Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  “So, I ask again, what course of action is left open to the priest? By condemning the Mafioso, is our Pope removing the Sacramental Seal? No! Is our Pope permitting the priest a form of discretion to report the penitent for his crimes? No, again! The priest merely threatens to excommunicate the penitent if he does not renounce the path of evil. In which case, the penitent simply leaves, only to return to the confessional to unburden himself of his crimes the next time he commits them, and so on. It is a riddle, eh?”

  “Not one for me to solve,” Ric replies. “But if solving it keeps you up at night, don’t count on getting any sleep soon.”

  The Commissario nods, knowingly. “Yes, it would if I did, but I don’t, so it does not. As I told you, I was merely waiting and watching.”

  “For what? I mean for what or for whom are you waiting out here in the middle of the night?”

  Talaia snorts, as if he finds it hard to believe Ric can ask such a naïve question. “You may not know it, but Signor Candela was murdered in the doorway to this house,” he points at the door opposite, which Ric now notices is crossed with police tape.

  “It is clear,” Talaia continues, “that our killer possesses a sense of melodrama too; shooting Signor Candela in the entrance to the house of Edda Ciano, eh? I wonder if our murderer means us to understand something of his motive by luring his victim to such a location.

  “Oh, forgive me again, I should have told you. We understand that shortly before his speech in the Piazza Mazzini, Signor Candela received a note inviting him to a meeting at this house. Against the advice of his security advisors, he came alone.”

  “I’d heard that.”

  Talaia straightens up, “Oh, yes?”

  “Gossip, Commissioner: word on the street, in the cafés.”

  “Of course, yes, I see.” He pauses. “But, I was thinking – something, as I have said, the modern policeman does not commit enough time to these days – if a man was possessed of such a desire for melodrama, perhaps he might be the sort of man who would relish returning to the scene of his perfectly executed crime.”

  “Perhaps,” Ric interrupts, “it’s your turn to forgive me, Commissario, but I think you’ve been reading too much Camilleri.”

  He lifts his hand and waggles a finger in denial, “No, but that is not to say I do not enjoy the work of this Sicilian; a trifle overcomplicated at times, a little like trying to find one’s way out of a Souk. But I suppose one must take into account that Camilleri is from Porto Empedocle near Agrigento, and Agrigento, as any educated man would know, is just across the water from Tunis. You like to read, Mr Ross?”

  “Sure, but whoever shot Candela would have to be pretty stupid to return to the scene.” And as Ric says what he is thinking, he realises in his next breath that that is exactly what the Commissario is thinking too.

  “Whoa! Hold on, Commissioner. Just because I happen to take the shortest route from Portinente to the Corta, it doesn’t mean to say I’ve dropped by for a quick gloat over Candela’s corpse.”

  “Gloat?” Talaia repeats, stepping closer to Ric. “This is a word I do not know. What does it mean?”

  “It means to glory in one’s triumph.”

  “Ah, you read dictionaries. I see you are interested in the way people use language. For myself, I have always found it important to listen to what people do not say, as much as what they do say. This word, gloat, it is also an interesting word,” Talaia repeats. “Its meaning – to glory in one’s triumph – has a rather Roman feel to it. But, Mr Ross, you are here and here is where Signor Candela was shot. So you can see why I am, let us say, interested.”

  “More of your uncomfortable coincidences, Commissioner?”

  “Exactly, Mr Ross! Exactly! And yet…” Talaia quiets, rubbing his cheek with his forefinger; appending his own gaudy punctuation to the melodrama of their meeting. “And yet, it is just possible the perpetrator of this crime would return to look for evidence he has left behind.”

  “I guessed there must be a good reason why you wanted to discuss apostolic conundrums at midnight in the Piazza San Bartolo, rather than at passeggio in the Marina Corta like everyone else.”

  Talaia chuckles, “Yes, there is, Mr Ross. There is.” The Commissario takes a small evidence bag from his pocket. The moonlight silvers on the clear plastic sac and inside it appear to be three small, bronzed metal cylinders.

