Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Then she’d decided to join the police force, after boarding school. A decision that, deep down, though he gave no outward sign, the general had approved. What the old man didn’t know was that it had been at boarding school, on a rainy night, that his blushing daughter had discovered her true nature with a particularly outgoing roommate.

  Alex was never going to get married because Alex wasn’t interested in men.

  Alex liked women.

  Unfortunately, she lacked the strength to be her own person, and for this, she hated herself. She hated herself because she had to go out at night to special clubs, because she had to wear a mask, because she had to pretend to be someone else in order to brush her fingers over soft flesh, to savor certain tastes.

  She shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, tormented by a subtle quivering of the flesh. Nature. You can’t fight nature, and she certainly didn’t intend to. Still, it’s hard to struggle against certain conditioned reactions, and the general was the father of all conditioned reactions. I wonder what you’d say about me, she thought, looking at the psychologist on TV with his green sweater, his checked shirt, and his tuft of white hair, if you were to analyze my profile. A good middle-class girl, shy and introverted, who’s a crack shot and secretly sleeps with women.

  For no real reason, her mind wandered to the Parascandolos, the burgled couple at the center of the investigation she was working with the Chinaman. A good guy, the Chinaman: practical, matter-of-fact, deductive. A first-class cop, and a reliable partner. Not one of those guys with wandering hands, like the ones she’d worked with at the station house she’d been expelled from for discharging her firearm. That was some story.

  At Pizzofalcone, Alex got along with everyone. Pisanelli, Ottavia, even Romano, with his prickly personality: They were all her type. All bad apples like her, perhaps, but authentic. Even Aragona, rude as he was, was at least exactly what he appeared to be—and there were times when he was even likable. All of them were alone for one reason or another. Better to be alone, though, than to wind up hating each other like that couple who’d called in the burglary. Tomorrow, with the Chinaman, she’d go over to the Parascandolos’ gym to take a look around. There was something not quite right about that burglary. The forensics chief had said so, too.

  At the thought of Martone she felt a sudden ache in the pit of her stomach, a physical sensation so powerful that she was afraid it had actually made a sound, and that it would wake the general up, and that he’d look over at her with his usual probing glare. She was certain that the chief, with that beautiful ass lurking beneath her lab coat, was like her. And that, somehow—by smell, perhaps, or via some other signal unknown to others—Martone had identified her.

  And as ridiculous as it might seem since she, Alex, had barely been able to speak, had made a fool of herself, she was certain that Martone had liked her. A lot.

  Though maybe that was just an illusion. Maybe—no, almost certainly—her fate was to live all alone, caring for her super-centenarian parents, to quest, in the darkness, after the satisfactions of the flesh for the rest of her life.

  That thought brought to the surface, from the fog of her subconscious, an image of the kidnapped boy. Who knows where they took you. Who knows how dearly you’ll pay for the crime of being born someone’s child. Just like me.

  In response to her thoughts her cell phone vibrated in her lap, lighting up the dim shadows of the living room. On the display, she saw it was a text message from unknown number.

  She typed in her passcode and read the text: “Ciao. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you who this is. I wanted you to have this number in case you ever felt like talking, or going out for a beer, or whatever. A kiss goodnight.”

  She turned her phone off right away, positive that the color of her face and the sound of the blood throbbing in her ears were as bright and loud as a fireworks display.

  You’re right, she thought. You don’t have to tell me who you are.

  In the dark, she grinned like a wolf.

  That’s the way heroes are, you know.

  No one can say who they really are. But when the time is right, they come out, and they’ll be one hundred percent themselves in their battle versus evil. They’re there, and they’ll always be there.

  You can be sure of it.

  XXX

  She walks into the room and lets herself collapse onto the chair. The bare bulb casts a chilly light on the room’s desolation.

  “Give me a cigarette. This is definitely the hardest part, acting without being an actress.”

  He snickers: “Why, you were a star. I could hear you through the crack in the wall. It was a scene straight out of a major motion picture: I don’t know how I kept from bursting out laughing.”

  “Eh, you could have given me a round of applause, too. Here’s the old man’s number, the private number; that way you don’t have to go through her.”

  “Is it all that important, talking to him directly? There are things I don’t understand about this job.”

  “And in fact you don’t need to understand them. He told you that, didn’t he? The less you understand, the less you know, the better. Just do the things you need to do, like he explained.”

  He shrugs: “As long as he pays us what he promised.”

  “And not just the money, remember. New IDs, too: passports and identity cards, for me and for you. They need to be Russian, nothing that can be traced back to our past.”

  “That’s something I’m going to be sorry about, having to change our homeland. You have no idea what a pleasure it is when you come home at night, being able to speak in our own language instead of constantly having to struggle with these ridiculous words. I’ve always hated Italian.”

  This time she’s the one who laughs: “And in fact you don’t know how to speak it at all, not even after how many years? Ten years that you’ve lived here?”

