tiny kitchen with two hot-rings and a rickety oven. I opened the cupboards and saw only a few sticky plates and plastic cups. Behind me was a narrow bathroom. I went through it but found nothing. Beyond that was a sitting area. Rigid rectangular cushions were placed at right angles to make an uncomfortable sofa. I lifted them and looked through the chests underneath. In one there were old clothes and photographic magazines and the usual debris of life: a snorkel, a few paperbacks, old cassettes, a biscuit tin containing spare washers and nuts.
I dropped the lid and went over to the other chest, taking off the cushion and looking underneath. There was more of the same: a rucksack, old bills from Telecom Italia, a rusty pair of scissors. But at the bottom was a metal box. It was dented and dark brown. A padlock knocked against the metal as I lifted it out.
The thug was standing behind me now, watching. I told him to find the key.
He grunted and started going through drawers again. I heard cutlery and coat hangers rattling. He came back a minute later, shrugging and shaking his head.
We both stared at the box feeling impotent. The thug took the padlock in his hands as if weighing it.
I watched him climb back out of the broken bedroom window. He came back two minutes later with some heavy-duty bolt cutters. The handles were almost a metre long. He placed the teeth over the thin metal of the padlock and it gave a dull snap as it broke. He threw the lock on the floor and pulled out thick piles of photographs in each hand. He passed me a handful as the snaps slipped apart. Even from the corners I could see naked limbs.
‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘This guy has the dirt on everybody.’
I went through my pile and each one was a variation on a theme: couples embracing, kissing, dancing, snorting, screwing. Some of the snaps were out of focus or blurred, others were clearly taken from a long distance away and were at odd angles.
The man next to me was muttering appreciation for the passion on display. ‘Little whore,’ he said. ‘I always knew she was filthy.’
‘Who are these people?’ I asked.
‘Same people you saw in those magazines in there,’ he thumbed over his shoulder at the pile of magazines on the bed. ‘Same people, different poses.’
These were the compromising photos that Mori had used to blackmail various celebrities, just as his brother had said. This sort of archive must have been worth a few million lire back in the day.
‘Was he blackmailing all of these people?’ I asked.
The man was still looking at the photographs. He didn’t reply.
‘How did he get caught? I hear he did time for extortion.’
He looked at me now, throwing the snaps down onto the narrow table between the two sofas. These sordid photos seemed to have made us into allies somehow, like we were both voyeurs who were unexpectedly on the same side. We were both looking at the same thing in the same way.
‘You remember Filippo Marinelli, the footballer?’
I shook my head.
‘He used to play for Perugia and then Roma. The poor guy was married, but Mori had photographs of him with another woman. There were apparently drugs involved too, so Mori thought he was onto a nice little earner. He thought he would fleece the rich footballer, who otherwise risked losing his career as well as his wife. But Marinelli had given up on his marriage and was at the end of his career. So he denounced the extortion.’
‘And?’
‘You know, the usual bull. Mori was arrested, released, rearrested, tried, imprisoned, acquitted on appeal, released again. The story rumbled on for years. Mori was a piece of shit, but he was smart. He said he was simply selling photographs to the highest bidder, which he was in a way.’
‘How do you mean?’
The man looked at me like he was angry at being pumped for information. But he shrugged and looked away, as if everyone knew the story anyway. ‘Mori was working with a magazine sub editor.
I dropped the lid and went over to the other chest, taking off the cushion and looking underneath. There was more of the same: a rucksack, old bills from Telecom Italia, a rusty pair of scissors. But at the bottom was a metal box. It was dented and dark brown. A padlock knocked against the metal as I lifted it out.
The thug was standing behind me now, watching. I told him to find the key.
He grunted and started going through drawers again. I heard cutlery and coat hangers rattling. He came back a minute later, shrugging and shaking his head.
We both stared at the box feeling impotent. The thug took the padlock in his hands as if weighing it.
I watched him climb back out of the broken bedroom window. He came back two minutes later with some heavy-duty bolt cutters. The handles were almost a metre long. He placed the teeth over the thin metal of the padlock and it gave a dull snap as it broke. He threw the lock on the floor and pulled out thick piles of photographs in each hand. He passed me a handful as the snaps slipped apart. Even from the corners I could see naked limbs.
‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘This guy has the dirt on everybody.’
I went through my pile and each one was a variation on a theme: couples embracing, kissing, dancing, snorting, screwing. Some of the snaps were out of focus or blurred, others were clearly taken from a long distance away and were at odd angles.
The man next to me was muttering appreciation for the passion on display. ‘Little whore,’ he said. ‘I always knew she was filthy.’
‘Who are these people?’ I asked.
‘Same people you saw in those magazines in there,’ he thumbed over his shoulder at the pile of magazines on the bed. ‘Same people, different poses.’
These were the compromising photos that Mori had used to blackmail various celebrities, just as his brother had said. This sort of archive must have been worth a few million lire back in the day.
‘Was he blackmailing all of these people?’ I asked.
The man was still looking at the photographs. He didn’t reply.
‘How did he get caught? I hear he did time for extortion.’
He looked at me now, throwing the snaps down onto the narrow table between the two sofas. These sordid photos seemed to have made us into allies somehow, like we were both voyeurs who were unexpectedly on the same side. We were both looking at the same thing in the same way.
‘You remember Filippo Marinelli, the footballer?’
I shook my head.
‘He used to play for Perugia and then Roma. The poor guy was married, but Mori had photographs of him with another woman. There were apparently drugs involved too, so Mori thought he was onto a nice little earner. He thought he would fleece the rich footballer, who otherwise risked losing his career as well as his wife. But Marinelli had given up on his marriage and was at the end of his career. So he denounced the extortion.’
‘And?’
‘You know, the usual bull. Mori was arrested, released, rearrested, tried, imprisoned, acquitted on appeal, released again. The story rumbled on for years. Mori was a piece of shit, but he was smart. He said he was simply selling photographs to the highest bidder, which he was in a way.’
‘How do you mean?’
The man looked at me like he was angry at being pumped for information. But he shrugged and looked away, as if everyone knew the story anyway. ‘Mori was working with a magazine sub editor.
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