  “Bullet casings?”

  “They are, Signor Ross. And they are most likely to be the casings from the rounds that were responsible for Signor Candela’s death. They were found near to Signor Candela’s body and one does not need the eyesight of an owl to know that he was shot from extremely close range. Would it interest you to know what calibre of gun they are from?”

  “Not particularly, but if you think it’s important, please go ahead.”

  “At first glance, a 9 millimetre of some sort; possibly an old semi-automatic pistol; the sort that was much in evidence during the Second Great War.”

  “I guess,” Ric suggests, “there must be a lot of old ordnance left over around this neck of the woods.”

  “Yes, Signor Ross, there is much that still hangs over us from the two Great Wars.” He pauses. “Now, I think we have spoken enough for one evening. If we have to speak again, which I have a feeling we will, I must say again how important it is for us to speak when it is not so easy for others to take an interest in what we might be speaking about; word on the street, in the cafés, as you so rightly say. You know how it is, eh? I notice you don’t carry a cellphone.”

  “Don’t have much call for one, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  “Ah,” Talaia sighs. “I know what you mean by this.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yes, of course. Cellphones are a constant interruption to our thought and relaxation. How can a man think or relax if his phone rings and people know where he is all the time?”

  Ric knows what the policeman is getting at: cellphone tracking by multilateration of radio signals and GPS. “I’m sure if I need you, I’ll find you, Commissario.”

  “I am sure you will, Mr Ross. The police station is not far from your current residence. It is on the Via Marconi Guglielmo, but you will see me around the town. Buonanotte, Signor Ross.”

  “Buonanotte, Commissario.”

  39

  The Marina Corta is peaceful. The late-closing cafés play host to a few escurzionisti parting with the last of their day’s wages.

  Sandro is sitting in his usual haunt, Giuliana is absent and her guardian lends Ric another of his menacing stares as he strolls beneath the statue of San Bartolo. The citadel looms over the fishing boats like a monumental night-watchman: the little ships will be safe for as long as San Bartolo can keep his eyes open.

  The clothes and knick-knack shops on the Garibaldi are long closed and the Muslim women lean out of their second-floor windows to watch him pass beneath.

  He holds back for a moment, thinking he could take the little alley; it is the shortest route home. But having just made the same mistake – a mistake which led him to bump into the Commissario in the Maddalena – he decides the safer route would be less direct, and he knows that once he leaves the brightly lit Garibaldi, he will be consigned to the impenetrable gloom of the vicolos which lead to his room.

  The breeze has picked up and the sign above the farmacia tells him the temperature has dropped to the low twenties. Even though the narrow corridor of stars still shine clear and bright high above his head, he knows the storms will have departed their perch above the mountains of the mainland and will be making their way towards the islands.

  Ric isn’t certain, but he thinks he can hear someone following him.

  Halfway up the rise of the Garibaldi, Ric pauses to glance in through the darkened windows of a trattoria. The awnings are rolled back and the chairs and tables cleared and stacked inside. The sound of footsteps from behind him ceases, so he moves on a few paces and turns the corner into the Maurolico and again imme
diately left into the confines of the little Vico Selinunte, which lead back down the slope.

  But the entrance to the poky little vico is exposed by the light thrown by the neon sign of the pharmacy, so he treads softly ten paces and slips into a doorway.

  Making himself as slim as possible so that his profile does not show against the light stuccoed walls, he waits.

  Whoever it is that is following him is also waiting and listening before entering the cramped alley.

  Eventually the figure begins walking down towards him.

  Ric cannot judge the size of his stalker because the lack of light lends the other man a similar advantage. And it strikes him that his stalker might just be Giuliana, coming once more to force her charms on him. He breathes gently and waits; for the second time in an hour a tide of adrenalin surges through his form.

  But, it isn’t a girl; it is a man who breathes heavily and, like Ric, pauses to listen now and then.

