Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores

by Massimo Carlotto

  “Sounds like this road’s all uphill,” I remarked.

  The inspector shrugged. “You should be grateful. Anyway, I heard they’re serving spaghetti and sardines tonight.”

  I pressed him for more details. “What else have you heard? Why are those three stationed in Padua? What’s going on?”

  “They don’t tell me anything, Buratti,” he admitted bitterly. “I overheard them mention the restaurant when they were chatting by the coffee machine.”

  He waved us goodbye and walked off.

  I looked at my friends. Max’s face had turned to stone. “You didn’t say peep,” I observed.

  “You know I don’t talk to that guy. Once was enough.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with him either,” added Rossini with rancor. “He had the nerve to pull his gun on us. He’s a pig at heart.”

  I laughed to ease the tension. “I get it. Campagna is my cross to bear.”

  Beniamino winked at the Fat Man. “For some reason these two understand one another.”

  “Right. Deep down they like each other,” said Max.

  I didn’t reply because it was true. Maybe I understood the deep unease that kept the cop up at night.

  “We’ll have to postpone lunch,” I announced. “Replacing our cell phones is more urgent.”

  “We should get a clean phone for Campagna too,” suggested Max.

  Right. Clearly his phone was being tapped too. “Let’s hope he doesn’t make a fuss about it,” I said.

  “But we should leave the tracking device where it is and change cars,” said the Old Gangster. “They already know this one and they’d just keep planting new ones in it.”

  Max laughed. “I thought you just wanted to use Marco’s Škoda Felicia.”

  Rossini feigned indignation. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. There are some clunkers I can’t be seen in. Besides, that car’s not safe anymore either.”

  The Fat Man insisted on tending to the groceries first, which he arranged with methodical precision. Finally we hit the road for Mantua, where we bought new SIM cards using the names of unwitting clients from another store.

  Then we drove across Veneto in the opposite direction. We left the sedan in the parking lot of the hospital in Mestre and continued by bus to Dario Tomasella’s body shop in a small village outside Treviso. For a while now Dario had been in business with a Romanian gang that hustled stolen cars on the Eastern European market. He and his loyal employees were tasked with retrofitting them on the fly for the trip across the border.

  Dario was an old friend from prison and, at sixty, had no intention of becoming a guest of the state again. He’d become shrewder, quit gambling away his money, and only conducted business with people he held in high regard.

  Beniamino and I were in that category, and he was happy to see us. Before talking business, he invited us to the bar to knock back a bottle of good Prosecco.

  He started gossiping about the local racket, and we were forced to tell him that we were in a hurry.

  “What kind of vehicle will do you?” he asked.

  “It’s got to be clean,” replied Rossini. “Ours are out of commission for a while.”

  “No problem. I have two courtesy cars available that I got off a colleague who shuttered his business,” explained the mechanic. “Two hundred a day and they’re yours for as long as you like.”

  “That’s way above market price. A hundred and fifty for the two,” I countered.

  He sighed. “I’ve got to get used to the fact that the good old days, when criminals didn’t haggle over prices and just handed over a wad of bills in their pocket, are never coming back.”

  To take the sting out of his nostalgia, we uncorked another bottle before finally leaving for Padua aboard two small Toyotas the color of cheap wine.

  The two cops didn’t enter Da Cosimo until around 9:30, taking their time. I waited until they’d had a glass of wine and then made my way over. Pitta, Marino’s driver, saw me first and poked Marmorato’s arm. Marmorato looked up from his cellphone.

  I kept my hands in plain sight to signal that I didn’t have any ill intentions. Judging from the look on their faces, they were clearly surprised, but they came to their senses in no time. According to the plan, I was supposed to appear calm and collected, at most play dumb. In truth I feared the worst, that they’d haul me off to the tank so that I’d think twice about spoiling dinner for the next guy in uniform.

  “Sorry for sneaking up on you like this,” I began, speaking softly.

  “How’d you know we were here?” barked Marmorato, who could draw no other conclusion than that we knew too much about their business.

  “This is my town,” I replied flatly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Pitta.

  I didn’t bother answering him and stared at the sergeant until I got the question I was after.

  “What the fuck did you come here for, Buratti?”

  “I need to talk with the Dottoressa. It’s urgent.”

  “Communication of that kind, you’ve got to go through Inspector Campagna. I thought that was clear.”

  “Campagna doesn’t count for jack shit,” I replied dryly.

  Pitta gestured to me to piss off. “Get lost, asshole. We’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

  I didn’t move. “I said it’s urgent.”

  The two cops exchanged a look. Marmorato stood up and left to make a call. A waiter arrived with two plates of steaming pasta. The cop snatched up his fork but after a second slammed it on the table. “I can’t eat with your ugly mug looking at me.”

  That was the second time he’d insulted me. The tension was killing me, and arguing would have done me good, but now wasn’t the time. There was no way for me to check it. I kept quiet and scoped out the other tables. I trained my eyes on a group of women in their forties talking intensely. They were clearly intimate, must have known each other a long time. And they had the same hairdresser, apparently: their hair had been cut and dyed by the same hand.

