Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores

by Massimo Carlotto

  Edith had referred to herself as an “old whore,” an appellative typically reserved for prostitutes who prospered in their prime and later, to remain marketable, zeroed in on clients of a certain age. And tastes. That’s why that night she’d transformed herself into a copy—prettier for that matter—of Tempest Storm.

  I needed someone to talk to but my partners had an appointment with a guy about a gun. I wandered aimlessly in the cold then gave up and went for a beer. All I could think about was Edith, and when the phone that Martinenghi had given me rang, I struggled to snap out of it.

  “Paz Anaya Vega has agreed to meet you and proposes tomorrow night at Sopron,” said Pierino.

  “Where?”

  “Just across the Hungarian border, about fifty miles from Vienna.”

  So the Spaniard was hiding out in Hungary, within arm’s reach. I was tempted to accept but the safecracker came to my rescue.

  “The wine is good, especially the Kékfrankos. Blaufränkisch, the Austrians call it. If you prefer red wine—”

  “Well?”

  “I wouldn’t trust it,” he spoke up. “Lately there’s a chill in the air around those parts, and the local police is a lot more trigger happy around foreigners. Paz on the other hand, she’s at home there. You catch my drift?”

  “Perfectly. Any place in Vienna you’d recommend?”

  “The hotel bar is safe. Anybody could slip in and out unnoticed. Even Paz.”

  There was a chance of running into Edith there, and being in the company of a drug-dealer wouldn’t look good, but I couldn’t complain to Pierino.

  I called Rossini, who asked me to meet them in a restaurant on Naglergasse, in the old part of town. Upon entering I immediately spotted Max working his way through a gigantic steak with roast potatoes and onions. He was too busy stuffing his face to do more than nod.

  “There was no use arguing,” sighed Beniamino, picking at a salad. “Max insisted on eating here. He claims it’s one of the last traditional restaurants in the city. If you ask me, it looks full of American tourists.”

  The Fat Man caught his breath, took a swig of beer, and defended his decision. I ordered a dish at random and asked about their meeting that morning.

  “Two old cannons from the Eastern bloc,” said Rossini. “They cost us fifty euro a day.”

  The price had really dropped. “They must be junk.”

  “Let’s pray we don’t need to use them.”

  I told them about Martinenghi’s phone call. Clumped along. I wanted to get around to talking about Edith.

  “The Spaniard wanted to lure you to some out-of-the-way nook and subject you to one of her special treatments to get you to talk,” said Beniamino. “The woman is cold all right. But I don’t understand how she could think we’d walk into a trap that obvious.”

  “To be honest, I almost fell for it,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Max and Rossini elbowed each other. “This girl’s got you off balance.”

  “No, the truth is I’m a real asshole.”

  “What the hell happened?” asked Beniamino. “She sent you packing on the first date?”

  “Worse,” I spoke up. “I scared her off.”

  I told them what happened. My friends remained silent, grim-faced. Old Rossini especially. Like us, he hated pimps, only in his case he’d often shown it the hard way. He once went to war with a group of Albanian mobsters who’d kidnapped a group of young women, turned them into sex slaves, and eventually brought them to the province of Treviso. He helped a few escape and then the situation took a turn for the worse. A Greek girl, fearing they’d attack her family in retaliation, made the mistake of going back to her captors. To set an example, they murdered her, and two days later Beniamino threw the guy responsible into the river.

  The real problem is, in the age of globalization, prostitution is an unstoppable phenomenon: human beings worth something on the sex market, especially women and children, are transformed into goods, for sale or rent. Exploited until they die. Supply is overwhelming but doesn’t meet demand, and demand appears to be bottomless.

  Beniamino ran a hand over his face. “You can’t help them all, but if you find one who’s in real trouble, you can’t just look the other way either, right?”

  Right. That was our fate. And that principle didn’t only apply to prostitutes. Whenever we came across a sad story, we tried to give it a dignified ending.

  “Unfortunately, first we have to save ourselves before we can be of use to Edith,” he went on. “But in the meantime, we can try to find out more about her case.”

  “Frau Vieira,” Max uttered with disdain. “Sounds like a kapo name.”

  I was relieved. And grateful. And proud that we were willing to go for broke for a woman only one of us had met at a bar, since, as Beniamino said, you can’t always stand on the sidelines and watch. Outlaw hearts.

  Martinenghi called a little after 8 P.M. Max had shut himself up in the kitchen and was attempting to make a traditional local soup with liver dumplings. The smell was not tantalizing, and Old Rossini and I withdrew to the living room with a bottle of chilled Grüner Veltliner.

  “These pistols aren’t as bad as I thought,” he said, staring down one of the barrels against the light. The rest was dismantled and waiting to be cleaned. “They can come in handy close-up, thirty feet at best. The caliber’s nothing special, and the bullets were made in Yugolavia, back when it was still a country.”

  “Even if they were brand new they wouldn’t be much use against Paz’s men. They’re roughnecks on their own turf.”

  Rossini touched his chest. “Our army is all here. You do what you can and maybe for once luck will be on our side.”

