Lucarelli just a little then called her and didn’t get through there either. It was a great day. Life would be so simple if he didn’t have to go around like this, with a bodyguard dogging his footsteps all the time. You couldn’t be the boss and expect not to have enemies. All the same, sometimes it made life hell.
Neri didn’t beat up anyone else after that. He just let them look at Bucci and ask themselves how it would feel. At lunchtime, when he’d had what was supposed to be his pleasure, he called in to see an old friend on the staff at the Vatican. They talked about a different side to Neri’s business: offshore funds and tax havens, covert bank transfers and double taxation schemes. Then they ate lunch in a small trattoria around the corner, one run by a man Neri had once employed, so he never ever paid the bill. The man from the Vatican skulked off back to work after a single plate of spaghetti carbonara, worrying he’d been seen. Neri hung on for some lamb with chicory and then zabaglione and still he couldn’t get Mickey and Adele out of his mind.
Then came the phone call about what was happening in the Questura. He tried to cast his mind back sixteen years. He made some notes on the little pad he kept inside his jacket pocket: names, events, people to call. Everything went into the book. He needed it all the time these days. His memory wasn’t what it was.
‘To hell with it,’ he grunted, staring at the empty plates in front of him. ‘It’s history. I am too old and too rich to let this shit get me down.’
When he came out into the side street close to the Piazza del Risorgimento Bruno Bucci was sitting on the wall next to the black Mercedes looking odd. Neri finally worked out what it was. There was emotion on his large, featureless face. He was pissed off.
Neri walked over and sat next to him on the brickwork. It was a nice day. Spring was working its way into the world. There was some blue sky, a touch of heat. Pretty girls walked by in dresses that had some colour. Some of them had long, brown legs. They got fake tans these days, he guessed, or maybe their boyfriends took them to the Caribbean for some sun and plenty of bedroom stuff. There’d been a time when Emilio Neri felt sufficiently free of the shackles of labour to do the same himself.
‘Car’s fucked,’ Bucci said. ‘Won’t start.’
Neri shook his head and stared at the big, black hunk of metal. ‘All that money. And what does it get you? Why do I bother with this?’
‘I phoned the garage. They said two hours. Tomorrow I’m going to go round. Explain a few things in person.’
Neri looked into Bucci’s brown eyes. Most of the time they appeared dead but that was just an act. Bucci was a smart guy. He didn’t miss a trick.
‘You do that,’ he said, patting one of his big knees. ‘Tell you what. Life’s too short for this crap. Take the afternoon off. We’re done. It’s spring. Go back and see that pimp. Tell him he should give you a little something extra, keep us sweet.’
Bucci twisted inside his tight grey suit. ‘That’s nice, boss. But I don’t need that kind of thing. Not now. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.’
Neri looked at him and thought again of Mickey. ‘You’re some guy, Bruno. I like the fact you’re working for me.’
‘Me too. Let me find a cab. I’ll bring it round here. Go back with you.’
‘No!’ Neri laughed. ‘I meant what I said. It’s spring. Wake up a little. Feel alive. I’m done chasing debts for the day. Bores me stupid sometimes. You go enjoy yourself. Take some chick out this evening. On me.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Bucci answered. His brown eyes were dead again. ‘But I’m not supposed to leave you on your own.’
Neri’s face fell into a scowl. ‘What’re you talking about? You make me sound like some old cripple or something? You think I can’t look after myself?’
Bucci was worried. ‘No, boss. It’s just … you always said …’
‘Fuck what I always said! I’m saying something different now. Who the hell’s gonna try something on me here anyway? Also, the way I intend to go home—’ Neri grinned. ‘A man’s gotta feel free sometimes, Bruno. You understand that?’
‘How’re you getting home?’
‘A unique form of transport. I’m going to catch a bus from round that corner. I want to look in the eyes of a few strangers, try to see what makes them tick. Haven’t done that in years. It’s a mistake. You get isolated. You forget how to read people.’
‘A bus?’ Bucci repeated.
‘Yeah. Why not?’
Neri hesitated. He hated throwing his personal problems onto other people. ‘You mind if I ask you something?’
‘No.’
‘That stupid kid of mine, Mickey. And Adele. What do you think I should do about them, huh? They’re driving me crazy.’
Bruno Bucci shuffled uncomfortably on the wall. Neri watched him, wondering at the discomfort a few simple words could cause, not quite sure he could believe the slight flush that was creeping up the cheeks of the man from Turin.
‘Cat got your tongue? Did I ask the wrong question or something?’
‘I’d like to help, boss,’ Bucci said eventually. ‘You know that. If there’s ever anything I can do … you’ve just got to ask.’
‘That you can do!’ Neri laughed, still struggling to work out Bucci’s reaction. ‘What are you talking about, Bruno? I was asking your opinion. This is my problem. A son I love. A wife I love. And the two of them can’t stand the sight of each other. You think I’m going to ask you to fix it. Jesus—’
‘I don’t have an opinion.’
He slapped Bucci’s shoulder. ‘Yeah. Right. You northern guys. You think you’ve got the answers to everything. Just don’t want to say it, that’s all.’
‘Got me there,’ Bruno Bucci replied, brown eyes staring into Neri’s face with no visible emotion in them at all.
‘Here.’ Neri flashed him some big notes. ‘You’re right. It’s my business. I never should have put you in that position. You go have fun. Whatever. I don’t care. “You’ve just got to ask …” You guys kill me sometimes.’
Bruno Bucci pushed himself up and came off the wall, counting the notes.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
Neri watched his broad back disappear down the street. ‘Humility,’ he said to himself. ‘That is what the world is lacking today.’
Then he walked round the corner into the square, wondering how long it was since he sat on a bus, trying to remember what it felt like to be young, trying to separate several conflicting strands of thought in his head.
The benign mood didn’t last. There was a queue. There were foreigners, pushing and shoving and asking stupid questions. It took ten minutes for him to work his way inside the doors. By the time Emilio Neri was on the 64 his mind was back where he had left it an hour before, stuck inside a foul mood, thinking about his stupid family.
There