  Marmorato signaled for me to join him outside. He was red in the face and shaking with the desire to kick my ass. Marino must have chewed him out. He handed me the phone.

  “Good evening, Dottoressa.”

  “You can’t afford to pull these guappo stunts, Buratti.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. Stay away from my men.”

  “I didn’t hurt anyone. I took the liberty of interrupting their dinner because I was in a hurry to talk to you.”

  “How did you know they’d be eating there?”

  “Maybe they’re not as smart as you think.”

  She burst into laughter. “Whereas you’re the slickest of them all, right?”

  The moment had come to drop the verbal sparring. This cop was far more agile than me.

  “Why don’t you ask me why I tracked you down?”

  “Because I’m sure your reasons are half-assed,” she replied arrogantly. “You just wanted to demonstrate that you and your little friends have a few tricks up your sleeves.”

  “You’re wrong, Dottoressa, I just do as I’m told,” I shot back. “I have in my possession a photo of the person who planned the murder of Pellegrini’s women and I need to put a name to it in order to continue the investigation. But you must know that already, seeing as you’re tapping Inspector Campagna’s phone.”

  Angela Marino got quiet. This time I’d managed to impress her, to show her that we weren’t lambs for slaughter.

  I saw my opening. “It shouldn’t be too hard for you to ID the girl. Handsome Giorgio must know her. Maybe he pissed her off. That’s his M.O., after all.”

  “O.K., you’re not as dumb as I’d thought,” the detective huffed. “Cut to the chase.”

  The time had come to speak frankly.<
br />
  “You’re hiding information from the mobile squad, otherwise we’d have come across different intel in the file and the woman would have already had a warrant out on her,” I said flatly. “You found a way to get my friends and I to find her all on our own to avoid having someone come along and accuse you of not having informed the lead investigators.”

  “You’re in no position to question how we operate.”

  I ignored her. The Dottoressa was getting irritated.

  “We want to know why it’s important for us to follow this lead and find Martina and Gemma’s killers.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else we’re lacking the proper motivation.”

  “You fuckhead. Did you ask yourself why I’m not worried about you going to the press or delivering documents to some lawyer or notary?”

  “Because whatever operation Giorgio Pellegrini is involved in,” I replied, “is worth more than our miserable lives. And the lives of Pellegrini’s wife and mistress, which were sacrificed at the altar of the state’s superior concerns. But we’re outlaws, and we’ve got nothing to do with your intrigues.”

  “I think it’s a little late for statements of principles.”

  “You’re right. We’ve been blackmailed into wading through your muck, but we’re talking about survival plain and simple. Soon as the situation allows, we go our separate ways.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I abstained from answering. We’d both made ourselves clear.

  “This time I need an answer, Dottoressa: why is it important for us to find that woman?”

  “Because she disappeared,” she explained in that icy voice of hers. “We don’t know where she’s gone, and she represents a threat to Pellegrini’s life.”

  And to the life of the operation, I thought.

  “Now let my men eat in peace,” she ordered before hanging up.

  I handed Marmorato back his phone and walked off, trailed for a few feet by his insults. Beniamino and Max were waiting for me a short distance away in the car.

  “How’d it go?” asked the Fat Man. Rossini offered me a smoke.

  “I’ve got no idea,” I responded in all honesty. “I got it through to her that we won’t willingly be played, and she made it clear, in that elegant way of hers, that she couldn’t give a flying fuck.”

  “What did she say about the brunette who slaughtered the two ladies?” asked the Old Gangster.

  “That we have to find her to protect Handsome Giorgio and his bullshit schemes. I’m confident the Dottoressa will feed us some useful information through Campagna.”

  “I’m hungry,” complained Max. “I want a decent meal and I don’t feel like cooking.”

  “But the fridge is full!” cried Rossini, winking at me.

  “Today’s not the day,” pointed out the Fat Man bitterly. “I wouldn’t be able to really express myself in the kitchen.”

  I took Rossini up on his invitation to have a goof and turned anxiously to Max. “Do you think you’ve taken this celebrity chef fad a bit too far?”

  He gave me a vexed look and launched into a tirade about foodie culture. Listening to him talk was a pleasure. Max the Memory is an insightful, cultured man. And passionate. I loved and continue to love him, and I wished he would dig himself out of the profound acrimony that he buried by binging on food. But being on the losing side exacted a hefty toll.

  We drove on a few miles, crossed the bridge over the Bacchiglione, and slipped down the roads that flanked the river.

  Sauro Trincanato was a disgraced cook. Drunk every night, he’d torched the reputation of his restaurant and chased off a clientele that had no qualms about spending money. Now the bottle was nothing but a bad memory. He’d been saved by AA, but he still didn’t have the strength to open another restaurant and face the city’s critics. Every night he cooked for whoever knocked on the door of his little house, which his wife had, by some miracle, managed to save from his creditors. In the large basement he’d set up an old-fashioned osteria. There was a single table several feet long where friends and old clients were seated. The place was no frills. Afterward you left on the table whatever payment you thought proper.

