Monday 14:00
Anedda was nervous. In a hurry. They were waiting for him at police headquarters to set up a bust. Algerian terrorists holed up in a safe house. A bunch of fanatics who liked to slit the throats of women and children. As usual, he drove looking over his shoulder.
“So what’s happening?”
I brought him up to speed.
“Sounds like everything is going well,” he remarked with satisfaction.
“I need a gun with a silencer.”
“For who?”
“Ciccio Formaggio and the inside guy.”
“The bodies?”
“Flambéed.”
“What about the widow?”
That fucking cop knew where I was living. A way of letting me know I’d better not try to screw him. I took it without flinching. “A natural death. A sob story about loneliness.”
He chuckled. “I found an abandoned house in the open countryside,” he said, turning serious again. “It meets our needs. Nobody’ll hear the shots, and it won’t be necessary to dig graves. There’s an old cistern to dispose of the bodies. We’ll go and check it out the day after tomorrow. I’ll bring the weapons.” He pulled over to the sidewalk. There was nothing more to say.
Wednesday 11:00
Blazing sun. Been a while since I’d seen an October like this. At the old farm the roofs to the stables and barn had caved in long ago. But the house was fairly intact. Doors and windows torn out. Walls covered with graffiti. Signs of camping. A gutted mattress. Anedda pulled a satchel from the car and led me to the kitchen. It was roomy. A huge fireplace blackened by smoke and time and a sink of worn stone. In the center an ancient wooden table.
“I put that there. Found it upstairs.” Then he began to explain his plan: “When you arrive, it’ll be pitch dark. Get out of the car, shine a flashlight on the door and the hallway and lead them here. Switch on the camping light and tell the Spaniards to put the bags on the table. I’ll be hidden outside the window. As soon as the money’s on the table, I’ll start shooting.”
I looked over the scene. “I’ll be in the middle of the crossfire.”
“No, you won’t,” answered the cop. “But you’ll have to be ready to duck behind the left side of the fireplace. You’ll be covered, so you can shoot without getting into a panic.”
The old stone structure was more than a meter deep and slightly less than a meter and a half high. Better than nothing. I spotted a shelf in the corner against the wall. A good hiding place for the shotgun I saved from the Kosovars at Mestre. I removed the rags I’d wrapped it in, checked to see it was loaded, and laid it on the shelf. It was the right weapon to use indoors. Impossible to miss the mark at close range.
“You need ammo?”
I shook my head. “Won’t have time to reload.”
Anedda opened the canvas bag. Pulled out a pump rifle with a collapsible stock, two high-caliber revolvers, and a .22 caliber semiautomatic with a silencer. An execution-style weapon. Killers once snubbed it because of its weak stopping power. Then the American mafia started using it with good results, and it became the thing. I picked it up to get a feel for it. The clip was loaded with full-metal-jacket bullets.
“Where’d they come from?”
“A souvenir of a search,” he answered with a smile. “When you’re a cop, you get into the wholesome habit of taking mementoes. Terrorists always had plenty of them.”
He handed me one of the revolvers: a .357 magnum, Spanish make. “Put it next to the shotgun. It might come in handy.”
I covered the weapons with a rag and again ran my eyes over the room, memorizing details. Then I followed the cop to the rear of the house. He slid back an old iron lid eaten by rust. I looked down. The bottom of the cement cistern was covered by a couple fingers of rainwater. That enormous grave would hide the bodies of our five accomplices.
“We’ll dump them here.”
“We can’t,” I objected. “Within four or five days the rotting corpses will have this whole place stinking to high heaven. All the fields around here are cultivated.”
“We’ll throw some wooden planks on the lid and cover it with dirt. They’ll rest in peace for a good stretch.”
Wednesday 19:00
“The nifty thing about this city is cocktail hour,” said Ciccio Formaggio as he entered the bar. “The counters are packed with all kinds of goodies, and you might as well skip dinner.”
“Did you get the cars?” I asked, heading for a table that was set apart from the rest.
