A Colt .45. A classic.
Seven bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber: half the capacity of modern guns, but we're talking eight hollow point .45 bullets, double the impact and half the recoil of a .9mm. An advantage that makes all the difference. In some situations, survival is in the details.
Thus engaged, I forget what I am becoming.
Resin, gun smoke that fills up the deep, musky smell of the wood, the air chewed apart by the shots. A delicious cocktail I can’t live without.
I am a junkie.
For violence.
Let’s be honest. To walk around knowing I'm a lethal weapon is an amazing feeling. I suspect it happens to you as well. Yes, I know, you're thinking that I'm still writing about myself, drawing unlikely comparisons because I'm paranoid. Maybe. Sure, you're not a traditional kind of weapon, but in a way you're more of one than I am: your profession allows you to decide who's guilty and who isn't. Yes, indeed, that's usually the role of a judge. But what about dismissals? And summary trials, committals? Yes, you're right, you only apply the law, but still you've a tonne of power in your hands, no shit.
So I expect you know perfectly well the feeling of walking around knowing you're a weapon.
I haven’t forgiven my mother and I haven’t accepted yet that my father was killed.
I'd like to have him here to tell him how much I miss him. To show him how strong I have become.
But when the last bullet tunnels into the bark of the tree and the noise of the shot disappears like the promise of death tossed into the air, he's not there, and the woods are watching me.
They are watching me with the eyes of a doe, appearing on the edge of a clearing with her fawn.
They don’t judge me.
They look at me in a tender way, or at least so it seems while I walk amongst the blueberry bushes, their greens and blues breaking up the yellow gold of the chanterelles that have sprouted after the last rain of the summer.
I smile.
I greet that mother with her child.
I pick up my weapons.
I fill up my bag again and go back home.
12.
Dark clouds draped the sky, a black blanket you could get lost in.
Rossano Pagnan lit a Marlboro and stared in silence at the freshly turned soil in his garden. He had just finished burying Marisa’s remains.
His wife had been torn to pieces because he wasn’t there.
The fact itself was little more than a nuisance to him – he had long since ceased any form of intimacy with her.
But it had all ended in such a pitiful way. They'd been ignoring each other for years, while she squandered the money he managed to set aside with his business activities. That was it. All there was to them being man and wife. Still, their life together had been different once.
He sighed. Tiredness was wearing him out. The war against the Chinaman was turning into full-scale annihilation, and he wasn’t the one who started it.
His mobile rung.
“Boss, you there?”
“Of course I’m here, Pretty Boy. Who do you think picked up the phone?”
“Sorry. I heard what happened. Bastards!”
“Bastards is too nice for them, for fuck’s sake.”
“True. I just wanted to say that I'm done with Longhin. He drowned in his own blood. The Newbie is cleaning up the mess I made in the bowling lane. I’ll chop the corpse to pieces, throw it in the meat grinder and prepare some first-rate mince.”
“Bueno.”
“You talk like Tex Willer, boss.”
Pagnan smiled. He loved the Tex Willer Wild West comic books. Each time he read one it felt like he was meeting an old friend. Predictable, comfortable. Full of stereotypes, but suitably manly.
“I wish,” said Pagnan. “I'd have killed all the bad guys by now. Instead, we're still some distance from ending this.”
“That’s true, boss, and it's not good.”
“Who's your favourite amongst the Tex Willer characters?”
“My favourite?” asked Pretty Boy, who was not expecting such a question at that moment, especially so suddenly. But he replied without hesitation. “Tiger Jack.” Tex Willer’s Native American friend.
“Oh. Why's that?”
“Actually I don’t know, I always had a soft spot for the Redskins, the idea, you know – loyalty, long hair, nature, riding bareback, all that shit.”
“Right, all that shit.”
“Right.”
“Listen, Pretty Boy.”
“Yes, boss?”
“They have to pay for this.”
“You can bet on it.”
“Chop Longhin up and come here as soon as you're done.”
