Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (25 page)

Lojacono would long remember Piras's reaction, because it was so surprising. Instead of laughing in turn, the woman tightened her lips, her expression one of deep suffering, and started crying. No sobbing, no moaning: just tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Laura, excuse me . . . what did I say? It was just a joke, Laura . . .”

Lojacono wished he could just dig a hole and bury himself in it. The thought that he'd somehow triggered those tears made his gut ache.

“Is that what people say about me?” She said. “Yes, I can just imagine. And it's true. Or at least it was true, for you'd be surprised to know how long. It's so easy to throw your life away; you can't even imagine, Lieutenant Lojacono.”

“Laura, I . . .”

“And by the time you realize what you've done, you're left empty-handed. Completely empty-handed.”

“Listen, no one knows better than I do that it's possible to throw your life away. But then, maybe, your life comes back and brings you other opportunities. I . . . Laura, please, don't cry. I don't know how to talk to women when they're crying. I just can't do it.”

Piras took her sunglasses out of her purse, put them on, and dried her cheeks with her hands; she reminded Lojacono of a little girl.

“Listen, I can't afford to waste time. Not anymore. I don't know how to flirt with a man I like, and I'm no good at sitting there patiently and waiting for him, either; I'm much better at pouring buckets of cold water onto the idiots who try to bag me just so they can add another notch to their bedposts.”

Lojacono interrupted: “Excuse me, but what makes you think I don't like you? Look, ever since the very first time I saw you . . . Fuck, I'm too old for some things, too. And I don't want to say them to you here, in a car parked outside the precinct, while these lunatics go roaring past down the street like they're at some grand prix.”

Piras sat motionless, looking at him. He couldn't see her eyes, hidden as they were behind the dark lenses; but he did notice that tears were no longer streaming down her face.

In a harsh, low voice, her arms still crossed tightly, the woman said to him: “Be careful, Lojacono. Be very careful. Because if you try to break my heart I'll remember that I'm Sardinian and I'll cut your throat with a razor-sharp
pattada.
Consider yourself warned.”

“Look, Dottoressa, I'm Sicilian. I'm used to the
lupara
, the sawed-off shotgun. But I don't think you're going to need one.”

He brushed her lips in a rapid kiss and got out of the car, full of life.

D
odo poops in a plastic potty. A baby potty, with a handle on the side. There's a picture of Hello Kitty on it, so it's for girls.

At first, for several hours, he'd held it in. He'd peed in a corner, the minute day had dawned and there'd been a glimmer of light through the crack in the sheet metal, but he'd held the poop in. Then, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he'd used the potty. He thought it was kind of nice that it had the picture of Hello Kitty on it, even though he'd never really liked her.

Along with the potty, Stromboli had given him a roll of toilet paper. He didn't use much, for fear he wouldn't be given any more. Once he saw a TV show where a boy was held prisoner and there was no toilet paper and the thought terrified him: Of course you can poop on the floor or the ground, but how do you clean yourself afterward if you don't have any toilet paper?

Time passes slowly. Dodo tries to sleep, but at night, even with the blanket, he's a little cold, and every so often he wakes up with his teeth chattering. He has a sore throat; he didn't want to tell Lena because he didn't want her to worry. Poor Lena. Dodo heard Stromboli shouting in his language, and Lena answering: Maybe they're both from the same country, even though he remembers that Lena knows more than one language. She told him that when she went to school, she had to study Russian, and that she'd learned German from working in Hamburg for a year.

Sister Beatrice, in class, explained to them that these days there is a great deal of violence against women. One of his classmates, Bastiani, who's been held back so he's older, snickered in that annoying way of his and said that there are men who force women to have sex even though they don't want to.

He's not really clear on what having sex means, but it seems like it's something pretty violent. He's afraid that it's what Stromboli does with Lena, and he doesn't want to give her even more to worry about, so he says nothing to her about his throat, the poop, and the cold hot pockets that by now he's used to eating anyway.

