The Puppeteer (20 page)

“Guerra?”

Magagna nodded, unhooked the microphone from the dashboard and made a brief call. The answering voice was tinny, a woman’s voice distorted in the ether.

Magagna got out of the car, leaving the door open. Trotti followed him.

On the far side of viale Lodi, a train was shunting noisily and the screech of its brakes accompanied the two men as they went upstairs. Magagna broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. There was white dust on his jacket where the shoulder had rubbed against the wall.

From behind a closed door came the sound of a radio; the midday news was now over, replaced by the familiar advertisements, the same timeless jingles—everyday life in Italy. It was reassuring.

Trotti climbed the stairs with mounting apprehension. “My fault,” he said under his breath.

A crowd had gathered on the fourth floor. They stood on the landing. There was an old woman talking in a hoarse whisper.

She wore black and spoke in a dialect that Trotti could not understand. Wisps of white hair hung about her face. The other bystanders stared at the door. It hung on its hinges. The wood around the locks had been torn apart and there were splinters and flakes of dust on the stone floor.

“I needed a bit of help,” Magagna said when Trotti reached him.

Trotti recognized the smell of blood. “Where’s the body?” The room was bare. Blood was everywhere, and the strange metallic smell was overpowering. A dry puddle and streaks across the floor and wall that had turned black.

Trotti repeated the question. “Where’s the girl?”

Magagna shrugged.

The mattress was as it had been; the can of shaving cream was where Magagna had left it on the first visit. But the poster on the wall advertising the Sila in Calabria had been pulled down, torn and smeared with blood.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said she was dead.” Trotti went to the window. He felt sickened and for a moment he rested with his hand on the window ledge, the feel of wood beneath his skin comforting. He stared unthinkingly at the shunting yards on the far side of the street. He saw the locomotive. Trotti also noticed a man leaning out of the control cabin while another man hurried alongside the railway track, trying to keep up with the moving train.

Trotti turned.

The floor of the room was bare except for a smashed syringe and an ashtray that had been knocked over, spilling its contents of ash and cigarette tips onto the cold stone. And the dead, trampled-on carnation.

“Not very convincing.” Trotti said.

Magagna was crouching down and with his fingernail he was chipping at the edge of a smear of blood. He looked up.

“Breaking down doors—making a noise and attracting the neighbors.” Trotti shook his head. “That’s precisely what Guerra wanted.”

Magagna took no notice.

Outside, the strident wail of a police siren was approaching viale Lodi.

Trotti said, “I’ll make my own way to the station.” He walked out of the room and pushed through the crowd of onlookers.

“Y
OU
’
RE STILL AT
university?”

“I sit the occasional exam.”

Magagna came back and smiled at Trotti. “Our friend here is a student in sociology. But before long, he’ll be working full time for the Faculty of Medicine—unpaid.”

He could not have been much older than twenty-five, but there were premature wrinkles about his eyes and in the unflattering light of the bar he looked pale and unhealthy. He had not shaved, and the ends of his drooping mustache lost themselves in the dark stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, the iris dilated. “Faculty of Medicine, Signor Magagna?”

“It’s not often they have young corpses to work on—it makes a pleasant change after the tramps and the old people from the hospice.”

The man said nothing.

“You want something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Business good?”

The man shrugged.

“Have something to eat,” Trotti said, turning to call the Moroccan waiter to prepare a couple of sandwiches.

From behind the bar, the waiter nodded. He put down the dishcloth.

“I”m not hungry,” the man repeated. He placed his hands on the table—long fingers and dirty nails. He bit his lip.

Magagna said, “I think Marco is scared.”

“Scared? I’ve got nothing to be scared of.”

“Perhaps you’ve been hiding something from me, Marco.”

The sounds of Milan—the trams, the traffic, the ceaseless bustle of people—did not reach them. They were sitting in the back of the Bar Orchidea in the Brera. A basement bar, furnished with dark wood and photographs of Juventus of twenty years earlier. One or two signed and framed photographs on the wall—football players, boxers and cyclists. In a room off the main bar, there was a rod-football machine. Young people—probably students—were playing noisily, banging the rods and laughing. From time to time, the hollow bang as the ball went into the goal.

