Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (17 page)

“Do be quiet, Piero. I’m trying to think.”

Bellomo dropped a hand to the bell again. The waiter scuttled in with my coffee and set it down in front of me. “Bring Mr Pescatore a grappa. Swiss.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“You may call me Arturo.” He reached for the sugar bowl, scooped two spoonfuls into my coffee and stirred as I watched him.

The waiter came back with a bottle of grappa and iced shot glasses. I topped up my coffee with a splash, filled a glass and tossed it back. Bellomo sat in silence while I drained the coffee, sickly sweet, and washed it down with a second grappa. Swiss grappa. Not so bad after all. I poured one for him. He ignored it and so I drank that one too. Finally my hands stopped shaking.

“You need only remember one thing, Piero.” Bellomo, dead serious.

I nodded.

“We are a family. If you have a problem, you will speak to me, and only to me. Do I make myself clear?”

I nodded again.

“Yes, or no?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You no longer work for Mr Buttafuoco. You no longer write for
Cronaca Nera Italiana
.”

“No problem. I quit this morning.”

“And you will never write another word—”

I swallowed hard.

“—for anyone but me.”

“Fine with me, Art,” I said. “You’re the boss—” I offered him a toothy smile.

“Arturo, Piero, not
Art
.”

“Got it. Arturo.” I sat back, relaxing, took a deep breath and said, “You won’t mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Shoot,” he said, a hint of dark humor in his smile.

I cleared my throat and lowered my voice to a notch above a whisper. “Why go to all this trouble? If you’re worried about me writing something, why not just knock me off?”

A long pause for thought, tapping his fingers on the table. “Forgive me, Piero, but I am not in the habit of
knocking people off
.”

“Marco Romano? Gigi Goldoni?”

“You have clearly misunderstood what I said.” A slow, deliberate blink left his eyes hooded, reptilian. “Let’s try again.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The family has no need for violence. There are much more effective methods to encourage compliance with the rules.”

“Rules.”

“Obedience. Loyalty. Silence.”

“Which one did Gigi Goldoni break?”

Bellomo let his eyes wander for moment, reined them in and lowered his voice, forcing me to move in closer. “As a family man, Piero, you will appreciate that one cannot place one’s personal interests above those of the family.” He paused, rubbing his temple. “It was most unfortunate, shall we say, that your friend failed to grasp this basic principle.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he knew, but it slipped his mind.”

“Perhaps.” Bellomo shot me a hard look. “I trust your own memory is in good working order?” 

“Far as I know.”

“Good. Remember this, Mr Pescatore. Mr Goldoni had no one but himself to blame.” 

“The fact he owed you a fortune had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re misinformed. The man owed me nothing.” He blew through his fingers again and said quietly, “His death was entirely unexpected.”

“A surprise?”

Bellomo’s dark eyes fixed on mine. “Like your friend Marco in his time, Mr Goldoni was attempting to sell what he did not own.”

“Bad move.”

“Shut up, Piero.” Bellomo took a deep breath, withdrew a crisp white handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. It seemed to calm him. “I was able to intervene and made him a much more attractive proposition. Unfortunately, our negotiations were, shall we say,
interrupted.
”

“The deal fell through?”

His eyes iced over and a distant smile drifted through his face. “It has yet to be consummated.” He turned his gaze back to me.

“I understand.”

His hand fell again to the bell on the table. It rang out loud and clear. His eyes warmed up and he took on the air of a kindly uncle. “May I suggest you take advantage of the sauna. You’ll find it a wonderful way to relax.”

I shook my fake Patek from my sleeve, consulted the time, frowned and said, “I’d love to, Mr Bellomo, but I haven’t forgotten I owe you something—and I’m running late enough as it is.”

“I insist, Piero.” He slammed the bell once more and called out, “Thomas!”

A few seconds passed before Tommy O stepped in the door, looking peeved and a little pale. “Sir.”

“Kindly show Piero to the sauna.”

“I’ll be delighted.”

“And Thomas—”

“Sir?”

“See that he gets a thorough massage.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

Arturo Bellomo pushed himself to his feet. “One last question, Piero.”

I nodded.

“Your heart. Any problems?” He jabbed a finger in my chest.

“Heart?”

“Blood pressure in order?”

“Far as I know.” A chill in the air. “Why?”

“Just curious.” A slow, dark smile. “Good evening, Piero. I look forward to working with you.” He offered me his hand.

I took it. A slab of cold cod. I shook it and let it slip from my grasp. 

