Imago Mortis

By Samuel Marolla

Augusto Ghites is a junkie. His drug: the ashes of the dead. His trip: reliving the lives of those whose ashes he sniffs and interacting with their ghosts.
To obtain those ashes - to get his fix - he needs money. And there’s no better job for someone who can talk to ghosts than that of a private eye.
When an old prostitute hires him to investigate the death of her colleague, Ghites thinks that it's just an average, everyday case. But together with the King Lizard, he will discover that there are forces at play that are well beyond his capabilities to control.
Set in a decadent Milan and told in perfect noir style, this horror tale introduces a dark and self-destructive occult detective in the best hard-boiled tradition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acheron Books
• Release date: Dec 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9788899216085

Samuel Marolla

I was born in Milan (Italy), where I actually live. I'm a speculative fiction writer and a comic-book writer. I publish with several publishers, both in Italy and worldwide.

Book preview

PART I

When You're Strange

People are strange

when you're a stranger.

Jim Morrison

Milan – January 2013.

The sky hung low over the city, bloated and sodden like a rag wiped over a filthy floor. The appointment was in two hours and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I drove around for a while. With the massive housing complexes under construction, the working at a standstill for years due to the infiltration of the ‘ndrangheta or because the money had run out – it all looked like the ruins of an alien society without a hint of good taste that fled the planet right before the apocalypse. Black water dripped on dead trees planted beyond the fences and barbed wire, brown puddles connected in gurgling trickles, trade union banners on the grey walls of closed-down factories bellowed in the bitter breeze; chimneypots belched out black smoke on a coral reef of satellite dishes, the pretty red-tile roofs of the old Milan were ravaged by the infestation of new and unsold attic rooms, the walls resembling asbestos painted dung.

I passed San Vittore and headed for the Darsena, the old dock, which had grown so dry and stinking it resembled a titanic toilet dumped in a field, abandoned railways glittered along the banks, while the evening shadows were closing in along Via Washington and Corso Vercelli, seeping in between the buildings as the setting sun beckoned the night life to kick in, the roads in the early sunset were filling with cars and I got caught in the middle, mobile phones rang and rang, laughter burst out but I couldn’t hear what had triggered it, the red circles of cigarettes being smoked in the passenger compartments drew odd figures, the fluorescent neon lights of the clubs along the Navigli flickered on like Christmas lights, the air smelt of rust and wet asphalt and the electricity of the trams’ sparkling cables, the rain pattered away on the windshield.

It was still Milan – to hell with it – it was Milan in a storm and I had got lost in it again, like a senseless old habit you just can’t shake off.

Topaz lived in a penthouse in the new Santa Giulia neighbourhood; it was in a building that had been confiscated due to bankruptcy. I got there as the rain subsided. The area looked like Fukushima after the tsunami and the nuclear plant disaster. The cookie-cutter white buildings under the street-lights appeared to be made of plywood. In the middle, a huge rectangular field resembled a meteor crater; a black, foaming pond had formed due to toxic waste seeping into the water-bearing stratum. It’d take decades, I thought, to dig up all the shit they’d buried there. Meanwhile the night air was already poisoned with the chemical stench of tires set on fire by the gypsies, the black smoke spiralling over the two nomad camps on Via San Dionigi.

I parked, rang the doorbell and climbed to the top floor. The flat was nice and neat, as usual, as if someone tidied it up by magic every morning to make it safe again, or so I reckoned, given that Topaz was a sort of a coke-snuffing Willy Wonka gone psycho.

There was always this soft light coming from the colour-glass lamps. The furniture was all ethnic – from China or Tibet – and bought at Cargo shop. A glass display cabinet contained a small shark in formalin. Topaz sat in a cream-colour leather sofa. Behind him stood the liqueur cabinet and on the wall hung a modern art painting that looked like some drunkard had puked on a canvas. The air was stuffy, with a lingering odour of eau de cologne and the sweetish smell of heated coke. There was a silver tray with a rolled-up banknote and the remains of the lines he’d snuffed. He looked at me through those white, softish, octopus-like eyes of his, with that gaze of a person who’d figured something out through and through and, in any case, had definitely figured it out better than you.

Hi Ghites, hi dude. Come on in, have a seat. I won’t have them bring you anything ‘cause I know you don’t like it.

Thanks anyway, I replied as I sat down in front of him and lit a cigarette. So, what’s up?

