Modo glared at him venomously.
“You certainly don’t run any such risk, if I remember rightly the considerable distance you keep between yourself and the pleasures of the flesh. But, I ask myself sometimes, what did I ever do to be forced to put up with the likes of you two?”
Before the policemen had a chance to come up with a retort, the photographer burst onto the scene, loaded down with the tools of his trade.
“Here I am at last, sorry I’m late. I’ll get busy immediately.”
Maione smiled at the doctor, singing in a low voice: “Come stai?, le chiesi a un tratto. Bene, grazie, disse, e tu?” How are you? I asked all at once. Fine, thanks, she replied, and you?
Modo glared at him, then replied: “Non c’è male, e poi distratto: Guarda che acqua viene giú!” Not bad thanks, and then distractedly: Look at how it’s pouring down!
Ricciardi shook his head.
“Outstanding. Particularly outstanding, your state of mind. On a Monday morning, in the pouring rain, and with a corpse on the ground. Nice work.”
Maione threw his arms wide.
“Commissa’, the doctor does have a point, though: if you can’t conjure up a smile, then how are you going to make it through the week?”
Once the photographer was done, Modo went back to studying the cadaver while Cesarano sheltered him from the rain with the umbrella. After which, Modo cleaned his hands on a handkerchief and went over to Ricciardi.
“Prevalent ecchymotic bruising, swollen face, a hematoma in the temporal region caused by a very hard blow. To the touch, there seems to be a fracture of the right femur, and I can also feel something in the thoracic region; broken ribs, most likely. I’ll be more precise after the autopsy, but generally speaking, I’d say he was beaten to death: I don’t see any signs of knife or bullet wounds.”
Ricciardi stood a moment in silence and then, as Maione was approaching the corpse to search its garments, he said: “Listen, Bruno, if you could possibly . . . ”
Modo chimed in: “ . . . carry out the autopsy at your earliest convenience, you’d be doing us a favor. Where have I heard that song before? I can’t seem to remember. The morgue attendants have arrived, I heard the sound of their van. I’ll head back to the hospital and get started immediately.”
“Do you have any idea what the time of death might have been?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, the rain and the nighttime temperature would imply a rapid cooling, but it doesn’t strike me that the cadaver is particularly chilly. If you ask me, it happened no more than two or three hours ago.”
Ricciardi listened very attentively.
“So not last night, not yesterday evening?”
“No, no, I’d rule that out. If I were going to risk a guess, I’d say between six and seven this morning. I’ll be able to confirm that soon.”
The doctor bade farewell to Ricciardi and headed off toward the main street. Before disappearing around the corner at the end of the vicolo, though, he turned back to look at Maione.
“Brigadie’, have yourself a good day. And get a little more sleep, you have circles under your eyes. I have them too, but modestly speaking, they’re due to entirely different considerations . . . ” And here he broke into song. “Che m’importa se mi bagno, tanto a casa io debbo andar . . . ” What do I care if I get wet, if I’m only going home anyway . . . ?
And Maione shot back: “How do you know why there are circles under my eyes, Doc? ‘Ho l’ombrello, t’accompagno. Grazie, non ti . . . ’ ” I have an umbrella, I’ll take you home. Thanks, don’t . . .
The policeman broke off in mid-verse to emit a long low whistle as he bent over to pick something up off the ground.
He stood up and walked over to Ricciardi.
“Take a look at what I just found, Commissa’.”
In his hand he held a wad of cash. An enormous sum.
XII
Vincenzo thought back frequently to the fear he’d felt the year before, when he’d swum toward the new land.
He remembered the void into which he’d leapt off the low deck, the thuds of the others who had jumped before him; he remembered the chilly water enveloping him, the sound of his own breathing; he remembered the sensation of heaviness, as his clothing tried to drag him down to the bottom.
