The Night of Rome Page 15

  He started running as hard as he could while the two miserable wretches tripped over the low fence around what must once have been a public park. Reaching the first of the two of them was a matter of seconds. He floored him and then creased his face against the ruins of a park bench.

  The little negro was sobbing. He was sobbing and he stank. He reeked of sweat and fear. With his left hand Wagner twisted his neck around, so that the piece of shit could see his right fist raised high in the split second before it came crashing down.

  “You need to get the hell out of here. You’re not fucking welcome. Do you get that, asshole?”

  He smashed down on the poor kid’s jaw. Once, twice, three times. Until his knuckle-duster encountered no more resistance.

  At dawn, he returned home to the two-bedroom apartment he’d renovated with his own hands in Mandrione. A good point of departure for his bright future life. He turned on his cell phone. There was a message, from an unknown sender. Wagner read it and realized that this was an appointment he couldn’t miss.

  VIII.

  TUESDAY, MARCH 24TH

  Saint’s Day: St. Catherine of Sweden

  PRATI QUARTER. PUB AR MURETTO. EVENING.

  Piazza Cavour. Pub Ar Muretto. At 11 PM.” Sebastiano showed up twenty minutes late. Not too late, just late enough. The place was packed. Prati had become a new destination for Rome’s movida, very different from the respectable, quiet neighborhood, inhabited by the successful bourgeoisie, fierce and solitary, where the human comedy of his adolescence had played out. A patch of the city that was historically philo-Fascist but which little by little had been converted to progressivism. That is, if we believed that categories of the sort, in the new century, even had any meaning anymore. And, perhaps precisely because of this change, Prati attracted the occasional nostalgic die-hard: like the tough-looking kids who were conferring with Wagner, an extravaganza of forearms and napes of the neck spangled with Fascist/Celtic tattoos.

  Wagner leapt to his feet, in a gesture of respect. Sebastiano extended his right hand and shook Wagner’s vigorously. Looking him in the eyes, he nodded for him to take a seat.

  “So, you’re Wagner.”

  “And you’re Sebastiano.”

  Wagner did an excellent job of concealing his nervousness, Sebastiano observed. He hadn’t expected him to be so young. Even though he thought he detected a shadow in his gaze that he recognized. Life must have marked him early. And good and proper.

  “Beer?” asked the boy.

  “I’d rather have a malt whisky.”

  Sebastiano knew the proper use of silence. It was normally the first, decisive test you put to people when you’re talking to them for the first time—people you don’t know, in other words. It had the advantage of freeing him from small talk, and it allowed him to gauge quickly and decisively the mettle of his interlocutor, to see whether he could stand up to the pressure without flying off the handle. And from what he could tell—he noted—young Wagner emerged with flying colors. While waiting for Wagner’s beer and his own whisky, which thank God arrived neat in a metal glass, the kid hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d planted both elbows on the table, bracing his chin on the knuckles of the hands that clenched his forearms. And he’d stayed that way without moving for what seemed like a long, long time. Anyway, long enough to make Sebastiano decide that his first impression had been correct.

  “Cheers,” Sebastiano said, hoisting his whisky.

  “To our meeting,” Wagner replied with a smile.

  Then the boy turned serious and asked Sebastiano why he’d wanted to see him.

  “You and your boys are making a name for yourselves, Wagner.”

  The young man stiffened. Then he shot Sebastiano a suspicious glance. Ferocious eyes. With a paradoxical vein of innocence. In Rome, everyone knew that Sebastiano meant Samurai. And that’s why Wagner had responded to the summons so promptly. It’s not every day of the week that Sebastiano Laurenti reaches out for you. Now the young man was asking himself whether he’d committed some error, stepped on the wrong feet or kicked the wrong jaws. Sebastiano enjoyed leaving him on tenterhooks for a while. Once the young man’s tension had become intolerable, he gratified him with a benevolent tone of voice.

