Black Run (11 page)

“How's it going?”

“It's going,” Rocco replied. “What do you say?”

“You guys made a mess.”

“Farinelli, come to the point. My right leg hurts, my feet are frozen, I'm smoking a cigarette that tastes like iron, and I have no time to waste. Is there anything I would be interested to know?”

“This.”

He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket. Inside were a number of indistinct particles, small and black. They looked like gnats smashed onto a windshield.

“What's that stuff?”

“Tobacco. There was a fair amount of it, you see?”

“Tobacco?”

“Now we're going to look into it and try to find out more.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” Rocco knew that that kind of analysis took forever—biblical amounts of time. And he also knew that if you don't catch the killer in the first forty-eight hours, then it's too late. “Marlboro Light. The corpse had a pack in his pocket. He smoked it.”

“Ah. Well. He smoked it. In that case . . .” and he put the baggie back into his pocket. “Someone peed on the tree next to the crime scene. We collected the urine.”

“Throw it away.”

Farinelli looked at Rocco, tilting his head to one side, as if he hadn't heard him right.

“That was Officer Casella.”

Farinelli looked crestfallen. “There were a bunch of footprints, but I'll bet that if we run it all to ground we'll find it was all your guys' shoes.”

“Mine are easy to identify.” Rocco lifted his foot and pointed to it. “I'm the only one wearing Clarks desert boots.”

“Those are Clarks?”

“Yeah, they used to be.”

“They look like your feet are wrapped in rags. I'm going to have to report to the judge.”

“Do as you think best.”

“Do you want to come, and we can report together?”

“No, I've got things to do.”

“Listen, Schiavone, I don't give a damn about how you do things. I like to follow procedure.”

“Good for you, go on following it. But did you happen to take a look at the corpse?”

Farinelli nodded a couple of times while Rocco discarded his cigarette butt. “I cleaned under his fingernails,” the assistant commissioner said.

“Bravo
. And what did you find?”

“Nothing. There was no struggle, no fight. Just traces of a black fabric, but . . .” Farinelli bent over. He had a black combination-lock briefcase on the ground. He opened it. “We found all kinds of things under the snowcat's tillers. Shreds of clothing, blood, vomit, a couple of teeth, and even this stuff here.”

He pulled out another plastic bag. Inside it was the finger of a black glove. The man from the forensics team stood up and showed the exhibit to the deputy police chief.

“What's left of a glove. And I'm pretty sure that the fibers that the guy had under his fingernails belong to this one. It's leather. Now I'm trying to find out the model and brand.”

“Don't bother; I already know. This is a leather ski glove, made by Colmar. We found the other one next to the corpse.”

“Is it important?” Farinelli asked, looking Rocco in the eye.

“It's fundamental.”

He'd turned off his cell phone. Now, under a dark, starless sky, wrapped in his loden overcoat, with a new pair of Clarks desert boots on his feet, Rocco Schiavone was in Piazza Manzetti, outside the train station. He'd left his car double-parked and had shouted at a traffic cop who wanted to point out the fact to him. Sebastiano's train was coming in about half an hour late.

He finally heard the sound of train wheels screeching on the rails. He flicked his cigarette away and walked into the station. There weren't many people. The Café de la Gare was empty and was about to lock up for the night. But that didn't matter: he had no desire to drink anything, not even an espresso. He just wanted to wrap his arms around Sebastiano, take him somewhere to have some dinner together, and talk about the good old days.

He saw him climb down from the passenger car. Powerful, tall, with the briefcase of a traveling salesman, his beard still full and his hair curly and unruly. Sebastiano, in Rocco's mental zoological classification, was an
Ursus arctos horribilis
, an ugly scientific name for the grizzly bear. He was placid, handsome, and big, but he was also very, very dangerous. Rocco stood under the streetlight, in plain sight, and waited for him. As soon as Sebastiano recognized him, he smiled and hastened his step, even though he'd bought himself a pair of boots that must have weighed about 150 pounds.

They hugged without a word.

