The Terra-Cotta Dog (2 page)

 
 
When he arrived a few minutes late, Gegè was already waiting for him, pacing back and forth the length of his car. They exchanged an embrace and kissed; it had been a while since they'd seen each other.

“Let's go sit in my car,” said the inspector, “it's a little chilly tonight.”

“They put me up to this,” Gegè broke in as soon as he sat down.

“Who did?”

“Some people I can't say no to. You know, Salvù, like every businessman, I gotta pay my dues so I can work in peace and keep the Pasture, or they'd put me out to pasture in a hurry. Every month the good Lord sends our way, somebody comes by to collect.”

“For whom? Can you tell me?”

“For Tano the Greek.”

Montalbano shuddered, but didn't let his friend notice. Gaetano “the Greek” Bennici had never so much as seen Greece, not even through a telescope, and knew as much about things Hellenic as a cast-iron pipe, but he came by his nickname owing to a certain vice thought in the popular imagination to be greatly appreciated in the vicinity of the Acropolis. He had three certain murders under his belt, and in his circles held a position one step below the top bosses. But he was not known to operate in or around Vigàta; it was the Cuffaro and Sinagra families who competed for that territory. Tano belonged to another parish.

“So what's Tano the Greek's business in these parts?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? What kind of fucking cop are you? Don't you know that for Tano the Greek there's no such thing as ‘these parts' and ‘those parts' when it comes to women? He was given control and a piece of every whore on the island.”

“I didn't know. Go on.”

“Around eight o'clock this evening the usual guy came by to collect; today was the appointed day for paying dues. He took the money, but then, instead of leaving, he opens his car door and tells me to get in.”

“So what'd you do?”

“I got scared and broke out in a cold sweat. What could I do? I got in, and we drove off. To make a long story short, he took the road for Fela, and stopped after barely half an hour's drive . . .”

“Did you ask him where you were going?”

“Of course.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing, as if I hadn't spoken. After half an hour, he makes me get out in some deserted spot without a soul around, and gestures to me to follow some dirt road. There wasn't even a dog around. At a certain point, and I have no idea where he popped out of, Tano the Greek suddenly appears in front of me. I nearly had a stroke, my knees turned to butter. Don't get me wrong, I'm no coward, but the guy's killed five people.”

“Five?”

“Why, how many do you think he's killed?”

“Three.”

“No way, it's five, I guarantee it.”

“Okay, go on.”

“I got to thinking. Since I always pay on time, I figured Tano wanted to raise the price. Business is good, I got no complaints, and they know it. But I was wrong, it wasn't about money.”

“What did he want?”

“Without even saying hello, he asked me if I knew you.”

Montalbano thought he hadn't heard right.

“If you knew who?”

“You, Salvù, you.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Well, I was shitting my pants, so I said, yeah, I knew you, but just casually, by sight—you know, hello, how ya doin'. And he looked at me, you gotta believe me, with a pair of eyes that looked like a statue's eyes, motionless, dead, then he leaned his head back and gave this little laugh and asked me if I wanted to know how many hairs I had on my ass 'cause he could tell me within two. What he meant was that he knew everything about me from the cradle to the grave, and I hope that won't be too soon. And so I just looked at the ground and didn't open my mouth. That's when he told me he wanted to see you.”

“When and where?”

“Tonight, at dawn. I'll tell you where in a second.”

“Do you know what he wants from me?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know. He said to rest assured you could trust him like a brother.”

Like a brother. Those words, instead of reassuring Montalbano, sent a shiver down his spine. It was well-known that foremost among Tano's three—or five—murder victims was his older brother Nicolino, whom he first strangled and then, in accordance with some mysterious semiological rule, meticulously flayed. The inspector started thinking dark thoughts, which became even darker, if that was possible, at the words that Gegè, putting his hand on his shoulder, then whispered in his ear.

“Be careful, Salvù, the guy's an evil beast.”

 
 
He was driving slowly back home when the headlights of Gegè's car behind him started flashing repeatedly. He pulled over and Gegè, pulling up, leaned all the way across the seat towards the window on the side closest to Montalbano and handed him a package.

“I forgot the
mostaccioli
.”

“Thanks. I thought it was just an excuse.”

“What do you think I am? Somebody who says something and means something else?”

He accelerated, offended.

 
 
The inspector spent the kind of night one tells the doctor about. His first thought was to phone the commissioner, wake him up, and fill him in, to protect himself in the event the affair took any unexpected turns. But Tano the Greek had been explicit, according to Gegè: Montalbano must not say anything to anyone and must come to the appointment alone. This was not, however, a game of cops and robbers: his duty was his duty. That is, he must inform his superiors and plan, down to the smallest details, how to surround and capture the criminal, perhaps with the help of considerable reinforcements. Tano had been a fugitive for nearly ten years, and he, Montalbano, was supposed to go visit him as if he were some pal just back from America? There was no getting around it, the commissioner must by all means be informed of the matter. He dialed the number of his superior's home in Montelusa, the provincial capital.

“Is that you, love?” murmured the voice of Livia from Boccadasse, Genoa.

Montalbano remained speechless for a moment. Apparently his instinct was leading him away from speaking with the commissioner, making him dial the wrong number.

“Sorry about before. I had just received an unexpected phone call and had to go out.”

“Never mind, Salvo, I know what your work is like. Actually, I'm sorry I got upset. I was just feeling disappointed.”

Montalbano looked at his watch: he had at least three hours before he was supposed to meet Tano.

“If you want, we could talk now.”

“Now? Look, Salvo, it's not to get back at you, but I'd rather not. I took a sleeping pill and can barely keep my eyes open.”

