“And where do you think you’ll set up shop this time?”
“Parma, Lucca, Piacenza,” I fired off at random.
In reality I had long ago settled on Treviso, the perfect city for a boy of my talent and dedication. Even better than Padua. Plus, with Buratti and his partners keeping Campagna company in prison, I’d have nothing to fear.
The Dottoressa snatched up one of the suitcases and carried it into the bedroom. Less than a minute later, she hauled off the second one too.
Wise woman. She knew the old adage: “Opportunity makes the thief.”
A little later, exiting the bathroom, I thought I heard a voice. I removed my shoes, tiptoed to the door, and put my ear against the thin wood.
Marino was whispering on her phone. I couldn’t make out more than a handful of words, but her tone gave her away: there was a man in her life. I pictured a cop, older, higher ranking. She must have been attracted to older men, otherwise she’d never have resisted my charms. Sleeping with her would have been a real coup, would have saved me a lot of frustration, but I had to resign myself to the fact that my life had never been easy. I’d always had to take my due by force.
The next morning the cop had the nerve to wake me up at an ungodly hour.
“Piss off,” I protested. “Our appointment with the attorney is at ten.”
“We have to go over the plan and review every little detail,” she replied. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Another waste of time. I had the Dottoressa all figured out: she was a capable organizer with a maniacal predisposition, but she was slow to improvise. And experience had taught me that when you play dirty you have to be quick on your feet.
She didn’t shut up until we were loading the suitcases in the taxi.
Sipan Charents had an office in Türkenstraße, on the fourth and top floor of a building not far from a famous pastry shop, where I planned on having breakfast as soon as we dropped off the money.
I’d only met the lawyer once, right after I’d killed Tobias Slezak and his two sidekicks. Marino had given me his name and address. He was a little elderly man with a full head of white hair. He wore ridiculous round eyeglasses with thick black frames. I set five thousand euros in cash on his desk, and he’d thanked me and asked me to explain my case. He listened to me very carefully and then said, in a thin little voice and fluent English, that he found my story interesting, that he wasn’t sure he could be of help because he didn’t know Serj Balakian, but that he would ask around.
He nodded goodbye, and his secretary, not much younger than him, escorted me to the door.
I had been in plenty of law offices before and the thing that had struck me most about his was the near total absence of case files. Even his legal codes and updates were scant and dated. Clearly Sipan Charents didn’t take on new cases. He must have had a handful of carefully vetted, affluent clients.
Maybe he himself was Serj Balakian. I began to suspect as much when, instead of the secretary, Miss Bones greeted us.
She led us as far as the room where the lawyer asked us to take a seat. Over his shoulder, leaning idly against the wall, was a muscular forty-something with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to the elbow. His face, marked by barely visible scars at the arches of his eyebrows, indicated that he came from a line of boxers who had never won the kind of title that makes you famous. He wore baggy flannel pants held up by a pair of red suspenders. The word “gorilla” was tattooed across his forehead.
“We have to check and count the money,” said the elderly lawyer. He sounded in a hurry.
The woman unzipped both suitcases and, with the help of the gorilla, emptied the contents on the floor. Wrapped in several layers of clear plastic, the stacks of bills fell noiselessly on the thick Persian rug.
Then they carried the suitcases out and came back with a bill counter. Not just any bill counter. I’d once seen a similar model at a casino. It could count up to 1,500 bills a minute and discard any counterfeits.
No one breathed during the count. It worked out to the sum agreed upon, except there were four fake hundred-dollar bills.
The woman handed them back. “I’m guessing you only have euros on you.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Six million dollars gently laid at their feet and this dim-bulb expected every last penny.
I took out my wallet, luckily full of cash despite my not having a debit or credit card, and made up the difference.
Attorney Charents stood up. “Thanks for your patience,” he said and walked over to shake my hand and kiss Marino’s. “Good luck,” he added with a certain zeal.
On our way out, I saw the gorilla exit another room carrying two suitcases. Only not the ones we’d used to transport the money. Different brand, different color. Things were taking a turn for the worse. Those genius cops hadn’t taken into account that Balakian’s men might think to check for tracking devices or other electronic contraptions. If they found them, and I had little doubt that they would, we were in deep shit. They’d eliminate us before we’d reached our destination.
As soon as we stepped into the elevator I let the Dottoressa have it. She blanched.
“We can’t go forward with the operation,” she mumbled, visibly upset. “We have to call in the team to identify the two with the lawyer and follow them.”
“It’s these kind of fuck-ups that led to your losing two undercover agents,” I seethed, furious.
“Quiet. Let me think.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Call off the operation but not our deal.”
She looked at me for a fraction of a second. Long enough to tell me I had to run. Right away. Lucky for me, I’d already staked out a hideout.
I slipped out of the elevator and made for the door. All of a sudden someone came up behind me and planted the barrel of a pistol square in my back.
“Walk,” said a voice in English.
I turned to see Marino had also been blindsided and was being led forward.
