The Ballad of Mila

by Matteo Strukul

  Now he would need to organise some kind of hit to punish Pagnan’s gang. One that would leave a mark.

  Thinking all that, he lifted the piping cup and started drinking his shark fin soup, gurgling noisily. Its warmth would fix his stomach, aiding what he expected would be a typically troublesome digestion.

  Then he picked up a small brass bell, rang it tiredly and waited. A young waiter dressed in white arrived and, in a surreal silence, positioned a teacup bearing the mark of the Ming dynasty, full of hot water, in front of him.

  As soon as the waiter had left, Guo fished everything he needed to finally reach a blessed state of relaxation out of a drawer: a disposable syringe with a hypodermic needle, a wad of absorbent cotton, a silver spoon with a curved handle, a half-millimetre soft rubber tourniquet and the most important thing, a transparent bag full of white powder.

  He slid over the three-prong silver candle holder that had pride of place on the table. He uncapped the needle and dipped the tip in the hot water. Then he drew the plunger slowly, making sure he stopped the moment the water touched the fifty units mark. He poured the heroin into the spoon and added the water. He lifted the spoon over the blue candle burning on the holder, warming the liquid without allowing it to boil. He removed a small piece of cotton from the wad and placed it on the spoon, waiting for it to soak fully. He then aspirated the solution, hit the needle with his index finger to make sure that the tiny air bubbles inside it escaped and depressed the plunger slightly.

  He tied the tourniquet above his left elbow, helping with his teeth, tightened it until the big vein swelled up and inserted the needle.

  When he slowly withdrew the plunger a veil of blood appeared lazily inside the syringe. Then, with a firm hit, he injected the heroin, now brown and iron-like due to the contact with his plasma.

  The evening air was freezing cold, and the heating in the car was pumping out fire. The shiny blue Ford Focus was speeding angrily through roads built over the ancient Roman borders as if it had a grudge against the asphalt. Mila’s eyes were two spots of green jade. Flashing. Feline, ready to snap at its prey.

  Having buried the corpses of the two Chinamen in her garden, she'd called Toni “Pudding Man” Carpanese, asking him to go pick up the twins’ car with his tow truck, take it to his garage and render it unrecognisable. Toni owned an ice cream shop in Fossalta di Trebaseleghe and, along with his nephew, managed a “free-thinking” garage, one of those in which even a Fiat 127 that should have been scrapped could pass an official vehicle inspection test. He picked up the Mercedes without any questions.

  Mila was driving towards Pagnan’s bowling alley. Ten to one the fat man had sent someone to pick the traitor up so he could grill him like a sausage to find out who he had sold out to.

  She was reasonably certain that she'd find the whole gang gathered in that white elephant in the middle of the Massanzago countryside.

  If they weren't there she would go to Pagnan’s villa. She had studied that old walrus’ habits too thoroughly to be mistaken. He was as predictable as a cheating husband.

  The Veneto countryside flew past the windows. The severed heads of the two Chinese killers rolled around in the boot like a bag of footballs.

  Mila crossed the Massanzago main street without slowing down and, just past the village, saw a road sign for the bowling alley. She took a side road and, after a couple of bends, reached a huge space where the fields gave way to an enormous parking lot, completely empty except for a cobalt blue Audi A3 and a black BMW X5, Rossano Pagnan’s very own car.

  Mila parked, respecting the lines drawn on the lot, extracted Zhang’s mobile phone and selected the last number in the list of outgoing calls.

  Guo Xiaoping’s, no doubt.

  A voice, old but strong, answered after seven rings.

  “Mr Guo?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Mr Guo, my name is Mila Zago. Your nephew has been following me all day. If it helps you to place me, my hair is red, dreadlocked.”

  “You killed my nephew, madam?” asked Guo.

  “No, better than that. I neutralised him. Now he's my hostage.”

  The man breathed out.

  “True words are not eloquent, eloquent words are not true,” he added.

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “I was quoting Laozi. Good move, anyway.”

  “You shouldn’t have had me followed, Mr Guo.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Men often underestimate women.”

