Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 15

Rome, central Italy Vatican Square

The sinfulness that lurks in the darkness of Vatican City wanes with the breaking of dawn. Early light interrupts evil’s nocturnal reign. Daybreak brings respite and a semblance of respectability. It is easier for the vile and the criminal to intermingle with the morning crowd. It is curious but true: drama and death fade and become better disguised, indeed less important, in a setting clearly bursting with wondrous art and architecture. Today, on the Holy See’s birthday, the daytime sacrifice of eight souls will hardly raise a fuss.

St. Peter’s Basilica, an extraordinary and charismatic place, is part of the world’s eternal landmarks. Pilgrims, architects, scholars, students

and untold numbers of sightseers have visited this world’s smallest, independent nation. St. Peter’s Square, the architectural symbolic key of Roman Catholicism, is the cradle of justice.

At the center of the keyhole of Piazza San Pietro stands an Egyptian obelisk. The Emperor Caligula transported the spear-shaped, pink granite block to Rome. The obelisk symbolizes life’s flow between Heaven and Earth. This morning the devil incarnate, an assassin with a past military career, lounges at its base.

He is the professore’s top advisor and hit man. He wears black loafers, low-hung navy blue trousers and a cream-colored polyester windbreaker with a trivial embroidered, stylized letter E, for Emilio, on its lower lapel. His tutor, the professore, gifted the jacket in gratitude for a past killing. A collared and buttoned, pale yellow polo shirt bulges at his belly. These work clothes replace Emilio’s usual relaxed attire. Habitually, Emilio favors a low cut, sleeveless white undershirt (which townsfolk commonly refer to as a “wife-beater”), baggy shorts, socks and sandals. His jacket hangs unevenly, deranged by the innermost pocket weight of a gun and its silencer.

Emilio stands as motionless as a Bernini sculpture. Sacrilegiously, he sips a shot of espresso from a Styrofoam cup without his customary added grappa to ‘correct’ it. An Azzuri Italy flex-fit cap, bathed in golden sunlight, shadows his craggy face. His fiery eyes scan the symmetry of the Tuscan colonnades that enfold the piazza. Satanic Emilio is on the lookout for his first consignment of unsuspecting marks.

For days, the media has publicized today’s celebration of the Pope’s birthday. La Repubblica newspaper predicted that throngs of up to a hundred thousand Christians would fill the piazza for the afternoon of colorful and pompous celebrations. The midafternoon festivities will supply the ideal conditions for slaying a collaborator but now corrupt cardinal. It will be just dessert after this morning’s exterminations of members of Calabria’s Corrado Lupo crime family.

At first, the remarkable statues atop of the St. Peter’s Basilica outnumber the visitors outside of Michelangelo’s dome. As quickly as the morning light burns the faint fog, Christians, Jews, and followers of other faiths stream into the square of the world’s most recognizable church. Some of them, to start their merry-go-round, head for the souvenir shops on the south-west side.

The growing crowd marvels at the elliptical designs, the formidable buildings, colonnades and statues. It is indeed a breathless, panoramic site with sufficient distraction for the soon to unfold despicable deeds.

If anyone even noticed Emilio, it is that he blocks a photographic moment of the Egyptian obelisk. As if by courtesy, he moves and crosses the cobblestones and travertine blocks toward the eastern fountain. He detests embellished stone and misses the honey scent of saffron. He likes the smell of a wooded field, preferring manure to the aroma of cooked cobblestones covered with pious overtones and roasting human perspiration.

Pleased, Emilio spots his prey. They flank a

massive colonnade. Two ‘respected’ brothers, their useless, pretty wives, a baby and two brats licking cones of gelato. They are the sons of don Corrado: two obedient Mafia soldiers.

The Calabria families are on time. The professore understood his rivals well. His source of intelligence was accurate. He detests the Corrado Lupo brotherhood. Sending Emilio to deal with his nemesis would send a clear and powerful message—‘Do not fuck with me and keep away from the Vatican.’ Emilio is well prepared with details, what-

ifs, and wherefores and feels as if he knows his targets personally. It is like playing a game with manufactured toys.

