Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (31 page)

The lieutenant sat lost in thought; then he said: “I don't have the power to make deals. But go on. Let's speak hypothetically.”

“Let's just say then, speaking hypothetically, that Marvin and I organized this burglary to coincide with a certain major payment in cash that that asshole the Bulldog was scheduled to receive, whereupon he'd send the postdated checks from his victims up north, as usual. Let's just say that I talked the Bulldog into taking me to Ischia for the weekend, and that Marvin did the job, though he forgot to wear gloves the way I told him to.”

Alex complimented Lojacono mentally, admiring his instincts: He'd decided to confront the woman before she had a chance to confer with her boyfriend and find out that he
had
worn gloves after all, and that the fingerprints had nothing to do with the burglary, but, if anything, with Susy's own dubious virtue.

“Let's say that unfortunately, this time, instead of collecting cash, that piece of shit agreed to take a stack of postdated checks for twice the amount, checks that he can cash a few at a time, which means that we're stuck with a pile of scrap paper, instead of having the cash to make a new life for ourselves, the life we deserve, under new names. Now, what are Susy and Marvin supposed to do with ten million euros' worth of post-dated checks? Nothing. But what if, again, speaking hypothetically, those checks wound up being found by some policeman in, I don't know, some luggage locker down at the train station, a locker to which I just happen by incredible coincidence to be holding the key, and what if all those checks were endorsed by the Bulldog, who's a nut about security so he endorses them right away, not when he deposits them, out of fear that someone might steal them? And in that case, speaking hypothetically, like we were saying, the poor Bulldog would wind up being sent to the dog pound and staying there for the rest of his life, wouldn't he?”

The woman had taken care of every last detail.

“And what are we supposed to do about the burglary?” Alex said.

“What burglary? Nothing was taken, not a single thing. The suspects are unknown. And unknown they'll have to remain. But to make up for that fact, you now have a chance to get your hands on a loan shark who's been burning shops and breaking legs for forty years, and to put him away once and for all.”

There was a long pause, during which Susy gestured to the waiter who was guarding the entrance to bring them some water. After she'd had a drink and wiped her lips, she went on: “Lieutenant, Marvin's a good boy. He's kind, he's good-hearted. He's made mistakes, but where he was born there are only two kinds of people: the ones who get caught and the ones who don't. But they all do the same things. He's young, he's cheerful, and he fucks like a Greek god. I have fun with him, and I used him to do this thing: I would have taken him away with me, if there had been money in the safe instead of just checks. But now the only chance we have of getting away alive is the one you can give us. Because if you don't say yes, if you decide to go ahead and prosecute the burglary, we'll both disappear inside of two days. They'll stick our feet in a tub of wet cement, take us out to sea, and drop us in, and they'll say we ran away together. That's how it works. And you'll be left with a handful of nothing, because you can't catch the Bulldog. Instead, if we do this, I'll liquidate the entire estate, and I'll get out. Overseas, you never know.”

Alex was fascinated: “And if, again hypothetically, we were to accept the deal, what would become of Esposito?”

“Marvin? I don't know, maybe I'd leave him the gym, so he could become a small businessman and keep himself out of trouble. But Signorina—might you be interested in the item for yourself?”

M
arinella was walking up the street that ran from the big piazza up the hill. In an open area dominated by the façade of a church, she stopped to watch a construction site teeming with workers; they were building a subway station, though no one really seemed to know when it would be finished.

The fact that the city always seemed to be under construction was widely considered to be a defect, but she liked it. It was as if the city were some immense animal full of life that was continually changing its skin, rejuvenating itself before it could become old.

Renewal, change—those things were important, she thought to herself. She, for instance, could say that she'd already moved twice since she was born, that is, in not even sixteen years, since it was already clear to her, by now, that she would be coming to live in that strange, beautiful city. And for a long time, too, she hoped, because just a short while ago, going out earlier than usual to do a little shopping, she'd run into the mysterious whistler again, and he'd lost a bit of his mystery.

