The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull (15 page)

‘Wine list?'

‘No thanks, sir. I'm trying to give up.'

And then, just when I thought the whole thing was destined to remain a complete and utter disaster, a monumental waste of time, I had the biggest stroke of luck . . .

Scene 141, take 1

Interior: Italian restaurant. Medium shot. Don Carlo
Vermicelli is sitting at a table. He has a napkin tucked
into his shirt and there is a plate of pasta and meatballs
in front of him. To his left is his consigliore, Michael
Cornetto, wearing a sharp suit. On his right is a thickset
man with dewlaps and interesting acne. This is
Luigi ‘Powertool' Scarlatti, a man whose expertise with
chainsaws, drills and orbital sanders does not extend to
the production of rustic outdoor furniture. Behind the
group two men stand, silent, with goats slung across
their shoulders and pump-action shotguns strapped to
their backs. Cut to close-up of Don Carlo, who appears
to have padding inside his cheeks. Or it might be a
couple of errant meatballs.

Don Carlo
: He'sa not showing me respect. I needa respect. My family needsa respect. And I tell you, Michael, that I respect his family, but he don't respect my family. There'sa no respect. So I wanna his family whacked. With respect. Then maybe he respect me, respectfully, like I respectfully respect him. Whaddya want, kid?

Medium shot. Calma, disguised as a waiter. In one fluid
movement she flings off her huge, smock uniform,
exposing a charcoal grey suit and Uzi submachine gun.

The group is stunned into immobility.

Calma:
The game's up, Carlo. We have it all on tape. Yes, that's right – the goats were carrying wires. You're going down, Carlo. Down for a long time. We've got you cold on supplying narcotics, running the East Side numbers racket, prostitution, extortion, loan-sharking, tax evasion, laundering detergent and riding a bicycle on public roads without a helmet. It's a federal rap and you're all out of options. You'd better come quietly.

Cut to close-up of Don Carlo.

Don Carlo:
Who are you, kid?

Calma:
Harrison. FBI Special Agent Calma Harrison. But my friends call me . . . FBI Special Agent Calma Harrison.

Cut to close-up of Michael Cornetto. His eye twitches.

Cut to Luigi Scarlatti. His hand reaches inside his jacket
and grips the handle of an electric paintgun. Cut to
Calma. Her eyes narrow. Slow motion. Luigi pulls out
the paintgun. Calma squeezes the trigger of the Uzi and
bits of goat, meatball and exterior emulsion spray all
over the walls . . .

CUT!

Scene 141, take 2

Interior: Italian restaurant. A top-heavy female waiter
in a uniform tailored for an African elephant scuttles
towards a table of four businessmen. She hovers on the
fringe, in the forlorn hope that she might appear
inconspicuous. She overhears a snippet of conversation.

The Ferret:
. . . we mustn't miss this opportunity, gentlemen. There is a huge shortage of top-grade heroin on the streets at the moment . . .

The waiter drops a carafe of water onto her toe, screams
and dashes through the suddenly stilled room and out
the swing doors.

CUT! That's a wrap!

Chapter 14
Reviewing the situation

Have you ever seen that old movie
Singing in the Rain
? It's pretty sad, generally, but there is this great scene where Gene Kelly dances down the street. It's pouring with rain, but he is really happy, splashing into puddles and singing and dancing his socks off. I felt just like that. As soon as I got out of that restaurant, I felt exactly like old Gene Kelly must have done. Okay, it wasn't pouring with rain, I didn't have an umbrella and I wasn't singing or dancing, but other than that it was a pretty faithful re-enactment of the whole scene. I even did a little skip around a lamppost. You know, hanging on with one hand and swinging all the way round. I couldn't wait to tell Kiffo. I was so happy.

Until I collided with a large woman who'd been walking a pace or two in front of me. I suppose my momentum, as I completed the lamppost circuit,must have thrust my feet into her back. It was careless of me, but I had felt so full of energy that I couldn't contain myself. Her shopping bags went flying. There were apples and cans of stuff rolling all over the place. The woman fell to her knees. I felt really awful.

‘Oh God! Sorry,' I said as I bent down to help her to her feet. She turned around and I found myself face-to-face with the Pitbull.

‘Miss Payne!' I said. ‘I am so very sorry! Please forgive me.' I tried explaining. I told her that it was a pure accident, that I had no idea whatsoever that she was walking along that street, that I had been feeling particularly excitable and had simply acted on impulse. I even tried explaining about
Singing
in the Rain
but I think, by that time, I had lost my audience. I was scurrying around picking up cans of tuna, dusting off apples, wiping grit and traces of doggy doo off her bananas and I suppose I might have seemed just a touch hysterical. Meanwhile, she stood there like an ancient monolith, Uluru or something. Still babbling, I pressed the rather sorry and misshapen groceries into her arms.

‘So there you go, Miss Payne. No harm done, eh? Just a freak accident. Thousand-to-one chance really! Well, I've taken up enough of your time. I'm sure you've got better things to do than spend your Saturday morning talking to . . .' ‘I don't know what I have done to deserve this,' said the Pitbull. Her voice was very quiet and there was a catch in it, like she was on the point of crying. Her lip even trembled. ‘You have followed me to my home, you have harassed and badgered me. And now, you assault me . . .'

‘I didn't mean to,' I said. ‘It was an accident. I swear I . . .'

It was as if I hadn't spoken.

‘. . . in broad daylight, you assault me. I'm sorry, Calma, but I've had enough. I can't take it anymore.'