As soon as we were out on the street a white van pulled up. When the side door opened I found myself facing Paz Anaya Vega, a silencer pointed right at me. She looked like hatred itself.
I wanted her to kill me then and there, but it wasn’t my lucky day.
SIX
It was raining, for a change. Julie Rhodes was singing “I’d Rather Go Blind,” and I was looking out the window with a cigarette dangling from my lips and a glass of Calvados in my hand, waiting for Pierino Martinenghi to call.
His prostitute friend was willing to talk to me about Edith, but in return she needed to be sure she’d be safe. She promised to be in touch soon, but Vienna was a zoo those days, a carnival for tourists, and work had picked up substantially.
After the meeting with Paz Anaya Vega and her crew, we’d laid low to avoid any surprises from the Spaniard or Dottoressa Marino.
We were convinced that that lady cop would be after us the moment we were back in Italy, maybe treat us to a surprise search and seizure, during which those three kilos of cocaine she’d threatened us with would appear.
That was why we were in no rush to cross the border. Even Inspector Campagna agreed. Our hope was that the Spaniard would nab Pellegrini and send his operation into a tailspin.
Our plan wasn’t great. But it was the only option. We’d gone over it again and again, scrambling for alternatives that didn’t exist.
Then there was Edith. I didn’t want to leave Vienna and face what was coming to us before explaining to her that I wasn’t the person she thought I was, especially without having had the chance to offer her our help. I had no doubts that the gang of pimps she worked for had done her harm.
“He’ll call, don’t worry,” said Beniamino, sitting on the couch with the Italian paper from the day before. He removed his reading glasses. “And take it easy with the Calvados. It’s eleven in the mor
ning.”
I pretended to blow him off with a wave of my hand.
“You can drain the bottle, but if you don’t have a clear head, I’m not leaving the house. Now’s not the time to mess around.”
I emptied my glass in one swig. “That was the last,” I said. “Now I’m going to Max for reinforcements.”
The Fat Man was in the kitchen writing a long email.
“A woman?” I asked, fumbling with the coffee machine.
“I met her in the mountains when I took off to work at a retreat,” he said, still typing away. “I’m trying to tactfully figure out if she’s still free. I’d like to spend summer in the Dolomites again.”
“Lacanian shrink?” I asked, recalling his passion for the type.
“No, I gave that up,” he joked. Then he thought again. “To be honest, I’ve never met another.”
“Maybe they’re extinct.”
He wagged his big index finger.
“Impossible. I probably haven’t tapped into the right circle yet.”
“So you woke up this morning all optimistic and realized you still don’t have summer plans,” I said, needling him.
“I wouldn’t go so far as ‘optimistic.’ More like in a good mood,” he replied, pointing to the oven. “On the third try, the Wiener Brot came out perfect. Try it.”
Max had become obsessed with the dish, a cross between a baguette and a brioche.
“I don’t think I’ve digested yesterday’s effort.”
“There’s butter and bearberry jam in the fridge,” he continued, undeterred. “Besides, you still haven’t had breakfast and the booze on your breath is stinking up my kitchen.”
“Don’t you start,” I protested.
“Get a move on. I’ve got to prepare lunch in a minute.”
“Another local recipe?”
“No, Venetian. And fit for a dreary day: bean soup, orzo, and crackling. Gialèt della Valbelluna would be the best variety, but we’ll make do with some first-rate borlotti.”
I felt I ought to change my mind. The bread was good, the jam not so good, but I forced myself to eat in order to stanch the alcohol. Max never stopped tapping away at the keys.
“Are you still writing that email?”
“Yes. It’s been a while since I was last in touch and I’ve got a lot to tell her.”
“About the marvelous time you’re having right now?”
He gave me a withering look.
“Don’t be a pest,” he ordered.
I gestured with my hands to say I was sorry. “I can’t stop thinking about Edith,” I explained.
“That’s no reason to bother a poor guy who’s struggling to reconnect with an intelligent, witty, tender woman. A very tender woman. I’m not sure you understand the kind of thrills I’m referring to.”
“I can try.”
“Because I can’t update her on the more intimate twists in my life of adventure, all I can do is reflect deeply on the memories that we share,” he explained, getting worked up. “But I risk sounding tedious. What kind of woman wants to go to bed with a bore?”
“I don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up.”
“Because you’re distracting me and writing requires concentration.”
I made a gesture of zipping my mouth. I’d seen an old Argentine woman do the same many years ago and it struck me as being the most effective way of swearing that your lips were sealed.
I did the one thing that could help me abide the wait: I shaved and listened to good blues. I’d tossed a few albums at random into my backpack and found an old stereo with a CD player in the apartment. I decided on the joyful, passionate voice of Grainne Duffy and selected “Let Me In,” the song I liked best, before filling the sink with hot water.
The Punisher Pierino Martinenghi didn’t get in touch until midafternoon. I was napping when the electronic version of “Rosamunde” alerted me to the fact that things were finally moving.
“My friend Klaudia should be free around seven,” he said. “She has to accompany a client to Sexworld Spartacus and then she’ll meet you in front of Hotel Kummer, in Mariahilfer Straße. She said you might have to wait because the john’s slow to make up his mind.”
