In a Heartbeat (26 page)

The bar was the same as fourteen years ago. There were hard-boiled eggs under a glass display and slices of cake in plastic wrappers. The dirty ceiling fans hadn’t changed and neither had the stench of rancid beer. The tables were the same as when I had met Max, that bastard, and placed the same way: so tightly that it was impossible not to bump into your neighbour behind you.

Oreste’s wife waited on clients. She’d turned into a whale with dyed hair and looked like she’d been crying. Customers were few: a couple of Arabs dressed like metal-heads and a guy with no teeth sucking on a meatball. In my dream, Oreste’s welcome was festive; in reality it was notably less so.

‘Look who’s here,’ he said. He seemed exhausted. ‘Ten minutes we close,’ he said to the others.

‘So soon?’ protested the young Arab. ‘It’s not even eleven.’

‘I’ve had enough for tonight and it’s not like you’re making me rich.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Trafficante, if you want to drink, you can drink standing.’

‘If you always treat your customers like this then don’t complain if they don’t come back. Just give me a cognac.’

‘I don’t have any.’

‘What about a beer?’

‘Good choice, something quick and easy that doesn’t cause a hassle.’ He took out a bottle of Stella from the fridge and popped it open with his thumb.

I drank from the bottle. It was warm. ‘Oreste, we have to talk.’

He looked at me. ‘Make it quick.’ Then he said to the guy who was sucking the meatball, ‘Hey, no smoking, how many times do I have to tell you?’

Outside in the back of the bar there was just enough space for two rubbish bins and a cat going through them. I sat on the step and lit a cigarette. Oreste was drying his hands on his apron.

‘Is it OK to smoke here?’

‘Don’t mess with me.’

‘Is your name Giovanni Esposito?’

‘And so what?’

‘Everybody calls you Oreste.’

He lit the butt of a Toscano cigar that he’d taken from his jacket pocket. ‘When I bought the bar in ’76, it was already called Oreste’s. I tried to explain that in the beginning, but no one gave a damn. It was the same with the guy who used to sell me mozzarella for toast. The brand was Lodovico, and they called him Lodovico, because it was printed on the car. They even put it in his obituary: “Joe Bloggs aka Lodovico”. So what’s up?’

‘I have to talk to Manzi.’

I was expecting a surprised expression that would’ve meant keep on looking but Oreste shook his head. ‘You just missed him. Did you see the cops who were here before? They got him. What the hell was he thinking hiding out at his sister’s place with the cops out looking for him? He must’ve been stupid. He didn’t even tell me anything about it. The bastard just said that he was staying over while they were painting his house. Painters, my arse, damn him.’

‘Is Manzi your brother-in-law?’

‘What’s wrong with you? I told you that when I gave you the phone number. I don’t know why he wanted to be a
private detective
in the first place. He was a cobbler his whole life then all of a sudden he changed his job.’

‘A cobbler?’

‘Yeah, a frigging shoemaker.’

‘A what?’

‘He made shoes. Are you deaf?’

‘Esposito is a southern Italian name, isn’t it?’

‘Listen here, you prick, I was born at the Magolfa.’ The Magolfa was round the corner from the bar. Oreste hadn’t moved much in his life. ‘Anyway my brother-in-law had a shoe shop in Porta Genova called Ciabattino Lampo. I told him to keep it going, it was a good job, but he didn’t listen. God knows why they even gave him the license.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are the cheques good?’

‘Do you have them?’

‘Yeah.’

Spillo had mentioned that they were
people who appreciate discretion.
Damn, the Ad Exec didn’t get one thing right! I thought Spillo’s hands were those of a killer; instead he’d got his hands from his job. He stitched and made leather uppers. The Ad Exec had been out of the scene for a while, and Oreste had seemed like the logical choice. He knew everybody, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut. It’s too bad that he had a brother-in-law who had screwed everything up.

‘It’s better that you wait until the end of the month to cash them.’

