Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (25 page)

I stood up, snatched the phone and threw it across the room. It hit a wall and clattered on the floor in a far corner. “This is not about me.”

“You break recording, I kill you.” Anastasia jumped up and ran to retrieve the phone. She picked it up, shook it, tap-danced her fingers over the screen. A voice, mine.
This is not about me
.

“Turn it off, Stazz.”

“No. Deal is deal.” She shook her head, launched
record
and set the phone back on the table. “Talk.”

I was silent for a moment. Something he’d said. Something Gigi had said.
The deal is done.

Billy Bob flopped on the couch beside Anastasia.

I leaned toward the phone and spoke up. “Tell us about your dealings with Luigi Goldoni.”

Billy Bob leaned back, closed his eyes. “About six months ago he called me, said he had some information. I asked to see a sample. He provided one. I flew to Zurich. We met in Zug.”

“Zug?” Anastasia was taking notes. “Where is Zug?”

“Just south of Zurich,” said Johnny. “Special tax zone.”

Billy Bob opened his eyes, searched the room, found mine. “It was priceless, Pescatore. The information—pure gold.”

Anastasia piped up. “Tell us about briefcase, Mister.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Tell us about it.”

“I gave him the best. Biometric. Fingerprint and iris scanners. You need both to open it.”

“Spy tech.”

Anastasia sighed. “He did not want to tell me. I screw it out of him.”

Billy Bob cracked a grin. “I would have said anything.”

“Shut up, Billy.”

He laughed. “You wish, Pescatore.”

Johnny coughed and busied himself with his cigar. “What was your deal with Mr Goldoni?”

“Mr Goldoni agreed to document the services he and his associates were providing to American citizens.”

Anastasia scribbled a note.

I followed up. “Citizens holding secret accounts and undeclared assets in Switzerland?”

“Correct."

“And just what,” I said, “did Mr Goldoni expect in return?”

Billy Bob picked up his glass, drained the champagne and said, “You got anything stronger?”

Johnny nodded, shuffled to a tall wooden cupboard, opened the doors and had a look. “Whisky?”

“Great. Wild Turkey?”

“Sorry. Single malt?”

Disappointed. “Whatever.”

Johnny came back with a bottle and a glass and poured Billy Bob a drink.

“Got ice?”

Johnny sat back on the couch, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling and yelled, “Rita?”

I heard footsteps scampering down the hall. Carla popped her head in. Johnny said, “Hey, honey, ask your mom for some ice?”

The girl made a face and went away.

Billy Bob took a sip, shook himself, and put the glass back on the table. “Ice. Definitely needs ice.”

“Daddy?” Carla was back with a bowl of ice cubes.

Anastasia jumped up and took it from her, sat back down on the couch. Billy Bob fished out a couple of cubes, dumped them in his glass, sloshed and guzzled.

“So,” he said. “Where were we?”

“Gigi,” I said. “What was it worth to him? What did you offer him in return for the docs?”

“A trip for two, one way,” said Billy Bob, “to a destination of our choice.”

“All expenses paid, forever?”

“More or less.”

“A new name,” I said. “A new identity.”

“Correct.”

“Witness protection?”

Billy Bob shook his head. “Different program. Same idea.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Very. Why?”

“We needed someone to put the data in context. Tell us how the business worked.”

“The money laundry.”

“Call it what you like,” said Billy Bob. “There’s no point having assets if you can’t liquidate them. We needed to know how he made it happen.”

“And you wanted him to testify in court?”

“Absolutely.”

“You offered him immunity?”

“And a new life.”

“Not bad. I assume he signed up?”

“He did.”

There was more. “You said the trip was for two. Who was Gigi planning to take along?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“I’m a journalist,” I said. “Was it the English woman? Julia?”

“Are you kidding?” Billy Bob snorted. “It was Aida. Can you believe it? The wife, of all people. He was running away with his wife, for crissake.”

“He was family man,” said Anastasia. “Good man.”

“Family is right.” Another snort from Billy Bob.

A squeaky little voice from across the room called out, “
A tavola.
” Dinner’s ready.

Johnny was on his feet, took his daughter in his arms. “Great. Let’s eat.” He reached around her, snagged the blue memory card from the table and stashed it in his shirt pocket.

Anastasia stood, picked up Johnny’s phone and tapped the screen. “We finish later.” She slipped the phone in her purse, stretched out a hand to Billy Bob. “Come.”

