Paradise City

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Lo Manto stepped out into the glaring sun, walking past the House of the Gems, when he spotted the man with the backpack. He was tall, thin, wearing granny glasses, blue jeans, a polo shirt, and a Milano soccer cap. He stood near the group but only feigned listening to the tour guide, whose enthusiasm never wavered, eager to tell all the history lessons he had spent hours burning into memory. The man pulled a cigarette from the back of his jeans, lit it, and took a long drag, blowing a thin line of smoke toward a cloudless sky. The ocean blue backpack was full and weighed down on the thin man’s shoulders, forcing him to move with a slight hunch. Lo Manto eased into the middle of the small crowd, scanning the faces, seeing nothing much beyond tourists out for a morning walk and talk. He figured there would be three for the drop and pick—one with the money, one with the dope, and a pistol to cover both. And they would know not to send the obvious, since a street hood would shine like a fog light in this group and this setting. Which meant he needed to seek out the least likely suspects.

  He caught the glance at the gymnasium area, along the large pool, which centuries earlier had been used by Roman athletes preparing for their games. It was a quick eye exchange between the tour guide and an elderly woman in a blue dress and a straw hat, her arm resting gently under the folded elbow of a white-haired man in a loud print shirt. The man held a cooler in his free hand, its weight forcing his body to shift; occasionally, he rested it on the stone ground. Lo Manto checked his watch: fifteen minutes till the end of the tour. At which point everyone would be directed back to the waiting bus. But he had been on enough of these to know that there were always a few who stayed behind, squeezing in one more photo or one more question for the tour guide to answer.

  Lo Manto pulled a disposable camera from his shirt pocket and clicked off several shots, capturing the regal bronze statue, with the thin man with the backpack in the foreground. He got a wide shot of the refectory, the elderly couple standing right in the middle of his photo. Then he walked over toward the tour guide, who was standing off to the side of the group, allowing them a few minutes to take in the scenery. Lo Manto held out his camera. “Would it be too much trouble?” he asked the guide. “It’s really for my mother. She’s too old to get around. So she likes to see the tours through my pictures.”

  The guide stared at Lo Manto for several seconds and then nodded. “I can’t ever say no to my mother,” he said. “How could I say no to someone else’s?”

  Lo Manto handed him the camera and caught the slight bulge on the right side of the guide’s shirt. He figured it for a Luger, the perfect gun for an up-close shooting. “The only shame is that I’ll be in the picture,” Lo Manto said. “Ruining all the beauty that surrounds us both.”

  “I’m sure your mother won’t notice,” the tour guide said. He lifted the camera, waited for Lo Manto to get into position, brought it closer to his eye, and clicked off two shots. He then handed the camera back to an approaching Lo Manto. “The second one is in case I left you without a head on the first,” the guide said. “It’s a specialty of mine.”

  “My mother will be pleased, however the photos turn out,” Lo Manto said, taking back the camera.

  “I think we’ve seen enough of this room,” the guide said, easing his way past Lo Manto. “And we still have two more stops left to go before we’re at an end. And I always like to finish my tours on time.”

  “It’s a good summer job for a student,” Lo Manto said, walking with him back to the scattered group. “The salaries are low, but the tips from the tourists help make up for that. And it doesn’t take up too much time, leaving you free to pursue any other interests.”

  “I’m majoring in ancient history at the university,” the guide said. “And a job like this one looks great on a résumé.”

  “But drug dealing doesn’t,” Lo Manto said, watching as the tour guide slowed his movements, instinctively raising his right hand toward his gun.

  “I have to get back to work,” the guide said. “There isn’t much time left.”

  “Then let’s make the most of it,” Lo Manto said, running a hand against the front flap of his sports shirt, giving the guide a glimpse of his badge. “You let the plan play out. Let the old couple and the one with the backpack go with the exchange at the end of the tour. Make sure the gun they gave you stays strapped where it is. And we all walk happily away.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the guide said, a thin line of sweat beads forming on his upper lip.

