Game for Five (8 page)

 

It was about eleven in the morning, and Rimediotti's high-pitched, impersonal voice was carefully declaiming the contents of the full-page article in
Il
Tirreno
, one of the five the newspaper had given over to the murder in its local pages. Ampelio and Del Tacca were at the same table, listening intently without interrupting. Aldo was out shopping for his restaurant, as he was every morning. Massimo, with his usual concentration, was arranging the croissants, fresh from the oven, on the tray in the window. Every half-hour, Massimo would take five croissants at a time out of the oven and put them on the tray. If there were any left over from the previous batch, he would take them and put them in one of the little bags in which, in the course of the day, everything left over and no longer fit to serve ended up. That way everyone was happy: the customers, who could always count on warm croissants, Massimo, who charged an extra twenty cents on top of the price to guarantee this certainty, and the guests of the municipal dog pound who disposed of the rest, whether hot or cold. The croissants came from a bakery in Pisa, ready to be heated in the oven. Massimo had them delivered every morning, and they were one of the many details he considered essential.

 

“‘The killer, having driven to the parking lot in the car belonging to the victim, a dark green Clio, license number CJ 063 CG, was unable to leave the parking lot because the vehicle was stuck in one of the large puddles that have been common after downpours for the past few years, in spite of the local authorities' repeated promises to take care of the problem. This was after depositing the body in one of the trashcans that—'”

 

“That are just like the ones I've had in front of the entrance of the restaurant for the last three months, damn those environmental organizations,” Aldo said, entering laden with plastic bags.

“Here he is. Good health!”

“And prosperity! How are you all?”

He didn't get an answer, because just behind him, before the glass door had even closed, a princess had entered.

Or rather, a woman who looked every inch a princess. Tall, with short blond hair, wearing a dark blue tailored suit that must have cost a bomb, and gliding like a yacht, lightly and rhythmically, as if not even touching the floor. The last thing Massimo would have expected was that someone who walked like that would come up to the counter and lean her elbows on it, but that was exactly what she did.

“Good morning,” she said.

She had a harsh, cold voice that jarred with the rest of her. Most likely she had slept badly.

“Good morning,” Massimo replied. “What can I do for you?”

“You must be Massimo.”

“That's correct. I'm the only thing in the bar that's not for sale. If you want one of those ornaments in the form of old men, you can have it. I recommend the one with the stick, it isn't very expensive.”

“No, thanks,” she said, without any change of expression. “Walter told me you're strange. I'm Arianna Costa. Alina's mother.”

A few bursts of coughing from the old-timers greeted this statement. Massimo said nothing.

“He also told me you're a very serious person, and that you have a good brain.”

“That's also correct.”

The woman looked at him for a moment before speaking. “So if someone as serious and intelligent as you goes around saying that he knows the wrong person has been arrested for . . . for what happened to Alina, what does it mean?”

Massimo glared at the old-timers, who were pretending to mind their own business. “Exactly what you said.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm reasonably certain of it. As to how I reached that certainty, now's not the time for me to tell you. I assure you I'll communicate it to those handling the investigation as soon as I can.”

The woman slowly shook her head. “You know who it was, don't you? Either you know or you suspect.”

“Not correct, this time. I don't have the slightest idea. All I can say is that whoever killed your daughter has certain characteristics that the young man we're talking about doesn't have.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Absolutely not. Would you like a drink?”

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Is that Clément?”

“Yes, ten years old.”

“Could I have a little?”

“Of course.”

Massimo turned, took down the bottle of dark rum, poured a standard measure into a low glass, cut a small piece of melon, speared it with a toothpick, rolled it in cane sugar, and put it on a little saucer next to the glass. He felt it his duty to ask, “Isn't it a little early?”

“For you, maybe. For you it's morning. For me it's still night. I haven't slept for three days. I don't think I've quite realized yet what's happening.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don't think you do.” She took a sip of the rum, and, in spite of what she had just said, coughed for a moment. “Are you really sure of what you told me about Bruno?”

“Yes, Signora.”

Still looking at Massimo, the woman wet her lips in the glass. Finally she said, “In a way it's a relief. I can't bring myself to believe that Bruno's guilty. I wanted to come here after I overheard my maid talking about your theory. My husband didn't want me to, but I always do what I've made up my mind to do. I appreciate your frankness, and I'm grateful to you.”

“Don't mention it. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Speak to the inspector as soon as possible. Well, I'll leave you to your work. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

And she went out with the same ethereal lightness with which she had entered.

 

“What a woman!” Pilade said.

“I agree,” Aldo said. “And so calm. It's almost scary.”

“Yes, scary,” Massimo said, clearly and icily. “Almost as scary as the speed at which she managed to find out what I said last night.”

“I didn't tell anyone,” Ampelio said sulkily.

“Oh, you didn't tell anyone? Not even Grandma Tilde?”

“Yes, but your grandmother is family, if I can't tell her . . . ”

“What about you, Pilade, did you tell your wife?”

“No, no, her sister Tilde told my wife, she phoned yesterday while she was at dinner.” He looked at his watch. “Talking about eating, it's nearly lunch time. I'm going.”

“Me too, I think,” Rimediotti said.

“Not me,” Aldo said, looking outside. “I don't want to miss the second round.”

Massimo turned his head and also looked outside. Beyond the glass door, a few paces from the bar, he saw a very irritable Fusco advancing at a marching pace. Walking like that, Massimo thought, he looked even shorter.

 

“Hello. Coffee?” Massimo asked the inspector as soon as he had entered.

Fusco pretended not to hear him. He sat down at a table and started looking at him in silence, his head tilted slightly to one side, his black mustache completely hiding his lips. He's changed style, Massimo thought, now he's Poirot.

The old-timers were holding their breaths.

