I had to leave the widow’s place to meet Anedda. But I couldn’t leave her alone with my money. In that fucking apartment I couldn’t even find a decent hole to hide it. Once the old floozy was alone, she’d jump at the chance to rummage through my bags and blow my savings at the nearest casino. I searched for some solution. In the end I went to buy a baby bottle in the pharmacy downstairs and a liter of Fernet in a grocery. The widow was taking a bath. I held her nose shut, stuffed two sleeping pills into her mouth and chased them with the nipple.
“Suck,” I ordered.
She probably thought this was one of my pranks. She obeyed, frightened. She couldn’t wait for me to take off and leave her in peace. I sat on the edge of the tub and lit two cigarettes. Slipped one between her lips.
“Don’t dream of spitting up.”
In her eyes I saw she wanted to let loose one of her typically unpleasant remarks. But she held back. More from resignation, I think, than fear. I waited about ten minutes. So she wouldn’t drown, I removed the stopper and the water started to drain.
“When I come back, I want to find you here.”
“Let me go to bed. I’ll have a long sleep. Soaking wet I might catch cold.”
I sighed. I was in no mood to make concessions. “No. Stay put.”
Ferruccio the bull told me to meet him outside the McDonald’s in front of the central train station. I had a vise-grip on the briefcase with the money. All of it. It was up to him to give me my thirty percent. A gang leader’s role instead of a cop’s. You start off like a shining knight, but in time you get your hands dirty, not to mention your heart and brain. He pulled up in a Fiat Brava. Stuck his hand out the window to signal me to get in.
“Have you seen the papers?” he asked, pleased with himself.
I shook my head.
“And the TV?” he insisted.
“I don’t watch it, and I don’t read newspapers. I couldn’t give a fuck.”
“What a shame. The operation got loads of attention, and my colleagues in Veneto had to chill out. The chief of police personally complimented me.”
I nodded ceremoniously. Anedda parked on a side street with little traffic. He pointed at the briefcase. “How much?”
“Two hundred on the nose.”
He elbowed me in the cheekbone. A sharp jab, precise and powerful, delivered with an ease that comes from practice and training. My vision went blurry, and I leaned my forehead on the dashboard.
“I heard about some strange goings-on in a parking lot in Mestre,” he hissed in a rage. “Some dude with a sawed-off shotgun held off a gang of assholes, while a bunch of trashy broads busted out the back of a van and took off in every direction like a flock of chickens.”
It was no use contradicting him. Anedda would’ve taken me out. “I did something stupid.”
He elbowed me again, this time in the ear. An interrogation technique. In his long and honored career, he must’ve beaten quite a few leftwing students and workers. I knew he needed to vent and it was better to keep quiet.
“You wanted to rip me off, but because you’re such a prickhead, you risked fucking everything up. If the carabinieri or the revenue officers had collared you, we would’ve all wound up in jail.”
He pulled the key from the ignition and raked it across my cheek. In silence I took out my handkerchief and tamped the wound. I lowered the visor, wiped the dust off the mirror with my fingers, and checked the cut. A couple centimeters long. No big deal. Just something to clarify our relationship now and in future.
“You need to be taught a lesson,” the cop went on more calmly. “Instead of thirty your share’ll be ten percent.”
I shook my head. “Give me thirty, and I’ll let you in on something that’ll make you rich.”
“What is it?” he gibed. “Another close-out sale on whores?”
“An armored truck.”
He lit a cigarette. “How much?”
“Half a million for sure, maybe three quarters.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want thirty percent.”
“You’ll get it only if the offer interests me.”
I told him everything, without leaving out a single detail.
“What do you want from me?” he asked when I finished. “You don’t expect me to put on a ski mask, do you?”
“Of course not,” I came right back. “You’d only have to show me which people to contact for the heist. I’m out of circulation. And I don’t want to turn to the hoods I met at San Vittore. They know who I am, but I don’t trust them. If something goes wrong, they’ll squeal right away.”
“And that’s it?”
“There’s one more thing, but it has nothing to do with pulling off the heist. Let’s just say it’ll make divvying up the take easier.”
He sneered. “How many you want to knock out?”
