Death Brings Gold

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“Like an old goalkeeper from Udinese Football Club, I think.”

“Ah, I didn’t know that. Well, if so, then I’ve lost my bet.”

They chuckled, like friends.

Then, the newsagent regained his train of thought.

“Going back to Giuliani… those were the times when if a client wanted to buy a copy of La Gazzetta Magazine with the special supplement, he’d come to me. I was the only one who could supply that.”

“Special supplement?” the client asked, with a perplexed expression that was a pleasure to watch.

“Yes, back then, when someone wanted to smoke some good weed he’d come to me to buy his copy of la Gazzetta dello Sport. I’d insert it among the pages of the newspaper. I had the best Mary Jane in all Milan. At least, that’s what I thought. I didn’t know that on the other side of the city – in Quarto Oggiaro – there was a Giuliano Giuliani who had it as good as mine. And in industrial quantities.”

Romeo paused, noticing that the interest in the eyes of his anonymous client was growing. People may have said these were not the kinds of things you’d discuss with anyone, but at this stage he had nothing left to hide. He’d made his mistakes and had paid for his errors. That life belonged to his past. But it would always be his life and he could recount it to anyone he wanted to, any time he felt like it.

“I met him in jail,” he continued. “We got caught within days of each other. And we ended up in the same prison. He was a really tough guy. With a knack for business, you know what I mean? For a certain type of business. But in jail he wasn’t popular with the other inmates. One night, he was raped by four of them. Someone joked about it saying that they made his arsehole as big as the window of Milan Cathedral.”

The newsagent stopped, proud of the laughter he elicited in the client.

Then, Romeo’s voice became serious again.

“He had probably mentioned names that he should have kept secret. And jail, as everyone knows is like a big community. Inside everyone knows everything about everyone. To survive you should see and hear as little as possible. You need to plug up your mouth and your ears … to avoid having your arsehole plugged by someone else.”

He granted himself a satisfied little laugh, that his new friend echoed immediately.

“I remember that we became very close” he continued, “even though outside we had been rivals. He made me a proposition to do business together, once we were out of jail.”

“And did you start a.. farm business?” the client said ironically.

“Ah, that’s a good one! No, I called it quits with everything. I mean, I continued selling newspapers, but without special supplements.”

Another pause. And another laugh.

“And what about the guy? What happened to him?” asked the client.

He was really interested, thought Romeo. Good, an enjoyable night.

“I believe Giuliano carried on with his dealings. After a couple of years he even ended up on the front page.”

“On the front page?”

“Yes, he had been assaulted by a group of unknown individuals, according to the journalist’s report. They assaulted him in the middle of the night and beat him to a pulp.”

“Did they kill him?”

“No, for God’s sake! He has a thick skin!” stated Romeo, enthusiastically. Then, getting darker, he continued. “But they ruined him. Apparently they cut off his hand, or his foot. Now I can’t remember exactly. The point is, after jail I have never seen him again. Maybe it’s better. Otherwise now I too could have also be without one of these” he concluded merrily, showing his hands.

***

It was just a matter of seconds. The mixed race young man’s silhouette materialised on the stairs.

“You must be the new arrival, right?” Beatrice was quicker than her friend.

The young man answered with a smile.

“You’ll like living here,” Luigia continued. “ it’s a safe place.”

They waited until he reached the landing area, then Beatrice started talking again, without letting up.

“Let us give you some advice.” She was saying this in a low voice, almost whispering. “Because here even walls have ears.”

The young man looked perplexed.

“If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask,” Luigia added. “Anything.”

The young man nodded, as his eyes darted towards the flight of stairs. Beatrice noticed he was in a hurry. She decided she could not let him go upstairs. At least not until she had informed him of the building’s quirkiest people.

“Yes, Luigia is right. If you need any favour, please ask us,” she said, indicating with a wave herself and her friend. “On the other hand, if you have certain needs to fulfil… Well, in that case you should go up a couple of floors. Mrs Pina, despite her age, is still very active…”

“True,” Luigia confirmed.“When her husband finds out something, you can hear them shouting from here. Even the building’s walls shake.”

The young man gave a hint of a smile. Then his hands clutched nervously at his trousers, as if he was thinking up an excuse to get away from these two crazy old women.

Luigia noticed it.

“Yes, what Beatrice is saying is completely true. Mrs Pina is getting it on with that really weird guy, the one with a hand and a foot missing …”

“That’s right” the other woman confirmed. “See, Mrs Pina is a lot older than him. But, you know, there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle …”

“Besides, she was already doing that when she was young, good tunes,” Luigia remarked. “They say that Pina, when she was twenty, was always up for it. I don’t know if I make myself clear.”

“Yes, but now” Beatrice continued, “at seventy years old behaving like a tart … and with that guy … Giuliano”.

“Well, at least they’ve found each other. Because he’s not a saint either, eh. Think that up until some years ago he was constantly in and out of prison. Him and his strange dealings...”

“Yes, who knows what he gets up to in that flat.”

“Ah, Beatrice, he can’t do much now, eh… with only one foot and one hand …”

Luigia stopped. She realised that sentence had stirred some kind of curiosity in the young man. Beatrice realised it too.

“Eh, yes eh…” the latter jumped in. “Probably someone didn’t like his dealings. One time they really beat him up. They cut his hand and his foot off …”

“Yes, Yes, cut off for real” Luigia repeated. “Cut off. Thwack!” she finished, mimicking the movement of a machete.

The young man’s eyes widened, nodding. Then, a shy smile appeared on his lips.

“Now to home. Tired. Much work.”

