At the End of a Dull Day (15 page)

Another flash.
Knock Me Out
. Another great song by Grace Slick and Linda Perry.

Confusion new

Do you, and nothing's right . . .

Confusion
. Chaos. Breakdown. Hurly-burly. A Russian, an African, an Italian. It sounded like the beginning of a joke, but it might turn out to be the basis for a creative crime that I could test out on the Calabrians.
Confusion
. I'd have to stun them with creativity. Blind them with imagination.

The supposed invincibility of the Mafia was a truth tarnished by numerous exceptions. Proof of that fact was given by the fairly high number of punitive murders.

Do you feel like giving it a try? I asked myself.

Grace Slick ran me through with a high note and I reached out my hand to grab Gemma's ass, certain that independent operators like me still had a right to dream of the future.

The next morning I woke up filled with healthy energy, waiting for the end of a dull day when the Russian would bring me the information that I needed.

He didn't disappoint me. He'd worked like a professional. He'd followed the Lexus without being noticed. He'd jotted down a bewildering variety of notes, on places, schedules, mileage, location of security cameras, physical descriptions, license plate numbers, and car models.

“I'm pretty sure we can do this,” I said when he was done.

“Of course we can,” the Russian retorted. “The problems are going to start once we hurt them. They're going to want to take revenge, but that's going to be your problem. I'm going to be long gone. Everybody needs to be afraid of their own personal Mafia.”

“Are you afraid of yours?”

“So afraid that I'll never go back to Russia.”

“Then where are you planning to go?”

He looked at me as if I was a drooling idiot. “Venezuela, where else? The birthplace of my lovely prostitutes.”

We celebrated with Coca-Cola and puff pastries at the bar in the service plaza. At that time of night, they'd stopped selling alcohol to keep young kids from driving into a bridge abutment at 125 mph in daddy's BMW.

T
hat residential hotel was so discreet that even the elevator ran silently. When the sliding doors opened, with an almost imperceptible whoosh, Ylenia would never expect me to be waiting for her. I took a step forward and placed the muzzle of the silencer just beneath her right eye.

I uttered the magic words: “If you scream I'll kill you.”

I pushed the button for the floor below. The woman was paralyzed with terror and I took advantage of the fact to shove her down the hallway and into the structural engineer's apartment: I'd left the front door ajar so I wouldn't be forced to fool around with keys.

Brianese's secretary turned around to face me, and that's when I punched her in the stomach with a left hook. I needed to make sure I knocked the breath out of her so she couldn't scream. She fell to the floor in a sitting position. I jammed a rubber toy ball for dogs into her mouth. Then I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the exercise room. I ripped her clothes off and tied her on all fours to the weight bench.

During my time in Central America I'd learned that when soldiers capture a guerrilla fighter and want to get information out of him, they torture him immediately, to avoid letting any interval of delay give him time to accept his situation as a prisoner and construct psychological defenses. French, American, and Israeli military advisers had crisscrossed the planet teaching this one important truth.

Ylenia was neither a political militant nor a woman of the underworld. She was a secretary who had come of age in the shadow of a powerful man like Brianese. She'd learned to be cunning and arrogant, but she knew absolutely nothing about violence.

I sat down in front of her, picked up a solid chrome barbell, and I started applying Vaseline to the tip. She started writhing as if she were having convulsions, but I'd tied her up securely. Her eyes were a mess of mascara and tears. Snot was running out of her nose. She pissed herself, and it dribbled onto the floor.

“If I stick this into you,” I started explaining, “by the time I'm done you'll be so torn up inside that the emergency room doctors would be hard pressed to keep you alive. I'd have no choice but to finish you off, chop you up, and feed you to the hogs. Just think of the headlines: ‘Secretary of Member of Parliament Sante Brianese Vanishes into Thin Air' . . . You'd just be one of those unsolved missing person cases they talk about on television.” I imitated the well-known moderator of a program specializing in unsolved mysteries and cold cases. “Still no new leads in the disappearance of Ylenia Maz­zonetto . . . ”

I put my mouth close to her ear. I wanted her to feel the heat of my breath. “But if you tell me about Brianese's dirty business dealings I'll let you go. No one, not even him, will ever know that you betrayed him. I don't want to ruin him, I just want to take back La Nena. My sole desire is for you and the Counselor to become my best customers again, with friendship and harmony reigning uncontrasted between us.”

