‘Lads, listen to me. If we get it right, in less than an hour we’ll be walking happily away from here. To get things right you have to be alert. Each of you will have a gun, and eight shots. Only use them if you have to. Your task is to protect the lorry. If the lorry is damaged, we won’t get away. Is that clear?’
Zollo looked at the ex-fighter. We know what to do.
Pierre turned the gun around between his hands as though it was a Martian’s dick. Ettore gave him some hints about how to use it, then slipped into the wood.
The hamlet seemed to be enclosed in a silent glass bowl. A gigantic hand might suddenly have turned it upside down and unleashed a storm of fake snow. Pierre leaned his back against the lorry. Fake papers, an undercover expatriate, a storehouse of illegal goods, smuggling. Whether he ended up using it or not, that gun was the cherry on the cake.
The American gestured to him to get up, all three of them into the cabin. Pierre gripped the wheel and put the lorry in gear.
Kociss seemed to be hypnotised. Eyes wide open, staring. From the movements of his lips you would have said that he was praying.
Mr Rock-Hard said nothing. Every now and again he rolled his neck around and rearranged the gun in his trouser pocket.
It’s all going to go smoothly, Steve, come on.
Precautions aren’t the same as paranoia. The era of cock-ups is past. The age of the diamond is beginning.
Toni has given us a guarantee. Moby Dick is a decent son-of-abitch.
The breakdown of the car forewarned of the final cock-up. Turning up alone for the meeting, with twelve kilos of heroin and the king of Agnano keeping him covered. Script courtesy of Steve ‘Dickhead’ Zollo.
The Relais l’Étape hadn’t served soupe de pistou for at least ten years. The sign that extolled its high quality and moderate prices was peeling. The lorry turned around the building. Zollo peered through the glass: not a table, not a chair. Empty.
The car park was badly lit. Old banners hung from a string. A flash of headlights greeted the arrival of the lorry.
‘Stop here.’
Pierre parked on the right, by a low wall.
Zollo picked up the bag and jumped down. The gun barrel froze him, from groin to shoulders. Contrary to his usual form, he wore his shirt out of his trousers like a Hawaiian twat. Just to cover the weapon.
He took two steps forward into the dust, slipped his hand under his shirt and rested the bag between his legs.
Come on. Don’t make me nervous. Be on your best behaviour.
Moby Dick was wearing his white suit, as he always did. The two bodyguards were dressed in black from head to toe. They looked like the keys of a piano.
Zollo stepped forward. Moby Dick was clutching a holdall.
The shots came from the roof of the restaurant.
The great white whale and the two sharks fell almost in an instant. Zollo didn’t throw himself to the ground in time. The bullet struck his right arm. He felt the bone crack. He went down. He crept through the dust as another two shots shattered the earth. He reached the Frenchmen’s car. Slipped inside. His arm was saying goodbye to him. He slipped the bag under his belly and gripped the gun with his left hand.
They’re shooting from up above. From the roof.
Like the Germans and the Black Brigades.
Like at Porta Lame.
Open up a gap. Evacuate the wounded. To do that: kill the snipers. To kill the snipers: see them. To see them: light them up. The flaregun. Gift from the cross-border guys, for use in emergencies. Use it. Stoompf! Fiiiiiiiiiiiii.
The firework comes down and lights up two startled faces: Germans posted on the sloping roof, tiles fall, a helmet, one of the two is tied to the chimney pot with an improvised sling. The other gets to his feet, stumbles and slips sideways, shouts, dazzled, raises his arms to cover his face. The other tries to climb back up towards the chimney-pot, skids, more tiles fall. You shoulder the Thompson gun and fire. Got him. He tumbles clumsily, the shots deflect his fall. Crash. The sound of bones splintering. You shoot again. Got him. A head exploding. Corpse hanging from the rope. Throw yourself to the ground.
More gunfire, from beyond the low wall at the edge of the car park. Right at the back, invisible except in the flashes of machinegun fire. Black Brigades. Three, maybe four. The torturers of Irma Bandiera, Stenio Polischi and many other patriots. Traitors and murderers, they must die.
The wounded comrade is alive, he’s returning fire. But now it’s me they’re after. Holes in one of the lorry doors. It’s going to take pluck. It’s going to take courage.
We were criticised for always going on the attack. Lupo was made that way, he took risks, he raised the level of the challenge to the Germans, he made incursions that struck other people as foolhardy.
I must take risks too, or we’ll never get out of this. Defend my comrades. Avenge the fallen. Myself. Give a meaning to all this. If necessary, die.
Stiv is still alive. I saw him firing. What’ll I do now, Christ I’m scared! They’re all firing. Is this a film too? They’re slogging their guts out. These are Don Luciano’s goons.
Christ alive, Stiv, shoot, shoot! Now they’re firing at the Bolognese guy. He’s raising hell like no
one else. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this gun? Do I shoot? I
can’t see a fucking thing from here. Nothing but big black bogeymen. Get it to Stiv? How? Bastards, villains, murderers, Stiv, let’s get out of here! I start to crawl. The Bolognese is a raging demon. Kill them. Kill them all.
Pierre had stretched out on the seats, and every now and again he
peered out over the dashboard. You can’t be a match for any situation. The windscreen had exploded. A splinter had grazed his leg. They were firing at him again, and he had no idea who the fuck
they were.
He couldn’t breathe properly. He swallowed irregular mouthfuls of air. Acid throat. A chasm in his stomach. Guts under pressure. He felt he was sweating shit.
He raised his head. He peered through the shattered glass. He saw Ettore come out into the open. He saw Ettore running like mad. He heard the shots. He felt fear twisting his guts.
‘Red Star to viiiictoreeeeeee!’ Major Mario, look at me now. Fuck, if you were here to see me!
The shout and the running take them more by surprise than the rocket. They wonder what the fuck I’m doing. A few seconds. The two seconds I need.
Pullthepinfromthegrenadeonetwothrowandhurlmyselftotheground-BOOOOM!
Fragments of brick, blood, a pair of glasses falls on my hand.
Now they’re firing from somewhere else, to the right. I roll forwards. The Black Brigade comes out into the open, bang! He’s down. The injured comrade shot him, or maybe one of the boys.
Excited whispers, footsteps running in the dark. I must act first. Red Star to victory. I pull out the pin, rise on to my knees, onetwothrow-BOOOM! I hear them screaming.
Ettore was hit in the back by a hail of gunfire. Zollo saw him falling heavily and crouched there waiting for the bastards to come into the open.
Ettore had one set of balls, thought Zollo. He had had fist-fights, he’d killed people, but he’d never fought a war. The influence of the Anastasia family had kept him out of that. Ettore, on the other hand, had been there, he’d told him. One hell of a guy. He’d never seen a guy like him among the wiseguys.
He had saved his life, with the bright idea of the rocket.
He had to kill the bastards.
Not just to save his skin.