“Two are already dead, but they don’t know it yet. The jury’s still out on the others. I was thinking of getting them all together for the split . . . and then using your help to dole out some lead.”
He pulled out a gun and poked it in my side. “You might get the idea to kill me too.”
“The idea might be mutual.”
Ferruccio slipped the Beretta back into his holster and changed the subject. “So you want me to get you some desperate characters, guys with nothing to lose.”
“Hard to find?”
He burst out laughing. “Not at all. Once they were rare, but now they go by the kilo. This country has turned into an elephant cemetery: they all come here to die.”
He grew serious again and started counting the cash. He stuffed my share into a paper bag and told me to beat it. He’d get in touch on the cell phone. He didn’t ask where I was staying. Either he already knew or he didn’t give a fuck.
I hailed a taxi and had him drop me two hundred meters from the widow’s place. I found her still in dreamland. I lifted her bodily out of the tub and laid her on the bed. Then I went back to the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. The cheek was swollen, but the wound had stopped bleeding. I ransacked the cabinet and found disinfectant and bandages. I’d have a scar. In an emergency room a surgeon could’ve closed the flaps of skin with a few stitches, but the cut looked exactly like what it was: mutilation. Better avoid any complications. The house was quiet. I threw myself into an armchair and smoked a cigarette. I had to solve the problem of stashing my savings. I couldn’t put the widow to sleep every time I went out. What with the pills and the Fernet I’d kill her. Too soon. I always thought she’d have to die. After the robbery I couldn’t leave behind a blabbermouth. At this point she knew diddly squat, but she’d hung around hoods too long not to link my stay in Milano with the hit on the armored truck. A heist worth half a million euros with two dead bodies on the tarmac isn’t the sort of news that passes unnoticed. If Ciccio Formaggio had to be eliminated because he might let slip one word too many, the widow was sure as shit to talk. For revenge. For the satisfaction of holding her head up one last time. I’d have to find a way of getting rid of her without rousing suspicion. The neighbors had already noticed me. I stood up and began to wander around the joint, searching for a hiding place. In one room I found a wardrobe that was too heavy for her to move by herself. I went back to the bedroom to make sure she was still asleep. I divided the cash into bundles and slipped them into freezer bags. Then I tacked them to the back of the wardrobe. I pushed it against the wall and checked to make sure the bags couldn’t be spotted. It wasn’t such a hot moneybox, but I didn’t have anything better at hand.
I changed my clothes. The widow had woken up but pretended to be asleep so she wouldn’t have to deal with me.
“I’m going out. You stay put and watch TV. You’re paid to do this too.”
When I reached the street, it hit me I didn’t know where to go. I had no desire to revisit the spots where I used to hang as an ex-con, flat broke and desperate. I started walking aimlessly. It was a pleasant evening at the end of September, and I walked on and on, window-shopping, people-watching. I stopped in a restaurant filled with people eating, drinking, chattering away. I was the only one who had nothing to do but take in the scene. I was on pins and needles till the waiter served me my risotto. At a certain point, the chef came out of the kitchen. From the way he acted I guessed he was also the owner. He began to go from table to table, asking customers if the dishes met with their approval. Occasionally he’d sit for a few minutes and make small talk. It was a gracious gesture that people appreciated. My turn came. The guy sized me up, figured I was just a chance customer, and went no further than to ask me quietly whether I was pleased with the meal and the service.
Without answering I pointed to the chair on my right. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
He was taken aback for a moment; then he satisfied me. With a wave he had a glass brought to him.
“I used to work in a place that served food and drink,” I told him. “Like you, I was treated with respect by the customers. You know what I mean?”
The chef nodded and adjusted his neckerchief. He was about fifty, thin but muscular. His smock was spotless, and his hands were clean and well cared for. A winner.
“Seeing as how I’d like to get into a different line of work,” I went on, “I asked myself if opening a restaurant might be a good investment. Of course I like working with people—”
He emptied his glass. He didn’t have the slightest intention of talking to me. “I don’t know where you worked before, what sort of place it might have been, but being a restaurateur is a serious matter,” he began to explain in a smart-aleck tone. “One must know the trade and have a broad knowledge of the wine industry as well. Perhaps a pizzeria would be a more suitable venture. Good or bad, everybody eats pizza,” he concluded as he stood up. He politely held out his hand and went over to another table.