  I was happy to go there. I wasn’t particularly fond of Sauro, but you ate well, and the place was lively. I always liked lending a hand to people who took a second stab at life. All the world does is bare its teeth, and humanity has become a rare commodity. Plus his wife had a good sense of humor and was always a pleasure to talk to.

  I bumped into Maurizio Camardi, my saxophonist friend just back from recording. Next to him sat Francesco Garolfi, a guitar player from Lombardy possessed by the blues. They recommended the pumpkin soup with chestnuts and speck. I tendered a bottle of Marchese di Villamarina, a cabernet sauvignon harvested in the late fall in Alghero, on the vast estates of Sella & Mosca.

  A couple of patrons drew Max and Beniamino into the usual debate about the future of the country, while we talked music and musicians. I used to be part of the scene, back when I sang with the Old Red Alligators. Then my voice dried up in jail and I didn’t sing another note. Maurizio knew my story and had the tact not to embarrass me. At first I believed I’d go insane, seeing as the entire seven years that I spent behind bars I was sure I would return to performing, to touring Europe with my blues. Prison deprives you of more than just your freedom, and to survive you have to gnaw off a piece of life you’d once held dear. My punishment was disproportionate; aside from my voice, it had taken away the woman I loved.

  That’s how it went. Jail had done a number on Max and Beniamino too. And I couldn’t do anything about it except act like I didn’t give a fuck because I’d learned to live in the world. Instead I continued being a goddamn beginner.

  Camardi and Garolfi got their instruments out of their cases and launched into a cover all their own of “Foxy Lady.”

  Old Jimi Hendrix would have approved.

  The following morning Beniamino woke me up by banging on the door.

  “That fucking pig is waiting for you in the living room.”

  “Who?”

  “Campagna.”

  I pulled on a shirt and pants, and a few minutes later I was sitting face to face with the inspector. “Coming here wasn’t a good idea,” I said, ticked off. “Rossini hasn’t forgotten. Keep your distance.”

  The detective pretended not to hear me. “It’s 9:45. Respectable people are already at work by now.”

  He was exasperating. “You want a coffee, Campagna?” I asked, making my way to the kitchen.

  He nodded and followed me. “What the hell did you do last night? The Dottoressa and her boys were pretty pissed this morning.”

  I held up the various capsules of coffee. “What kind do you want?”

  “Whichever,” he replied. “All of a sudden everyone’s an expert. You used to drink whatever dirt was on sale at the supermarket, then a Hollywood star comes along and everybody’s talking roasts and blends.”

  While Campagna let off steam I ran a hand over my face and thought about the pleasure I’d take in a shave as soon as he left. Who knows what he’d say if he discovered my weakness for shaving with a soap and brush.

  As was his habit, he abruptly changed the subject.

  “The Dottoressa ID’d the woman in the photo. Her name is Paz Anaya Vega, born in Santa Cruz de Tenerife on April 4, 1979.”

  “That all?”

  “No. But first I want to know if it’s true you told those morons Marmorato and Pitta that yours truly doesn’t count for jack shit. That’s the first thing they rubbed my nose in this morning.”

  “I did you a favor,” I lied.

  Campagna sneered. “‘Your informant is convinced you don’t count for jack shit.’ Their exact words.”

  “Careful who you’re calling an informant. Besides, you really don’t c
ount for jack shit,” I snapped. “May I remind you that according to the Dottoressa’s plans we’re both looking at years in jail.”

  He wagged his finger in my face. “As usual you’re fucking clueless,” he scolded. “Their ridicule made me realize how they’ll try to prove you and I are connected. You were my snitch and then we partnered up.”

  At last I got it, the latest ploy in Angela Marino’s diabolical mind. If I ended up branded a rat in jail, my life would be hell. It was an old trick to help convince any holdouts that they ought to collaborate.

  “Her goal is to get you to pen the Life, Death, and Miracles of Saint Rossini.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what scares me about that woman?”

  I had no idea. “The list is long.”

  “Her strategic vision for the investigation. I’ve never met anyone with her capacity to imagine the future, to never content herself with quick results.”

  Cop on cop admiration. I was tired of his chatter and turned the conversation back around to the Spaniard. “What can you tell me about Paz Anaya Vega?”

  “Legacy case. Her father headed up a band of drug traffickers in Madrid until the Georgian mafia took him out in 2006,” he began. “Paz vanished after the funeral and a lot of people were convinced that she’d wound up under a pile of rubble. But in 2012 she resurfaces in Vienna on the arm of Tobias Slezak, an ex-mercenary who’d fought with the Croatians and who, in the early 2000s, set up a small organization of drug dealers.

  “After Paz shows up everything changes. She has the right contacts—Galician wholesalers who import cocaine from South America—and the quality of their product spikes. In no time she and Tobias are running an operation small in size but big in profit.

  “They have no intention of expanding the business because they don’t want to run into trouble with the mafia clans that have divvied up Austria for a long time now. Everything’s going gangbusters until, once again, death, with all its destructive force, comes knocking at the pretty Spaniard’s door.”

  “What happened?”

  “About a year ago her man was murdered and she went on the lam. According to her Austrian colleagues she fled the country. Maybe she went back to Spain.”