  “Eight. And I didn’t spend them listening to lectures. I had to make a living hauling bricks and buckets of mortar. Back home, I went to school as long as I could afford to, and I wasn’t a bad student either. But I just can’t manage to learn this damn language.”

  “The important thing is that you manage to make that phone call. And the less you say, the less you improvise, the better.”

  “Yes, he explained that to me. I have a sheet of paper with what I’m supposed to say. At least for this next phone call. The one to the old man.”

  “Be careful: He’s old and sick, but he’s cunning as a fox. He’ll try to deal with you, to bargain, to set traps. He expects us to demand money.”

  “I know, I know. All I need to do is read what’s written on the sheet of paper, slowly and calmly. For now, he hasn’t given us any other instructions; he’ll call me afterward and give us new instructions as needed.”

  She snorts: “He doesn’t trust us. Or at least he trusts us only to a certain extent. That’s why he still hasn’t told us where and how he’s going to make the exchange, where the old man’s supposed to bring the money, where we’re supposed to take the child . . .”

  He shoots a glance at the storeroom door: “The kid doesn’t seem to suspect you at all. He went with you willingly, no whining, and even now he confided in you right away. Didn’t it ever occur to him that we were in cahoots?”

  “I raised him. I took care of him for three years while that slut of a mother of his was busy leading the high life. Then, when he started school, a kick in the ass and so long, Lena.”

  “Still, all these precautions strike me as a little excessive. Dyeing your hair blond, for example: What good did that do, if you put a hood over your head? And all those twists and turns, all the detours we took on the drive here: He’s a kid, he’s not going to remember the way we went.”

  “You can never be too careful. And after all, he’s a smart, observant kid, even if he seems to be living in his own litt
le world, with his cartoons, his comic books, and his superheroes. Don’t underestimate him.”

  “The important thing is that everything turn out all right. He said that the whole thing will take four days, five at the most. Then we’ll have the money, the IDs, and the plane tickets. And after that, South America.”

  “And when they question the boy, they’re going to assume that you got rid of me somewhere.”

  He laughs: “Maybe I really will. That way I can keep all the money for myself.”

  She laughs, too: “There’s just one small problem with that plan: You know neither Russian nor Spanish. You wouldn’t even be able to get to the airport without me.”

  “Maybe that’s why he picked us for the job. We have to do exactly what we’re told.”

  “That’s right. So let’s keep doing it.”

  XXXI

  Parascandolo’s gym was in an unusual location.

  The front entrance was in an alleyway just off a busy thoroughfare, not far from a stoplight, and it was a workout just threading one’s way first across the river of slow-moving cars perennially streaming by, and then past the wall of motor scooters of all sizes and models parked sideways, blocking the narrow sidewalk. Di Nardo and Lojacono were especially unlucky because, in order to make their way down the five yards of narrow lane that led to the entrance, they had to wait for a group of Japanese tourists, walking single file and chirping and photographing as they went, to go by; the tourists were followed by two Junoesque matrons pushing baby carriages and complaining, in a dialect rife with elaborate insults, about the oriental foot traffic. The women’s comments were incomprehensible to the lieutenant, but they did force a giggle out of Alex.

  The young woman was in a good mood, Lojacono thought to himself. She hadn’t burst into song or anything, that wasn’t her style, but a couple of times he’d seen her smile faintly, as if something nice had occurred to her. And thank goodness, because the atmosphere in their communal office was turning grim. It had been three days since little Dodo had vanished, and now they were certain it was a kidnapping. Romano and Aragona were doing their best, but the child’s life had furnished no clues. Ottavia and Pisanelli had energetically scoured the web and their networks of informants, but nothing useful had emerged. The deputy captain hoped to get something more from the director of a bank, a friend of his, who would be back from vacation that morning, but he wasn’t holding out any great hope.

  Lojacono was well aware that if you wanted to catch a criminal, the first few days after the crime were crucial, especially in a kidnapping; if you didn’t come up with something then, it was unlikely that you’d ever solve the case, except through some stroke of dumb luck. Moreover, the hope that the victim was still alive added a sense of urgency and growing frustration to the investigation.

  Since they couldn’t do anything else to help, Lojacono and Di Nardo had gone back to working the Parascandolo burglary. While they waited for forensics to finish up the new tests promised by Martone, it was worth going for a little stroll to see just how the family business was doing.

  The narrow street and the unassuming entrance stood in sharp contrast to the actual size of the gym’s interior, which looked modern and well lit. A large room with a reception desk led to two hallways from which echoed an up-tempo beat clearly meant to get the customers moving. Two male bodybuilders were deep in animated conversation, and two very sweaty, older women, squeezed into workout clothes a couple sizes too small, were doing their best to attract their attention, though without success. Behind the counter sat a pretty young woman with a friendly manner. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Lojacono identified himself, saw the young woman’s expression briefly darken, and asked to speak to Parascandolo.

  “The dottore isn’t in, but the signora is. Please, make yourselves comfortable, I’ll get her right away.”