“Yep. An Escort station wagon and a Renault 21. Makes that don’t attract attention.”
“They’re not wrecks, I hope.”
“No.” He sounded certain. “I’ve driven them, and they handle like a dream. But just to be on the safe side I changed the oil, the filter and the plugs, checked the tires and filled the tank.”
“Bravissimo!” I complimented him, smiling.
“I’m a pro,” the idiot responded, pleased with himself.
“When will you take them to the garages?”
“Friday, late morning. The cops often make the rounds, hunting for stolen cars. At this point even they know the trick.”
The waiter brought us two Negroni and a plate filled with tidbits. “You don’t want any?” Ciccio asked in amazement, stuffing his mouth with peanuts. I didn’t answer. He really was a greedy dimwit. I resumed talking about the hit. Told him the name of a bar in Porta Romana where he’d give me the garage receipts.
“Come with the inside guy. I want to look him in the face before we meet again to split the cash.”
The ex-terrorist shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Look, this is just what I wanted to talk about. The guard that tipped me on the heist doesn’t want anybody to see him. Not even to take his share. He wants me to bring it to him.”
I grinned. “Your buddy’s trying to pull a fast one. If the police get suspicious and grill him, he can always say he talked to you, and you, the ex-con, took advantage of his good faith and organized the robbery. His word against yours. He’ll stash the money somewhere, you’ll end up in jail, and then he’ll have a high old time.”
Ciccio Formaggio stared at me. He was visibly racked with doubt.
“You think he wants to fuck me? Because you know, I’d stick him in a second, right in the belly,” he whispered in a punchy tone.
I placed a hand on his arm. Like a real friend. “He won’t be able to fuck anybody if he meets all of us. If we know who he is, we can always get revenge, even if it means confessing his role in the crime.”
He still wasn’t convinced. Against my better judgment I was forced to reveal part of the plan. “We’ll have to cover our asses and take out two of his co-workers. This security firm is going to be turned inside out like a sock. You do realize we have to grab him by the balls so his nerves don’t get to him.”
Ciccio nodded. “Shit, two killed,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll see he shows up at the meeting. Don’t worry.”
Friday 19:30
The inside guy was a big kid just under thirty. As I suspected, he had as much brains as Ciccio Formaggio. He thought he was entitled to some of the wealth he protected daily for a starvation wage. He ventured to the fringes of the criminal underworld because he knew honesty would guarantee him a skinny pension, at the most. But now he wanted to pull back. The time had ended for shooting the breeze and whispering secrets in the bar, where it seems easy enough to grab life by the throat. Now the thing was for real, and the money took on a slightly different color. It could buy the cars and women that had always been beyond his reach, but it could also lead straight to jail. And security guards, even if they took the plunge, were never popular.
I read all this in his eyes. Eliminating him had become a necessity. In front of the first cop who asked him the simplest question, he’d spill his guts. Another loser.
I acted nice. Dealt out winks, slaps on the back. The inside guy was called Ausonio. That night I probably killed the last dude who bore that name. I offered them a drink. Only one round. I was in a hurry to finish up because I really wanted to kill them. I felt the weight of the gun in one of my jacket pockets. In the other I kept the silencer. I spent the afternoon practicing so I could screw it on fast. I’d count to five and be ready to fire. The guard unbuttoned his cheap leather. A bulge in his sweater showed he had a gun in his belt. He wouldn’t even have time to think about using it.
“Here are the keys and the garage receipts,” said Ciccio as he passed me an envelope.
“Did you come by car?” I asked in a chatty tone.
“In his,” answered Ciccio, pointing his thumb at his partner.
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll take you to see the place where we’ll meet to split the cash.”
“Do I really have to come?” Ausonio stammered timidly.
I spread my arms. “Nobody’s forcing you. But if you don’t, the hit’s off, and my partners’ll be sore as hell at you. They’ll think you’ve made us waste time and money, and they’ll want to teach you a lesson.”