The brothers engage inaheated, entertaining dispute about calcio (soccer). One, slim and handsome, wears aviator shades, white and gray- checkered shorts topped by a gray tee shirt and a white cardigan, sleeves drawn up his forearms. The other, a much younger replica, sports a yellow tee shirt underneath a solid blue unbuttoned shirt with sleeves ruffled and rolled up. His shorts are a solid pink adding rather than mocking his masculinity. Both wear two-toned running shoes. They are flamboyant. They are obsessed. From argument to laughter to gestures of disbelief, they are on a verbal rollercoaster. Emilio despises their indulgence in their wardrobes.

Aloud to himself, Emilio sneers, “What blowfish. These Casanovas are an arrogant mother’s charms.”

Emilio smirks at their exaggerated pretensions. He shakes his head saying aloud, “Darsi

delle arie (showing off) is going to get you killed.” He accentuates his point by spitting on the pavement.

The brothers’ wives proclaim fashion. These selfish chattels are dressed well, comfortably and colorfully. The spoils of prostitution, gambling, and the drug trade are wasted on these women.

The older woman has long brown hair parted in the middle that drapes inches past her shoulders. Her dress is a shapeless one-piece sleeveless crimson-colored fabric that ends at mid- thigh. Her shapely legs and calves, enhanced by solid black high-heeled shoes, amuse the imagination. Her brown leather shoulder bag is large enough to accommodate all the necessary toiletries for her toddler who is outfitted in a red and white jump suit with “Italia” stenciled on his chest. The younger woman appears juvenile. Her bottled blonde curly hair is beyond her waist. Her white sheer blouse, immodestly covering a light-blue bra, is connected to her milky, blue patterned, tight-fitting miniskirt. The orange color of her sky-high stilettos blends poetically with her tanned long legs. Her white purse is as minuscule as her remaining time on Earth.

The two young daughters are obviously twins. Both have very short brown hair and are dressed in white shorts. One youngster wears a rose-colored chemise with pink-flowered matching flats. The other presents the mirror image in green. All of the females wear little make-up. This will facilitate the embalmer’s handiwork.

Emilio moves within steps of the family. His presence escapes the haute couture state of mind of the clan.

The youngest complains of fatigue. The taller sister obsesses and placates her shorter sister with exaggerated care.

The professore did not outline the method. He simply instructed Emilio to execute the madness and Emilio is a creative master at killing. Emilio’s skill of stalking and execution equals Michelangelo’s artistic genius. Emilio could improvise when needed and be brutally resourceful when least expected.

The families enter a narrow hallway, meters south of the Swiss Guard gate, and disperse into the public washrooms.

Emilio seizes the opportunity. Reaching into an outer pocket, he follows behind them and places a polizia (police) “do not cross” plastic red- and-white tape across the entry portico behind him. He chuckles aloud. The tape has almost become his trademark amongst Italian homicide investigators. Rather than read ‘azione di polizia’ (police action), the cordon reads, ‘ammazzare di polizia’ (police killing time).

In the distance, a woman, flanked by her kids, shouts at her man, “Renzo, where are you going?”

Renzo runs up to the barrier lightly bumping into Emilio. He is starting to show panic as he looks about for an alternative restroom.

Emilio says knowingly, “Gabinetto?”

“Sì”(Yes).

“Là, over there,” Emilio is pointing at a Caffè

in the distance, beyond the opening of the square.

Renzo nods. He races across the square. Emilio chants encouragement, “Forza Andrea Pirlo,” seeing in Renzo’s vigor a resemblance to one of

Italy’s greatest soccer players. However, the woman looks livid.

Emilio, surprisingly light on his feet, dances a few tarantella dance steps, resembling more of a Parkinson’s disease shuffle. He follows Renzo.