  Just then the cellphone’s polka ringtone broke in. I hit speaker.

  “They’ve agreed,” said the safecracker. “Paz is expecting you at the hotel bar in three hours sharp.”

  “Thanks, Pierino.”

  “I can promise the place is safe but I can’t speak for their intentions,” he added gravely.

  “I’ll be careful,” I reassured him, before switching the subject. “Sorry to impose on you again, but I need some information about a woman who works for Frau Vieira.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Edith Amaral.”

  “Don’t know her. She doesn’t hustle in my hotel. I can ask one of the girls I’m on good terms with,” he said. Then, after a long pause, he added, “But if my friend doesn’t know anything or doesn’t want to talk, my hands are tied.”

  “If it’s going to create problems for you, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m in no position to meddle with these people, I’m sorry,” he explained, getting worked up. “I’d be on shaky ground and they’d start asking too many questions. Not to mention break a bone or two.”

  “I get it. Find out what you can without running any risks.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I looked at Rossini.

  “Paz won’t come alone,” he said. “Her men will be planted in the right places. There’s no saying they won’t try to snatch you at the end of the meeting.”

  I felt a shiver down my spine. “And where will you be?”

  The Old Gangster pointed at the dismantled pistol. “Sprawled out in the hall, packing this hardware in my coat pockets. We go in together and we go out together. Max’ll be hiding in the neighborhood, ready with the car.”

  “Sounds like the perfect plan,” I joked.

  “Pierino will do what he can and that’s already a lot,” added Rossini. “Where a pimp’s involved, the cops are right around the corner. If he blows his cover, he won’t be able to crack safes anymore.”

  “I know. I hate to stir up trouble for him, but I don’t know who else to turn to in Vienna.”

  “We’ve gotten pe
ople in fixes in the past because we put our needs above theirs.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That Pierino’s one of us.”

  An outlaw of the old guard. I knew.

  “We’ll take precautions, play it safe,” I promised, though I understood what he’d meant. I said ‘we,’ but I was the one who had to be careful not to overstep my bounds. My friend was right to warn me; I’ve been known to get my priorities mixed up.

  Beniamino poured more wine and changed the subject. “Let’s hope Max is whipping up a light dinner—we don’t have much time to digest.”

  “Wishful thinking,” I answered.

  The liver dumplings dropped like stones in our stomachs, but we didn’t mention it. We were nervous and disinclined to joke around. When the Fat Man asked our opinion out loud, I managed to steer a middle course. On the whole the meal was good, I swore. But he wasn’t convinced.

  “You sound like an old Christian Democrat,” he said, not even looking up from his plate. He meant it as a slight.

  It came time for us to leave. Rossini put on a double-breasted pinstripe suit and a white scarf. Underneath his camel hair jacket the ensemble was the epitome of cool. Vienna seemed colder than usual. The winter was implacable, wouldn’t let up.

  We climbed into the Superb and reached the hotel’s neighborhood. Max went looking for a parking spot close enough to pick us up in a matter of seconds.

  Beniamino and I continued on foot. We didn’t notice anything suspicious. In the hall we found two mugs sitting on a couch. Their attempts to appear indifferent tipped us off. Rossini took a seat right in front of them, his hands planted in his pockets.

  Abo, seated at the bar, paid the bill the moment he saw me and slipped out a back door that led to the old gaming room. As far as I’d gleaned from Pierino, the room was now reserved for reading and chess.

  The bartender recognized me and led me to the same table from the evening before. He’d come to know that drinkers are creatures of habit. He brought me a Calvados before I’d even ordered one. He deserved a good tip.

  I’d had a few sips when Paz made her entrance. I recognized her immediately; she was exactly the same as in the photos Zorzi had taken in Padua. I waved discreetly to get her attention, but it was beside the point: she was heading my way.

  She had on a low-necked dress, short and snug. Were circumstances different I’d have said she wanted to catch my eye. And she would have succeeded, no sweat—she was a knockout. A bombshell, to use the scientific classification of my saxophonist friend Maurizio Camardi. I couldn’t help but muse over the fact that the vile women in this whole affair, Angela Marino and the Spaniard, were to die for. Straight out of a film from the ’40s.

  “I’ll speak Castilian and you speak Italian. We’ll understand one another perfectly,” she said without preamble while placing a handbag roomy enough for a “lady’s gun” on the table. Some brands had launched lines of brightly colored bags, or bags adorned with gold inserts, but they weren’t her style.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I imagine you won’t take offense, will you?”

  Another wicked witch, I thought. Her attitude was aggressive, totally unfriendly. She and Marino had something besides beauty in common.

  “You’re right, my offer was too polite for a drug dealer who assaults, tortures, and murders defenseless women.”

  Her pretty lips formed a scowl.

  “Abo said you were a shmuck. He wasn’t off the mark.”

  “If it weren’t for this shmuck, you’d still be unwise to the fact that your organization is fucked and you’re looking at life behind bars.”

  “I’m the type that lands on her feet.”

