Lust, Money & Murder (32 page)

The one-room flat was depressing, dark, and smelled of stale tobacco. There were two single beds, a battered coffee table, and a wardrobe. A terrible place for two young women to live. At least one side of the room was relatively clean and orderly—there were a few feminine knickknacks scattered around.

“Where’s your sister?” Reggio asked, as he wiped his balding head with his handkerchief.

“She works nights.”

“Oh.” He glanced at her lovely legs as she propped them up on the table, then quickly looked away.

“Would you mind making some coffee?” she said. “You’re probably thirsty, too, after carrying me up all those steps.”

Reggio glanced at his watch. He needed to get home...and he didn’t trust himself with her. He had slipped a few times over the years, but unlike most of the men he knew, he managed to be a faithful husband. He didn’t need this temptation.

Reggio went to the microscopic kitchen nook and prepared the coffee. He poured two cups and brought them back to the living room.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, taking a sip. “Would you mind getting me some aspirin from the bathroom?”

He set his cup down and stepped into the small room. He opened the medicine cabinet, which was all but empty—only a tube of toothpaste, safety razor, and a bottle of aspirin.

Strange.

“How long have you and your sister lived here?” he called, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Just a few days. We haven’t had a chance to move our things from our old flat.”

“I see.” If Reggio hadn’t known better, he would have thought a bachelor lived here, and not a very tidy one at that.

He brought her back the aspirin. As she took one of the tablets, he picked up his coffee and sipped it. The muck tasted terrible, but he was so thirsty from his exertion he downed it in two gulps.

“Well, I really must be going,” he said.

“Would you mind doing just one more thing for me before you leave?”

He sighed. “What’s that?”

“Get me some ice from the refrigerator? I’d like to put some on my ankle to keep it from swelling.”

Reggio stepped into the kitchen nook, retrieved some ice, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and brought it back to her.

“You’re too kind,” she cooed. “I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble...”

“It’s nothing.”

She leaned forward, awkwardly reaching for the ankle strap on her shoe. “Can you help me...?”

Reggio swallowed hard, then knelt in front of her. Why was he doing this? He knew better.

With a shaking hand, he unfastened the strap and slipped off the high-heeled shoe. He stared at the ankle, which was only inches from his face. It didn’t look the least bit swollen. In fact, it was the most beautiful ankle he had ever seen.

Suddenly there were two ankles, then three ankles, then four...

Unable to control his limbs, he fell forward and spastically collapsed on the floor.

* * *

Giorgio Cattoretti emerged from the wardrobe.

“Is he out?”

“Cold,” Polina said, raising one of Reggio’s eyelids. She was a 15-year-old junkie-prostitute Giorgio had found peddling her wares along Viale Renato Serra.

“Hurry up, he won’t stay that way long.”

As Polina stripped out of her clothes, Giorgio quickly retrieved the studio light from under the bed, set up the tripod and umbrella, then pulled out the rest of the props—a couple of teddy bears, a heart-shaped pillow, and some school books—and scattered them around.

“Get him upright,” Giorgio said. They struggled to pull the unconscious man off the floor, then forced him into a kneeling position, using the arm of the couch to support him.

Polina had put on the top of the schoolgirl uniform—a white blouse and black sweater with a red monogrammed insignia. From the waist down, she was stark naked.

She seated herself on the bed directly in front of Reggio, her legs spread apart, her freshly shaved vulva only inches from his face.

Giorgio peered through the camera lens. “That’s good, but put his hand on your thigh...yes. Make sure the wedding ring shows...”

* * *

A week later, Reggio was sitting behind his desk in his office, pouring over financial statements. He had nearly forgotten the unsettling incident with the young blonde. He had woken up alone in her apartment, and wondered if he’d had a stroke—he couldn’t remember anything that happened. The next morning he had gone to the doctor for a checkup, but was told that other than being a bit overweight, he was in excellent physical health.

His secretary buzzed the intercom.

“You have a visitor,” she said. “It’s your nephew.”

“Nephew?” Reggio said. “What nephew?”

There was a pause. “Giorgio.”

“I have no such nephew. Get rid of him.”

A moment later, the intercom buzzed again. Sounding embarrassed, his secretary said, “He says he’s the...” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “...illegitimate son of a relative of yours in Pescara.”

Illegitimate son...Pescara. What was this nonsense?

“Send him in,” Reggio barked. He would teach this numbskull a lesson—some salesmen would say anything to get a foot in the door.

A young, dark-haired man entered his office. He was dressed in a long, expensive-looking overcoat and scarf, woolen slacks, and finely-polished black shoes. A wavering, thick scar ran down his jawline.

“Hello, Reggio,” the man said amiably. There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes that Reggio could not quite interpret.

He had an envelope in his hand. He slid it across the desk.

Puzzled, Reggio opened it. When he saw the glossy black and white photographs, he gasped and shoved them back inside.

He stared at the dark figure in his office. “W-who are you?”

The man smiled. “My name is Giorgio Cattoretti. I am your new business partner.”

CHAPTER 3.7

Over the next ten years, Giorgio Cattoretti developed DayPrinto into the largest fake designer fashion goods operation in Europe. Reggio Martino was bought out. As it grew, the Cat used the profits to buy a dozen other businesses, all related to his counterfeiting operations. A textile factory, a trucking firm, a plant that made adhesives, a manufacturer of buttons and shoe-soles.