Dodo tells himself that when his father, leading a squad of policemen with guns, comes to rescue him, he'll have to tell the truth and admit that Stromboli did give him food, a blanket, water, and even Coca-Cola, as well as the Hello Kitty potty. After all, he can't be all that bad, if he let him have all these things.

He's sleepy now, Dodo is. He feels hot but he's shivering. He covers himself up and fantasizes about saving Stromboli's life at the last second, when a policeman is about to shoot him in the head.

Perhaps Stromboli, Dodo thinks as he slips into a sleep made up of equal parts fever and exhaustion, has kids of his own at home. And maybe the money that he wants from his grandfather is just so he can feed those children.

His grandfather, Dodo thinks. Poor grandfather, old and sick. Maybe, now that he's been taken, Papà and Grandpa will finally make peace.

They're his heroes, Grandpa and Papà, Dodo thinks.

And he falls asleep, with his throat on fire.

O
ld Borrelli's caretaker led Palma, Romano, and Aragona down the hallway and up the stairs, both of which were still immersed in shadows. But the shadows weren't muffled now: The place seemed to crackle with electricity.

Everyone was there in the living room. At the center, in his wheelchair, sat the patriarch, pale and expressionless; standing beside him was Peluso, rigid, erect, her gaze as fixed as that of a wax statue. Eva was sitting on one of the sofas, her face devastated by grief and lack of sleep, her fingers twisting a tear-soaked handkerchief; next to her sat Scarano, eyes downcast, one hand on her leg. Alberto Cerchia kept pacing back and forth in front of the large windows, ignoring the spectacular nighttime panorama.

The policemen understood that their arrival had interrupted a lively argument, which had left behind traces like those on a field in the aftermath of a battle.

Palma said: “We wanted to meet with you all together to report on the state of our investigation and the measures the magistrate has taken.”

“Commissario,” Eva asked in a trembling voice, “do you have any news? Who took my boy? It's been three days . . . I can't take it any more . . .”

Scarano put his arm around her shoulder. “What news do you expect them to come up with?” Cerchia roared. “They can't even find each other in this mess of a city; no wonder they can't find my son. All you know how to do is freeze our bank accounts: My partner called me from Bergamo and told me that we can't make payments anymore. That's what you know how to do. Instead of . . .”

Palma interrupted him firmly: “Dottor Cerchia, I invite you to refrain from exaggerating. I understand your state of mind, the state of mind you're all in, but certain measures are required by law. In fact, I wanted to remind you that while your assets have been frozen, you can, on a case-by-case basis, obtain the partial release of certain sums to make payments through banking channels. Moreover, all telephone lines, including cell phones, are subject to wiretapping and recording . . .”

Cerchia snapped yet again: “What are you trying to say? It's as if we were the criminals! You're all worthless!”

Romano gave him a surly look: “Cerchia, watch out. Talking that way to a police commissario could very easily constitute a criminal offense.”

The man fell silent, though it took a visible effort; his face was twisted in fury. He too showed unmistakable signs—stubble; a wrinkled suit—of exhaustion; he clearly hadn't been sleeping much. Dodo's parents had been brought together again, but by grief and sorrow.

Old Borrelli spoke in a low voice: “Commissario, we understand. But if the reason you came here is to inform us of the restrictions you've imposed, which I'm sure we all expected, you could have spared yourself the trip.”

“You're right, Cavalier. The truth is that we're here to work out our next moves with you all. A ransom has been requested, and the kidnapper told you that the details of the exchange wouldn't be communicated by phone. So we need to be sure that, as soon as the instructions reach you, you'll inform us at once.”

Cerchia broke into a ghoulish laugh. Scarano said: “Excuse me, Commissario, but how are we supposed to pay the ransom if you've frozen our assets?”

Borrelli addressed him sarcastically: “Just what assets of yours could have been frozen, you idiot? I'm the one who froze your assets, so to speak, and you know it. Shut up and butt out of matters that don't concern you.”

