“What did you say?”
“I confirmed it.”
“I knew I could count on you. I love you. See you tomorrow.”
He ran into the bathroom and got into the shower before Lozupone arrived. Those three words,
I love you,
had immediately made him break out in a drenching sweat.
Lozupone was five years his junior, a man of powerful build and pithy speech. Not the sort to set tongues wagging, he was honest and had always done his duty. Montalbano, therefore, had to proceed carefully with him and choose the right words. He offered him a whisky and sat him down on the veranda. Luckily a light wind was blowing.
“Salvo, get to the point.What do you have to tell me?”
“It’s a delicate matter, and before making any moves, I want to talk to you about it.”
“Here I am.”
“These days I’ve been busy working on the homicide of a girl . . .”
“Yes, I’ve heard mention of it.”
“And I happened to interrogate a builder named Spitaleri, whom you also know.”
Lozupone seemed to react defensively.
“What do you mean, I know him? I only know him because I investigated the accidental death of a mason at one of his construction sites in Montelusa.”
“That’s just it. I wanted to know more about this investigation of yours.What conclusion did you come to?”
“I think I just said it a second ago: accidental death.The worksite, when I went there, was up to code. I had it reopened after it had been shut down for five days. Laurentano, the prosecutor, was pressing me to hurry up.”
“When were you first called?”
“On a Monday morning, after the mason’s body was found.And I repeat, all the safety measures were in order.The only possible conclusion was that the Arab, who’d had a bit too much to drink, climbed over the protective railing and fell. And, in fact, the autopsy showed that there was more wine than blood in his body.”
Montalbano balked, but didn’t let Lozupone see. If things had really happened the way Lozupone said and Spitaleri maintained, then why had Filiberto told a different story? Most importantly, wasn’t there the receipt from Ribaudo’s proving that the watchman was telling the truth? Wasn’t it better to shoot straight with Lozupone and tell him what he, Montalbano, thought about the matter?
“Federì, didn’t it ever occur to you that maybe, when the mason fell, there wasn’t any protection and that the railing was put up on Sunday? So that, when you came on Monday morning, everything would be in order?”
Lozupone refilled his glass with whisky.
“Of course it occurred to me,” he said.
“And what did you do?”
“What you yourself would have done.”
“Namely?”
“I asked Spitaleri what firm supplied him with his scaffolding. And he said Ribaudo’s. So I reported this to Laurentano. I wanted him to question Ribaudo, or to authorize me to question Ribaudo. But he said no. He said that for him, the investigation ended there.”
“Well, the proof you were looking for from Ribaudo I managed to procure myself. Spitaleri had the materials sent that Sunday at dawn, and he assembled it with the help of the worksite foreman Dipasquale and the watchman Attanasio.”
“And what do you intend to do with this proof?”
“Give it either to you or to Prosecutor Laurentano.”
“Let me see it.”
Montalbano handed him the receipt. Lozupone looked at it and handed it back.
“This doesn’t prove anything.”
“Didn’t you see the date? July the twenty-seventh was a Sunday!”
“You know what Laurentano might say to you? First, that given the ongoing working relationship between Spitaleri and Ribaudo, it wasn’t the first time Ribaudo furnished materials to Spitaleri on a Sunday. Second, that the material was needed because on Monday morning, they were supposed to begin construction on several new floors of the building. Third: Would you please explain to me, Inspector Montalbano, how you happened to get your hands on this document? To conclude, Spitaleri gets off and you, and whoever gave you the document, take it up the ass.”
“But is Laurentano in on this?”
“Laurentano?! What are you saying? Laurentano only wants to advance his career.And if you’re going to get ahead, rule number one is to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Montalbano felt so enraged that he blurted out:
“And what does your father-in-law Lattes think about it?”
“Lattes? Don’t stray too far, Salvo. Don’t piss outside the urinal. My father-in-law has certain political interests, it’s true, but he’s certainly never said anything to me about this Spitaleri business.”
Go figure why, Montalbano felt satisfied with this answer.
“And so you surrender?”
“What, in your opinion, should I do? Start tilting at windmills like Don Quixote?”
“Spitaleri is not a windmill.”
“Montalbà, let’s be frank. Do you know why Laurentano doesn’t want to let me go any further? Because when he puts Spitaleri and his political protectors on one side of his personal scale, and the dead body of an anonymous Arab immigrant on the other, which way do you think the scale tips? The death of the Arab was given three lines of coverage in only one newspaper.What do you think will happen if we go after Spitaleri? A pandemonium of television, radio, newspapers, interpellations in parliament, pressure, maybe even blackmail. And so I ask you: How many people, among us and among the judges, have the same scale in their offices as Laurentano?”
16
He felt so furious that he stayed out on the veranda to finish the bottle of whisky, specifically intending, if not to get drunk, then at least to numb himself enough to be able to go to bed.
After thinking it over, with a cool head and without getting too carried away, he realized Lozupone was right. He would never succeed in screwing Spitaleri with the evidence that had seemed so important to him.
And then, supposing Laurentano did find the courage to take action and some heedless colleague of his did manage to bring the case to trial, any lawyer could pick apart that evidence in the twinkling of an eye. But was it really because the evidence was negligible—it still was evidence, after all—that Spitaleri would not be found guilty? Or was it because in today’s Italy, thanks to laws that increasingly favor the rights of the accused, what was lacking above all was a firm resolve to send anyone who committed a crime to prison?
But why, on the other hand, had the inspector had from the start, and continued to have, such a great desire to do harm to the developer? Because he was guilty of a building violation? Come on! If that was the case, then he should have something against half the population of Sicily, since the illegal constructions nearly outnumbered the legal ones.
Why had somebody died at one of his worksites?
And how many so-called accidents in the workplace were there that weren’t accidents at all, but genuine homicides by the employers?
