Viper - Michael Morley [134]
But only for a second.
8.30 a.m.
Pompeii
The Visitors’ Centre opened daily at eight thirty, but in winter the coach parties seldom arrived before ten. Franco had been sitting for hours with his back against a wall of the ancient amphitheatre. Cradled in his hands was his grandfather’s Glock. Simmering in his mind was the thought of how he’d use it.
After Paolo had gone he’d roamed the ruins. Imagined he was the sole survivor of the eruption of Vesuvius. The strongest of them all. The ruler of all he surveyed. Now the darkness was gone and so was his dream.
The grey light of another drizzly morning brought with it the harsh reality of the impending crowds. Those who would come to stop and stare. Well, today he’d give them something to gawp at.
Franco got to his feet. His bones ached. Blood rushed to his head and pounded hard in his temples. He was short of breath and it took him several minutes of walking before he felt okay.
He could hear voices from a long way off. Workers moving down Via dell’Abbondanza, the long cobbled road that stretches past the Stabian Baths. They were heading into the Forum and then the Basilica and Temple of Apollo.
Soon they would be around him. Their eyes on him. Scorching his skin with scowls and prejudice.
For a moment the December sun dodged a rain cloud and painted the cobbled streets and stone walls in shimmering gold.
Franco hoped Paolo and his grandfather would forgive him. Not only for what he’d done – but, most of all, for what he was about to do.
He put his hand in his pocket. One more shot of heroin. Two more magazines of bullets.
It was enough.
He set off on his walk. His final walk around Pompeii.
8.45 a.m.
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli
The Mercedes Maybach wound its way down the spiralling hillside. The interior temperature, as always, was twenty degrees. Outside it was down to four. And it was foggy too. Fredo Finelli sat in the back reading La Gazzetta, trying not to think of the doctor’s appointment and how late he was going to be. This was the crunch meeting. If his blood sugar levels hadn’t normalized, then they were going to start treating him for diabetes. That’s what they’d warned, and he was damned sure that was what was going to happen.
He’d ignored symptoms of raging thirst, dizziness, tiredness and headaches for as long as possible. Now he simply hoped that whatever they decided to do, it wouldn’t involve needles. He’d heard somewhere that these days there were tablets that could be taken instead. If a clean bill of health wasn’t in the offing, then that’s what he wanted.
The 62S was itching to go, keen to get on the auto-strada and ignite its V12 engine. Instead, the traffic was getting worse. Soon it was forced to a halt.
‘What’s wrong?’ Fredo called from the back.
Armando Lopapa, a fifty-year-old no-nonsense Neapolitan who’d been his driver for more than a decade, slid down the dividing glass. ‘I’m not sure. It’s not the car in front. Must be something ahead of that. Looks like a kind of accident.’
‘Probably the damned fog. People seem to have forgotten how to drive properly these days.’
The driver behind them honked his horn.
‘Go see what it is,’ insisted the Don. ‘Get them out of the damned way.’
Armando did as he was told. The horn behind him blared again. ‘Hey, fuckhole, shut the fuck up,’ he shouted, slipping on his chauffeur’s cap.
A racing bike lay on the misty blacktop. A teenage boy in yellow cycling Lycra was struggling to sit up. He was holding his face and had badly cut legs. A thirty-something businessman in a blue suit leaned over him. ‘He fell. I didn’t hit him,’ he protested weakly. ‘It was an accident, I did nothing.’
Armando wanted to backhand him. He was clearly the kind of asshole who wouldn’t slow down for a kid on a bike. Naples was full of them. Maybe later he would slap him. ‘You okay?’ he asked the boy. The youngster was about fourteen, could easily have been his own son. ‘Can you stand up?’