“Papà,” Eva replied, “even at a time like this you can't show a little humanity? You can't even try? We've just finished flinging horrible accusations at each other . . .”

“You shut your mouth, too. It's your fault we're in this situation. You and your ridiculous choices, and your . . .”

Cerchia interrupted him: “But nothing's your fault, is it? Either you're in charge or you don't give a damn. That's the way it's always been: When you're not manipulating people like they're puppets on a string, you turn your back and let them make fools of themselves. Like your daughter, who dumped me so she could hook up with this worthless idiot.”

Peluso got to her feet: “Well, what about you? What have you done except go back up north, forgetting all about your son except when you wire him some money or come down for a little visit every fifteen days? I don't think you're in any position to criticize.”

“Oh, cut it out, you're just a glorified housekeeper. You shouldn't even be here with the real family right now.”

“No, you cut it out, you idiot,” Borrelli retorted. “In my home, I say who gets to talk. And after all, I'm the one that bastard demanded the money from, so I'm the one who gets to decide what to do.”

“In fact,” Scarano said, “the only thing that matters is getting Dodo. That poor child is in danger, who knows where, and we're just sitting here slinging mud at each other . . .”

“He's my son, you asshole!” Cerchia shouted. “My son, not yours! My son, my Dodo, and now he's being held by a couple of fucking gypsies, in this fucking city, in who knows what kind of fucking place . . .”

Eva burst into tears and stuck her fingers in her ears: “Enough, that's enough! I can't stand listening to you shout anymore!”

Scarano spoke again, his voice calm, as if Cerchia hadn't just attacked him: “Commissario, we're all upset, as you can see. It's clear that we're in no condition to come up with a strategy on our own. Maybe we should listen to you.”

Borrelli agreed: “Why, yes, let's listen. Let's hear what the commissario has to suggest.”

Palma went on: “As I was saying, it's important that you get in touch with us if the kidnappers contact you in any way that we can't monitor.”

Peluso asked: “Even if they were to use email or . . .”

“Even if they write you via Facebook,” Aragona replied brusquely.

The woman blushed and shot a sideways glance at the old man, who hadn't noticed. Palma went on: “We have wiretaps on all your phone lines, so let me repeat, any phone call, incoming or outgoing, will be recorded: If they give you a number to call, we'll know it. I'm emphasizing this so you're not tempted to make some kind of deal on your own. The same applies to Internet traffic.”

Peluso objected: “So you'll be sticking your noses into our business, investigating our professional and personal lives. And this is supposed to be a free country . . .”

Aragona looked her up and down: “So free that there are even people who will kidnap a child, or try to trip up the people trying to rescue him. A little too free, this country's turning out to be.”

Eva said: “But if these . . . if these people were to get something to us, I don't know, a letter, a note . . .”

“That's exactly why we're here, Signora. We need to be sure you'll call us immediately. That way we can catch them and find Dodo.”

Borrelli narrowed his eyes: “But what if they figure it out? What if they sense you're on their trail and they do something to the boy? We'd run the risk of paying and not . . .”

Cerchia leapt to his feet, as if spring-loaded: “I'll give you back the money, don't you worry. As soon as our accounts are unfrozen you'll get every penny. Unfortunately, I haven't hidden my money offshore because I'm a stupid asshole who pays his Italian taxes. And these people, in a show of gratitude, freeze everything I own.”

“Don't talk nonsense,” Borrelli hissed. “No one's going to pay a thing, and if we were to, which, by the way, I've been told is no crime, someone would lend us the cash.”

Romano broke in: “Cavalier, paying the ransom is dangerous. Once the kidnappers have the cash in hand, they might very well just decide to get rid of the child and . . .”

Eva moaned as if she'd just been stabbed. Cerchia went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, drawing a venomous glare from Scarano.

“Don't you dare,” Dodo's father said, jaw clenched. “Don't you even dare think it, goddamn you. I'm going to find my son, I'm going to rescue him, as soon as I can figure out where they're holding him. I'm not going to let them hurt him, I'll never allow that.”