It had happened by pure chance.

Lojacono had left earlier than usual, after sitting silent and with his thoughts elsewhere all through breakfast, as he'd been doing regularly for the past few days. Marinella knew that state of mind her father got into very well; she'd see it whenever he was on the verge of cracking a case. Chains of thought and theories piled up inside him, occupying his mind and his heart, erasing the outside world. This time, though, that trance state had come along at just the right time; so he hadn't paused to wonder about her strange euphoria, the sudden joy that lit up her face for no apparent reason.

Once she was alone, Marinella dressed hastily, grabbing a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket; she'd paused in front of the mirror to fix her hair and then, without makeup, she'd rushed out the door. Her intention had been to run a few errands and get the house shipshape in record time: She had a call to pay and didn't want to have to be in a hurry to get back home.

She was heading downstairs, taking the steps two at a time, when she'd run into the young man she liked so much. He was bent over behind a column tying his shoe, and she came very close to bowling him over.

“Hey, look out!”

Those were the first words either of them had spoken to the other.

“What, it's my fault if you tie your shoe where no one can see you?”

He'd stood up. God, he was tall.

“Nice accent you have. You're Sicilian, aren't you? I really like Sicilian accents.”

Marinella felt a wave of anger begin to mount inside her. She'd been caught off guard by an encounter she hadn't been expecting at that early hour. She had no makeup on, she wasn't nicely dressed, she was wearing a pair of tennis shoes that made her feel even shorter than usual, and now there he was calling her out for her accent.

Her reply had been harsh: “Yeah, so what? I'm Sicilian, you have a problem with that?”

He'd stepped back, as if she'd shoved him: “But I just told you how much I like Sicilian accents. Especially in girls. Anyway, let me introduce myself, though I know I should have done it before, just to be neighborly: My name is Massimiliano Rossini, and I live . . .”

“. . . on the sixth floor, in the opposite stairwell, I know.”

The young man seemed disoriented, but amused as well: “Well, since you seem to know all about me, could I at least know your name?”

Marinella took a deep breath and tried to steady her nerves: “Sorry, you're right. I just connected your name to the label by the doorbell; a couple of days ago I borrowed some sugar from your mother, and actually, I need to replace it. I'm . . .”

“. . . Marinella Lojacono, from the fifth floor. I've known that for at least ten days, to tell the truth; I asked the concierge after meeting you on the stairs that first time. The tip-off cost me five euros. You live with your father, don't you?”

He'd been curious about her, he'd asked around to find out who she was. Good. Very good.

“Yes, well, I'm staying with him for a while, though I live in Palermo . . . That is, I've lived in Palermo till now . . . I mean, technically, I live there, but . . .”

Massimiliano had burst out laughing. “You don't know much, but what you do know you're not sure of, eh? Just answer me this: Will you be here, let's say . . . next week? And if so, can I buy you a cup of coffee some afternoon?”

What now?

“I don't know . . . Maybe we can talk about it . . . If I'm here, certainly, but I don't know.”

“Yes, but if we're going to talk about it I'll need a phone number. And I'll need to know when is good to call you.”

“Okay, fair enough. But, listen . . . I'm not a girl who . . . I mean, the fact that I'm giving you my number doesn't mean that I'm the kind of girl who opens up to strangers. It's just that I don't know anyone here, and it would be nice to know what's worth seeing: theaters, monuments, that kind of thing.”

The boy's face lit up: “You almost knocked over the perfect person. If you want, I'd be glad to give you a little more information about me so you can stop worrying that I might be some lowlife: I'm a student at the university, a literature major, and I'm a journalist; still part-time, but I'm contributing to a big paper. What are you majoring in, here at Palermo?”

What am I majoring in? she thought to herself. I'm getting ready to start my junior year in high school, and I even skipped a year!

