The Ballad of Mila Read online

  Matteo Strukul

  THE BALLAD OF MILA

  Translated by Marco Piva-Dittrich and Allan Guthrie

  For Silvia.

  INTRODUCTION BY VICTOR GISCHLER:

  MATTEO AND MILA

  This is an introduction. You’re supposed to learn a little something about the author of this book from me – a fellow author.

  So, of course, I need to talk about myself.

  No, wait! Don’t go. I’ll make this quick and painless, and I promise it’s relevant. Hang with me.

  I first met Matteo Strukul face to face in the Turin airport after Air France lost my luggage. He was in charge of publicity for a small house in Italy which had published my first novel. I was a guest at a film and literature festival in the Alps, and Matteo had been charged with taking me around, arranging interviews and generally making sure I didn’t get lost or fall down and hurt myself. What I learned about Matteo on that first promotional trip to Italy was that he was passionate and knowledgeable about all things hardboiled, noir, and pulp.

  This fact became even more evident later when he helped co-found the Sugar Pulp movement in Italy, gathering together like-minded crime pulp aficionados. If you get a chance, hit their annual festival in Padova. Good fun. Matteo was later to head Revolver, Edizioni BD’s crime fiction imprint. And now, as an author, you have a man who has seen the genre from just about every angle. Matteo Strukul is steeped in the hardboiled. He knows crime. He bleeds pulp.

  And that’s maybe why Mila and the other characters who populate her world are so rich and dynamic and… well... kick ass. The scenes crackle and pop and leap off the page. My favorite authors are intelligent people who refuse to misuse their intelligence by spending time trying to prove it to you, and Matteo doesn’t have to. The work speaks for itself and knows what it’s trying to do… and does it. Matteo has penned for us a grand ballet of blood, an opera of violence, a ballad of badassery. A smart novel, yes, but not a look-how-smart-I-am novel, and that is where Matteo – and indeed the entire genre – wins. Pulp is at its best when it strips away pretension and grabs you by the balls. I should have said that simpler and sooner.

  The Ballad of Mila owns your balls, man.

  And isn’t that what we all want from our pulp crime fiction? A ball-grabber?

  And while you or I may have visited Padova or other Italian cities as tourists, it’s quite doubtful you’ve experienced it the way you will in The Ballad of Mila. Matteo has shown me Italy with new eyes, a native’s eyes. As an American crime writer, I sometimes fall into the trap of thinking we have a lock on cities with gritty underbellies (and down here in Louisiana, swamps filled with seedy backwoodsy types) but Matteo illustrates with eerie authenticity that you might think of Italy as a country with some of the best food and wine in the world, but you can still get killed in a New York Minute (a Venice minute?) if you wander down the wrong dark alley. Matteo’s sense of place is one of the novel’s great strengths.

  But the crowning achievement, of course, is Mila herself. There is something about a beautiful woman with a sword that simply works. And while it’s certainly possible that this archetype might let us down in the hands of an author with lesser skills, I am delighted to report that is not the case here. Matteo’s expert sense of pace and character allows Mila to stretch her bloody, vengeful wings and fly through the pages of this scorching novel.

  Since that first trip, I’ve been back to Italy a number of times. (Gischler is talking about himself again!) But now, I don’t think of Matteo as the guy who keeps me from falling over myself (although he still does that). I think of him as a friend… and now as a brother author. While in Italy, during interviews arranged by Matteo, I would often be asked the following question: “What Italian authors do you read?” Embarrassingly, the answer at the time was not very damn many. The truth is that a lot more English fiction is translated into Italian than vice versa. So it is no small compliment to Matteo that Exhibit A would select The Ballad of Mila to lead what will hopefully be a charge of excellent crime fiction going back in the other direction toward America. Italy could do a lot worse than to make Matteo Strukul the face of Italian pulp crime.

  So. There. An introduction. If you were smart, you skipped over this to dive into Matteo’s excellent novel. If not, don’t fret. There’s still time.

  Turn the page.

  Hurry.

  Victor Gischler

  December 2, 2013

  “Chinese mafia, a real danger in Padua; Carlo Mastelloni, the Venice District Attorney, raises awareness”

  Il Mattino di Padova, 19 October 2010

  0.

