Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1)

All characters, incidents and places in this novel are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, events, and places is a product of the reader’s imagination.

Copyright 2014, 2015 by Pete Pescatore

He burst in the door, threw out his arms and flashed the old killer salesman smile. “Pete! You look wonderful! Milan treating you good?” He hustled right up to me, grabbed my hand and clamped both of his around it. “No. Don’t tell me. You got somebody new— she keeping you busy, Pete. Good man.”

“Long time no see, Gigi.” Older now, dark hair gone white, his face cracked and rutted like a river run dry. “What’s it been, five years?”

“Too long, too long.” He released my hand and let the smile fade. “Something to drink?”

We settled on coffee. Espresso. He stirred in sugar and took the shot in one gulp. I let mine sit. No sugar. No milk.

“Listen, Pete.” He dropped a hand on my shoulder and leaned in close to whisper. “Everything gonna be all right. Big money coming in soon.”

“Glad to hear it.” I downed the coffee. The past was flooding in and my nerves were telling me to get out, fast. Leave, Pescatore. Stay away from this guy. “What do you want?”

“You still close to the press, right? London? Rome?”

Sure, Gigi. Like all I had to do was pick up the phone and the papers would throw up a front-page story.

“What do you need?”

The smile was back. “Can you get me the FT?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He shifted his weight, rocked back and leaned in again, a finger stabbing my chest. “It’s a big deal, Pete. You come back to Lugano, we make big money like you never seen.”

“No.”

He backed away. “I always said you were smart, and you’re a gambler, like me—”

“Sorry, Gigi.”

He leaned in again. “Pete, Pete, the deal is done. I just need some help with the press, that’s all.” He wiped a big hand across his mouth, propped up the smile and said, “You’re the man.”

“A man with no story.”

He took a deep breath. “Big story, Pete. Big, big, big.”

“I’m happy for you.” It was crazy. In my head I was already out the door, but a part of me wanted to help him. “The Arabs finally come through, or what?”

“No, no. Better than that. Much better.” He shook his head. “I can’t give you the details. Not yet. Just… trust me.” Dead serious, eyes locked on mine, closing the deal. “I come to you, Pete. Not just anybody. You.”

I took a breath and held his gaze. Nobody ever said no to Gigi. I straightened up. “I can’t help you.”

The smile fell off his face. He slapped it back up and pushed on. “All right, Pete, you need to see the money, I understand. Soon as it comes in, I call you, okay? And you call the papers, sell them the story, make sure they get it right.”

Like he hadn’t heard a word I said. I heaved a sigh. “All right, Gigi. Call me when the money comes in. I’ll see what I can do.”

He nodded, relieved, leaned in and lowered his voice, “If something happen, you know where the safe is.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Come on, Pete.”

I closed my eyes. He grabbed my hand, slapped something into it and folded my fingers into a fist.

“Open, Sesame,” he said.

I opened my eyes. His hands tightened over my fist. “Keep your eye on, eh?” He let go of me, winked and was gone.

I opened my fist to see what he’d left me. Enough for the coffee? Wrong. A key. And a pair of earrings. I felt the blood drain away from my face, slammed a hand to the bar to steady myself. My gut tensed up and the anger exploded and I saw her again—Eva, with Gigi, leaning into his arms, whispering, laughing. It took me a couple of minutes to cool, then I slipped the earrings and the key in a pocket and walked out into the cold.

Ten days later the man was dead. When Johnny called and told me, I said, “Good.”

Ten years ago. The Swiss run a watch fair in Basel every year and I was up there to see a few clients. One of them had a customer willing to talk. Man by the name of Luigi Goldoni.

We shook hands and strolled into the restaurant, a ritzed-up locale in dark wood and white linen overlooking the river. I took a good look at him while he studied the menu. Dark eyes fiery and full of life, eagle-beak nose and a broad, toothy smile. His clothes were custom, Italian, impeccable. He waved in the waiter, ordered for both of us and turned back to me. “I love wine, women and watches,” he said, lowering his voice, like there was something shady about the whole thing, some kind of illicit, irresistible pleasure. “Look.” He pulled up his sleeve to show me the watch he had strapped to his wrist. “Two hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs.”

“Nice,” I said. Diamond-studded silver dial, diamonds on the bezel and the platinum case. I did what I could to look impressed. “Amazing. Cool.”

“It’s a Breguet,” he said, and sat back, content. “Napoleon had one.”

The diamonds flashed while we talked about watches over roast baby goat and a bottle of red that hit me like a shot of holy water. A Barolo ‘88. My brain went soft and I couldn’t stop grinning. When the goat was gone he ordered cognac, sniffed it and held the glass to the light, brought it back, took a sip and purred, “You seem like a pretty smart guy, Pescatore.”

I nodded. I thought so. I smiled.

“So why aren’t you rich?”

I dropped the smile.

He laughed. “I know you want it. Everybody wants it.” He jacked up his eyebrows, threw out his arms and broke softly into song. “Money make the worl’ go round … ” Heads turned in disapproval. Someone hissed. He fell silent, shook his head and signaled for the bill.

