The Colombian Mule (11 page)

Victoria welcomed us with a shy smile and showed us into the lounge. The television was on. One of the state-owned channels was showing an Italian soap.

Rossini got straight to the point. ‘Have you ever heard of an Italian who takes girls from Colombia to Japan?'

She shook her head. ‘No, I haven't. Ever since I arrived in Italy, I've only ever worked at the Black Baron club in Eraclea. I've never done any kind of hostess work so I know nothing about the kind of business where girls go to bed with their customers.'

‘Do you know any Colombian girls who might be able to give us the information we're looking for?'

‘No, I don't. I've never heard of anything like that. Are you sure you've got it right? Maybe it's a lie.'

I got to my feet. ‘You could be right. But given the situation we're in right now, we have to check everything out, even the tiniest little clue.'

At the front door, Rossini stopped and wheeled around.

‘One more question. Do you think Nazzareno might know anything?'

‘I really doubt it. But I'll be seeing him next week, so I can ask.'

I shut the gate behind us. ‘You asked her that just to see whether Corradi has told her anything about Mansutti and the cell phone, right?'

‘Yeah. It's not that I don't trust him. But we can't be too careful.'

‘For this evening, we're through.'

Old Rossini looked at his watch. ‘It's ten past nine. I promised Sylvie I'd take her out to dinner and then drive her over to the club around eleven. I guess I have no choice but to invite you along.'

 

Sylvie was living not far from Ormelle, in a hotel. She was pleased to see me, and I thought she looked fantastic. She was an extremely sensual woman, and when she did her belly-dancing she drove men quite literally mad. Including me. When she was performing, I liked to hang around, completely drunk, and just watch her dance. My imagination would run wild, venturing into previously unexplored territory. It was one of the few things I had never mentioned to Beniamino.

Rossini embraced her, kissed her and murmured something amorous in her ear. She laughed, throwing her head way back. Any number of local industrialists and businessmen had attempted to seduce her, but for the last couple of years Sylvie had been in love with Rossini. It was a very easy-going relationship: they lived a day at a time and were both well aware it wouldn't last forever.

Over dinner, she made an unsuccessful attempt to discover what the two of us were up to. It was just a harmless game with her. She had grown up in the nightclub scene and knew the rules. After the meal, I watched her admiringly as she poured two spoonfuls of honey into a triple grappa, then downed the lot in a single gulp. ‘It's what gives me the energy,' she told me. Then we drove her to her nightclub, a high-class joint in San Polo di Piave. She asked us if we wanted to stay and watch her perform. I was tempted to say yes, but I couldn't afford a skinful that night. I needed to be lucid the next day. Besides, I had a hunch that Rossini didn't want me hanging around.

The temperature had dropped and the fog had finally disappeared, so Beniamino was able to enjoy his powerful car. He didn't give a damn about speed-traps: he had had an electronic device installed on the dashboard, giving him advance warning when one was coming up.

‘You're rich enough to keep Sylvie, and have her move in with you,' I said, after a long silence.

He looked at me from the corner of his eye. ‘Further proof that you understand precisely nothing about women. Taken out of her environment, that woman would turn into somebody else, and in a couple of weeks she'd be walking out, slamming the door behind her.'

‘She's over forty,' I pointed out. ‘So I doubt if she'll be able to go on dancing in nightclubs much longer.'

My associate heaved a heavy sigh. ‘You're a hopeless fucking case. With her physique, Sylvie will be dancing for at least another ten years. By which time yours truly will be just a memory.'

Back at La Cuccia, I bumped straight into Virna, but she managed to avoid saying hello to me. I walked over to the bar and asked Rudy for an Alligator. Nothing ever escaped Rudy.

‘I'll fix it nice and strong,' he said, ‘your girlfriend's in the vilest of moods this evening.'

I hung around for ten minutes or so, then slipped upstairs to Max's. I briefed him on the latest developments, then went next door to my own apartment to get some sleep.

 

Corradi was depressed. His voice was tired and hoarse. ‘I'm in deep shit, Alligator. Without that statement from the Colom­bian, I've no hope.'