I picked up the weights bar again and walked around behind her. I barely touched her and she shuddered. “Now I want you to nod your head. Yes or no. It's entirely up to you, Ylenia.”

She didn't have a moment's hesitation. She was ready, right then and there, to betray anyone to save herself. I set up the tripod and video camera that I'd just purchased in a superstore. I placed them so that her face filled the frame. I pulled the ball out of her mouth.

“Talk,” I ordered her.

She was in shock and the words that came out of her mouth barely made sense. I slapped her. “Start with the last dirty deal,” I recommended in a fatherly tone of voice.

At first her voice quavered and shook. Then she gradually became just a bit more confident. She told me that Brianese had plunged heart and soul into the nuclear power business. His job was to lay the political and legislative groundwork. He was supposed to tour the Veneto with hired scientists to lay out the benefits of nuclear power as an energy source and to identify the ideal sites.

“I don't see who benefits.”

“The operation is being financed by lobbyists on behalf of a corporation that sells obsolete nuclear power plants that other governments have phased out. The objective is to sell them as if they were the latest design, and then drag out construction delays indefinitely to postpone safety inspections and suck as much money as possible out of the system.”

I pretended not to believe her so she'd be forced to give me more details. “Now you're just pulling my leg,” I snapped out in a harsh tone as I grabbed the barbell.

“No! I swear every word is true,” and she started reeling off names and details.

Brianese called while his secretary was giving me embarrassing details about internal party relations. I paused the video camera, took her cell phone out of her purse, and held it up to her ear. I used the other hand to point the silenced handgun at her temple.

“Tell him that something unavoidable came up and you're running late. Pull some bullshit and you'll die, and I'll send this lovely piece of video to mommy and daddy, as well as to the press.”

“All right.”

I pushed the button that let her talk to her lover. “Sorry Sante, I had a problem with my car . . . No no, wait for me, I'll be there soon, ciao . . . ciao.”

She hadn't been all that convincing, but there'd been no way of dodging that phone call. I had to move quickly. I turned off her cell phone and put it back in its place.

“Just think how cruel life can be, Ylenia,” I mocked her. “Your beloved is right upstairs, worrying about why you're late, and here you are, just a few feet away, digging him a shallow grave.”

She burst into desperate sobs. I'd committed an error. Now it would be harder to extort information from her, but I already had enough to blackmail the secretary and start negotiations with the Counselor.

I waved the toy ball for dogs in front of her eyes. “Stop it, or I'll plug your mouth and hurt you badly, so very badly.”

“Let me go. I've told you everything.”

“Nonsense. But it's enough for now. I only have a couple more personal questions.”

I started the video camera back up. “How long have you been sleeping with Brianese?”

“Seven years.”

“I'm sure he's the love of your life,” I commented. “Does his wife know about it?”

“I think she does, but she doesn't care. They haven't had sex in years.”

“And just how is the Counselor in bed?”

“Don't ask me that, I beg you.”

“But that's the most interesting part. If you like, I can help you remember,” I said, reaching up to unzip my trousers.

That was enough. She answered every question. She didn't skip the slightest detail. When I turned off the video camera, Brianese had no secrets from me. All that was left were the questions that concerned me directly.

“Why did he decide to ruin me and take away La Nena?”

The answer really caught me by surprise. “He can't pay you the two million euros he owes you.”

“It's not because I broke into his house and got blood all over his raincoat?”

She shook her head. “Sante's drowning in debt.”

“With all the money he can lay his hands on?”