His friend had told him, with a serious, doleful expression, that he might very well die. That many of those who made the leap surely wound up dying, though no one could say for sure, because anyone who got to shore in that way made sure to disappear in any case, if not into the black nighttime waves, down the broad, endless avenues, with a different name and a new life. Entrusting yourself to the vagaries of the bureaucrats, however, simply made no sense. They’d check him out in a thousand different ways, quarantine him, question him. And when he emerged from the ordeal, in the best case imaginable, he’d be facing either prison time or repatriation. Defeat, in either case.
His only possibility was to risk that leap into the waves, with a mouthful of air and nothing but the clothes on his back. With a bit of luck, he’d survive. He might not be killed by the waves, the cold salt water, the propellers of passing boats that plied the bay incessantly at night, or by a bullet from the rifle of one of the guards. His friend had given him serious advice: never stop swimming, that’s how you beat the cold. And don’t try to get to shore immediately. Stay strong and swim as far as you possibly can.
Vincenzo was strong, he was determined, he was young, he was desperate, he was poor, and he was in love. Vincenzo wanted to live. Vincenzo hadn’t traveled all that way to die in the briny waves. Otherwise he would have chosen to die in the waters off Mergellina, near a certain rock by the water where he’d first kissed Cettina, trembling with emotion. Vincenzo hadn’t come all the way to America just to die.
He’d never heard another thing about the four others who had jumped in with him. He hoped they made it and had continued on their journey, maybe toward Canada, where it seemed to be easier to settle and begin a new life.
That’s not what Vincenzo wanted, a new life. He wanted his own life. And in a hurry, so he could take back Cettina and his own future. He wouldn’t leave that city: it was there that the big ships docked, and it was from there that they set sail to return home. He just needed to find a job and earn enough money, then get back on the same ship that had brought him here, though this time he’d travel like a man, not a brute animal.
A year later, Vincenzo had found not one job but three.
Every morning at sunrise he’d go down to the port to unload cargo. At lunch, he’d wash dishes in a restaurant. And at night he worked as a janitor, cleaning up a gym. Typical work for Italians, hired by Italians, and paid like Italians.
He didn’t need much to live on. He slept in a room near the freighter docks, along with other men in his same situation, probably too many men; he didn’t even know who his roommates were. They were packed in to the room, but at least they kept each other warm. He ate once a day, in the kitchen where he washed dishes and where the proprietor’s wife treated him as if he were another one of her children, in addition to the eight that were rightfully hers. He kept his cash, neatly stacked, in an old book with the pages torn out; every ten green banknotes, and he would tear out another white page covered with words. Facts taking the place of dreams.
The gym was at the corner of Ninety-Ninth Street and Broadway. It took a long time to get there, but then, in that city, it took a long time to get anywhere. Vincenzo hurried down the street, his gait methodical and alert, his eyes fixed straight ahead, the rhythm of his breathing in tune with the pulse of the blood in his ears, taking the curves at just the right angle. Vincenzo hurried along, earning the exhaustion that helped him to fall into a dreamless sleep: one day less till the next time I see you, Cettina, my love.
The guy who ran the gym was an Italian, but he’d been born there. His name was Giacinto Biasin, but everyone knew him as Ninety-Ninth Street Jack; his Italian name w
as unpronounceable to the Americans. His father and mother hadn’t plunged into the chilly dark water; they had waited patiently, on the island where the immigrants were marshaled and corralled, to make sure that all their documents were in order. They hadn’t had to spend money to procure those documents, they hadn’t had to accept the first job they were offered; when they had arrived, there had already been other people from their town, a place at the foot of the mountains in northern Italy where the fighting was going on now.
To look at him, Jack was a frightening sight. His face was disfigured, because when he was small, the mattress he’d been sleeping on next to the heater had caught fire. But he was a stubborn guy and he’d survived, stumbling onto boxing as a way of filling his spare time, of which he had plenty since girls tended to turn and run the minute he heaved into view. He hadn’t found glory in the ring: his personality was too gentle, his nature was too kind. The idea that he might be about to hurt someone made him pull his punches. Still, he studied, he prepared, he was wide awake: he had the soul of a trainer even when he still fought. He quit early, and with both his own money and with a little help from his father, who imported olive oil from Italy, he’d set up that gym, developing a clientele of young men in search of glory: Jews, blacks, Italians, and even a few Irishmen.