“I’ve got nothing to keep from you, Signor Magagna. That was the agreement, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t look at all well, Marco.” A mocking tone.

“I’m okay.”

“Somebody been lacing your powder with strychnine?”

“I’m okay.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell my friend”—Magagna gestured towards Trotti—“perhaps you’d like to tell him what you told me about the money?”

Marco gave an ingratiating smile that succeeded in making him appear uglier. He reminded Trotti of a drowned rodent. Marco had narrow shoulders and was wearing a shabby cardigan that had lost its form and color. The zip down the front was broken; underneath he was wearing an orange roll-neck sweater of nylon. It was smeared with dirt. “Your friend is from Narcotici, too?”

“Buoncostume.”

Marco visibly paled.

“But he’s very broad-minded.” Magagna tapped Marco’s wrist. “And he knows all about your particular tastes.”

Three dirty fingers went to the forehead and worried at the wrinkles. “Signor Magagna, we had an agreement.”

“You had an agreement, Marco.”

“But you promised that if …”

“And what happens if you go off and do one of your little tricks again, Marco? What are my friends in Questura going to say? Have you thought about that?”

“I haven’t done anything, I swear.”

“Your young friends in via Moscova—I hope you haven’t been hanging around there lately, Marco. You haven’t been pestering anyone, I hope.”

“My God … I’m too …” He stopped, ran his hand over his mouth. “I assure you I’m not up to any of that—not now. I don’t feel well enough.”

The barman arrived. He placed a plate of sandwiches on the scarred wood of the table-top. “And to drink?” he asked, without looking at the three men, but staring at old posters on the wall. He had acquired a Milanese accent.

“A beer for me,” Magagna said. “What would you like, Marco?”

“A mineral water.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“It’s for my kidneys.”

“Surprised you’ve got any left.” Magagna laughed.

Trotti ordered a cup of coffee. To Magagna he said, “I don’t want to miss my train.”

“You could’ve left this afternoon.”

“Pioppi was still sleeping when I phoned Bottone at the Policlinico.”

Magagna turned back to Marco and pushed the plate towards him. For an instant, Marco looked at the sandwich. Then he shook his head.

“You must eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Magagna spoke in a low, threatening voice, “Eat.”

Reluctantly, Marco took one of the sandwiches—two thick slices of southern bread, the crust dusty with flour. Sliced tomatoes, spices and olive oil. A thick slab of mozzarella. Marco made a face as he took a small bite. He forced himself to swallow.

“You see, it’s good for you.”

Marco nodded and mouthed a silent, “Yes.”

“Now, Marco, I want you to tell my friend about the girl.”

“The girl?”

The side of his hand struck Marco across the cheek. The sandwich fell from his hand and onto the table, scattering its contents. “Don’t flirt with me, Marco.”

Marco looked down at the pieces of food and started to pick them up. Trotti wondered whether the man was going to cry.

“All you have to do is tell my friend about the girl.”

“Guerra?”

“You see,” Magagna gave a big, approving smile, “you’re beginning to be reasonable. We’re going to get on well tonight, aren’t we, Marco?”

“What d’you want me to say?” The hand that now held the sandwich was shaking; the dilated pupil looked at Magagna while the eyes seemed to be immobile.

“Just tell my friend what you told me.”

“About the money?”

“Very good!” Patronizing, like a schoolteacher.

“She came to see me—that’s all. She wanted some stuff.”

Trotti asked, “Stuff?”

“Snow—she was fairly desperate. And she wanted the best—from Lebanon.” He looked to Magagna for reassurance. “D’you want me to explain to your friend where it comes from?”

“My friend wants to know about Guerra.”

“She paid in cash—brand-new bills of fifty thousand lire. That’s why I was suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“In the past it was small bills—just change.” Again the three fingers pulling at the forehead. “Money that she had managed to scrape together. One time she was quite wealthy—that was when she was whoring in San Babila. But fifty-thousand lire bills?” He shook his head. “And she wanted ten grams.”

“You sold it to her?”

