Viper

43

Napoli Capodichino Salvatore Giacomo's knees cracked as he bent to pick up the morning mail behind his apartment door.

It was his fiftieth birthday. Not many people knew that. Even fewer cared.

The mail included several free newspapers, an electricity bill, but no cards. He sat alone in the kitchen of his one-bedroomed rental. Although he was a couple of blocks back from the busy A56 he could still feel the steady rumble of traffic. He breakfasted on instant coffee and old cheese slices. As he ate, he thought about his half-century on earth. What did it amount to? A little cash in a number of false bank accounts. Run-for-the-hills money. Start-all-over-again dough. He'd never use it. Never spent much, anyway. He didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't have friends. He just worked and came home. What money the Don gave him went on rent, cheap food and the savings he'd never need. Don Fredo had said to put something away every month, so he'd done that. He'd always done whatever the Don had said.

Sal guessed he saw Fredo as a father figure. A replacement for his old man. He'd been nine years old when his parents had split up. He still remembered the fearful row; his father slapping his mother's face and calling her a cheating slut, then storming off. A father one minute. A memory the next. Then strange men came to stay at the apartment, men who looked at him with spiteful eyes. He hated his mother for letting them in. Into the house. Into his father's bed. It wasn't long before he ran away. Stayed with friends on the other side of Herculaneum or, in summer, camped out in the parkland around Vesuvius, killing wood pigeons and foxes. Then in his teens his mother disappeared and he pretty much made his own way in life. His brains and his fists helped him survive and stay one step ahead of the law.

The distinctive horn of the Mercedes sounding in the street shook him from his thoughts. Valsi had arrived and was waiting.

Sal pulled on the jacket of a navy-blue suit, adjusted his tie in the old tarnished mirror by the front door and, before leaving, checked just one more thing. His weaponry. Sal never opened a door without being ready to deal with anything that was on the other side. It was that level of caution that had got him through the first fifty years of his life, and he hoped would get him through many more years. For that reason, Sal didn't carry just one gun, he carried two. Matching Glock 19s, snugly concealed in a double shoulder holster. The pair gave him a minimum of thirty rounds of 9mm ammunition. What's more, if one jammed or got dropped, then that was no shit, he just pulled the other one. If he was caught in a firefight, he could also throw the spare to whoever was with him. The horn sounded again. Capo or no Capo, the fucker could wait. He took a leak, locked up and left the building.

'Sal, you're slower than a snail,' shouted Dino Pennestri from the driver's seat as he approached the car. 'We should call you Sal the Snail.'

Giacomo said nothing. He slipped in the back, alongside Bruno Valsi, who greeted him with a curt 'Buon giorno.'

They drove in silence for about a minute. Valsi shifted in his seat so he was half facing Sal. He wore an open-necked black and blue striped shirt and had a cream suit jacket across his lap. 'I've got a little surprise for you,' he deadpanned.

Sal waited. Valsi tilted his eyes down to the jacket on his lap. Between the folds of cream cloth something smooth and shiny caught Sal's eye. Unmistakably, it was the barrel of a pistol.

'Given that it's your birthday, I'd thought I'd do something truly memorable.' Valsi flicked away the sleeve of the jacket and Sal could see that his right hand was wrapped around the pistol, his index finger already inside the guard and across the trigger.

For a moment all sound seemed to have been sucked out of the air inside the car. No one dared breathe.

Then the laughter in the Mercedes nearly tore the roof off.

Sal the Snake was the only one not splitting his sides.

'It's yours, you old fool,' said Valsi. He spun the pistol round so Sal could take it off him. 'It's a present. A limited edition Ultimate Vaquero. It's been in the family for years.'

Up front, Tonino Farina and Dino Pennestri were roaring so loudly that Pennestri had to pull over so he didn't crash the car.

'Happy birthday, Sal.' Valsi leaned over and embraced him. In the brief clinch, he smelled the older man's fear. A victory in itself. 'It's a point-thirty calibre, a little more unusual and special than the forty-five. The grip is made of white pearl and you'll see the barrel and trigger are bejewelled. Go to a dealer, you won't get change out of three thousand euros.'

'Grazie mille. It is bellissimo.' Sal checked the chamber. He was glad to find it empty.

'It's a gift from my wife and me,' said Valsi. 'She gave me a card to give you too.'

Sal watched as he slid a beige envelope out of the inside of his folded jacket. The envelope and the card were the type that only a woman would buy. Thick, expensive card. A simple artistic picture of a beautiful Fall sunset on the front and no printed message inside, so she could write her own. In a beautiful hand she had written quite simply: Happy Birthday 'Uncle Sal', may your own Fall and Winter be the most beautiful seasons of your life. Love and best wishes, Gina x.

Valsi could see that for the first time his wife had signed only her own name. He was just the delivery boy. Fucking bitch. 'I'm not one for sentiment,' he explained with disdain, 'but I am one for pleasure. So, my very old friend, we're taking you to Bar Luca for a celebratory lunch.' He produced a thick wad of fifty-euro bills from his pants pocket. 'Today, I'm gonna pay for all the champagne you can drink. All the food you can eat. And all the whores you can fuck. That is, presuming you can still drink and fuck at your age.'

'I don't drink,' said the Snake.

'Then you can watch us. We'll celebrate for you!' Valsi slapped his shoulder.

Farina and Pennestri broke up again. Sal made an effort to smile. Deep down he was thinking about how dangerously close he'd come to killing Valsi when the snot-nosed little punk had pulled the piece on him.