  As he nears Ric, he halts again and looks over his shoulder.

  While he is distracted, Ric steps down and as the man turns to face forward again, Ric traps his left hand around the man’s throat, squeezes it hard and lifts the man violently off his feet up against the opposite wall.

  “Listen to me, whoever you are,” he hisses, “I don’t like being followed so…” Something about the man’s hair and the way it hangs down around his neck is familiar to Ric.

  The man gurgles as he tries to speak through gritted teeth, but he doesn’t resist.

  Ric loosens his grip, but keeps the man pinned up against the wall so that his feet do not quite touch the ground.

  The man tries again to speak and this time manages to whisper, “Gallese… wait… it is me… Sandro.”

  Ric runs his right hand down the man’s shoulder and realises by their slope that the figure he has hold of can only be one man, Sandro. He relaxes his hand around the escurzionista’s throat, eases him back down to his feet and releases him.

  “What the bloody hell are doing, following me around like this? You’ll get yourself hurt,” Ric hisses.

  Sandro doubles and gags and clutches at his throat. “What are you trying to do, Gallese, kill me?”

  “Jesus, Sandro, a simple hello would have done well enough.”

  But Sandro is wheezing and spluttering.

  Chevrons of light appear on Sandro’s anguished face: the neighbours are awake.

  “Come on, you idiot,” Ric murmurs as he pulls his hapless night-stalker down the vico.

  Sandro coughs and splutters as they twist and turn through the warren back to Ric’s room.

  They pause at the last corner and Ric realises his charge is making so much noise that anyone else hiding in the darkened alley would likely as not have heard them coming and legged it.

  He pours a glass of water from the sink. “Sorry to have been so rough on you, my friend.” He passes the dejected figure the only olive branch available to him.

  “Gallese… next time,” he gags as he drinks, “I get into a disagreement with my mother,” he drinks again, “make sure you are near me, eh? I think you are a match for her.”

  Ric chuckles in admiration at Sandro’s humour.

  “Do you have anything stronger?” he asks, blinking and thrusting his glass across the table. Sandro rubs at his neck, as if to remind his assailant of the disrespect he has done him and therefore why he warrants a stronger drink.

  “Sure,” Ric replies and gets up to liberate a bottle of wine from the fridge.

  When he opens the bottle, the pop of the cork causes the escurzionista to flinch.

  “Okay, Sandro, I’ll ask again. What the hell are you doing following me home?”

  He looks up from beneath his curtain of curly black hair, his expression way past miserable.

  “Did you not refuse to have a beer with me the last time we met because you wanted to talk in private? Well,” he raises his arms in appeal, “this is my idea of private. So I come to your house to talk, rather than talk in the café where we can be seen, and you beat the shit out of me. I say this for you, Gallese; you have a funny way of showing your appreciation.”

  “I said I’m sorry, Sandro. But bumping into people in the dark twice in one night is apt to make me a little tense.”

  Sandro eyebrows disappear up into his mop of hair, “Twice? Who else have you met this night?”

  “Never mind all that. What have you come to tell me that makes you so eager to go stealing about like a thief?”

  Sandro sits upright and purses his lips at Ric’s inference. “Not nice,” he says. “If you ask me questions about things I notice, you have to be nice. You have been nice with Sandro so far, why now so insulting?”

  Ric understands that the escurzionista wants a little love while he thinks he is being screwed. “You’re right, my friend.” He smiles a patronising but slightly camp smile and reaches across the table to stroke Sandro’s arm lightly, “I’m really sorry. What can I do to make it better?”

  Sandro withdraws his arm quickly. “Hey, don’t joke about this kind of stuff. The President of Sicily may be gay, but this is not my way.”

  “Okay, okay! Look, I’m sorry I was a little harsh on you. What have you found out?”

  Now that Sandro believes he has the upper hand he demonstrates his new-found status by taking his time; he finishes his glass of wine and refills it without asking.