Vincenzo had met him in the restaurant where he worked. The older man had liked that young man, so determined and eager and skinny; the young man had found that disfigured, courteous man to be trustworthy. Twenty or so years difference in age, but the same will to look to the future.
“If you don’t have anything else to do with your evenings,” one of them had said. “Gladly,” the other had replied.
He always came in a little early, Vincenzo did. He’d take the broom, the bucket of water, the sawdust, and wait until the boxers were done before cleaning up. While he waited, he watched the boxers train and listened to Jack shouting instructions and advice to every corner of the ring. He hardly seemed himself, during those sessions. He became authoritarian, impetuous, and even vulgar, but the athletes in shorts and boxing gloves accepted it all without objections.
There were lots and lots of men who frequented that place, but none of them seemed to have what it would take to break out. Jack shook his big head, pounding his fist on the canvas floor of the ring, miming the punches he would have liked to see, cursing furiously in a curious Venetian-accented English. On Mondays, Vincenzo would listen to the commentary on the weekend’s bouts and, as far as he could tell, things rarely went as had been hoped.
The only one who seemed able to rise above the mass to a certain extent was a Russian immigrant, a certain Starkevic. The guy was enormous, a little slow perhaps, but powerful. Jack worked with him frequently, trying to hone off the rough edges and make him a little more agile and active; it was clear that he was pinning his hopes for success and good publicity on the Russian. Frequently, after everyone had already left for the night, he stayed on for a couple of hours to work on new tactics of defense and attack.
One evening Jack was trying, unsuccessfully to get it into Starkevic’s head that his guard had to be adapted in accordance with his opponent’s size and aggressiveness. In order to help the Russian understand what he was trying to say, Jack thought it might be useful to put someone in front of him, just to rehearse the movements, and he looked around: the gymnasium was deserted. At last he happened to notice Vincenzo, leaning on his broom handle.
“You! Come over here,” he said, tossing him a pair of boxing gloves. “I need a dummy to use so I can show this knucklehead how he’s supposed to stand. Don’t worry, no one is going to hit anyone.”
The young man hesitated uncertainly for a moment, incredulous at the idea that the boss himself was speaking to him. The second time he was asked, he put on the gloves and climbed cautiously into the ring.
Jack explained to Starkevic how he was supposed to work and he showed him exactly how he wanted him to deliver the punches. Then he turned to look at Vincenzo and saw that he had assumed a letter-perfect boxing stance. His left leg was extended forward, bent slightly over the symmetrically placed foot; his right leg was pushed back, the foot turned outward. His torso was swiveled a little, presenting the smallest possible target, and his left fist was raised toward the Russian, so that the elbow was raised on a level with his heart; his right fist was covering the face, forearm and elbow to ward off stray punches to the stomach.
The trainer looked him up and down, from head to foot, a couple of times, and didn’t find a single defect. Then he asked him: “Where did you learn?”
Vincenzo, without once taking his eyes off Starkevic’s eyes, replied: “Here. From listening to you yell all the time.”
Jack laughed, hands on his hips and chin jutting: “Well look at that, il paisano mio was listening to every word I said. Now let’s see if you really understood it all. Ivan, throw a right hook. Take it easy though. If you break him, who’s going to clean up the gym?”
The huge beast of a man, a little annoyed at the fact that the young man had easily learned things that had cost him months of effort to take in, bent his arm at a right angle and threw the punch, rotating his body slightly as he did so. Vincenzo responded by leaning back in a feint, twisting his torso and dancing lightly on his legs. The other man missed him entirely and lost his balance, uncovering the right side of his face.