“He's saving his party singlehandedly, laying the foundations for the future, when they'll be able to take back the Veneto.”

“Just where do the Palamaras come from?”

“They're doing construction all across Lombardy, but there's a group of magistrates that are conducting a money laundering investigation. So they decided to move things into the Veneto.”

“How did they first make contact?”

“One of their construction companies won a contract for a new highway. There was bid-rigging involved . . . ”

Ylenia was done. I could stick a fork in her now. It was time to hand her back to her master, lover, mentor, father . . . “So what is a girl from a nice family like yours doing with a corrupt politico like Brianese?”

“Sante's not corrupt,” she retorted indignantly. “It's not his fault that being in politics these days forces him to wallow in the mud. He wants what's best for this country, but he has to deal with reality.”

I'd been right. She was head over heels in love and she had swallowed whole every last tissue of horseshit that the Counselor had foisted off on her. He'd turned her into a docile and useful tool. I was an expert on the subject, so I was pretty sure I wasn't wrong. That's why I took care to avoid mentioning the fact that her beloved Sante had always made ample and regular use of my prostitution ring. He had doubtless told her that he never did anything but accompany others, keeping his dick safe and dry in his trousers, because he loved and desired her and only her. Those were the same words I would have used to hornswoggle her. If I told her the whole truth, it would make the dam burst. Ylenia would be no more use to me. In fact, she'd be a menace.

I patted her on the cheek. “In spite of everything he's done, I'm persuaded that the Counselor is a decent, respectable man myself. That's just one more reason why he should never find out about this little chat we've had. Right?”

I took the key to the apartment out of her purse and made a mould of it in soft plasticine. It could turn out to be useful. I went back into the exercise room and untied her, pushed her into the bathroom, and stuck her under a cold shower. Before leaving the apartment I held the little video camera under her nose. She was a complete mess. Her face was a rigid mask. Both her blouse and skirt were slightly torn and tattered. “I have no idea of what you're going to tell him, but you'd better be convincing.”

I forced her to ride down to the garage with me in the elevator. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and got into the little runabout that Agata, one of the waitresses, had loaned me.

I got back to the restaurant a few minutes after nine. The first round of tables was already being served dessert.

Tortorelli crooked a finger for me to come over to the cash register.

“I'm getting pretty steamed at you,” he hissed.

“You talk like my grandfather.”

“Now you've gone too far. Next week I'm going to tell Giuseppe Palamara about the crap you've pulled. You'll see: he'll cure you of the desire to be a smartass.”

I looked around the dining room. A Pakistani street vendor was making the circuit of the tables, laying flowers on the linen napkins and interrupting the diners' conversations.

“I'm starting to think about selling the place,” I grumbled. “Do you think that Signor Palamara might be interested?”

The bookkeeper changed his attitude and became much more conciliatory. “I have no doubt,” he replied. “Have you already thought about what to do next?”

“Leave town and get into another line of business. My wife has already moved to Germany to take care of her father . . . ”

The shithead nodded understandingly. He was picturing himself running La Nena.

“I guess I could open a pizzeria around Duisburg. I've heard that Signor Palamara knows people in that part of the country.”

The sarcasm was lost on him. “If you like I could talk to him about it.”

“Really? You'd be doing me a favor.”

I made the rounds of the tables, unobtrusively observing his reaction. He appeared to be satisfied and relieved. He expected to receive a pat on the back from his employers and to be given a decent position at last. He'd give up his hotel room and move into an apartment and see if he could find a girlfriend among the clientele. At last, a ray of sunshine in his life. Too bad I'd made other plans for him.

It was a long, tiring evening. My customers could feel spring coming and they felt like staying up late. Before going over to Gemma's house I went home and downloaded the video into my computer. I'd take care of editing it properly later. I'd cut out the questions. Ylenia had been perfect. As long as she didn't cave in and tell Brianese everything. I was pretty sure she wouldn't.