“It’s no problem if nothing happens to him.”
“If nothing happens to him. You want that?” But before Blume could reply, he continued. “You don’t want it. You just gave us five minutes’ warning. If something bad happens to him, it’s because you wanted it that way. You’re setting him up.”
Blume pulled out his phone, hit redial, got Principe. “Go for it. Get as many units to that address as you can. Do it now.”
Innocenzi watched him. “It will still take about fifteen minutes before the first local cop gets there. It is now five past two. Want another coffee? Something stronger? We’ve got a few minutes to sit here serenely together, see how things pan out.”
“With me playing alibi to you,” said Blume.
“I don’t need alibis, Alec.” He raised a finger, the waiter appeared. “A Crodino for myself and…”
Blume said nothing.
“… the same for my friend.”
The waiter returned and Innocenzi watched as he poured the fizzing orange drink from the dinky bottles into two small glasses. Then he said, “Do you remember Gargaruti, your landlord? The one you had after your parents died?”
Blume knocked back his Crodino in a single gulp, pouring half of it down his air passage.
Innocenzi leaned over and gave him a thump between the shoulder blades. “I see you do. Now I’m not going to pretend I know all the details. Let me give it to you as I got it at the time. Gargaruti owned at least twenty apartments, which brought him to people’s attention. Twenty apartments and you become visible. If you don’t want to get shot at, you need to declare yourself, strike a deal. Right?”
“I suppose,” said Blume, his eyes still watering. He suddenly felt as lost in the world as when he was seventeen.
“Also, Gargaruti was already paying a pizzo on his rosticceria, or so they say. I wouldn’t know. So he was known. He needed persuasion to generosity. One of those guys who must’ve been worth millions but preferred to spend the whole day in a dirty apron sticking spikes up the asses of chickens and serving fried potatoes with rosemary. In his spare time, he spent the evening screwing rent from his tenants. You want to hear the story?”
Blume did. He had to.
“One day a request came through to me to have someone lean a little on Gargaruti, just to give a poor American kid a break. The reason I came to hear about it in person is that the request came from the cops. We have a sensible rule that says no one except me is allowed to do deals with the authorities. All contacts with the police had to go through me, and still do. I always have to meet the policeman in person. Just to keep things honest. So I talked to this cop and his partner, who was a woman, which is something I don’t approve of, but they were both good people, and they told me the story about an American kid, lost his parents in a bank raid. It seemed like a good thing to do, and it was fun to get at Gargaruti that way, and so this kid’s rent just suddenly and magically went away, and we were all happy to feel a bit like heroes. You’d think this American kid would have wondered about it. But he didn’t. Instead, he went to college, and then-guess what-joined the Polizia di Stato, bought the apartment at a knock-down price, not asking too many questions why, and became the purest policeman in the entire world. His career isn’t up to much, but he’s totally uncompromised. I like to think I contributed to that story of success.”
Blume gripped the table hard, anchoring himself in the present. He was thirty-eight years old, no longer a lost child. His feet were flat on the floor, and his body had weight and substance. He would not allow Innocenzi to be the one to guide him back.
“You think I’m polluting your memories?” asked Innocenzi. “I helped you, my friend.”
“You’re not a friend,” said Blume.
Innocenzi fingered the crucifix under his silk shirt. “That’s up to you.” He made as if to get up.
“You are not a friend,” repeated Blume, gathering his thoughts. “So I want to know why you decided to help me.”
“An exchange of favors. It happens all the time. I think it may have just happened now between us.”
“The two police officers weren’t senior enough for you to do them a favor.”
“I make no distinction in rank. One of them’s pretty senior now, so maybe I saw in advance…”
“No. That’s not it. Who killed my parents, Innocenzi?”
Innocenzi put the palm of his hand against the side of his face and pushed the loose skin folds below his jowls, causing the skin of his face to crumple. “It was not my doing.”
“If you remember the name of my landlord after all these years, you can remember the murders in the bank, and you know who did it, and why.”
“Maybe someone has already told you who did it,” said Innocenzi.
“The grave number of the killer that got sent to me? That was you?”
Innocenzi nodded.
“Was that another favor?”
“Yes. That was a favor. But it came with no strings attached.”
“Who were those two in the bank that day?”
“They were nobodies. The robbery-it wasn’t even for the money. It was an invasion of my turf, a challenge to my authority. A sfregio from my rivals. It led to… some terrible things. Pointless cruelty, and it helped the Albanians get a foothold. When two fight over a bone, the third gets the meat.”
“You knew who killed my parents.”
“The killer was my enemy, too. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Had you anything to do with the death of Pietro Scognamiglio?”
“Was that his name? I’d forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“No, you never forget a thing like that.”
“Did you have him killed?”
“If I did, would I say so? Maybe in this context, speaking to you as a son, not as a cop, I would. But no, it wasn’t me. We couldn’t touch him-part of a truce agreement we reached after a few months. I think his own side got rid of him eventually. Not my concern. When I heard, I thought you’d be interested.”
“You think I should be grateful for this? You think I don’t blame you? They were killed because of you, because of the division of Rome into fiefdoms. Because of you and your drugs and racketeering and protection and gambling and prostitution and extortion and theft and your exploitation of the weak and your miserable fucking low- life turf wars.”
Innocenzi stretched his arm across the table and tapped his index finger against the side of Blume’s nose. Blume made to grab his finger, but Innocenzi pulled it away. The rectangle of light at the front of the bar dimmed slightly as Innocenzi’s two minders, smelling tension, filled the entrance.
“No, don’t touch. That would be a really bad thing for you to do, Alec.”
Blume leaned back, and tried to control the pounding anger in his head.
“Listen to me, Alec. Rome has always been this way. Since the Middle Ages. Since before then. Since always. Who do you think the Colonna were? The Orsini, Farnese, Borghese, Chigi, Pamphili? All those big palazzos in the center, with their barred windows and thick walls, what are they there for? Each family controlled an area, and they fought and killed each other, and so it goes on. And now you, a half foreigner, think you can come here and tell me about how this ancient city, the greatest on earth, caput mundi, should be run. Fuck off back to where you belong, and get some perspective.”
“So my parents just got caught up in the historical cross-fire. That’s it?”
“That’s it. Like they were in Lebanon or somewhere. I tried to make it up to you, and now I think we’re about even.”
Innocenzi got up and left. Blume sat at the table rereading his past.
53
