Read Online Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) by Pete Pescatore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pete Pescatore
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said it was suicide. If it comes back official, the cops drop the case and your friend's six feet under.” Johnny coughed again.
“So, what, you killing the story?”
“Hell no, Pete. It’s just—we need a good angle and we don’t have much time.” He broke for another cough and came back with instructions. “If I’m right, you need to go to the funeral. See who shows up.”
“Right. Hang on. Stoplights.” I slowed to a stop at the lights and sat staring out at the lake. Choppy. A wind in from the east. The lights changed and I picked up the phone again as the Hotel Royale flowed by on the left. “Hey, Johnny? You got the Shark back, right?”
“Yeah, but what’s with the bolshie? She’s been spitting fire all morning.”
“How should I know?” I thought about it. “Maybe she woke up in the wrong bed.”
I hung up and swung around the corner and up into the parking garage, let the Merc roll down the spiral ramp and wheeled around into an empty slot. Then I popped the trunk, pocketed the keys and climbed the stairs back up to the world.
Twenty minutes later I walked in the door of the public library. Stairs took me up to a cool, well-lit room where they kept old copies of the local papers.
“They will all be on the internet soon,” said a woman at the counter. White hair, blue-gray suit, a stone dragon crumbling into dust. “In a year or two we will close.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “And what will you do with all this?” I swept an arm around the room, taking in her universe and everything in it.
A hand flew up to her lips. “Shshshsh!” In a whisper she added, “How may I help you?”
I leaned toward her and whispered back, “I’m a gourmet chef and I need to go through the Corriere , the local food section. I’m told there are wonderful local recipes that make good use of sbrinz. ”
The librarian nodded, warily.
“Risotto, for instance,“ I said, pushing on. “Quiche, cheeseburgers, that sort of thing. Is there an index? Otherwise, you know, it takes forever to find what you need.”
The woman looked over her spectacles at me. I could hear her bullshit radar beeping and saw the little blue lights flashing in her eyes. “Follow me.”
She pressed her lips into a thin smile, turned and walked off. I trailed her over brown linoleum into a room filled with gray metal filing cabinets and two or three tables with microfilm readers. They had the Corriere del Ticino going all the way back to the nineteen forties. Far enough, I figured.
I worked through the index until I found the name of the company Gigi rode to an IPO. I wrote down the reference and spooled through the films. There—a photograph. Gigi in the middle, Billy Bob on his left, Tommy O’Sullivan on his right. With them stood the kid who had founded the company, bald and happy. They were standing outside the NASDAQ exchange. Tommy had a bottle of champagne in his fist and was grinning like an idiot, drunk with riches. And there, just behind Gigi and the kid, stood a man who looked like Dr. Zhivago. Silver hair greased and plastered back from his forehead, dark glasses, square jaw.
It was him, and I knew him. He was one of Gigi’s big-shot investors and had come to a meeting at the Villa Sofia. We’d poured millions into high-flying start-ups, and it was my job to serve up the party line. Zhivago asked what each one was worth and what I thought their chances were, so I said we had a few nags on the track, but the others were true blue thoroughbreds, bound for glory, every one .
He looked right through me. I wasn’t lying, not exactly, but Zhivago was a gambler and he knew the odds. He just smiled and turned away. It was the smile that got to me. There was no trace of warmth or amusement, just a row of bad teeth and a flash of gold.
I surfaced from the past and spent another hour with the microfilm. I found a clip I hadn’t seen, a puff piece on the start-ups in Gigi’s portfolio. And Gigi himself. Lugano’s leading
“So, what, you killing the story?”
“Hell no, Pete. It’s just—we need a good angle and we don’t have much time.” He broke for another cough and came back with instructions. “If I’m right, you need to go to the funeral. See who shows up.”
“Right. Hang on. Stoplights.” I slowed to a stop at the lights and sat staring out at the lake. Choppy. A wind in from the east. The lights changed and I picked up the phone again as the Hotel Royale flowed by on the left. “Hey, Johnny? You got the Shark back, right?”
“Yeah, but what’s with the bolshie? She’s been spitting fire all morning.”
“How should I know?” I thought about it. “Maybe she woke up in the wrong bed.”
I hung up and swung around the corner and up into the parking garage, let the Merc roll down the spiral ramp and wheeled around into an empty slot. Then I popped the trunk, pocketed the keys and climbed the stairs back up to the world.
Twenty minutes later I walked in the door of the public library. Stairs took me up to a cool, well-lit room where they kept old copies of the local papers.
“They will all be on the internet soon,” said a woman at the counter. White hair, blue-gray suit, a stone dragon crumbling into dust. “In a year or two we will close.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “And what will you do with all this?” I swept an arm around the room, taking in her universe and everything in it.
A hand flew up to her lips. “Shshshsh!” In a whisper she added, “How may I help you?”
I leaned toward her and whispered back, “I’m a gourmet chef and I need to go through the Corriere , the local food section. I’m told there are wonderful local recipes that make good use of sbrinz. ”
The librarian nodded, warily.
“Risotto, for instance,“ I said, pushing on. “Quiche, cheeseburgers, that sort of thing. Is there an index? Otherwise, you know, it takes forever to find what you need.”
The woman looked over her spectacles at me. I could hear her bullshit radar beeping and saw the little blue lights flashing in her eyes. “Follow me.”
She pressed her lips into a thin smile, turned and walked off. I trailed her over brown linoleum into a room filled with gray metal filing cabinets and two or three tables with microfilm readers. They had the Corriere del Ticino going all the way back to the nineteen forties. Far enough, I figured.
I worked through the index until I found the name of the company Gigi rode to an IPO. I wrote down the reference and spooled through the films. There—a photograph. Gigi in the middle, Billy Bob on his left, Tommy O’Sullivan on his right. With them stood the kid who had founded the company, bald and happy. They were standing outside the NASDAQ exchange. Tommy had a bottle of champagne in his fist and was grinning like an idiot, drunk with riches. And there, just behind Gigi and the kid, stood a man who looked like Dr. Zhivago. Silver hair greased and plastered back from his forehead, dark glasses, square jaw.
It was him, and I knew him. He was one of Gigi’s big-shot investors and had come to a meeting at the Villa Sofia. We’d poured millions into high-flying start-ups, and it was my job to serve up the party line. Zhivago asked what each one was worth and what I thought their chances were, so I said we had a few nags on the track, but the others were true blue thoroughbreds, bound for glory, every one .
He looked right through me. I wasn’t lying, not exactly, but Zhivago was a gambler and he knew the odds. He just smiled and turned away. It was the smile that got to me. There was no trace of warmth or amusement, just a row of bad teeth and a flash of gold.
I surfaced from the past and spent another hour with the microfilm. I found a clip I hadn’t seen, a puff piece on the start-ups in Gigi’s portfolio. And Gigi himself. Lugano’s leading
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