subterranean quarries which underlay the city.
And Zen was not entirely surprised to discover, when he finally made contact with Pasquale outside the station in Piazza Cavour, that the news that John Viviani 'isn't missing any more' also contained an element of euphemism.
'I got the call when I was on my way in from the airport with a couple of tourists/ Pasquale told him. 'Normally I'd have given them the scenic route via Pozzuoli plus the statutory one hundred per cent surcharge, excess baggage fees, motorway tolls with handling charges and twenty per cent tip, all rounded up to the nearest hundred thou.
But seeing as it was you, duttb, I let them off lightly.'
'Remind me to reimburse you, Pasquale. At the rate things are going, I may need to use that line of credit you mentioned after all.'
Pasquale gestured casually to show that it was unnecessary if not slightly vulgar even to mention such matters.
'I'm sure it was him,' Fortunato told me. 'I remember the face. And he was definitely a foreigner, didn't speak a word of Italian.' He'd got the poster from Decio at the rank in Piazza Dante, and the moment he saw it he recognized the fare he'd just dropped off in Via Tribunali. Of course there's no knowing where the guy is by now, but sooner or later he'll have to pick up another ride, and this time we'll be ready/ 'That's if he's still alive,' his passenger remarked morosely.
'Why wouldn't he be alive? Unless he drinks himself to death. Fortuna said he was pretty far gone even then/ 'Great. So he's drunk, lost, doesn't speak the language, and is probably waving a wad of banknotes around in one of the roughest parts of town. Plus there's a fairly good chance that the mob is after his blood/ Pasquale's eyes narrowed in the rear-view mirror.
'Wait a minute, dutto, I thought this job was strictly private enterprise. If there's a corporate interest in this guy, then I don't want any part of it/ 'I'm not sure there is. But I just found out that a certain item of merchandise for which Viviani may have acted as courier has inadvertently been switched for another. As a result, it's just possible that the interested parties may believe — wrongly, as it happens — that Viviani double crossed them/ A complex counterpoint of electronic chirping filled the air. Both men reached for their mobile phones and started talking at once.
'Good evening, Don Orlando,' said Zen's caller.
'I'm afraid you have a wrong number/ 'No, no. I obtained it personally from Signora Squillace, with whom I believe you are staying. I also understand that you are currently using another name. I will of course respect your wishes in that regard/ The male voice was mature, urbane and intimate, that of an old friend or relative.
'Who is this?' Zen demanded.
'Under the circumstances, I would prefer not to identify myself on a channel of communication which is notoriously insecure. Let's just say that I have information regarding a matter of mutual interest, and wanted to establish contact. I'll call you with more details later tonight.'
I'm going to the opera/ Zen replied automatically.
'Really? I hear the production's a mess, but a couple of the voices are quite tolerable, particularly the bass. Buon divertimento/ 'I still think there's some mistake. My name is not…'
But the line was dead.
'Got him!' exclaimed Pasquale, starting the engine.
'Don Orlando?' murmured Zen.
Tmmacolata picked him up five minutes ago. It couldn't have worked out better. I told her to take him down east and keep him in a holding pattern until we get there. She's perfect for a job like this. If it was a man, he might try to cut up rough, but 'a signora Igginz? Never!'
They drove off along a wide boulevard, cutting and running through the traffic.
'Who?' Zen demanded distractedly. Not only was the plot slipping from his grasp, even the names of the cast appeared unfamiliar.
'That was her late husband's name/ Pasquale explained. 'A foreign soldier. She still uses the name to add a bit of chic, but no one teases her about it. You don't mess with Immacolata.'
They veered off to the right through the dismal back streets where Zen had recruited the two 'Albanians'.
Already fires were flickering at every corner and figures loomed out of the shadows as they approached. Pasquale picked up the phone and dialled.
'So how's the grand tour of Naples by night? Really?
Great. Just crossing Piazza Nazionale. How about you?
OK, let's rendezvous in Via Laura. You pull over, pretend the engine's playing up. I'll pull over and offer help to a fellow cabby, discover there's nothing to be done, then we transfer the guy to my car and take off. What? 'Mmacula mia, let's not talk about money! No, but… I've given you my word that… We're talking about.. / He switched off his phone with a sigh.
'Women! La Igginz may have more balls than most men I know, but when all's said and done even she owes allegiance to San Gennaro/ 'How's that?' Zen murmured abstractedly. A problem had just occurred to him which he should have foreseen long before, one which made a mockery of the whole enterprise.
'The blood, duttbV exclaimed Pasquale. 'Every time it liquifies, you're in trouble. And if it doesn't, then you're really screwed/ 'Pasca.'
'Dutto'.
'I don't speak English.'
'Me neither/ 'And despite his name, this American doesn't speak Italian/ 'My cousin's family in New York, the kids don't even speak dialect any more, never mind Italian.'
'So how are we going to communicate?'
Pasquale made an expansive gesture which necessitated taking both hands off the steering wheel.
'You never told me you wanted to talk to him!' he protested.
'Look out!'
Pasquale swerved violently to avoid two men in police uniform standing in the darkened street.
'Eh, eh, the old trick! They get you to stop, then mug you and take the car. But you won't catch Pasca that way, lads!'
'Good work, Pasquale. Those caps are no longer standard issue. Also they were using an unmarked car, which uniformed officers never do/ 'I didn't notice that/ Pasquale admitted. 'But this street is a dead-end loop. The only thing that ever comes along here is courting couples and garbage trucks on their way back to the depot. That's why I chose it for the hand-over.
It's nice and private, and if the American tries to make a run for it, there's nowhere for him to go. And if you need to work him over, I know just the place. You want to make him talk, right?'
Zen sighed.
'Yes, except that I won't be able to understand him.
This has all been a waste of time.'
'If you could waste time, duttb, life would be nothing but a rubbish dump/ Pasquale replied.
Zen gave a contemptuous snort.
'Isn't it?'
Pasquale jerked his thumb across the road at a group of low concrete buildings surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.
Orange garbage trucks stood parked outside in rows.
'You mean we're not waiting for the grim reaper but for those guys?'
He burst into laughter.
'In that case, we'd live for ever, duttbl But that's impossible.
Time's like wine and love. You can have it or lack it, lose it or abuse it, but you can't waste it/ 'Thanks for the words of wisdom/ retorted Zen. 'The fact remains that I still don't have an interpreter. Unless you're going to tell me that this precious Immacolata of yours is bilingual into the bargain.'
Once again leaving the taxi to look after itself, like a well-trained horse, Pasquale turned to his passenger with an expression of astonishment.