“Count on it.”
“While I'm waiting, I’ll feed the dogs. Got a new diet I want to try out.”
“What's that?”
“Chinamen. One dead, one alive.”
“Fuck!”
“Can't wait to hear the cries of the one who’s still alive.”
“Sure you will. His screams will be heard a hundred miles away, in Parma.”
“See you later.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to say a couple of words about Rottweiler Metzgerhund.”
Rossano Pagnan's face bore a steady, sneering look. They'd just killed his wife and he was commencing a speech that promised to be a tad soporific.
“Rottweil is a town on the Neckar river, where this type of dog was utilised to guard the butchers’ meat.”
After all the dismay and rage, anticipating a first small taste of revenge allowed Pagnan to resurrect some of the panache he used to have in his best days.
Mila was getting ready to witness a collective ritual of violence, the second in only a few hours, and was starting to think she might end up losing control of the situation. After all it had been she who had initiated this escalation of cruelty by suggesting Guo strike at Pagnan while he was defenceless, but she hadn’t expected such a sickening cycle of violence. She hadn’t thought Pagnan would end up feeding a man to his dogs – alive. It was too much, even for her. She was seriously considering killing them all here and now, and fucking off.
Sure, they would do a pretty good job of slaughtering each other, and that was precisely what she was after. But she wanted both bosses: Rossano Pagnan and Guo Xiaoping. And the only way to catch them together was to survive until 5 in the afternoon the following day and see her plan to completion.
So she decided to wait.
A short line led by Pagnan with Mila following him and then Mule and Tripe dragging the two Chinamen – one dead, one alive – by the arms. They'd taken them out of the car and were walking towards what looked like an enclosed dog-training area.
They were nearly there when something unexpected happened.
A scream.
An instant later, Tripe was cupping his testicles and rolling on the ground as if he had been bitten by a tarantula. Tonk, who until then seemed to be ready to slip silently into the next world, was aiming a gun as big as a cannon at Mule’s head.
“I’ll shoot him! I’ll shoot him, you bastards!” he was shouting, out of his mind and possessed by a homicidal rage.
He had moved so fast he'd blindsided everybody. Pagnan went pale, but a second later he put a hand in his trouser pocket, fished out a nail file and started to smooth off his thumbnail.
“Whatever you like,” he said.
Tonk wasn’t expecting that response. While his face tangled itself up in a mask of disbelief, Mila took the chance to dive to one side and open fire with a .45 she'd quickly drawn from its holster.
Chunk! Chunk!
Double impact. Lethal.
Two red holes opened simultaneously in Tonk’s forehead. Mila completed her somersault on the frozen ground of the garden and got straight back on her feet. Just in time to see the Chinaman's legs give way and he crumpled to the ground clutching the gun he'd snatched from Tripe, as if it was a crucifix given to him by the
priest administering the final rites.
“Astonishing,” Pagnan said. “I would like to have recorded that.”
“Thank you,” Mule commented dryly, unleashing all his rage against Pagnan. “If it was up to you, this asshole could have killed me no problem, right?”
“Don’t get upset, Mule. It was only a distraction to allow Mila to do what she did. Right, Mila?”
“I'd have managed regardless. Still, the nail file was pretty cool.”
“See?” gloated Pagnan. “Tripe, stuff the Chinamen in the coldroom off the garage, and while you're at it, stick the Schiavon brothers in there as well. We've no time for more burials now. We're going upstairs to the attic to discuss the details of tomorrow’s meeting. When you're done, join us there. Understood?”
“Perfectly, boss.”
The enormous loft room was the trashiest thing Mila had ever seen.
The walls were covered in heavily stained red drapes, the smell of stale beer made the air heavy, the marble floor peeked out here and there from under a series of rugs of various different colours, piled randomly on top of one another and adorned with a series of greasy stains that matched those on the walls.
