Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (13 page)

“Here we are.” I followed the Irishman’s gaze to the door. The hostess stepped aside to admit an older man, late fifties, silver-streaked hair, dark eyes, a face that looked vaguely familiar. I turned to him and straightened up. 

Tommy O smiled and did the honors. “Pete Pescatore. He and I worked together many years ago.”

“Of course, of course. How nice to see you.”

“And Pete, you remember the face, if not the name.”

“Uhh.” It was coming to me. Something dark, rising to the surface. It rolled over, bloated, white-bellied.  

“Bellomo, Arturo.” He offered a hand.

I shook it. Limp, cold.

It came to me. I dropped his hand, looked into his eyes and said, “Shareholder meeting, long time ago. We talked about the horses in our stable.”

“Thoroughbreds, you said at the time.” A dry twist to his smile. “Full-blooded, every one.”

“I thought so at the time.”

“Did you.” His dark eyes ran a scan, pausing briefly on my tie before moving on down to my shoes and slowly back up to my face. “You’re American, as I recall. And with a name like Pescatore, of Italian ancestry.”

“My grandfather left Sicily as a child.”

“As did my father. He led quite a life and ended up here in Switzerland. Where did Grandpa go?”

“New York.”

“I see. Did he ever go back to Sicily?”

I shook my head, waiting for another memory to surface. And there, a front tooth in gold. This was the man, the man people said looked like Dr. Zhivago. Getting on in years now, a silvery mustache. But not a Russian, not Zhivago. No. I was gazing into the eyes of Ali Baba.

The sweat on my back was clammy and cold. I pulled out a handkerchief, wiped my forehead. I’d been looking for the man but he’d found me. What was the name?
Bellomo, Arturo
.

He snapped his fingers. The hostess appeared at his side with a glass of champagne. “Won’t you have something to drink, Mr Pescatore?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“As you wish.” He took a sip, set the glass on the silver tray and dismissed the hostess. “May I ask what brings you to Lugano?”

“I heard about Mr Goldoni. I used to work for him, and I thought of him as a friend. I’m curious now to know what happened.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. A tragic fate. Very sad.” He shook his head in sympathy. “He was a lovely man. Generous to a fault.” He leveled his gaze, dark eyes staring into mine. “As they say in your country, Mr Pescatore, curiosity killed the cat.” 

“Poor cat,” I said. The chitchat was getting old. “Mind telling me what I’m here for?”

Tommy O coughed. “Patience is a virtue, Pete. Did no one teach you any manners?”

“He’s right, Thomas,” said my host. “Please take a seat, Mr Pescatore. I’ve asked the chef to prepare a light meal.”

“He’s brilliant, the chef is,” said Tommy O. He pulled out chairs for me and his boss. “French.”

“Great.” I settled into my place. “I’m game for almost anything.”

“His grilled rack of lamb is perfectly exquisite—”

Bellomo raised a hand, silencing Tommy O. “I like a man with an open mind, Mr Pescatore.” He lowered the hand and began to play with a heavy gold ring on the pinkie. “I’ll assume, since you’re here, that you’re willing to discuss my proposal.”

I flicked a look at Tommy O. A faint smile and a shake of the head.

“First I’ve heard of it,” I said. “But go ahead. Shoot.”

“I understand you have something that interests me. A briefcase, I believe.”

“News to me,” I said. “But for the sake of argument, what’s it worth to you?”

Bellomo spread his hands out, palms down, and pumped them gently—once, twice—telling me to slow down. He turned to Tommy O. “Were you able to procure the wine?”

“Of course.” He shot a look to the door. The hostess caught it and disappeared.

A moment later a tall, thin man appeared. Bellomo waved him over. They enjoyed a little conversation in French. He went and the evening’s entertainment began.

A waiter filed in and served up starters and the thin man followed with a Swiss Chardonnay from Geneva. Tommy ran over the ground again, told Bellomo what I wrote and for whom and what sort of people read it. I had a feeling we all knew the answers already.

“This paper you work for—” Bellomo extracted a sheet of paper from a pocket and a pair of reading glasses from another. “
Cronaca Nera Italiana
?”

“Yes.”

“Do they publish everything you write?”

I lifted my glass. “Depends.”

“On what, if I may ask?”

“If they think it’ll help sell copies on the street.” I took a sip, rolled it around and let it slide down the gullet. “It’s a business.”

“Of course.” He worked up a smile and let it fade. “What’s the print run?”

“Fifty thousand?” I had no idea. “I’m guessing.”

“A waste of trees.”

“Thank you.” I felt a sudden heat in my face.

“No need to take offense, Mr Pescatore. It just seems a poor use of your talent. You could do better.”

“I get along all right.”

“
Much
better.”

I snatched a slice of Tuscan salami, popped it in and attempted to work out the ingredients. Traces of fennel, pepper and garlic. A little too salty for my taste. I washed it down with the Chardonnay.

“It must have been quite a disappointment.” Bellomo threw a cool glance at Tommy O, who was making an effort to keep his trap shut. “You were rich once, were you not?”

“Rich? On paper,” I said. “Shares. Options.”

“Happy days with Mr Goldoni?”

“I wasn’t happy for long.”

“Dear me, whoever is?” A wistful, sympathetic smile. “But you could easily be rich again. Wealthy, even.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Rich people love to talk about money. The wealthy consider such talk in poor taste.”

“Ah.” I raised an eyebrow, Tommy-O style, and kept it there for a while. I was thinking it over, the offer. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“Certainly,” he said. “All in due course.”

We fell silent while a waiter hurried off with the plates and the thin man showed up with a bottle of red. A benevolent gesture from my host said I was the one who should taste the wine.