“Of course!” Beatrice exclaimed. “My friend always has a tendency to drag things out. Please forgive her, she’s of a certain age.”

Luigia gave her a crooked eye. Then she spoke to the young man again.

“I just wanted to put this young lad on his guard. So now he knows who he can trust. And with whom he needs to be careful.”

“Indeed, indeed” Beatrice took the opportunity to continue the conversation. “In this building you need to be wary twenty four hours a day, you never know what your neighbour has in store for you. There are some odd types of people around…”

“And then they gossip, and gossip. Ah, scandalmongers!”

“See, one time…”

“Sorry. I have to go now,” the young man interrupted her, taking two steps towards the next flight of stairs.

“Of course!” Beatrice again. “Poor thing, you must be tired after a day at work.” Then she said to her friend: “Luigia, let him go, this handsome lad must get some rest. He will have another opportunity to talk to us some other time.”

With those words, the young man finally felt authorised to climb the steps, while the two elderly ladies observed him with inquisitive looks.

Once they heard the door of the upstairs apartment closing, the two women said goodbye to each other, arranging to meet the next day. And with that they each took refuge inside their own homes, which were old and shabby, just like them.

***

Giuliani was there, on the wrecked couch, his gaze remaining, since who knows when, on the arm and leg. An incomplete man, that’s what he was.

He repeated to himself for the hundredth time that at least the disability had allowed him to skip the housing waiting list to be given the miserable abode. Otherwise he would have been forced to sleep in a cardboard box under some bridge. Having to compete for a spot, maybe even fight for it, with other homeless people.

Those were the thoughts that took hold of him every night; the thoughts that made him believe he might have been better off dead than reduced to this.

Knock, knock, knock.

Was he mistaken or had somebody just knocked on the door?

He said to himself that the first hypothesis was more likely, because nobody ever visited him. Only Mrs Pina, the one who offered him breakfast in the morning ,and in the evening, unbeknownst to her husband, brought him an ashtray full of cigarette butts, so that he could finish them, smoking the small amount of tobacco that was left. The gossipers in the building were even saying that they were having an affair.

Please! Although he was in a really bad state, he was not desperate to the point of having it sucked by an old hag.

Giuliano looked at the cheap wall clock. Almost 11pm.

Pina had already come at 9pm. It couldn’t be her again. He must have been mistaken, he must have misheard.

In that moment he heard another knock on the door and realised that it was not a mistake.

“Come in,” he said without much confidence. After all he wasn’t accustomed to receiving guests. “It’s open!”

He stood for a long minute staring at a door that had no intention of being opened. Then, exactly when he was taking the last sip from his cut-price supermarket beer – a present from the same Pina – three knocks, stronger and clearer than the previous ones, were heard.

He put the beer can on the coffee table. Supporting himself with his good arm, he stood up on his leg. He didn’t feel like bending to pick up his crutches, so, bracing himself against anything he could find, he started hopping on one foot until he reached the door.

“I said it’s open!” he said sharply, opening the door wide.

The landing was dark and empty. He frowned. It was obvious that the alcohol and his melancholy had played a trick on him.

He shook his head and closed the door. Then, hopping on one foot he turned around and leaned against a small cabinet to regain his balance.

The man in the raincoat was a lot faster than him and attacked, banging him against the wall. Blind with pain caused by his arm bent violently behind his back, Giuliani almost didn’t feel the light sting, as if a needle were entering his forearm.

His sight became blurred and he was forced to shut his eyes. He felt his leg collapsing and a sense of torpor took hold of him.

Then, at once, everything became dark.

CHAPTER 17

That’s all he needed that morning: a flat tyre.

Lucky for him, there was a garage a couple of hundred metres away. He walked almost half a kilometre to get there. To him, walking was a bit like smoking: it helped him to relax and think. He was a born walker. Even his surname confirmed that. Walker, the one who walks.

David congratulated himself because he was still in the mood for making jokes even during times as unlucky as this one was.

When he saw the bald man in the mechanic’s overall, he explained the situation to him. The man didn’t waste time. He retrieved his breakdown van and headed towards the Inspector’s Audi.

While waiting for him to come back, Walker lit a cigarette. It had been a pleasant walk, but it hadn’t helped with the fact that he was pissed off. It was going to cost him a fat one hundred euro note, apart from all the wasted time.

Bloody tyre.

He had just caught sight of his Audi on top of the breakdown van, when he felt his pocket vibrating.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed seeing the extension of a Police Headquarters number. “You can’t have something unexpected happen to you, because they can’t get by without you.”

He swiped the screen with his finger and accepted the call.

“Walker,” he answered.

Bassani’s voice was on the other end of the phone.

David’s face froze in surprise. The phone call was brief. But as painful as a punch in the teeth. He hung up and stood staring at the mechanic without seeing him. His mind was processing images of men laying on the ground, dead, with gold coloured neckties wrapped around their necks as a decoration.

Shortly after, his Audi A3 was ready to go again.

The mechanic had done him a big favour by helping him immediately. Well, truth be told, he did charge him, and quite a lot. But Walker didn’t feel like arguing about it, he had other priorities. Bassani had been succinct, but clear.

“The killer has struck again.”

Then he had given him just enough time to write the new victim’s address down.

Absorbed in the vortex of his own thoughts, Walker almost didn’t notice the traffic light was red. He jammed on the brakes, causing the tyres to squeal.

“Fuck!”

He lit a Marlboro and waited for the traffic light to change; then, he engaged first gear and flattened the accelerator. His A3 took off like a flash, becoming a white dot lost in the traffic of Milan.