In the centre of the room was an ebony table with mother-of-pearl inlays covered in an impressive number of empty beer bottles and knocked-over tumblers and a silver chandelier, its five branches drowned in wax.
In one corner of the room an old, acid green fringed sofa was in its death throes. In front of it, a velvet armchair that had probably once been pink but was now too pale and faded to tell for sure. Scattered about the room, there was a mess of upturned lamps, strange little blonde-wood boxes covered in arcane symbols similar to swastikas that were brimming with silver necklaces, rolled-up carpets, silk pyjamas, various junk of mysterious origin. In each of the four corners, a bookshelf stuffed with adventure books and comics – the white spines with the blue title that characterised Tex Willer next to the black volumes of Dylan Dog, the horror series.
“I love India, Tex and adventure,” said Pagnan theatrically, for no specific reason.
Mule, still aching from the beating up he had received, grunted.
“Please make yourselves comfortable on the couch. Anything to drink?”
“Yes please,” said Mila, and added: “I love Tex Willer and his friends too. I’ll have a Nardini grappa, straight.”
“Great!” said Pagnan. “Finally a woman who's not all snooty about what she drinks. What about you, Mule?”
Mule grimaced. “I’ll have a Nardini as well.”
“So,” said the boss, his face growing serious. “I have some questions for the two of you. But let’s start from the beginning. How did it go with that son of a bitch, Guo?”
“Well, we managed to get him to agree to the meeting,” said Mule. “Honestly, I'd hoped that asshole would have been a little more impressed at seeing the severed heads. But he didn’t even blink. Not only that, but he told us this unbelievably long story about the Chinese mafia. Fuck, it felt like being back in school. In the front row.”
Mila didn’t speak.
“He didn’t even flinch, you say?”
“Didn't raise an eyebrow. That old bastard has steel for nerves.”
“OK, but at least we secured the meeting at the old farmhouse, right?”
“Five o'clock this afternoon,” said Mila.
“Good. By the way, Mule, how did you get those marks on your face? Did you exchange words with Mike Tyson?”
“I said something that fucking Chink didn’t like. He got two of his men to beat me up.”
“Fuck him. He plays the hard man with my men, that's one more thing he'll have to pay for.”
Mila kept silent. She emptied her glass in one gulp and poured more grappa for herself. She didn’t want to cause further harm to the wounded pride of Pagnan’s right-hand man; also, his lie might end up working in her favour. Avoiding mention of the fisticuffs out in the field had certain advantages. Making Pagnan believe that Mule could keep her under control wasn't a bad thing.
“So, how are we going to do it, Mila?”
“How are we going to do what?”
“This evening’s little party, what's the plan?”
“I bring my supergun and kill all the bad guys. Just like in the comics.”
“I need more than that. Don’t think you'll get out of here until you've explained it to me in detail.” Pagnan scratched his belly and poured a second glass of grappa.
“No problem. Although I don’t think I'd have any trouble getting out of here if I wanted to.”
“Oi!”
“Anyway, my plan is to use the old furnace.”
“How? It's too far from the farmhouse.”
“I thought I'd already explained.”
“Tell me again.”
“Well, with a normal rifle it wouldn’t be possible. But with an M501 Beretta there's no problem. Piece of piss for a sharpshooter like me.”
This time Pagnan’s eyes lit up in genuine surprise.
“Shit, Mule, are you hearing this chick?”
“I'm hearing.”
“Suppose I’m buying. Let’s assume you have such a rifle and you can hit your target from that distance. I don’t want to know how you learned how to shoot, I've got it, you're better than Billy the Kid. But I wonder, do you really think I trust what you're telling me? I mean, what would prevent you from shooting everybody, including my own men?”
“Nothing. Maybe I will. Point is, you have no choice. I’ll tell you a bit more. And then if you don’t want me to do anything, I won’t. But you'll be back where you started.”
“Good. But I’ll tell you this for starters: Mule's going to climb onto the roof of the furnace with you and he'll blow your head off as soon as you do something wrong. He'll be all over you like a rash, close as a tattoo on your sweet ass.”