I turned to Tommy O, pulled out my new phone and began to examine it. Still no signal.

“Later, Pete. There’s a phone in the bungalow. Come along, now.”

He took my arm at the elbow. I felt his fingers dig for the nerve. I tried to pull away. He shook his head. A grim smile cracked his face as his fingers dug in and hit paydirt. Pain.

A voice in my head said
Run, run for your life.

The voice at my side said, “Don’t even think about it, Pete.”

I pulled away but the pain came back—sudden, intimate, persuasive. I gave up, weak in the knees, and let him guide me. As we made our way from the dining room down another long hall and a flight of stairs he began to whistle. The melody sounded familiar. It took me a while, but the name of the tune finally came to me. A set of glass doors opened up and we stepped into a bank of steam.
Somewhere over the rainbow
.  

Two gentlemen stood waiting in sweat suits and flip-flops, towels draped around their necks. A sick fear flared as I recognized their faces, one and then the other. These were the boys from the BMW, the goons from up at the Villa Sofia.

Tommy O dropped a hand on my shoulder. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. Maximilian? We call him Max.”

Max stepped forward and gave a little bow. “Happy to meet you.” A child’s voice, high-pitched, harsh.

“And this is Frederick. We call him Freddie.” Freddie bowed.

“Pescatore,” I said. “Nice to see you boys again.”

“I’ll catch up with you later, Pete.” Tommy O whirled away, waved and walked off. “Enjoy the massage.”

The boys were professionals. On their instructions I stripped. They flipped me over, greased me and stuck a tube up my butt and pumped me full of something warm. Then they hauled me off to the toilet, sat me down and shut the door. I sat and watched my hands. They were shaking, hard, like flags in high wind. I held nothing back.

From there they helped me along over slippery tiles to a steaming pool. With quick and shallow breaths I sucked in the stench of rotten eggs. Max bent and grabbed my ankles, Freddie took me by the wrists. They swung me out, back, out again and dropped me. Ice water swallowed me and panic hit and I began to thrash. Rough hands hauled me out and dragged me to a steam room, laid me out on a slab and left me there. My eyes popped out and my heart began to thunder in my head. I thumbed my wrist and tried to count. I could not hold them, could not keep the numbers still. The boys came back, dragged me to the pool and heaved me back in. A voice called out. A shriek. My voice. A frozen scream. I could see it. A jagged streak of red on the ice. Hands gripped my ankles and wrists again, hauled me away and laid me flat on my back on a bench. I felt the blood rush to my head, panic slicing through my veins. Head down. Straps over my belly and chest and plastic ropes cutting into my wrists.

Silence. Running water.

“So, Mr Pescatore. Welcome to the hotel spa. Ha ha.” Max.

“The water cure,” said another voice. “Heals all ills, real and imaginary.”

My eyes were closed, clamped shut by raging fear. I did not want to see. But I recognized the voice, that soft, slurred, Irish voice.

“Did you not understand, Pete? Or did it slip your mind?”

I shook my head.

“Open your eyes.”

I opened them. A blaring light above me. A shadow, backlit, leaning over me.

“Did you not hear the question? Speak up, Pete. I can’t hear you.”

I opened my mouth to speak. No sound. A cold, wet cloth slapped over my mouth and nose. Water. I gagged and coughed, muscles rigid, straining. Hands on my jaw, the cloth came off.

“Tommy,” I sputtered. “What the hell you want?”

“Answer the question, Pete.”

“What. What was the question.”

The shadow leaned over me, blue eyes burning. Death rays. A flash of light. Darkness. “Where is it?”

What. Where is what. I forget.  

“Answer me.”

Please explain. Tell me what you mean.

“Where is it, Pete?”

Good question. What. The phone? No. They took my phone. The key. I lost it. No. She took it. Who. Stazz. No. The other one. Clementina. No. Eva. Eva has the key.

“Eva. Eva has it.”

“Eva’s dead.” A pause. “Give the man another drink.”

Cold wet rag on my face. Water pouring into me. Choking me, drowning me. I suck for breath. Water floods into me, floods my brain. I gag and heave and hear the words again, words I had not heard or spoken.
Father. Our Father. Who. Art. In. Heaven
. And laughter, hissing, spitting. Water and more water, breathing water, choking on water, dark water. Dead. Air rushing in, coughing, spraying water. My face a fountain. I spit her name. “Eva.”

“She’s dead, Pete.”

