Game for Five (7 page)

He stood up. As they walked away, he turned to look at the fat woman and, making sure the girl wasn't watching, smiled and made a gesture like a car accelerator, as if to say, “And after that I'll fuck her.” The fat woman turned red.

 

Ten silent minutes later, they were sitting at a table in the shade outside the bar. Massimo had deliberately chosen the table farthest from the one where the old-timers were sitting, pretending to play cards and laughing. Aldo came out, still playing the barman. He placed himself behind the girl, cleared his throat discreetly, and asked in a prim voice, “What can I get your Highness?”

“You can go to hell to start with, and when you've done that, you can bring me an iced tea. What would you like?”

“A Coke, please.”

Aldo gave a slight nod of approval and went away.

“Cigarette?”

“No, thanks. There are people here. My parents don't know I smoke.”

“Sorry if I get straight back to the point, but why didn't you want your brother . . . ”

The girl passed her hands through her hair, and a faraway look came into her eyes.

For a moment Massimo was afraid she was going to tell him it was none of his business, then get up and leave. And she wouldn't have been completely wrong, of course.

“Don't think I'm speaking ill of Alina, but . . . the fact is, when she was alive she was very independent, very bright, I mean . . . ”

I understand, Massimo thought. When she was alive, she was a bit of a whore.

“She used to tell me about her boyfriends, what she did, where they took her . . . Nothing wrong with that, it was her business, but I didn't want her to make a fool of my brother. They'd slept together once, last summer. It didn't mean anything to her. He was a friend, it had happened, and that was it . . . But he was enthralled by her. He'd phone her at least three or four times every day, if she went to the disco he'd go too, he didn't leave her alone for a second. She'd talk to him, at parties they'd slip away and come back after an hour, they'd share a towel on the beach. I think she liked having such a devoted admirer, but every now and again, when they weren't together, she'd go with other guys. I know because I saw her. She told me there was nothing between her and Bruno, they were just friends, and she'd made it clear to him that that's all they were. They liked being together. But I wanted him to get her out of his head. They started meeting in secret, without telling me. And now she's dead and I'm here . . . ” (sob) “acting the fool and . . . ” (another sob and a trembling of the chin) “and I don't even know what I feel worse about . . . ”

She bowed her head, but then immediately looked up again. Her eyes were watery, but she had managed not to cry this time. Massimo thought it might be best to send her home as soon as possible.

“Do your parents know anything about this?”

“My parents . . . They don't know anything about anything. That's why I'm afraid to go home now. I mean, I can't go home and tell them what's happening. You have no idea.. They'd pass out.”

Unless Fusco has already told them, in which case they've already passed out, Massimo thought. I hope you have your keys with you, or you'll have to sleep on the doormat.

“Maybe it's best if you do go home. Whatever happens, and there's no reason to suppose anything will happen, it's best if your parents hear about it from you. Trust me.”

The girl kept her eyes down for a moment, then nodded tentatively. She stood up—revealing to Massimo the deep canyon of her cleavage, trapped within her green top—put her chair back in place and walked away. After a few steps, she turned and smiled.

“By the way, my name's Giada.”

“Nice name. Mine's Massimo.”

 

Aldo arrived with the poise of an English butler, put the drinks down on the table, and stood aside with his hands behind his back.

“Your Highness is served.”

“Perfect timing, as usual.”

“I'm sorry, your Highness, you told me to go to hell, but I wasn't familiar with the place and had a hard time finding it. I guess you know hell better than I do, this business is yours after all.”

“Thanks, anyway. What on earth are those idiots laughing about inside?”

“They've been discussing the fact that your friend was young. They were wondering if she mightn't be too young to grasp certain things. In a metaphorical sense, of course.”

“I can imagine. I'm coming inside now anyway, thanks for everything.”

He went back into the bar, to be greeted by Grandpa Ampelio, grinning knowingly.

“Well?”

“What's that stain?”

“What stain?”

“That stain on your pants.”

“Looks like ice cream to me. Must be old.”

“Yes, yes, it's old.” He turned to Aldo. “I'm damned if I'm going to leave the bar to you again, you and the rest of the retirement community here.”

“It seems you don't like old people that much,” Del Tacca said. “Obviously you prefer young flesh.”