I squinted at the label. A five-year-old Italian,
Il Bugiardo
. I had to smile. The name of the wine was
The Liar
. Nice touch, Bellomo. The man had a sense of humor. The thin man opened the bottle and poured. I stuck my nose deep into the glass, sniffed, took a sip and swished it around, swallowed and gave it the nod with a nonchalant, magnanimous wave.

“Excellent choice,” I said.

“I’m glad you approve,” said Bellomo. “May I call you Piero?”

“Everybody calls me Pete.”

Bellomo let me see the gold tooth again. “But deep down, you’re Italian.” 

“I like to think so.” I winced. It was the wine in me talking. 

“So, Piero it is. And you may call me Arturo.” He lifted his glass. I raised mine. We peered at each other, exchanged smiles and drank. I wondered where things were going.

“Thomas,” said Bellomo. “Why don’t you explain to Piero just what we have in mind?” 

“I’d be delighted,” said Tommy O, raising his glass. “For old times’ sake.”

“Old times,” I echoed, drank again and sat back in my chair while the waiter brought warm plates with pasta and rice. Strange combination. Swiss?

The hostess was summoned to explain the menu. “Pumpkin ravioli with butter and sage,” she said. “And
risotto
with fresh Chilean asparagus.”

Tommy O thanked her and sent her away, nibbled at the sampler, wiped his mouth and began to paint me into the picture. He and Bellomo had put together a deal to build a five-star resort on a wonderful island in the gulf. Plans called for a golf course, a full-size pool with retractable roof, Turkish baths and a beauty farm. Superbly appointed bungalows were to be scattered at intervals across the grounds of a high security garden estate.

It sounded more interesting than the food. I left my fork on the plate and turned to the wine, drained my glass, looked up at Zhivago and said, “Pardon my ignorance, but which gulf are we talking about?”

“Persian,” said Tommy O, with a glance at his boss. “Forgive me. I assumed you knew.”

“Ahh, Tommy, you forget I was always a little slow.”

“Not at all,” said the boss. “You may continue, Thomas.”

Tommy O filled in the details, told me how much the project would cost, who would build it and how they expected to raise the cash with a road show to the banks in Abu Dhabi, Dubai and Bombay.

“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “So where’s the red button?”

Bellomo tilted his head, puzzled. Tommy O took note and said, “You’ll have to explain that one, Pete.”

“I’m looking for the little red dot on the map. The one that says ‘
You Are Here’
.”

A faint smile and a nod said he understood and while the waiters made room for roast rack of lamb Arturo Bellomo took over the story. He reached and filled my glass with what remained of
Il Bugiardo
, ordered another bottle and slipped into the pitch.

He began by saying he’d been following my career with considerable interest for many years. Back in my days with Gigi Goldoni he’d been favorably impressed with my no-nonsense style. An attentive reader of shareholder letters, quarterly and annual reports, he had found my descriptions of high-tech start-ups to be clear, if not always convincing. He had been disappointed, of course, to learn that his shares—

“Are worth less than the paper they’re printed on,” I said. “Join the club.”

A formal smile, cold. “I understand.”

Tommy O leaned forward, “Water under the bridge, Pete. No use crying over spilt milk.”

“Thanks for that, Tommy,” I said. “Can I quote you?”

Bellomo raised a hand, silencing both of us. “You’re a talented man, Piero, but your gifts are wasted on that silly paper. How much does Mr Buttafuoco pay you?”

“Enough,” I lied. The man had clearly done his homework.

Tommy O fingered my jacket, assessing the quality of the cloth. “Your wardrobe could use an upgrade, Pete.”

I shot a hard look at him.

“Do be quiet, Tommy.” Bellomo turned to me and picked up the game. “As I said earlier, you’d do much better working for me.”

I sat up, loosened my tie and leaned forward. “Doing what?”

“What you do best. Writing.” He turned up the charm, moving in for the kill. “Very soon we will need a presentation for the road show. I’ve seen your work. With your skills, your words, we can make it look, shall we say, appetizing? An opportunity not to be missed.”

“I’m not a numbers guy, Art.”

He flinched.

I rode on. “And in my experience, it’s the numbers that make all the difference.”

A thoughtful nod. “Yes and no,” he said. “Numbers are important, to be sure, but only words can make people dream. And you have the words, Piero.”

I opened my mouth. He shook his head and went on. “Not yet, of course, not for this project. But I’m certain you’ll find them.”

I looked into my wine and caught myself smiling, grabbed a napkin, coughed and turned my attention to the lamb. After a while, I asked for details. Salary, bonus, vacation? The answers were forthright and precise. Permanent employment, based in Lugano. Health and dental and a Swiss pension plan, six weeks vacation and a company car.

“What sort of car?”

“Whatever you like, Piero. A Mercedes? Porsche? Aston Martin?”

“How about an Alfa Romeo?”

“If you insist.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Let’s say I accept. When would I start?”

Tommy O looked to his master and said, “Arthur?”

“In an ideal world, Piero.” He paused to pat his lips with a napkin. “Tonight.”

I jacked up an eyebrow. “I’ll need to think about it,” I said. “And no offense, but I’ll want to see a contract.”

“A contract.” He was not amused. “But you must take my word, Piero.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s very simple. Either we trust each other or we don’t.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But I still want to think about it.”

“Certainly. Take as much time as you need.”

It was tempting, of course. I could forget about watches and restaurant reviews. It wouldn’t matter anymore if the wine rag out of New York never paid, and Johnny was good for expenses at best, so it wouldn’t make any difference. On the downside I wouldn’t see much of Stazz. So there it was. Money versus love. A no brainer. Well. Not love, exactly, but I never liked to let a woman go. “How much time can you give me?”

“Twenty four hours, Pete.” Tommy O aimed his gray eyes at mine. One ran straight, the other off the rails.