“Pizzeria my asshole,” I thought as I kept my eyes on him. I wasn’t going to invest my money in some third-rate business. These days even the Chinese were opening pizzerias. With the risks I was running to guarantee myself a decent future, I deserved something better. I needed a good reputation, and only the finest people could provide me with that. The ones with the fat wallets and the right circle of friends. I’d open a classy place. Obviously without trying to act the part of a restaurateur. I’d limit myself to hiring professionals, and I’d be the boss, dividing my time between the account books and the customers’ tables. It was only a question of money. When you’re on the fringes with time in the slammer, life’s an uphill race. And everything costs double.
I paid the check and hit the street again. When I got tired, I ducked into a movie theater. An American picture. Boring.
I went back to the widow’s. When she heard the key turn in the lock, she ran to shut herself up in her room. For a moment I was tempted to leave her in peace, but I was bored stiff and wanted to amuse myself. I knocked on the door. I made her come back to the living room—on all fours.
Ferruccio the bull didn’t contact me for a week. On Saturday I cased the superstore again to verify the schedule and movements of the armored truck. But it was the only time I managed to shake off the boredom. The city spat me out like a foreign body, and my only distraction was restaurants. Two a day. I only went into the ones that seemed top-notch to me.
Same McDonald’s as last time and same car. Anedda drove fast in traffic, constantly checking the rear-view mirror. He was always on the look-out.
“I found the right people,” he announced. “Three Spanish anarchists, two men and a woman. On the run from another robbery. And no way to beat the rap.”
“Who else?” I pressed him.
He chuckled. “Two Ustashi Croats. War criminals. But perfect shots.”
I shook my head. “It won’t work. They’ll never agree to work together.”
“Oh yes they will,” Ferruccio shot back. “They’re real desperate, and they need the cash. Besides, they don’t have to work together. The Croats will be on the roof and the Spaniards in the car retrieving the money bags.”
It rang true. Not a bad idea. “And even if they croak, nobody’s going to give a damn, right?”
“Right. Under the seat are two files with all the information about them, including photos and current addresses. There was enough to arrest them, but I managed to change the program. You’ve got ten minutes to read the files. I can’t let them go.”
I started with the Croats. Romo Dujc, alias Cerni the Black Shirt, 44, and Tonci Zaninovic, 42. Soldiers in the seventy-second battalion of the military police. Charged with participating in various ethnic cleansing operations. The report indicated they were snipers. This was the only detail that interested me. I studied their photos. Ugly. Dangerous. It wouldn’t be easy to get rid of them. They were holed up in the Giambellino quarter, in a small apartment rented to a Croat prostitute. Patriotic solidarity.
I shifted to the Spaniards. Sebastián Monrubia, 39, Esteban Collar, 36, and María Garcés, 31. Noms de guerre: Pepe, Javier and Francisca. She was a fly piece of ass; the other two wore the grim looks of militants sworn to self-sacrifice. Whacking them wouldn’t be a problem. The Spanish authorities were after them for a robbery that went south, one cop dead, another seriously wounded. They were hiding out at the home of an Italian comrade who hung around a community center. His phone was tapped.
I put the files back under the seat and lit a cigarette. “I’ll contact both groups tomorrow.”
“How do you plan to approach them?”
I expected that question. It was the most difficult step in the operation. The pretext had to be convincing. Very convincing. “I’ll tell them I’m an informer, and I’ve picked them out. But since they’re such a slick crew, I won’t sell them to the cops. Instead I’ll let them in on a robbery that’s a sure thing and very profitable.”
Anedda turned to look at me. “Can’t you think of something less dangerous? They don’t strike me as people who take kindly to informers. You’re risking a bullet in the belly.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It’ll be hard to make them swallow the idea that some crook has tracked them down. Better a half-truth.”
The cop let me out at the Cadorna station. I walked till I got hungry. Then I went into a restaurant.