‘It's not over yet. We have a promising lead on the mule's contact. It seems he's an Italian who traffics Colombian girls to Japan. It could even be somebody who knows you . . . somebody who maybe fed the police your name. Any ideas?'

Nazzareno was silent for just a second too long for me not to sense something was up. ‘No,' he said at last, curtly, immediately clearing his throat.

I glanced at Max and Beniamino who were following the conversation on the speaker. Max scribbled something on a sheet of paper then flashed it in my direction. ‘He's lying,' it read.

There was no doubt about it. ‘You do know the guy, don't you?' I burst out. ‘Look, Nazzareno, this isn't the moment to jerk us around. We've absolutely got to know who it is.'

There was a further moment's silence, then Corradi hung up.

‘Shit,' I shouted. ‘What the fuck has got into that dickhead? Does he really want to croak in prison?'

Rossini smoothed his moustache. ‘Let's forget about Corradi for now. He's upset and we'll never force him to talk. Let's work instead on the Colombian scene, see what the girls can give us. Sooner or later, we're sure to come up with something.'

 

The same girl who had given us the information about La Tía now recommended we get in touch with a former hostess, a Colombian woman who had arrived in Italy about twenty years earlier, at a time when Colombian girls were still something of a rarity. She had worked in every nightclub in the area and then, when competition from younger compatriots had forced her out of the scene, she had turned to prostitution, working from home on an appointments-only basis. Later she had got to know an Italian who decided to exploit her business acumen by opening a brothel. It was nothing special, just five rooms at the back of a Latino-style bar on the coast at Lignano Pineta.

The joint was called Puerta del Sol. When we arrived it was heaving. There was a salsa-group playing, and people were dancing close to the tables. We perched on a couple of barstools and in the space of two minutes had identified the working girls. They were all young, all from Eastern Europe, all blonde, and all had faces etched with disappointment. Italy wasn't such a paradise after all. The barman approached and asked us what we wanted to drink.

‘Go and get the landlady,' Rossini ordered.

He looked us up and down for a second or two, then decided it was advisable to obey.

Her real name was Luisa Villazimas Serrando, but everyone called her Luisita. A couple of minutes passed and then she made her entrance. Slim and well-dressed, she displayed the arrogant and detached attitude of someone who has carved out a career for themselves and doesn't want any trouble. Her nostrils were reddish at their base. It looked like the lady had a habit.

She folded her arms. ‘What do you want?'

‘A quiet place to talk,' I replied.

‘We can talk just fine right here.'

‘No, we can't,' Rossini retorted. ‘It's either your office or one of the backrooms where you get the blonde chicks to screw for you.'

Luisita stiffened. Then she parted her lips just wide enough to show a row of yellowed teeth. It was her way of letting us know we weren't fazing her. ‘Leave now, or I'll have the bouncers toss you out.'

Beniamino threw his cigarette butt on the floor without bothering to stub it out first and then gave the lady one of his classic pieces of advice. ‘I saw them on the way in, that pair of jerk-offs. Go ahead and call them. First I'll cripple them with a bullet through the knee, then I'll come back with a jerrycan of petrol and burn this joint of yours to the ground.'

Luisita looked him in the eye, while deciding what to do. Clearly she didn't like what she saw. ‘This way,' she said.

She led us to a small windowless office and sat herself down on the only chair. ‘I'm listening.'

Beniamino glanced at the desk, littered with bills, then sat on its edge. ‘We're looking for an Italian who exports Colombian prostitutes to Japan.'

Luisita took her time about answering, which was a mistake. ‘Why come and ask me about it?'

‘Because you're the oldest Colombian hooker in the business,' Rossini replied.

‘Besides, there's just no way you know nothing about it,' I added.

‘As it happens, you're both mistaken. I know nothing about it at all.'

Old Rossini picked up the phone receiver and hit her on the head with it, not very hard, just hard enough to make her understand the direction in which the conversation was heading. Then he bent down over her and whispered in her ear.

