The Deliverance of Evil (16 page)

He walked to the Via Cavour subway station. The train was dirty and empty. As he exited the station, two African immigrants entered, jumped the turnstile, and ran down the stairs. Two transit workers shouted at them, and then one turned to the other and said, “Fucking black bastards . . .”

When Balistreri came out of the station, his BlackBerry buzzed with two messages from Corvu: the first contained information about some Romanians he was planning to track down, and the second was simply a place and a time and a pair of initials:
Sant’Agnese in Agone, 3:00 p.m. L.N.

He took a bus the rest of the way. At least the traffic was moving here, unlike in the narrow alleys of the city center. But the stench of refuse was evident, the garbage collectors having been on strike since the day after Christmas. A private company had cleared the city center so the tourists wouldn’t see the eyesore, but in the suburbs, the contents of the trash cans were spilling out onto the pavements and into the middle of the streets.

When he got off the bus, Balistreri saw two homeless people picking up wrappers from all the special Christmas cakes, hoping there might be something left inside. He passed them, noticing the smell of piss and alcohol. One of the two addressed him without ceremony.

“Give us a smoke, boss, will ya?”

Balistreri handed him a cigarette. So much the better—one less for him to smoke.

The billiard hall was located in a building that had seen better days. On the right was the main entrance to the building; on the left was the door to the billiard hall, which sagged half-off its hinges. Behind the bar stood a thin young man with his hair in a ponytail. Two Filipinos were playing the slot machines.

Balistreri ordered a coffee. The bartender poured it immediately and served it with a piece of chocolate. As in every bar in Rome,
Out of Order
was written on the restroom door—except that here, instead of a piece of cardboard, they had written on the door itself, thus making it permanent. Next to the restroom was another door that remained closed. Above it was written
BILLIARDS
ROOM
.

A young thickset guy came in with a shaved head and three-day stubble, wearing a long black leather coat.

“Do you want a beer, Greg?” the bartender asked. He had an Eastern European accent. Greg nodded. He leaned on the bar and lit a cigarette right under the sign that read
NO
SMOKING
. The Filipinos at the slot machines followed his lead and lit cigarettes of their own. “You can’t smoke in here,” Greg said.

The Filipinos dropped their cigarettes to the floor and stubbed them out with their toes, then started playing again. “Don’t just drop your butts on the floor. What are you, animals?”

The younger of the two Filipinos turned around with an attitude, but the other stopped him. They picked up the cigarette butts and left.

“No slant-eyes allowed in here, Rudi,” Greg told the bartender. He picked up his glass of beer, burped loudly, and headed into the billiards room. He closed the door behind himself.

“Where are you from?” Balistreri asked the bartender.

“Albania, sir,” the bartender answered.

Balistreri flashed his badge, but not his special immigration team ID.

“I’m looking for the Lacatus cousins.”

“There’s only Greg.”

“His cousin’s not here?”

“Mircea left this morning.”

“I was supposed to meet him here,” Balistreri said, feigning surprise. “When did he leave?”

“Actually he was here with Mr. Hagi. A half-hour ago he took the car and left. And Mr. Hagi went to Marius Travel, his travel agency.”

“What kind of car does Mircea drive?”

The kid thought for a moment. “I don’t know, but I paid for the registration, so I have the license plate number.” He reached under the counter and took out a piece of paper.

Balistreri typed the number into his BlackBerry and sent it to Piccolo with an order to stop the car and come to the bar as soon as possible. Then he changed the subject.

“Do you know Ramona and Nadia?”

The kid from Albania looked nervously toward the door to the billiards room.

The first difference between the gophers and the real villains: the former look upset, the latter don’t give a shit.

“I’ll take care of them. I can put them away for a long time. You’ll be far away from here before they have a chance to hurt you.”

The kid snorted. “In this country? They’d be out before I got to the bus stop.”

He’s pretty on the ball
.

“If you tell me the truth—everything—I’ll help you.”

“You can’t keep me safe,” Rudi said.

“Hey, asshole, bring me another beer,” Greg boomed from the other side of the door.

Balistreri quietly walked over and locked the door to the billiards room. Then he returned to the bar.

“I want a lawyer,” the young bartender said.