Topaz shrugged. His forehead beaded with sweat and he kept chortling like he was having convulsions. He was watching the massive plasma screen in front of him, the sound turned off, the channel was tuned in to Red Bull TV, airing extreme sports clips non-stop. A car drove by outside honking like there was no tomorrow. You have no idea. I’m so pissed off. The other day the cops were up my ass just because I went for a Cuba. I mean half an hour, man – that’s how long it takes for a drink with some friends, half an hour at the most, he said through his teeth as they ground away like a snare. The real problem isn’t the cops, though. It’s the Romanians.

What Romanians? What do you mean?

I owe fifty thousand neuros to a band of Romanian Roma.

And what wonderful things did you do to earn this debt?

Poker. Texas Hold’em, man. I love that shit. The guys from Naples cut my credit line so I went to the Roma’s gambling den on Via Idro. You know how it works.

Yeah, I knew how Topaz worked.

Hey, your place isn’t bugged, is it? I asked suddenly. Jesus, sometimes I go completely paranoid.

Bugged? No way man, relax. I have the place cleaned out every three months and I’m here all the time anyway, so when the hell would they break in? I found the stuff you wanted.

That’s what I’m here for.

It was a mess. I’ll give you the low-down. There’s these two friends, no, these two guys from Naples I told you about; they’re staying at my place and…

Hold it, I said, raising the hand with the cigarette. I puffed out a cream-coloured cloud of smoke. Tell me some other time, outside. You never know.

I told you the place is clean. What

You never know I said again. God, I really hated this stuff. It was my only indulgence in the illegal and immoral and I didn’t want to get caught like a dunce, like the big brainless mafia bosses that get caught because they make calls with their own mobile phones and mutter: So, d’you whack the guy like I ordered? That kind of stuff drove me crazy.

By this point the chortler was dying to talk to someone; he was so full of coconut that he would’ve even talked to the Chinese furniture – and maybe that was what he’d been doing before I got there. But I wasn’t his padre – in fact, I wasn’t even his friend, or at least I hadn’t been since high school, good God, I just wanted my stuff so I could go off somewhere and snuff it. Public relations – twenty more minutes of public relations and I’d be free. But public relations were probably what I hated the most in the world. There’s something I just don’t get. Why do you keep the house in Lanzarote when you can’t go there anymore?

He took a cigarette from my packet on the Tibetan table, lit it and sucked on it like a straw, he burnt half of it away with a single drag.

It’s reassuring. One day I’m gonna let go of all this and retire there. Anyway, it’s not exactly in Lanzarote – it’s almost in the Timanfaya, the national park, the volcanic one. Kick-ass stuff, man. You can see the craters from the main bedroom’s balcony.

I thought building in a national park was forbidden.

Yeah, it’s been seized and they’re planning to knock it down. I had it built ten years ago by a Medellin drug dealer who got whacked out in the Mexican desert, then it ended up in my hands. I’ll tell you how it all worked out.

Forget it. What about your dad?

He’s still pumping dough my way but he’s up my ass – he says I have to deal with his business down there. You know my dad’s got those two resorts in the Canaries and I have to see Samsara.

He’s right.

I know he’s right. She’s my daughter. I’m such a fucker, he said clasping his hands to his face. His voice broke. I’m such a fucker – I left my daughter at the Canaries and got caught like some lame-ass loser in Italy with a briefcase full of fake fucking cash. I had to switch topic somehow or he’d keep me there all night busting my balls about his sucker life as a failed and out-of-time Great Gatsby.

Come on now. Man up, Mario. Your daughter needs you. How long’s it been since you last saw her?

Two years, man. She’s already five.

When does your house arrest end?

Eight months with pardon.

Eight months are nothing. Once they’re up you go back to Lanzarote, see Samsara, spend a year there and keep your dad happy. Then you go back to doing whatever it is you like – but first get that stuff sorted out.

Great idea. You’re right. You’re always right, Ghites. You know why I really like talking to you? ‘Cause you always know the right thing to do. Seriously.

Sure, the story of my life. Can I have my stuff, Topaz?

Great idea, he said again. He went into another room. I heard him open a cabinet.

I stared at the swastikas carved into the Tibetan wood table, as my cigarette smoke swirled around it. Topaz was back in an instant. He handed me an Asian casket the size of a tuna tin.

"Here you