The Goodbye Kiss
Massimo Carlotto
Language: English
Pages: 194
ISBN: 1933372052
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"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.
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Sleep every time I went out. What with the pills and the Fernet I’d kill her. Too soon. I always thought she’d have to die. After the robbery I couldn’t leave behind a blabbermouth. At this point she knew diddly squat, but she’d hung around hoods too long not to link my stay in Milano with the hit on the armored truck. A heist worth half a million euros with two dead bodies on the tarmac isn’t the sort of news that passes unnoticed. If Ciccio Formaggio had to be eliminated because he might let.
Children. As usual, he drove looking over his shoulder. “So what’s happening?” I brought him up to speed. “Sounds like everything is going well,” he remarked with satisfaction. “I need a gun with a silencer.” “For who?” “Ciccio Formaggio and the inside guy.” “The bodies?” “Flambéed.” “What about the widow?” That fucking cop knew where I was living. A way of letting me know I’d better not try to screw him. I took it without flinching. “A natural death. A sob story about loneliness.” He.
Well on the topic, and with a melancholy smile stamped on my face, I told them what they wanted to hear. That circle included some former leftists. Often they’d draw close and, with a conspiratorial air, confide to me they once belonged to some left-wing revolutionary group. Youthful mistakes. The news of the final verdict in the Calabresi case was announced at the osteria by a lawyer who’d just returned from the court in Venezia. It was cocktail hour, and La Nena was packed. The conviction was.
Remind me I was on-call for him. The business with the Algerian taught him a lesson. No witnesses, no risks. I heard the key turn in the lock. Roberta. As far as I knew, she should’ve been at her parents’ that night. She rushed into the living room. “Amore, I have a surprise!” she said, pleased. “A CD with Alessandro Haber singing ‘I’ll Never See You Again.’” When she realized she was in the presence of somebody she didn’t know, she immediately buttoned up. “Excuse me,” she grumbled,.
Content myself with a used Panda. At the wheel of the compact I gave the impression of being the lowest gopher at Blue Skies. I consoled myself by dreaming of the pimpmobile I’d buy some day. One winter afternoon, as I was strolling beneath the porticoes, I stopped to look into the window of a shoe store. It belonged to a dealer who had the twin vices of dancers and blow. At the cash register I spotted a gorgeous woman about forty. Blond, turned-up nose, fleshy lips, blue eyes. I shifted over to.