  “A mistake I personally avoid making.”

  “Good for you. Your nephew was not so careful. Now, Mr Guo, I have a suggestion for you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Please bear with me a minute, so I can explain how things stand right now.”

  Once he had reached Ottorino Longhin, who was trembling like a leaf in autumn, Pretty Boy smiled and slid his knives against one another with the skill of a traditional armourer. He was going to skin his victim like a chicken when something stopped him.

  “Boss!” A high-pitched, slightly insane-sounding voice, like a young, eager, considerate aunt. It was Giacomo Manzan, known as the Newbie, who was keeping watch at the door. Manzan was a strapping lad, flesh and muscle toned by regular gym sessions. His head, very small compared to the rest of his body, was shaven, smooth as a snooker ball.

  “What now?” shouted Pagnan, fearing that the Mayor of Muson might appear out of the blue followed by the parish priest and some horses to give him a ready-made speech about children, horses, ponies and parents.

  Then he looked up and understood.

  Outside the bowling alley, in front of the door, he saw the dreadlocked redhead. The killer.

  She was walking in black boots, swaying her hips like a panther, sheathed in leather trousers moulded over her round, muscular hips, a figure-hugging light blue top.

  Silver bracelets on her forearms, full red lips, nearly fluorescent green eyes all suggested an Amazon that could easily become a Fury.

  Two Colt .45s with a mother-of-pearl stock in her shoulder holsters were a pretty persuasive sight for anyone. She was carrying a burlap sack, heavily stained with blood.

  “What now, you ask? I have the answer to all your questions,” Mila said. Her dark, slightly hoarse voice sounded arrogant to the men in the bowling alley.

  “What answers would I be looking for? And who are you? The Virgin Mary?” replied Pagnan, inflating his belly as if he was trying to make his already enormous bulk seem even larger.

  “Yeah, who the fuck do you think you are, Miss Know-it-all?” added Mule. He had set his eyes on her the very instant she entered. He wanted to put her over his knee and give her a spanking, but couldn't quite work out why.

  “Shut up, child, and be quiet. You might get hurt with a babysitter like me.” Mila smiled back at him. “I'm waiting for you to give me a reason to put a couple of holes in your stomach so that everyone can see what you ate for breakfast.”

  “Phew,” whistled Pretty Boy. “She’s going to kick your ass, Mule! Be careful, she has a temper on her.”

  “Stop this bullshit and let’s get back to the original question, baby.” Pagnan wanted to cut to the chase. His position forced him to.

  Mila didn’t reply. She kept striding forward until she got into the middle of the gangsters.

  “Here’s your answer,” said Mila, and upturned the burlap sack, dropping its macabre contents right on the white foul line.

  The severed heads fell with a thump. Two rotten watermelons leaking a reddish juice.

  Pagnan froze, Pretty Boy uttered a hoarse “Ah!” with some admiration. Tripe nearly choked on his soup. Polenta's eyes goggled, as did Mule's. The Newbie yelped, reaching an incredible pitch. A symphony of astonishment swept over those six hardasses, stunned by the redhead's theatrics.

  “Christ, what the fuck is it, the head of John the Baptist? And where are the bodies? Did you eat them?” Pagnan was proud of his sense of humour. It never let him
down.

  “Your man betrayed you for a gang of Chinamen. Simple and sad,” Mila said. “Then again, seeing how much they pay, you can’t really blame him. People from Veneto are famous for being pretty miserable, am I right?” Her question wavered like an offhand jibe.

  “Hey, fuck off, kid. Don’t think you can come here and insult me. This is my playing field and if you piss me off I can get you thrown out! With a whole bunch of broken bones, for fuck’s sake!” Pagnan was starting to lose his temper.

  “Just give me the green light and I’ll deal with her,” added Mule with fiery eyes.

  “Hey, hey, boys, easy... is this how you treat a lady? I came in peace. I even brought you the heads of your enemies; you should thank me, not insult me.”

  “Well, actually,” Tripe said, “she's not wrong.”

