Читать книгу Death Brings Gold - Nicola Rocca - Страница 10

CHAPTER 3

The man saw the girl with the apron approaching. He stood and stared at her, while he was enjoying the alcohol flowing in every nook and cranny of his brain.

“Your whisky, sir,” said the waitress, placing the glass on the small table.

Raffaele Ghezzi thanked her with the wave of a hand, but didn’t bother to waste a single word. He sat and looked at the blonde’s curvy body leaving with an empty tray in her hand.

Then, with his gaze still fixed on her round butt, he grasped with ostentatious confidence the half-empty glass and gulped down its content.

He gritted his teeth and grimaced instinctively for the burning sensation of the liquor in his throat.

He wiped his mouth with his hand. He grasped the glass that had just been delivered to him and toyed with it, spinning it slowly. He liked the clinking sound of the ice cubes against the glass. It had been a while since he had allowed himself a heavy drinking session like this one.

These recent months had been difficult ones; during which he had had to be financially responsible for the running of a house, while supporting both himself and a wife he no longer got along with. A wife that no longer loved him. And a wife who was cheating on him with another man.

His reason for hiring that Formenti guy, a private investigator specialising in marital infidelity cases was a gnawing suspicion that he had for some time. And the bill he’d had to pay – in instalments – was filed under unforeseen expenses. Another heading of the family budget, he thought, noticing the irony of it.

In the end it had been worth it-because exactly one week earlier -Formenti had brandished – right in his face - pictures of his wife with a mystery man. In the car, exchanging displays of affection-canoodling disgustingly like teenagers- in a park and even at both the entrance and exit of a motel parking lot.

That was the reason why, after a long time, Raffaele was indulging in one of those hangovers that would go down in the annals of betrayed men seeking revenge.

For some time Martina, the bitch, had been asking for a separation and was exploiting any little thing she could to blame him for their crisis.

Him! –When the only thing he did was work hard to earn their daily bread.

And now, with this compelling evidence obtained by Formenti, he could with certainty separate from that slut, and without owing her any kind of financial support. So long as the Italian justice system didn’t pull any fast ones, because – as it is widely known –in the case of a failed marriage, men are always the ones who pay. That was the question. Any run of the mill Martina type can come along, screw around on her husband and then ask for a separation, settlement and alimony.

Yes, that’s how it goes in the vast majority of cases, Raffaele said to himself, savouring the intense taste of his whisky.

But he was smarter than other men. He wasn’t going to be fooled. He had proof. He was going to nail the bitch.

He had already given her a taste of his forthcoming triumph. A few days before Formenti had given him the pictures, he had promised her that he was going to catch her dicking around. Yes, yes, that’s exactly what he said to her “dicking around”. How he’d enjoyed saying that!

Martina hadn’t believed him. She’d scoffed at him and gone on her way.

“The way of the whores,” said Raffaele, in a whisper, despite himself.

Then, with his head spinning, he observed the space around him. The pub was semi-deserted, there were only three other people there. At a table to his right, there was a couple of sweethearts; while at the bar, perched on one of the fake-leather stools, there was a guy - he must have been about the same age as Raffaele - getting plastered all by himself.

Ghezzi wondered if he too had something to celebrate. He took a sip of whisky and thought about that for a moment, while savouring the strong taste of the alcohol.

At the exact moment he swallowed, the answer came to him unexpectedly. Perhaps the man was getting drunk to celebrate some success of his own, though it could never compare to his success, he thought. No, because he was Raffaele Ghezzi, the smartest of the smart, the one who had not allowed himself to be fooled by a wife who fucked around on him. He had caught her dicking around and couldn’t wait to nail her for it.

He smiled, grabbed the glass and, in one gulp, he finished the last of the whisky.

He was so drunk that even walking was a struggle.

He told himself that taking his car to the mechanic had been a great idea. If he’d had to drive in that state, he would have crashed into the first wall available.

“Into the first wall,” he mumbled, sniggering.

He was even having trouble seeing the footpath now. Thank god his house was close by. He decided to walk close to the wall of the block of flats, to avoid losing his sense of direction and his balance. And who cared if he scratched his jacket a bit, he said to himself. With the good fortune that would come with being rid of an unfaithful wife – with the money he would save from the financial support that he would never give her – he could even afford to buy himself a new one. Perhaps even a jacket by one of those famous Italian fashion designers that he liked so much.

He felt his eyes growing heavy and exhaustion was getting the better of his body. And the alcohol had already got the better of his mind.

When he realised that he was only a few metres away from home, he felt revived. He could already feel the mattress under his back. He wasn’t even going to undress. The most he was going to take off – and only if he felt like it-would be his shoes. Not because of the bender, but to spite that Martina bitch. Her-who every time, even before coming in, would obligate him to remove his shoes, put his slippers on and sometimes even those disposable guest slippers, like a hotel guest. And god help him if he’d even think of sitting on the bed with his clothes on.

“The bed is made for sleeping.” He could still hear that snake like voice. “You should only go to bed in your pyjamas”.

Go fuck yourself, bitch! He thought. Yes, he was going to sleep with his clothes on. And with his shoes.

When he was a few steps away from his front gate, he took his mobile phone from his pocket. He wrote a text message to a work colleague and sent it. He then pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. It took him a minute to find the right one, and another minute to insert it in the keyhole and unlock it.

The gate opened with a terrible squealing noise that would make anyone’s skin crawl, but it had no effect on Raffaele Ghezzi. He felt good, invincible, happy. Like a drunk who - evidence at hand- is about to nail his cheating slut wife.

He reached the stairs and, grabbing the handrail, he realised that he had an amused smile fixed on his lips.

Maybe he had over indulged with the whisky, but it had been worth it. He spent a pleasant evening at the pub, in his own company, to enjoy his moment of triumph. And to make a toast to his new life that would begin as soon as he was out of that ball-breaking situation with Martina. Obviously the following day he was going to wake up with a massive headache, but that was the price you paid when you got smashed and were not in your twenties anymore.

He covered with difficulty the first two flights of stairs. He faced the next ones with more confidence and the last two with a shortness of breath that was worse than he would have liked it to be.

When he found himself at his landing, he rummaged in the front pocket of his trousers looking for his bunch of keys. He pulled them out and moved closer to his front door. In the exact moment in which he inserted the key in the hole, he noticed that it was already open.

He knew he was totally wasted but he had locked that fucking door before he went to work.

Who knows? It’s also likely that he had forgotten to do it. It can happen, he said to himself.

He smiled again and pushed the door knocker of the house. Of his house.

He left the door open, allowing the light from outside to illuminate the hall of his flat, so he could find the lamp that sat on the small writing desk. An opaque, almost timid light lit up that corner of the living room.

Raffaele closed the door behind him and locked it with two turns. He took a deep breath. Finally at home.

He caught a glimpse of something in the semi-darkness of the living room area, which made him jump, and hit the wall behind him. Suddenly his hangover seemed to have disappeared. It happened in a fraction of a second and now he felt as if he hadn’t drunk any whiskey at all.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Ghezzi,” said the dark figure sitting in the armchair.

Raffaele felt like he was going to faint, his legs were shaking. He tried to overcome his terror.

“Who are you?”

He realised he’d used an “I’m-crapping-my-pants” tone of voice. Whoever that person sitting in his armchair was, he could read on Ghezzi’s face all the fear that a man can feel in that situation.

The silhouette moved, causing a light swish. The voice seemed to reach out from the darkness.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that I’m back”.

Raffaele didn’t know why that person was there, sitting in an armchair in his house. But one thing was clear. Certainly this person didn’t have good intentions. And had come for him.