“All right, all right. Till tomorrow, then. I love you, Livia.”

Livia's tone of voice suddenly changed, becoming more awake and agitated.

“Huh? What's wrong? Eh, what's wrong, Salvo?”

“Nothing's wrong. What could be wrong?”

“Oh, no you don't, you're hiding something. Are you about to do something dangerous? Don't make me worry, Salvo.”

“Where do you get such ideas?”

“Tell me the truth, Salvo.”

“I'm not doing anything dangerous.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Why not, for Christ's sake?”

“Because you said ‘I love you,' and since I've known you, you've said it only three times. I've counted them, and every time it was for something out of the ordinary.”

The only hope was to cut the conversation short; with Livia, one could easily end up talking till morning.

“Ciao, my love. Sleep well. Don't be silly. I have to go out again.”

 
 
So how was he going to pass the time now? He took a shower, read a few pages of the book by Montalbán, understood little, shuffled from one room to the other, straightening a picture, rereading a letter, a bill, a note, touching everything that came within his reach. He took another shower and shaved, managing to cut himself right on the chin. He turned on the television and immediately shut it off. It made him feel nauseated. Finally, it was time. As he was on his way out, he decided he needed a
mostacciolo
. With sincere astonishment, he saw that the box on the table had been opened and not a single pastry was left in the cardboard tray. He had eaten them all, too nervous to notice. And what was worse, he hadn't even enjoyed them.

2

Montalbano turned around slowly, as if to offset the dull, sudden anger he felt at having let himself be caught unawares from behind like a beginner. For all that he'd been on his guard, he hadn't heard the slightest sound.

One to nothing in your favor, bastard!
he thought.

Though he'd never seen him in person, he recognized him at once: as compared with the mug shots from a few years back, Tano had grown his mustache and beard, but the eyes remained the same, expressionless, “like a statue's,” as Gegè had accurately described them.

Tano the Greek gave a short bow, and there wasn't the slightest hint of provocation or mockery in the gesture. Montalbano automatically returned the greeting. Tano threw his head back and laughed.

“We're like two Japanese warriors, the kind with swords and breastplates. What do you call them?”

“Samurai.”

Tano opened his arms, as if wanting to embrace the man standing before him.

“What a pleasure to meet the famous Inspector Montalbano, personally in person.”

Montalbano decided to dispense with the ceremonies and get straight to the point, just to put the encounter on the right footing.

“I'm not sure how much pleasure you'll get from meeting me, sir.”

“Well, you've already given me one.”

“Explain.”

“You called me ‘sir.' That's no small thing. No cop, not a single one—and I've met a lot—has ever called me ‘sir.' ”

“You realize, I hope, that I'm a representative of the law, while you are a dangerous fugitive charged with several murders. And here we are, face-to-face.”

“I'm unarmed. How about you?”

“Me too.”

Tano threw his head back again and gave a full-throated laugh.

“I'm never wrong about people, never!”

“Unarmed or not, I have to arrest you just the same.”

“And I am here, Inspector, to let you arrest me. That's why I wanted to see you.”

He was sincere, no doubt about it. But it was this very sincerity that put Montalbano on his guard, since he couldn't tell where Tano wanted to go with this.

“You could have come to police headquarters and turned yourself in. Here or in Vigàta, it's the same thing.”

“Ah, no, dear Inspector, it is not the same thing. You surprise me, you who know how to read and write. The words are not the same. I am letting myself be arrested, I am not turning myself in. Go get your jacket and we'll talk inside. I'll open the door in the meantime.”

Montalbano took his jacket from the olive tree, draped it over his arm, and entered the house behind Tano. It was completely dark inside. The Greek lit an oil lamp and gestured to the inspector to sit down in one of two chairs beside a small table. In the room there was a cot with only a bare mattress, no pillow or sheets, and a glass-fronted cupboard with bottles, glasses, biscuits, plates, packets of pasta, jars of tomato sauce, and assorted tin cans. There was also a wood-burning stove with pots and pans hanging over it. But the inspector's eyes came to rest on a far more dangerous animal than the lizard sleeping in the glove compartment of his car: this was a veritable poisonous snake, a machine gun sleeping on its feet, propped against the wall beside the cot.

“I've got some good wine,” said Tano, like a true host.

“All right, thanks,” replied Montalbano.

What with the cold, the night, the tension, and the two-plus pounds of
mostaccioli
he wolfed down, he felt he could use some wine.

The Greek poured and then raised his glass.

“To your health.”

The inspector raised his own and returned the toast.

“To yours.”

The wine was something special; it went down beautifully, and on its way gave comfort and heat.

“This is truly good,” Montalbano complimented him.

“Another glass?”

To avoid the temptation, the inspector gruffly pushed the glass away.

“Let's talk.”

“Let's. As I was saying, I decided to let myself be arrested—”

“Why?”

Montalbano's question, fired point-blank, left the other momentarily confused. After a pause,Tano collected himself:

“I need medical care. I'm sick.”

“May I say something? Since you think you know me well, you probably also know that I'm not someone you can fuck with.”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Then why not show me some respect and stop feeding me bullshit?”

“You don't believe I'm sick?”

“I do. But don't try to make me swallow this bullshit that you need to be arrested to get medical help. I'll explain, if you like. You spent a month and a half at Our Lady of Lourdes Clinic in Palermo, then three months at the Gethsemane Clinic of Trapani, where Dr. Amerigo Guarnera even operated on you. And although things today are a little different from a few years ago, if you want, you can find plenty of hospitals willing to look the other way and say nothing to the police if you stay there. So it's not because you're sick that you want to be arrested.”