Vincenzo’s left arm lashed out like a whip, and his fist caught Starkevic right on his cheekbone. The man dropped to his knees and started shaking his head to clear it. Vincenzo put up his fists and returned to his guarded stance, dancing on the toes of his worn-out old shoes, with a look of concentration on his face. The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than a couple of seconds.
His pride stung, the Russian got back on his feet and lunged at the young man with a roar, windmilling his arms frantically. Before Jack had a chance to step between them, the Italian met the onslaught with an uppercut to the chin, followed by a swift left hook. Starkevic dropped to the canvas like an empty bag.
Vincenzo unlaced his gloves, glancing at the owner of the gym out of the corner of his eye; he felt certain he’d just lost his job and was already trying to figure out how to find a new one.
Instead, to his immense surprise, Jack laid a hand on his shoulder and said: “You and me need to talk, paisà. We need to talk.”
XIII
Under the driving rain, Ricciardi and Maione were attempting to reconstruct the mechanics of the murder, without much success. Aside from the fact that the body had definitely been dragged for several yards, nothing else emerged from a search of the terrain; the beating rain, of course, was no help.
Maione, scratching his forehead, said: “Commissa’, this alley is kind of out of the way. If you ask me, the killer wanted to get the corpse out of sight of any potential passersby so that it wouldn’t be found right away.”
Ricciardi stared at the corner where the vicolo met the street, where the dead man, on his knees, continued his litany: you, you again, you, you again, once again you, you again.
“And you don’t think you’d attract attention by beating someone to death?” he asked. “That takes time, you know, Raffaele. A lot of time.”
The brigadier threw both arms wide.
“Maybe the murderer didn’t expect to kill him, and was just planning to teach him a lesson. Maybe it was just an ordinary fight, and when he realized that he’d killed the man, he hid the body to give himself more time to escape.”
Ricciardi nodded, lost in thought.
“Sure. That sounds possible. What did you say his name was?”
Maione tried to catch a little light and read the document he’d found in the victim’s wallet.
“Irace, Costantino, born in the city on April 18th, 1879. Fifty-three years old.”
The commissario forced himself to turn his gaze to the man on the ground.
“Well dressed, gold pocket watch in the fob of his vest, clean shaven, nicely groomed mustache. A brand new overco
at. And most important of all . . . ”
Maione finished his sentence for him: “ . . . seventy-two thousand lire and some small change still on his person. Which is a lot of cash.”
“Exactly. Just stuffed in the pocket of his overcoat. Which is kind of odd for someone wandering around in the alleys down by the harbor at six or six-thirty in the morning, if the doctor has guessed the time of death correctly. We all know what things are like down here in the dark.”
Maione gestured to the morgue attendants that they were free to take the body now.
“And in fact, it didn’t turn out particularly well for him, did it, Commissa’?”
Ricciardi sighed.
“No, it didn’t turn out very well for him. But he wasn’t robbed. At least, neither his cash, nor his watch, nor his gold ring were taken: and neither was his overcoat, come to that.”
Maione said: “Maybe the attacker just didn’t have time. Maybe the reason he dragged him into the vicolo was precisely to rifle his pockets, but then someone showed up and he had to stop while he was in the middle of the job.”
The commissario made a face.
“I don’t think so. If you want to rob someone, do you kill him, drag him into the alley, and then just take to your heels without getting anything? That doesn’t strike me as plausible. In any case, we’d better get moving. Where is it you said that he lived, this Irace?”
The building that corresponded to the address written on his documents wasn’t all that far away: about two-thirds of a mile from the scene of the murder, close to Piazza San Domenico Maggiore. As Ricciardi and Maione expected, it was an elegant building, with a uniformed doorman standing next to the front entrance.
The brigadier walked up to the doorman and asked what floor the Irace family lived on. The man, darting a mistrustful gaze at him, proclaimed: “We don’t give information about our tenants. We’re very mindful of their privacy. Why do you ask?”
[Ricciardi 09] - Nameless Serenade Page 9