Sebastiano insisted on going to the Trattoria degli Artisti Pam Pam. It was recommended by the Gambero Rosso restaurant guide, the one book he always carried with him, and there were plenty of positive comments online. Over a cutting board of salumi with mocetta goat ham and a bottle of Le Crete, Sebastiano and Rocco finally caught up.

“So how are you?”

“You see, Seba, I'm feeling like the guy who has three of a kind playing against someone with a royal flush.”

“Like shit,” Sebastiano summed up.

“That's right. How about you?”

Sebastiano popped a slice of prosciutto into his mouth and swallowed it. “Rome just isn't Rome anymore. It's been a while since it was last Rome. I hate it. We all hate it. Speaking of which, Furio and Brizio and Cerveteri all send their regards.”

“How are they?” asked Rocco, a sweet smile of homesickness on his lips.

“Brizio's struggling with alimony payments and a pack of lawyers, Furio's opened two places that have slot machines, and Cerveteri seems to be on to something good in America.”

“Still dealing in Etruscan shit?”

“No. Now he's moved over to paintings. After the whole episode with the stolen vase by Euphronios that was sold to that American museum with all the ruckus in the press, that's a risky line of business, and you can't make a euro in it anymore.”

“Sure.” Rocco forked a slice of speck and shoved it straight into his mouth. “Why do you say Rome isn't Rome anymore?”

“Why? The people. When we were little and we used to play in San Cosimato, when it was time for lunch or dinner you'd hear: ‘Mario! Come home and eat! And if you don't get up here this very minute we're going to have a serious conversation, damn it to the place you know well!' ”

“That's right. And if I skinned my knee, Mamma gave me something to cry about.”

“These days there are no more kids out in the street. And if their mother has to call them, she'll say: ‘Enrico, fucking hell! If you don't get up here right this second, I'll smash your face in!' ” Sebastiano gave his friend a sad look. “You understand? A mother who tells her son that she's going to smash his face in. It's just depressing. And you know why? Because no one has a penny anymore. Everyone's pissed off, choking on debt, asphyxiated by all the cars and the tour buses that park in front of your windows with the engine running. While if you try to park your own car but you don't have the special permit, then the next thing you know you've got a hundred-euro ticket under your windshield wiper. Then there's another thing that's just heartbreaking.” Sebastiano poured himself half a glass of wine and drained it at a single gulp. “Old men. You go to a market. Any one you care to name: Trastevere, Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Crati. And wait for closing time to roll around. Even before the trash trucks, they show up: the old men. Some of them dressed in a suit and tie, can you believe it? They come around with their plastic shopping bags and collect the fruit and vegetables, still edible. And these aren't bums, Rocco. They're retired people. People who worked their whole lives. People who ought to be home playing with their grandchildren, reading, watching TV. Instead, there they are, rain or shine, gathering up old cabbages and fennels.”

Rocco nodded. “I know, Sebastiano, I know.” He tossed back the wine in his glass. “I know all that. I haven't been gone all that long, you know? It's been four months.”

“And another thing, Rocco, my friend: the ones who are in charge these days are the gypsies. But not the ones who live in trailers. The ones with villas in the country and penthouse apartments in the center of the city.”

“They've always been in charge,” Rocco replied, looking into his friend's eyes—bovine, calm, and untroubled. Seba was a guy who never stopped complaining. Not since they'd first met, the very first day of elementary school. The bow on the front of their school uniform was made of nylon, and it smelled bad. The collar was too tight and cut into his neck. The covers of their textbooks came off. The blue pen and the red pen both ran out of ink. And even the Our Father Who Art in Heaven, which they had to recite every morning before lessons, was just too long—plus the “we forgive those who trespass against us” part had never made sense to him. But now Rocco could see an odd nostalgia in his friend's eyes.
Maybe it's his gray hair
, he thought,
or maybe it's something else I'll find out about tomorrow.
But it struck him as the expression you'd see on the face of someone about to give up and surrender. Someone about to throw in the towel.