“Yes,” Ampelio cut in. “You're a piece of work, aren't you? Running after sixteen-year-olds now, with all the beautiful women there are around here. If only your grandma knew . . . ”

“Grandpa, if Grandma Tilde knew half the things I see you do, say and eat here every day, you'd need the fire department to help you get back into your apartment.”

Ignoring the threat, Ampelio put the cards in order.

“Anyway,” Aldo said, “you've been having all the fun today.”

Resistance was futile. If he kept pretending that everything was normal and didn't change the subject, they would continue making fun of him all day. Massimo sat down and began.

 

“All right, the name of the girl who was with me is Giada Messa. I met her at the station, she was there with her brother Bruno, who's the boy that got the last text from Alina's cell phone. The girl snuck a look at the text, it said he should come to Alina's place at ten, to go out to dinner.”

“Dinner at ten?” Ampelio cut in. “How the world has changed. In my house they'd have gone without. When I was their age . . . ”

“They know what happened when you were their age, because you're all the same age, plus I don't give a damn. Now will you all shut up and let me speak, or I'll finish tomorrow. The boy told his sister he got to Alina's place at nine-fifty and waited there until eleven-thirty. That much is fact. The rest is opinion. The girl says Alina and the brother had a thing going, I don't know enough to say if that's true or not. She's convinced it is. She also said that she didn't like it because—”

“Because when she was alive,” Aldo said, “this Alina Costa may have been barely old enough to drive a car, but they say she'd already handled quite a few gear sticks.”

Massimo looked at him for a moment.

“My God, how small this town is,” Del Tacca said indifferently.

“I heard it from P.G., the guy who works at the Ara Panic.”

The gleaming lights of the Ara Panic, the disco frequented by all those who thought they were cooler than everybody else, lit up the sky over a vast stretch of the sea front, all the way to the city. Summer and winter, a long line of deserters from the beach parked their unearned Mercedes at a forbidden angle to the curb, crowded to the ropes in front of the entrance, and submitted themselves hopefully or proudly to the scrutiny of other idiots hired by the establishment to grant admission only to the glossiest specimens, while inside, the volume of the music was so loud that it turned whatever brains those present still possessed to mush. The Druids who officiated at the ritual of selection were known as bouncers, and P.G., whose full name was Piergiorgio Neri, was one of the boldest representatives of this privileged caste. Thirty years old according to his birth certificate, with a deep tan, black hair that glinted in the sun, a depilated and overdeveloped chest that bulged beneath his tight-fitting, artfully ripped T-shirts, thirty-two shiny teeth, and a goatee beard dyed a charming shade of purple, P.G. aroused a wide range of reactions in the holidaymakers, from being worshipped as a totem by all the high school kids to provoking a rapid sign of the cross from the widow Falaschi.

“Handsome guy too. When did he tell you that?”

“Last night, at the restaurant. He has dinner there every night before he goes to the disco. He didn't eat much and drank water. Poor guy only ever drinks water. He was talking with two of his friends, and he said that the girl who died often went to the Ara Panic. He said last summer she spent more time on the couch than on the dance floor.”

“And of course you just happened to overhear everything.”

“Yes, I did, because he talks even louder than Ampelio. It must be because he's used to being surrounded by all that noise, but when he talks you can hear him all over the restaurant. One time, this guy sitting at the next table who looks like a hit man for the Russian Mafia gets pissed off and asks him, ‘Don't you ever speak quietly?' And he comes straight back at him, ‘Yes, when I fuck.' I've never seen anything like it. This guy comes right up to within an inch of his nose, looks him straight in the eyes for a few seconds and says very, very calmly, ‘And what do you do when they kick you in the ass, cry?' I can tell you, ever since then, he's been like a lamb. Anyway, we were talking about Alina. P.G. also said that he hadn't seen her yet this summer, either at the disco or anywhere else.”

“In my opinion he fucked her too,” Rimediotti said, nodding sagely. “The man's a lecher. They say he once got a sixteen-year-old girl pregnant and made her have an abortion. I was told that by Zaira, whose grandson works at the Imperiale.”