  Ric grins, but not so much that his companion might mistake his look for amusement. “Come on, Sandro, enough games. I haven’t got all night.”

  Sandro straightens up in his chair, leans forward over the table and whispers, “The policeman, the little man I told you about who orders everyone about after Candela is shot, he is not La Polizia from Milazzo; he is from the north and he is the Chief Commissario of a new taskforce investigating corruption in politics.”

  “Investigating Mafia?”

  “No, not necessarily Mafia. People are saying he is investigating many politicians in Palermo, Catania, Messina and Bagheria…”

  “Please, wait a minute, my friend.” Ric holds up his hand to interrupt Sandro’s inventory of Sicilian towns and cities. Do you mean he was investigating Candela?”

  Sandro nods, his expression one of disbelief that Ric can be so stupid, “Of course. Candela began his political career in Bagheria before he bought his ticket to the Palazzo dei Normanni in Palermo.”

  “Bagheria,” Ric repeats, as he stares at the table and tries to remember if he has heard of the town before.

  “But,” Sandro carries on, “this policeman is investigating all of them.” He hunches his shoulders even closer to his head and spreads his arm in appeal, “Hey, Gallese, just because they are centre-left and they call themselves Democrats doesn’t mean they are any less corrupt than the centre-right party who call themselves the People of Freedom, eh?” Sandro pauses and scratches his mop of black hair.

  “I guess not,” Ric replies. “So, tell me about him. What do you know about Candela?”

  “Oh, the usual. He was a young comunista; campaigned for shorter working hours, better working conditions, better pensions. He became a labour man, then a union representative, and finally a socialist councilman. It is the way they climb the tree of politics; and, let me tell you, they don’t mind if they tread on the heads and hands of others on their way up, eh?”

  “Sounds like a pleasant enough guy,” Ric adds with requisite sarcasm.

  “Sure,” Sandro nods. “Like most. They start out with nothing, like all good communists, eh?” he bridles. “They earn a little bit money for themselves and soon enough they learn it is easier to take the money from another man’s wages rather than have to work for it with their own hands, so they become union men. The next year they learn they don’t want to mix with all these ignorant, dirty people, so they get work with the council and get to wear a suit that hasn’t already seen a hundred funerals. A few years later, they are wearing Armani, sitting in a nice office with a view over the Palazzo Reale. You see
how it goes?”

  Sandro is pleased with his monologue and deems his efforts worthy of another glass of wine. Once he has drained half of it, he continues, “Then, of course, they put the little woman in a villa out of town, the children go to school in Bologna and the politician has a mistress in a fancy apartment near the Teatro Massimo; all very expensive. They spend much time in Brussels eating and drinking, but one day a man who knew a friend of his brother’s asks this politician to help him get permission to build a small factory in Catania, or perhaps the politician knows how to dispose of certain Carbon Credits from Romania, or set up a ghost company which moves fuel from one country to another to avoid paying duty. It is the only way they can afford such a style of life.

  “Pah! They are all the same.” Sandro shrugs as if someone has just thrown a lice-ridden jacket over his shoulders.

  “And Candela?” Ric asks, “Is he any different?”

  “Why should he be? I told you, they are all the same.” The escurzionista thinks. “Ah, I remember one thing, or maybe it was more than one, I don’t know.”

  Ric reaches across the table and pours the rest of the bottle into his companion’s glass.

  Sandro smiles appreciatively and sips. “Mmm, you know, I remember talk from some years ago… The current President of Sicily, Rosario Crocetta, is from Gela near Agrigento. When he tried to run for the office of Mayor in 2002, the Mafia fix the election against him. The next year, Tribunali Amministrativi Regionali finds out about this fix and reverses the result. Crocetta is instated and the Mafia, because they don’t like this insult to their authority, bring in a Lithuanian to assassinate him. The Lithuanian fails.” He holds his palms up in surrender. “They try to silence Crocetta again in 2008 and again in 2010, but they are not so good at their work.”

  Ric is none the wiser. “So the President leads a charmed life!”