No, there was another reason.
It was Fazio’s report that Spitaleri liked underage girls, and his own conclusion that the builder was a sex tourist to boot, that had made him develop a sort of violent aversion to the man. He couldn’t stand the kind of people who took airplanes from one continent to another to go exploit poverty and material and moral misery in the most ignoble manner possible.
Someone like that, even if he lived in a palace in his home country, traveled first class, stayed in ten-star hotels, and ate in restaurants where a fried egg costs a hundred thousand euros, remained a wretch deep down in his soul, more wretched than the bastard who robs churches of their alms boxes or children of their lunch bags not because he’s starving but for the sheer pleasure of doing so.
And men of that ilk are surely capable of the vilest, most loathsome sorts of acts.
At last, after some two hours, his eyelids started to droop. There was one finger of whisky left in the glass. He knocked it back and it went down the wrong way. As he was coughing, he remembered something Lozupone had said.
Which was that the autopsy had confirmed that the Arab had drunk too much, and had fallen for this reason.
But there was another possible hypothesis.
That the Arab, when he fell, had not died. He was only mortally wounded, and therefore able to swallow. And Spitaleri, Dipasquale, and Filiberto had taken advantage of the situation and forcibly plied him with wine. Then left him there to die alone.
They were capable of such an act, and the idea must have occurred to the one most capable of all, Spitaleri.And if things actually had happened the way he was imagining, it wasn’t just he, Inspector Montalbano, who was being thwarted, but justice itself, indeed the very notion of justice.
He didn’t sleep a wink all night.The rage in his body had redoubled the heat. He sweated so much that around four o’clock in the morning he got up and changed the bed-sheets. But all for naught: Half an hour later they were as drenched as the ones he had just changed.
By eight o’clock he could no longer bear to stay in bed. Restlessness, nerves, and the heat were driving him crazy.
It occurred to him that Livia, on a boat out on the open sea, must be having a better time of it than he was. So he tried calling her on her cell phone.A recorded woman’s voice informed him that the phone of the person he’d called was turned off and that, if he wished, he could try calling back later.
Naturally, at that hour the young lady was either sleeping or too busy helping her dear cousin Massimiliano to maneuver the boat! He suddenly felt itchy all over and started scratching himself until he bled.
Looking for a solution, he hopped down from the veranda and onto the beach. The sand was already hot and he risked burning the soles of his feet. He went for a long swim. Far from shore the water was still cool. But the refreshment didn’t last long. In the time it took him to return to the house, he was already dry.
Why bother to go to the station?
he asked himself.
He didn’t have any pressing things to do; in fact, he didn’t have anything at all to do.Tommaseo was busy with his press conference;Adriana had her sister’s funeral to attend; the commissioner was probably too busy to look at the answers on the questionnaire he had sent to the different commissariats.And he, Montalbano, felt only like lolling about, but not at home.
“Catarella?”
“Atcher soivice, Chief.”
“Lemme talk to Fazio.”
“Straightaways.”
“Fazio? I’m not coming in this morning.”
“Don’t feel well?”
“I feel just fine. But I’m convinced that I’ll immediately feel bad if I come in to work.”
“You’re right, Chief. It’s stifling here. Nobody can breathe.”
“I’ll come in this evening around six.”
“Okay. Oh, Chief, could I borrow your minifan?”
“Be careful not to break it.”
Half an hour later, on the road to Pizzo, he stopped in front of the rustic cottage, the one the peasant lived in. He got out of the car and approached the house. The front door was open. He called out.
“Anybody home?”
At the window directly above the door appeared the same man whose earthenware pot Gallo had shattered with the car. From the way the man looked at him, the inspector could tell he didn’t recognize him.
“Whattya want?”
If he told him he was with the police, the guy might not let him in.
The homely clucking of some chickens behind the house came to his aid. He took a wild guess.
“Got any fresh eggs?”
“How many you need?”
It must not have been a big chicken coop.
“Half a dozen should do.”
“Come on in.”
Montalbano went in.
A bare room that must have served his every purpose. A table, two chairs, a cupboard. Against one wall, a small stove with a gas cylinder, and beside it a marble surface with glasses, dishes, a skillet, and a pot on top. Humble utensils worn out by time and overuse. Hanging on one wall was a hunting rifle.
The peasant came down the wooden stairs leading to the room above, which must have been his bedroom.
“I’ll go get ’em for you.”
He went outside.The inspector sat down in a chair.
The man returned with three eggs in each hand. He took two steps towards the small table, then stopped short. He stared hard at Montalbano as his face changed expression and paled.
“What’s wrong?” the inspector asked him, getting up.
“Aaaaahhh!” the peasant roared.
And with all his might he hurled the three eggs in his right hand at Montalbano’s head. Despite being caught by surprise, the inspector dodged two of them, whereas the third hit him on his left shoulder and broke, dripping down onto his shirt.
“Now I rec’nize ya, stinkin’ cop!”
“But listen—”
“Still the same story? Eh?”
“No, I came to—”
Of the other three eggs, one got him on the forehead, and two in the chest.
Montalbano was blinded. He brought his handkerchief to his eyes to wipe them clean, and when he was able to see again through his gluey eyelids, he noticed that the peasant was now holding his hunting rifle and pointing it straight at him.
“Get out of my house, fuckin’ cop!”
The inspector ran out.
His colleagues must have put the poor guy through a lot.
The stains had spread so far over his shirt that it looked one color in front and another in back.
He had to go back to Marinella to change clothes.There he found Adelina scrubbing the floor.
“Signò, what, somebuddy tro’ eggs at you?”
“Yes, some poor bastard. I’m going to go change.”
He washed himself with the hot water from the tanks on his roof, then put on a clean shirt.