  Chen narrowed his eyes: two thin cracks onto which red liquid dripped. Blood was falling from deep cuts in his forehead, a veil that blurred his vision.

  The promise of death.

  Zhang, the guy standing in front of him, was the one who had inflicted the wound.

  Zhang looked at him, smiling, holding a butterfly knife, its blade red with Chen's blood. Zhang burst out in nervous laughter while taking in all the details of the little shop.

  He smelled the spices, moved his gaze to the coloured boxes and cans of food. Packets of Lungkow noodles with their bright red dragons; the yellows and reds of Quick Cooking; grey boxes of flour for making Salapao steamed buns; the transparent packaging of the Wai Wai rice noodles and the Yan Long, made from sweet potatoes.

  He smiled once again, satisfied. As if all those things belonged to him. He licked his upper lip, a merciless light in his eyes.

  “Got yourself a really nice shop, Chen, don't you?”

  “Ye... Yes...”

  Zhang flicked the double handle of the butterfly knife again. The short blade flew through the air like a hungry tongue, swinging fast in a macabre, shining dance. He seemed to want to buy time before getting down to business. He took all the time he needed, making sure that fear seized the very bones of the small, skinny man in front of him.

  On the Formica counter where Chen had set up the cash register and jars of brightly coloured candies, there was a bunch of red sword lilies. Their long stems formed a green lozenge. Their petals, strong and thick, expelled a strong perfume, a pungent fragrance.

  “Have you seen them?” asked Zhang, lifting his chin and indicating the lilies with a simple movement.

  “Yes...” whispered Chen in a weak voice.

  “You know what they mean, don’t you?”

  “Sword...”

  “Yes, sword and blood. Death, you ungrateful bastard! It's futile to try to avoid my rage and the revenge of your lord, Guo Xiaoping, the Dragon Head of the Talking Daggers! Xin and Lao both know you have to die.”

  Xin and Lao, crew-cut and specs, had just tied his hands behind his back. Slices of the shop's neon lighting bounced off the dark lenses partially hiding their eyes. But, still, Chen could feel their gaze digging into his face.

  Zhang exhaled through his nose. “And all because you're late with your payments again this month,” he told him. “Do you want to keep what you're earning, thanks to my uncle? You become greedy, Chen? Do we need to ask your permission to have what you owe us, you little freshwater crab?”

  Chen’s mouth was sealed, fear holding his words in. He lowered his eyes. Silent tears made their way through the blood and ran down his cheeks, his thin face, his high cheekbones.

  “I don’t think I heard you,” prompted Zhang.

  “Of course, Guo doesn’t need to ask for what he's owed...”

  “Ah, that's better,” sighed Zhang. “Seems you're not as stupid as you'd like us to believe.” He walked to the colourful tins of Shiitake-Poku mushrooms and the green cans of Aroy-D bamboo shoots. Moved the knife to his left hand and his right swept across the shelves.

 
; A cascade of tins crashed onto the floor. A sudden, deafening noise. Zhang booted the cans away.

  He turned back towards Chen.

  “You want to keep everything for yourself, right? Damn you! You forgot, my uncle sees everything you do. Guo Xiaoping is the Mountain Master. And he sent me as a reminder. I treat infected wounds. The Talking Daggers are like the body of a great dragon. A body can't work unless each limb, each organ, each atom does exactly what nature instructs it to do. Chen, your nature is to pay Guo what you owe him.”

  As he spoke, Zhang got closer. He smiled a crazy, wide grin. Whirled the knife in front of the old man’s face, then quickly stuck him in the stomach.

  The blade went deep. Four times. It entered the flesh, ripped, and came out dripping, ready to bite and tear again.

  Since his hands were tied, Chen couldn’t even clasp them to his stomach. He saw his innards leaking out, unable to do anything, his eyes nearly popping out with the pain. His legs slowly gave way. Xin and Lao helped him down as he slumped to the ground. He slithered quietly, in a pool of blood and inner organs.

  “Ew! Disgusting...” hissed Zhang. “You look like a gutted fish! And all because you wouldn't listen to us, you stupid greedy bastard!” Then he raised his eyes, stared at Xin and Lao.

