See Naples and Die (4 page)

Two days had passed since the girls’
arrival in London, and absolutely nothing had happened. They had slept, they
had eaten, they had watched TV … and they had eaten, they had played charades
with Mama … and they had eaten. If they didn’t get out of this house soon they would
be forming a Roly Polys tribute act.

Chrissie was just about to say, “Let’s
go down the pub,” when Luigi came into the room. He closed the door and glanced
around, as if informers were everywhere. He ushered the girls on to the settee
and pulled his chair to face them. He looked earnestly into their eyes, and
they looked as earnestly as they could back. He was giving his opening line the
full build-up. All it needed was a drum roll. He put his hands on his knees and
said, “Tomorrow it begins.”

“Thank God for that,” said Chrissie.

Luigi continued. “You will have three
meetings. I will tell you who these people are. Firstly, at 10 a.m., you will
meet with Del’Amoro.” He paused. “You do know who Del’Amoro is?”

His question was met by three blank
expressions.

“I am in disbelief,” cried Luigi. “He is
the biggest recording artist in Italy. For ten years now he has been having hit
records and TV shows. Mama loves him. Don’t you, Mama?”

Mama put her hand on her heart and
closed her eyes. This was a definite yes.

“Del’Amoro will give you a briefcase.
Simply take the case and leave.”

“And I suppose this case is full of
money?” said Brenda.

“Exactly,” smiled Luigi.

“Shouldn’t we give him some sort of
receipt?” asked Megan.

“Our word is our receipt. Men of honour
are not bound by pieces of paper,” Luigi spat in disgust.

“Okay,” said Chrissie. “So what kind of
questions are we likely to be asked?”

“There should be no questions – but if
there are, then they will be things like, ‘Will you want any more money?’ To
which you answer, ‘No. This is the agreement, and we keep to it 100 per cent.’
He may say, ‘What guarantees do I have?’ Again you reply, ‘Our word is our
guarantee.’ If he persists, look him in the eye and say, ‘It’s up to you. You
know what is at stake here. Do you want to give us the money or not?’ And I
promise you he will hand over the briefcase and there will be no more
questions.”

“It’s going to be that easy?” Brenda
asked dubiously.

“Yes,” said Luigi.

“Then I keep coming back to the same
thing. Why do you need us? A trained monkey could do it. Salvatore could do
it.”

“A trained monkey, maybe. Salvatore … no,”
said Luigi. “And do you know why? Because we humans talk too much. Once someone
says they want to buy, shut up and do the deal. Every word spoken from that
moment is a negative. You will know when the deal is done. You are easy on the
eye and you don’t need to sell. Del’Amoro will be captivated. He will want to
do business. He will thank you for taking his money. So, take the money, say
thank you, and go.”

“Okay,” said Chrissie. “Who are the
other two investors?”

“The second is Signor Franco. He is a
plastic surgeon. He has private clinics in Rome and Milan, where he performs
cosmetic operations for the very rich. He will also have a bag, and the procedure
will be the same. The possible questions and your answers will be the same.
Then lastly we have a priest, Bishop Alselinus. He is representing the church.”

“The church invests in movies?” asked
Megan.

“The church has great wealth, and
fingers in many pies. Do not be reluctant to take money from them,” said Luigi.
“After each meeting you will walk away to a designated Tube station. Do not
detour or pause. You will make your way to the platform for your next destination,
and Salvatore will be on that platform. Do not acknowledge him. As you are
about to enter the train let him take the bag from you, and then move away.”

“It seems very cloak-and-dagger,” said
Chrissie.

“Yes … why have it easy when you can
have it hard?” agreed Brenda.

“I do not know what that means,” said a
perplexed Luigi.

“It appears a strange way to do
business,” clarified Megan.

Luigi hunched his shoulders and held out
his hands. “What can I say? We are Italian.” He got up. “Everyone now must
rest. Tomorrow is an important day. Mama has prepared supper.”

Once again the food trolley was wheeled
out and they ate, but no wine was served. It was time to keep a clear head.

The following morning was bright, inside
and out. The girls had risen early, and couldn’t wait to leave the house. The sun
had come out to play, and even the East End of London had a half smile on its
face.

Luigi had held a final briefing over
breakfast. The meeting with Del’Amoro was to be at the York Gate entrance to
Regent’s Park. “He will be just inside the doorway, and not visible from
Marylebone Road. You have seen his picture so you know what he looks like, but
he will be wearing a wide-brimmed black fedora hat to conceal his identity.
Although you did not know who he was – and I still can’t believe that – many
people would recognise him. So look out for the man with the black hat.”

They had travelled by Tube, and arrived
at Baker Street on the Hammersmith & City line. Chrissie had bought a Mars
bar, and they were now walking down Marylebone Road towards the rendezvous.
They weren’t nervous or apprehensive. Why would they be? They reached the white
stone entrance and moved slowly inside. A row of pristine white buildings lay
to the left, and the park entrance proper was around fifty yards away. A steady
flow of tourists and locals strolled casually by, enjoying the morning sun.
Everyone was in summer attire except one man in a dark suit, white dress shirt,
and large black hat, which was pulled at an angle over one side of his face.
And he was holding a large bag.

“Hi,” said Chrissie. “Are you
Del’Amoro?”

The man put a finger across his lips,
and Chrissie apologised. “I’m sorry. That was tactless, you being superfamous
and all. Tell you what … for the purpose of this meeting we will call you
Tarantino.”

Del’Amoro considered this, and then with
the one eye that was visible, he winked. “Yes, I like that. Tarantino: very
good.”

“Okay, Mr Tarantino,” continued
Chrissie. “Do you have the money?”