The kid turned pale and bowed his head to his chest. He was starting to go bald and had a case of dandruff that hadn’t been treated right. “I don’t travel in your circles, and there are certain things I don’t know.”
“It’s true,” Ciccio intervened in his defense. “You’ve got to be patient with him. He ain’t one of us.”
“Now he knows the rules.” I cut him short.
“OK,” the guard blurted, “I’ll go in all the way.”
I stood up. “Follow me.”
I got into my Panda. They took Ausonio’s Tipo. I led them into the country, outside Cusago. Turned down a dirt road and drove within fifty meters of the abandoned house. Slipped on a pair of leather gloves. Climbed out of my car and got into theirs. I sat in the middle of the back seat.
“That’s the place,” I said as I took out the gun and the silencer. “Don’t turn up before eleven tomorrow night. Signal you’re here by flashing your high beams three times.”
They were concentrating on my words as they looked at the house. I took off the safety, raised my arm and shot Ausonio in the head. Blood sprayed across the windshield. I shifted the weapon to the head of the dope, Ciccio Formaggio. Pulled the trigger. Another spray of blood. The silencer effectively muffled the shots. The ejected shells clinked against the window on my right. The car was filled with the smell of cordite and the sudden silence of death.
To avoid leaving any trace I had to gather the shells and stow the gun. I also had to remove the guard’s semiautomatic, take the can of gas from my car, set the fire and slip away fast. I had no time to lose. Every second you spend at a crime scene for no reason is pure folly. I was aware of it, yet I calmly took my cigarettes and lighter from a trouser pocket. And smoked. An entire cigarette. I stretched out an arm and switched on the light inside the car. Took their wallets and poked around their lives. ID’s, cards, photos. Ausonio smiling between two elderly people: Mamma and Papà. I abruptly ripped it in half. Ten minutes later I lit a second cigarette. Two drags, then I tossed it into the gas-soaked interior.
Saturday 11:30
The Spaniards were always late. They came in the bar with their hands thrust into their pockets. Pepe went to the counter and ordered a spremuta, freshly squeezed orange juice. Javier headed towards my table. I handed over the car keys and the receipt. He left in silence. His comrade paid for the drink. On his way out, he limited himself to a vacant glance in my direction.
Saturday 14:00
Another bar, another neighborhood. Romo Dujc, alias Cerni, was sipping a soft drink. Never anything alcoholic before laying your eye on the barrel of a precision rifle and pulling the trigger. Tonci Zaninovic, his partner, sat at another table, his eyes fixed on the street.
I tossed the envelope on the table. “Keys and receipt.”
The Croat nodded. That day nobody wanted to talk.
Saturday 20:32
After the robbery I managed to reconstruct the facts from the newspapers and the eyewitness interviews aired by Lombard and national channels.
The armored truck arrived punctually at eight-thirty in the evening. The security guards spent two minutes checking the surrounding area. Then the driver and another guard climbed out, opened the steel door and removed the money bags. At that moment, they were cut down by a number of shots. Gianni Casiraghi, the driver, 41, separated with two daughters, was hit square in the face and in the throat. Walter Salemme, 29, married with a four-month-old baby, was hit in the temple. He died before he reached the ground. A Renault 21 pulled out from a row in the parking lot, speeding towards the spot where the bags had been left. Eyewitnesses were certain a woman was behind the wheel. In the meantime the shooters continued to fire at the rear door of the truck to prevent the other guard from returning the shots. But their effort was pointless. Antonio Donati, 33, married with no children, seeing his co-workers shot with lethal precision, lay flat on the floor of the truck, praying and sobbing. Terror had simply stopped him from seizing the radio microphone and sounding an alarm at the central office of the security firm. Two men got out of the Renault. One gathered the four bags; the other covered him, holding two guns. The newspapers had a field day, offering their readers computer-drawn diagrams and implausible hypotheses. The only accurate conjecture said it was likely the gang included an inside man. Ciccio and Ausonio had already been discovered, but car and bodies had been burnt so badly it would take time to determine their identities. The robbery made front-page news for several days, not only because of the two deaths, the funerals attended by high-ranking prelates, and the city in mourning, but also because of the size of the haul: eight hundred and seventy-five thousand euros. Unlike the usual drill, the authorities released only vague statements of little interest. The dynamic of the robbery and the discovery of some twenty Russian-made shells on the roof immediately put them on the trail of a dangerous foreign gang. A difficult investigation, where every detail could prove useful only if it wasn’t made public.
