Authors: Timothy Williams
Big Italy (17 page)
“I know who Gennaro Maluccio is.” He pushed himself away from the desk and looked at the two officers. “And you want to see him?”
“If it’s possible.”
“Gennaro Maluccio’s freelance.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s an investigative journalist and he normally brings his copy in at the end of the week. It means he’s not on the staff of this magazine. He’s paid for each of his articles individually.”
“You know where we can find him?”
“You know Alessandria?”
“Of course.”
“Nice town. It’s where Umberto Eco’s from, but I don’t imagine you’ve ever heard of him. You know the prison?”
Pisanelli frowned. “Signor Maluccio’s writing an article on Alessandria prison?”
“Quite possibly.” The man removed the Toscanelli cigar from his mouth. The end was damp and chewed. Pieces of wet, black tobacco clung to his damp lips.
“Quite possibly?”
“All depends on the director of the prison. For all I know, Maluccio might be on a diet of bread and water.” He laughed and the folds of his belly moved with delayed synchrony. “If you really want to see Maluccio, you’d better contact his lawyer first.”
“G
ENNARO, WE BELIEVE
you.”
A telegram dictated by the heart and delivered by hand to Gennaro Maluccio in his cell within the confines of the forbidding prison of Alessandria.
Dictated by the heart but confirmed by cool analysis.
The absurdity of the crime for which our colleague is accused is quite blatant. And the manner in which his arrest was carried out is, to say the least, worrying. A roadblock in the center of peaceful Alessandria in the middle of a working day, carried out by functionaries of the Polizia di Stato who are in no way above suspicion
.
We believe that Gennaro Maluccio is the victim of a conspiracy carried out against him for reasons that we fail to understand. We await his complete pardon with anxiety. We know that he is innocent
.
Gennaro Maluccio, forty-two, a collaborator with this magazine for over six years and the father of two beautiful girls, was arrested on 29 November by the officers of the Alessandria Questura. An unexpected—and highly unusual—roadblock was set up in Corso Roma and a plastic bag containing pure cocaine was discovered beneath the dashboard of Signor Maluccio’s Fiat Punto. He is now being held in the city prison, accused of the terrible
offence of drug dealing and association with organized crime
.
We know that Gennaro Maluccio is innocent
.
Gennaro Maluccio is no stranger to conflict with the police. Several years ago he received six speeding fines within a week. Yet Gennaro, a family man with a beautiful wife and two daughters [
Loredana, see if we can use photo
] is not the sort of person to risk his and other people’s lives on the highway
.
Why this arrest? Why the quite arbitrary roadblock? Why the cocaine?
Until recently, cocaine was rare in Italy. It is a drug more popular in America and northern Europe. Because of the privileged links between Italian organized crime and the Middle East, historically heroine is the major hard drug in this country
.
Is somebody trying to warn Gennaro Maluccio—and through him, the editors of Vissuto?
Gennaro Maluccio has never been afraid to deal with the most delicate and the most dangerous affairs. Readers will recall that it was Vissuto and the reporting of Gennaro Maluccio that was responsible for the arrest of the serial killer, the “Monster of Arezzo.” More recently, Gennaro Maluccio carried out an exemplary inquiry into the horrendous trade in children between certain Third World countries and the civilized, tranquil northern city of Cuneo
.
What had Gennaro Maluccio been researching that seems to have caused the ire of the Questura in Alessandria and most probably of high-ranking officials within the Polizia and the Ministero dell’Interno?
For over a year, Gennaro Maluccio has been following the Turellini case through the meandering inquiries of Polizia and Carabinieri. Two weeks ago, Gennaro Maluccio submitted his most recent article concerning Turellini’s murder. Readers will recall the fascinating interview with private detective Fabrizio Bassi in Vissuto no.? [
Check and insert photo of cover
.] Fabrizio Bassi, director of Fabrizio Bassi Investigations, thirteen months after the murder of
the celebrated Milanese doctor [check specialty] was warned off further inquiries by a court order. Yet when Gennaro Maluccio approached the procuratore, he was told that there had never been a gag order from the Pubblico Ministero
.
