“Matre santa! What is it? Why are you shouting?”
“It’s nothing, never mind,” said Montalbano. “Calm down.”
“You calm down,” the old man said in irritation.
“So this Pino Cusumano would call . . .”
“Who ever said anything about Cusumano? Why are you fixated on this Cusumano? His name was Pino Dibetta!”
Very quickly the great orchestra in the inspector’s head changed tune and started playing a requiem.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Of course I’m absolutely certain! I may be almost eighty, but my brain still works just fine!”
“A final question, Signor Trupiano. Do you own any weapons?”
“Do you mean knives or firearms?”
A watchmaker’s precision.
“Firearms.”
“I have a hunting rifle. I used to like to go hunting.”
“Signor Corso, the first man on the list, arrived about ten minutes ago,” the guard informed the inspector.
“Is Fazio here?”
“No sign of him yet.”
“Call Gallo for me, would you?”
Gallo came running.
“You’re from Vigàta, aren’t you?” the inspector asked him.
“Yes.”
“Do you know anyone named Pino Dibetta?”
Gallo smiled.
“I certainly do.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because he’s a friend of my younger brother, and he’s staying at my place. They both work at Montacatini’s.”
“Then listen. Tell him I want to see him in about two hours. And now bring me Signor Corso.”
8
Signor Corso owned a small grocery store. Based on what his wife said about the girl—since he himself was always at the store, working his ass off from morning till night—Rosanna was a good kid. He’d always paid her aboveboard and contributed to her social security fund. No, his wife said that nobody ever phoned for Rosanna. The girl hadn’t quit on her own. It was Corso’s wife who asked her not to return, since they had a granddaughter of their own who needed work and they’d decided to help her by taking her on as a housekeeper. No, they didn’t pay the granddaughter, just free room and board. No, sir, he owned no firearms whatsoever. Might he ask why the inspector was asking so many questions about the girl? No? Well, good day and thanks just the same.
Signora Concetta Pimpigallo, née Currò, the seventy-year-old widow of ragionier Arturo Pimpigallo, former accountant for the Fruit & Vegetable Consortium, came in with her daughter Sarina, who looked about fifty and was unmarried and possibly mute, since she never once opened her mouth. Signora Pimpigallo declared she had nothing whatsoever to say about Rosanna. In all good conscience she had to admit that the girl sometimes arrived a little late, but nothing serious, maybe five minutes late. And the signora would bring it to her attention by showing her the pendulum clock in the living room—“a Swiss clock, my dear Inspector, with split-second precision, the kind they don’t make anymore!”—and then would dock five minutes’ worth from her pay. Why had Rosanna left? The girl said she’d met Signora Siracusa at the market, and the bitch had offered to hire her for better pay. That’s all. Why was Signora Siracusa a bitch? Hadn’t the inspector ever met her? No? Well, when he did, he should be so kind as to ring the widow Pimpigallo and then they could talk about it. No, nobody ever called on the phone for Rosanna. Firearms?! In her house?! Heaven forbid! Could they perhaps know why the police were . . . No? Oh, well . . .
Signor Giacomo Nicolosi was a nervous, grumpy man of about forty. He stated that since he was working in Germany at the time, he hadn’t had a chance to meet the girl in person. Rosanna had been in his service for eight months during which time he hadn’t been able to return to Italy. His wife told him to say that Rosanna Monaco had always worked well and had left of her own free will. They had no weapons in the house. Why had he come to the police station instead of his wife, who knew a great deal more about the girl than he? Because never in a million years would he have allowed his beloved wife to appear in a police station like the commonest of whores.
Signora Concita Filippazzo monologued against the current.
“I realized from the start that Rosanna was a strumpet. I gotta sharp eye, you know. No sir, ’s far ’s the housework was concerned—cleanin’, washin’ floors, cookin’, ironin’—no complaints. But she was a strumpet. First of all, she never went to church on Sunday and never took Communion. Secunnly, you just hadda see the way she would make my husban’ and my son look at ’er. One time, Inspector, I went inna kitchen, where my husban’ had gone to make hisself a cup a coffee. An’ you know what? In one hand, my husban’ was holdin’ the little cup, and with the other he was strokin’ the girl’s bottom. No, I didn’t raise hell, iss juss the way my husband is, he’d even stroke a mullet’s bottom if he could. But, a few months later, things got rilly serious. I gotta son, Gasparinu, who was eighteen at the time. One time when Rosanna was makin’ the bed in Gasparinu’s room, I saw the girl bending forward wit’ my son behind her stroking her bottom. So I ask you: What, was this girl’s bottom made o’ honey to have all the men’s hands stuck to it alla time like that? After that happen, I threw ’er outta the house, the big slut. No, sir, when she was livin’ wittus nobody ever called for her onna phone. Weapons?! Wha’??”
“Why’d you ask them if they had weapons at home?” asked Fazio, who’d arrived a moment before Signor Nicolosi began his deposition and had stayed until the end.
