Game for Five (10 page)

“Why does it take so long?”

The two men looked at each other, then Davide (maybe) cottoned on. “To pay, right? People pay when they leave. That's how it works, admission plus one obligatory drink comes to twenty-five. When you go in you don't pay anything, when you get a drink they give you a card with what you drank written on it and on your way out you go to the cashier and pay. There are three cashiers, but it still takes time. On special dates there are more than five hundred people. The average is about three hundred.”

“I'm sorry, what do you mean by special dates? Themed nights with particular music . . . ”

“That's right. We do 80s nights, for example, hip hop nights, funk nights. Or else there are guests, this year we had the people from
Big Brother
, the cast of the soap opera
A Place in the Sun
, right now we're in touch with Valentino Rossi the motorcycle racer, he's supposed to be coming at the end of the summer but he's a bit tied up because he has so many different fan clubs. Roberto Farnesi the actor came last week, the night that girl was murdered. God, that was a busy night . . . ”

“You should be used to it.”

“Yes, but when there are soap stars there's always a whole lot of screaming girls outside, they don't come in, they just wait outside for three hours, and we have to hold them off because if something happens the club gets in trouble. Plus, we were on our own that night because Renzo wasn't there, P.G. arrived late, there were three of us against fifty. Every now and then the father of one of the girls would show up, give her a slap and drag her away, and we'd shout and say ‘Please, Signore, calm down,' but actually we were grateful because that meant one more off our hands. Some of these girls . . . ”

What a cross, kid! Massimo thought. Perfectly centered, clean, precise. One little tap and it's a goal.

“Yes, I can imagine,” he said, the image of affability now. “Just the three of you with all that commotion going on? You probably had to hold out for about an hour . . . ”

“An hour?” D. bristled. “Two and a half hours we were there! From midnight until two-thirty. That idiot P.G. showed up after everyone else and actually got down to work, but shit, he should have been there earlier. And he even flew off the handle when we told him, he started yelling that he'd been inside all the time, and I said to him, ‘Then you're an asshole, you leave us alone with all this commotion? You've got shit for brains.' He hadn't even been inside, you know. He'd been fucking someone for sure. And that wasn't the first time. Sorry if I get upset but that's the way it is, and then we always get the blame . . . ”

“No, I understand. Anyway, what I get from all this is, if a bar is open from four o'clock, people will come, right?”

There was a brief silence. The other guy, who hadn't yet opened his mouth, thought it over for a moment, then made up his mind. “You're talking about your bar, right? Look, I don't know. I get what you want to do, it may not be such a bad idea, but you know what the problem is? You're too close. When people leave, they usually get in their cars and go to Pisa or Livorno to meet up with friends who've been to other places. You're a little bit out of the way here, in my opinion. Now I may be wrong. But anyway, that's what I think . . . ”

“You could be right. Anyway I just wanted to get an idea. I don't know much about discos, that's why . . . Thanks for dropping by.”

“Do you need anything else? If you do, anything at all, here's the number.”

Public relations, of course. Nice to meet you, anyway. You could always come in useful. Massimo took the card the guy was holding out to him and put it in his billfold, and as he did so noticed that his hands were shaking. Talking bullshit always made him nervous.

 

Massimo went back outside and rejoined the doctor, who had been waiting for him. As soon as he sat down, the doctor said, “Listen, I'm going to see Fusco and tell him what we said before. I hope I can get him to change his mind, though I don't know how likely that is. Before I do, I have to ask you again if, in all honesty, you're absolutely sure of what you told me. Sorry if I insist, but you realize I have a personal interest in this matter.”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

Dr. Carli stood up, carefully draped his light jacket over his forearm and put his chair back in its place. “In that case, I'm off,” he said. “I'll be back as soon as I've talked with Fusco.”

“If you're planning to go see Fusco right now, it's best if you sit down again.”

“Why?”

“Because there's something important I have to tell you.”

“Will it take long?”

“Fairly.”

The doctor put his jacket on the back of the chair and sat down, resigned.