“Cappuccino? Fruit juice?
Créme de mènthe
? Sarsaparilla?” Massimo went on with apparent seriousness, meeting with the same silence. Only after a few seconds, spent still looking at Massimo with the expression of a man who has finally tracked down the person who made his daughter pregnant, did Fusco loosen up.

“As soon as you've stopped fucking with me,” he said calmly, “I want you to come to the station. We need to talk.”

“If the two of you want to talk here, it's no problem,” Ampelio said magnanimously. “I swear we won't bother you!”

Massimo gave Ampelio a nasty look. Fusco continued looking at Massimo. That was a nasty look too.

“Investigations are usually conducted at police stations, not in bars. It seems to me there's been a bit of confusion on that point.”

“Absolutely,” Aldo interjected. “Investigations are indeed conducted at the station, but here the operations of the police are subject to the scrutiny of the community, because in a democratic country the citizen has a right to judge the police. He shouldn't merely accept things blindly, as I'm sure you—”

“Did anyone ask you?” Fusco cut in without turning to look at him.

Aldo fell silent, assuming a vaguely offended air.

“I need to talk to you at the station. If you don't mind abandoning the Greek chorus here for a few minutes I want you to come with me.”

“Just a moment, I need to make a phone call.”

 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Tiziana, Massimo here. Have you been awake for long?”

“Yes, I'm at the perfume store. I'm just paying.”

“Perfect. As soon as you're out of there, can you drop by the bar for a moment?”

“Sure.”

 

It was always a pleasure to see Tiziana, even though she wasn't at her best in the morning. As she approached the counter, Fusco, in spite of being on duty, gave her a head-to-foot X-ray, lingering briefly over her breasts, which were both soft and marmoreal.

“What is it?”

“Dr. Fusco here wants to take me to the station for a moment. Apparently it's urgent. I need you to mind the bar until I get back.”

“‘Can you drop by the bar for just a moment?'” Tiziana said, aping Massimo's clearly enunciated way of speaking. “God, what a liar you are. I have things to do.”

“You can always refuse, it's your right. Let's see, I must still have the number of that girl in my diary, Loredana, if I remember correctly, the one who wanted to work here last summer. Let me see if I can find it. Oh, are you still here?”

“Massimo, I have more shopping to do . . . ” Tiziana implored.

“This won't take long, Signorina, I can assure you,” Fusco, who up until a moment earlier seemed to have been wondering if those were really nipples, said weakly. “And it is necessary.”

“Can't Aldo stay behind the counter?”

“Negative, the youngsters are going to eat now. It's time. Oh, and another favor. Today's Wednesday, so the PR guys from the discos should be by to drop their vouchers. If the guys from the Ara Panic come while I'm away, can you tell them there's something I need to talk to them about?”

“Yes, bwana. Do you also have instructions about the cotton harvest?”

Massimo went back behind the counter, took his money pouch, and put his cigarettes and billfold in it.

“Send the old hospice here home for lunch, or my grandma will be at my throat. We can go now, Inspector.”

“Let's go, then. Do you mind if we walk to the station?”

“In this heat, yes. But I don't see any other solution. After you.”

Two hours later, at two-thirty, when Massimo got back, the bar was just about scraping a living in the sundrenched post-lunch torpor. At the outside tables, tall Dutchmen and bespectacled Germans were mistreating their esophagi with daringly hot cappuccinos, all in the most religious silence, occasionally exchanging glaucous upward glances that probably meant: God, it's hot.

The Dutch, Massimo thought. In the old days, they must have been shut in, forbidden to cross the dikes on the border. But for some years now, wherever you turned you saw cars with yellow license plates, the six figures divided into two triplets, and with roof racks. (They all had to have roof racks—probably had to pay a heavy fine in cheese if they didn't.) So much for the economic recovery.

Inside, on the other hand, the natives were slowly beginning the process of peristalsis with a ritual that has always distinguished Italians in bars, one that can be performed any hour of the day or night at any establishment along the entire length of the Italian boot without running the risk that you will automatically be classified as a Kraut.

Espresso.

In the period under discussion, the Bar Lume offered ten different types of espresso, of which Massimo, as an Italian and a mathematician, was an enormous connoisseur not to say an obsessive: from a traditionally roasted Arabica supplied by a coffee store in Seravezza (this was what was served to anybody who simply asked for “an espresso”), to a Caracolito with small, fragrant beans, alas not always available, of which Massimo was as secretly proud as if he had made it himself.

He went behind the counter. “Everything okay?” he asked Tiziana.

“Yes everything's fine. How about you?”

“I'm fine. We have to make room for an ambulance out front.”

“What?”

“An ambulance. For when one of those Visigoths swigging boiling hot cappuccinos at two-twenty in the afternoon gets such bad indigestion he bursts. If they keep going like that, it's bound to happen sooner or later.”

“You're really obsessed, you know? You sound like my ma. This thing is bad for the digestion, that other thing swells your stomach, this one brings bad luck. Can't people do whatever they like?”

“In other bars, maybe. Here, no. Here, if someone asks for a cappuccino during the hottest part of the day, he needs to be told, politely but firmly, that much as we respect his daring, we can't allow him to do himself harm. If he's okay with that, fine. If he isn't, let him go to the Pennone for a cappuccino. That way, if he dies at least he'll die by the sea and he'll be happy.”

“You're in a bad mood today,” she said, emptying the ashtrays. “Fusco didn't listen to you, did he?”

Obviously, Ampelio had spilled the beans before he left.

“Of course not. Idiot.”

“Can't you tell me why you think Messa had nothing to do with it?”

“No.”

“Who do you think I'm going to tell? I'm no gossip. You should know that by now.”

“Oh, yes,” Massimo said in a slightly ironic tone. “I should know.”

“Why do you say it like that?”