“I didn’t have it to sell.”

“Why not?”

“It’s the Sicilians—they do it on purpose. They think that the
price is getting too low, so they hold the merchandise back, waiting for demand to put the prices up again. And in that way, they can find out who’s cutting in on their market. There was …” Marco stopped suddenly as his mouth came closed.

“Go on,” Trotti said.

His adam’s apple bobbed in the scraggy neck.

“Go on, Marco. My friend wants to hear what you’ve got to say.”

He hesitated briefly. “A Bulgar—a character with black glasses—he called himself the ‘Positive Hero’—and he was selling it cheap—good stuff that hadn’t been cut and that you could make a decent profit on. When stuff comes from behind the Iron Curtain, it’s normally good. But it’s dangerous, unless you know who you’re dealing with.” The eyes moved from Trotti to Magagna.

“Well?”

“The Sicilians found him.”

“So what?”

“They run this city.”

“And?”

“They left his head on the front seat of a car in Porta Ticinese.”

“And the rest of the body?”

Marco shrugged. “Never found.”

“My heart bleeds,” Magagna said coldly, pushing at the frames of his glasses. In the light of the bar, his features appeared harsh. The big city was already leaving its mark on the young policeman from Pescara.

Trotti said, “Do you know where Guerra is now?”

“She lives in viale Lodi.”

“Not anymore.” He drank some coffee. “When did you last see her?”

“When she came for the deal.” Unexpectedly, Marco smiled behind his hand. There were large drops of sweat along his forehead. “That’s what I told Signor Magagna. I’d never seen her with money like that—she was spending like a sailor. She said she could afford the best.”

“Eat your sandwich, Marco.” Magagna pushed the plate against Marco’s narrow ribs.

“What made you tell Magagna about the money?”

“I was scared.”

“There was nothing to be scared about.”

Reluctantly, Marco started eating. He mumbled something.

“What?”

“I thought it was organized crime money.”

Magagna snorted. “You shouldn’t have accepted it in the first place.” To Trotti, he said in a low whisper, “He told me about the money when he knew I was looking for Lia Guerra.”

“I needed the money.” Marco shrugged, lowered the sandwich and looked at the small tooth bites. “It occurred to me that it was a pay-off to the girl.” He added, “I wouldn’t have trusted her.”

“You knew she was living with a man?”

“A pimp?”

“It was in this bar that they met.”

Marco shrugged. “She’s a lesbian—she’s not interested in men.”

“When did you last see her?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” The hand across his mouth. “Perhaps less—I don’t know. I find it hard to remember things.” He began to nod.

“I might have to jog your memory, Marco,” Magagna said. “Me or Buoncostume.”

The look of a tracked beast returned to the bloodshot eyes. “It was last week,” he said hesitantly.

“And she didn’t tell you where the money came from?”

“A wonderful man—that’s what she said. A wonderful man who was going to make her happy.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay any attention. I told you—she’s a lesbian.”

“She didn’t mention any names?” Trotti asked.

Marco shook his head. “She had the money under her shirt. She showed me one hundred fifty grand—three notes. I was just glad to find somebody willing to do business. I got the stuff for her that afternoon from the Sicilians—and she gave me the money.”

“Where?”

“In the metro.” He paused, looking at Trotti and there was something frightening about the glazed eyes. “Loreto—there’s a place by the escalators when you’re changing lines.” He paused. “A good place, no cops.”

“And you contacted Magagna?” Trotti asked.

Magagna snorted. “I found him, the miserable runt. When you asked me to find Guerra, I went through all my contacts—my addict friends. And Marco recognized the photo.”

Trotti stood up, the cup of coffee in his hand. “I don’t want to miss the train.” He finished the coffee in a gulp. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

Marco was looking at the sandwich. Suddenly he turned his head and leaned over the end of the wooden bench. He started to vomit a white, viscous liquid.

T
HERE WERE A
couple of books on the night table.

“What are these?” Trotti picked one of the books up.

The young nurse shrugged. “I think your daughter’s bored.”

One of the titles was in French. Trotti recognized the word “
planification.”

“I thought she was supposed to be resting.”