Dead. Eva.

No air. No—

Slow, turning, rolling over, corpse in the water, sinking now beneath the surface of the lake. I will see her now. See her again.

“Sit him up.”

A hand snatches the rag. Air rushes in. A cough rips through my lungs and explodes in my eyes. My body tenses, pain ripping through me. “Please.” Gurgling water for a voice, a moan. My own voice. “I don’t. Have. The key.”

“Hell with the key. Where’s the briefcase?”

Briefcase. That’s what he wants
. “Lost. I lost it.”

Flat on my back again. The rag. Water.  River of water down my throat. Belly full of water. Eating water. Breathing water. A foot on my stomach. Stomp the water out again.

“Stolen. She. Stole.”

“Who?” A voice from a hole sunk into the past. A well. Black water at the bottom. Black eyes.

“Who?”

“Who? Tell us.”

She is dead. You cannot betray her. She is dead. Nothing can hurt her. Betray her without fear.
“Eva.”

Rag over my face, head underwater, airless, darkness now.

“Where is it?”

Head up. Air. “In the car.”

“What car?”

“Decker. Billy.” My throat on fire. Each word burning as they tear it out of me.

“We looked. It’s not there.”

“She took it.”

“Who. What is her name?”

“Eva.”

“Eva’s dead, dickhead.”

A quiet falls over me. Breathing hard. In. Out. Black terror on the edge, the mouth of hell, open wide. Swallow me up. Please. Take me away.

A voice at my ear. “Had enough, Piero? Tell us where it is and we’ll stop.”

I squinted up at the shadow. Beady black eyes. Slick hair. A gold tooth in his smile.

“The man needs a drink,” said the face. “Someone give the poor boy a drink.”

“Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.” The voice. That lovely, sickening Irish lilt. “Where is it, Pete?”

“Waiting. For me.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Water.

“Follow me,” I spat. “You can follow me there ...”

Rough hands haul me to my feet. Darkness swallows me. Darkness chokes and spews me up again. A rush of terror. Water.

Am I dead, Tommy? Is that what this is?

Light falling in through the curtains. Where? No idea. In my head someone screams and falls silent again. Birds. Birds, singing.

A knock. The door opens. A woman pads in with dark face and straight dark hair and her brown eyes shining and swiftly sets out clothes on the bed. Clean, pressed, fresh from the hotel laundry. Still warm.

Another woman brings a cup of tea. I dress and drink it. Tea. Not water. Tommy O arrives and helps me out into the cold gray day. We follow a gravel path through the garden to a glass door that opens onto the lobby.

“Sir?”

I stare over the counter, looking for the source of the voice. A fuzzy young woman looks at me with a smile. Professional. Clean white teeth. Black lipstick. Lemon yellow hair. No. No. She has pale pink lips and a bright hotel smile. The lips are moving again. I try to read them.

Nothing. What language is it?

“Pete.” Tommy O’s voice.

I turn my head. “What?” 

“Did you have anything from the minibar?” He seems to find the question amusing.

I shake my head.

“Thank you, Mr Pescatore,” says the voice from behind the desk. “Have a nice day.”

Tommy O beside me. “We’ll need a ride to the funeral.”

“Certainly, Mr O’Sullivan. I’ve arranged for a driver.”

I back away, looking for a way out. A flash of movement catches my eye. An image in a mirror. A tall man, haggard, beaten, in a pinstripe suit and thick wool overcoat, dark blue. The man lifts his hands to adjust the tie. They are my hands, shaking. I step away from the mirror and shuffle toward the light, gray snowy light falling in from the day. A doorman serves up a crisp salute.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Easy for you to say.”

A black Mercedes sat rumbling, a driver in uniform slouched behind the wheel. Tommy O helped me to the car and climbed in after. Freddie crawled in the other side, Max took the shotgun slot up front. Somebody coughed and the driver pulled away. I looked out the window. Snow, drifting softly to the frozen ground.

A water-logged sickness hung in my body. Sodden chunks of the night rose up and rolled over before my eyes, dull echoes of choking screams. 

The only thing left alive in me was burning in my gut, a glowing spark of anger. I stared at it and blew a soft breath and saw it flare. I blew again and watched it flicker and burst into flame. I held out my hands, as if to warm them on the fire. They were still, calm, solid as a rock.

“Cold, Pete?” The voice, far away, of Tommy O.   

I shook my head, feeling the heat in my belly and the ghost of a smile open up in my face.