  “I’m talking about fifteen years of your life,” Lo Manto said. “That’s how much prison time you’ll be saving by doing what I tell you. And that’s only if the deal goes down without a glitch. That happens and you reach for that gun, you’ve at least picked a beautiful place to die.”

  “I’ve never done something like this,” the guide said.

  “I don’t care,” Lo Manto said. “Just don’t do it now.”

  “I have to,” the guide said. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “I’m giving you one,” Lo Manto said. “I don’t know how you got into this, but if you let me, I can get you out.”

  “They have my brother,” the guide said, staring over at Lo Manto. “If I make this deal happen, I get him back. And they’ll clear away all his debts.”

  Lo Manto looked back at the boy, gazing into a sad but determined set of dark eyes. “Finish the rest of your tour,” he told him. “They’re waiting.”

  They reached the gathered group and Lo Manto moved toward the rear of the circle, the thin man to his left and the elderly couple to his right. He looked at the tour guide and then followed the crowd out of the gymnasium toward the House of the Stags, one of the more elaborate homes left standing in Herculaneum. He stood over by the arbor that had a view of the Bay of Naples and watched the sun sparkle on the shiny waves, content to let the final minutes of the tour come to an uneventful end.

  The crowd had dispersed, most of them heading for the air-conditioned bus, a few making their way to a stand selling fresh ices and fruit drinks. The elderly couple and the thin man with the backpack lingered behind, standing in front of the Trellis House, one of the few ancient multifamily dwellings remaining in Europe. The old man placed the cooler next to his right leg, while the thin man dropped the backpack alongside it. The tour guide stood with his back to them, his eyes fixed on Lo Manto, his hand resting on his hip, fingers touching the top of his gun.

  Lo Manto slipped a slice of gum into his mouth and walked closer to them. He was calm, prepared for either a shoot-out or a settlement, having weighed that the likelihood of either one happening depended more on what he said than on what he did. Lo Manto was less than four feet away from the tour guide when he saw the old man reach down and pick up the backpack and with a great deal of effort toss it across his shoulders, his wife helping to steady it in its place. The thin man slowly straddled the cooler, hands in his pockets, a fresh cigarette between his lips.

  “Let them have it,” the guide said to Lo Manto. “If I don’t help them make this deal today, someone else will tomorrow, so what difference does it all make?”

  “Part of your job to let them know the deal is done?” Lo Manto asked.

  “Yes,” the guide said. “When I call in, that’s when they let my brother loose.”

  “Then do two favors for me,” Lo Manto said. “Call your contact now and tell him the exchange was made and everything’s the way it’s supposed to be, no problems.”

  Lo Manto walked past the guide and toward the elderly couple and the thin man. “What’s the second one?” the tour guide asked.

  Lo Manto turned back toward the guide. “Trust me,” he said to him.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for those,” Lo Manto said, standing between the old couple and the thin man. “A cooler and a backpack. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find them in Naples? It’s almost impossible. You’re better off looking for gold.”

  “Most department stores sell them,” the old man said,
the front of his shirt tinged with sweat. Next to him, his wife nervously bit at her lower lip. “I’m sure you’ll find one, if you keep looking.”

  “But who really has that kind of time?” Lo Manto said. “And the ones I’d buy in any store wouldn’t have in them what I really want. So it would all be a wasted trip.”

  The thin man looked past Lo Manto at the guide, nodding his head, the cigarette smoke forcing one of his eyes shut.

  “Right now you’re just couriers,” Lo Manto said, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Maybe doing what you’re doing for reasons beyond your control. That shouldn’t come with a lot of jail time, if any at all. And two of you are too old to die in prison and one of you is too young to go.”

  Tears ran down the sides of the old woman’s face; her hand gripped her husband’s arm. The thin man’s shoulders sagged and the cigarette fell from his lips to the ground. The old man was the only one who remained defiant. “What will you do?” he asked Lo Manto. “Keep the money and sell them back the drugs? Is that how you earn your way?”