Contacted to comment, Fabrizio Bassi pulls at his American tie [
use different photo, try second spread, Loredana
] and speaking in his deep voice remarks, “There’s a desire to suffocate the inquiry. And the desire comes from the top.”
Meanwhile, Gennaro Maluccio’s family continues to wait for him. His wife has moved into a hotel near the prison while the children have gone to Imperia to stay with their maternal grandmother
.
Vissuto will spare no effort or expense in helping Gennaro Maluccio regain his liberty and his good name
.
Yet again, the public is forced to observe that while many politicians remain free during the Mani Pulite inquiries, the State does not hesitate to throw humbler members of society into our overflowing prisons
.
T
ROTTI HANDED THE
two sheets of typescript to Pisanelli, who was sitting on the other chair. Turning back to the journalist he asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Me?”
“This magazine.”
The man laughed.
“What’s
Vissuto
going to do about Gennaro Maluccio? You’ve decided he’s not guilty?”
The journalist looked up from behind the cluttered desk, from behind the antiquated Olivetti, the bundles of paper and the various photographs. There was an opened can of Nastro Azzurro beer. “We journalists have many vices—but not cocaine.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t afford it.”
“Maluccio could’ve been dealing.”
“Unlikely.” A ripple of amusement went through the pot belly beneath the sweater. “Too middle-class. Too upright and virtuous.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Nobody likes the chief editor. I’m the cop on this floor. I don’t wield the biggest truncheon—but I get in there first.” Again the large man laughed. The eyes remained carefully watching Trotti. “I scrub an article and your family’s eating Simmental corned beef until the end of the month.” He placed the unlit cigar back in his mouth. “Why d’you want to know?”
“You believe Gennaro Maluccio’s been framed?”
“What do you think?”
Trotti could feel himself getting angry. There was an intellectual arrogance about the journalist—Ambrogio Negri, according to the adhesive sticker on the side of the typewriter—that irked him. And the patronizing Milanese accent. “Let me ask the questions, Signor Negri.”
A shrug of indifference. Negri was in his mid-fifties. His face was red, round and smooth. The eyes were bloodshot from too much cigar smoke, there were burst veins beneath the nose.
“You’re Trotti, aren’t you?”
“Commissario Trotti.”
“And you don’t even recognize me.”
“I try to forget a lot of people.”
“Because they remind you of yourself?”
“Because, like a journalist, I have to deal with a lot of people who are not particularly savory.”
“I interviewed you five or six years ago about a murder case. In your city, Commissario Trotti—the once-upon-time capital of Lombardy. I came down with a photographer and you allowed yourself to be interviewed. I was working on another paper. You had more hair then.” He added, “The article was scrubbed.”
“And your children ate corned beef?”
“In a manner of speaking. At the time, Commissario Trotti, I rather admired you. I got the impression you were halfway honest.”
“In your opinion, why was Gennaro Maluccio arrested?”
“Ask him.”
“I’m asking you, Signor Negri.”
“I’d’ve thought you were out of your jurisdiction here in Milan.”
“Why would anybody wish to frame Gennaro Maluccio?”
“Commissario Trotti—the one policeman who’s above everyday corruption. The man who believes in the State.” A mocking laugh. “I forgot that you see yourself as the conscience of the Polizia di Stato.”
“My conscience won’t stop me from hitting you in the nose.”
“You’re almost as unfit as I am—all those boiled sweets, I imagine. And you must be at least ten years older. Don’t try any roughhousing in here.” He gestured conspiratorially beyond the glass partition to the people working at typewriters and screens beneath the white neon lights. “I’m the only alcoholic in here. The girls wouldn’t like it. They’re a crowd of maiden aunts. Feminists and maiden aunts—during the day at least.” He settled back
against the grimy headrest of his chair and unexpectedly roared with laughter.
“Is that funny?”
On recovering his composure Ambrogio Negri enquired, “You two flatfeet care for a beer? I hate drinking by myself.”
Pisanelli had finished reading the article. He dropped it on to the desk. “Why don’t you use a computer? It would correct some of your spelling mistakes.”
