Viper - Michael Morley [27]
Young Franco Castellani looked towards the caravan, caught his grandfather’s gaze, smiled and waved. Antonio returned the gesture along with a gaptoothed smile. It had been years since Antonio had cried, but when he looked at Franco he couldn’t help swallowing hard and blinking. It wasn’t just that he had his grandmother’s eyes, and Antonio remembered her every time he saw him. It was that the child had been cursed with something worse than death. A disease that was cruelly robbing him of the life he should have.
Car tyres crunching dusty gravel made the old man jump like a lizard in the sun. He hoped the arrivals were tourists, plenty of them, packed with cash.
But they weren’t.
The black Mercedes S280 was undoubtedly a Camorra car. The Finelli Family normally sent their weekly collectors in more modest vehicles, but sometimes one of their distinctive Mercs rolled up. An under-boss usually slouched in the back while he despatched some young leech to come and bleed Antonio of his hard-earned money.
‘Buon giorno,’ shouted a man that most of Antonio’s generation recognized as Sal the Snake. The Camorrista stood and waited for someone to appear from around the other side of the car.
‘Buon giorno,’ replied Antonio, respectfully dipping his head.
The muscled form of Tonino Farina slid out from the passenger seat and opened the back door for his boss.
‘This is Signor Valsi,’ said Sal, moving towards Antonio. ‘He’d like to come inside and talk to you.’
The old man slicked back his hair and tried to fuss himself smart. ‘Of course. Please, come in. This is an honour. A great honour.’
Valsi nodded, buttoned up his black suit jacket and climbed two metal steps into the van. He looked around contemptuously. The air stank of male sweat and cigarettes. It reminded him of his first day in prison.
‘Sit down, please,’ said Antonio. He hurriedly moved newspapers and a plate glazed with stale pasta sauce. Farina checked out the rest of the van. He opened the toilet door and almost gagged.
‘I’ll stand,’ said Valsi. ‘This won’t take long.’
Antonio felt his chest tighten. He wiped his hands on his crumpled old trousers and hoped the Camorristi couldn’t sense his fear.
‘My father-in-law tells me that you pay us a third of all your earnings and, with only one or two unfortunate lapses, you have always met your debts promptly.’
‘Yes, sir. That is the case. I do my best, even when times are difficult.’ Antonio hated calling this young weasel ‘sir’. There had been a day when he could have bought and sold scum like him.
‘How old are you?’
Antonio smiled. ‘I am eighty-three, almost eighty-four.’
‘Then you do not have long left,’ said Valsi coldly. ‘Do you have any illnesses, anything wrong with you?’
‘A little angina.’ He patted his thumping heart.
‘Then maybe you have two to five years,’ said Valsi. ‘What will happen to this place when you die?’
‘I will leave it to my grandsons. They will run the business. It will be their livelihood.’
Valsi smirked. ‘Oh, no. No, I really don’t think so.’ He placed his hands either side of the window and looked into the camp yard. ‘I am going to buy the land off you, and you can have some money for the last of your years. I will be generous, so there will be some cash to pass to your grandsons.’ He turned to face him. ‘Signor Giacomo here will come back with a lawyer and you will sign all the legal papers transferring ownership to me. We will build on here. Perhaps housing. Perhaps a restaurant and apartments. You will be compensated and move out. Do you understand?’
Antonio wanted to say no. With all his broken heart and all his broken spirit, he burned with the urge to say no.
One last stand.
‘Signor Valsi, this is all I have left. My wife died many years ago and my business has been difficult