Wu Ming - 54

into the back of the lorry. Zollo opened the door and held out a hand. Pagano took it. Two shots. The boy relaxed his grip and rolled to the ground. Zollo nearly pulled off the handbrake handle. The lorry skidded. Zollo got out. He went over to the boy’s body. The bullets had

perforated his lungs. He leaned over him. ‘Stiv. ’ Blood rose into his throat, he tried to spit it out with

a gurgle, his hand gripping the collar of Zollo’s jacket. ‘Stiv. Were you taking me with you?’ Zollo clutched that hand until he felt the grip relaxing, and

Pagano’s eyes turned to glass. Pierre’s voice reached him from the lorry. ‘Is he dead?’ ‘Yes.’ Pierre released the handbrake and put the engine in gear. ‘Let’s get away! Come on, let’s get away! They’ll kill us, too!’ Zollo stared at the boy’s corpse. He looked up, slowly. He saw the

shadow waiting for him. The last one. Vic Trimane. A test of trust for him, too. ‘Whack Steve Cement, Vic. Clip your

buddy’. You don’t escape Lucky Luciano. You don’t get out of the coils of

the snake. Again he heard Pierre, calling, ‘Jump in! We’re going!’ Zollo got up and started walking calmly, one step after the other,

towards the advancing shadow. There was no hurry now. He saw Vic lift his gun. Zollo took aim and emptied the magazine without stopping. The third shot hit its target: he saw Vic’s brain spatter through

the air. See you, goombah. He fell to his knees.

The blood drenched his shirt. How many had he got? Two, three? Vic was a good marksman. He found himself staring at the last stars as they went out, up at the top of the sky.

Pierre had crouched down on the seat again. He stuck his head out

through the door.

Mr Rock-Hard was on the ground, motionless, crucified.

The Neapolitan was on the ground, on his back in a pool of blood.

Ettore was on the ground, his head mashed in the dust.

Other bodies lay on the ground. Dead.

He was alive.

He set off down the road at a lick.

No pension, Steve. No diamonds. No South Africa. Shame, you nearly made it. Sorry, seriously, after coming so far. No point trying to lift your head, it’s like you’re made of wood. The bullet must have hit your spinal column. Your leg, one hand, the muscles of your face. Cement.

Stefano Zollo’s triple death leap stopped after two somersaults. It was a good jump.

You can’t be Cement your whole life.

Last spin of the wheel. Last look at the woman you would have loved.

What’s she like, Steve? Gorgeous, of course. Really, she doesn’t know what she’s missed.

What a grand finale. You thinking about it, Steve? Cape Town, sun, green fields, and a manhattan always right in front of you. Do they know how to make manhattans in Cape Town? You’ve had a go, goombah. Don’t be too hard on yourself, what happened happened.

There, the ball’s at rest.

Fifteen, odd, black.

Chapter 50

Bologna, 3 July

She folded up the blouse and put it on top of the others. The taxi would be there any moment.

She counted the money she had changed, closed the bag and pulled the strap tighter than necessary.

She looked at herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair and put the finishing touches to her make-up.

The doorbell rang.

She had taken everything.

She dragged the cases to the door.

‘I’ll be down in a moment,’ she whispered into the entryphone.

The corridor looked longer than usual. At the end, behind his study door, was Odoacre.

Angela didn’t go into the room. She felt she couldn’t get any closer, that she had to keep her distance. She felt the certainty of what she had to do.

She looked him in the eyes as she delivered her final words: ‘You’re an absolute shit. We both know why. Goodbye.’

She had nothing else to say to him. There was no need. She stayed on the threshold just long enough to fix that expression in her mind. Then she closed the door.

The corridor had shortened again.

Chapter 51

From France to Italy, 3, 4, 5 July

Shitshitshitshit . Pierre, suitcase in hand, jumped ditches stumbled over stones, splashed the hem of his trousers, stopped every now and again to throw up, then come on! come on! come on! get away from the slaughterhouse, but who the fuck were those guys, where the fuck am I? where the fuck did they come from? Malevolent spirits from the scrubland, Ettore and the other guy had returned their fire, Ettore had thrown the bombs, like when he was in the partisans, Ettore had died in combat, he had saved his, Pierre’s, arse, and now here he was with a case bursting with money, spondulicks, argent, dinero , he had seen it, piles and piles of it, dollars and francs. And bags of white powder. Drugs. Without a doubt. Too dangerous, shit! He had thrown the drugs away, he had found a hole in the ground, under a half-uprooted tree, and stuffed it in underneath, covering it up again as best he could. He had to slip away as quick as he could, cross the border again, there might be more of those demons around the place, who could tell. Who were Kociss and Mr Rock-Hard? Why had he been on the same ship coming back from Yugoslavia? What did Cary Grant have to do with it? Who the fuck were those people who had tried to kidnap him on the little island? Was there a connection? He couldn’t understand any of it. That’s the second shooting you’ve been involved in in less than three months. Both times partisans saved your arse. But you’ve got the money, Pierre. If you make it out of this forest alive and you manage to take a train or a coach, get back to Genoa, then stay in hiding for a while and take a ship to. To where? Ask Paolino, the longshoreman. And what will Paolino say when he sees me turning up without Ettore? I’ve got to tell him that. No, fuck, I won’t tell him anything! Just that I want to leave as soon as possible. And the lorry? He had driven the lorry two or three hundred metres back and left it in the depths of the forest. Do I have to tell Palmo that I’ve left the truck there? What am I talking about, have I vomited up my brain as well? Christ alive, the French cops will find the lorry after they’ve found all the bodies and scoured the area. And I’ll never see Palmo again. I’ll never go back to Bologna. Nicola. never see him again. The bar. The musketeers. Professor Fanti. Aunt Iolanda. Angela. I’ll never see her again. My father.

I’ll never see anyone again.

I’m a man on the run.

But I’ve got the money, and a ship to catch.

I’ll take whatever ship Paolino can find me a place on, then contact my dad and tell him to come as well.

A man on the run.

Pierre stopped to throw up. He swore he would never vomit again as long as he lived.

He couldn’t see a fucking thing. When was the sun going to come out?

Ten-hour train journey.

Genoa.

Paolino asked no questions. He put me up in the house of a friend of his and Ettore’s. Maybe he guessed something was up, maybe he knows.

The radio delivered the first confused news of a bloodbath just across the border.

There’s a ship bound for Mexico, it sails the day after tomorrow.

Money opens all doors, portholes, valves. Money can buy you the nutshell on which to plant a paper sail, a toothpick as a mast, go on, towards the Southern Cross.

Mexico. Veracruz.

On a crumpled scrap of paper I have the address of a comrade who’s in Mexico City. He fought in the Spanish Civil War. Who knows, he might even know someone in the bar.

You see, Angela, you see that I’m managing to leave as well?

You’re going to the cold, I’m going to the heat.