“Speaking of which, you employ many foreigners and …”
Corso’s face turned red as a match.
“Should they starve to death?”
“No, Mr. Corso, I …”
“You want to force them to steal? To deal drugs?”
“Listen, Mr. Corso …”
“To live off of prostitutes?”
Montalbano kept silent. He realized there was no other way; he had to let him get it all out of his system.
“To sell their children? You tell me.”
“Are you religious?”
The inspector’s question took Corso by surprise.
“What the fuck does it matter if I’m religious or not? No. I’m not religious. But it was enough for me to live as an emigrant for almost thirty years, first in Belgium and then in Germany, to understand these people who leave their country out of desperation.”
“How do you hire these foreigners?”
“Their names are brought to my attention.”
Montalbano noticed a slight hesitation.
“By whom?”
“Well, by the local branch of Caritas or organizations like that, by the Prefettura …”
“And who, in particular, brought Puka’s name to your attention?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Make an effort.”
“Catarina!”
The door to the next room opened immediately and a thirty-year-old woman, tall, beautiful, elegant, emerged. She was one hell of a secretary.
“Catarina, who gave us Puka’s name?”
“I’ll look it up on the computer.”
She disappeared and reappeared immediately.
“The police.”
Corso caught fire; he started yelling.
“The police! Did you hear that, Inspector? The police! And here you are giving me all this bullshit!”
Then the secretary did something she shouldn’t have done in front of strangers. She walked behind the desk, hugged Corso from behind, and kissed him on his bald head.
“Don’t get worked up; you’ll raise your blood pressure.”
Then she walked back to her office. They weren’t hiding their relationship at all.
“You are …” Montalbano started to say.
He was about to say “a widower,” but he stopped right away. Something in the eyes of the man made him realize the truth.
“What were you going to ask me?” Corso said, now almost completely calm.
“Nothing. That’s your daughter, right?”
“Yes, I had her late. So, my dear sir, as you can see, it’s very unlikely that the police suggested I hire a thief, don’t you think?”
Montalbano raised his arms. He had to find a way to talk to the secretary-daughter alone. The look she gave him as she was getting up after kissing her father, had been as clear as words: We need to talk.
“I know you’re running short on time,” he said, making a sorry face, “but I must ask for more information on …”
“No way! I’m already late!” Mr. Corso said, yelling.
“Catarina!”
“Yes,” the girl said, appearing in a flash. How did she do that, was she standing behind the door waiting to be called?
“Catarì, you help this gentleman. We have nothing to hide. Good day.”
And he left without giving the inspector the time to answer his salutations.
“Have a seat,” Catarina said, opening the door to her office and stepping aside to let him in.
The room was big and the furniture was old-fashioned, without any chrome, metal, or indecipherable shapes. The only exceptions were the computer and the two telephones, the kind that do everything, from sending a fax to brewing coffee. On one side, there was a sort of sitting room. The girl asked the inspector to sit on the couch; she chose an armchair for herself. She looked a bit embarrassed.
“Did you really want to ask for more information, or did you realize I wanted to …”
“I understood that you wanted to talk to me, but not in your father’s presence.”
“This is what’s bothering me.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t like talking about my father without him knowing, but it’s for his own good. If I said what I am about to say in front of him, he would have gotten all worked up. He has very high blood pressure, and he has already had a heart attack.”
Montalbano noticed on her table two framed pictures: one portrayed a five-year-old boy, and the other a forty-year-old man who looked like Alfredo Corso must have looked thirty years ago. Sometimes women marry men who look just like their fathers.
“Signora,” he started.
“Please, Catarina. My dad calls me Catarì. Not sure why.”
“Well, I can assure you that Mr. Corso will never know about our conversation.”
“Sorry, I haven’t expressed myself properly. It’s not a matter of my dad finding out; it’s rather that I’m doing something behind his back.”
Montalbano’s ears perked: something behind his back?
“I’m married and have a son named Alfredo, like my father. My husband, instead, is Giulio, Giulio Alberganti.”