I rang the bell of the Croats’ hide-out at eight in the morning. I chose to confront them when they were still groggy from sleep. The girl answered. Her surname was Bazov, her Christian name unpronounceable. On the street she called herself Luana. There’s nothing worse than a whore with a complicated name. She came from Vukovar. A refugee in her country, a refugee in Italy, then the life. She opened the door with her eyes half-closed. “What do you want?” she mumbled.
“From you, nothing. I want to talk to Cerni and his partner, Zaninovic.”
She turned a whiter shade of pale, then sprang back wide-awake. She shook her head, on the edge of panic. “I don’t know these men,” she lied.
I gave her a nasty pinch on a nipple. Another little trick I learned from the two Romanians at the club. “Go call them,” I ordered.
Scared, she slammed the door in my face. I could’ve given it a push and forced my way into the apartment, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility the two guys were there eavesdropping, armed and ready for anything. I sensed the presence of somebody eyeing me through the peephole. I didn’t move a muscle. It was Cerni himself who opened the door. One hand on the knob, the other holding a large automatic.
“Ciao, Romo,” I greeted him. “I want to talk to you.”
He stuck out his head to make sure I was alone. Then he fastened his eyes on me. He was strapping, his face creepy. His girlish mouth fought against his shaved skull, his skinhead sideburns and the sagging flesh on his chin. Pale blue eyes. Shifty, like a hunted animal’s. When I looked into them, I knew for certain this fucker wouldn’t go down easy before he gave us his slice of the pie.
He nodded at me to get inside. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, he slammed me against the wall and frisked me. He did it like a pro. After all, he’d been in the military police for a good part of his life. He directed me into the hallway with the gun. We went into a roomy kitchen where his partner was waiting for us, armed with a pump rifle. He aimed it at my face. If he squeezed the trigger, my head would’ve been ripped from my body. Romo barked an order, and Tonci lowered the weapon. I smiled at him. He was tall and thin, with muscles sculpted by years at the gym. His head was shaved too. He had a pig’s face and a pointy blond goatee. The classic executioner. They steered me towards a chair. The table was still set from the night before. Plates and cutlery for two. The girl must be on the street before dinner. I lit a cigarette.
“Talk,” ordered Cerni in Italian. He sounded like a cop. The job must’ve been imprinted in his DNA.
“I work for the police,” I explained. “I help the bulls hunt down fugitives. For money. I’m not a patriot like you. I tracked you down, but instead of selling you out I thought I’d offer you a job.”
Cerni translated for his buddy. Then he set his eyes on me again. “What kind of job?”
“A robbery. An armored truck.”
“We’ve never done a robbery.”
“You only have to stand on a roof and pick off two guards.” I made the gesture of aiming and firing. “Snipers,” I added.
They muttered to one another. “How much money for each of us?”
“Not less than a hundred thousand. With that kind of cash you could guarantee yourselves a decent escape.”
“Why should we trust you?”
“Because you’re in deep shit. If you’re forced to hide abroad, it means your friends at home have unloaded you. You’ve been judged expendable, and the only way to save your asses is to find enough dough to cross the ocean and leave Europe behind.”
“What if we don’t accept the offer, maybe because we don’t trust you? Informers betray everybody, with no exceptions.”
“Then you better find another hideout because the cops’ll be here soon.”
Romo sneered. “We could kill you now so you won’t go tell your friends, the cops.”
I shook my head and put on a rueful look. “You disappoint me. I took you for smarter. You really think I’d come here without taking the necessary precautions?”
He stood up. Grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. “I don’t like having to trust an informer.”
“You’ve got no choice.” I cut him short, my tone hard. “I didn’t sell you out because you’re crack shooters, and the robbery earns me more. That’s it.”
They talked to one another again. Of the two, Tonci seemed more pliable.
Romo scratched his bristly beard. “OK, we’re in. But watch your step, Dago: we’ll get even.”
I dismissed the threat with a wave and proceeded to lay out the details of the heist. I learned they commanded a pretty good arsenal. It contained two Russian precision rifles, Dragunovs, with ten-shot clips and infrared sights. You take a liking to the tools of your trade and never get rid of them.