“Rosanna told me that it was Cusumano who had the gun delivered to her through an intermediary whose name she didn’t know. But what if this isn’t true? What if she’d stolen the gun from one of the homes she’d worked at? And then told Pino about it, to show him that she was up to the task? It wouldn’t change anything, in essence, but it would certainly compromise her own position.”
“Have all her former employers come in?”
“There’s still one family that hasn’t.”
“Can you tell me how you know that?”
“I just added up all the dates. Over these last four years, Rosanna has worked for Trupiano, Filippazzo, Nicolosi, Corso, and Pimpigallo, in that order. Between each of these periods of employment there were short time intervals, the longest being between Trupiano and Filippazzo. And the explanation for this is the abortion and its consequences. But the last eleven months are still unaccounted for. Signora Pimpigallo stated that Rosanna had told her she was going to work for a certain Signora Siracusa, who offered her better wages. But neither of the Siracusas has shown up. Do you know anything about them?”
“No, Chief. But I can find out.”
“Get on it right away. Where’ve you been all afternoon?”
“This business of Pino Cusumano being unreachable seemed fishy to me. So I asked around. And I managed to get confirmation that he really is out of town. But that’s all I know. Oh and, Inspector, I almost forgot. At Montelusa Prison they confirmed that Rosanna went to see Cusumano three days before he was released.”
“But doesn’t one need to submit a written request before a visit?”
“Of course, and she’d done that a good month in advance.”
“But she can’t read or write! How’d she sign it?”
“Somebody signed it as her trustee.”
“What’s the person’s name?”
“The signature’s illegible, Chief.”
A few minutes after Fazio left, Gallo came in.
“Inspector, Pino Dibetta’s here, I brought him in myself. Should I sit in on the conversation?”
“If you wish.”
“I’d rather not, actually. We’re good friends, I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable.”
Pino Dibetta was just over twenty. A rather tall kid, naturally good-looking, and slightly worri
ed about being summoned to the police station.
“Well, here I am,” he said, obeying Montalbano’s invitation to sit down.
“Listen,” Montalbano began, “do you know anything about—”
“I don’t know anything,” the other blurted out.
But then he bit his lip, realizing he’d goofed. Trying to justify himself, he continued:
“I had nothing to do with slashing the foreman’s tires.”
“I don’t give a shit about any foreman’s tires!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So why did you call me in?”
“For something from a few years ago, concerning you and a girl called Rosanna Monaco.”
“What happened?”
“No, that’s what I want to ask you. What happened?”
“I met her at the market, Inspector, when I used to help an uncle of mine who had a fruit and vegetable stand. I liked her. And I guess she liked me. She said she worked for some family . . . I don’t remember their name . . .”
“Trupiano.”
“Ah, right. She gave me their phone number, which she’d memorized, but she didn’t know how to read or write. Anyway, I started calling her up.”
“And the two of you would meet when she got off work.”
“Yessir.”
“Where would you go?”
“Out in the country. But we couldn’t stay long, ’cause she had to be back home early.”
“What happened between the two of you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Kid stuff, you know: kissing, touching . . . nothing more than that.”
“She didn’t want to?”
Pino Dibetta blushed.
“Inspector, Rosanna wasn’t even fifteen at the time, but she already looked like a full-grown woman, a beautiful woman, but . . .”
“But?”
“Well, her head . . . I mean, she had the brain of a five-year-old. I was worried about the consequences. She was liable to tell everyone if we did it . . .”
“And so you left her.”
“No, sir, Inspector, I didn’t want to leave her.”
“So what happened?”
“One night when I was coming home, I was jumped by two guys I didn’t recognize ’cause their faces were covered. They put a sack over my head and beat the shit out of me with clubs. Broke three of my ribs and two teeth. Look at this scar on my forehead: seven stitches. Before they left me for dead on the ground, one of ’em said: ‘An’ forget about Rosanna Monaco.’”
“So what did you do?”
“When I was in a condition to go out again, I phoned the Trupianos. But someone answered that Rosanna didn’t work for them anymore and they didn’t know how to reach her. I ran into her by chance about seven months later. But she was completely different, and really skinny . . .”
“Who do you think it was that attacked you?”
“At first I thought it was Rosanna’s two brothers. But then I realized they didn’t have any reason to . . . They wouldn’t have had to cover their faces and all . . . Anyway I also realized her brothers wouldn’t do anything like that . . . They would have talked to me if they had anything against it.”
“So, if it wasn’t the two brothers, who could it have been, in your opinion?”
“Bah!”
“Could it have been that Rosanna maybe had another boyfriend when she was going out with you? Maybe some married man who . . .”
“Rosanna was a virgin. I lost a lotta sleep trying to figure out who beat me up. But I never did find out.”
There wasn’t much else to say. The inspector stood up; the youth as well. Montalbano held his hand out, and the other did the same. But when they shook hands, the inspector didn’t let go.
“It was you who slashed the foreman’s tires, wasn’t it?”
The youth looked at him, and they smiled.
“Inspector,” said Fazio, looking worried. “About the girl, I think we’re going to have to make a decision.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ We’ve practically kidnapped the kid! Nobody knows we’ve even got her here—not the judge, not the commissioner, nobody.”