Saturday 21:15
The gas station closed at 19:30. I parked the Panda behind the self-service car wash so I wasn’t seen by the local cops. My presence could’ve aroused the curiosity of some passing patrol. The Croats’ Escort arrived, followed closely by the Spaniards’ Renault. I turned the key in the ignition and led them to the house. I was happy. Happy and excited by the idea of becoming rich. The last task would be dropping the bodies of my accomplices down the old cistern.
Saturday 22:40
To avoid roadblocks we were forced to travel back roads, often dirt tracks. I parked the car, turned on a powerful flashlight and signaled the others to follow me. The abandoned house was immersed in darkness. For a moment no one moved. The place seemed designed for a trap. Then everybody slipped their hands into their pockets, and the feel of their guns convinced them to go inside the house. In the kitchen I switched on the camping light. As I told the Spaniards to put the money on the table, I began moving towards my stash in the corner of the fireplace.
Anedda started shooting too soon and screwed everything up. He hit Pepe in the chest, killing him instantly; another round ripped Javier’s side. But Francisca and the Croats still hadn’t entered the room. They pulled back along the hallway, moving out of range. I grabbed the shotgun and slowly inched through the doorway, ready to shoot. But I was greeted by crossfire and had to take cover. Javier began to moan faintly. I took a gun and finished him off.
“You’ve really made a mess,” I growled at Anedda, who’d entered through the window.
“We’ve got the money,” he snapped, pointing at the bags on the table. “Let’s go out and finish the job,” he added, switching off the light.
But we were trapped in the room. The Croats had gone to the car to get their rifles with the infrared scopes, and protected by the darkness they kept us under fire. We couldn’t see them.
“They’ve got us fucked.”
“Let’s deal.”
“Don’t waste your time trying to shoot us,” I shouted. “We’ll give you half the money, and everybody goes his own way.”
“All the money,” the Croat shouted back. “You’re in no position to deal.”
“We can hold out till dawn, and then you can pound your gunsights up your ass.”
No answer. They were obviously considering the situation.
“What about the Spanish broad?” Anedda asked me.
Right. Francisca. “I have no idea,” I answered. “Either the Croats snuffed her or she’s hiding somewhere.”
“What do we do?”
“The only thing we can do is stay covered. You keep an eye on the door; I’ll watch the window.”
We were interrupted by Romo’s voice. “It’s a deal. Throw out two bags, and we’ll leave.”
“Real smart, pal,” Ferruccio remarked acidly.
“If you keep talking bullshit,” I shouted, “we’ll just get some shut-eye till morning. The money for the rifles with the scopes. And cut the crap.”
“OK.”
Another ten minutes passed before we reached an agreement on the exchange process. In the end, two bags and two Dragunovs lay in the clearing in front of the house. Only then did I turn on the flashlight again. The blade of light cut through the darkness, and I could make out Romo and Tonci taking cover behind a car. But they weren’t alone. Cerni was pulling Francisca by the hair, holding a knife to her throat. His partner, pistol in hand, kept firing at us. Anedda in turn had him lined up in the sight of the pump rifle.
The Croat sneered. “You head out. We’re going to stay and have some fun with the anarchist whore.”
With a jerk of her head Francisca tried to slit her own throat. She wasn’t successful. Bad luck. Romo smacked her head against the car, and she slipped to the ground, out cold. The two Ustashi would have their own method of reviving her.
“What do we do?” I whispered to Ferruccio.
He shrugged. “The Spanish broad has to die anyway. While they’re amusing themselves with her, we’ll find a way to fuck them. Those two bags are ours.”