‘No more bullshit. Otherwise I'll cut not only your face but those of your hookers, too. After that, I'll have the joint closed down. You'll end up turning tricks outside the army barracks for a living.'

The lady touched her head, assessing the damage. She must have taken quite a few beatings in her lifetime. ‘I've got family in Colombia. If I talk, the prostitution rings back home will take revenge. I'd rather blow army grunts.'

Luisita had guts to burn. I decided to change tactics. ‘We're seeking the individual in question for a reason that has nothing whatever to do with prostitution, and nobody will ever know it was you that gave us the tip-off.'

She lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. ‘I have to know the truth. I need to know I can trust you.'

I looked at my associate, who nodded his assent. ‘All right,' I said. ‘It has to do with coke, a Colombian drug mule killed in prison, and an Italian who was arrested instead of the man whose name we're seeking. That's all I can tell you.'

Luisita finished her cigarette. ‘The man you're looking for is from Venice. His name's Bruno Celegato. He used to work as a sailor, when he was younger. He's always been involved in trafficking. When he was working the boats, he got to know gangsters from all over the world, but somehow he never became a boss himself.'

‘So where can we find him?'

‘The last time I saw him was at least three years ago. He was living in Mestre.'

I touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘You have nothing to worry about.'

On our way out, I took a look at the bouncers. It was a good thing Luisita had fallen for Beniamino's bullshit threats. They were big guys with boxers' broken noses: they would have beaten us up with professionalism and spite. I would have folded at the first blow. Rossini would have defended himself, playing dirty the way he had learned on the streets of Milan, using stools and bottles as weapons. But he would have ended up on the carpet just the same. Later he would have exacted revenge and the two goons would have paid a heavy price for their handiwork. One time, a Turkish bouncer, after a dispute in a swish nightclub near Varese, had surprised him with a straight jab to the chin. The Turk was using a knuckleduster and Rossini passed out even before he hit the deep-pile carpet. A couple of weeks later, he waited for the guy outside his house, and shot him through the left elbow with a .357 magnum.

Out on the street, I took my associate by the arm. ‘Was it really necessary to hit her with that phone?'

‘Yes, it was. I didn't enjoy it, but it had to be done.'

‘I don't agree.'

Rossini flew into a rage. ‘You're just a fucking amateur. Don't bust my balls with this crap of yours. That lady makes her living off the back of young girls. Do you really imagine she doesn't raise her hand to them when they don't feel like going to one of the backrooms to get fucked by some yokel?'

I raised my hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right. Let's go after Celegato.'

Rossini took his cell phone from the pocket of his overcoat.

‘I'm phoning Mansutti. Tomorrow, we're going to have to have a little word with Nazzareno.'

 

The following morning, the three of us met in Max's kitchen for breakfast. Rossini was still smarting from our altercation the day before. Max took his side.

‘Under the circumstances, it was necessary, Marco. That's all there is to it. Physical violence, blackmail and money are the springs that make people want to talk. They're the only available tools and we have no option but to use them. Without them, none of our cases would ever get solved.'

I decided to let it go, and changed the subject. ‘Bonotto's expecting us. You ought to come too, Max. It's time we took some important decisions.'

On our arrival, the secretary told us we would have to wait. Bonotto was busy with another client. We gave her our cell phones, made ourselves comfortable in the waiting-room, and began flicking through the usual heap of magazines. I settled down with an automobiles monthly. Apparently Skoda was about to launch its latest model. I decided I would go and take a look at it once I had finished the case and received my fees. I had done over 200,000 kilometers in my old one. It was time to trade it in.

Avvocato Bonotto accompanied his client to the door, then came over to greet us. He told his secretary to phone the bar and have four coffees sent up. From behind his desk, he surveyed us thoughtfully. ‘Something important must have come up, if all three of you are here.'

I picked up his chunky desk-top lighter and lit a cigarette.

‘We've discovered the identity of the late Arías Cuevas' Italian contact. His name is Bruno Celegato and, according to information dating back three years, he lives in Mestre.'