‘Ettore’s not here, he’s gone on a delivery.’
‘Doesn’t matter: you might be able to help me. I’m looking for a television. Signore Camarota, from Frosinone, told me you should —’
The bastard interrupted. ‘A television? Yes, yes, wait, I think I remember. A nice big television?’
‘A nice big one, yes, that’s right.’
‘Then that’s the one. We delivered it to a bar in San Donato.’
Bar Aurora.
We’re there. You push open the door, a glance around. The old men look up from their cards. No televisions, but there’s another room at the back and the click of a game of billiards. Hope yet.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’d just like some information: I’m looking for a television, big, American-made, I was told you had one.’
‘We had one.’
Shit! Take the magnet off the zero. Toni, get the gun ready: time to get paid even without the stuff.
‘You had it. Then what?’
One of the old men turns on his chair. ‘Then it was rubbish, we couldn’t get it to work. So we told the man who sold it to us to get us a new one, and there’s been no sign of the layabout for a good ten days now.’
‘You mean Ettore?’
‘God no. Gas, they call him, or Castelvetri. Gaggia, you’ve got a good memory, what’s his first name?’
‘Adelmo.’
‘Adelmo Castelvetri? Do you know where he lives? I can give him a good price for that television.’
‘I think he lives in Via Mondo, is that right, Gaggia?’
The fiftieth cigarette since the start of the journey finds its way to your mouth without your noticing.
The old man’s voice: ‘When you find him, I don’t suppose you could give him a couple of slaps from us?’
The front door is open.
‘We got there, eh, Stiv? Are you happy?’
You no longer have the strength to get pissed off.
‘Check the doorbells, hurry up.’
First floor: Galassi. Mazzanti. Zaccheroni. Second floor: Alvis. Monari. Castelvetri.
‘Who is it?’
‘Package from the Bar Aurora.’
He opens the door. Gleaming bald head. Reflex action: foot against the door.
‘We heard you wanted to sell a television.’
‘A television?’ The man blanches from his chin to the back of his neck. ‘You were misinformed, I haven’t got a television. Goodbye.’
He pushes the door but can’t get it closed. A blow of the forearm opens it wide again.
Just as you reach for your belt, the boy’s voice: ‘Stiv, look, the television!’
It’s on the floor, under the clothes horse. A cobweb of cracks runs across its screen. It has been eviscerated.
You are blind. Brain OUT OF SERVICE. All you can see is a patch of light. You yell like a wounded grizzly. Your fist gets him right on the back of the neck. He crumples to the ground. You turn him over with a kick, land heavy blows to his chest. The sound of breaking ribs.
‘Where is it? Tell me where it is!’
You slap him. Back and forth. He licks away a tooth and tries to speak.
‘Wh-wh-what?’
Your hand under his jaw, as though he was a bottle of champagne waiting to be uncorked. A toast to Steve Cement.
‘The stuff that was in the television, asshole. Get it out. Right away. Salvatore, turn over this place like a cart of shit.’
Interstellar panic. ‘It was empty, I swear.’
‘Like fuck it was, you dickhead. You were too quick there, in the doorway.’
‘I swear.’
Careful. If you let yourself go now, you’ll kill him. No pointless wandering. Control. Steve Cement’s style.
You rummage in a pocket. You flick out the blade. You wave it under his nose.
‘Where?’
The vomit momentarily prevents him from speaking. He must have shat himself as well.
‘On the bed, in-inside the pillow. Don’t kill me, please don’t.’
You run into the bedroom. You rip the guts out of the pillow.
Rien ne va plus.
Fifteen.
Chapter 45
Paris, 1 July
On the corner of rue des Abbesses, a coughing fit took his breath away. He leaned one hand on the wall and the other against his chest, bent double by his retching. When the crisis had passed, he rested his forehead against a poster for the Quatorze Juillet, and stayed like that to get his breath back. A man asked him if he needed help. He was more or less the same age as himself. He could have been mistaken for a sick eighty-year-old.
He started walking again. The sultry weather of the past few days had put ten years on him. Tuberculosis did the rest. Two or three times a day he had near-fatal attacks. Then he looked around and decided, no, this wasn’t a suitable place to kick the bucket. Public toilets, stairs of the metro, an anonymous footpath scattered with shit. He was starting to think he wouldn’t manage to leave this world in his own way. Perhaps that was why he’d decided to take a break? If the jewellery job worked out, he would be gone. Destination: Martinique. The last journey of the old Indian warrior choosing a beautiful mountain on which to pass away in peace.
No, that was bullshit. Stuff for savages, far too spiritual. The Toni of former times would have laughed at the very idea. Dying at peace with the world! Far better to spit your last fragment of lung in its face. The ideas of today’s Toni were more confused.
The moment he entered the bar, the sweaty pig gave him a nod from behind the bar.
‘What’s up, Joël?’
‘Someone called Zollo rang. He says it’s urgent. He left this number.’
Toni picked up the piece of paper, asked for a Pernod and walked to the phone.
Behind him, the usual doomsayers called him a ‘ghost’, ‘unrecognisable’, ‘nothing but skin and bones’.
He asked for a line. He talked to a stranger. He waited.
‘Toni?’
‘Finally. I was beginning to worry.’
‘Where and when.’
‘Sospel, just beyond the border, in the car park of the old relais. Tomorrow, about three in the morning.
‘Fine. Within twenty-four hours you’ll have the rest of your percentage.’
‘You’re a gentleman, Zollo. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’
‘The pleasure is mine. And make sure you enjoy your holidays, now.’
Chapter 46
Naples, 2 July
So Steve Cement isn’t in Naples any more, no one’s seen hide or hair of him. Trimane says he left with a boy from Agnano. At first I was furious, I was, then I calmed down because Salvatore Lucania knows the guy, and he understands him, and he knows it wasn’t his fault, this fucking country turned his stomach like nigger wine from Harlem, and I understand Steve, because my stomach’s like that as well. But Salvatore Lucania must be able to trust him, he must know that a dog doesn’t start pissing indoors, he’s got to know that a dog doesn’t have fleas or mange.
That fucker Siragusa wanted to fuck me good and proper, and Steve Cement might just be the Vaseline; the cops drew lots, some kind of stunt to see if Steve Cement would sing, like that fucking jockey did, or that wretched Camorra man back when dinosaurs walked the earth. So did they think this was a festival, that the best singer wins a prize? And did they all think that Salvatore Lucania is a fucking faggot, that he likes to take dick up the ass?
But Steve’s a good guy, when all’s said and done. He won’t sing.
But now the dog has mange.
Chapter 47
Bologna, 2 July
‘Fuck it’
Zollo shut the bonnet with a terrifying thud.
Pagano curled up in the seat. Dish of the day: sour grapes.
Zollo sat back down in the driver’s seat and lit a cigarette. He was tired, he hadn’t slept for two days, he felt as if he had a brick where his brain should be.