Scott went to the Testaccio bar at the time suggested by the man who called himself Enzo and found him already sitting in a dark corner with a cup of coffee in front of him.
‘Money first,’ he insisted as Scott sat down. Scott handed over an envelope with the requisite number of lire enclosed. Enzo glanced at it quickly then tucked it inside his jacket pocket.
‘Allora, what did you want to know?’
‘I was told that the drugs in Rome are driven up from the south. Is that right? And if it is, why don’t the police try to stop them?’
Enzo gave a wry smile. ‘You think they are sitting on the passenger seat with a big notice on top? No, of course not. They are in suitcases with false bottoms, in secret panels in the car doors, inside tennis balls or medicine bottles. I know someone who transports heroin inside a statue of the Virgin Mary, which I think is sacrilegious, but what can you do?’
Scott had to ask him to repeat some unfamiliar phrases until his ear became attuned to the thick accent, with stresses on different vowels. He came from Naples, Enzo told him, making an effort to slow down and speak more clearly.
‘What happens after they get to Rome? Where do you take them?’
Enzo glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’m not saying I do anything myself,’ he cautioned, ‘but I’ve heard there is a garage in the Via Spagna where cars are taken in for servicing. When they are picked up the next day, or two days later, they are empty. Capisce?’
Scott was suspicious. ‘Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you taking a risk by meeting me?’
‘Not as much as you are, my friend,’ Enzo said, spreading his hands. ‘You don’t know me, you don’t know where I live. I could be telling you a pack of lies – but as it happens, I’m not. I want this trade to end. I want out but they won’t let me stop. Once you are involved, you can never leave.’
‘They? Who do you mean by “they”?’
‘Now that I can’t tell you.’
Scott pulled out his photograph of Gina Ghianciamina’s brother, the man who had attacked him. It was blurred but the figure was recognisable. ‘Do you know him?’
Enzo nodded straight away. ‘Of course I do. Everyone does.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Alessandro Ghianciamina.’
Scott narrowed his eyes. Alessandro, was it? ‘Is he involved in the drugs trade?’
‘This is common knowledge,’ Enzo told him. ‘Everyone knows he is.’
‘Why don’t the police do something?’
Enzo rubbed his fingertips together. ‘The police, the judges, the politicians: everyone turns a blind eye to protect that family. No one will take them on.’
‘Can you think of any way I can prove it conclusively, so the police would have to take action?’
Enzo laughed out loud, shaking his head in amusement.
‘You are so young, my friend, but you will not last long in Rome if you keep asking such questions. You are lucky you chose me. I am cheating you because I am taking your money in return for telling you things that you could hear for free on any street corner. None of this is a secret. But if you go around asking people you meet at parties for evidence against the Ghianciaminas, you will be a cadaver before the summer comes.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘I think there is nothing more I can tell you.’
Scott stood to shake his hand. ‘It’s OK. You told me I’m on the right track, and that’s a good start. Can I get in touch again if I need to?’
‘Certainly not. You were stupid to trust me. You mustn’t do this again because next time you will pick the wrong person and they’ll go straight to the Ghianciaminas.’
Scott shrugged. ‘I guess if you were going to double-cross me you wouldn’t have come alone today. Maybe I’m wrong.’
All the same, as he drove back to the office, he kept glancing over his shoulder. Every time a bike revved its engine or a child shrieked, he jumped. Once in the office, he noted down all he could remember about the conversation, trying to capture Enzo’s exact words. He would describe the meeting as if in fiction, using the new techniques that Norman Mailer had perfected. He’d describe the bar, the man with a false name, and all the dramatic pauses and glancing over shoulders as they talked. Already he had begun to write it in his head, although of course he still needed much more information.
The telephone rang and he picked it up.
‘Scott?’ It was his editor. ‘How come you’re the only fucking journalist in Rome who hasn’t filed a story on Taylor and Burton?’
‘I’m on the case, boss,’ he said straight away. The rumours of their affair were all over that morning’s Italian press.
Scott zoomed down to Via Veneto to find Gianni. ‘What can you tell me?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything nobody else has printed?’
Gianni chuckled. ‘I have a friend who has a friend who works in the men’s makeup trailer at Cinecittà. He says that when Richard Burton came in to be made up this morning he announced with a triumphant clench of his fist’ – Gianni demonstrated – ‘that last night he “nailed” Elizabeth Taylor.’
‘Did he say where they did the dirty deed?’ Scott asked.
Gianni snorted with laughter. ‘In the back seat of Burton’s Cadillac.’
Scott returned to the office and filed the story.