 

The doctor sat quite still while Massimo told him what the guys from the Ara Panic had said. By the end, he seemed vaguely disconcerted.

“So, let's sum up the situation for a moment, if you don't mind. Bruno Messa can't be guilty because (a)”—he took hold of his thumb—“he's too short and (b)”—his index finger—“because he was somewhere else when the murder took place. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“So”—the doctor squeezed his middle finger—“the murderer must be someone very tall, who knew Alina and doesn't have an alibi for the hours between midnight and one, the time of the murder. Correct?”

“Almost. He also doesn't have an alibi for the hour between four-thirty and five-thirty, when the body was found. But obviously he must have been doing something between the time of the murder and the time he hid the body four or five hours later. The inspector told you that O.K. saw the trash can was empty at about four-thirty, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did.” The doctor looked at Massimo for a few moments, then smiled and gave a kind of half-bow with his head. “You've been lucky, you know . . . ”

Massimo nodded slowly, also smiling with his eyes. There were a few moments of silence, which the doctor then broke.

“So it seems we've found him.”

It wasn't a question.

“I'm not sure yet, I have no motive and no proof.” Massimo stood up and put his chair back under the table. “But frankly . . . ”

“I'm going to see Fusco, then.”

“Have a nice day.”

 

Inside the bar, Massimo found the happy gang of pensioners, apart from Aldo, arrayed in front of the TV and laughing like drains as a heavily made-up (but male) fortune teller said in a shrill, whiny voice, “Don't you get it? Look, darling, the cards are quite clear and I'm sorry to have to say this, but he really doesn't want you anywhere near him, you know? Look, I wouldn't waste any more time on him, I tell you that right now, you know? The cards are very clear, my darling. Just look . . . What? So what? Find yourself another man! I'm a fortune teller, I'm not your mother! I tell it the way it is! If you like it, fine, if you don't like it, too bad. It's clear from the cards that he wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole, all right? Producer, can you cut off this caller please? Oooooh! The things I have to listen to! ‘What should I do, Ofelio? What should I do?' I'll tell you what to do! Wake up! You're ugly, all right, I got that. There's a remedy for everything. Buy yourself a nice barrel, stick a periscope in it, and go for a walk! But if you keep breaking everyone's balls like this, you're never going to find a man, right, girl? Not even a duck-billed platypus would go for someone like you. I apologize to the people at home but hey, every now and again you have to let it all hang out.”

Ampelio let out a loud laugh. “I can imagine how you let it all hang out!”

Pilade now joined in. “God, what a queer!”

“What about you, Rimediotti, don't you have anything to add?” Massimo asked icily.

“Oh, come on, Massimo, don't take it like that!”

“I know how that fellow there takes it,” Ampelio said in a low voice, pointing at the TV.

“Obviously I haven't made myself clear. You're in a bar, not in your own homes. There's the possibility that some people might not like you. Including me, of course. And since it happens that this place is mine, the fact of not liking you might be of some consequence.”

Ampelio calmed down, muttering between his teeth something like “Narrow minded . . . ” and Massimo again started loading the dishwasher. As he leaned over the monster, he heard someone come in. Immediately, Aldo's cheerful voice rang out.

“Hello everyone, ugly and handsome alike. What are you watching on TV?”

“An astrology show,” Pilade said without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Cool,” Aldo said, turning to look at the TV.

“Just think, in my days they called it taking it in the ass, now they call it astrology.”

“Ah, the things you learn from TV . . . ” Pilade said smugly.

 

 

Drriiiiiing.
Drriiiiiing.
Drriiiiiing.

“Hello?”

“Hello, it's Aldo.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Massimo, it's Aldo. I wanted to—”

“Hello? I can't hear a thing.”

“Massimo, it's Aldo,” Aldo said a little louder.

“Speak louder. I can hardly hear a thing.”

“Mas-si-mo” Aldo yelled, emphasizing each syllable, “they called me from the pol-ice sta-tion. They want—”

“There's no point shouting like that,” Massimo said calmly. “This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.”

“Fuck off,” Aldo said after a brief moment of consternation.

 

“Bar Lume, hello.”