  “You’re all doing great. I’ve been keeping my eye on you guys for some time now. I’m very pleased. And you-know-who approves, too.”

  Wagner slumped back in his chair. He clenched his fists and understood that the great opportunity had arrived. And he swore that he wouldn’t let it slip away. Whatever the cost.

  “I know how much you earn for the filthy work you do, Wagner. And I also know that you’re good at making everyone believe you are something you’re not. A die-hard Nazi obsessed with negroes and Arabs.”

  Wagner started smiling again. Sebastiano continued.

  “Now I’m going to ask you to climb down off that merry-go-round, with all your boys, and climb onto another one. Mine. I want you to be in charge of security for the construction sites for the public works for the jubilee and for the metro C line. And I don’t want you to ask me why or what I have to do with the metro and the jubilee. I just want you to be aware that it’s going to be a very particular security service, let’s say.”

  “Particular . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re going to work for an agency that has a legal face. By which I mean . . . You’ll have access to uniforms, cars, license plates, and all that bric-a-brac that any little sheriff has. The owner is the nephew of an old Sicilian friend of Samurai’s and his agency is one of the largest security agencies in Rome. They’re in charge of security on both sides of the Tiber. Television stations, banks, city authorities. You and your friends will be legally hired. But your real employer will be me. You and your boy will put on your Carnival costumes and at night you’ll do what I tell you to do. I’ll be personally in charge. In the meantime . . . ”

  “Wait, let me guess: You need a quick piece of work, done right.”

  Sebastiano approved with a quick nod of the head.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Fabio Desideri. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Wagner was surprised.

  “Fabietto? But I thought he was a solid guy, what’s he done wrong?”

  “He’s gotten a little too big for his boots. You up to it?”

  Wagner paused, then smiled.

  “What’s the big deal? Consider it done. But can I ask you something?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How much is my end of this job? I mean . . . the whole job.”

  “Hallelujah! I was starting to worry that you were one of those kids who trail after their masters for the glory or, even worse, for the Idea. How much were you thinking?”

  Wagner didn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t know. A . . . hundred . . . thousand?” he tossed out.

  “We can do twice that with no special effort,” Sebastiano replied with a laugh.

  The kid’s jaw dropped. Sebastiano’s smile broadened even more.

  “But we could even get up to two fifty. That just depends on you.”

  Wagner took a deep breath. He drained his mug of beer, then slammed it noisily down on the table.

  “When do I start?”

  “Right away, I’d say. And one more thing. Don’t call me on the phone again. Do you know Slack?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a closed digital platform for communications within a team. Messages, files, email, Skype. All stuff that the Americans may be listening in on, but not the cops here at home. I’ll send you my user name. That’s all.”

  Sebastiano got up and slapped Wagner on the back.

  He hoped he hadn’t been wrong about that kid.

  He would be needing his army.

  IX.

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25
TH–THURSDAY, MARCH 26TH

  Saints’ Days: Annunciation of the Lord;

  St. Ludgero of Münster, Bishop

  PRESS GUILD. CAMPI DELL’ACQUA ACETOSA. LUNCHTIME.

  It hadn’t been enough to supply him with a brand-new wardrobe and assure him of a paycheck on the 27th of every month. Nor had it been enough to pluck him from the ruins of the bankruptcy of his miserable radio station FM 922 as well as from the disciplinary proceedings of the Journalists’ Guild. A very serious matter that the president of the Guild—a friend—had managed to transform into a farce. Samurai was right, Spartaco Liberati was an animal and he always would be an animal. A parasite, with the nerve and the gall of those who’ll give their victim one last kick once they’re down. But like all parasites, very useful when what you needed was someone willing to stick their hands in the shit up to the elbows.

  Now Spartaco was posing as a political journalist. Temistocle Malgradi had parked him in the newsroom of the weekly newsmagazine Il Meridiano, where he wrote, under strict dictation, thoughtful analyses of Roman politics. If for no other reason than that his relationship with the Italian language was still such a distant and unhappy one. And that a die-hard Fascist like Spartaco should have turned into a convinced supporter of a city coalition government led by the DP was one of those details that, after a while, no one even noticed anymore.