Romo translated Tonci’s question about how the loot would be divided. They weren’t stupid. Already spotted the moment when they’d be most vulnerable. My answer: I still had to work it out. Romo made clear they wouldn’t do the job without knowing all the details. I told them not to worry and headed for the door.
I had a coffee to unwind. Those two guys gave me the willies. Dangerous fanatics, pros at inflicting violence and cruelty. Going back over the conversation, word by word, I reached the conclusion they’d try to snatch the whole purse. They had nothing to lose and might decide not to leave any witnesses hanging around. The meeting to split the cash risked turning into a shoot-out. My plan, however, anticipated an execution.
I decided to look up the Spaniards. Took the tram. Always preferred to travel by public transport. That way I could more easily make out whether I was being followed. Besides, I liked looking at the city through the window, checking out streets and the traffic.
Nobody was home. Their host had to be at work. Since it was eleven in the morning, I thought they might be in the neighborhood doing some shopping—if they hadn’t decided to stay in shape by knocking off a bank. Found them in a bar instead. As I passed by the window I spotted them, busy biting into cornetti and drinking cappuccini and frappés. I went inside, grabbed a chair and sat at their table. The two men reacted by slipping their hands into their jacket pockets, searching for the reassuring butts of their guns. I challenged them with a look. The woman did nothing but stare at me. She was the leader. No doubt about it. I rested my hands on the table to show I didn’t have any bad intentions.
“Pepe, Javier and Francisca. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said in a friendly tone, speaking Spanish and using their noms de guerre.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Somebody who knows everything about you.”
“You’re a comrade?” asked Pepe.
I sneered. “Once upon a time I was. Now I’ve stopped dreaming and dedicated myself to making money.”
“Who are you?” repeated Francisca. “You speak Spanish like a Mexican.”
I gave her the once-over. She was a stinger, really beautiful. Dark hair and eyes. Perfectly oval face. Big tits. Long legs sticking out of a miniskirt. The low-heeled shoes didn’t go with the outfit: she probably wore them in case they had to make tracks. What a shame she wasn’t my type. Not only was she too young, but she came off like one of those ballbreakers who never knuckle under. Especially to a man.
I ignored her questions and ordered my third coffee of the morning from the barista. Lit a cigarette. Only then did I speak. “I’m a police informer. I would’ve sold you to the cops, but it’s just your luck I need you for a certain job.”
“What kind of job?” asked the woman.
“A robbery. An armored truck. One hundred thousand a head.”
The three of them looked at each other. The two men were pointing their guns at me through their jacket pockets. They would’ve been happy to fire, but the place was too crowded.
“We don’t work with scum,” said Francisca.
I smiled and looked her in the eye. “Then start running,” I flashed back, pointing at the door. “You can bet your little Italian friend, his girl and the people at the community center are going to have a rough time.”
“Motherfucker.” Pepe insulted me. “They know nothing about us. They think we’re three Spanish comrades on vacation.”
“I know the score. You think the police and the judges won’t jump on ‘a new criminal element in the area’ to square accounts with a community center that’s always breaking balls? Won’t be the first time it’s happened in Italy. It’s business as usual.”
I watched them. I knew perfectly well what they were thinking. Others would’ve hit the door and felt no qualms if somebody wound up in jail. But not comrades. Consistency, a sense of responsibility, militant solidarity. I recognized their confusion. It was identical to what I’d read in Gianni’s face at that Parisian brasserie. They’d accept my offer. They couldn’t carry the shame of a betrayal to the grave. Good for them. They’d die happy.
“Fuck off,” ordered the woman. “We have to talk. We’ll meet here tomorrow, same time.”
I walked till lunch. I chose a restaurant carefully and phoned Ferruccio the bull. He asked me where I was. Twenty minutes later I saw him come in, impeccable and elegant as always. The wine I’d chosen wasn’t to his liking. He had it switched without asking my opinion. A cop’s cockiness.
“Did they go for it?” he asked.
I told the whole story, down to the smallest details. As I always did with him. Even shared my suspicions about the Croats’ plan to whack us and make off with the cash.