(Another basic rule, when sticking your nose into the business of people you've never seen or known, is to back up your statements with specific references to people or, better still, the relatives of people whose knowledge of the subject is guaranteed by some connection or other with the person in question. This makes even the most utter bullshit sound reassuringly logical.)

“I think we're getting off the track here,” Del Tacca said. “Basically, P.G. isn't involved, so let's stick to the facts. They say this girl, God rest her soul, was a smart cookie, right? That makes sense to me. What doesn't make sense to me is something else.” He sipped at his Campari to prolong the suspense. “Right, Massimo?”

“Possibly. If you tell me what it is, maybe it won't make sense to me either.”

“No, no, trust me, it'll make sense to you. You've had this bar for two years, and in all that time you've been fucking us around. You're always getting involved in other people's business, I'd like to know why you should care less, you tell me if the man ever did you any harm . . . And now here you are, holding court! And before that you were talking for an hour with a girl you don't even know and you left the bar unattended. Am I right? So, since you don't know anybody in this case, can you tell me why. If there is a why.”

Massimo crossed his legs, folded his arms, and looked at Del Tacca.

For the whole afternoon, he had been trying not to think about it. It's none of your business, he thought again. But since he wasn't capable of not thinking about it, he might as well give up.

“There is a reason. I saw Fusco. I saw the boy. I heard what the doctor said about the text messages. Fusco has put two and two together, and has found his culprit. Logical. Quick. An excellent result.”

“I don't believe it,” said Aldo. “An idiot like Fusco can't even solve a crossword, and now he has a murder dumped on his doorstep and he solves it in two days flat. Mind you, with the facts he's managed to put together, I'd have solved it too.”

“In what sense?” Massimo asked.

“In the sense that I'd have identified the culprit. I mean, that boy.” Aldo stood up from the table, went to the beer keg and filled his glass to the brim, talking all the while. “It isn't like in detective stories. There's the motive, there's the opportunity, there's the evidence. Everything makes sense.”

“The two of you are idiots. You'd have both been wrong.”

“Just listen to him,” Rimediotti said. “Who else could it have been?”

“That, I don't know. But not Bruno Messa. Absolutely not.”

There was a moment's silence. Then Ampelio laughed smugly, took his stick and pointed it at the other old men. “Look how they've all fallen for it. Massimo, as soon as you've stopped talking bullshit, can you make me a coffee?”

“I'm not joking, and I'm not talking bullshit. Let's see if I can make this any clearer. I'm absolutely certain that Bruno Messa, the young guy who's in Fusco's office right now, didn't kill Alina Costa. Unfortunately, I'm not in a position to prove it in any way that'd be admissible in a court of law.”

This time the effect was miraculous. The four of them turned to look at him as if they were one old man.

“And how—” Del Tacca began, but was interrupted by Massimo.

“I have no intention of telling you guys anything. Besides, we can't be sure that Fusco will arrest the boy. He might not. Agreed, with the evidence he has at the moment he'd be an idiot not to, but nothing from him would surprise me.”

“Excuse me, but in that case what are you planning to do?”

“If he doesn't arrest him, nothing. It's none of my business. If he does arrest him, I'll try to explain what I think. In the meantime, you guys . . . ”—he realized the uselessness of what he was about to say, which was why he corrected himself—“ . . . tell the fewest people possible.”

“‘Did She Have a Date with her Killer?

by Pericle Bartolini

 

“‘Pineta: Alina Costa, the young woman brutally murdered in the early hours of Sunday morning, had a date with a friend, B. M., eighteen years old, the night she was killed. A date she did not keep, according to B. M. But the investigators have a different version. Yesterday, after an interrogation lasting more than four hours, Public Prosecutor Aurelio Bonanno officially placed the young man under investigation. His situation appears dire. According to the officer leading the investigation, Inspector Vinicio Fusco of the Pineta police, a reconstruction of the killer's movements is compatible with the period of time (between nine- thirty on Saturday evening and six on Sunday morning) for which the young man is not able to supply an alibi. According to pathologist Dr. Walter Carli, the murder took place between midnight and one in the morning. Subsequently, according to a number of witnesses, the body of the unfortunate young woman was transported between four-thirty and five-thirty in the morning to the place where she was found by S. T., nineteen years old, a third-year student at Leonardo Da Vinci Technical High School.'”