  Naturally, A.S. Roma, his longtime passion—let’s just use the phrase—hadn’t stopped filling his days. Thanks to the power that accrued to him as a result of the occasional ramshackle appearance on local TV and radio stations, he continued to be able to blackmail the soccer club, or at least he tried, offering in no uncertain terms a straight barter: he’d put an end to his savage campaigns against the American ownership in exchange for a regular seat among the most illustrious fans. Until, one day, from the far side of the Atlantic Ocean, the chairman of the holding company had finally put an end to the matter. “Who is this fucking Spartaco? This asshole has finally pissed me off.” In other words, let’s be done with this dickhead.

  And in fact, it hadn’t been to talk about A.S. Roma that Temistocle Malgradi had summoned him that morning to the press club of the Acqua Acetosa sports center. A delicate matter, he had told him. Spartaco was there early and he had whiled away the time by passing in review the noteworthy asses of four “fellow journalists” playing doubles on the central tennis court. Malgradi’s voice had assaulted him from behind.

  “No question, these journalists don’t do a fucking thing all day.”

  Spartaco had whipped around, throwing his arms open in a hug that Malgradi had adroitly dodged.

  “Do you have it in for me, my dear Mr. Mayor?”

  “Maybe. And anyway, I’m not mayor yet. Maybe soon though.”

  Malgradi locked arms with him and dragged him far beyond the hurricane fencing around the tennis courts. The two of them strolled along the lane that led to the outdoor restaurant.

  “Do you think you can concentrate for more than five minutes?”

  “Now you’re hurting my feelings, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Then let’s see whether you can surprise me for once.”

  He opened a file folder he was carrying and pulled out a stack of photographs, printouts of web pages, and biographical dossiers, as well as a dozen or so pages of text.

  “Read this.”

  “Now?”

  “When if not now?”

  Spartaco read through to the end of the dozen pages, displaying what even Malgradi perceived to be an unusual degree of uneasiness, considering the subcortical nature of the individual. Spartaco shut the file folder, stammering as he did so.

  “Damn . . . ”

  “So you like this piece of investigative journalism?”

  Spartaco put on the expression that had made him what he was. More or less the expression of a confused dog waiting for his master’s command or any other sliver of enlightenment.

  “Who wrote it?”

  “You did.”

  “I did?”

  Malgradi burst out laughing.

  “Asshole, this is the piece of investigative journalism that you’re going to publish in Il Meridiano when I give you the go-ahead.”

  “I just copy and paste.”

  “Like always.”

  “But is this stuff true?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “I don’t know, just out of curiosity. Is it really true that the mayor screwed a young girl when he was a professor? And did the priest really kill himself after meeting with the new bishop . . . because this Father Giovanni doesn’t strike me as all that much of a faggot . . . ”

  “It’s all bullshit, Spartaco. For that matter, nobody gives a damn whether the stuff you publish is true. The important thing is for it to seem true.”

  “And what if they sue?”

  “The article is carefully written, but you can even add a little flavor of your own if you want. Just be careful. In any case, we’ll handle legal expenses.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  They reached the restaurant. Malgradi gestured for Spartaco to take a seat at the table with the sign saying “reserved.”

  “Just one thing . . . ”

  “What are you doing now, asking questions, too? What are you, some kind of journalist?”

  Spartaco didn’t appreciate the joke. Maybe he hadn’t even understood it.

  “No, what I mean is . . . with this kind of stuff, the mayor is going to have to resign and the Vatican’s going to be furious. I wouldn’t want to think that . . . ”

  “You’re not paid to think. The mayor has to resign. And that bishop needs to get the hell out of the way.”

  “Sure, of course. But aren’t you all buddy-buddy with the mayor?”

