Gringo. For free. I’m going to get one of those Bulgarian guns and I’m going to put fifty holes in you and then make you eat the goddamn thing with the safety off. And then kick you in the stomach. Give me some of that stuff to drink rather than just baptising me.”
“Sorry, can’t. You’re in shock. Never give someone in shock alcohol. Shouldn’t really smoke either.”
“Bastard.”
Della Torre stepped out of the cellar, pulled down the iron shutter on the cellar’s only window, padlocked it from the outside, and then came back into the room.
“Now, I’m going to put the key to the cuffs on the table here, just here on the edge. It might take you a little while to get here, what with the state your leg’s in, but you’ve got all night. I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock up the cellar and you’re just going to have to lump it until somebody rescues you. But the longest you’ll have to wait is until Tuesday, because even if your wife or your girlfriend doesn’t come looking for you, or your guy doesn’t come to do the vines, I’ll make sure somebody else does. On the other hand, look on the bright side. It’ll be a great time to stop smoking,” della Torre said, pocketing the packet of Lucky Strikes. He almost left without picking up Strumbić’s gun, but then he spotted it and heaved it into the darkness of the vineyard below the cottage.
He locked the heavy wooden door behind him with an oversized key that he found hanging off the knob and then hung the key on a nail half-driven into the front of the door frame. He didn’t want to make it too difficult for Strumbić’s eventual rescuers. He then put the big iron bar across the door and padlocked that too.
“Della Torre, you’re dead. You hear that, Gringo? Next time you see me will be the last time you see anything at all. Dead, Gringo.”
Della Torre went up into the main house.
The door was open and the lights were on. In daylight the kitchen had a beautiful view of the deep, wooded valley, which curved away from Strumbić’s hillside towards a peak that loomed like a forested incisor. But he wasn’t there for the sights. He opened up the cupboard under the sink and found the envelope in the soup pot. It was full of Strumbić’s little storm troopers. Della Torre ran his thumb along them. The whole fifteen thousand, it seemed. He took a deep breath. At first, his intention had been to take the four thousand promised him. Plus the extra thousand. But, thinking about it, Strumbić had never intended to pay him anything at all. Why should he play square with a man who’d helped in a conspiracy to kill him? So he pocketed the lot.
On the way out, he passed a nice leather coat. His own suit jacket was distinctly the worse for wear, not least from the bullet hole in the pocket. Strumbić’s coat was shorter in the arms and looser around the body than della Torre expected, and it wasn’t really the sort of thing he’d ever wear. It looked too — well, too secret police. Or it would have done had it fit properly. As it was he looked like a country bumpkin. But the leather was top quality. Italian probably. So he decided to take it anyway, especially because he knew it’d piss Strumbić off.
Della Torre transferred the gun, the tie, and the little notebook from the one coat to the other. He found the key to the BMW on a ring with half a dozen others hanging off a hook. A couple of small ones might have been for simple padlocks or maybe letter boxes. But the rest were unfamiliar. He shrugged and pocketed them all.
He was about to leave when he spotted the three cartons of Lucky Strikes on the sitting room coffee table. Della Torre couldn’t really see any reason not to take them, now that Strumbić was quitting.
As della Torre stumbled up the stony path in darkness, the moon having already passed behind the hillside, all he could hear was the sound of barking dogs in the village far below and the crunch of loose rocks underfoot.
“Sorry, can’t. You’re in shock. Never give someone in shock alcohol. Shouldn’t really smoke either.”
“Bastard.”
Della Torre stepped out of the cellar, pulled down the iron shutter on the cellar’s only window, padlocked it from the outside, and then came back into the room.
“Now, I’m going to put the key to the cuffs on the table here, just here on the edge. It might take you a little while to get here, what with the state your leg’s in, but you’ve got all night. I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock up the cellar and you’re just going to have to lump it until somebody rescues you. But the longest you’ll have to wait is until Tuesday, because even if your wife or your girlfriend doesn’t come looking for you, or your guy doesn’t come to do the vines, I’ll make sure somebody else does. On the other hand, look on the bright side. It’ll be a great time to stop smoking,” della Torre said, pocketing the packet of Lucky Strikes. He almost left without picking up Strumbić’s gun, but then he spotted it and heaved it into the darkness of the vineyard below the cottage.
He locked the heavy wooden door behind him with an oversized key that he found hanging off the knob and then hung the key on a nail half-driven into the front of the door frame. He didn’t want to make it too difficult for Strumbić’s eventual rescuers. He then put the big iron bar across the door and padlocked that too.
“Della Torre, you’re dead. You hear that, Gringo? Next time you see me will be the last time you see anything at all. Dead, Gringo.”
Della Torre went up into the main house.
The door was open and the lights were on. In daylight the kitchen had a beautiful view of the deep, wooded valley, which curved away from Strumbić’s hillside towards a peak that loomed like a forested incisor. But he wasn’t there for the sights. He opened up the cupboard under the sink and found the envelope in the soup pot. It was full of Strumbić’s little storm troopers. Della Torre ran his thumb along them. The whole fifteen thousand, it seemed. He took a deep breath. At first, his intention had been to take the four thousand promised him. Plus the extra thousand. But, thinking about it, Strumbić had never intended to pay him anything at all. Why should he play square with a man who’d helped in a conspiracy to kill him? So he pocketed the lot.
On the way out, he passed a nice leather coat. His own suit jacket was distinctly the worse for wear, not least from the bullet hole in the pocket. Strumbić’s coat was shorter in the arms and looser around the body than della Torre expected, and it wasn’t really the sort of thing he’d ever wear. It looked too — well, too secret police. Or it would have done had it fit properly. As it was he looked like a country bumpkin. But the leather was top quality. Italian probably. So he decided to take it anyway, especially because he knew it’d piss Strumbić off.
Della Torre transferred the gun, the tie, and the little notebook from the one coat to the other. He found the key to the BMW on a ring with half a dozen others hanging off a hook. A couple of small ones might have been for simple padlocks or maybe letter boxes. But the rest were unfamiliar. He shrugged and pocketed them all.
He was about to leave when he spotted the three cartons of Lucky Strikes on the sitting room coffee table. Della Torre couldn’t really see any reason not to take them, now that Strumbić was quitting.
As della Torre stumbled up the stony path in darkness, the moon having already passed behind the hillside, all he could hear was the sound of barking dogs in the village far below and the crunch of loose rocks underfoot.
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