  “Shut up! When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Keep eating your vile shit and leave me the fuck alone, Tripe!” Then, moving his stare back towards Mila, Pagnan changed the tone of his voice. “OK, mademoiselle, you're not wrong. Let’s start again. Fancy a drink? I'm thirsty. We could sit at that table down there and have a word, just so I can try to understand who you are, what you're doing here and what it is you want.”

  7.

  Guo felt better now.

  At least he could plan his next move.

  And there was still hope he’d come out of the situation a winner after all.

  He was furious, of course.

  But his head was clear.

  He knew he needed to act immediately. He had all the information he needed.

  Pagnan had managed to retrieve Ottorino Longhin, snatched him from under his nose like a fish in a net. Zhang had fallen into a trap because he had proven to be incompetent. His profession didn’t allow mistakes, and Zhang had made far too many. Now he had paid for them. Guo had tried to warn him more than once, but his stupid nephew had not wanted to understand, just kept steamrolling down his own path. And at the end of that path, Mila Zago had been waiting to close his account.

  But the girl could end up being a formidable ally. She had started feeding him useful information. He thought about it. He could reap the benefits now and then turn the tables on her later. With a little luck he'd be able to destroy Pagnan, acquire control over the whole criminal society in north eastern Italy and have a deadly killer on hand, a killer who at the right moment he could turn into a scapegoat for what would surely end up being a bloody massacre. Mila Zago needed to be punished for what she had done, but in the meantime he could usefully exploit her.

  According to what the girl had told him, Pagnan was currently busy torturing Longhin somewhere in the countryside. In order to second-guess him, Guo needed to organise an attack on his arch enemy’s villa, which wasn't guarded at the moment. Maybe the rest of his family were there, and he could kill them all. His wife and his kids. So that Pagnan, blind with rage, would go looking for him. And when he did, he'd find Guo lying in wait. And once he'd captured him, Guo would cook him nice and slowly, over a low flame.

  With those thoughts on his mind, Guo dialled a number on his mobile phone.

  Five rings, no answer.

  Finally, after twelve rings, a voice answered. Zou Kai’s voice. Guo gave him a series of instructions and promised that if he completed them successfully, Guo might reconsider the situation Zou Kai and his men were in.

  Zou Kai thanked him respectfully.

  Guo ended the call.

  “So, how did you get here?”

  “Well, I know the bowling alley belongs to you. I mean, it wasn't a huge effort on my part. Everyone around here knows,” replied Mila, looking into Pagnan’s eyes.

  “That right?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Let’s say you're right. How could you be sure I was here?”

  “I couldn’t. I just thought there'd be a fair chance.”

  “OK, OK. Fancy a drink?” Pagnan called Pretty Boy who meanwhile had put his knives aside, certain they wouldn’t be needed again that evening.

  “A Margarita. With strawberries,” said Mila.

  “Good girl. Pretty Boy, mix two of those. Lots of ice, lots of salt.”

  Tripe and Polenta had moved closer to the table where Pagnan and Mila were sitting.

  From the far end of the lane Longhin wasn’t making a sound, quieter than a hibernating tortoise.

  Mule was staring at Mila as if he was about to eat her at any moment.

  “So, Big Man, let’s cut to the chase. I killed two Chinamen and am holding a third hostage. All from Guo’s gang. Same guys who made all that mess at Limenella Nord with your former flunkey.”

  “My, my,” said Pagnan. “You're very well informed!”

  “I know more, if you're interested.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I know Guo paid Longhin to kill your accountants in a service station on the motorway. That he stole two million from you. And that you're scared of him.”

  “Are you joking? I can eat that yellow ape for breakfast. My revenge will be giving him so much shit that he’ll turn black overnight.”

  “Hmm... maybe so. But the fact that he's the leader of a Chinese gang deeply rooted here in the north east and linked to a powerful triad such as 14K, well, I'm thinking that could be an issue for you, and you know it. Also, I know where your two million is, and you don’t.”

  “You certainly do know a lot of stuff... sweetie. I just realised I don’t know your name, you never told me. You know a lot about me and I know jack shit about you. And that's not good, sweetie.”

