Viper - Michael Morley [43]
The three friends forked pasta and meatballs into their mouths, barely pausing to gasp for air. They looked at the parents and kids around them, laughing and chatting. They couldn’t believe that people lived like this. Happy, full, fat. Stealing from bins at the back of the kitchens was the closest to restaurant food they’d ever been. Opposite them were their heroes, Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta. The Camorristi were not eating; they were sipping espresso and talking in hushed tones. Soon the kids would be back on the streets, running the rounds, delivering their small plastic packs of heroin and cocaine. They got no pay for their labour, just food, the hint that one day they could have a future within the System and the most valuable thing of all, respect from their peers.
‘You want some wine? I think maybe I’m gonna take a glass of red.’ Donatello poured himself some. He was twenty-seven and looked like a young Al Pacino with a beard.
‘Not me.’ Ivetta put his palm over his glass. ‘I think I’ll go to the gym.’ He rolled up the sleeve of his black T-shirt and a tattooed male angel in chains grew in stature as he ostentatiously flexed his biceps. On the opposite arm was one of St Michael slaying a demon. Ivetta’s body bore another twenty, all forms of angels and demons, ink-on-skin illustrations of his own mental struggles.
It had been a good morning. The boys had done well. Their deliveries had grossed a cool three thousand euros. Not a fortune, but the day was only half done and the kids were only one group of the six that Donatello and Ivetta ran. The boys pulled in an average of 5k per day per gang – 30k in total – and they worked six days a week. All in all, it added up to a chunky 180k a week, just short of three-quarters of a million per month. And, if the two Camorristi pushed the kids a little, they should gross almost ten mill for the year.
Running smack and charlie through a pipeline of juveniles was smart practice. If the kids got caught, they landed tiny sentences, maybe even just court warnings. But if any of the adult clan members were arrested, then they were looking at lock-ups north of five, sometimes ten years.
A waitress with blonde hair and dyed black ends cleared plates and handed out dessert cards to the boys. They were barely able to read the menus but the pictures lit up their eyes. They were still pointing and deciding when Ivetta suddenly snatched the cards from their hands and told them to get back to work.
The kids made no complaints. They grabbed their Nike rucksacks and headed for the door. The youngest doubled back to take a final gulp of his cherry Coke.
‘You should have let them finish,’ said the tall, dark-haired man joining them. ‘I’m sure we all remember from prison that a well-fed workforce is much more willing.’
The two henchmen, aware that they were merely older versions of the boys they’d just sent away, ordered more coffees and settled back to hear Bruno Valsi’s plans.
33
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Franco took Rosa’s sack to the pit.
It was long and deep and located in a field at the back of the campsite, more than a kilometre away from the last of the caravans. Grandpa Toni had been rich once and had had big plans for the land. Plans which, like most things in Grandpa Toni’s life, had never materialized.
Only Franco came to the pit. Paolo would help him tour the shops and restaurants, collecting the trash in their old white van. But back at the site, only Franco would drive through the fields, dump the bags and spend hours burning the garbage. He loved nothing more than his fires. The flames soothed him. They broke chains in his mind and let his thoughts fly free.
Rosa’s bag in hand, he slithered down the steep banking, his feet skating in wet mud that had been scorched black. Birds and rats scuttled and flapped, loath to leave the scraps they were feeding on. He put the sack down for a moment and dug beneath his anorak for Grandpa’s pistol.