Montalbano got up and put the letters back in his pocket.
“I have to go.”
“Can’t you stay a little longer?”
“Unfortunately I have an appointment in Montelusa.”
Elena stood up, drew near to him, lowered her head slightly, and for a moment rested her lips on his.
“Thanks,” she said.
He’d scarcely entered the station when a sudden scream from Catarella paralyzed him.
“Chief! I screeeewed ’em!”
“Who’d you screw, Cat?”
“The last word, Chief!”
Standing up in his little closet, Catarella looked like a dancing bear, hopping for joy on one foot, then the other.
“I got the last word! I writ it and it disappeared!”
“Come into my office.”
“Right like straightaway, Chief! But first I gotta print the files.”
Better get away from there. The people walking in and out of the station were looking at them a bit aghast.
Before entering his office, he stuck his head in Augello’s. And Mimì, oddly, was there. Apparently the kid was feeling okay.
“What did Liguori want this morning?”
“To sensitize us.”
“Which means?”
“We’ve got to aim higher.”
“Meaning?”
“We’ve got to go in deep.”
Montalbano suddenly lost patience.
“Mimì, if you don’t start speaking clearly, you know where I’m going to go in deep on you?”
“Salvo, it seems the upper spheres of Montelusa are not pleased with our efforts in the fight against drug dealers.”
“What are they talking about? In the last month we’ve put six dealers behind bars!”
“It’s not enough, according to them. Liguori says what we do is just small potatoes.”
“So what’s big potatoes?”
“Not limiting oneself to arresting a few dealers by chance, but rather acting according to a precise plan, provided by him, of course, which will supposedly lead us to the suppliers.”
“But isn’t that his responsibility? Isn’t he chief of Narcotics? Why’s he coming here breaking our balls? Let him make his plan and, instead of giving it to us, let his own men carry it out.”
“Salvo, apparently, according to his investigations, one of the biggest suppliers is here, in Vigàta. So he wants our help.”
Montalbano stood there staring at him, lost in thought.
“Mimì, this whole business stinks to me. We need to talk about it, but I don’t have the time right now. I have to take care of something with Catarella and then run off to Montelusa to meet with the commissioner.”
Catarella was waiting for him in the doorway to his office, still dancing like a bear. He came in behind him and set two printed pages down on the desk. The inspector glanced at them and understood nothing. There was a string of six-figure numbers piled one on top of the other, and each of these numbers corresponded to another number. For example:
and so on. He realized that to understand the matter he had to dispatch Catarella, whose little tribal dance was getting on his nerves.
“Well done! My compliments, Catarella!”
Now he changed from a bear into a peacock. But since he had no tail to spread, he raised and extended his arms, fanned out his fingers, and spun around.
“How did you find the password?”
“Ah, Chief, Chief! That dead man is so clever he drove me crazy! The word was the name of the sister, the dead man’s, who’s called Michela, combined in combination wit’ the day, month, an’ year of birth when she’s born—his sister, I mean, the dead man’s—but written wittout numbers, only litters.”
Since, in his delight at having found the solution, Catarella uttered the whole sentence in a single breath, the inspector had trouble understanding, but grasped as much as he needed to.
“I think I remember you saying you needed three passwords…”
“Yessir, Chief, I do. Iss ongoing work.”
“Good, then go on working. And thanks again.”
Catarella staggered visibly.
“You dizzy?”
“A little, Chief.”
“You feel all right?”
“Yessir.”
“So why are you dizzy?”
“’Cause you just gave me tanks, Chief.”
He walked out of the room as if he were drunk. Montalbano cast another glance at the two sheets of paper. But since it was already time to go to Montelusa, he slipped them into the pocket holding the little songbook. Which he could have sworn contained the code for making some sense of all those numbers.
“My dear Inspector! How goes it? Everyone doing well at home?”
“Fine, fine, Dr. Lattes.”
“Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He sat down. Lattes looked at him, and he looked at Lattes. Lattes smiled, and so did he.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Montalbano’s jaw dropped.