Balistreri shook his head. “You’re not being accused of anything.”

The doorknob began to rattle. Greg was trying to get out.

Balistreri led the bartender outside, turning the sign on the door of the bar to
CLOSED
on the way. They couldn’t hear Greg’s threats out there, but Balistreri was pretty sure that by then he’d called someone on his cell phone to come let him out. He sent Piccolo a text message, telling her to get there fast and bring backup. Calmly, he turned to the bartender.

“What’s your name?”

“Rudi.” The kid relaxed a little. He took a pack of cigarettes and a slim blue lighter out of his pocket. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’ve got my own.”

Rudi lit a cigarette, his hands trembling. “Greg and Mircea brought them back here at daybreak.”

“Was Hagi involved?” Balistreri asked.

“No. Mr. Hagi’s different. He pays me and gives me a place to stay. He doesn’t live here, but he comes by every morning.”

“Where do the girls live?”

“They have a room in an apartment on the second floor. Greg and Mircea share one room. I’m in another, and the two of them are in the third. They went out every day at five. Sometimes they’d have a private client and go out later, but Mircea always took them to meet the private clients.”

“Do you know where he took them?”

“No. I asked Ramona once and she said she couldn’t tell me.”

“Do you remember the last time Mircea went out with them?”

“Yes, December 23. He only took Nadia. Ramona went out at 5:00 as usual. He picked up Nadia at eight thirty. Ramona came back early that night. She wasn’t feeling well. It was midnight. The bar was already closed. A little later Mircea came in with Greg, but no Nadia. They stayed down here and played pool. I went upstairs to the apartment and I found Ramona throwing up. So I came back down and made her some tea with lemon, but I didn’t tell Mircea and Greg that she was back. We had a toast at midnight with the hot tea because we wouldn’t be able to on the twenty-fourth.”

At that moment, two young men in leather jackets and jeans pulled up on a motocross bike. They parked the bike and walked toward Balistreri.

“Hey, faggot, what are you doing out here? Blowing old men during working hours?” the taller one said in a strong Eastern European accent. He was beefy and hairy, with tattoos covering his neck and shoulders.

“They’re going to tear you a new one, faggot,” said the second one, a short guy with yellow teeth. “Did you lock Greg inside so you could suck this old dude’s dick?”

Balistreri tried to look humble. “Sorry, sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Rudi—”

The larger of the two said, “Fuck off, Grandpa. Go find someone else to suck your cock.” He spat on the ground.

Two unmarked cars pulled up and parked. Piccolo and four detectives stepped out. Balistreri nodded to them to enter the bar. They did, and the two Romanians went in as well, followed by Rudi and Balistreri, who locked the door behind them.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” asked the big guy. Piccolo showed him her badge, and the four plainclothes cops opened their jackets and revealed their guns.

“Hands in the air,” Piccolo ordered. A search found that each was carrying a switchblade. Very good.

Piccolo read them their rights and declared them under arrest. Then she handcuffed all three of them, Rudi first.

Then they pulled Greg out, who was beside himself. He had a plastic bag of coke in his pocket. Seeing he was about to jump on the policeman who was searching him, Piccolo delivered a single blow to the solar plexus that made him fall to his knees, gasping for breath. A perfect blow, because it leaves no marks. While Greg was flaling, they handcuffed him. Balistreri shot Piccolo a warning look.

She’s just like I was. I’ll have to teach her to be a bit more careful
.

Piccolo had already called for more cars from the closest police station. They sent the three men in to be booked. Balistreri turned to Rudi, who stayed behind.

“Who’s in Ramona and Nadia’s room now?”

“No one. I’ve got the keys. I do the cleaning.”

Balistreri winked at Piccolo. They were pushing the envelope.

“Maybe the door’s unlocked,” Piccolo suggested with faux innocence. “Is it unlocked, Rudi?”

The young guy was sharp.

“Well, now that I think about it, I believe it is.”

“Piccolo, go up with Rudi and take a look.”

“I’ll call Corvu and have him relay custody orders to the prosecutor,” she suggested.

Balistreri nodded. “All right. Remember that the sanitation workers are on strike.”