Billy Bob hauled himself to his feet, bent over and planted a kiss on the top of her head. I caught her eye. She bit her lip and looked away.

Nothing much happened over dinner. Carla told us about her school. Billy Bob was quiet, his eyes falling shut as he ate and drank his fill. I asked Rita about the painting in the living room, the one that looked like a wall. It had belonged to her father, she said. He’d bought it from a painter in Barcelona.

“I take it he likes walls, and you like his work.”

“He did, and I do.”

“You like Warhol, too?”

“Some of it. Why?”

I told her about Bellomo’s paintings, the Warhols and the Lichtenstein, the Rauschenberg and the moody Rothkos. Billy Bob perked up his ears, narrowed his eyes and drank some more wine. Rita said Johnny had showed her the photographs. There was something wrong, she said, something about them that didn’t look right. They gave her a funny feeling in her toes.

“Toes?”

Rita shrugged, smiled, and led me back to the table.

Dessert was a blueberry crumble that Rita said Carla made
all by herself
. I’m not much for dessert but I scooped it up and told her the
mascarpone
was great, even better than fresh cream. We talked about desserts until the crumble was gone and Carla was left grinning from ear to ear. Then we all waved goodnight and Rita took her off to bed.

Anastasia dug Johnny’s phone from her purse and set it on the table. Billy Bob asked if there was any more whisky. Johnny pushed back his chair. I stopped him. “Hang on, boss,” I said. “We’re not there yet.”

“Where, Pescatore. Not where yet?” Billy Bob’s eyes were drooping.

“Arturo Bellomo.”

“What about him?”

“How did he find out?”

“What,” said Billy Bob. A yawn shut his eyes and threw his mouth open wide. Gold fillings. “Find out what?”

“About the deal, the agreement you and Gigi had.”

“Guess somebody told him.” Billy Bob yawned again.

“Anybody for coffee?” Johnny was up on his feet.

Anastasia asked if she could have water. The last thing I wanted. “I’ll have a coffee,” I said. “
Corretto
.”

“Coming right up.” Johnny walked out.

“Hey—” I rapped my knuckles on the table. “Wake up, Tex.”

“I’m listening.”

“I figure Bellomo caught wind of the deal.”

Billy Bob nodded. “It wasn’t hard.” He sat up. “Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he?”

“Who?”

“Goldoni. Idiot told Bellomo he was prepared to burn the briefcase and everything in it. For a price.”

“How much?”

“Enough to put him back in the game, back on the front page.”

Gigi’s voice in the back of my head.
Big money, Pete. I just need some help from the press, that’s all. You come to Lugano, we’re in business again. If something happens, you know where the safe is.
” The documents, the briefcase up on the roof. He knew the risk. He’d been a gambler all his life. Life is risky? Roll the dice.

And me, I was Gigi’s idea of insurance. He needed to be sure that if anything went wrong I would publish the news and help him take them all down, take his revenge from beyond the grave.

“So what do you think, Tex? You think he was murdered? Bellomo get to him?”

“No.”

“You know they boarded him, don’t you? Tommy O and the boys in the sauna. Damn near drowned him. He had water in his lungs.”

“Says who?”

“Digital autopsy.”

Billy Bob yawned again and said, “Fact remains he wasn’t murdered, Pete. He shot himself.”

“You don’t think he had help?”

A shrug. “Maybe. What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world.”

“He’s dead, Pete. He doesn’t care. ”

“I care.”

“So what?”

Johnny showed up with coffee. Billy took his with cream and sugar.

I took mine black with a double splash of grappa, tossed it down and turned back to Tex. “So what did you do, bubba? When you heard he was dead?”

“You already know.”

“For the record.”

“I drove to the Villa Sofia.”

“Why?”

“The police had sealed off Gigi’s house. I didn’t know where else to look.”

“And you found it. Up on the roof, in the safe beneath the tiles. You found the briefcase.”

“And then what, Pete?” He lowered a malevolent glare at me. “For the record.”

“You lost the briefcase.” I flicked a quick look at Anastasia. “But then I tracked it down and you got it back.”

“End of story.” Billy Bob drained his coffee. “I could use that whisky now.”

Johnny poured. “Ice?”

“Never mind.” He guzzled it straight. “Your turn, Pescatore. Gimme the files.”

Johnny fished the memory card from his shirt pocket.

