isn’t open to me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’
A silence descended between them. Scamarcio suddenly found the peace of the fountain troubling. It was taunting him, reminding him of that elusive something he could never attain.
‘Why did you decide to go into the police, son? It was such a strange move. None of us could ever get our heads around it.’
‘I’d seen enough killing by the time I was eighteen.’
‘You’d see more in the police.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘I think you take after your mother. She was a good soul, pure. She wanted Lucio out; she’d been begging him for years. This was no place for a woman like her.’ He smiled, and Scamarcio noticed his
sharp little teeth for the first time. ‘I’m sure she’d be very proud to see you now.’
Scamarcio just nodded. He felt a deep remorse.
‘Don’t fuck it up, son,’ said Morabito. ‘You’ve come too far.’
Morabito had told Scamarcio that Gaetano Foti lived on the road between San Alberto and Locri in a large sand-coloured villa set in a grove of Cyprus trees. It took Scamarcio half an hour of back and forth before he finally found the turn-off and pulled up in front of the tall wrought-iron gates. He noticed a video camera mounted on a post to the right of the gate. A small TV monitor was built into the wall. When he pressed the buzzer, the screen remained blank, but a young man’s voice answered.
‘He’s at the bar in Polisto,’ said the boy. Scamarcio was surprised he gave up the information so readily. Shouldn’t someone like Foti be more careful about revealing his whereabouts? Maybe he considered himself untouchable.
‘There’s just one bar there?’
‘You’ll be wanting Bar Rita.’
‘How do I find Polisto?’ Scamarcio had forgotten the geography after so many years.
‘It’s another five minutes further down the road on your right. The bar’s on the square.’
Scamarcio thanked him, and considered his options. Did he really want to stride into a busy mafia drinking-hole at lunchtime? Sure, he was half an hour from San Alberto now, but news travelled fast down here. The alternative was to sit it out at Foti’s place, but that could take all day. He needed to speak to him, and he didn’t want to hang around waiting for the opportunity.
Scamarcio found the village of Polisto easily enough. A group of old men were sitting outside the bar arguing, all dapper in pinstriped shirts and fedoras. He guessed that the bar had become their office now. One of the old guys was fanning himself with a newspaper, surveying Scamarcio beneath hooded lids.
‘I’m looking for Gaetano Foti,’ he said to the group as he approached. For some reason, he was feeling slightly less nervous than when he’d arrived at Morabito’s.
‘Who wants to know?’ came a loud voice from the end of the line. A small, fat man with a thick brush of grey hair, a large hooked nose, and enormous ears was squinting at him, his mouth turned down in suspicion. As Scamarcio drew nearer, the suspicion seemed to give way to confusion. ‘Don’t I know you?’ said Foti.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ said Scamarcio.
A murmur rippled through the group, and Foti leant forward, shielding his eyes with a veiny, pudgy hand. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
‘If you find us a quiet place to chat, I’ll tell you.’
The old man grunted, and reluctantly shifted his bulk free of the plastic chair. He tapped his trouser pocket at the old guys, indicating that he was carrying. His comrades exchanged dark glances as Foti headed inside the bar. Scamarcio followed, the eyes of Foti’s guard dogs burning into his back.
Inside, the bar was thankfully empty.
‘Gino, give me the keys to the back room,’ said Foti to the haggard-looking barman who was busy drying glasses with a filthy dishcloth. His face betrayed no emotion as he handed over a thick bunch of keys, a tiny plastic skeleton swinging from the fob. He gave Scamarcio the briefest of nods.
Foti led him into a small, windowless room painted a strange electric-blue. The plaster was coming away in places, and Scamarcio suddenly wondered whether this was where Foti used to do his enforcing. Despite his girth, he noticed that Foti moved with surprising alacrity. Who knew if he was still active? Depended on whether his kids allowed him to be, Scamarcio reasoned.
‘So,’ said Foti, pulling out a battered plastic chair bleached by the sun. He placed his huge hands on a greasy table, where a bluebottle was worrying over a solitary grain of rice. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’
Scamarcio took a seat on an equally filthy-looking chair, and removed his jacket. ‘Remember Lucio Scamarcio?’
Foti began waving his finger at him. ‘That’s it. That’s who you remind me of!’
‘I’m his son, Leone.’
Foti’s mouth fell open, much like Morabito’s had. ‘But I’d heard you were in the police.’
‘I am.’
Foti’s mouth stayed open, but then he seemed to remember to close it, and said: ‘You really look like him, you know. But I see your mother in you, too.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘God, she was a looker, your mother, a true beauty.’ Then he opened his eyes and snapped: ‘You here on anti-Mafia business? If so, I’ve got nothing to say. I’m old and I’m tired — you’re sniffing around the wrong corpse.’