“The Spaniards might also be tempted,” Anedda figured. “This way they could lay out two Croatian fascists and a police informer.”
I hadn’t thought of this. His reasoning was flawless, but I knew too much about far-left idealists to think it had a real chance of happening. Still, to be on the safe side, it was best not to take anything for granted.
“When we split the cash, you’ll have to be there, hidden, ready to show at the right moment to help me smoke them.”
“Seven’s too many,” he remarked.
“Five,” I corrected. “Ciccio Formaggio and his inside guy will check out the night before.”
“You’ll see to it?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted the knot in his tie. “Five’s not so few, but it can be done. We’ll have to find an abandoned house in the country.”
“That’s your job. You’re the Milanese.”
For the umpteenth time he discreetly surveyed the joint, searching for faces he recognized. Reassured, he stood up and left without paying his share of the bill.
The widow had gotten drunk. I found her stretched out on the couch, face down. The room stank of smoke and liquor. I threw open a window. Made some strong coffee and filled the tub with cold water. That bitch drank just to dodge me.
The next morning only María Garcés, alias Francisca, showed up at the bar. Her hair was tied back, and she wore jeans that accentuated her ass and legs.
“Alone?”
“Better one in jail than three.”
“Right. You can never be too careful. So what did you decide?”
“We can’t let someone innocent pay for us. The problem is you offer no guarantee of safety. This could be a trap. After the heist you shoot us in the back or turn us over to the police. And once we’re gone you can denounce our Italian comrades. With scum like you we can never be sure.”
She enjoyed insulting me. She was indignant, angry, especially because she knew I had them boxed in. “If you’re finished with the bullshit, we can move on and discuss the plan.” I spelled out the operation without saying the place and date, just as I’d done with the Croats. When she asked me who the other players were, I mentioned only Romo and Tonci. As soon as she heard they were Ustashi, she started to spew insults. I let her vent for a while. She chilled out when I told her after the split they could slit each other’s throats if they liked. From her expression I could tell the Spaniards had also considered this angle. Ferruccio saw right through them. Apart from that idiot Ciccio Formaggio and the inside guy, all the other players were keen to eliminate the competition. But I wasn’t worried at all about the Spaniards. No, the Croats were the ones who bothered me. And Anedda. He was an unknown quantity. I thought him capable of anything. Even of saving the last bullet in the clip for me, once the others were eliminated. I had no intention of laying him out. In days to come he could still be useful. But I’d have to keep my eye on him, and if he wanted to try and fuck me over, I’d pay him back in the same coin.
“I want to see the place and the armored truck when it collects the money. I want to check the escape routes.” The Spaniard started making a list, distracting me from my thoughts.
I shut her up with a wave. “I’ll show you a video. I don’t want any fugitives buzzing around my hit. You might fuck everything up. It goes down in ten days.” On Saturday I’d film the whole scenario with a video camera, and the following week we’d enter the field.
She stared at me, boiling with hatred. “More and more this robbery stinks like a trap.”
“The only thing it stinks like is money, but you’re too obsessed with your role as the true blue militant to realize it.”
She raised a hand to slap me. “We’re in a bar,” I calmly reminded her.
She lowered it. “Try and fuck us, and it’ll be the last mistake you make.”
I sighed. She was unbearable. It’d be a pleasure to blow her away. I cracked a smile. “We’ll meet here in exactly one week, same time. And bring your little friends. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group.”
I met Ciccio Formaggio for lunch. He started to grumble when he caught the prices on the menu. “Where the fuck have you brought me? I can’t remember the last time I got fleeced like this.”
I snorted. “What balls! You’re about to fill your pockets with thousands, and you whine about a restaurant bill?”
He turned chipper again. “So how’s it going?”
“Aces. Just a few practical details to take care of.”
“What should I do?”
“Steal two cars. Make them four-doors. No wrecks. Then park them in two garages far away from each other, and give me the receipts.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, no,” I answered with a wink. “You have to come with the inside guy to get your share of the cash—and enjoy it.”
“Where do we meet?”
“I’ll tell you when you give me the receipts.”
