“My dear Montalbano!”
“Congratulations. I didn’t know you’d been promoted.” “Thanks. That was already a year ago.” An implicit reproach. Translation:So,cornuto,it’s been a year since I last heard from you.
“I wanted to know if Marshal Lagana is still on the job.” “For a little while yet.”
“He once helped me out in a big way, and I was wondering if I could ask him for his help again, with your permission, of course…”
“Absolutely. I’ll put him on. He’ll be delighted.”
“Lagana? How’s it going? …Listen, could I have half an hour ofyour time? Yes?…You don’t know how grateful I am …No, no,I’ll come to you, in Montelusa. Is tomorrow evening around six-thirty all right?”
The moment he hung up, Mimi Augello walked in with a dark look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Beba called and said Salvuccio seems a bit agitated.”
“You know something, Mimi? It’s you and Beba who are agitated, and if you keep getting agitated like this, you’re going to drive the kid insane. For his first birthday, I’m going to buy him a tiny little straitjacket made to measure, so he can get used to it from an early age.”
Mimi didn’t appreciate the remark. His face went from dark to downright black.
“Let’s talk about something else, all right? “What did the commissioner want?”
“We didn’t meet. He had to go to Palermo.”
“Explain to me why this business of Liguori coming here smells fishy to you.”
“Explaining a sensation is not easy.”
“Try.”
“Mimi, Liguori descends on us after Senator Nicotra dies in Vigata—from drugs, though we’re not supposed to say so. You yourself thought the same thing, if I remember correctly. Two others died before Nicotra, but they race over here only after the senator dies. My question is, for what purpose?”
“I don’t understand,” said Augello, confused.
“I’ll be clearer. These guys want to find out who it was that sold the, let’s say, ‘tainted’ stuff to the senator, to prevent other people, bigwigs like the senator, from coming to the same end. They’ve obviously been put under pressure.”
“And don’t you think they’re right to do what they’re doing?”
“Absolutely right. It’s just that there’s a problem.” What?”
“Officially, Nicotra died of natural causes. Therefore whoever sold him the stuff is not responsible for his death. If we arrest him, it will come out that the guy sold his drugs not only to the senator but to a whole slew of the senators’ playmates—politicos, businessmen, and other high rollers. A scandal. A big mess.”
“And so?”
“And so, when we arrest him and all hell breaks loose, we’ll get swept up in it, too. We who arrested him, not Liguori and company. People will come and tell us we should have proceeded more cautiously, others will accuse us of acting like the judges in Milan, all Communists seeking to destroy the system … In short, the commissioner and Liguori will have covered their asses, whereas ours will look like the Mont Blanc Tunnel.”
“So what should we do?”
“We? Mimi, Liguori spoke toyou,who are the commissioner’s rising star. I’ve nothing to do with it.” “Okay. What should I do?” “Stick to the finest tradition.” “Which is?”
“Armed conflict. You were getting ready to arrest the guy when he opened fire. You reacted and were forced to kill him.”
“Get out of here!”
“Why?”
“First of all, because that kind of reaction is not my style and, second, because nobody’s ever heard of a drug dealer, even a big fish, trying to avoid arrest by shooting his way out.”
“You’re right. So, still in keeping with tradition, you arrest him but don’t immediately turn him over to the judge. You discreetly let everyone know that you’re keeping him here for two days. On the morning of the third day, you have him transferred to prison. Meanwhile the others will have had all the time in the world to get organized, and you’ll only have to sit and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For the dealer to get served coffee in prison. Good coffee. Like the coffee they gave Pisciotta and Sindona. That way the accused clearly will no longer be able to supply a list of his clients. And they all lived happily ever after. And that’s the end of my story.”
Mimi, who until that moment had been standing, suddenly sat down.
“Listen, let’s think rationally about this.”
“Not now. Think about it tonight. In any case Salvuccio will be keeping you awake. We’ll talk about it again tomorrow morning, with a fresh mind. It’s better this way. Now bug off, ‘cause I’ve got a phone call to make.”
Augello left, doubtful and dazed.
“Michela? Montalbano here. Would you mind if I dropped by your place for five minutes? No, no news. Just for…All right, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He buzzed the intercom, went in, and climbed the stairs. Michela was waiting for him in the doorway. She was dressed the same way as the first time Montalbano met her.
“Good evening, Inspector. Didn’t you say you couldn’t come by today?”
“I did. But my meeting with the commissioner was canceled, and so …”
Why didn’t she invite him inside?
“How’s your mother?”
“Better, given the circumstances. Enough that she let my aunt persuade her to go stay with her.”
She couldn’t bring herself to invite him in.
“I wanted to tell you that, knowing I was here alone, a friend of mine came to see me. She’s inside. I could send her away, if you want. But since I have nothing to hide, you can act as though she weren’t there.”
“Are you saying I can speak openly in front of your friend?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, for me it’s not a problem.”
Only then did Michela stand aside to let him in. The first thing the inspector saw as he entered the living room was a great mass of red hair.
Paola the Red!he said to himself. Angelo’s girlfriend before Elena.
Paola Torrisi-Blanco, upon close examination, was forty-ish, but at first glance she could have easily passed for ten years younger. A good-looking woman, no doubt about that. Which proved that Angelo liked them prime quality.
“If I’m in the way …” said Paola, standing up and extending her hand to the inspector.
“Not at all!” Montalbano said ceremoniously. “Among other things, it saves me a trip to Montelusa.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“I was planning to have a little chat with you.”
They all sat down and exchanged silent, polite smiles. A grand old get-together among friends. After an appropriate pause, the inspector turned to Michela.
“How’d it go with Judge Tommaseo?”
“Don’t remind me! That man is a…He’s got only one thing on his mind … Some of the questions he asks … it’s so embarrassing.”
“What did he ask you?” Paola asked mischievously.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Michela.
Montalbano imagined the scene: Tommaseo lost in Michela’s ocean eyes, red-faced, short of breath, trying to picture the shape of her tits under her penitent’s frock and asking her: “Do you have any idea why your brother’s organ was completely exposed while he was being murdered?”
“Did Tommaseo say when you can hold the funeral?” “Not for another three days. Is there any news?” “In the investigation? For the moment it’s at a standstill. I came to see you to try to get it going again.” “I’m at your disposal.”
“Michela, if you remember, when I asked you how much your brother earned, you said he brought home enough to maintain three people and two apartments fairly well. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be more precise?”
“It’s not easy, Inspector. He didn’t have a fixed income or monthly salary. His earnings varied. There was a guaranteed minimum revenue, as well as the reimbursement of expenses and a percentage on the products he managed to sell. Naturally, what really affected things, and in a positive way, was the commission percentage. And now and then there were also performance bonuses. But I wouldn’t know how to translate all that into figures.”