  “No,” Lo Manto said, shaking his head. “It isn’t. But it’s not a bad idea. Truth is, it’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard in a long time.”

  Lo Manto reached down and picked up the cooler. He then waited as the old man slid the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to him. “Where were your drop points?” he asked.

  “Halfway up the courthouse steps,” the old man said. “I was told to leave the backpack there at six-fifteen and then walk away.”

  Lo Manto looked at the thin man, waiting for his answer, sensing a mixture of arrogance and mistrust in both attitude and manner. “And you?” he asked.

  “A church,” the thin man said.

  Lo Manto smiled. “Any one in particular?” he said. “Or did they leave the heavy thinking to you?”

  “San Lorenzo Maggiore,” the thin man said in a low voice. “At seven o’clock.”

  Lo Manto turned to the tour guide standing just beyond his right shoulder. “Your call go through?”

  “Yes,” the guide said. “I told them the deal went and the packages were on their way.”

  Lo Manto put down the backpack and unzipped it. It was jammed with thick packets of one-hundred-euro bills, each one double-wrapped with rubber bands. He grabbed two and zipped the backpack. He walked over to the tour guide and handed him the two packets of cash.

  “Find your brother,” he told the guide. “Then the two of you pack what you can as fast as you can and leave Naples.”

  “And go where?” the guide asked.

  “It’s your choice,” Lo Manto said. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell anybody. Just go. Be on your way out of the city before the first drop is made.”

  “What if they come looking for us?” he asked, apprehensive, his eyes darting past Lo Manto and toward the three standing at his back. “What if they come looking for all of us?”

  “They won’t,” Lo Manto said. “You’re not that important to them, and neither is your brother. None of you are. It’s the drugs and money they need. And it’s the one who took it they’ll want. That brings it down to me.”

  The guide slid the money under the waistband of his beltless pants and then looked back up at Lo Manto. “I can’t repay you,” he said, nodding his thanks.

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s not my money,” Lo Manto said.

  Lo Manto watched as the guide turned near the House of the Bicentenary and disappeared from sight. He walked over to the elderly couple and the thin man, offering each a piece of gum. The old woman reached for hers with a trembling hand.

  “What about us?” the thin man asked, rejecting the gum, his diffidence not doing much to mask his concern. “How much you going to give us to go away?”

  “He finished the job he was given,” Lo Manto said. “You’re only halfway through yours.”

  “We can’t go back empty-handed,” the old man said. “And we can’t tell them what happened. We must hold up our end of the deal if we’re to come out of this alive. If it were only my life at stake, I wouldn’t care. But there are others involved, all of them innocent, my wife included.”

  “You’ll keep to the deal,” Lo Manto said. “The only new wrinkle is me, and the only one who knows about me is you.”

  “They’ll kill us all if they even see us with you,” the thin man said, his voice breaking. “Not that you even care what happens to us. All you want is an arrest.”

  Lo Manto looked at the old woman, her body shaking, her face wet with a cold sweat. “How about you save the see-Naples-and-die scenario for your next visit?” he said to the thin man. “For now, you just do exactly what I tell you. If that happens and you have any kind of luck, then the only people who might end up dead will be the ones who forced you into this mess.”

  “I hope you’re good at what you do,” the elderly woman said to Lo Manto, resting a rail thin hand on his arm.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” he said.

  Lo Manto wrapped the backpack around his shoulders, picked up the cooler, and led the way out of the ancient city of Herculaneum, heading for his car and the short journey back to the streets of Naples.

  Lo Manto sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes sedan, its window down, across the street from the main courthouse in Naples. He watched as a young man in a leather jacket and designer jeans walked up the stone steps and headed for the abandoned backpack, his eyes scanning the antlike army of lawyers, judges, defendants, and tourists making their way out of the building and onto the bustling boulevard. The thin man from the walking tour was next to him on the passenger side. Lo Manto had phoned ahead and ordered a police escort to the train station for the elderly couple, complete with two first-class rail tickets to Milan and enough pocket money to steer them clear of trouble for at least a week.

