“We’re cheap people,” Aldo replied. “Didn’t you work that out already?”
“So was it good?” Falcone continued, as if the man hadn’t spoken. “Having Bella marry into a family like the Arcangeli? A different class.”
“Hey!” Enzo bellowed. “They’re no different from us. We just don’t bother hiding the fact.”
“Shut up!” the father screamed. His eyes were watery with drink. He hadn’t shaved in a while. “They’re here to talk to me. And that’s what they’ll do.”
“So how did you feel about it, Aldo?” Peroni asked. “Good? Bad? Indifferent?”
“I didn’t feel anything! Bella was . . . hungry for a husband. She wanted someone she could control. Always the boss, that woman.”
His dead, drunk face turned on them suddenly. “Always. Not that anyone believed you, once she turned on the charm.”
“You’re saying she started what went on?” Falcone asked. “You being what, four, five years older?”
Aldo’s expression was unreadable under the dim lights. “I’m saying nothing about that. Not a damn thing.”
“When did it end?” Costa asked.
“Maybe it never started.”
Peroni sighed, slapping his big hands on his knees. “Aldo, we’re trying to help you here. That’s really difficult if you’re just going to feed us bullshit. We’ve seen the reports. We know something was going on.”
“All you know is the crap morons like that . . .” he nodded towards the front door, and the crowd outside, “ . . . spread around ’cause they’ve got nothing better to do with their lives.”
Costa wondered about this sad, embittered man. No money. No wife. No social life. The Braccis were outcasts in their own community. Just like the Arcangeli. Why? Because they were judged to be scum. Almost thirty years before, Aldo and Bella had proved it, by crossing the forbidden line.
“Was it her idea to let everyone know?” Costa asked. “We don’t want the details. We just need to try to understand.”
Aldo stifled a sour laugh. He grabbed the bottle back from Falcone and took a long swig.
“Bella was Bella,” he muttered. “She did what the hell she liked. She just loved being looked at. By anybody. Me? I was just one more fool on the list. It could have been anyone. She was . . .” He screwed his eyes shut, trying to force out the words. “ . . . older than the rest of us. Right from the start. I know that sounds like the self-serving crap you’d get from most men, but it’s true. I was just a dumb, teenage kid. Never was very good with girls. It was a game. We didn’t do it more than three times. That wasn’t the point. She wanted the excitement. The attention. It gave her a kick, having other people stare at us—”
“Dad,” Enzo interrupted, a bleak expression of shock on his face. This wasn’t a conversation the Braccis had had before. “You don’t have to do this.”
“No?” Aldo stared at his sons. He looked almost relieved to get it off his chest finally. “Listen to me. You’re going to hear all about it anyway. Best you get the right version. My version. Bella was crazy. You never saw that because by the time you’d come along she was smart enough to hide it. But she had this ability to make you crazy too, to lock you in that little world of hers so tight you thought that was the place that was real. Not what was out there, past the door. All the day-to-day shit. Chasing work. Trying to stay alive.”
“When did it end?” Costa asked.
“Years ago,” Aldo whispered. “It ended when the police came round and told my old man it wasn’t a joke, a piece of stupid local gossip. She’d been careful to keep him in the dark. If anyone said something, Bella just called them a liar, a mischief-maker. It couldn’t last forever. When the cops arrived, she turned innocent. Blamed everything on me. Which was true maybe. In a way. I dunno. Not anymore. I don’t know a damn thing. Just that my old man took me out there . . .” He nodded at the back door. Through the grimy window lay a small terraced yard, full of old junk. “ . . . and spent an hour or so beating me senseless.”
The two sons were seated by now, glassy-eyed, distraught. How many times had Aldo beaten them, Costa wondered? How often did the same old routine get passed down from generation to generation in places like this without anyone ever questioning it?
“When she died she was pregnant,” Falcone observed, getting straight to the point. “Any idea who the father might be?”
Bracci looked genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve got the medical reports,” Falcone insisted. “Six weeks pregnant. Was it you?”
“No!” Bracci seemed astonished, offended too. “I told you. Bella and I stopped that years ago. It only happened a couple of times, anyway.”
“Then who?” Costa asked.
“How about her husband?” the man spat back.
Falcone shook his head. “Physically impossible. We have medical records. Uriel couldn’t father children.”
“Then I swear to God I don’t know.”
“But you knew she had affairs?” the inspector continued, pushing all the time.
“I guessed,” he replied with a shrug. “Bella liked men. She always did. Uriel was an OK guy. For an Arcangelo. But he wasn’t . . .”
Aldo made a gesture, a down-turned finger, unmistakable. “At least,” he added, “that’s what she said.” He glowered at the grubby carpet. “Makes you wonder what she said about me.”
“You’re sure she didn’t tell you about the pregnancy?” Costa asked.
Aldo laughed. A short, dry sound. “Are you kidding? Bella didn’t say a word. If it couldn’t have been Uriel . . .” He shrugged again. “What would you expect? Guess she was planning to get rid of it.”
Just like that, Costa thought. Bella was a Bracci. And an Arcangelo too. Both equally practical. Deal with the child. Deal with the husband.
“It would really help,” Costa continued, “if someone else could corroborate where you were during Wednesday morning. Families—”
“How many goddamn times do we have to tell you?” It was Enzo, furious again. “Papa was with us. All the time. Go find someone with a reason to do this.”
That was, Costa thought, an excellent suggestion, and was about to say as much when there was a resounding, violent crash from the front of the house. All six men recoiled in sudden shock. Following behind the brick that had shattered the window came a bottle, a wad of burning fabric stuttering flames at its neck.
“It’s dealt with,” Peroni said instantly, and was on his feet in a flash, snatching out the crude fuse with his hands, uttering a quick curse, then extinguishing the rag with his big feet.
“Nice neighbours you’ve got,” he noted quietly, picking up the bottle by the neck, setting it upright on the table. “We’re supposed to have some people here to make sure things don’t get out of hand.”
Costa walked to the door and opened it. The crowd looked bigger now. All men, all laughing, joking, looking as if they’d like to run up a little lynching party later on, when some more drink had been taken.
Three uniformed cops stood in front of them, arms crossed, bored, unmoved.
Incandescent, Costa walked down and confronted the biggest, a man he recognised from the Questura in Castello.
“You’re here to stop that! Do your damn job.”
“Just came out of nowhere,” the cop mumbled, with half a smile on his face.
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Sure,” the uniform said, let loose a stupid, sarcastic smile, then wagged a finger at the mob. “You hear that! The Romans got orders for you. No more throwing bottles at the pervert. OK?”
They stood there, sniggering.
“Not while I’m looking,” the cop added.