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.
Chapter 9
Rome, central Italy Vatican Square
Killing always gives Emilio’s an appetite. Taste buds come alive as saliva bathes his tongue. His stomach is immune to being in a place that transcends time. It is almost noon and time for linguine pescatore in spicy tomato sauce escorted by Amarone red wine at his favorite eatery.
Emilio never understood the pretense of drinking white wine with fish. He regularly declares to his wife that white wine is for “women and faggots.”
On his last visit to Rome with the professore, they went to Il Vero Alfredo restaurant in Piazza Augusto Imperatore, across from their hotel. American actors Mary Pickford and Douglas
Fairbanks popularized the swanky trattoria’s signature dish, fettuccine with butter, worldwide. The professore had boasted that Italian celebrities such as Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren enjoyed this simplegastronomic creation. In addition, famous Americans such as Liz Taylor, John F. Kennedy, and Frank Sinatra enjoyed La Dolce Vita (the good life) at Alfredo’s.
Emilio had seen proof positive. Hundreds of framed photographs cover, like wallpaper, every inch of available space in the restaurant. He even saw a picture of the professore with Martin Scorsese, widely regarded as one of the greatest movie directors of all time. He remembered sitting at the bar and feeling out of place, like a black-and-white passport photo inside a colorful album of prima donnas, actors and politicians.
Many meetings with Cardinal Pio, the head of the Vatican Bank, took place in this restaurant. The professore was in his element here. Emilio came to detest it.
When the professore attended meetings within the Vatican with the Pope, Emilio searched for more common eateries and earthly companionship. Nearby, he had found a small, hole-in-the-wall café.
Emilio crossed the square and headed for the Caffè Romano San Pietro. The bistro has a hot-table coupled with an awful reputation for customer service. It is merely a canteen providing airplane quality food to tourists. Of course, intimate friendship with the owner elevates hospitality and food excellence to new heights.
Emilio has visited often. He has charmed his
way with the owner, a widowed matron, Filomena, who prepares homemade meals for her special guest. She likes Emilio’s rugged looks and hairy, solid build. This man’s man enjoys eating. Filomena enjoys cooking. Emilio appreciates her hourglass frame and her bodacious breasts.
A quickie in the upstairs apartment is what they always anticipate and rejoice. Filomena, who towers over Emilio, calls him her piccolo diavolo (little devil). Emilio considers her his puttana Romana (Roman whore). He cares especially for her, though he possesses others in several cities. He brags to his male cohorts that these are the benefits of travel and that they are essential to his male prerogative.
In real estate, as in murder, it is ‘location, location, location’. Location does matter. The café, loved by tourists and scorned by resident diners, affords entertainment and comfort. It especially suits Emilio’s requirements. As a springboard to the final killing of the day, he will satiate his carnal appetites and assess the appropriate timing for his subsequent deed from this lookout.
Emilio stays outside on the narrow sidewalk. He sits under an iron barred window, his back against the building, at the last canopy-free table, away from the transient crowd. He has a visible, though angled, view of the entrance to St. Peter’s Square.
In front of him, there are parked cars and various Vespas, his favorite scooter. He loves the free-spirited ride of the mechanical bee. Beyond them is another promenade bordering the main artery with reserved spaces for Roma Cristiana tour
buses. These double-decker buses, painted yellow, are much brighter than Emilio’s sweat stained shirt. “Ali, this way please,” waves the tourist guide.
Several tourists gather beside the female tour guide who holds a tri-color umbrella in the air as a beacon for her sightseers. Ali, moves away from admiring a sparkling red Vespa and joins the group. Emilio watches the woman. She wears black sandals, a solid rose-colored skirt and white blouse. She slings her convertible handbag to hang from her shoulder revealing an embroidered Canadian flag. As she boards the bus, her arms and legs reveal
serious muscle definition.
“Too damn skinny. Nothing to grab.” Emilio utters to himself. “Women need to be solid and sturdy.”
He douses his throat with a bottle of tepid San Benedetto spring water. He craves usual linguine pasta, coupled with red wine that Filomena is undoubtedly preparing.
As the bus departs, a woman, bordered by her kids, shouts at her man, “Renzo, where have you been?”
Emilio cranks his head back and forth and chinwags aloud to himself.
“Look’a here. The runaway coniglio (rabbit).”
The escapee, broad shoulders relaxed, exits from the eatery’s main entrance. He squints in the bright sunlight forgetting that his sunglasses rest on top of his head adding bulk to his thinning brown hair. He passes in front of Emilio and actually stands just two meters away, facing his scouting party.
The woman barks at her man. He smiles
but his posture speaks humiliation. She scowls. He cringes. The teenagers, about five years apart, are oblivious to the splendors of Rome and the drama of their misplaced father. Both are texting on their smart phones probably lamenting their misfortune of traveling to the Italian peninsula.
Emilio smiles at this million-dollar