“You’ve got a plan?”
“No, but I’ve got an idea: let’s go have a chat with Luana.”
“Perfect. You can bet she knows the assholes’ next move.”
“So what are you going to do?” the Croat pushed us.
“Alright, we’re splitting,” I said in a loud voice. “But the bodies can’t be left out in the open. Before you take off, you have to hide them in the cistern at the back of the house.”
“No problem,” said Cerni.
“Now move away from the cars,” I ordered.
While the cop covered my back, I climbed into the Panda and punched it in reverse till I pulled up right beside him. He got in. Then I shifted to first and floored it.
Sunday 01:25
Luana worked via Novara, in the San Siro area. But that night nobody had seen her.
“She’s home,” I suggested for the umpteenth time.
We were in Anedda’s car. He could always flash his badge, but I didn’t exactly feel relaxed, armed to the teeth with two bags of stolen cash in the trunk. He didn’t give a fuck. He felt untouchable. He drove slowly, eyeballing the sidewalk crowded with whores from eastern Europe. That was their territory.
“She’s got to be home waiting for the other two,” I repeated one more time.
“OK, let’s go see. But I’d prefer to pick her up on the street.”
Twenty minutes later I was about to push the bell to her apartment. The cop stopped me with a wave. He took a step back and kicked in the lock. The door was shit. The wood gave with a crack. He went inside holding his pistol with two hands, in a shooting position. I followed him and drew my revolver. Luana Bazov, refugee from Vukovar, was in the bedroom packing her bags. When she saw us, her face became a mask of fear.
“Hurt her,” my partner ordered.
I didn’t have to be told. I faked a punch in her face, forcing her to protect herself by holding out her arms towards me. Then I grabbed one of her fingers and with a rapid twist snapped it. She lost her breath. I threw her on the bed. Ferruccio pushed the pistol into her left tit, right at her heart.
“Live whore, dead whore. Which game you want to play?”
“Live whore,” the girl whimpered.
“We want Romo and Tonci.”
“I don’t know where they are,” she answered, desperate.
“Dead whore,” snarled the cop, lifting the gun barrel.
She was more afraid of her compatriots than our death threats. The Ustashi and their friends could hurt her family.
I bent over her. “If you help us find them, we’ll kill them. You’ll never see them again, and nobody’d link you to their deaths.”
“You tell me the truth? You really kill that pig Romo?”
I’d guessed right. Gave her a complicit smile: “You bet.”
Luana got her color back, sat up and told us she was supposed to wait for them at another apartment rented a few days ago. It’d serve as a hideout till the dust settled. Then a train to Genoa and a ship straight to Paraguay. Cerni decided she was his woman and she had to follow him wherever he went. But she hated him. She gave us the address and the keys and explained the signal they’d use with the doorbell. A short ring followed by two long ones.
“Disappear from Milano,” Anedda warned her. “If I meet you again, you’re dead.”
I pointed at the bitch. “We’re leaving behind a witness?”
He looked at her. “The last thing she’ll want to do is talk about this business.”
“She could tip the two Croats.”
He shook his head. “She won’t.”
I shrugged. “I think it’s an unnecessary risk. But you’re the boss.”
As we left the room, I turned towards her: “Since you’re still alive, put some ice on your finger and go to an emergency room.”
She burst into tears from the sheer relief of being spared by fate. Ferruccio the bull smiled, pleased with his grand gesture. Fact is, it was really stupid. Never trust a whore. But I didn’t dare give him any back talk. A waste of breath. He wouldn’t have changed his mind.
“Let’s get a move on,” said Ferruccio once we were in the car. “We have to arrive before them.”
“How are we going to whack them in the apartment? We can’t allow ourselves the luxury of a shoot-out.”
“You have that pistol with the silencer?”
“It’s at the widow’s house. I wasn’t planning to use it today.”
“Then we’ll just have to make do.”