Del’Amoro held out the bag, which Megan
took from him. Then in her most sincere voice she said, “Now do you understand
all the implications? And you are sure you are perfectly happy to give us this
money?” She added, “Unfortunately, we can’t give you a receipt.”

Del’Amoro lifted the fedora over his
forehead to let both eyes see this girl.

“
Bellissima
, what a captivating
creature you are. And so polite.”

Del’Amoro had the look of a hungry wolf,
and Megan took a step backward.

He continued, “Your hair is the colour
of corn, and your skin like a priceless piece of Capo di Monte. Your face is
the world, and your eyes are oceans of blue where I can rest my soul. Your …”

At this point his flowing rhetoric was
interrupted by Chrissie. “Hang on, Tarantino. Save the Italian blarney for
someone who’s interested.”

“I am interested,” said Megan.

“No, you’re not. We’re here to do a job,
and remember what Luigi said. Once the deal is done we say ‘Thank you’, and
then leave … pronto.”

Del’Amoro turned to Chrissie as if he
had only just seen her. “
Bellissima ragazza
,” he exclaimed. “You are all
so beautiful. I need to caress and embrace you. I will kiss you in the places
only true lovers know exist. I will be your slave and you can take me, one
after the other, night after night. We will love until our bodies cry out for
nourishment, then we will snort cocaine and love again.”

Chrissie was just about to answer that
when a girl’s scream made her turn. A group of foreign college students were
open-mouthed. “Del’Amoro … It really is Del’Amoro.” This time they all screamed,
and converged on the Italian stallion. With the mood broken and the deal done
Chrissie changed the words that were about to explode, and simply said, “Thanks,
Tarantino. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Then she motioned for
Brenda and Megan to follow and together they strolled back to Baker Street,
several thousand euros better off.

This time they went for the Bakerloo
line and stood awaiting the next train. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Salvatore
was alongside. The train arrived and the doors slid open. “Mind the gap,” said
a voice from above, and hordes of tourists left the train, heading for Madame
Tussaud’s and the Super Heroes 4D attractions. Without looking at him, Megan
let Salvatore take the bag and then stepped aboard. The doors closed and the
train launched itself away from the station.

Megan looked at Chrissie and Brenda.
“That was easy,” she said.

The next meeting was to be outside the
entrance to the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square. They got off the train at
Piccadilly and walked down the Haymarket. When they got to the gallery they
went up the steps to the entrance. The square was wall-to-wall with people but
not many ventured off the beaten track, and very few seemed to be interested in
art. The hot dog van was a far more popular spot.

They had been shown a picture of the
plastic surgeon and sure enough, there he was – with bag in hand. The bag was
identical to the one they had taken from Del’Amoro and Megan wondered if they’d
come from the same shop, with the salesperson thinking it would be used for
some gym equipment or hand luggage – or maybe they had asked for a bag that
could conceal great big bundles of cash, and he had recommended this particular
one.

This time Brenda was to do the
negotiating. She approached the man – and looking left, then right, said, “Are
you the man with the package?”

The surgeon looked bewildered. “Pardon?”
he said.

“Are you the person who wants a piece of
the cake we are offering?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“God, Brenda,” said Chrissie. “He’s not
a Russian spy.” She intervened. “You are Signor Franco, yes?”

The man smiled. This he understood.
“Yes, I am.”

“And you have something for us, I
believe?”

“Yes, I have,” said Franco, and held out
the bag. Brenda reached for it, but Franco pulled it away and handed it to
Chrissie. He gave Brenda a look as if to say, ‘Go and feed the pigeons, crazy
lady’. She put her hands on her hips and gave him the same look back.

Chrissie turned to go but Franco put his
hand on her arm. “Is that it?” he said. “Where are my guarantees?”

Megan gulped but Chrissie was totally in
charge. “Our word is our guarantee. Do you want to give us the money or not?
You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, of course. I want you to have it,”
said Franco, and let go of Chrissie’s arm.

“Well, then,” she said “That concludes
our business, does it not?”

“Yes, it does,” said Franco. “Thank
you.” And at that he turned and went inside the National Gallery’s coffee shop
to order a cappuccino, and to calculate how many boob jobs he would have to do
to get his money back.

The day was going perfectly, and as they
cut through Trafalgar Square towards Charing Cross it seemed as if they were
floating on a cushion of air. The pavement felt soft beneath their feet, and
the people parted to let them by. It was a wonderful feeling.

Once on the platform at Charing Cross
the same procedure followed. Salvatore was waiting, the drop was made, and they
went on to the final meeting of the day, which was scheduled to be at a small
hotel near the Barbican.

On leaving Barbican Tube station there
was a marked difference in location to the first two meetings. Here it was all City
gents and workers: not a tourist in sight. The streets were hectic, with
everyone power-walking as if the world’s financial stability was at stake.
Brenda admired the men in suits as they marched like Trojans, ready to do
battle in their quest for a better world. Actually, most of these men of honour
were simply trying to be first to the bar at the local boozer – but, as we know,
the financial sector are experts at illusion.

They arrived at the hotel, which was a
typical sixties piece of architecture from the decade responsible for so many
horrendous shopping arcades, high rise flats, and civic centres – concrete
eyesores, whose only quality is that they are difficult to demolish.

A four-star rating was displayed over
the hotel nameplate – the fourth star having been scratched away by some
passing vandal or disgruntled guest. The meeting was to take place in the lobby
which, at this time of day, was deserted. There was a random selection of
seating by the windows, and they settled down in comfort and waited. It wasn’t
long before the lift doors opened and a young priest walked towards them. He
was dressed in a smart made-to-measure pinstripe suit, and if it wasn’t for the
dog collar he could have easily passed for one of the Square Mile’s banking
brigade.