I learned how to work the video camera in a hurry. Paid a lot of dough for it. Had to have sharp images to show the rest of the gang. When the armored truck pulled up to collect the week’s take, I was on the roof of the building where I’d position the Croats. Ready to shoot a short subject that was going to gross three quarters of a million. I got inside with a master key Ciccio Formaggio had somebody cut for me the night before. It was already dark, but the lights in the parking lot shone bright as day. Like the other times, the truck stopped a couple minutes with the motor running. The doors opened, and the two guards got out with their hands on the butts of their guns. Large semiautomatics, with a combined firepower of thirty shots. Weapons suited for a shoot-out with a visible enemy at close range, but not to defend yourself against shells fired by marksmen. They were wearing bulletproof vests, but even those couldn’t do much against Romo and Tonci’s highcaliber rifles. The jacketed shells would cut straight through the vest like a knife through butter. The snipers, in any case, would aim at the head. The two guards would collapse on the ground, slaughtered like steers at the butcher’s. Attacking armored trucks in Italy was highly remunerative and far from complicated. You just needed to locate the weak point in the route and kill most of the guards. You also had to have the balls to risk prison. The two guards opened the steel box and picked up the money bags. Through the viewfinder I followed the truck till it disappeared around a curve. Just to play safe I looked at the film again. Perfect.
I’d arranged the meeting at a gambling house in the Navigli area. On Sunday morning it was deserted, and the owner, some lowlife I met in San Vittore, rented it to me for a hundred euros. When I unlocked the door, I was hit by a blast of air that stank of smoke, sweat and bad luck. I threw open all the windows in a useless attempt to air out the room. The furniture was basic: round plastic tables covered with green cloths and old rickety wooden chairs. The only new things were the television and the VCR. Beside it, on the floor, was a stack of porno cassettes. Something for the gamblers to pass the time with while they waited to play. I lit a cigarette and stood at the window to scope out the street. The Croats showed up first. Cagey, hands thrust in their pockets, ready to draw their guns and shoot. I waited for them at the door. With my hands in plain view I invited them to nose around the apartment. Far from being reassured, they planted themselves on a couch from where they could keep an eye on the entrance. The Spaniards arrived half an hour late. Pepe and Javier came in holding revolvers behind their backs and positioned themselves on each side of the door. Only then did Francisca make her appearance. That day she was even more beautiful. She wore an elegant suit, matching shoes and bag, and sheer black stockings. She didn’t deem me worthy of a glance. She stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the two Croats. Romo and Tonci stared back at her. Cerni’s dark expression troubled me. He liked the Spaniard. He would’ve enjoyed raping and then murdering her. In Central America I had the chance to gain firsthand knowledge of mercenaries, and I knew I wasn’t wrong. In the end, I didn’t give a damn about what happened to her, but I didn’t want the heist to turn sour because of a fuck. When the Croats realized the beautiful woman’s escorts were holding guns, they drew their own weapons and laid them on their knees. You could cut through the tension.
“Stash the heat,” I told them firmly, “and concentrate on the plan. Next Saturday we make the hit.” I darkened the room and played the VCR. The images began to move across the screen, focusing everybody’s attention and easing the stress. I showed the video without interruption, then rolled it again, using stills to discuss details. The whole thing moved at a snail’s pace because Tonci needed his partner’s translations. But when it was over, they were all convinced the plan would work.
On a map I indicated the street that led to the superstore and the escape route. The Croats and the Spaniards had to use the two cars stolen by Ciccio Formaggio, and after the hit they were to meet me at a service station on the road to Varese. I’d guide them to a house in the country where we’d split the loot. Then everybody was on his own.
The anarchists got up and left the room. Francisca turned back to stare straight into Romo’s eyes. She knew what the Ustashi was thinking, and her response lay in that look of defiance. The man, not impressed in the least, flitted his tongue.
The Croats waited ten minutes before leaving without a word. I smoked a cigarette. Removed the cassette from the VCR and crushed it with my foot. No use saving incriminating evidence. I put the pieces in a plastic bag, where I also emptied the butt-filled ashtrays. I made sure the room showed no trace of our presence. Then I left. Walked the deserted streets to the bar where the owner of the gambling house waited for me. Into his hand I slipped the key and the other half of the money I owed him.