She looked at Montalbano as if she expected a reaction from him, but he had never heard that name. But, in the end, what did all that have to do with Puka? What was she getting at, this Catarì, pardon, Catarina?
“I glad to hear it,” Montalbano said, with a slight, just a touch, of irony.
The woman, however, noticed it immediately. She was beautiful and smart.
“I’m not beating around the bush, telling you all this; I’m trying to get right to the point. My husband is a colleague of yours, well almost. I live here with my boy because I don’t want to leave my dad alone. Giulio works in Rome. We see each other when we can, unfortunately.”
Montalbano didn’t open his mouth, but he still didn’t see where the woman was going with this.
“When you asked about who gave us Puka’s name, I told you it was the police. That’s what I had told Dad and that’s what I put in the computer. But that’s not true.”
“Puka’s name came from your husband,” Montalbano said. “And he suggested you tell your dad it had come from the police.”
Catarina looked at him in admiration, nodding.
“Did you tell your husband about the tragedy?”
“I couldn’t. I called his office and they told me he was out; nobody’s answering his home phone, and he hasn’t called in a while. However, I’m not worried; it’s happened before. You see, my husband is …”
“I don’t want to know,” Montalbano said. “I can imagine.”
“But there’s something else,” Catarina said in a whisper.
“Please.”
“It’s a rather delicate matter. Do you know a builder by the name of Vincenzo Scipione?”
“The one they call ‘
’u zu Cecè’
? Yes.”
“That man has always been my dad’s nemesis. He’s a mafioso; I’m not the one saying it; it’s in the court’s rulings. However, now things have changed for him: Undersecretary Posacane is his puppet. Dad has never tolerated the Mafia, in spite of those who say we should. And he has paid for it: public contracts denied to him, machines set on fire, certain banks won’t give him credit, threatening phone calls, anonymous letters, and so on. Then, four months ago, there was the first accident on our construction site in Gibilrossa.”
“I didn’t know about that one,” Montalbano said. “I was only aware of two. The one with the worker crushed by an iron beam and Puka’s. How did it happen?”
“I should say that up to that point we had never had an accident on our construction sites: Dad is very serious about safety in the workplace. And he was very hurt when a journalist at Rete Libera called him a murderer. Sure, some really are murderers, but others aren’t. In any case, two workers fell from some scaffolding. They were leaning against the rails, when they gave way. Dad said he was sure that the bolts had been unfastened on purpose. Sabotage. Of the two workers, one was left with a few contusions, while the other is now an invalid. Three days after the accident, I received a phone call. A voice told me: ‘You see, Signora Alberganti, how many accidents can happen? You should be careful with that beautiful boy of yours.” I was scared to death but didn’t say anything to my dad or to my husband. About ten days later, another builder came to dinner at our place. A friend of Dad’s. He said he sold everything to Scipione, at a loss. He told us that two accidents were enough for him to understand how things were and that he didn’t want more deaths on his conscious. So I went to Rome to see my husband and told him everything. A bit later, he called me and told me to hire Puka. That’s right, Inspector, he cannot be a thief. You’re completely wrong about him.”
He decided to speak openly with her, without keeping anything from her, repaying honesty with honesty. Plus, she was a strong woman.
“Signora Alberganti, that was just an excuse to find out more about Puka.”
“Then why are you interested in him?”
“Because it wasn’t an accident. He was killed. Marshal Verruso, whom I’m sure you met, and myself are certain of it.”
“My God!” Catarina said, covering her face with her hands. “It was my fault!”
Montalbano didn’t let her cry.
“Don’t be silly and answer me. When the other worker was crushed by the beam about a month ago, was Puka at that construction site?”
“No, he was at another.”
“Is it normal for the police to give you the names of foreigners?”
“It has happened two or three times.”
“Good,” Montalbano said, getting up. “You have no idea how helpful you have been. And I’m honored to have met a woman like you.”
They looked at each other, and Montalbano nodded.