And she turned and limped along the street. I fought the impulse to run after her and try explaining again. I knew there was nothing I could do and that talking further would probably only make the situation worse. Boy, she seemed upset! If I hadn't known that she was up to her wrestler's armpits in illegal stuff, I'd have felt sorry for her. I really would. There was even a part of me that admired her performance. The trembling lip, the catch in the voice. If I didn't know better, I'd have taken it for genuine emotion. What an actor!

Okay, I was worried. I admit it. Frankly, the last thing you need when chasing a drug dealer is a drug dealer who knows you are chasing her. I had visions of me ending up in concrete boots at the bottom of a river or forming part of the foundations for the new shopping centre. Nevertheless, I was also feeling pretty proud of what I had achieved in the restaurant. Digging in my purse I found a dollar. Enough for the bus ride to Kiffo's place.

When he opened the door, he looked like he had been through the hot wash and fast spin cycle.

‘God, Kiffo,' I said. ‘You look as if you've been ridden hard and put away wet. What on earth have you been doing?'

‘Staking-out the Pitbull's place. All night, if you want to know the truth.'

No wonder he looked exhausted. He could hardly stop yawning long enough to invite me in. I had one foot over the threshold before I remembered what his place was like. So I suggested that we go for a walk. Anyway, it looked like the only thing that would keep him awake.

As we walked, I asked him how the stake-out had gone.

‘Nah, nothin' doing. I got there about ten-thirty and she was definitely in. I could see her through the kitchen curtains. When I left, about six this morning, she hadn't budged.'

He was absolutely exhausted. His whole body was slumped, as if he were carrying an intolerable burden. I slipped my arm around his shoulders. I could feel his muscles tighten instinctively, but he didn't shrug me off.

‘Wait 'til you hear my news!' I said. ‘I've been busy, too.'

And I filled him in on my undercover work at Giuseppe's and my run-in with the Pitbull later. When I told him what I had heard the Ferret saying, he brightened up considerably. It was as if the news washed away his tiredness. His eyes sparkled with excitement.

‘I told you, Calma. I told you there was something going on. Now we know.'
He
was almost dancing down the street now, bandy legs skipping from side to side.

‘Hang on, Kiffo,' I said. ‘We
suspect
that there is something going on. But suspicion is a long way from knowing. Listen, if this were a TV show, there'd be some balding guy in a shiny suit, saying to us,“ Harrison and Kiffing, I need more than circumstantial evidence. Sure, we could put out an APB, bring her in, but her attorneys would make damn sure that the case would never stand up in court. She'd walk. Get me solid proof I can take to the DA. It's our only chance of an indictment.” You see what I'm getting at?'

‘No.'

I grabbed Kiffo by the arm and sat him down on a park bench that was grubby even by his standards. Scrambling around in my bag, I came up with a battered envelope and a rather leaky red biro.

‘Let's jot this down, shall we?' I scrawled three columns on the back of the envelope.

I handed the envelope to Kiffo.

‘You see? There's nothing here. Nothing that we could use if we went to the police. They'd laugh at us. We need hard evidence, Kiffo. Something that isn't just our word against two respected members of society. Fingerprints, tape-recordings, photographs. That kind of thing.'

I was starting to reconsider my career aspirations. Maybe I should become a police officer. Chief Superintendent Calma Harrison, the scourge of the underworld. Tough, streetwise, folding twenty dollar bills into the top pockets of grasses, busting bent coppers, feared and respected. ‘She's tough, but she's all woman!' Or maybe a lawyer! I could just see myself pacing up and down in front of a jury, hypnotising them with my impeccable logic and oratory skills in an emotional closing address.

So I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that
all the facts point in one direction and one direction only.
The defendant, Miss Payne, or as she is known in the
seedy drug underworld, the Pitbull, has for years been
polluting the streets of our city with the most evil of
substances – heroin. She has been preying upon the
young and the helpless for the saddest and most
despicable reasons of all – personal gain. Did she care
that our nation's youth were dying in the streets? Did she
care about their untold misery? She did not, ladies and
gentlemen of the jury. She did not. I ask that we send a
message in this case. A message to the law-abiding
citizens of this wonderful country of ours. A message to
the parents of those who have died and are continuing
to die. A message that we care, that we are determined to
root out this cancer in our society. I call upon you to hand
out the most severe sentence the law will allow. I know
that I can rely upon you all to do your duty. I rest my
case.

I'd almost forgotten that Kiffo was still there. He folded the envelope and handed it back. We started to walk again.

‘I guess you're right,' he said finally. ‘But if it's hard evidence we need, then hard evidence is what we'll get. If I have to stake out her house every night, we'll get it!'

‘Maybe so, but after what she said to me today, you'll have to get it by yourself. I can't go near her house again. I mean, I'll do what I can, but I can't risk getting into trouble with the police. That's what she threatened me with in the Prinny's office. Prosecution. And then it'll be game over.'

Kiffo snorted.

‘You don't have a clue, do you, Calma?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Prosecution, trouble with the police, all that stuff. You've no idea. Like I've got no idea with a poem, you've got no idea about the law. There ain't many things I'm an expert on, but the police is one. Let me give you a lesson. Firstly, police time. They're so busy tracking down thieves, doing drug busts and handing out speeding fines that they've got no time to scratch their arses, let alone chase a schoolkid for hanging around a teacher. Secondly, you haven't done nothin' to her. What's she gonna say? There's this kid who talked to me outside my house, then my dog chewed her shoe while I was meeting someone in the middle of the night. No, officer, I didn't see her, but she had a pair of red shoes. And she bumped into me in town, on a busy street. They'd laugh at her, Calma. Maybe, if we were real lucky, charge her with wasting police time. And thirdly, she's up to no good herself. So who's the last people she's going to contact? The police, that's who. Nah, you don't have to worry about the Pitbull. She's not going to do nothin'. '