‘I thought so. Let’s go back inside. The beer’s on me, but don’t get used to it.’

‘Thanks.’

We went back inside. The only one left was the guy with the meatball, which was still there, whole, on the table. Oreste would probably put it back in the display window.

‘We’re closing!’ he yelled.

‘See you later, Oreste. I don’t think that we’ll be seeing each other anytime soon.’

‘I hope not. It’s better to get rid of bad luck as soon as possible.’

The guy with the meatball grabbed my coat. ‘You’re Trafficante, aren’t you?’ he mumbled.

‘Never heard of him.’

I shook him off but he grabbed again. ‘You don’t recognize me? It’s Alfredo.’

‘Like I give a damn.’

‘C’mon man, you used to always come over to my place! Alfredo!’ He opened his mouth showing his gums. ‘My face has changed since I lost my teeth.’

This time I looked at him more carefully. It was more of a shock than seeing Ines. She had always been unlucky but Alfredo, wrapped in his silk Chinese dragon robes and his pad full of lights and music … I tried to rewind the film as I stared at his face, filling his sagging cheeks, giving colour to his yellow skin. I put back his black curly hair where there were now a few strands sprouting from his head, as well as the brightness of his eyes. The trick helped for a second and then it clashed with the reality of the miserable wretch who was in front of me. Compared to him I was a god and he told me so.

‘Trafficante, you look good, man. Check you out! You’re in great shape! C’mon, let’s go and have a few drinks and talk. C’mon … ’

I accepted. I was still a little blown away by the whole thing. The Ad Exec’s friends all seemed to have poles up their arses while mine were devastated by life. I needed a third option.

Besides being a stinking mess Milan had now become a pathetic place. The old
osterie
hadn’t changed their names, but they all seemed like hotel restaurants now. To find somewhere decent we had to walk twenty minutes, until we got to the Parrot Bar. It was a windowless place on one of the side streets in the Navigli district.

It was a cheap meat market bar but at least it hadn’t come out of a plastic mould.

‘Do you want to score some coke?’ asked Alfredo before going in.

‘Do you have any?’

‘If only. It’s not like it used to be, but I know where to get it. Do you see those guys in the car?’ There was a car parked with four Africans inside. ‘They sell it. I know them. Do you have a fifty on you?’

I gave him a note and he snatched it from my hand and ran to the car. I watched him talk through the window. Then he came back skipping on his spindly chicken legs. We finished the gram that we cut badly on a car boot. In my current state of mind I didn’t give a damn if anyone saw me. Alfredo certainly didn’t care. The coke tasted like trash and formed a ball of powder and snot in my throat. But the little coke that was there went into my bloodstream and relaxed my nerves, making me feel a little less scared. When we went in I was in a great mood. A guitarist played some Gypsy Kings on a small stage while two Brazilian hookers danced with a pair of wasted losers.

We sat at the table furthest from the speakers. I told some slut who tried to sit on my lap to get off, and I ordered cocktails. They came covered with pieces of pineapple and paper umbrellas. If you took off the stuff that was on them and the ice that was in them, there was enough booze for two sips. Another round. It seemed like the first decent night that Alfredo had had in a long time. Come to think of it, the same went for me. For the first time in a long time I felt that I had something in common with another human being. I knew it was the coke, but I enjoyed it anyway.

Clicking his fingers to the music, Alfredo told me about his life. He dealt for a while and then, about a year after the last time I had seen him, he got a visit from Anti-Mafia agents.

‘Why the Anti-Mafia?’

‘They said that I was working with the Schiavone clan from Caserta. I told them that I didn’t know anything and that I was never affiliated with any family. I was just a simple businessman. You can say that I’m a dealer, fine, but to say that I was part of the Camorra is something else altogether. It’s not my damn business what my suppliers do or where they get their merchandise.’ He ordered another round. ‘This coke that’s around dries your throat.’