“Nobody’s about to come asking for her.”
“With all due respect, Chief, that’s not a good reason.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Chief, she had a revolver in her purse, didn’t she? She told us she had planned to kill a judge, didn’t she? She did. And so? We should play by the rules and—”
“—and we’ll never nab Cusumano. Actually, we’ll be doing him a favor by getting Rosanna out of his hair. There is no contact between the two. Cusumano has been very clever.”
“What about the prison visit?”
“Do you know what they said to each other?”
“No.”
“Well, whatever Rosanna says about that conversation, Cusumano will deny it. And there’s no way to prove otherwise. In short, Fazio, I need to keep the girl in custody for another couple of days.”
“Be careful, Inspector. You’re gambling with your career.”
“I know. And that’s why I’ve thought of something. You’re married, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you need a live-in maid? I’ll pay for her myself.”
Fazio’s jaw dropped.
“But you mustn’t let her go outside. Nobody must know. Take her home with you right now, in fact.”
Someone had told him that out by Racalmuto there was a restaurant, practically hidden in an out-of-the-way spot, where one ate in accordance with the laws of heaven. The same person had also explained to him how to get there, but he couldn’t remember for the life of him the Good Samaritan’s name. He made up his mind and headed off. It was a good forty-five-minute drive from Vigàta to Racalmuto, if one took the road that went past the temples and towards Caltanissetta. The inspector, however, took an hour and a half to get there, because he twice made a wrong turn onto roads he thought led to the restaurant—which was called Da Peppino and was in a secluded spot deep within the almond groves. It consisted of one big dining room with ten or more tables, almost all of them taken. Montalbano chose a table near the entrance.
As he was inhaling the first course—cavatuna with pork sauce and pecorino cheese—two men who were sitting not far from him paid the bill, got up, and left. As they walked past him, Montalbano thought he recognized one of them, the heavier of the two. Such is the cop’s eye: It takes snapshots and files them away in the cop’s brain. But that time, all that the inspector could think of was that he’d seen the guy somewhere before.
For the second course, he had grilled sausages. But what most sent him into rapture were the restaurant’s biscotti, which were simple, very light, and covered with sugar. Taralli. He ate so many he felt ashamed. Then he left and got back in the car. It was a dark night. Before turning off of the dirt road and onto the highway to Vigàta, he stopped, as there was some traffic. At last he saw an opening and gunned the engine. But at that same moment he heard a loud popping sound and the car began immediately to skid, going into a tailspin.
He was in the middle of the road, out of control, dazzled by the headlights of the cars coming from the opposite direction, then immediately from those coming from the same direction as him. Spinning like a top. Drenched in sweat, he raised his arms, letting the car do whatever it had in mind to do, as a pandemonium of screeching tires, horn blasts, screams, yells, and curses broke out behind him. At that point the car decided to bear left and ended up in the ditch at the side of the road. End of race. The taralli had vaulted out of his belly and into his throat and now remained there, waiting to slide back down or be thrown up and out of his body. Two or thr
ee people came running up to his car and opened the door.
“Are you hurt?”
“Jesus, what a scare you gave us!”
“What happened, eh?”
“Thank you, thank you,” the inspector said. “I must have had a blowout.”
He took advantage of the kindness of a guy who was headed for Vigàta with his wife and five extremely noisy children. Once back at the station, he had Fazio and Gallo summoned at once. With Gallo at the wheel, they took a squad car back to the scene of the accident. Fazio bent down and studied a tire in the beam of a bright flashlight.
“I think somebody shot at you,” he said darkly.
“I think so too,” said Montalbano.
“Who knew you were going to Racalmuto for dinner?”
“Nobody.”
They changed the tire, pulled the car out of the ditch, and went back to Vigàta. They studied the damaged tire, but not for long, immediately finding a 7.65 caliber bullet. As Fazio was working on this, Montalbano thought back on his time in the restaurant. A kind of movie began to play in his head. It was a long take. Customers eating. The owner bringing a bottle of wine. As the inspector had just finished ordering the first course, and the waiter was heading back to the kitchen, a corpulent man, one of two men at a table, got up and went to the wall telephone, put in a token, dialed a number, said very little, spoke in a low voice, laughed, hung up, and returned to his table. Fade-out and fade-in. Same scene, but the owner is absent. The waiter is carrying four plates; a young couple who were sitting at the table near the kitchen door are now gone. The inspector is finishing his cavatuna. The two men get up and head for the door, walking past his table. He notices the fat man, thinking he’s seen him before. The camera zooms in on the man’s face, bringing into focus a bluish birthmark from his nose to his ear. Jump cut to another scene. City Hall Square, Vigàta. A beat cop is talking to two dogs. A car approaches very slowly and is passed by a powerful sports car. It sideswipes the first car, both cars stop. An old man gets out of the slow car, a young tough gets out of the sports car and punches the old man. A fat man then steps out of the same car, grabs the young tough, and drags him back to the car. The camera zooms in on his face: He has a bluish birthmark from his nose to his ear. The lights come on in the theater and in the inspector’s head.
Montalbano's First Case and Other Stories Page 10
