For All the Gold in the World by Massimo Carlotto, Antony Shugaar Page B

that wound up in Imbriani’s hands. Business was going well, in fact it was booming, until the day that three armed robbers burst into the workshop and cleaned the place out. Before they made their getaway there was a struggle, and Maicol caught a large-caliber bullet in the gut. Kevin and the other employees were tied up and couldn’t get help to him in time. He died after many hours in excruciating agony.”
    â€œSpezzafumo and his boys killed Maicol, so his little brother took revenge by murdering Oddo and his housekeeper and carting off two million,” I summed up.
    â€œThat’s exactly what seems to have happened,” Max the Memory confirmed.
    I turned to catch Beniamino’s gaze. He was as flabbergasted as I was. The hand of a goldsmith, a businessman, might be behind the massacre in the villa. It was hard to believe.
    â€œAnd that’s not all,” Max preempted us. “Kevin is now a prominent figure. Not only has he gotten the company back on its feet, he’s also an activist in that more-or-less grassroots political movement protesting the lack of public safety. He’s one of the first who leapt to defend the deli owner who shot and killed the would-be robber of Sinti origin a few months ago.”
    The fat man turned on his tablet and showed us Fecchio’s Facebook page. He had a lot of followers. I skimmed the comments. It was the unfiltered voice of the Venetian heartland expressing itself. The voice that could be heard on television, read on the front pages of the newspapers. Mayors who were hailed for declaring that the Roma had no right to stay in their towns. Shopkeepers who fought back by opening fire, killed would-be robbers, and became heroes. Torchlight parades, T-shirts. Fear, exasperation, hatred. Lynch mob moods. And votes: So many votes that they ended the argument.
    â€œIs he trying to land some political office?” I asked.
    â€œNot at the moment. But he’s truly tireless when it comes to organizing.”
    â€œExcellent cover if he really was involved in the robbery at the Oddo home,” Rossini commented.
    â€œDo you have any doubts?” Max asked, astonished.
    â€œA few,” he replied. “Why didn’t he go to the police? After all, he’s a civilian and his name never circulated in armed robbery circles. Nicola Spezzafumo would have caught wind of it.”
    The old gangster wasn’t wrong. “We can always ask him,” I suggested faintly, guessing at the eventual meeting’s real reason: figuring out our role in all this and deciding what to do next.
    Rossini shrugged. “It seems to me we don’t have any other choice if we want to get to the truth.”
    â€œKevin Fecchio is a public figure. We have to be very careful,” the fat man broke in.
    â€œThen we need to know more and that’s your job,” I retorted.
    A smile stretched across the fat man’s face. He couldn’t wait to get to work.
    Old Rossini poured a round of drinks with a thoughtful air. “Spezzafumo and his henchmen are truly nasty people. That Maicol bled to death; very probably, he could have been saved. There’s no need to kill anyone just to steal some gold.
    â€œAnd after all, if you wind up shooting some poor bastard in the guts just because you don’t know how to handle the situation, it means you’re not that good at what you do, and it’s time to retire.”
    I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Are you planning to express your point of view to him?”
    â€œAt the first opportunity that presents itself,” he replied indignantly. “They need to find a new line of work before they start more trouble.”
    I shot Max a look. This was proof that the job wasn’t going to be painless, and that someone was definitely going to get hurt.
    We dropped the subject and, when it was time to head back, Beniamino took the long way around. The
Sylvie
seemed to wander over the