How did they understand each other like that? With her eyes, she had asked him: Should I take my son somewhere safe?
“To Rome, to my in-laws’,” she said, answering the Inspector’s mute question.
They shook hands. Then she walked up to the inspector, hugged him, and put her head on his chest.
“Thank you.”
She stepped back and opened the door to let him out.
“Do you know when they’re going to reopen the construction site?” he asked walking in front of her.
“They resumed their work at two this afternoon.”
And so the plot thickened and thinned at the same time. It thinned because now he knew that the Albanian wasn’t an Albanian, that his name definitely wasn’t Pashko Puka, and that he was a man of the law, maybe from DIGOS, the anti-Mafia police division, who went undercover pretending to be a construction worker. He was supposed to discover, but he was the one discovered. And killed. But the plot thickened because if Puka was a cop, DIGOS, the anti-Mafia police division, would start investigating his death as soon as they found out, if they hadn’t found out already. That would make three of them, DIGOS, Verruso, and himself, conducting the same investigation. Three dogs after one bone. He had to hurry before Rome took the case away from poor Verruso, robbing of the last satisfaction he could have got from his job. He looked at his watch; it was five thirty. By the time he got to Tonnarello, working hours would be over at the construction site. In fact, when he got to the top of the small hill, he didn’t see a living soul. Chances were that he went all the way out there for nothing, since the guard, the man he went to see, probably wasn’t even there. He waited awhile and got lucky. The door to the smaller shack opened; a man came out, undid his pants, and started to piss. Then he went into the shack, closing the door behind him. Montalbano got in the car and started to drive down toward the construction site. The road was a slab of slippery mud. He stopped in front of the main gate, crossed the fence, raised his hand to knock on the shack’s door, but froze with his hand in midair. In the silence of the countryside, he could clearly hear what was going on inside.
“Ah! Ah! More! Give it to me!” a panting female voice said.
It was a strange voice, high-pitched, almost childish.
He wasn’t expecting that, so much the worse for the guard.
He knocked so hard that it sounded like a gunshot.
The shack fell silent.
“Who’s there?” a male voice asked.
“Friends.”
The inspector heard footsteps; clearly, the man had got up. But he didn’t come to the door; he walked around a little longer, opened a drawer, and closed it.
Click.
Montalbano became alarmed; he knew that sound very well. The man had loaded a gun. For a moment, he thought of running to his car to grab his, which he kept in the glove box. What then? He and the guard would have a showdown at the O.K. Corral. The tiny peephole next to the door opened.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you. It’s Montalbano.”
“The inspector?”
“Yes.”
“Step back so I can see you.”
Montalbano moved back. The peephole closed and the door was opened simultaneously.
“Come in.”
The first thing he saw was a single bed, a rusty cot with just a mattress on top, covered in stains of different colors. No trace of the woman. The shack didn’t have a bathroom, nor any closets.
“Where’s the woman?”
“What woman?”
“The one you were fucking.”
“Sir, me? Fucking? I wish! Not even whores want to fuck me! It was a movie!”
And he pointed to the TV and VCR with a tape sticking out of its mouth. In spite of the open window, the stench was unbearable. How long had that man gone without a shower? He was sixty years old, toothless, his left hand had only three fingers, and a huge scar ran across his face. Every inch of the walls was covered in asses, tits, and pussies belonging to various “actresses.” The man kept his eyes on the inspector.
“Are you going to put down that gun or not?”
The guard looked at the weapon he was still holding in his hand.
“I forgot about it.”
He opened the table drawer, put the gun in it, and closed it quickly. But the inspector could see that it also contained a stack of pictures.
“Do you always grab your gun before opening the door?”
“Before, no; now, yes.”
“What do you mean?”
The man answered with another question.
“What do you want from me?”
If you want to play twenty questions, I’ll play along, the inspector thought.
“What’s your name?”
“Angelo Piluso.”
“How many times have you been in jail?”
He couldn’t go wrong.
The man raised his left hand, showing the three fingers he had left.