“Actually, I…the commissioner told me…”
“You’re here for the meeting?” Lattes asked in wonderment.
“Well, yes.”
“What? You mean the receptionist there, Cavarella—”
“Catarella.”
“—didn’t tell you? I called late this morning to inform you that the commissioner had to leave for Palermo and will expect to see you here tomorrow at this same hour.”
“No, nobody told me anything.”
“But that’s very serious! You must take measures!”
“I will, Doctor, don’t you worry about that.”
What fucking measures could one possibly take against Catarella? It would be like trying to teach a crab to walk straight.
Since he was already in Montelusa, he decided to drop in on his friend Nicolò Zito, the newsman. He pulled up in front of the Free Channel studios, and the moment he walked in, the secretary told him Zito had fifteen free minutes before going on the air.
“I haven’t heard from you for a while,” Nicolò reproached him.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, Nicolò. I just wanted to see you.”
“Listen, are you giving Giacovazzo a hand in the investigation into Angelo Pardo’s murder?”
It was nice of the Flying Squad captain not to have denied that the investigation had been turned over to him. This spared Montalbano from being besieged by journalists. But it was still hard for Montalbano to have to lie to his friend.
“No, no hand at all. You know what Giacovazzo’s like. Why do you ask?”
“Because nobody can drag a single word out of him.”
Naturally. The captain of the Flying Squad wasn’t talking to journalists because he had nothing to say.
“And yet,” Zito went on, “I think that, considering what’s happening now, he must have some idea.”
“Why, what’s happening now?”
“Don’t you read the papers?”
“Not always.”
“A nationwide investigation has led to the arraignment of over four thousand doctors and pharmacists.”
“Okay, but what’s that got to do with it?”
“Salvo, use your brain! What did former doctor Angelo Pardo do for a living?”
“He was a representative for pharmaceutical concerns.”
“Exactly. And the charges being leveled at these doctors and pharmacists are collusion and kickbacks.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the doctors let themselves be corrupted by some pharmaceutical informers. In exchange for money or other gifts, these doctors and pharmacists would choose and prescribe medications indicated by the informers. And when they did this, they were handsomely rewarded. You see how it works now?”
“Yes. The informers didn’t limit themselves to informing.”
; “Exactly. Of course, not all doctors are corrupt, and not all informers are corrupters, but the phenomenon has proved to be very widespread. And, naturally, some very powerful pharmaceutical firms are also implicated.”
“And you think that may be why Pardo was murdered?”
“Salvo, do you realize what kind of interests are behind a setup like this? But, in any case, I don’t think anything. All I’m saying is that it’s a lead that might be worth pursuing.”
All things considered—the inspector reflected while driving back to Vigàta at five miles per hour—the visit to Montelusa had not been in vain. The lead suggested by Nicolò hadn’t remotely occurred to him but had to be taken into consideration. But how to proceed? Open up Angelo Pardo’s big datebook—the one with the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of doctors and pharmacists—pick up the receiver, and ask:
“Excuse me, but did you by any chance let yourself be corrupted by the pharmaceutical representative Angelo Pardo?”
That approach surely would not get any results. Maybe he needed to ask for a helping hand from the people who knew all about this sort of investigation.
Back in his office, he called the headquarters of the Customs Police of Montelusa.
“Inspector Montalbano here. I’d like to speak with Captain Aliotta.”
“I’ll put the major on right away.”
Apparently he’d been promoted.
“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 Laganà 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.”
“Laganà? How’s it going?…Listen, could I have half an hour of your 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, Mimì 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, Mimì? 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.”
Mimì 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.”
“Mimì, Liguori descends on us after Senator Nicotra dies in Vigàta—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? Mimì, Liguori spoke to you, 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.”
Mimì, 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.”
10
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 fortyish, 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 h
er 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.”
“I have to ask you a delicate question. You told me Angelo used to give Elena very expensive gifts. This was confirmed to me by—”
“By the whore?” Michela finished his sentence.
The Paper Moon Page 10