  “Giorgio Pellegrini once told me the very same thing.”

  Her expression changed. She was the picture of hatred itself.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Then what good are you to me?”

  “I may know a way to get to that piece of shit. You on the other hand, you don’t even know where to begin.”

  “How did you make me?”

  “Italian police.”

  “The Austrian cops on my payroll say their Italian colleagues haven’t contacted them yet.”

  “It’s early. In the meantime they’re blackmailing us to keep you far from Pellegrini.”

  “In what way?”

  “Certainly not by sharing a table like this.”

  “From what we hear you guys are a couple cards short of a deck,” she said. “You’re a failed singer, your friend in the hall is a retired smuggler, and the one waiting in the car is an obese terrorist.”

  “Your Russian hackers aren’t up to speed. I hope you didn’t pay them too much.”

  She shrugged. “You’re non-entities. But sometimes losers come to know things of interest. That’s the only reason I accepted your invitation. But no way are we going to work together.”

  “So what’s your offer then?”

  “You tell me where I can find Tobias’ murderer, I kill him, and with him dead, you avoid jail.”

  “Finding him is exactly why we have to join forces,” I explained matter-of-factly. “Pellegrini is involved in a secret operation with the Italian police, and that means he’s not holed up somewhere. On the contrary, he’s trying to infiltrate an organization, if he hasn’t succeeded in doing so already. Exactly like he did with you.”

  “You think we haven’t already tapped all of our contacts to figure out what happened to him? There’s a million-dollar bounty on his head, but no one’s come forward yet.”

  “That’s not the way to hunt him down.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Why did he kill your man?”

  “It’s a mystery,” she replied, a mix of rage, incredulity, and sadness. “He came to Vienna under a false name just to kill Tobias while closing a deal. He could have shot him any time. Instead he put together a warped plan and ran unnecessary risks.”

  “Would you like to know what this short deck thinks?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said with an extra pinch of sarcasm.

  For a minute I thought about walking away. But I took another sip and cooled down. I had to bite my tongue if I was to dispense with both her and Pellegrini. Martina and Gemma deserved justice, and we were the only ones who cared to serve it.

  “Well then?”

  “Pellegrini murdered Slezak to attract attention,” I said, choosing my words carefully to drive home the point. “He was after the credentials that he needed to enter into contact with another criminal organization—the real target of the operation.”

  The Spaniard’s attitude changed. Now she was listening.

  “If what you claim is true, that means that the order to kill my husband came from the Italian police.”

  “Not necessarily. It may have been Pellegrini’s idea. Of course, someone allowed it to go down.”

  “And do you know the names of those responsible?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I know what’s running through your mind and the answer is no. We won’t let you retaliate against Italian cops. You’ve already murdered innocent people.”

  “Those cops aren’t innocent.”

  “No, but Pellegrini is the only one who deserves to die.”

  “So says you.”

  “By that logic, I think that you ought to pay with your life too. Yet here we are, looking for a solution to our problem, which is and remains eliminating Giorgio Pellegrini.”

  She crossed her legs and stared at me in silence. Then she called the bartender over and ordered a glass of Lustau, a 30-year-old Spanish sherry that costs an eyeball. My empty glass was filled with another generous pour of Calvados.

  “Which were you sleeping with, the wife or
the other one?” She didn’t give me time to respond. “The friend was fat and ugly, but she held out longer. She was used to pain, familiar with violence, knew how to take it.”

  “I’m not listening.”

  “So it was her.”

  “Her name is Gemma and that’s all that need concern you.”

  “As long as you’re not looking to avenge her death.”

  For a moment I felt like explaining to her the difference between justice and vengeance. To show her that my idea of justice didn’t involve cops and courts. But my mind was racing with images of the restaurant cellar, blood, mutilated bodies, and I decided not to. She wouldn’t have understood, and besides, some subjects are best avoided when you’re with enemies.

  “One thing at a time,” I said. “Let’s take care of Pellegrini first.”

  She sipped her sherry without averting her gaze. She knew she had a pair of eyes that could bring men to their knees, but I was immune because I hated her. Not her personally, but the category of despicable beings she belonged to. Drug dealers reek of death, sell death, use it to gain power and corner markets. They jockey to see who can be cruelest. They get famous and then die like animals.

  “What can I do besides double the bounty?”

  Ah, finally, Paz had deigned to hear me out. Now was my chance and I couldn’t blow it.

  “Withdraw it,” I said, “it won’t help. I already told you, not only is Pellegrini not in hiding, he’s also hard at work trying to make contact with another organization.”

  “So?” she pressed on.

  “Your organization is confined to drug dealers. That’s not enough. You have to enter into contact with other sorts of criminals.”

  She clenched an expletive between her teeth. “And how do I do that? Put an ad out in the paper?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I answered, pausing to take a drink. “Pay your Russian hackers to get the word out to people who matter. They know who. Pellegrini isn’t a ghost. You can get them to pass around his photo, spread the rumor that he probably still goes by the name Attilio Sforza. Whoever gets the message will pass it on to the next guy.”