  “Clean everything up. Tomorrow this shithole of a shop will have a new owner.”

  “What'll we do with the corpse?” asked Xin.

  “I saw a bathroom in the back. Chop him up in the tub, then call my uncle. He'll give you an address. Pack the pieces of the old man up in plastic bags, put them in the car boot and drive there. Get in through the gate and drop everything in the cellar. Stuff all the pieces in the furnace at the end of the hall and burn everything. Here's the keys. I’ll go check on that idiot, Longhin. I gave my word he’s good and I can’t afford him to fail. My honour's at stake.”

  While Xin and Lao dragged Chen’s body towards the bathroom, Zhang produced a red handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the blade of his butterfly. He did a thorough job. Folded the blade back with a flick of his wrist and slid it into the pocket of his dark grey trousers, then left the minimarket with an elegant stride.

  Only after he was gone, did Chen finally die.

  1.

  It was really cold.

  Piles of dirty snow along the road. Mounds of grey stretching all the way along.

  Severino Pierobon – known as Two Hundred because the horses he bet on usually gave up in the last two hundred metres – arrived at Le Padovanelle racetrack in his yellow Citroën C2. As usual, he had no trouble finding somewhere to park. Horse-racing was a dying sport, and betting was a daydream for nostalgics.

  He'd done everything thoroughly, as usual. Studied all the horses: the results of the latest races, the positions, what the experts said.

  Horse racing was important to him. It had been in his blood since he was a kid, when he’d tagged along with his grandpa to Le Padovanelle. Since then, he'd followed the same ritual each and every week. Sometimes he won, but never anything big; just enough to go home with a tray of pastries. He’d stuff himself with them, alone in his kitchen; he ate himself silly because he loved cakes, even though he was supposed to be taking care of himself, having been diagnosed with diabetes.

  Severino Pierobon didn’t smoke and didn’t have sex. He drank grappa and ate cakes. That was it. He was fifty and had no intention of reaching ninety if it meant eating vegetables, cereal and salad. He’d rather die young.

  In his hand was a really sweet cappuccino in a plastic cup.

  He knew he needed to trust in God. Or whoever. Despite his immense experience he had never been able to devise a winning system: there were far too many variables. But that feeling of uncertainty, of craziness, was exactly what pushed him to keep betting. A drunken feeling, at least as strong as the hope that grabbed him by the throat as soon as he saw the sulkies dashing from the starting line.

  He scratched his unkempt beard, thinking that it was the first time he'd bet on a Monday. It had never been that cold in Padua, and the thick snow had caused the Saturday races to be postponed a couple of days.

  He passed some time at the bar, then made a stop at the toilets. Suddenly he realised that he had to get a move on. He entered the door to the stands and reached the track-side railing the very moment Gastone Pink broke away from the others. But he'd broken away too early. He'd been hoping to see something now, for once, but no chance: that small, fast horse, chocolate-dark, had reached Bon Vivant first, then taken the lead.

  Gastone Pink couldn’t help it, it was its nature: he always took the lead early. But he could never hold on to it. That was his biggest weakness. Everybody knew this, even Two Hundred. That’s why Alberto Leoni, the driver, was bobbing about in his sulky trying to get Gastone Pink to stay in the lead till the end, for once.

  Severino Pierobon shook his head.

  Angrily, he threw his crumpled copy of Trot & Turf to the ground. Kept watching that damned four-legged chunk of chocolate getting ready to steam on towards the finishing post. He still hoped, in his heart, that maybe Gastone Pink had enough in the tank to crush his opponents this time.

  Around him, the Le Padovanelle regulars stared in silence at those twelve shining coats speeding along the sandy track. It was always a beautiful sight, seeing them in action, proud, fast, their hooves beating the rhythm of the challenge.

  The chill was relentless. The cold air cut into faces, clouds twisting like white curls of fat in the blue frying pan of the sky.

  “Gastone Pink'll fade before the end,” someone said. “He's not mature enough yet and Leoni's unable to hold him back. Too bad, he's a really nice horse.”

  Casual words, comments made just to annoy. Severino Pierobon was already visualising his umpteenth crushing defeat.

  But horse racing is not a sport like any other. Believe it or not, it never matches your expectations. And Severino Pierobon, aka Two Hundred, knew that.

