— In case they try to hijack us, the jerk says, we have to be able to get out of the car quickly.
The response of a true bumpkin, more tactless than rude, one that would give me permission to become indignant and burst out with a who-do-you-think-you-are-and-who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to, but at this point I get the urge to have a little fun, so I remain solemnly silent.
After a while he looks at me once again in the little mirror, ascertaining that I have not put the seat belt on.
— It’s become very dangerous work, this job of ours...
The idiot trails off, probably realizing what an ass he’s made of himself.
— Now, see, since they came up with this disgraceful “pardon,” we taxi drivers have become mobile ATMs for illegal immigrants.
I don’t say a word, letting him go on destroying himself with his own words.
— Just think, he resumes heavily after a painful silence, in the span of a week, a couple of Albanians took out seven, that’s seven drivers. A knife to your throat, and you’re done for. One of us reacted. Not that he wanted to be a hero, it’s just that it came to him instinctively. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed.
I continue to hold my tongue.
— And to think that these sonsofbitches had their eye on us for two months. The police had reports and more reports, descriptions, all the clues you want. Nearly every day a driver would go to the police station to report another one. I ask you, what does it take to catch them, a couple of shitty Albanians? You think they arrested them? Not a chance! It’s not their problem. We’re the ones out on the street, at the mercy of everything and everybody, what the hell do they care? At the end of the month they collect their paycheck. To cut a long story short: The police are asleep, the judges are busy appearing on TV, let’s not even talk about the politicians. So in the end we gotta organize things ourselves, right?
He stops a moment to catch his breath. Naturally, so much crap all at once requires a surplus of oxygen. It’s exciting, though, sitting there listening to him try to provoke me.
From his tone, when he picks up again, I figure my silence is beginning to make him nervous.
— But things didn’t go so good for one of them. He ran into me.
I knew it. Go for it, Rambo.
— When he got in, I knew right away what his intentions were. He had me drive around a bit, Go this way, go that way, he couldn’t make up his mind. I was already losing my patience. At a certain point he goes: Listen, can you take me to Saxa Rubra for five euros? The meter was already showing twelve euros. So I says to him: What the hell, are you kiddin’ me? And he goes: I don’t really give a fuck, you’re the one who’s going to give me money. And I find the knife in front of my eyes.
But... I think.
— Well, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I floored the accelerator so hard I still don’t know why we didn’t roll over. Then I jammed on the brakes and made that shitty Albanian go smashing against the window. I got out in a hurry, and grabbed him by the hair: Out, you bastard! And I beat the living daylights out of him, Christ did I give it to him. Lucky for him a police car came by, or else he’d have been pushin’ up daisies instead of sittin’ behind bars. But I left my marks on him, ya know.
I wonder how he can go on talking, given the fact that I haven’t deigned to say a word since he began his pathetic story.
— You can’t work anymore. Believe me, it’s become a jungle. If the police won’t protect us, then they should just say so. No problem, we’ll take care of it. At night, instead of staying home, we team up and do justice on our own. After all, we know who the crooks are and where they live, we don’t need no warrant.
I’m about to say something, but he keeps going.
— Me, when they tell me to believe in the law, I say: Excuse me, what law? Because I know only one law: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The one that’s written in the courts, the one that’s supposed to be equal for everybody, not even young kids believe in it anymore.
At this point I interrupt.
— Listen, speaking frankly: Have you made any raids yet?
— Any raids?
— Right. Any... punitive expeditions, let’s say.
— What d’you think, huh? the idiot replies.
— Come on, are you serious?
— What, you think I’m jokin’?
— How many are you?
— About twenty, give or take.
— How does it work? How are you set up?
— Helmets, chains, iron bars. Sometimes I even use a corkscrew. And then we go lookin’ for ’em one by one. After a while you get a taste for it, ya know?
— Oh, sure.
— Yeah. It’s a little like hunting.
He chuckles.
I don’t.
— How come you’re interested? he asks me, bewildered by my icy silence.
I let a few seconds go by before answering him.
— Well, it’s nice to know there’s someone who can help you in your work.
— Come again?
I shove the badge in front of his eyes. His jaw drops. He turns pale. He actually pivots around to look at me. We swerve (a pickup truck blares its horn), then the imbecile regains control of the car.
— Watch the road. You’re a cab driver, don’t you know that’s how accidents happen?
— Look, I’m sorry, I was only kiddin’, I swear.
— Imagine that. He was only kiddin’.
— I’ll swear on whatever you want. On my kids. May I drop dead right here in front of you if it isn’t true.
— So then what you told me was a bunch of crap.
— Yeah, yeah. All of it.
— Why should I believe you if up till now all you’ve told me is a bunch of baloney?
He falls silent, terrorized by his future.
I take out the gun. I smooth the barrel with the tip of my forefinger. He spots it out of the corner of his eye and begins to sweat. At a rough guess, I’d say that his saliva flow rate has gone from one to thirty.
— What are you doing, drooling? I say.
— Please, officer, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll get down on my knees if you want. Should I come back there with you? Huh?
— Don’t try it or I’ll shoot you right here.
I mean his right side, into which I’ve just stuck the gun.
He doesn’t breathe. He’s sweating like a pig now.
— Jesus, look at you pissing your pants, aren’t you ashamed?
— Okay, I’m an idiot, a moron, a real shithead, my whole life I’ve been talking bullshit, God Almighty should strike me dead for all the crap that comes out of my mouth.
— There’s no need to trouble God Almighty, I’ll take care of it.
— Excuse me? What did you say?
— You heard me.
— You wouldn’t really shoot me for the few lies I told, would you?
— Why not?
— Listen, let’s be reasonable. I haven’t done a thing. I’m a decent working man. There are a ton of unpunished criminals out there, who act like swine whenever it suits them, and you take it out on me for some stupid boasting?
I shove the gun back in his side.
— What now, back to badmouthing others? So then it’s not true that you were telling lies.
— No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right, I didn’t mean to say that... oh, sweet Jesus.
We remain silent for a while. The imbecile is probably afraid of making the situation worse if he opens his mouth.
— What’s your name? I ask him at a certain point.
— Mar... Marcello.
— Well then, Mar-Marcello, you’re not actually all wrong, since it wouldn’t be very sensible on my part to shoot you. First, because shooting idiots serves no purpose, meaning it’s like shooting mice, and we know that shooting mice doesn’t solve any problem; second, because it would be crazy to risk a charge of willful homicide to knock off a moron who talks just for the sake of talking.