‘No communism, Don Salvatore.’
‘There’s one thing that interests me, Steve, that boy who’s always with you, can he be trusted? You’ve got some kind of business going together, his mother pulls your dick every day, tell me.’
‘Don Luciano, the boy takes bets at the racetrack. He’s a bravo guaglione, as they say here, a sound lad. He’s smart, too. But he’s inexperienced. He got pinched at the start of the year, something about a theft, and while he was in there the bastard inspector who’s on my back asked him a few questions about your business and mine. When he got out, he was scared, he came to see me, he came to tell me everything, that he wasn’t a rat. So I thought it was better to take him around with me for a while, so that no one could ask him any more questions or make strange suggestions to him. So, Don Salvatore, the boy is my responsibility, don’t you worry about him.’
‘All right, Steve, you see, as long as you’re not doing anything stupid, you’re in quite enough bother already, aren’t you? One last thing, by the way, Steve: at the end of the month I’m going away for a few days, to Meta di Sorrento, to the house of the Cavaliere del Lavoro, to get a bit of fresh air and sip on some of those wonderful lemon granitas they have down there. One week, ten days at the most. I’d like you to stay in town until I get back: come and check on the house, go and see the boys in the port, do a couple of collections, have Vic help you.’
‘Please, Don Luciano, I’m feeling a bit tired. I was going to ask you for a few days off.’
‘But of course, Steve! Why not? Do I not know that even Steve Cement is made of flesh and blood? It’s the first time I’ve heard you say anything of the kind, do you know that? Although it had occurred to me. When I get back, you take a month off and go wherever you like, have some fun, screw a few whores. I know it’s been tough on you staying here, that you’re not showing it out of respect, that you miss New York like you’d miss oxygen. I’ve already talked to Albert Anastasia. He said you can go back to them at the end of the year. I can just imagine his face! Who wouldn’t want to have Cement taking care of his affairs?’
‘Don Luciano, thanks. It’s an honour for me to be able to work for you. Even if I never see New York again.’
‘No, Steve, you deserve every appreciation, the very idea that you mightn’t always be with me fills me with gloom.’
Chapter 39
Genoa, 27 June
‘Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?’
‘Of course. I’ve been here before.’
The labyrinth of alleyways and sheds ran monotonously past the window.
‘Where does the harbour end?’
‘It doesn’t. That’s why it’s a good place for smuggling. When are the cops ever going to find the goods in this lot?’
They parked the truck. Ettore and Pierre got out near the imposing sides of the ships flying flags from half the countries in the world.
Pierre strolled along behind his mate, looking up. The cranes worked in a steady rhythm, the stevedores threw hundredweight sacks at one another as though they were footballs. Ettore gave him a nudge and tensed his biceps, laughing behind his moustache.
‘What did you say our ship was called?’
‘Querida. It comes from Venezuela.’
‘What’s the Venezuelan flag like?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘Is this guy Paolino to be trusted?’
‘With your eyes closed. He was a partisan, one of the really hard ones. During the war the SS tortured him, they knocked out all his teeth and he never squeaked.’
The black letters stood out against the side of the vessel, Querida, and underneath, in smaller letters, Caracas.
‘There it is.’
Ettore walked towards a group of dockers, swapped a few words with them, and they pointed him towards the gangway.
It was filled by an enormous man. He was wearing a striped shirt with short sleeves and a sailor’s cap. His arms were blue with tattoos: mermaids and dragons chased each other along his muscles. A halflit stub hung from his lips, like an inseparable part of his sunburnt face. Impossible to work out how old he was.
His mouth twisted into what must have been a smile: the Nazis hadn’t left much in there.
‘Hi, Ettore. It’s been a while. ’
‘It must be two years.’
‘Who’s the boy?’
‘One of mine.’
Paolino pointed towards one of the warehouses. ‘We’ve just unloaded the barrels.’
‘Fine,’ said Ettore, lighting a cigarette. ‘Tell me, how’s Venezuela?’
‘Hot.’
When they had finished loading the drums of naphtha on to the lorry, Paolino offered them a drink.
‘Do you travel much?’ asked Pierre when he had taken a sip of his wine.
‘All the time.’
‘It must be interesting going round the world.’
The man looked at him as you might look at a turd on a footpath. ‘The ports are all the same. Same whores. Same prison faces.’ He sealed his sentence with a blackish gob of spittle on the floor of the bar.
No one present was shocked.
Pierre hunched his shoulders, but didn’t stop asking questions.
‘What if someone wanted to get a job on one of these ships?’
The sailor smiled. ‘To go where?’
‘Away. I don’t care where.’
His smile broadened. ‘Every now and again someone shows up who’s in trouble with the police. But they have to be comrades, and they have to be able to pay. There are contacts. I know a load of people in South America.’
‘When do you leave?’ asked Ettore, trying to cut the discussion short.
‘Ok, we’re going down to Naples, on the way back we’re stopping in Civitavecchia and Livorno. Then we come back up. In two weeks we’re setting off for South America again. And we’ll stay there for a