Viper - Michael Morley [32]
Paolo looked up from his bunk, an old football magazine on his lap. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ mumbled Franco, his head down in shame.
‘Grandpa brought us two beers. I saved them till you came.’ Paolo nodded at the small second-hand fridge that buzzed and clanked beneath a worktop in the tiny galley kitchen.
‘Fuck!’ swore Franco as he opened the door and sharp white light blazed into his face. ‘Why does it have to be so bright?’
‘Opener’s on the top. Come sit with me.’
‘Peroni. He spoils us.’ Franco popped the caps. Foam fizzed over the bottle necks. ‘He say anything to you about the Camorristi?’
Paolo took a beer from his cousin’s hand and clinked bottles. ‘Salute! They want the place. Plan to move us out. They’re going to build here, or something.’
‘What? You fucking joking?’
‘No. That’s what they say. They are going to send the guys round. Grandpa has to sign, and that’s it.’
‘The guys. I hate the fucking guys. Where we supposed to go?’
‘Like they give a fuck? It would have been different if we were guys.’
Franco started to peel the label off the bottle. He always tried to get it off without tearing, but never managed. ‘Camorra soldiers. Us? You think so?’
‘Why not? We can do stuff. We can run messages, do deals, scare the shit out of people and that.’
‘Well, at least, I can. I’m not sure you can scare a fish.’
Paolo laughed and took a long swig of the beer. It wasn’t as cold as it should have been; the fridge was playing up again. ‘Grandpa would never let us work for the System, you know his feelings.’
Franco knew them well. The Camorra was the thing that he hated most. The thing that had ruined his life.
‘You going to stay in tonight?’
‘No. I’ll have another beer with you, then I’m going out. You know I have to.’
Paolo avoided his eyes. He never knew where his cousin went, or what he got up to. He just understood that sometimes he had to be on his own. It was better that way.
22
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
The wet morning air tasted of stone and flint. Jack King clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and prayed he’d find decent coffee inside the local carabinieri HQ.
It was a rectangular, purpose-built, brick barracks. Four storeys high and home not only to the investigation division but also more than a thousand soldiers. Grey metal gates opened as Massimo flashed his ID. They were ushered across a gravelled driveway, past a frayed but still fluttering Italian flag, into a small, cool dark reception area tiled in cheap, dull marble.
‘Wow, this place is depressing.’ Jack squinted down a warren of dimly lit corridors decorated in spirit-sapping greys and faded blues.
‘Not all of Italy is an art gallery,’ remarked Massimo stoically, as he led them past a series of closed doors. They were still several offices away from that of Capitano Sylvia Tomms when she appeared from the depths of the warren. Mass kissed her lightly on both cheeks.
‘Sylvia, this is Jack King. It’s best we talk in English but his Italian is quite good – especially the bad words – so be careful what you say about him.’
Sylvia laughed and stuck out a hand. ‘Hope the jet lag isn’t too bad. Thanks for coming.’
‘I’ll survive. Please call me Jack. It sounds like you have quite a puzzle on your hands.’
She smiled. ‘Step by step, little by little, we will solve it. Come to my room. I’ll get you both something to drink and show you what we’ve got.’
The office was tiny and cluttered. Her desk was covered in papers, photographs, memos and maps. In the middle, a flat-screen monitor rose from a heap of plastic water bottles, sandwich wrappings, old cigarette packets and coffee cups.
‘Please take a seat. Just put those anywhere on the floor.’ Sylvia motioned to two hard wooden chairs and the skyscrapers of files she’d built on them. The floor was also stacked with documents. Jack and Massimo had to place the papers they’d moved under the chairs.
‘I’m sorry about the mess. I have an office three times smaller than any male Capitano,