The Goodbye Kiss (10 page)

    "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 semi- automatics,
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.

    
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?"

    "Flambeed."

    "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.