Tarantula Read Online Free Page A

engineered a meeting with the Camorra. It was not unusual in that it was owned by the mafia, since they owned most of the property in this part of the country, but it was apparently the venue that they had chosen to vet those who wanted to see them. Milton went inside: wooden floors, simple wooden furniture, nautical items on the walls and ceiling, soft jazz playing through discreet hidden speakers. There was a simple bar with a generous array of bottles racked behind it. The food smelled good, and featured the staples of the area: fish, olive oil, mozzarella, garbanzo beans, salami, and confections made from figs.
    It took Milton ten seconds to identify Antonietta Agosti from her mugshot. She had been arrested by the carabinieri on a minor drugs charge six months earlier and Number Three had been able to find a copy of the photograph. She had looked sultry then, despite the bleaching from the harsh artificial lights and the orange jumpsuit that she had been wearing. The woman at the bar had the same thick black hair, the same olive skin and the same arrogant, expressive lips. She was dressed in a simple black dress that emphasised her natural curves.
    Milton crossed the room and took a space at to the bar next to her.
    “Miss Agosti?”
    She turned to him, wafting sweet scent in his direction. She looked at him with a cool, almost regal, regard.
    “Who is asking?”
    “My name is Smith.”
    “Do I know you?”
    “No.”
    “Then I am sorry, Signor Smith…”
    “But you know Mr. Owen Grieve, I believe.”
    A pause.
    “The name is not familiar.”
    Milton had seen the flicker in her eye and he knew what that meant. “Really? You met him here,” he said. “A week ago.”
    She frowned. “I do not know him.”
    He held her gaze until she had to look away. “That’s a pity. I want to speak to the men Mr. Grieve was dealing with. I have a very lucrative opportunity for them.”
    She shrugged expressively and said nothing.
    Milton stood. “Never mind. My mistake. I’m going to take a seat over there for half an hour. If you do find you remember him, you should come over and have a drink with me.”
     
    MILTON ORDERED a gin. He found a table where he could observe the bar and waited. He watched the woman. She spoke with the barman, spoke with a couple of the waiters from the restaurant. She looked at him on occasion and, upon noticing that he was looking at her, she turned her head away. He watched as she took a phone from her purse and pressed it to her ear. She glanced back at him again as she spoke and then looked away.
    He finished the drink and stood, taking the empty glass back to the bar so that he was stood next to her.
    “What do you want?” she said, her voice tight with nerves.
    “I’m not a policeman, Miss Agosti. Far from it.”
    “Then who are you?”
    “I worked with Mr. Grieve. We were part of the same enterprise. The same business. I don’t need to spell it out, do I?”
    “No.”
    “You knew him, then?”
    She paused and then, a decision made, she spoke quietly. “I met him here, as you say. Two times.”
    “You made some introductions for him?”
    She was flustered for a moment.
    “I’m not here for revenge. And, if I was, I wouldn’t be here for you. You’re just the go-between. I know that. My employer knows that.”
    “Yes,” she said, her confidence returning. “That is right. That is what I am.”
    His precise definition of her role, and the absolution of any responsibility she might have had in Number Three’s death, seemed to restore a measure of her previous haughtiness.
    “Would you have a drink with me?”
    She turned her head to look at him. He thought she was going to turn him down until she said, “Very well,” and gave a shallow nod of her head.
    Milton ordered two vodka martinis. The bartender shook vodka and vermouth together with ice, strained it into two fresh glasses and garnished with olives.
    Her eyes shone with a darkness and her lids were heavy and