It was all very simple, he thought, enjoying the sweep of ocean below him, the exhilarating pulse of rushing into the breach, of once more saying “What the hell?”
A man cannot escape his past.
The best he can hope for is to outrun it for a while.
Chapter 59
Simon turned the corner onto a narrow street and pulled the car to the curb. Drawing a breath, he stared at the row of three-story villas, all of them painted a curdled shade of yellow, all of them in the same miserable condition. A satellite dish was mounted on every roof. Wires ran here and there, telephone wires, electricity wires, who knew what all. Refuse littered the gutter, mostly spent cans of beer, crushed packets of cigarettes, candy wrappers. It was the laziness that had always angered him most, the communal lassitude, as if no one cared about their own neighborhood’s general state of decrepitude. Not once had he ever seen someone stoop to pick up a piece of trash, himself included.
His eyes landed on a villa halfway down the street. To look at, it was no different from the other buildings around it. All the same, he wished that the door had a fresh coat of paint and that the second-floor window was not cracked and that bedding was not hung out to dry from the floor above it.
He wasn’t sure why a sense of responsibility clung to him after so long. His mother had died years ago. He’d lost track of his stepbrothers before that. His memories of the place were uniformly bleak. Maybe people were indebted to those who’d done them harm, as well as good.
Just then, the door to the villa opened and a woman, perhaps thirty, stepped out. She was petite and bent at the waist, dressed in the fashion of the Maghreb: headscarf, billowing dress, sandals. Three children followed in short order, none older than five or six. The family walked in his direction, the woman staring openly at Simon and the fancy sports car, as out of place here as a cow on Mars.
Simon started the car and drove away, past his old home. In his mind, he was processing the documents Nikki had sent him from the police archives. He’d known all along that Coluzzi was the informant. Still, there was knowing and there was knowing. Seeing Tino Coluzzi’s name typed on the official police forms had taken him back to the day in prison when he’d spurned Il Padrone’s offer of a safe cell in favor of solitary confinement and the dark, savory opportunity to gain revenge himself.
Memories of those days overtook him. A reckless spirit seized him. He punched the accelerator and raced down the hill, propelled by the untamed, violent zest of his youth. It came to him that he’d felt this way before, here on these same streets. Then, as now, he was on his way to doing something improper, something to benefit himself at the expense of others, something that might hurt others.
It was September and the sirocco was blowing.
It was the day he was going to rob an armored car with Tino Coluzzi.
The door to Le Nightclub was locked. Simon banged his fist several times against it. Finally he heard the lock turn and a man ask in a raspy, choked voice, “Who the hell’s there?”
“An old friend,” said Simon.
The door opened. Jojo Matta, dark as a chestnut, a little less hair, and a lot more wrinkles, looked at him. “Yeah?”
Simon stared back, saying nothing. Then a light came on in Jojo’s eyes and he rushed to slam the door. Simon stopped it with his foot and threw his shoulder against it, sending Jojo toppling onto the floor. “Hello, Jojo.”
“You’re dead.”
Simon closed the door and locked it. “Who told you that?”
“You ratted out our crew. Tino took care of you back in prison.”
“He told you that?”
“Not just him. Everyone in the yard saw you.”
“Yeah, well, guess he messed up.”
Simon put out a hand and hauled Jojo to his feet. Simon told him to turn around, and when he did, Simon frisked him, finding a Walther nine millimeter in his ankle holster. “Mind if I hold this while we talk?”
“Be my guest.”
“Let’s have a seat.”
Jojo led the way into the main lounge. Simon walked behind the bar and turned on the music. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d tended bar in the place and, when necessary, kept the peace. “I see things haven’t changed much.”
“Customers don’t come here for the décor.”
“That’s for damned sure.” Simon made himself an espresso. “What happened to your hand?”
Jojo held up his bandaged mitt. “This? Cooking injury. Knife slipped.”
“You? You’re a pro. Must have been some knife.”