“Hello, Tiziana? Massimo here. Is Aldo there?”

“Massimo, things are chaotic here. Fusco called you a dozen times, then came here in person and almost arrested your grandpa. I'll pass him to you, he's here.”

“Thanks.”

“Signor Viviani?”

“Speaking.”

“I need you to come to the station as soon as you can.”

“Of course. Why did you try to arrest my grandfather? Not that I'm complaining . . . ”

“We can speak at the station. See you later.”

 

Better get dressed. God, Massimo told himself, if the man isn't breaking balls he's not happy.

 

Massimo walked into the station to find the doctor sitting on one of the chairs and Fusco with his buttocks propped on the window sill. Both responded to his greeting with a grunt, the doctor's cordial and the inspector's somewhat pig-like.

“Please sit down.”

“Hello, Massimo.” The doctor got out of the chair and walked to the other window.

“We called you because there have been some new developments,” the inspector said. “We realize you've been a great help. Thanks to you, we've avoided making an over-hasty accusation. Obviously, you can't have any official role in our investigation. But . . . ”

“But?”

“The fact is . . . well, people seem to trust you. You managed to get hold of information about the case we knew nothing about it. In short . . . ”

Embarrassing, isn't it? Poor thing, I know how you must feel, Massimo thought smugly.

The doctor took over, in a contemptuous tone. “Messa has confessed where he was when the murder took place. Apparently the boy, who obviously has more money than sense, is in the habit of clearing his nose with a medication that isn't on the list of officially approved drugs. That's why, when he needs to fire up that negligible lump of guano he has instead of a brain, he meets with his friends in a dark place and buys a little cocaine. Which is what he says he did on the night in question.”

“He's also told us who sold it to him,” the inspector cut in. “A small-time dealer we've known about for a while now. It won't be hard to confirm this alibi, although I fear it may take some time. So it's our opinion that the young man should be released, although personally, with all the time he's made us waste, I'd happily squeeze his fingers in a vise, but that too”—the inspector raised his eyes to heaven—“is an opinion. However, I'm convinced there are still some things he hasn't told us, and so for the moment he needs to remain available. Right now, there's another matter to discuss. The thing is . . . ”

“The thing is, Massimo,” the doctor took over, giving Massimo a meaningful stare, “I've told the inspector what you found out from the PR guys at the disco, and we both realize that the finger now points rather firmly at Piergiorgio Neri, known as P.G. In addition . . . ”—the doctor glanced at the inspector, who encouraged him with a look to continue—“in addition, it emerged from the post mortem that the girl was pregnant. A few weeks pregnant.”

Silence. That too? Well, given the life she led, and all the men who had her, it was hardly surprising. If the poor girl was an easy lay, that was the kind of thing that could happen. The problems arise when you convince yourself it can only happen to other people . . .

The significance of the doctor's statement only became evident a moment later, stemming the tide of nonsense in Massimo's brain.

“Do you know who the father was?” he asked.

The inspector showed off his specialty, in other words he glared at him, then allowed himself a brief smile. “We have the genetic imprint of the fetus, of course. But to establish who the father is we'd have to make comparisons, and in order to make comparisons we need samples.” He paused, put his hands together, and started opening and closing his fingers like a whiskery little seal. “Samples of material that would be admissible as evidence in a court of law. I can hardly disguise myself as a gypsy woman, stop people on the street, and pull out hairs to protect them against the evil eye. Especially as the list of candidates seems to be a long one . . . ” Here the doctor glared at Fusco, who hastened to change the subject. “Anyway, I think we understand each other. If you let me have a statement about what you saw when we found the body and about the conversation you had with those two young men, and also tell me their names, I can summon Neri” (Neri? Massimo thought. Oh, yes, P.G.) “as a witness. If I don't like his answers, and I don't see how I could like them given that he keeps denying he ever knew the girl, I'll detain him as a suspect and ask for his DNA to be compared with that of the fetus. If they're identical, then God help him, I'll get him sooner or later.” The inspector drummed with his fingers on the window sill, then said to Massimo, “Well?”