  “That’s the one who approached me,” the thin man said, pointing a finger past Lo Manto and toward the courthouse steps.

  “But he’s not the one I want,” Lo Manto said. “He gets paid to run errands. My guess is he’ll drop the pack in the trunk of the dark blue sedan parked next to the restaurant and then call it a day.”

  “What happens then?”

  “We’ll follow the sedan to San Lorenzo Maggiore,” Lo Manto said. “I’ll get us there a few minutes before they do. Then, you get out, leave your cooler in the designated pew, and get on with the rest of your life.”

  “You gave the tour guide a bundle and set off the old couple just right,” the thin man said. “What do I have coming toward my end?”

  “Nothing,” Lo Manto said, his eyes fixed on the man on the steps and the parked sedan.

  “Why did they rate the special treatment?”

  Lo Manto turned and looked at the thin man, his eyes hard, his voice controlled. “They’re civilians,” he said. “They got tossed into this because of family troubles and gambling debts. But you’re Camorra. Or even worse, a wannabe Camorrista. So the only break you’re catching is that I’m not going to arrest you or shoot you. At least not today.”

  “And for that I’m supposed to thank you?” the thin man asked.

  “No,” Lo Manto said, turning his attention back to the street. “For that you’re supposed to shut up and follow my plan. Remember, it’s the cooler that’s important, not the idiot they got to put it there.”

  “How do you know I won’t make a phone call soon as I’m out of your sight?” the thin man asked. “Make points with the bosses. Tell them what happened and who it was that took them off?”

  “Actually, I’m counting on you to do just that,” Lo Manto said. “But before you do, keep in mind how poorly they react to bad news. And they’re going to have a lot of questions and are going to expect you to have all the answers. A wannabe like you ready for the kind of heat that brings?”

  “What’s to tell?” the thin man said. “They got taken by a cop on the loose. They’ll figure that out pretty much on their own when you arrest them all.”

  “I’m not g
oing to arrest anybody,” Lo Manto said. “The people in that car, the guy on those steps—none of them have broken any laws. None that matter to me, anyway.”

  “There’s a million euros in that backpack,” the thin man said. “And heroin worth more than twice that in this cooler. That’s not enough for you?”

  “There’s no money in that backpack,” Lo Manto said. “Just a bunch of old rocks from Herculaneum. I don’t know if they’re worth anything, but I doubt it’ll come anywhere close to a million euros. What cash was in there is in my trunk and will be on my boss’s desk later tonight.”

  “What about the cooler?” the thin man said, checking to make sure it was still in the middle of the backseat.

  “I bought a block of ice from the fruit vendor at the entrance to the ruins,” Lo Manto said. “The drugs are near the money. I’ll drop them off later, just as soon as I get rid of you.”

  The thin man stared at Lo Manto, his lower lip hanging open, his eyes cast wide in amazement. “So why are you even bothering to follow them?” he asked. “You know nothing’s going to go down.”

  Lo Manto watched as the young man dropped the backpack into the open trunk of the waiting sedan, slammed it shut, and then hustled away around the closest corner. He turned the ignition key, letting the engine purr for a few seconds. He waited until the sedan pulled away from the restaurant, then shifted into gear and slowly eased the car out into the congested traffic. He then turned to the bewildered thin man by his side. “To see it through,” Lo Manto said. “Make sure it happens right. Everything I do, I like to see through to the end.”

  6

  THE CHIEF INSPECTOR put a match to the packed end of his thin cigar and sat back, his silver hair resting against the soft fold of a brown leather chair. On the carpeted floor, beside his black briefcase, rested a dozen wide stacks of euros and ten thick packs of heroin. Bartoni looked across at Lo Manto, sitting with his legs spread out, feet crossed one over the other, and smiled at his enterprising protégé. “There will be a great deal of tears shed over pasta bowls tonight,” Bartoni said. “This haul was meant to fall like heavy rain over the drug addicts of Naples. Now, bodies will fall in its place. Camorra bodies.”