Lucky Dog 1 translations 09 Ivan route 02
Part 3: Daivan
Disposal Pt 1
I get off at the end of the block. We’re at the district Ivan’s store is in. I head towards the café “Mongibello.”
Ivan’d called from the phone inside there. I turn the corner in front of the shop, when…
Ivan: …Shit … shit … shit, that stupid fucking idiot!
He seems more pissed off than usual. Like something’s worrying him … or really annoying him.
|Gian: I saw the steam billowing from a block away. Cool down.|
Ivan: You’re late, stupid!!
Ivan crunches the lollipop he’d been sucking on to bits and spits all of it out along with the stick. …He’s practically boiling over, the stupid idiot.
|Gian: I said, cool down. Here.|
I open the box of smokes I’d picked up at the hotel and stick it out to Ivan. He glares at me with the eyes of a rabid dog…
He takes the cigarette and lights it up with the match I lit for him. He takes a draft, a big deep breath like he’s trying to turn the whole thing to ash in one shot…
|Ivan: …What’d the old man say?|
|Gian: Just what you’d said over the phone. Calm down. Even without this, everyone’s already on edge. Plus … you said the scene’s on Palermo Street this time?|
Palermo Street, and not the one in Rome. It passes straight through downtown Daivan, which is basically the Italian section of the city in the residential area.
It’s right next to a district filled to the brim with Italians, where the houses stand separately, side by side. It’s an old historical district, about as old as Daivan itself.
The rich live there, as do the bigwigs in the city. In other words, the higher-up Italians who’ve had a say in our family since back in the days of the Toscanini live there.
The place’s always been under the Boss’s direct control … but to tell the truth, we just pay them tribute, passing it off as ‘protection money,’ and they never listen to our orders.
…And Ivan, the non-Italian he is, is now heading there.
It’s no wonder why Gramps’s stomach started acting up…
I get into the Chevrolet Ivan’d been driving and we head over to Palermo Street.
…It was all a mess of bad timing.
When the call’d come in, no one was there, not even Bernardo. The only one who’d gotten the word, and who could act, was Ivan and Ivan alone.
And then Ivan went and talked to the person who’d given the call before ringing up the hotel from the café earlier, the Mongibello. …And that was how he’d gotten in touch with me and the Consigliere.
I light up a smoke and hand it to Ivan, who’s at the wheel.
|Gian: You know where it is?|
|Ivan: …Yeah, took it down.|
|Gian: We’ll check the place out first… If it turns out we really have to, we’ll call the cleaners.|
|Ivan: I know already! …Heh, so they’re afraid what careless shit I’ll do if I go into their pretty little territory alone?|
|Gian: …Yeah, that’s about right.|
My words are laced with irritation.
|Gian: Think about the situation! Even in normal circumstances you’re standing in a tough spot. So, please, I’m begging you, just be smart ‘bout this.|
|Ivan: …Tsk, I know.|
Ivan bites down on something invisible and, with an audible krrk, grits his teeth and glares ahead of him.
|Gian: So…? Some gentlemen in the city … suddenly demanded to use our cleanup crew?|
|Ivan: …Yeah. It’s like they think we’re shop boys, always here to take care of their orders. Shit, what a load of bull! There’s only so far you can go bustin’ someone’s balls!|
…The cleanup crew. In other words, the people in charge of dead body disposal. The CR:5 has a few people, and they take care of all kinds of cleanup under Bernardo’s command.
This time … some influential gentlemen on Palermo Street, in other words an Italian of the old family, ‘d suddenly contacted the CR:5.
He’d demanded we send over the cleanup to one of the houses there, completely out of the blue. Plus, he’d acted like he’d been giving orders to his own men. …Which means…
In some corner in this pretty city, there’s a not-so-pretty corpse rolling around. …What we’re doing now is checking up on the situation.
If Ivan’d gone alone, any little argument’d more likely than not turn into a fight, and he only knows maybe half the necessary Italian, which was why Gramps’d sent me.
|Gian: Something must’ve gone down if they suddenly needed the cleaners.|
|Ivan: Fuck if I know. Heh, maybe they put their so-called honor and pride on the line and had a duel or something?|
…It’s not impossible. But, even so … if that’s the case, then why didn’t they just call the funeral home? They’d skipped straight over the police and had gone straight to the Mafia cleanup crew…
|Ivan: It’s there. That house.|
Ivan points ahead…
A small private road splits off from the main street and leads into a slightly isolated area. The place has the feel of a residential development area, with new houses lined up along the tiny road.
One of the houses standing in line looks no different from any of the others. It’s got a lawn and one of those white fences surrounding it, too. Our Chevrolet parks out in front of the cozy-looking house.