“Me? That's a long story. But I'm thinking about moving here, to live with my dad. He's alone, and he needs me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to run. Give me your cell number, and I'll give you call, that way you'll have mine.”

 

When a day starts like this, thought Marinella as she attacked the last stretch of the uphill climb, it's normal to be in a good mood. It's normal for everything to seem easy, solvable, organizable. It's normal to feel optimistic.

Letizia's trattoria was still closed, but Marinella knew her friend was inside, readying everything for the nightly assault of the locusts, as she jokingly referred to her beloved guests.

That was the great thing about Letizia. She was cheerful. Always in a good mood. And laughing. Not because she was stupid, anything but, because she was someone who had suffered, struggled, wept bitter tears. Certain smiles are like a college degree: Before you can show them off, you have to earn them. Marinella would have liked to see those smiles on her father's face again.

The woman welcomed her with a soft hug; her immaculate apron and her chef's cap flattered her like an evening gown.

They chatted for a while and the girl apologized for Lojacono's sudden flight the day before: “When it's about work, everything's super-urgent, nothing can be postponed. He's not rude, that's just the way he is.”

“I know, I know. It used to happen, even before you got here. And then if the call is from that lady, the Sardinian magistrate, he's even happier to answer it. The night you first came here, they were here having dinner together with the rest of the team, but the two of them left together.”

“I don't like her. She's a hard, selfish, silent woman.”

“But he likes her, take it from me. He likes her a lot. I can tell that he likes her. Whereas, me . . . He likes me okay, he's always nice to me, but I don't appeal to him in that way. I'll confess that I've tried to make it clear to him just how happy I'd be to . . . talk to him, man to woman, but I'm afraid he just thinks of me as a friend. And nothing more.”

This was exactly why Marinella had come. At last, Letizia had opened up to her, and that meant she was at last free to offer her own opinion: “No, you're wrong. If you ask me, he doesn't have the slightest idea that you might be thinking about him in those terms. Men are dimwits, they don't notice certain things until they bump their noses smack up against them.”

Letizia laughed: “And just what do you know about men? Aren't you a little too young for certain things?”

“Maybe, but still: I'm a woman and don't you forget it. And I know my father better than anyone else does; I'm his daughter and I'm a little bit like him. I can assure you that, left to his own devices, it would never occur to him.”

Letizia's face was suddenly worried: “You wouldn't think of telling him, I hope? Please, I'd never be able to look him in the face again.”

This time it was Marinella who burst out laughing: “Are you kidding? The trick is to make him think of it, otherwise you'll scare him and he'll run off. It's a little bit like going fishing, no?”

“Nice picture you draw. But wait, why would you want to help me?”

“Well, we're friends, and you're such a good cook . . . and then, I told you, I don't like that Piras. We need to get busy, in part because I'd like to move here. I think my father needs me much more than my mother does. And just this morning I met a guy who . . .”

With a decisive gesture, the restaurateuse untied her apron: “I understand, we're not cooking today. Tell me everything, and start from the beginning.”

And while the city outside wallowed in the dangerous May air, Letizia and Marinella lost themselves in conversation.

B
y now, Carmela Peluso was used to the directive: During the day, all windows were to be carefully and securely obscured by heavy curtains, to ensure that it was almost as dark indoors as it was outside at night. After years of stubbing toes on corners and hips on sharp edges, the caregiver, the housekeeper, and she herself had all memorized how the furniture was arranged, and they moved fluidly through the darkness like so many ghosts. But she loved daylight; every time she could go out she was happy.

Thinking back on her own life, she couldn't say exactly at which crossroads she'd chosen the wrong path, the path that had made her the woman she was now, the woman she saw in the mirror before her.

An old woman. A poor old woman with shriveled skin, her face a mask of wrinkles, her complexion ashen, her eyes lifeless. And yet there had been a time—still so vivid and present in her memory that it seemed like just yesterday—when she had been a cheerful girl, full of desires and whims, open to a life she imagined would be versatile and gratifying.