We parked a few blocks away and walked to the building, keeping our eyes peeled, checking out the parked cars. We didn’t spot the Renault or the Escort. I rang the bell according to the signal. A minute later we entered the apartment with our weapons drawn. Empty. Apart from the Ustashis’ bags. We quickly ransacked them. Clothes, three pistols, some boxes of ammo.
Anedda pointed to one box that contained the same kind of bullets used to murder the security guards. “When I find them, searching the apartment with my men, I’ll be able to declare with absolute certainty that the two bodies belong to the marksmen. This will definitely give a boost to my career,” he snickered, rubbing his hands together.
I looked at him in amazement. “You’ve got balls. How will you ‘discover’ the hideout?”
“The classic tip from an informer.”
“What else? You cops use that excuse to justify everything.”
“Stop bellyaching about the profession. Instead think how the investigation will pick up the Croats’ trail—and we won’t run any risks.” He looked at his watch. “Our friends have probably finished messing around with the Spanish broad, and they’ll be here any minute. Let’s get ready to welcome them.”
In the kitchen he turned over a wooden table and broke off a leg. “We’ll use the Rwanda system. Rapid, silent and lethal.”
Twenty minutes later the bell rang three times. I let them in. Romo entered first, followed by Tonci. Their hands were occupied with the rifles and money bags. The barrels of our guns were suddenly resting on their necks.
“On your knees. Hands behind your heads,” ordered Anedda.
Romo obeyed. His buddy didn’t need a translation. I left them no time to reflect. I put down the gun, grabbed the table leg and swung it with all my might against Cerni’s skull. Raised it again over my head and hit Tonci Zaninovic. Then I stepped back to contemplate the scene: two bodies on the floor, skulls cracked, spots of blood on the wall, my shoes, Anedda’s trousers.
The cop bent down to check the carotid. “They’re still alive.”
I cursed between my teeth. Rummaged through their bags. Returned with a bathrobe belt and pajama pants.
“Take care of the other one,” I said, wrapping the pajama leg around Romo’s neck.
You should never leave a crime scene in too much of a hurry. You risk overlooking some detail which could point the investigation in the right direction. Anedda and I fished through the dead men’s wardrobe and changed our shoes and trousers. Our own clothes, along with the belt, pajama pants and table leg, wound up in a trash bag we later tossed in another neighborhood. The cop began to look for traces. Of course, not the ones we wanted to be found. We’d worn gloves through the whole thing and didn’t have to worry about fingerprints. But the soles of our shoes were distinctly visible on the floor. I looked for a bucket and rag and solved the problem. In the end, we left satisfied. Anedda would return the next night, wearing a blue jacket with “Polizia” written on the back.
I still didn’t know whether I could trust him. We were now the only ones left to split the cash. At any point he might be tempted to take it all. When we got into the car, I slipped my hand in my pocket, searching for my gun. He caught the move, but pretended he didn’t.
“When do you think you’ll kill the widow?” he asked.
“Tuesday, before I leave Milano.”
“It might be too soon. Tomorrow I’m back on the job, and I’ll see which way the wind blows. Wait for my call before you act.”
“OK.”
“You take the money. We’ll split it before you leave. As soon as you’ve taken care of your host.”
I swallowed hard. “You joking?”
“No. I can trust you because you wouldn’t dream of fucking me. You just can’t do it.” He was right. He’d find me anywhere. “Count it and split it in half,” he added. “Throw away the bags and put the cash in two travel bags.”
The widow’s apartment was sunk in silence. As always. When the television wasn’t on, it seemed as if nobody was there. The phone never rang, the cell rarely. Calls from old johns worried they hadn’t run into her in some hotel. The woman’s solitude was chilling, and solitude was the only aspect of living that frightened me. When you’re alone and lack the wherewithal, you’re prey to somebody else. As she was to me. But that wouldn’t happen to me: I’d organize my life differently and never be in her situation when I was up in years. That stupid broad didn’t know how to look ahead, and she played her cards badly, acting out the role of the crime boss’s widow for too long. But people forget fast, and she fell lower and lower, till she met me, sinking forever in the depths of defeat. All she lacked was a violent, unjust death, and I’d provide that very soon. I went to my room and threw money bags, pistol and shotgun on the bed. I sensed her presence at my back. I turned slowly and found myself staring into the eyes of the mistress of the house. She was wearing a black suit, sheer stockings, patent-leather shoes with high heels. Her hair was gathered into a simple chignon, and she was made up to perfection. For the first time she seemed like a real lady instead of some old whore.