‘No kidding.’

‘The majority of the traffic is managed by the Calabrese clan and they use Africans to sell. What the hell, an Italian can’t make a living anymore. Now there are these Africans, Albanians, Russians and Chinese bastards. Can you imagine that only a few years ago these pricks only sold contraband cigarettes and now they’re everywhere? They don’t respect anybody, and now you can’t even get contraband smokes anymore! What was I talking about?’

‘They arrested you.’

‘Oh, yeah, I told the judge that I didn’t know anything about the war between clans, but there was a rat who said he knew everything about everybody. He said he’d kept track of what, when and where I dealt. You know, they never even said who he was. Never. Even at the trial he wasn’t there. He only spoke on the phone and even his voice was … altered. I didn’t say a damn thing. I said that what they’d found was for personal use. The judge said, “So you’re saying that half a kilo of cocaine, one thousand pills of LSD and one hundred grams of amphetamines were for personal use?” And I said, “I’m a man of many vices your honour, and it wasn’t LSD, it was ecstasy, get your facts straight!” ’

He laughed. ‘They even took apart my house. Shit! They ruined my vintage pinball machines that were worth a bundle! But even if they’d taken them apart like they did with the rest of my stuff they wouldn’t have found anything. They never even found a shred of proof that showed where I got my supply and who I gave it to. What am I, a piece of shit? They gave me a first-degree charge for international drug trafficking; I got a reduced sentence on appeal. I got eight years in San Vittore Prison and a few on parole. It’s only been two years since I’ve been totally free.’

‘How do you get by?’

‘Barely. I get disability allowance and I live with my sister but shit, Trafficante, if I had a chance I’d take it, no questions. What do I care? I’ve got nothing to lose. You got anything for me? I see that life’s been good to you.’

‘I’m retired, Alfredo.’

‘I imagined as much. You made a good decision, man. It’s not worth it. One day I’m going to get a stick of dynamite and go to the bank. If they give me the money, good. If they don’t, I’ll blow myself up along with every bastard around me.’ The hookers had finished dancing and were trying to pick up the two drunks. One of the two didn’t seem interested. The other was too wasted to bother.

I pondered my question and thought,
Trafficante, you’ve got enough problems as it is. Forget about it.
After thinking again, I couldn’t resist. ‘Alfredo, have you seen Max?’

‘At Due’ – the street number for San Vittore Prison.

‘Did they arrest him?’

‘You don’t know? Oh, yeah, word got around that you two had a falling out.’

‘
Falling out
is nowhere near strong enough, but please go on.’

‘He lost his mind. He was already out there, but he was even worse after he got the shit beat out of him.’

‘I thought that you did it.’

‘Why? You paid Max’s debt, remember? I stopped giving him credit, so he went to somebody else who didn’t think twice about roughing him up. He was chilled for a while, then he started screwing up again and at that point … he was in and out of Due like a yo-yo. The bastard began robbing chemists. One night the cashier moved wrong, and Max split his head open. The security camera got him. By the time he was home the cops were there waiting for him.’

‘Is he out now?’

‘Since he got AIDS … ’

‘AIDS?’ Shit.

‘It was the needles … his lawyer got him out to a treatment centre someplace out in the country where he was milking cows and stuff like that. Imagine how much fun that must’ve been! Do you want another drink?’

‘Yeah. Do you remember the name of the place?’

My head was clicking; I was missing the final piece.

Alfredo had it. ‘I don’t know … something with the church … wait I got it … Holy Blood, something like that.’

It all clicked.

3

We left the Parrot Bar when it closed at 4am. Alfredo left with a Brazilian who was a third his age, paid for by me. I smoked the last cigarette on the street while the buzz of the blow disappeared. My brain floated in booze. Max. Still that prick. Him again. Voices laughed and sang to the rhythm of my footsteps on the tarmac, the soundtrack to the film in my head.
Trafficante Productions Presents: Max’s Story.