Tommy O saw it. “Care to let us in on the joke?”

I shook my head.

“You do know what we expect of you.”

I nodded. “The briefcase.” I blew a long breath out and felt the fire inside me spit and hiss. “Ali Baba wants the briefcase.”

“Excellent,” said Tommy O. “Just a minor point, if I may.”

“Be my guest.”

“The man’s name is Arturo Bellomo. Forget everything else.”

“Forget? Name of the game, Tommy. Isn’t it.”

“Precisely.”

“Forgot the briefcase.“

“Ah, but you’ll find it for us. Won’t he, boys?” He shifted his gaze from Max to Freddie and back to me.

Grunts from the goons.

“Forgot where we’re going. Fill me in?”

“To the funeral, Pete,” said Tommy O.

“Mine?”

A soft laugh. “Not this one, Pete. You’re family now, and the family takes care of its own. Even its own rats.”

“Right.” I was starting to feel better as the fire in my belly sent flickering shoots of heat through my veins. “As one family man to another, Tommy, let me give you a word of advice.”

“Put a cork in it, Pete.” He wasn’t in the mood. Chewing his nails again.

“You need to rethink your recruitment policy.”

“Pete—”

“It’s barbaric. It’s cruel. And above all—”

“Freddie. Shut him up.”

“Counterproductive.” Freddie leaned in and slapped me back to the dark side of the moon.

Later another hand shook me awake. It was the hand of the man who chewed his nails. Ali Baba’s side-kick, the guy who played Sancho to the Don. Something like that.   

“Hey, Tonto,” I said. “How’s tricks?”

“The name’s Thomas, Pete.” 

We had arrived at our destination. Tommy O hauled me up out of the car. Freddie grabbed one arm, Max the other. The four of us made our way from the street up the snow-covered walkway to the doors of the church and on inside.

Stale incense hung in the musty air. I raised my eyes to frescoes and took in the terracotta stations of the cross. An altar stood draped in green and gold, candles burning on either side.

Wooden pews were filling slowly. Tommy and Max made their way to the front and left me at the back with Freddie. I scanned the crowd for people I knew, for the friends and family of Gigi Goldoni, for investors, clients and employees. I recognized the odd face or two.

Bellomo turned back with a worried look toward the door. He saw me, caught my eye, winked and nodded, satisfied. To one side stood Tommy O, fidgeting, to the other, Max. He nodded, tossed a glance to the rear, ran his cold gaze across my face and turned back to the boss beside him. Freddie tightened his grip on my arm.

Gigi Goldoni was late for his own funeral.

I leaned into Freddie and whispered, “What's the problem?”

Freddie shook his head. Nothing to do but wait. It was a good sign, I figured. Julia must have done her job.

In the shadows under the portico sat a small, dark figure dressed in black, hunched in a wheelchair. As I gazed she lifted a hand and drew back her veil. A faint smile crossed her lips before the veil came down.

Aida. The widow. An old woman now. Always older than he was. Ten years, at least, maybe more. Behind her a tall young man. A minder from the clinic?   

Her dead husband didn't keep her waiting long. Four pale men in black rolled in a polished wooden casket and pushed it up the center aisle. They left him there with a layered wreath of white lilies and withdrew to the shadows.

A priest appeared and led us through the ritual. He recalled for us all what a good-hearted, gentle soul we had lost to the mystery of God's ways. During a moment of prayer for Gigi's soul I took a deep breath, leaned into Freddie, reached in under his crotch, grabbed him and squeezed. His eyes opened wide in shock and he moaned. I held on, squeezed a little harder, told him to shut up and walked him down the aisle by the balls. At the door I dropped him and took off down the walkway to the street. 

My ride stood waiting at the curb. I tore open the door as he was pulling away, dove in and stretched out flat on the seat. We drove for a while before I felt the car slow and roll to a stop.

I sat up, reached over the seat and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Joe.”

“
Di niente
.” He threw a look back at me in the mirror, stared for a while and said, “Bad night?"

“You could say that.”

He flicked a look out the window and held up the camera. “Have a look?”

I took it from him. “You get everybody?”

“I think so.”

I hit a couple of buttons on the back and ran through a series of shots that showed the crowd filing into the church. They were terrible photos, blurred and taken from too far away. I made out Tommy O and the boys, but only because I knew them. And there. I handed him the camera. “I know that guy. What's his name?”

“Bellomo, Arturo. A big man in Lugano. Owns the hotel.”

“Does he.”

