The Goodbye Kiss
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"The best living Italian crime writer."-Il Manifesto
An unscrupulous womanizer, as devoid of morals now as he once was full of idealistic fervor, returns to Italy, where he is wanted for a series of crimes. To earn himself the guise of respectability, he is willing to go as far as murder.
Massimo Carlotto, master of the Mediterranean noir-hard-boiled crime novels that call enticing but violent cities like Marseilles, Naples, and Algiers home-and ex-con himself, has gained a reputation as one of the genre's most talented writers. Carlotto's first book, The Fugitive, deals with his time on the run in Latin America. He is author of many novels, including five titles in the extremely popular Alligator series.
him right in the eye. “Why me?” He opened his arms. “Because I’m just the tip-off and don’t know shit about how to organize a heist. You came to mind because of your experience with the Central American guerrillas. You can plan a military operation.” “How d’you learn about the job?” “A security guard.” “They’re the first to sing.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve thought about leaving him out when we split the cash. One more cut for the rest of us.” “Who else is in on it?” “Apart from you,
passed by, pushing a shopping cart. They got the drift and took off. “Money tomorrow,” said the leader. “Today not possible.” “You ugly mother fuckers. You wanted to rip me off. Beat it or I’ll shoot.” They piled into two high-powered cars and burned rubber as they left. I threw open the sliding door of the van. “Out,” I shouted at the girls. “The club’s been shut down. Go find another job.” The shotgun I still held in my hand was the most persuasive argument for them. They hightailed it, no
cassettes. Something for the gamblers to pass the time with while they waited to play. I lit a cigarette and stood at the window to scope out the street. The Croats showed up first. Cagey, hands thrust in their pockets, ready to draw their guns and shoot. I waited for them at the door. With my hands in plain view I invited them to nose around the apartment. Far from being reassured, they planted themselves on a couch from where they could keep an eye on the entrance. The Spaniards arrived half an
in another neighborhood. The cop began to look for traces. Of course, not the ones we wanted to be found. We’d worn gloves through the whole thing and didn’t have to worry about fingerprints. But the soles of our shoes were distinctly visible on the floor. I looked for a bucket and rag and solved the problem. In the end, we left satisfied. Anedda would return the next night, wearing a blue jacket with “Polizia” written on the back. I still didn’t know whether I could trust him. We were now the
what it was before.” From her bag she took out a handkerchief and started to whimper. “I don’t trust you anymore.” “Please, don’t cry. It’ll be hard to talk.” She dried her eyes and blew her nose. “I’ve never felt so bad in my entire life.” I caressed her cheek. “Have you had dinner?” She shook her head. “I can’t get anything down.” “You’ll make yourself sick.” I raised my voice, worried. “I’ll eat something at home.” “I’ve brought a couple orders of cannelloni with ricotta from the