  Gastone Pink was staying in front. He wasn't tiring. Maybe he'd made an exception, just this once, and was going to hold on. A satisfied grin slowly started to appear on Severino’s face.

  The seconds passed. Two Hundred felt them rolling through his head. With each one, the image of his horse winning the race became less and less unreal.

  The little bay kept eating up the ground with his strong, stocky legs, and he seemed to be enjoying it. He was giving his best and had a decent advantage, ten metres or so. He kept knocking back the advances of the eleven dark devils trying to catch up with him, and ploughed straight ahead, as if on drugs, ignoring the silly humans who had suddenly started shouting. His legs brushed through the air without breaking pace and – unbelievably – Gastone Pink stretched even further ahead.

  From his sulky, Alberto Leoni was encouraging him, shouting something nobody could understand. The horse was tearing along like a beauty.

  Two Hundred heard himself shouting “Go, go, you little bastard!”, the words banging against his clenched teeth, his clenched jaw.

  Then... then something happened which he really didn't want to see: a dark, muscular mare, big as an oil tanker, emerged from the chasing group. Two Hundred started to worry. His enthusiasm wavered; he felt a hard, metallic pain in his stomach, held his breath. Stood still, not moving, as if he didn’t want to tilt the delicate balance that might bring his horse an unexpected victory.

  “Imperatrice will swallow Gastone Pink whole,” said a fat, pockmarked woman wearing a commodious coat with a fake fur collar.

  But Severino Pierobon decided not to give up. Like Gastone Pink.

  “He's going to do it. He's going to do it, for fuck’s sake!” he shouted, his voice betraying his tension.

  Imperatrice was catching up at the speed of light; she was swallowing the little horse whole exactly like that damn lard-ass had prophesied, but Gastone Pink was still holding onto the lead.

  “Come on, come on, don’t give up, don’t let that big beast catch up, hold on!”

&
nbsp; Both horses hit the last two hundred metres. Two Hundred started getting excited; it was nearly over. The frustration that had been building up for years now became electric enthusiasm, a wave of energy strong enough to reach the horse, or at least Severino Pierobon hoped so.

  And maybe that was exactly what happened. Gastone Pink kept going even though that furious lioness behind him was getting closer and closer. But he kept the lead with his precision pacing, as beautiful as the sun that had just come out from behind the clouds to watch him. And, with a thoroughly gutsy display, not only did he maintain his advantage but he sped up and won.

  Shutting up all those who had said he couldn’t do it, including the pockmarked lard-ass. And leaving Two Hundred's jaw gaping next to the railing, blowing white steam into the air of that winter afternoon.

  Thanks to that crazy little bay horse, he had finally won a four-horse accumulator. To be precise, he had guessed the exact finishing positions of the first four horses. But, even though anyone would have guessed that Imperatrice, Otto Nix and Capitan Germal would come home in the top positions, nobody would have bet a single cent on Gastone Pink.

  That combination was worth 26,645 Euros. Just saying.

  Severino Pierobon started stroking his chin.

  Heckler & Koch USP Tactical, left-handed threaded barrel. Knight’s Armament Company silencer. A small gun, perfect for what he needed to do.

  He knew he would use it. Because he had to go all the way. Refusing would be akin to giving up, and giving up is the best advantage you can give your enemy. That’s what he'd been told by his boss, Guo Xiaoping, who was quoting Master Kongzi. Guo was a short, mean Chinaman, pointy teeth, the leader of a gang of Asians that had been spreading across the Veneto region.

  He had given him fifteen thousand Euros, cash, no problem.

  As if he had been a short – and yellow – brother of Rockefeller.

  His targets: Marco and Mirco Galesso. Twins from Verona, chartered accountants. They recycled the money earned by the Pagnan family, major league players in the local criminal underworld, through their drugs and prostitution rackets. The Galesso brothers laundered it, investing it in perfectly legal activities through a chain of companies strategically located in tax havens. From there they transferred it all over the place, following the ebbs and flows of the global market. Finally, they hid the money in secret accounts in Luxembourg or the Channel Islands, with such speed and secrecy that the Customs and Excise Police had no fucking idea.