Silencer
Gianluigi strode down Via delle Terme di Tito under a cobalt and purple sky. Terracotta houses climbed high on the left side of the boulevard, looking like shelves full of slatted window shutters. The Colosseum loomed in the background. It always does in Rome. It occupies the lowest plain betwixt the seven hills, as if expressing the fundamental essence of the city. A growing murder of crows lined the top layer of frayed stone.
A breeze flicked the collar of Gianluigi’s trenchcoat. He reached the British bar that served beer to young people with beards and skinny jeans. He leaned back against the sickly, pockmarked bricks, took a cigarette from behind his ear; a couple of steel grey hairs came with it. His arm roughed up his tie as he took his lighter from the inside pocket of his coat. As he smoked he rubbed at the bristles on his face. He had let his stubble grow too long, and it itched.
Nine minutes later he stubbed out the cigarette under his heel and slipped on black leather gloves. A shrill buzz penetrated the calm. Gianluigi took a silver Motorola out of his pocket and flipped it open.
“Sí?”
“Good evening sir. Just to let you know the conference call has been arranged for 7pm.”
“Bene.”
“There is also…a change to the schedule. An extra item for discussion. You’ll find it in a briefcase that will be sent.”
Gianluigi paused. “Spese sarò coperte?”
“The usual rate will of course apply. Plus additional fixed expenses incurred by the extra time, naturally.”
“Sí, apposto.”
Gianluigi dropped the phone on the pavement. He waited for the next explosion of laughter from a group inside the bar window, and stamped on the device.
He strolled round the corner on to Via Nicola Salvi, carried on past the spindly trees lining the edge of Parco del Coppo Oppio. The grass smelled freshly cut. In Piazza Martin Lutero, he perched on the edge of the low octagonal fountain and read a discarded newspaper picked up on the way. Paint from the stonework flaked off on his clothes.
The man slunk through the park at 7 exactly. Gianluigi saw him in the corner of his eye as he read about a Roma FC match. The man had a suit on, no tie, jaunty black hair. He darted his eyes back and forth as he shuffled, and pursed his lips. Gianluigi waited, chucked the paper away and followed him down Via Celimontana, boxed in either side by chiselled roof gardens squatting atop the streaky yellow paint of townhouses. He loitered by a corner, scratching at his bristle again, as the target went left on Via Capo d’Africa. Half way down the target stopped, took out a key and scurried into a shabby looking house.
Gianluigi meandered over to the house the target entered. Listened as he approached. Silence. As he sauntered up to the chipped door, Gianluigi took a straightened paperclip out of his pocket. The practice of years made it quick and fluid as he slid the paperclip in and seduced the lock.
Inside the wallpaper was peeling. A musty stench floated up from the beige carpet. Gianluigi unlatched the gun from the tape at the base of his spine and screwed on a silencer from his pocket. Clinking came from down the hall. He advanced into a kitchen. The man stood at a grey worktop, back to Gianluigi, pouring a glass of scotch. A framed photo of a woman was the only other thing on the worktop. A squat circular table sat to Gianluigi’s right. The briefcase was on it, a shaft of light from a window glinting off the gold handle. Gianluigi aimed the gun at the man’s head.
“Scusi.”
The man whipped round and froze. Gianluigi carefully lifted the briefcase off the table and placed it at his feet, eyes and gun locked on the man. He glimpsed bathroom tiles through the sliver of light from an ajar door behind his prey.
The man ran a hand through his hair and squeezed the nape of his neck. “Perche?” he asked eventually.
Gianluigi shrugged. “Non mi importa. Vale molto.”
The man nodded and smiled sadly. He pointed at the photograph. Gianluigi flicked his gun in consent. The man picked up the photo and kissed the frame as a single tear escaped the corner of his eye.
The silencer made the shot sound like glass falling on carpet.
Red liquid petals bloomed from the man’s head. Gianluigi stepped over the body and prodded open the bathroom door. A razor loitered on a glass shelf above a sink. Excellent.