“I want to get out,” Sebastiano went on, “but now is still too soon. What about you?”

“For now I'm here. I'm waiting. It'll be a while yet. But if nothing shakes loose, maybe we're going to have to start doing the shaking ourselves.”

“At least this is a nice, quiet little city, isn't it?”

“That's what it looked like. But just now, a corpse popped out of nowhere. A Sicilian. Someone killed him up on the ski slopes.”

“Was it an accident?”

“Not on your life. Murder.”

“Well, that's a pain in the ass.”

“A first-class pain,” Rocco agreed. “You staying at my place?”

“No. I reserved a hotel. I'll just be here for a couple of days.”

Rocco didn't ask. He already knew that as soon as Sebastiano was done pouring the wine, he'd talk.

And in fact his friend started telling the story.

“All right, Rocco, it's all pretty simple. It's a truck that crosses the border. It's transporting exotic furniture. It comes from Rotterdam and it's heading for Turin.”

“When?”

“At night, the day after tomorrow. There's going to be a crate in the truck. I have the measurements. On it is written
CHANT NUMBER 4
. That's very close to the name of a song by Spandau Ballet.”

“So what's inside this crate?”

“Mary Jane.”

“How much marijuana?”

“A few kilos.”

Rocco added some numbers in his head. “Where did you get the information?”

“From Ernst.”

“And you trust the German?”

“Not much. But what do we have to lose?”

“So how's this going to go? What do you have in mind?”

“Simple. Let's say we stop the truck, we check the cargo, we discover the shit, and you take the guy in. And a certain amount of it makes it to police headquarters. It's not like they're going to stand there and weigh it, right?”

“Where are we going to put the leftovers?”

“I'll take care of that. I'll take it down to Rome.”

“How much would come to me?”

“Thirty thousand euros.”

“Net?”

“Net. Like always. I'll give the money to the lawyer and he'll take care of it.”

Rocco nodded. “Sure, sure. I'd gladly skip all this shit, but . . . fine. You and me?”

“You and me. In plain clothes,” Sebastiano replied.

“How many drivers?”

“I don't know, Rocco.”

“If it's coming from Rotterdam, there's a chance that there'll be two of them. On long trips, they drive in shifts.”

The waiter came to the table and Rocco and Sebastiano fell silent. With a smile, the young man removed the cutting board, now empty, on which he'd brought the salumi. “Have you gentlemen made up your minds?”

“Yes,” said Sebastiano, who'd studied the menu and memorized it. “Two Valdostana veal chops and a polenta concia, which we're going to do in two.”

The waiter gave him a blank look. Sebastiano clarified the point: “We're going to do in two—that means we're going to split it.”

“Ah. Very good.”

“For the wine, bring us a relaxed red. But dry. Otherwise, what with the fontina, the butter, and the eggs, it'll never cut through the flavors.”

“Understood,” said the attentive waiter. “I'll bring you an Enfer d'Arvier.”

“Excellent!” said Sebastiano with a smile. With a slight bow, the waiter disappeared. “If the way they cook is as good as the salumi and the wine, then this place is heaven on earth.”

“It's not as good, Sebastia'. It's better!”

“Back to us,” Sebastiano resumed. “So, you say that there might be two drivers. So what do you suggest?”

“I thought a uniform could do the trick.”

“We need someone we can trust. You have someone?”

Rocco thought it over. “Maybe I do. Can we spare thirty-five hundred?”

“I can put in fifteen hundred and you put in two thousand?”

“Done. I'll let you know by tomorrow.”

They drank to their agreement. Then they got started on the more serious business.

“How's the pussy around here?” asked Sebastiano.

“Good. There's plenty.”

“So what am I going to do tonight?”

Rocco reached a hand into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and took out a card. “Here. When I first moved here it was useful. They cost 150, and they'll come to your room.”

Sebastiano took the card. “But are they Italian girls?”

“It depends. If you're lucky, yes. If not, usually Moldovan.”

“Good. They won't talk. You say 150 euros? That seems fair.”