Out in the cold stone streets of Basel I thanked him for the interview, said I’d send him a copy when it showed up in print and handed him my card. “If you ever need a copywriter, give me a call.”

He squinted at the small green print on the card. “Pietro Pescatore. Food. Wine. Watches.” He looked up, unfurled another smile, squeezed my arm and said, “I’ll call you.”

We shook hands and he waved and walked away.

The next morning I climbed on a train to Milan, wrote up the story about him and his watch and forgot about Gigi Goldoni.

Three or four years went by before he called me out of the blue, looking for a writer who wanted to get rich. I said that writer would be me. He said come see him in Lugano.

I took the train up the next day, an hour and a half from Milan Central Station. It stopped in Como, again at the border in Chiasso and finally in Lugano. He was waiting at the station in a vintage Daimler, drove us to the office at the Villa Sofia, sat me on the sofa and laid out the deal.

I’d had a taste of money, back in Los Angeles ages ago. Like every other kid in town at the time, I was in love with the movies and figured I’d write one—how hard could it be? So I did, got lucky and sold it. Next day I quit the job at the paper, blew the money on a Moto Guzzi and sat back to wait for the Oscar.

Smart move, Pescatore. I was back on the crime beat inside a year.

So now here’s this Italian guy, charming as hell, telling me he’s going to make me rich. He’s got money, he says, a boatload of cash. He’s pouring it into his companies, start-ups with a future in cyberspace. He needs a writer, he says. Someone who can slap a good sentence together, explain the technology, spotlight the gold in every idea.

“Everybody wants to get rich overnight,” he said. “My job—and yours—is to feed the dream. Make it seem real, make them taste it.”

“I can do that.”

“I know, I know.” He grabbed my hand in both of his, rolled out a slow, expansive smile and said, “Why do you think you’re here?”

Sold!
To the sucker in the dark blue suit. I sighed, loosened my tie, sat back and said, “What’s in it for me?”

“Options.”

I sat up.

“Shares,” said Gigi. “Enough to make you a millionaire. All you have to do is wait.”

He explained how it worked. If I stuck around for a couple of years I’d have money—real money. Maybe not money like Eva had, but more than I was getting as a freelance hack. I could lift my head and look her in the eye.

I didn’t say no. Nobody ever said no to Gigi.   

My first day at work he gave me the car, a wine-red Alfa Romeo. I drove the hell out of it for three or four years, racing up from Milan to the Villa Sofia. I’d work all day and roar home to Eva every night. Well, more or less every night. Once in a while if it got too late I’d stay the night at a place on the lake about a half hour south of Lugano.

The tram screeched to a stop and shook me awake to a cold gray day in Milan. Johnny had called at six with the news and told me to pack a bag. The tram doors flapped open. I grabbed the bag, swung down off the step and stood for a moment at the gritty brick wall around the old barracks where the
Carabinieri
kept their horses. I waited for the tram to pull away, jay-walked over the road and pushed on into the bar.

By way of hello I said something dumb about the weather—rain one day, blue sky the next, freezing cold the day after that. Like the city couldn’t make up its bloody mind if it was winter or the rainy season or what. The barman nodded and goosed his machine, all black and shiny with chrome steel spouts and gleaming nozzles. He snagged the filter, knocked out the grounds, packed it and racked it and hit a black button. Red lights blipped and the thing began to hiss and moan. He slid a cup in under a spout, looked up and said, “
Corretto
?”

I was tempted, bad, but it was early for a drink and I didn’t want Johnny sniffing around when I showed up to talk about work. On a table by the window I found a paper and flipped through the first few pages. Nothing on Gigi. Not yet. I took a deep breath. My nerves were not good, not after the news. Head shot. Blew his brains out.

I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t picture him doing it. Not Gigi.

Maybe a
grappa
would do me good after all. The barman plucked the cup from under the spout, moved it to a saucer and slid it over the counter.

“
Ho cambiato idea
,” I said. Changed my mind. He nodded, snagged a bottle from under the bar and splashed a shot in my cup. I tossed back the coffee laced with
grappa
, took another deep breath, paid and walked out into the cold. Just up the street was the dark brick building where Johnny Buttafuoco had set up shop.

I found the street door propped open with a mop in a bucket so I went on in and punched the button for the elevator. It was a beautiful machine, maybe eighty years old with a dark wood cabin that creaked and groaned as it sank down the shaft. I waited for the dull thump and clack when it stopped, pulled open the doors and stepped inside. Even on a bad day the thing made me feel like somebody somewhere cared about something. I got out on the second floor. A polished brass plaque screwed into the door read
CNI Milano
. I pushed in, hung my coat on the rack and walked on down the hall.

I could hear Johnny coughing in the back room. He’d been smoking
toscani
for thirty years and the cough was a permanent part of him. I dumped my bag in the hack room and went off to look for Anastasia. She was on the phone. She offered a sad, sympathetic smile and waved me on in. I blew her a kiss, slid past her desk and stuck my head in the door.