“Great,” said Mule. “I actually hope that this bullshitting bitch messes up so I'll finally be able to fill her pretty little red head with lead.”
“I'm terrified,” replied Mila promptly.
“You should be,” confirmed Pagnan.
“Allow me to remind you of the two million Euros that were in your accountants’ bags and that are now in a safe place that I know the location of – and you don’t.”
“I haven't forgotten. That’s why you're still alive.”
“As you like. You're talking like the bad guy in a decidedly mediocre police movie, you know. Anyway, as I said, it's not going to be a problem. Mule and I get there early, find a nice spot. Then you get there with your people. Then the Chinese come. They don’t know I'll be shooting at them. As soon as they get out of their cars you start welcoming them with all the gracious words you can think of, and as soon as you're done I start picking them off one by one. When we're done, we'll figure out my new role in Padua’s criminal underworld.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope you don't think I'm cleaning up your mess because I'm a Good Samaritan. Let’s be clear about this. If I help you with the Chinese, here's what's going to happen next: we split the money fifty-fifty – the two million, I mean – and I get thirty per cent of everything you earn through your businesses. Prostitution, drugs, toxic waste, illegal betting, I want a third of it all. And I want to manage it, along with yourself, of course.”
“Hey, are you high on something?”
“Not at all, old man. Why the fuck do you think I'm helping you? I’ll say it one last time. First, because you're the goose that lays the golden eggs. Second, because you're a local and I don’t want these Chinese here in my homeland. Third, because I want to be the first woman to lead a criminal organisation. Jointly, at least. The world is changing. Try to see it as a creative way of balancing out the gender quotas. Are you up for it?” She looked at him.
“You're really quite demanding. How about this: once we're done with the China connection we sit down and...”
“No deal, Daddy-O. We're already sitting down and I won�
��t accept any conditions. If you don’t agree, we can just drop it and I'll go home. With the two million.”
“For fuck’s sake, you're a greedy little viper,” Mule said.
“Nice comparison, but that's not the point. Your real issue here is that you're unable to get out of the mess you're in on your own. You might not want to admit it, but you know I'm your only hope.”
“Mila, don’t let things go to your head! How do you think I created all this? Do you really think you can treat me like some snotty-nosed kid?” Pagnan was smiling, but his eyes were full of fire.
“No, we misunderstand each other. I don’t want to pull the rug from under you. In exchange for a share of the pie, I just want to help you squeeze a city like Padua – and let’s not forget the surrounding province. It's juicy, like a fat apple, a Granny Smith. It's not enough to take a bite here and there like you do. I want to take it all. Mind, I'm not saying you're ineffective, I respect the network you've established, nothing to say about that. But allow me to say that you could benefit from the assistance of someone more modern, more aggressive. Your methods were great twenty years ago. Since then Padua has changed, and you and yours seem to have been left a little behind.”
“Listen to me, girlie: I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you. For your own good. Yes, I've seen what you can do. But don’t think you can frighten me just because you carved up a couple of Chinese fuckheads, you understand me?” Pagnan’s voice had turned into a dull hiss.
“Pagnan, I'm not saying you're scared.” Mila was smiling, amused. “All I'm saying is that at the moment you're in deep shit and you don’t know how to get out of it, while I can get you out of all of it – clean. If I mention spotters or an M501 Beretta to you and your men you don’t even know what I'm talking about. That’s bad, really bad. Guo is the leader of a local organisation he founded, the Talking Daggers. But he's also the White Paper Fan of 14K, a Chinese Triad that's branching out throughout the north east. It would be better to remove the blister before it bursts, do you understand? This is a new type of war for you, for Mule, for Polenta, for all of you. You can’t win it the old way. You need to step up. I am your step up. And I'm available. If you want to, grab the chance. Otherwise, you're on your own.”
The Ballad of Mila Page 11
