The MAFIA in that part of ITALY called him Tarantula. A tattoo of a spider decorated his face. The abdomen of the insect was on his right cheek, covering it from the cheekbone to the line of his jaw. The eight legs spread up to his eye, his forehead, towards his ear and down to his throat and the corner of his lips. His head was shaved and the rest of his skin was decorated, too. There was a pistol and a grenade. A neat line of cursive script above his right ear declared, in Italian, "La vita `e dolore."
Life is pain.
Tarantula had become his nom de guerre. He was a hunter, just like the spider, and just as deadly.
The road followed the line of the cliff, bending in a slow and gentle curve. It was fenced for much of its length but this span of half a mile or so was unguarded, with a steep drop that terminated in deep waters fifty feet below. The unfenced part came at the apex of a sharp hairpin. It was necessary for drivers to slow right down to make the turn, to thirty or forty miles an hour maximum, before they could increase their speed again for the straight run ahead.
That was important.