The Potter's Field (23 page)

Michele Tripodi understood at once.

“You mean a vendetta against the Sinagras?”

“Yes.”

“You see, Inspector, Giovanni felt very indebted, and grateful, to Don Balduccio, who helped him out when his father died . . . But Giovanni's an honest man; he has no truck with the Sinagras' business . . . And he always felt ashamed of what his father, Filippo, did in Colombia . . . It's true, of course, that whenever he comes to Vigàta he pays a call on Don Balduccio, no doubt about it, but it's not as if they're so close that—”

“I understand. As far as you know, has Giovanni ever used cocaine?”

Michele Tripodi started laughing. A hearty, full-bellied laugh.

“Are you kidding? Giovanni hates drugs of any kind! He doesn't even smoke! And he even made Dolores give it up! Remember how his father was killed? Well, that fact marked him for life, and he has behaved accordingly.”

“I'm sorry, but I have another delicate question to ask you. It's about Dolores. It seems there are two conflicting opinions about her in town.”

“Inspector, Dolores is a beautiful woman who is forced to remain alone too often and for too long. And perhaps she's a bit too impulsive, and a bit too expansive, and this can sometimes give rise to misunderstandings.”

“Tell me one.”

“One what?”

“Give me an example of one such misunderstanding.”

“Well, I don't know . . . After she'd been in Vigàta for about a year, a boy, an eighteen-year-old from a good family, started serenading her, literally singing serenades to her, and then started harassing her on the phone, and one time even tried to enter her apartment . . . Dolores had to call the carabinieri . . .”

“Only eighteen-year-olds? No adults?”

“Well, about two years ago there was a more serious episode where a butcher lost his head over her . . . doing ridiculous things like sending her a bouquet of roses every day . . . Eventually he had to move to Catania, and poor Dolores's persecutions ended there, fortunately.”

Montalbano laughed.

“Yes, I'd heard that story of the love-smitten butcher before . . . His name was Pecorella, if I'm not mistaken...”

“No, Pecorini,” Tripodi corrected him.

Was it important to know that the butcher who rented his house to Mimì for his amorous trysts had also fallen in love with Dolores Alfano two years before? At first glance, it appeared not. But there was another question that had come into the inspector's head the moment Tripodi had told him the story of the butcher. Tripodi said that to rid herself of the boy who was bothering her, Dolores had called the carabinieri. But he didn't say what action Dolores had taken in the butcher's case. She certainly hadn't asked the carabinieri for help on that occasion. The butcher, however, had resolved the problem by moving to Catania. And this was where the question arose: Why, from one day to the next, had he moved away from Vigàta if he was so in love with Dolores? What could have happened to him?

“Fazio! Into my office, quick! Fazio!”

“What is it, Chief?”

“You remember Pecorini?”

“The butcher? Yes.”

“I want to know, by tomorrow morning at the latest, why he left Vigàta two years ago and opened a butcher shop in Catania.”

“All right, Chief. But what did this Pecorini do, sell meat with mad cow disease or something?”

It was now late, and the inspector felt mighty hungry. Just as he was standing up, the telephone decided to ring. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether or not he should answer, but a goddamned sense of duty got the better of him.

“Chief ! Ahh Chief! That'd be Mr. Giacchetta.”

The inspector remembered that Giacchetti had asked for him.

“Show him in.”

“I can't, Chief, seeing as how he's in telephonic communication.”

“Then put him through.”

“Inspector Montalbano? This is Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager who . . . Do you remember me?”

“Of course I remember you. How are your wife and child?”

“Very well, thanks.”

And Giacchetti stopped talking.

“So?” the inspector prodded him.

“Well, now that I'm on the phone and talking to you, I'm not sure if I really ought to...”

Geez, what a pain! The inspector also remembered that the bank manager was someone who was always taking one step forward, two steps back, a ditherer born and bred, an expert in the art of shilly-shallying. He didn't feel like wasting any more time.

“Let me be the judge of whether you ought to or not. What did you want to tell me?”

“But it may be something of no importance...”

“Listen, Mr. Giacchetta—”

“Giacchetti. All right, I'll tell you, even though it's not . . . Well, I saw the car again, I'm sure of it.”

“What car?”

“The one that tried to run the woman over... Remember?”

“Yes. You've seen it again?”

“Yes, yesterday. It was right in front of me at a stoplight. This time I took down the license number.”

“Now, are you quite sure that it was the same car, Mr. Giacchetti?”

A careless question, in which Giacchetti got lost and drowned.

“
Quite
sure, you ask? How could I possibly be one hundred percent sure? Sometimes I'm sure, and other times no. At certain moments I could swear to it, and at others I feel I really can't. How could I? . . .”

“Let's pretend this is one of the moments when you feel absolutely certain.”

“Well, all right . . . On top of everything else, I have to tell you that the car from the other night had a broken left taillight, and this one did, too.”

“You should know, Mr. Giacchetti, that nothing else has come of the episode you witnessed the other night.”

“Oh, really?” Giacchetti asked, disappointed.

“Yes. So, if you want, you can go ahead and give me the license plate number, but I don't think it will serve any purpose.”

“So, what should I do? Give you the number or not?”

“Please do.”

“BG 329 ZY,” Mr. Giacchetti said rather listlessly.

“A kiss for the baby.”

Had everyone finally finished breaking his balls? Could he now go home and think quietly about everything he had just learned, sitting on the veranda as the hissing surf slowly untied the knot of thoughts in his brain?

He closed the door to his office.

“I'll be seeing you, Cat.”

“ 'Ave a g'night, Chief.”

He went outside and headed to his car. Mimì Augello must have come back to the office, since his car was parked so close to the inspector's that Montalbano had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. He got in the car, turned on the ignition, and drove off. He had gone barely ten yards down the street when he slammed on the brakes, eliciting a riot of curses and horn blasts behind him.

He had seen something. And half of his brain wanted to bring what he had seen into focus, while the other half refused, not wanting to believe the information his eyes had transmitted to it.

“Get out of the way, asshole!” yelled an angry motorist, passing close by.

Montalbano threw the car into reverse though he couldn't see a thing, a sudden deluge of sweat pouring down from his brow and forcing him to keep his eyes half shut. At last he was back in the police station's parking lot. He stopped, ran his arm over his face to wipe away the sweat, opened the car window, and looked. And there was the broken taillight, there the license plate BG 329 ZY.

The car belonged to Mimì Augello.

A violent cramp like the stab of a knife seized his entrails and twisted them, triggering a gush of acidic, sickly sweet liquid that rose up into his throat. He got out of the car in a hurry and, leaning on the trunk, started vomiting, throwing up his very soul.

Back home in Marinella, he realized that not only had his appetite completely vanished, but he also no longer felt like thinking. He opened the French door to the veranda. The evening was too cold for a swim. He grabbed a bottle of whisky and two glasses, unplugged the telephone, went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, filled up the tub, and got in.

It was a good remedy. Two hours later, he had nearly emptied the bottle, the water had turned cold, but he had closed his eyes and was sleeping.

He woke up around four in the morning, freezing to death in the tub. So he took a scalding hot shower and drank a big mugful of espresso coffee.

Now he was ready to do some thinking, even though he could still feel a bit of nausea lurking at the back of his throat. He took a sheet of paper and pen, sat down at the diningroom table, and started writing a letter to himself to put his thoughts in order.