“Are you going out?” I asked.
She shook her head and pointed to the bags. “I saw it on TV. From the beginning I knew you were setting up some hit, and I was only an inconvenient witness.” She adjusted the cuffs of her silk shirt. “Once I was an elegant woman, and I want to die elegant.”
I kept staring at her without saying a word. My silence confirmed her suspicions, but there was no point in reassuring her. If she hadn’t taken off, it only meant she was ready to die, and I was the one to kill her.
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen tonight.”
The widow nodded. She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She ran her hand slowly over the bags. “When my man was alive, he used to let me count the money from robberies. He’d want me to paint my nails with a dark red polish from Chanel. Then he’d sit in an armchair and watch me handle the stacks of banknotes. After I finished, we would make love. And while he was in me, he would sniff my hands. They smelled like money. Then he got important and sent others to knock over the banks. He increased the volume of his business, drugs, gambling, money-laundering, and from then on he began to have other women. I used to stroll through Milano in furs and jewels, like a princess, but at night I slept alone. I never stopped loving him, but I’m the kind of woman who loves one man in her life, and when they killed him, I became ‘the widow.’ Forever.”
I remembered it. The boss was in the courtyard of the maximum-security prison at Cuneo when a group of killers hired by the Cutolo family surrounded him and stabbed him to death. He was so despised they ripped his heart out and threw it in the dirt.
“After the funeral,” the woman resumed her melancholy tale, “some of the new bosses courted me for a while. But only for the pleasure of screwing the old boss’s wife. An insult without any risks, the sort of thing cowards do. I preferred to defend his memory and fuck up my life. Then you arrived. You made me realize how humiliating it is to keep on living like this. I’m not afraid of dying anymore; my grave has been ready for so long. Next to my man. I want only two things from you: don’t let me suffer too much and let me be found elegant, as I am now. I don’t want the newspapers to say I went out like a bag lady.”
I smiled at her. “Relax. You’ll look smart,” I lied. My plan anticipated something very different for her. I changed the subject: “I’m tired. Count the money, and divide it into two piles.”
“There aren’t many of you left to split the take. True men of honor.”
I slipped into the shower to wash away the stench of death and fear that seeped into my clothes and brain. I started to relax and felt glad. Didn’t take long to realize I’d become a millionaire. Not bad for somebody who’d left Central America with a life sentence on his back. Finally I was rich, and I could think of building the life that was my due, after so much hard work. Even the widow’s resigned attitude added to my satisfaction. I had no desire for any more trouble. When I returned to the room, she was still counting. I went into the parlor, poured myself a drink and switched on the TV. Every channel was showing special reports on the robbery of the superstore. The images were nearly always the same: the bodies of the two guards covered with a sheet and the men from forensics carrying out the investigation. I raised my glass to toast my plan. Simple, easy and therefore brilliant.
The widow came over to me. “Eight hundred seventy-five thousand. Congratulations.” Then she looked at the images that flew across the screen. “Once the underworld would give part of the money to the widows. Even the cops’ widows.”
“Don’t talk crap. These are tales your boss told you to make you think he was a great man,” I scowled back at her. “Get lost. Go to your room.”
That night I slept with the pistol under my pillow. I was rational enough to know I was safe, but it was difficult to manage the tension, and I awoke at the slightest sound. In the morning I opened my eyes and found the widow sitting on the bed in her dressing gown. She was wearing her hair loose on her shoulders, and she smelled sweet and clean. She lit a cigarette and started telling anecdotes about when she was still somebody. A real pain in the balls. I wanted to send her away, but it was better to let her chill. She’d create fewer problems when she quit life on earth. Every so often I nodded, feigning interest. But as she spoke, my mind was far away, back in that town, back with Flora. For a few minutes I let myself go with a dream beyond my reach: getting her back through the persuasive power of money. When I recalled the fucks in the rear of the shoe store, my cock got hard as marble. I took the widow’s hand and slipped it under the covers. “Make yourself useful,” I told her.