…The moment my eyes fall on that house, a chill dribbles down my back. Why…? It’s a bad feeling, like every light bulb in the house’d been suddenly cut short without warning.
Maybe the people inside are out. The shutters are down on all the windows.
There’re two other cars in front of the house. A Ford like the one the crumbs ride, and an expensive Pierce-Arrow. …No one’s in either.
|Gian: …Let’s go.|
We cut across the tiny house’s yard. Just as I’m about to open the front door, I freeze in my tracks. The windows to the house…
|Gian: Hey, Ivan… …The hell is this…?|
|Ivan: Hm..? What the—? They’re nailed…?!|
The shutters had looked like they were down over the windows … but, close up, they’re pinned shut from the outside by countless nails…
Wh-what the hell’s going on…? I gulp…
…and then open the front door.
…There’s someone here. The fact is obvious to me, like that feeling you get when you know someone’s there, like there’s a source radiating heat inside this house. Someone’s in one of the inside rooms, the one with light spilling out into the hall.
|Gian: We’re the CR:5. We’re coming in.|
I call to them in Italian. I can’t ignore the possibility that bullets might come flying any second.
Gentleman 1: …You’re finally here! Over here! Hurry!
A horribly oppressive voice, probably a middle-aged man’s, echoes from beyond the door. Ivan and I trade glances again.
|Ivan: Please. I’m bad with Italian. If it’s something bad, translate for me.|
I open the door and enter the room. Even though it’s noon out, the room’s only lit by electric lights. The windows’re closed shut, keeping out the sun.
Gentleman 2: We’ve been waiting for you for so long! Thank you for coming, thank you so much!
This the living room? There’s three guys standing in the middle of the room. …But, everything’s all scattered about. …No matter how I look at this, it doesn’t look like the house belonging to a crumb.
Gentleman 1: Hm? You’re the cleanup crew?
The one who suddenly talks to us is the oppressive-looking middle-age Italian. He’s got muscle, but his high-quality suit wraps tightly around his slovenly fat body.
Next to him’s a thin guy, also with a pretty good suit. He looks like he’s probably some clerk at a bank. The last guy’s probably a chauffeur?
Gentleman 1: You’ll be taking care of this. Shit, of all the…! Can’t believe they’d caused us so much trouble!
Driver: I’ll pull the car out.
Gentleman 2: Y-Yes, let’s go, Director. You two, we’ll leave the rest to you.
|Ivan: Hey… Hey, hey! You’re not following us.|
|Gian: We’re not the cleanup crew. We’re the CR:5. We came ahead to confirm the situation. Do you have a body?|
Gentleman 1: What’d you say?!
The man curses irritably as he glares at us. His face, his expression, his eyes … they’re all those of a guy used to telling other off.
Gentleman 1: You bastards…! Hoodlums! You’ve made me wait this long, and for what, to ‘confirm the situation?!’ Just how much do you think we pay you…!
Gentleman 2: Wh-What…?! You mean you’re not … the Mafia in charge of body disposal…?!
Ivan: Why you…
Even Ivan seems to understand insults in Italian. …Shit, he’s seriously chomping at the bit here.
|Gian: We’re not hoodlums. Watch your mouth. We are both capos of the CR:5. …So, why don’t we both be polite and respectful towards each other. Right?|
Gentleman 1: What…?! You say … you’re capos…?
The man, probably the director of some firm or plant, sputters out those words before snapping his mouth shut.
Gentleman 1: Damn…
Any more insults will literally be a problem between blood. The fatty irritably jerks his chin at us. The skinny white-collar stares at us with fish eyes…
…before pushing aside the creepy chauffeur-like person and … opening the door to the bedroom behind him.
It’s completely dark inside.
…No, there’s some sunlight peeking hazily through the curtains, putting the whole room, bed and all, into sharp contrast.
Driver: …They’re inside. Please, hurry up. In this season, they’ll start rotting and stinking quickly.
Gentleman 2: Y-Yeah, and then the neighbors would notice, right? So please, dispose of them quickly.
…Their words don’t even enter my ears.
|Gian: …No way…|
The stench of death … permeates through the room.
There’s a bedroom inside. A big master bedroom, with one of those queen beds and a south-facing window.
But, everything inside’s scattered about, just like out here. …That’s not what we notice, though. What catches ours eyes… The ‘things’ in this room that draw our eyes towards them…
…are the shadows pasted to the windows.
The moment I call to them, I realize it’s pointless.
Ivan’s lips also tremble.
At first, I’d thought it was the curtains, bunched up in two spots.
…Instead, there were two women, hanging from the curtain rail by their necks.