I headed towards the centro. I needed to think over things calmly. I picked a restaurant that specialized in fish. I was hungry and ordered an antipasto misto, hot and cold, linguine with lobster, fried seppie and calamari. The sommelier arrived. With remarkable hauteur he recommended a white wine from the Collio region. While he was extolling its qualities, I glanced at the menu and saw it cost thirty euros. For that price it had to be good. With a nod I declared my agreement with his choice.
When I was finally alone, I stared at the deformed image of my face in the silver charger. Then I mentally compiled a list of the people who had to die. The widow, Ciccio Formaggio, the inside guy, Romo, Tonci, Pepe, Javier and Francisca. Eight. Too many if they were linked. But this wouldn’t happen. And the foreigners’ bodies would never be found. Fugitives even as corpses. I’d have to deal with the first three personally. Halfway into the antipasto I solved the problem of the widow. She’d be put to sleep with the usual method. Fernet and pills. Then, pulling her by the legs, I’d slip her body into the water till it covered her head. The neighbors, used to her long absences, won’t suspect anything, and when the stench persuades them to call the police, everybody—the medical examiner included—will think it an accident. The press will recall whose wife she’d been and devote a short notice to her, seasoned with memories and compassion. I’d kill her Tuesday morning, three days after the heist, once the dust settled. Then I’d move to Veneto and start a new life. Thinking about the widow made my cock hard, and a few ways of amusing myself crossed my mind. But better let it go. If an alert corpse butcher found any trace of my little games during the autopsy, he might get some strange ideas.
The other two would die the night before the heist, Friday. I’d ask Ciccio to come and give me the keys, along with the inside guy. If he asked why we had to meet, I’d tell him I wanted to have a face-to-face with his partner before we split the cash, just to avoid any ugly surprises. It was a shitty excuse. Only a dope like Ciccio Formaggio would go for it. The guard would fall in line because he had a clean record and no criminal experience. Besides, Ciccio would reassure him. As I sucked a lobster claw, I thought about how to do them. Always pick the easiest, quickest and cleanest method. In this case, a shot in the head was the best solution. The bullet rips apart the brain, and the victim doesn’t even have time to kiss tomorrow goodbye. The muck— blood, bone fragments, brain matter—sprays from the side opposite the entry wound. I’d sit in the back seat of their car and smoke them. First the driver. Then the guy beside him. With a silencer. When I executed Luca in Central America, the blast was deafening. Almost ruined the sense of wonder and power you feel when you pull a trigger and take somebody’s life. Finally I’d douse the bodies with gas, so the cops’d take time identifying the charred remains. Once they learned the bodies belonged to some turncoat ex-terrorist and a security guard, they’d immediately link the double homicide to the robbery. That’s just what I wanted. The trail wouldn’t go anywhere, and anyhow Anedda, as a Digos officer, would take part in the investigation, keeping them off the scent if need be.
The other five, the Croats and the Spaniards, were a different story. Killing them was risky. Calculated, but still a risk. You had to shoot people who expected to be shot and were perfectly capable of shooting back. But I’d get out. Alive. Not them. They’d never get another chance to taste fried seppie and calamari like the waiter just brought me. Steaming hot and so tender they melt in your mouth. I’d lead them to the house. Anedda would jump out of his nest and spray them with lead. In the meantime I’d draw the shotgun and do my part. The best moment, of course, would be later, when we split the loot. But there was the risk they’d see it coming. And a chance the money might get ruined, stained with blood or hit by gunfire. We’d bury the bodies. Their names and faces would remain on the books as fugitives for another twenty years.
I finished with a slice of Neapolitan pastiera. The sommelier showed up again to recommend a Sicilian dessert wine to accompany it. To avoid a mini-lecture on sweet wines, I told him right away that was one of my favorites. Now was the time to go through the schedule. Every military operation must work like a Swiss watch. And knocking back an armored truck with a chaser of ten killings—this was a real operation. I went over every step again, and when I paid the bill, I felt different. Rich. A winner. That’s just how I felt.