“Hang on, Johnny.” I raised my eyes to Billy Bob. “Where’s Bellomo?”

“I can’t tell you that. Some place far away. Safe and sound.”

“Over the rainbow?”

“Something like that.” 

“What’s his real name?”

“He never had one. Arturo Bellomo. Antonio Bonasera. Couple more, I forget.”

“Tony Bones?”

“Whatever.” He stood. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s out of the picture.”

“Until he shows up in court?”

“That’s right.”

I took the card from Johnny and handed it over. “Here you go, Billy.”

Anastasia picked up the phone, tapped the screen. “Pescatore,” she said. “You owe me story. Come.”

“Hey! That’s my phone,” said Johnny. “Give it here.”

“I need transcription.” She slipped the phone in her purse, turned and walked off.

Johnny sputtered.

Billy Bob dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Let her go, Pescatore. She’s way out of your league.”

I turned a hard glare in his direction, tensed and balled my hands into fists. Johnny grabbed his arm and pulled him out of range. “Stazz?” I took off and caught up with her at the front door. She was standing there with Rita, making getaway noises as she pulled on her silky Siberian wolves.

Billy Bob rolled up, pushed past me and helped her into the fur. A big hand slipped down her back and on down around the silken curves.

She slapped it away, whirled, grabbed him by the lapels and backed him up against the wall. She gave him a long, passionate kiss on the mug and when she was done she pulled back, wrapped herself up and said, “So long, Cowboy.”

One last look at me. “You owe me story. I wait in office.” The door closed behind her.

Billy Bob slid down the wall to the floor. I left him there, took Rita by the arm and walked her back to the living room. We looked at the painting for a while and she told me all about him—Antoni Tapies, the wall painter from Spain. “I love his work,” she said, then cocked her head and looked at me, puzzled. Finally I heard it, the whippoorwill.

“Your phone, Pescatore.”

I dug it out, peered at the screen. A call from Rome.

Johnny leaned over my shoulder, leaned in and whispered, “I told you he’d call.”

“What?”

“Take the call. It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The Arab. Our new investor. The money man.”

I tapped the screen, slapped the phone up against my ear, turned and walked to the window. “
Pescatore sono
.”

In a deep, smooth voice he introduced himself as the new man at
CNI
Rome
. In a honeyed voice he gave me a spiel about how much he liked my articles, loved my style and looked forward to working with me.

“Spare me the snow job,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Write,” he said. “Tell us a story.”

“Any old story?”

“Of course not. But I’m sure you know it.” As it happened it was one I’d heard before, about the Masons, zombies and Jew-Bolshie banksters who were sucking the lifeblood from us all. The Lugano incident was the latest evidence of a never-ending conspiracy—

“Sounds familiar,” I said. Idiot. “Same old story.”

“Indeed. Write it up, Pescatore. Make me a believer.”

“You already are.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“Up yours,” I said, and hung up on him, feeling sick again, like I’d stuck a finger in a stinking sore and caught some unspeakable terminal plague. I walked up to Johnny.

“Well?”

“I told him to take a hike. In so many words.”

Johnny paled and turned away. I slipped the phone in my pocket.

It was past midnight when Mario pranced in, his face flushed and his eyes alight with the afterglow of victory. He was just getting into the play-by-play when I cut him short. “Mario.” I pulled out the microtape recorder. “This thing doesn’t work. You got a fresh battery?”

“I’ll check.” He whirled away, tip-toed down the hall and came back shaking his head. “Sorry. Ran out.”

“No problem. I’ll pick some up.”

The smoke next to me spoke. “It’s late, Mario, go get some sleep. Thanks for your help this morning.”

“Sure, Dad.” He turned away, and back again. “Uh, Dad?”

Johnny looked up. “What?”

“Who’s the guy on the floor by the door?”

Rita stuck her head in from the hall. “The American,” she said. “He’s asleep.”

Johnny fell back on the couch and sank his head in his hands. I sat down beside him and we talked for a while. About three in the morning we got up, stepped over Billy Bob in the hall and said goodnight at the door.

The air was damp and cold as I walked through empty, rain-spattered streets to the high brick wall around the old barracks where the
Carabinieri
kept their horses. Over the road there was a light in the window at
CNI
. Anastasia was up there working, waiting for me and my story.

I had nothing to give her. I followed the Number 1 tram tracks home, tramping through the snow.