Johnny sat in the haze, a big old handset clamped under his jaw while he talked and typed, two-finger style, pounding out notes on the old Olivetti. “Gimme a minute,” he said.

“Sure. No rush.”

Anastasia snuck up behind me, slipped her hand in mine and whispered, “Come with me.”

I followed her out, pulled her close and said, “Hello, sweetheart. Long time no see. How you been?”

“All right,” she said. “Terrible news.”

“Johnny called me this morning.”

“Your friend,” she said. “What happen?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Poor man. Dead in Lugano.”

“Dead in Russia is better?”

She narrowed her eyes, stone cold blue eyes over high, vaulted cheekbones. Coal black eyebrows, dyed blonde hair. “Dead in Russia,” she said. “You don’t want to know.”

She was right about that.

“Stazz,” I said, and took a step back. “Turn around. Let me take a look at you.” I gave her a slow twirl and a long, low wolf-whistle. “What a babe.”

She was a dancer, ex Bolshoi, every move a gift from heaven, lithe and beautiful and tough as oak. “You’re wasting your time, Pescatore.”

“I thought hubby moved out.”

She colored and turned away. “He keeps eye on me.”

“Lucky man.” I moved in close again.

Anastasia Stepanovna Napolitano had married a sleaze-ball lawyer from Naples. He was slick, a smooth talker in silk suits and Gucci and a partner in one of the law firms downtown. They’d hooked up in Moscow and got hitched in Milan, but the word around town said things on the home front weren’t going so well.

She leaned into me, laid her head on my chest, looked up and said, “Hello, trouble.” Then she straightened up, slipped from my grasp and reached for a slim green file on her desk. “This is for you.”

I took it and leaned back in to kiss her.

“How many times I got to tell you, Pescatore.” The cough right behind me, a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your hands off the help.”

Anastasia smiled and slipped away. Johnny led me into his office, shuffled to his desk and thumped into his chair. I went straight to the window, stuck my head out and took a deep breath, shot a long look at him and breathed again. In, out.

“
Basta
, Pescatore. I get the picture.” He shifted the cigar from under his mustache to the big yellow ashtray on the desk. “Sit.”

I settled into the worn leather sofa and waited while he rolled in a sheet of fresh paper and rapped out a line on the old Olivetti.

Johnny Buttafuoco was the editor in chief at
CNI
Milano
. His real name was Gianni, but he liked the American way I said it, said it made him sound like a movie star.
CNI
stood for
Cronaca Nera Italiana
, a national daily focused on crime in high and low places. He had a boss called Beppe Lombardi in Rome who put out the newspaper six days a week, fat black headlines on pale yellow pages. They liked homicide, gang rape, hit-and-runs and anything that smelled of drugs or the mob. Small-town Sicilian vendettas were good, and mob wars in Naples or Reggio Calabria. Johnny ran the sideshow out of Milan and fed Rome stories soaked in blood. Murder was good, and suicide, but there were no grisly photos of accident victims or underage bimbos with silicon pillows, and celebrity sex didn’t interest Johnny unless some bonehead politico got caught on video snarfing coke while some Brazilian blew him. That kind of stuff Johnny liked.

“So you knew the guy, right?” He sucked in smoke. “Goldoni was a friend of yours?”

“I used to work for him. Hard to call him a friend.” I shrugged, but Johnny was right. For a while there Gigi and I were friends. He was good at that, making you feel like he cared about you. A hands-on guy, he was always grabbing you, throwing his arm around your shoulder, cracking some joke that made you laugh even if you didn’t get it. He had his hands all over the women, too. Aida, I figured, but she was never around. And Julia. And the others, of course. There was always another one.

Eva? A stab of pain took my breath away.

Johnny reached for the Zippo, “So what do you think?” As the flame flickered up beneath the cigar he sucked and puffed and finally said, “He kill himself?”

I shrugged. “How should I know?”

“You told me you saw him.”

“Couple weeks ago.”

“Depressed?”

“He wasn’t the type.”

“Means what?”

“The man never had a bad day in his life.”

“Until the last one.” Johnny tossed a nod at the phone, a black Bakelite monster that sat on a stack of old clippings on the desk. “Swiss cops are talking suicide.”

“So?”

“Get on up to Lugano. Dig around for a couple of days. Get me some dirt.”

“Dirt.”

“Goldoni’s a name,” said Johnny. “People know who he was. Fast money, fast women, Ferraris …”

“Sex.” I took another shot of pain, scabs cracking and flaking off a piece of the past.

“And blood. Never forget it, Pescatore. No matter the story, people like blood.” He shifted a few papers and set the
toscano
down with care on the lip of the big yellow ashtray.

I stared at the smoke curling up to the ceiling and slapped at the memories fluttering up from my gut.

“Blood we’ve got,” he said. “We need something more. Something bigger.”

I took a breath. A cough tore through me. 

“What’s the matter?” Johnny picked up the cigar, hung it on his lip, sucked and talked around it. “It’s killing you? Open the window.”