  “You can call me Mila,” she said, caressing her red dreadlocks with her right hand. Her hair shone like fire in the blinding neon light.

  “What a shitty name,” said Pagnan. “It sounds like a yogurt. Come on, tell me your real name.”

  “Mila is my real name. Anyway, believe it or not, that’s up to you, Big Man.”

  “Stop calling me ‘Big Man’.”

  “Right y'are, Big Man.”

  Pagnan burst out in a fat laugh. He liked this girl. She had balls like a bull’s and some backbone, much more than any of his men.

  “Anyway,” Mila carried on, “if you accept my offer and if you're really not afraid, I’ll sort out the Chinese for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I'm a professional killer after all. The best you ever saw, I’ve no doubt. Nobody owns me, but for the right money I'm ready to clear the place of your yellow friends.”

  “How can I be sure you're not full of crap?”

  “Those two severed heads are an initial guarantee. The second is the hostage. And he's not just any hostage. I'm talking about Guo's nephew. Guo will do all he can to get him back home, you can bet on it. Plus, as far as I'm concerned you can take all the credit for yourself. Strengthen your reputation as a merciless leader heading a gang of crazy killers, so nobody will ever mess with you again. And you'll be able to manage your business in perfect freedom, with no competition. Of course I don’t come cheap, but we'll talk about that later. Just to make sure I won’t have any trouble at the end of it all, I'm the only one who knows where your money is. And until I'm sure I can trust you, that'll be my life insurance.”

  While they'd been talking, Pretty Boy had brought them two Margaritas, filled to the brim. The salt covering the edges of the glasses looked like snow even though it was roasting in the bowling alley. Seconds later he came back with a glass bowl full of big, red strawberries.

  “Hmm, let’s see,” said Pagnan. “We can put you to the test, see what you can do. Sure, you know where the money is. But blackmail isn’t a great way to make me trust you. Then again, how do I know you're not bluffing?”

  “Whatever. But first of all you have to find someone to kill me, and I can’t see anyone in here who's up to the job; and then, of course, if you kill me you lose your last chance to get your two million back. Yes, maybe I am bluffing. But what if I'm not? Trust me, you�
��ll end up thanking me.”

  “Right, right. I still have the feeling that you're overestimating yourself, but the fact remains, you've killed two of the yellow fuckers and have a third hostage.”

  At which point, Mule couldn’t restrain himself any longer and spoke up.

  “Boss, can I say something before this little girl is officially enrolled?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, we can’t trust her. Who knows where she got those heads? Who knows if she has the balls for the job? If something goes wrong you’ll end up looking like a right twat, boss. Those fucking rice-eaters will think you've gone soft.”

  “Well, Mule, it doesn’t look like you guys have done that awesome a job up until now,” Mila teased him while biting into a huge strawberry.

  “Fuck off, bitch! What the fuck do you want from us? Think you can come here and hurl abuse at us, eh? Think you're so smart? Boss, I don’t want this little brat here in my fucking way.”

  “Since when is what you want more important than what I decide?” exploded Pagnan. “She's not completely wrong, you know. We did do a crappy job. When I called you to tell you what had happened you were completely baffled. None of you had even suspected what that son of a bitch down there at the other end of the lane was plotting behind my back. You're all useless pieces of shit!”

  “But boss...” moaned Tripe.

  “Shut up! Shut up, all of you! You made a fucking arse of picking up a fucking traitor. And the facts are that fucking Guo killed the two best accountants in Veneto and stole two million Euro from me. I’ll give the girl a chance, cause she's the only one who's scored any points for our team. Mule, you'll be her shadow. You'll eat with her, take a dump with her, walk with her... but don't fuck her. Am I clear?”

  “Clear. What about the heads?” replied Mule.

  “I can deliver them to Guo in some pretty wrapping paper,” suggested Mila.

  “Great idea! Mule can go with you. And you should go straight away. To that fucking Chinese restaurant he owns in Cadoneghe. Mule, tell him the heads were your doing. I want to see that fucking rice-eater fry like one of his disgusting ice cream fritters.”