Joe gave a slow nod. “A very big man.” He offered a stare charged with meaning.

I didn’t get it. “Come on, Joe. Don't make me guess.”

“I have no proof.”

“Tell me.”

He lowered his head, flicked a look in the mirrors and back to me and whispered, “He is a Mason.”

“Yeah? Who gives a—who the hell cares?”

“You don't understand. He is not just a Mason, he is the
capo
, the boss. Don't you know what that means?”

“No.”

“But—everyone knows.”

“Except me, Joe. So tell me.”

“The Masons are powerful. They are the true powers in Switzerland. A very small number. Your friend is one.”

“Who, Bellomo? Arturo Bellomo is a Mason? Are you sure?”

Another grave nod from Joe. “And his people. O’Sullivan, Ungaretti. They're all Masons, every one of them.”

“I see,” I said, sliding over the leather seat. “Give me a minute, would you? Be right back.” I climbed out, stood up straight and walked down to the path that ran along the lakefront. I needed some air, away from one more conspiracy nut. They were everywhere, true believers obsessed with their enemies—the demonic, lock-jawed Lords of Evil who ruled the world from Vatican City, a perfidious cabal in league with Wall Street and the City of London, the Trilateral Commission and the Elders of Zion. 

I took a few breaths of cold, damp air and made my way back to the taxi.

I climbed in. “So, Joe. You get a photo of the widow?”

“Yes, yes.” A sigh. “She was once a very beautiful woman.”

“Who’s the guy with her?”

“No idea. Somebody from the clinic, I expect.” He ran through the photos until he found them, Aida Goldoni and the slim young man I’d seen in church. Blurred.

I dug out the phone that Bellomo had left me. A smartphone. A dozen icons filled the screen. Games. Maps. City guides to Paris and Buenos Aires. Finally, the phone. I tapped out Anastasia’s number.

She picked up, breathless. “Pete? Is
it
you?”

“I hope so.”

“Where are you?”

“Lugano.” I looked around. Things were still a little foggy. “Yes. Lugano.”

“Where. Name of street.”

I was down at the lake, I said, not far from a cobbled square with a fountain.

“What you are wearing?”

I looked myself over. “Blue overcoat. No hat. In a taxi with Joe.”

“Stay there. I call you back.”

“Sure. You pick up the number?”

“Yes.” She hung up.

I sat back and closed my eyes. Joe asked if he could take me anywhere. I said no, but he could tell me about the casino, the one on the other side of the lake. “You told me you drove Goldoni there.”

“Not me. I heard the story from a friend.”

“How often did they go?”

“Two, three times a week, at first. Later, every day.”

“When was this? Recently?”

“No, no. Two-three years ago.”

The phone in my hand began to buzz. “Hello?”

“Tex coming to get you. Tell him you will give him the briefcase.”

“Is that what you told him?”

“Trust me.”

“Stazz—” Never mind. “Did Julia give you the address?”

“Yes. I will meet you there.”

“When?”

“Wait.” She fell silent, breathing down the line. “Is he there yet?”

“Who?” I looked around.

She sighed. “The big Yank. On the bike.”

And there he was, roaring up on the Harley. He pulled up beside the taxi. The bike sputtered and fell silent.

“Pete! Pete!” Stazz was yelling in my ear.

I grabbed the back of the seat and hauled myself forward, leaned in to Joe and handed him the phone. “Do me a favor? Take a message.”

I pushed the door open and climbed out, threw my arms open wide and said, “Billy! Long time no see!”

“Where you been, Pescatore? I had to hunt you down.”

“I spent a few hours in the steam room last night. Things just don’t seem the same today.”

“Ahh. Took you surfing, did they?” A sigh from Billy Bob. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Day you stole the briefcase, Pete. We were drinking in the Royale.”

“Day you lost the briefcase, Billy. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Bull. I had a little talk with your Bolshie friend.”

“Yeah? What did she say?”

“Said you changed your mind.”

“Did she?” Right. “That’s right, I changed my mind.” I nodded. “Did she say what about?”

“You’re going to give me the briefcase. Now.”

“She said that?”

Billy Bob nodded. “Said you’ve come to your senses.”

“That’s true.” The hell she talking about? “I have. Come to my senses.”

“So. Where is it?”

I looked around, shrugged and walked over to the taxi. Joe rolled down the window, handed me my phone and snatched the camera from the seat beside him. “You better have this, too. Johnny wants more photos.”

I took it from him. “More?”