“Computer? What’s that?” Negri was leaning over sideways, opening a drawer in the desk. “A policeman that can read and write? There really is a shake-up going on in this wretched country. This isn’t the end of the First Republic, this is the end of the
ancien régime
. Next you’ll be telling me you can do joined-up letters.” Negri regained his semi-erect position and tossed a chilled can of beer to each man. Pisanelli unceremoniously caught one. The other can of Nastro Azzurro fell to the floor beside Trotti.
“Who would want to make life difficult for Gennaro Maluccio?”
“I’ve had a chilled drawer installed. Eight cans of beer—which just about covers a working day. Twenty-five percent of my reserves to a couple of intellectual cops—I must be losing my grip.” Negri looked at Pisanelli, “Maluccio’s good at pursuing a story. Not much of a journalist. Has a lot of difficulty with punctuation. And he’s got a—” The man hesitated for the word, “—a computer. Maluccio’s got a computer. One of those flashy things that he carries around with him. Perhaps that’s how he impresses people.”
“How do you impress people?” Trotti asked, not hiding his annoyance.
“Gennaro Maluccio’s style’s lousy and normally requires a rewrite. But Gennaro Maluccio’s stories are good.” A gesture of his thumb. “Not like them. Old maids. They go out on a job and they start feeling sorry for some Calabrian bastard who’s just eviscerated his wife. And when there’s some reporting that requires a bit of balls, they all start getting period pains or one of their god-awful nephews needs to be taken to the dentist.” He briefly glanced over his shoulder. “They all say I drink too much.”
“Calumny.”
“Pick up your beer, Trotti. Isn’t it about time you retired?”
“Not always easy to frame somebody.”
“You’ve tried?”
“You’re tempting me.”
Again the rippling of the belly as Negri laughed. “This isn’t the first time Gennaro Maluccio’s had trouble with your friends from the flatfeet factory. He manages to get the right information and that can irritate a lot of people. On a couple occasions we’ve had the Man on the phone telling us to remove an article.”
“The Man?”
“The proprietor lives in Switzerland while we sweat blood and ink and pay our taxes.” Negri opened his beer. The froth spurted out angrily, falling on to the desk and the typewriter. He raised the edge to his damp lips and drank. “Although why anybody should worry about an article in this shit magazine, I don’t know. Violence and scandal for the ignorant masses, for the sort of people who can’t read without moving their lips. The
Osservatore Romano
it isn’t. A shitty magazine that gives the punters what they want. Violence, sex and alternative medicine. All in twelve-word sentences and seven-line paragraphs. A shitty reactionary rag—that normally ends up cut into four neat little quarters in the lavatories the length and breadth of our beloved peninsula.”
“Who’d want him to shut up?”
“Gennaro Maluccio has a lot of enemies.”
“Because of the articles concerning Turellini?”
“Ah,” Negri said. Then there was silence.
Pisanelli was leaning forward. He had opened the beer and the stubble around his mouth was moist.
Trotti watched the journalist carefully. The Peroni remained at Trotti’s feet.
“It’s Turellini you’re worried about, Trotti?”
“What do you think?”
“There are lots of things that I think. And there are lots of things that I don’t necessarily put in an article.”
“Listen, Negri, I know about power and I know about corruption. I also know a lot about the workings of the Polizia. It’s possible somebody’s trying to silence your man. Don’t think I’ve any delusions about the force I work for. Don’t think I’ve any delusions about the Ministry of the Interior. But I do know that if you need collusion from the police, you’ve got to have a lot of clout. Policemen are funny people. We’re a funny lot.”
“Evidently.”
“We don’t mind doing ourselves favors. But to get us to do favors for anybody else, you need a lot of friends. And that was before
Tangentopoli, that was before the public was made aware of what was going on in the Palazzo.”
“Where does that place you, Trotti?”
“An old, old policeman.”
“An old, balding policeman who enjoys pissing against the wind. One of the Northerners in the Polizia di State. A Northerner who has delusions of being honest.”
“I’ll be out of this job before long.” Trotti allowed himself a thin smile. “Who ever said I was honest?”
“I’m sure you’ve got other failings too.”
“I’ll show you a few.”
“Cops’ve never struck me as particularly nice people. You probably beat your wife and sleep with your daughter.”
“My wife and daughter don’t live with me.”