Time stopped, and the wait for Anedda’s call became aggravating. The widow began to lose control of her nerves. She alternated between moments of apparent calm and crying jags. The TV was constantly tuned into the news programs. One night I caught my partner showing off at a press conference to report the discovery of “the robbers’ hideout, along with two of them dead, probably Croatian extremists.” I switched it off. No need to follow the news to see if the investigation had made any progress. Everything was under control.
I packed my bags. The ones with the money and the ones with my clothes. Monday my cell phone rang.
“Tomorrow morning they’re taking down the road blocks,” Anedda quickly announced. “At ten on the dot be at the restaurant where we ate together.” Then he laughed and added: “With my bag, of course.”
The widow, however, was sobbing. In silence but uncontrollably. Her eyes were red and puffy.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “You might feel better if you took a nice hot bath. It’ll relax you.”
I helped her undress and fill the tub with water, salts and bubble bath. Then I filled the baby bottle with Fernet and grabbed the sleeping pills. When she saw me coming back, she was terrified.
“I’m leaving in three days,” I lied to calm her down.
I put the nipple in her mouth and rattled off an unlikely string of empty but sentimental words. She sucked the bottle to the last drop, like a good baby. Twenty-five minutes later she passed out. I took her feet, slipped them under my armpits, and grasping her firmly by the knees began to slide her head into the water. The survival instinct drove her to make a few convulsive movements in an effort to re-emerge, but they were weak and didn’t amount to much. When I was sure she was dead, I rearranged her body in the tub.
Then I started to clean the apartment, removing traces of my presence as well as my prints. As I combed through the rooms, I made the most of it by searching for things that might be worth snatching. Lucky I did: I learned the old whore had tried to screw me. Hidden in a drawer I found an envelope with the line, “To be read after my death.” Inside were a couple pages scrawled with handwriting that was shaky but completely legible. In the wrong hands they’d cost me a life sentence. I was trembling like a leaf. A panic attack drove me to turn the place upside down twice. The next morning on my way out, still stressed by the idea the widow had hidden other letters, I was hit with the urge to torch everything. I managed to calm down and convince myself that if I didn’t run across them, then the cops wouldn’t either. I finally found the strength to open the door and leave. I decided not to say a word to Anedda. Any suspicion about my involvement might make him think I was a potential threat. And shoot me in the head.
Ferruccio the bull arrived in an unmarked police car. I opened the door and laid a bag on the seat. His share of the loot. He shifted gears and took off, saying goodbye with a hurried wave. I followed the car with my eyes till it got lost in traffic. I was thinking I did the right thing to trust a cop who was elegant outside but rotten inside. I’d later kick myself for it. What’s more, being unable to know or imagine it then would never turn into a good excuse. With a caper like that, another corpse wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. Simply because you can never trust a cop. They’re like whores, always asking you for one last favor. The favor that fucks you. Instead of dropping the bag in the car, I should’ve pulled the pistol with the silencer. Three, four shots would’ve taken care of everything forever. Then there’d be no split with anybody. My mistake was thinking a cop I did business with could always come in handy. As soon as I stopped playing cops and robbers and entered the real world, I realized cops didn’t count for shit. There was an underworld of “professionals,” each one with his specialty, his contacts, his terms and his hefty price tag. They were the ones who’d solve your problems. And they couldn’t give a fuck about the law or the police.
I got into my Panda. It was transporting more than half a million in different denominations, all flying the flag of the European Union. I turned onto the highway heading northeast. I still wasn’t clear about my future, but I knew I was moving in the right direction, where anybody who had balls and brains could go far: the northeast that belonged to the winners.