He loved working in the center of the world’s fashion industry. Like many Southern Italian men, he had a penchant for tall, rail-thin natural blondes, the exact opposite of the type of women he grew up around in Rome. He dated some of the most striking young models in the industry—Finns, Russians, Swedes, Belgians, Polish—bedding them down one after another with his charm and his dark good looks. Life was grand. He thought of his younger days back in Rome with great satisfaction, when he loitered on Via Veneto in his scruffy clothes and all the chic, well-dressed women looked down their noses at him.

Let them look down their noses at me now
, he often thought.

* * *

The Cattoretti conglomerate grew and the various divisions achieved an enviable synergy. Each supported Cattoretti’s illegal activities, keeping costs of goods low and profits high. At the same time, each protected the other, the continued legitimate activities holding the Italian authorities at bay.

Cattoretti became an expert manager of people. He saw himself as a kind of artist—he viewed his businesses as his canvas, his employees as his palette. He reduced turnover to zero by paying his people 50% more than they could earn anywhere else.

He owned all the companies outright, through a spiderweb of offshore holding companies that became more and more complex.

The Cat took no partners.

* * *

One of the first things that Cattoretti did, when he started making good money, was take care of some “loose ends” back in the USA.

The first of the three Attica rapists, who had been released shortly after Cattoretti had been deported, was found floating in the Hudson River, his severed penis tightly sewn into his mouth with fishing line. Cattoretti was delighted to hear that the New York City coroner had determined that the grotesque “surgery” had been performed while the man was still alive.

The second rapist was found in his prison cell with one of the guards’ billy clubs shoved so far up his rectum that he died of internal injuries.

The third was found in a Bronx playground one morning, beaten severely about the head and neck. His testicles were missing. They were later discovered in his stomach.

Joey Russo, Vito, and two of his men died in an explosion. It occurred in the Hudson Bay, at night.

On a motorboat.

* * *

Cattoretti was particularly thrilled when he got his hands on a shipping company that owned a dozen container vessels. While he never forgot his enemies, he also never forgot his friends—especially the people who helped him, and were kind to him.

The day he took control of the company, he began to track down Anders, his Swedish crewmate on the
Bianca
so many years ago.

It took him three months, but he finally reached Anders, at a hotel in Trieste.

“Anders, this is Giorgio Cattoretti. Do you remember me?”

There was a long silence. Then: “Giorgio! My god...you cocky bastard. How long has it been? Ten years?”

“Twelve.”

“Are you still in America?”

“No. I live in Italy now. And you?”

“Still a crewmember on the
Bianca
. Believe it or not.” He sounded a little embarrassed. “So, did you get your fleet of container ships?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Now there was an even longer silence.

“Anders, I never forget my friends. I’m calling you because I want you to be captain of the largest vessel.”

* * *

When Cattoretti reached his 35th birthday, he decided it was time to marry. He had already reestablished his relationship with his family and had bought his parents an elegant apartment in Rome. He asked his mother to help him find a suitable bride.

He was soon set up with Isabella Scarso, a plain, well-mannered young woman who worked as a bookkeeper in a large department store. There were no great sparks between them. On their third date, Cattoretti knew she was the perfect wife for him.

They were at an expensive restaurant and enjoyed a long, luxurious dinner. After dessert, he slid a small jewelry box across the table to her. “Isabella,” he said sincerely, “I think you are a wonderful woman. I want you to be my wife. If you agree, you will live in security and comfort the rest of your days. Our children will attend the finest schools and will be raised like royalty. But...” he motioned to her. “...I will only spend a few days each month here in Rome. My business is in the north, in Milano. When I am in Rome, I am one hundred percent yours. When I am away, I belong to no one.” He paused. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Giorgio, of course.”

* * *

By the time Cattoretti was 45, he became bored with the knockoff designer clothing business. He decided he wanted to take on the ultimate counterfeiting challenge—making fake paper money.

He started with the Euro, but then switched to the American dollar. Counterfeiting American money gave him greater satisfaction, knowing that, in his own small way, he was hurting the government of the country that had treated him so shabbily.

He acquired new printing presses and modified them, but he soon discovered that he would never make a high quality counterfeit U.S. $100 bill without actually using one of the intaglio sheet-fed presses made by KBA Giori, in Germany. But it was impossible for anyone but official government printing offices to buy them.

Cattoretti applied all his experience and know-how to the problem. He considered building one of the machines from spare parts, but the sale of spare parts for the Giori presses were reported to Interpol.

Cattoretti learned that the KBA Giori plant was located in Wurzburg, Germany, on the railroad line. The printing presses were carefully packed and loaded directly onto trains bound for northern Germany, where they were either air-freighted or sent by container ship to their final destinations.

Cattoretti finally concluded that the only way to get his hands on a KBA Giori press was to steal one of them. And the only way he could do that, and get away with it, was when the machine was in transit, when it was between the Giori factory and the purchaser.

He considered trying to have his shipping company certified as a KBA-approved vendor, but that would take far too long and might raise suspicion.

There were other ways, ways that were more certain and with which he had much more experience.

* * *

Cattoretti began to go to Germany often, traveling to Wurzburg under false documents and posing as a distributor of auto parts for Italian cars. KBA Giori was the largest employer in the little city of Wurzburg—it seemed virtually everyone worked at the factory. The place had tighter security than the Vatican.