“How do we recognize her?”
“I’ll send you her photo. I just took it.”
Smart man—Pierino was always thinking ahead.
“I hope German’s not the only language she speaks.”
“If she didn’t speak English she couldn’t work the hotels. She speaks a little Italian too.”
“Did you teach her?”
The safecracker laughed heartily before hanging up.
A few seconds later, I was scrutinizing the face of an attractive thirty-year-old on the screen of my phone. She had straight blond hair and a warm smile. Her smile was meant for my friend Pierino, evidently, a far cry from the kind reserved for paying customers.
I could have gone to the meeting alone, but my friends had decided to get involved in this Edith business, and it seemed only fitting that they get a sense of the person they were going to help. But they also had another reason for coming: when it came to a woman I liked, my judgment was never objective.
I went to the living room. Max and Beniamino were chatting about boats and the Dalmatian Islands. We all could have used some sun.
“Her name’s Klaudia,” I said, and showed them the photo.
I don’t recall exactly how, but I managed to spark a heated debate about what would drive a man to have a prostitute escort him to the biggest sex shop in Austria. It all began with a couple of dirty jokes and had turned into serious reflection.
It was still raining when we walked out of the building. We shielded ourselves with umbrellas and walked to a taxi stand a safe distance away.
The driver was Algerian and couldn’t take the dreadful weather any longer. He liked Italy but was convinced that the quality of life was better in Austria. “And Algeria?” asked Max. The man shrugged his shoulders and withdrew into an oppressive silence. I breathed a sigh of relief once I was out of the car.
Mariahilfer Straße was one of Vienna’s major shopping arteries. The Hotel Kummer was old but respectable, and it boasted panoramic views on the top floors.
That info and more came courtesy of a shady, elegantly dressed guy who waylaid us the minute we entered the hall.
Once again I discovered that the word “scram” was universal. The man retreated quickly and in good order, maybe because Rossini was the one who put him on notice.
Pierino’s friend arrived twenty minutes late. She was definitely striking. Tall, statuesque, she wore a long white overcoat with fur cuffs, parted to reveal a pair of boots that ran midway up her thighs, a miniskirt, and a shirt left generously unbuttoned. She was clad in tasteful Italian brands. She wore light makeup and her jewelry was almost invisible. You wouldn’t automatically guess her profession.
“You’re a real beauty, Klaudia,” said Old Rossini after we’d introduced ourselves; there was nothing slimy about his compliment.
She thanked him and proposed we go to dinner in a traditional beer hall nearby.
She was a regular there. She greeted the bartenders and waiters and strode over to a less rowdy area where a few tables were almost all unoccupied.
“I only agreed to talk to you because Pierino asked,” she said, immediately setting the record straight. “He’s a good man and I’m very fond of him.”
“We’re honored to call him a friend,” I asserted.
“I know. He told me to trust you, but Edith is a touchy subject and I don’t want trouble.”
“We just need some information.”
“And I need honesty. Before I answer your questions I want to know why you’re interested in her. You’re Italian, and from what our mutual friend tells me, you’re just p
assing through Vienna.”
She was worried there was something else going on. She’d been around long enough to know that crooks have countless wiles, and she didn’t want to get mixed up with criminal elements.
Beniamino and the Fat Man looked at me.
“Your turn,” said Max.
I told her what went down. The first meeting at the hotel bar, the one after at the café. The words, apparently nonsense, that Edith had uttered in a fright.
“I like her,” I admitted, sure that Klaudia would understand. “And if somehow she’s being forced to turn tricks, we want to help her change her situation.”
“My friend Marco isn’t your average john. He doesn’t lose his head over just any girl,” interrupted Rossini. “And we’re upstanding, old-school outlaws.”
She picked up her glass and proposed a toast: “To love and liberty,” she whispered. “But your words don’t mean a thing as far as poor Edith’s concerned. You should forget her and go back home.”
Exactly what I hadn’t wanted to hear.
“Why?” I asked.
“Frau Vieira isn’t bad for a madam. She runs a major escort service that gives her license to operate on other levels, understand?”
“She’s capable of satisfying all kinds of demands.”
“She treats us good, as long as we respect the terms of the agreement. And that’s exactly what Edith Amaral didn’t do.”
One September day, when it was still warm enough to walk around outdoors, this john turns up. In no time they’re meeting regularly. The man is kind, caring. He showers her with gifts. Prior to that, Edith had only been with Frau Vieira’s men, because the madam insisted that the Portuguese in her employ only sleep with one another. This sweet man, who did everything he could to prove to her that he was hopelessly in love, was a breath of fresh air in a life that had become harder and harder to bear.
Edith capitulated. For the first time, she let her emotions hold sway. He wanted to take her away from Vienna and Frau Vieira. He fed her a plausible line about a pretty little cottage in Bretagne, a small tourist shop selling handicraft goods. Another country, another life. Love.
Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores Page 13
