‘The carburettor’s fucked,’ he said, puffing away the smoke.
Pagano suggested, ‘Let’s look for a mechanic.’
‘This is an American car, Shithead, you won’t be able to get the right parts.’
Zollo was furious, he was tired, drained, but he had to think. That night they were waiting for him on the other side of the border. If he didn’t show up the whole deal would go up in smoke, end of story, he would have to set off with the packages in his bag and try and find a buyer somewhere or other. Too risky. By now, Luciano must have noticed he had fled. His time was running out, there was no leeway any more, he had to get out now. Things have a time limit. To go beyond it is to risk exposing yourself. He had been exposed for too long. Luck had been on his side, it had helped him find the heroin. He couldn’t ask any more than that. Now what he needed was an idea and one final burst. With the little breath he still had.
Think, Steve, think. You’ll have the rest of your life to think as much as you want. Now you’ve got to finish the game.
He sprang open a false bottom under the seat and took out his Smith and Wesson.
Pagano was terrified: ‘Oi, Stiv, I’m your friend!’
Zollo gave him a sideways glance, stuck the revolver in his belt and buttoned his jacket. Then he stuck the reserve magazine in his pocket.
He got out of the car, opened the boot, took the bag and slipped it inside.
He took out the spare wheel and leaned it against the back seat. He used his flick-knife to pierce the tube and transferred the piles of banknotes into the bag. Before he closed it he put a few in his pocket.
‘Get out.’
Pagano didn’t have to be told twice. He stood hesitantly by the car.
He saw Zollo taking the car registration documents and emptying the vehicle of all the rubbish he had placed in it: file cards, waste paper, street maps, postcards.
He tore it all up and let the wind carry off the scraps.
The file cards and the licence plate went down a manhole.
One last glance; nothing left.
‘Let’s go.’
Zollo walked along the pavement.
Pagano stayed where he was, scratching his head.
‘What’s going on, Stiv? Where are we heading?’
Zollo stopped.
He had that look on his face that frightened the life out of you.
‘We’re going back to France.’
‘But how? On the train?’
Steve Cement waved the banknotes around.
‘With these. Be sure and stay behind me, because if you do anything dumb, I’ll shoot.’
He was serious. Extremely serious.
Pagano hurried to join him.
The warehouse was enveloped in summer haze. Ettore, sitting on the rocking chair, let the two men approach him. You could tell in an instant that they were foreigners.
When they opened their mouths there was no doubt about it.
‘You’re the one who brought the American television from Frosinone to here, isn’t that right?’
The answer was implied. Ettore didn’t waste his breath.
In many years of trafficking and smuggling he had learned to size people up at a glance. The guy standing in front of him fell under the category of people like himself. He could smell them a mile off. The ones who are neither bosses nor workers.
‘And you must be the one who was looking for it.’
Zollo nodded.
‘I have to get to France by three tonight. Without crossing at a border post.’
Ettore stroked his moustache.
He wasn’t a cop. He could smell them a mile off too. He was a hunted dog like so many others. And usually people in a hurry are willing to pay well.
‘Big place, France.’
‘I just need to get across the border.’
‘Menton?’
‘Sospel.’
‘Are the police after you, or is it some people you’ve swindled?’
Zollo ignored the question, took a couple of wads of notes from his pocket and threw them in Ettore’s lap.
‘There’ll be the same amount again once we get there.’
Ettore counted the money. ‘French francs. Clean?’
‘Won in the casino.’
‘That’ll do fine for the journey. Are you carrying any other goods? I’ve got to know what sort of risks I’m taking.’
Zollo hesitated.
‘The risks are high. That’s why I’m paying decent money. If you don’t feel like doing it, I’ll go elsewhere.’
Ettore looked at the bag that Zollo was clutching.
‘Is that all the luggage here?’
‘Yes. There are two of us. There’s the boy as well.’
Pagano waved in greeting, but his gesture looked thoroughly ridiculous.
Ettore weighed up the pros and cons. It was a hefty amount of money. A round journey. He knew the smugglers’ route, he’d taken it on other occasions.
And getting to Sospel was easier than getting to Menton.
He wouldn’t mention it to Bianco. The owner didn’t approve of night transports. That cut out the other guys in the company. It wasn’t wise to take the journey alone, without anyone watching out for your back. That guy with all the money looked as though he was in difficulties. Serious difficulties. Better to take the due precautions.
He got up and walked to the telephone.
‘Are you ready, Robespierre? We need you tonight. Come to the warehouse straight away, we’re going in an hour. I don’t give a fuck about the bar, didn’t you say you needed some cash? Well, there’s a fair bit involved, enough to settle your debts and a bit more. We’ll be back tomorrow. Ok, get a move on.’
Ettore came out of the cage that served as an office and planted himself in front of Zollo, who had lit his umpteenth cigarette in the meantime.
‘Sorted. We’re off in an hour.’
He went out to the back and opened the padlock of an iron box.
He took out a Thompson and two Lugers, wrapping them in a blanket.
Before closing the box he hesitated for a moment, and then picked up a couple of hand grenades.
Life had taught him to heed his forebodings.
Chapter 48
Bologna, 2nd July
The tram was half empty. Pierre went and sat down at the back and slid open the window.
A fair amount of cash, Ettore had said. How much?
A risky journey. Where to? What for?
Pierre had skipped the questions to hurry to the meeting, but before jumping into the truck he would want some answers.
Risk meant: red-hot goods or a high likelihood of a check of some kind, customs perhaps. A fair amount of money meant enough to pay off his debt with a good bit left over. A hundred thousand? That was three times his monthly wage.
Pointless hypotheses. Better to wait.
Once it was empty, his brain found itself occupied by a new tenant.
Had Angela already spoken to Montroni? What had they said? Pierre imagined her cold, determined, as he had seen her after Fefe’s death. What would she have told him about the hospital file? Would Montroni suspect him? Would he take his revenge? Without a doubt, Angela’s departure was a kick in the pants for his uncertainties. The enemy wouldn’t leave him alone. The enemy was very powerful. The trip to Genoa had come at exactly the right time. Ettore’s money even more so.
The first right things at the right time that had happened to him since the start of the year. It could be a good sign. A reversal of a trend. Better not to have any illusions.
Angela. It’s strange to think about a person so close to you whom you might never see again. You feel a void opening up, but not in the future, which is almost always a void. It’s the past that seems to deepen, to pass once and for all, to become a photograph.