  Alex and Lojacono took a seat on a small sofa, and while they waited they took in the skirmishing of the four fitness fiends. The men were engaged in an emphatic discussion centered on the benefits of a new exercise machine designed to develop the dorsals, while the women talked loudly and cast sidelong glances that went unnoticed. Alex asked her partner whether, in his opinion, they had a duty to let the boys know that the ladies wanted to chat, which would at least quiet the latter’s strident voices. Before Lojacono had a chance to reply, a very worried Susy Parascandolo entered the room.

  The skimpy dress she’d been wearing during their first meeting had been replaced by a fluorescent bodysuit, whose color reminded Lojacono of the green highlighter that Marinella used to mark up her textbooks. The outfit was rounded out by a pair of shoes in the same color that added at least five inches to her height. Alex blinked rapidly, as if her eyes had been stung by a sudden flash of light.

  The lieutenant got to his feet: “Buongiorno, Signora. Forgive us for showing up without an appointment.”

  Signora Parascandolo was on edge. She looked around, as if afraid that any minute someone else might show up.

  “Not at all, Lieutenant, of course you’re welcome any time. Did you find anything? Any news?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. We received a preliminary report from the forensic team, and perhaps if we had a little more information from you . . .”

  “Fine. But not here: Please, let’s go into my office.”

  She led them to a small room equipped with a desk facing two chairs, her sauntering gait showing off one of the parts of her body that had been the special subject of extensive cosmetic surgery. She closed the door carefully behind her and then sat down, gesturing to the two cops to make themselves comfortable.

  “I’m very sorry to disturb you here at work,” Lojacono said, “but we wanted to know a little something more about just what the burglars took. Have you had a chance to narrow that down?”

  “What can I tell you, Lieutenant? As far as we can tell, they only took whatever was in the safe, and the safe is my husband’s business, no one else’s.”

  Alex broke in: “And he isn’t here right now, is he?”

  “No, he only comes here rarely. The gym is just an investment for him; I’m the one who runs it.”

  Alex persisted: “So what business is your husband in, if he doesn’t come to the gym?”

  Susy looked away and focused her eyes on the wall: “Well, my husband is . . . he’s retired. He spends his time managing his family’s estate. He’s in business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  The woman squirmed in her seat: “Listen, just business. He goes out, he comes back, he meets people: business. I don’t know, and he doesn’t tell me. And after all, excuse me, but what does that have to do with the burglary? It seems to me that you two are investigating my husband instead of the crime.”

  Lojacono raised both hands: “No, Signora. We’re just trying to understand the motive for the theft, that’s all. It’s pretty unusual for burglars to take nothing but the contents of a safe. There were plenty of other valuables: silver, jewelry, even a wallet . . .”

  Before the woman had a chance to respond, the door flew open and a young bodybuilder came in: “Sweetheart, listen, the sauna motor broke again . . . Oops, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you . . .”

  Susy’s reaction to the young man’s untimely entrance was spectacular: She jumped to her feet, blushed violently, then turned pale, pressing the palm of her hand onto the desktop, and so she remained, clearly embarrassed. Alex decided that, if you factored in her outfit, all the colors of the rainbow had just been displayed in about a second.

  “Marvin, what . . . hey, don’t people knock around here anymore? Where are your manners? Can’t you see that I have visitors? Go away, we can talk about the sauna motor later!”

  Lojacono was quick on his feet. He, too, stood up and held out his hand: “No, no, stay for a minute, please. We’re the ones who should apologize for the intrusion, Sig
nor . . .”

  The man was still disoriented. His eyes begged Susy for help as he shook hands with the lieutenant, stammering out his own name. He was maybe twenty-five years old; the only clothing adorning his sculpted body was a pair of shorts and a tank top that showed off his bronzed, waxed torso.

  Di Nardo was reminded of Aragona’s chest, though the two men had nothing else in common. Unlike their colleague, the above-mentioned Marvin might as well have been an ad for the benefits of fitness: his twitching, well-defined muscles, decorated with numerous tattoos; the blond hair that framed a face with perfect features. If I liked men at all, Alex thought to herself, I’d already have fainted. His eyes, on the other hand, vacuous and inexpressive, betrayed the workings of a sluggish brain. Marvin, or whatever his real name was, was clearly an idiot.

  Susy finally managed to open her mouth: “Forgive me, Lieutenant, he’s just an employee of ours who . . . in any case, it’s nothing he and I can’t talk about later.”

  “No, Signora, I insist,” Lojacono reassured her. “We’re the ones who are intruding. What’s your name, Marvin? Your real name, I mean.”

  “Oh . . . Mario Vincenzo Esposito, Lieutenant. At your service.”

  Lojacono glanced meaningfully at the tattoos on the man’s forearm; he’d seen so many of them in his time.

  “Have you been working here long?”

  Once again, Parascandolo tried to break in: “I don’t see what that has to do with . . .”