Piccolo found Rudi instantly likable. He was polite, helpless, and also, she was surprised to find, very handsome.

When they left the bar to slip into the entrance next door, she kept the handcuffs on and gave him a vicious push.

Just in case one of those shitheads happens to be looking
.

They entered using Rudi’s keys. The apartment had three rooms with two single rusty iron-frame beds in each, a kitchen, a bathroom, and no living room. The furnishings were basic, mostly junk. In the first room, which belonged to Mircea and Greg, there was a television and a DVD player. The one in the middle was for Rudi and any occasional guests. The last room at the end belonged to Ramona and Nadia, an illegal extension common throughout Rome: a lumber room knocked into a balcony and finished off with aluminum and plastic sheeting. Two ramshackle beds, an old chest of drawers, no closet. Patches of dampness showed through the walls. The bathroom had no windows, no toilet seat, and only the most basic in the way of sink and shower. There was a smell of cigarette butts and ammonia everywhere.

Rudi was growing agitated.

“Ma’am, thank you for leaving the handcuffs on me.”

“Please don’t call me ‘Ma’am.’”

“Officer?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’m a deputy captain, actually,” Piccolo told him.

Both beds were made, but one was perfectly neat, while the other was rumpled.

“Which one is Nadia’s?”

He pointed to the neat one.

“Mircea told me to change the sheets.”

“When?”

“On December 25 about six in the evening, after Ramona went to work. I was down in the bar. He told me to come up here and clean up.”

“Clean up what?”

Rudi ran a hand through his hair. He was obviously uneasy in that room.

“Um, it was a mess. There was stuff all over the floor. Clothes. Nadia was messy, and some of it was hers. But Ramona was usually neat, and there were her clothes, too. And Nadia had never been that messy. Then I changed the sheets on Nadia’s bed and made Ramona’s bed, too.”

“Have you been in the room since then?” she asked.

Rudi was trembling.

“Can we get out of here?”

“No problem. Let’s go.”

They went down to the bar. The detectives were standing outside. Piccolo entered and went into the billiards room with Rudi. Two billiard tables, a foosball table, two card tables, two more slot machines, a phone on the wall. Three black garbage bags closed with twist-ties had been tossed in a corner.
Remember that the sanitation workers are on strike.

“What are those?”

“Mircea told me to throw the bags that smelled onto the curb and keep the others in here until the strike ended. But I’m sure there were only two. Don’t know where that third one came from.”

Piccolo called one of the detectives and had him open the three garbage bags. The first two were full of beer cans and bottles, cigarette butts, newspapers, magazines, and other trash. But the third contained a red raincoat, two T-shirts, two polyester miniskirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of beat-up sneakers, a blue sweater, and several pairs of stockings, as well as bras and panties. The underwear fell into two categories: half the kind of showy stuff appropriate for a prostitute and the rest cheap cotton things for a normal teenager.

Rudi burst into silent sobs. Piccolo placed a hand on his shoulder.

Rudi pointed to a bunch of gossip magazines in Romanian that had spilled from one of the bags.

“Those are Nadia’s too,” he said.

Piccolo bent down, picked up a magazine and started to leaf through it. A card fell out and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up. It was a ticket.
Rome—Iasi
.
Stazione Tiburtina. December 29, 2005. 6:00 a.m. Seat 12.

She stepped outside thinking about that empty seat on the coach back home.

. . . .

It had stopped raining, the sun had come out, and the pavements were gleaming. Traffic was flowing now, too. There was less traffic and so Balistreri took a taxi back to the station.

He looked out the window at the outskirts of Rome: pedestrians, potholes filled with rainwater, garbage everywhere. The taxi driver was unloading on the mayor.

“Look at those potholes. I have to change my tires every two months. You think they had potholes under Mussolini? No way. Politicians don’t give a crap. They’re only in it for themselves. We’re the ones who have to drive around San Basilio, Tor Bella Monaca, Tor de’ Cenci, and Quartuccio at night. I’d like to see that Communist prick of a mayor live in one of our neighborhoods with the blacks and the Romanians.”

As they approached the center of the city, the refuse grew less and the street life began to change. They passed the Coliseum and the Roman Forum, bursting again with happy tourists.