Scamarcio held up a placatory hand. ‘I’m here on personal business.’
‘What business would that be, after all these years?’ Foti produced a neatly pressed white-cotton handkerchief from his top pocket, and emptied his nose into it loudly. ‘I smell a rat,’ he said when he was done.
‘No rat. I wanted to ask you some questions about Piero Piocosta, that’s all.’
Foti’s eyes narrowed. ‘That wily fucker — I haven’t spoken to him in years.’
This was precisely the response Scamarcio had been hoping for.
‘But I’ve heard you used to know him well.’
Foti moved his tongue around inside his cheek, then said: ‘He’s my second cousin and, yeah, we used to be tight, and now we ain’t. That’s it.’
‘What happened?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Please, Mr Foti. I need your help. I know I’m a stranger to you, and I’m not sure how you felt about my dad, but if you had any respect for him, please lend me a hand. I’m desperate.’
Foti’s eyes bore into him, tracking every word. Scamarcio watched his mind moving behind them, calculating and recalculating, totting up risk against benefit, favour against reprisal. Eventually, he said: ‘Look, Piocosta and I don’t see eye to eye, but I’m not going to shop him to the pigs. I don’t have a death wish.’
‘Like I said, this is personal. Piocosta has been giving me grief, and I need to put a stop to it. I just want to move on with my life, like my mum wanted.’
The mention of Scamarcio’s mother seemed to unlock something in Foti. ‘She had class, your mother,’ he sighed.
‘I just want to understand Piocosta a bit better, to work out how I can get him off my back,’ said Scamarcio.
‘All you need to understand about Piero Piocosta is that he’s out for himself. Sure, he was your dad’s number two, but he was a loner. It was always about what would get him further, what would get him noticed by the big guns.’
‘Someone else said that.’
‘Who?’
‘Doesn’t matter. When did you last see him?’
‘About five years ago now, and that was by chance. I ran into him in San Alberto.’
The mention of San Alberto made Scamarcio nervous. ‘Did he go back there much?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I try my best to avoid the place.’
‘I’ve heard Piocosta has risen pretty high in Rome.’
Foti barred his tattooed arms across his huge chest and frowned. ‘Look, lad, what is it in particular you’re trying to find out?’
‘Piocosta has got me in a bind. I’m trying to work out how to free myself.’
‘Is he trying to squeeze you after all these years?’
‘He tracked me down, and now I can’t shake him off.’
Foti shook his head. ‘He’s bold, I’ll give him that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So there was nothing specific about him and your dad?’ He threw Scamarcio an odd, sideways glance. Why had he come back around to that, Scamarcio wondered.
‘No, but if I’ve missed …’
Foti jumped in. ‘No, nothing.’ Then: ‘It was all just rumour anyway.’
Scamarcio leant forward: ‘What? What was just rumour?’
Foti waved the question away. ‘Look, lad, it doesn’t matter. Last I heard, Piocosta was running with the big dogs up in Catanzaro. He’d made some useful contacts, so they put him up in Rome. But that was a few years back now. Word was he’d been tipped to replace Don De Rose when the time came.’
‘Don De Rose?’
‘You should have done your homework before sniffing around down here. Don De Rose calls the shots here now.’
‘I thought that was Esposito.’
‘Until six months ago — until he got himself killed in Hamburg.’
Scamarcio made a mental note to avoid La Gazzetta dello Sport and to read the proper papers more often. ‘So Piocosta’s being lined up for the top spot?’ He couldn’t disguise the despair in his voice.
Foti picked up on it and said: ‘Doesn’t mean he’s going to get it, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Might be that someone else wants it.’
Scamarcio’s heart beat louder. ‘Who?’
Infuriatingly, Foti chose this moment to rise from his seat and make towards the door. ‘If we’re going to finish this chat, I need a drink.’
‘Let me,’ said Scamarcio, scraping back his chair.
‘Mine’s a house red,’ said Foti, holding the door open for him. ‘Get Gianni to prepare a plate of his appetisers as well. On second thoughts, you might as well make it two plates.’
When Scamarcio was back with the food and drink, Foti said: ‘You remember the olives from round here?’
‘Of course.’
‘You should take some boxes back. I’ll sort that for you.’
Scamarcio thanked him, wondering about the diversion. He set the food on the table and sat down. ‘So, this person who doesn’t want Piocosta to get promoted?’
Foti took a surprisingly dainty sip of his wine and said: ‘Dante Greco, based in Catanzaro now. They call him the little Greek because he’s 6 foot 4. He and Piocosta hate each other’s guts. They’re cut from the same cloth, those two, which is probably why they want to kill each other. The little Greek knows that if Piocosta takes over, he’ll be shoved aside like a bikini at Christmas, perhaps worse.’
‘How serious is he about taking Piocosta on?’
The Hit Page 16