  “Used to be. The jubilee is coming and the party has decided that the time has come to pick a new horse. On both sides of the Tiber. Fuck Giardino and fuck Daré. Now it’s my turn.”

  “And are Sebastiano and Samurai happy with it?”

  “You know what they say in Rome? Sta matassa è fracica, no lercia.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know the poet Belli . . . why, what am I telling you about this for . . . anyway: the matter isn’t just serious, it’s deadly serious. And when the situation is deadly serious, there’s only one thing to be done: I go to the mattresses . . . understood?”

  “You go where?”

  “What the fuck kind of Roman are you? I go full bore, I go in fighting, I destroy my enemies. You get it now?”

  “Sure, but what about Samurai and Sebastiano?”

  “I’m in charge of the politics.”

  Spartaco, who had started scanning the menu, stopped, as if dazzled by a sudden illumination. Fine that Temistocle had started to poeticize in Roman dialect, and yes, it was true that he came from Saudi Calabria. Okay, understood, poor old Spartaco didn’t count for shit. Fine, understood, he was paid to do what they told him to do. And fine, it was true that taken on his own he didn’t have the gray matter of a normally endowed human being, but still, the symphony was far too clear. He was willing to bet that Sebastiano and Samurai were entirely in the dark about all this. Temistocle guessed that he hadn’t been too convincing, and he unfurled a smile of the kind that are false and fraternal, all the more false the more fraternal they are.

  “Listen, my good friend, do you think I’d get you involved in something bigger than the two of us? A friend like you.”

  “Oh good lord, no, but you know what they say.”

  “An ounce of prevention is worth more than a pound of cure.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which is why you’re going to write this piece of investigative journalism. Preventing is better than curing. Giardino and Daré are a metastasizing tumor, and they need to be surgically r
emoved. Now. And the decision was made at the top, at the very tippy top.”

  Malgradi lifted his eyes skyward. Spartaco nodded.

  “If that’s the way it is.”

  “So then, you only need to tell me what you’ll have. I’m starting to feel just a little peckish.”

  They chowed down on raw seafood without exchanging a single word. Malgradi left hastily, dropping two hundred euros in cash on the table, while Liberati was swallowing another in a long succession of red crayfish from Mazara del Vallo.

  “One last thing, Spartaco. You need to go on a diet. You’re big as a barrel.”

  “What are you talking about, I can still fit perfectly into the jacket from when your brother made me journalist of the year.”

  Spartaco grabbed a last gulp of prosecco, because God gave us these good things and it’s a sin to waste them, so the Good Book tells us. “The decision was made at the top . . . ” Malgra’, who are you trying to kid? Forget about a shark: you strike me as one of those nice fat stupid tuna fish . . .

  With a sigh, he dialed one of Sebastiano’s many phone numbers.

  And Sebastiano, to his immense surprise, told him it was all true.

  PONTE MILVIO. LOCANDA DEI BRIGANTI. NIGHT.

  Everything was ready for the night’s fireworks. Sebastiano had provided the list of Fabio Desideri’s clubs, indicating the first four targets. Wagner had divvied up the attack squads: the twins, Kessel and Ring, would hit Alcyone, in Fiumicino; Tigna and Pustola were assigned to the Black Crow, in Parioli; Kappler and Hippo—because of his size—had Quadrilatero, in the Portuense area. He and Beagle Boy, dressed all in black, would wait aboard the Fiat Panda that Beagle Boy had hot-wired that afternoon on Via di Portonaccio. They were waiting for the last stragglers to leave the Locanda dei Briganti. The original plan had called for them to break in at night and tear the place up. They’d changed their minds after casing the place. Too many security cameras, a security code that they’d never be able to figure out in time to deactivate it, it was too risky. He’d talked to Sebastiano on Slack, and together they’d decided to fall back on four two-bit armed robberies, as a warning. The job would need to be immediate and direct. No room for error. Beagle Boy sighed.