Big Italy

by Timothy Williams

“I want results. I want this Bassi thing tidied up fast and you’re the natural choice for my team. You always have been.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You knew Bassi, and prior to his death he’d been seeing you.”

  “You know a lot of things.”

  Merenda held out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Piero.”

  “The Questore’s not going to be happy, Merenda.”

  “The Questore can go fuck himself.”

  In the small observation room the two men shook hands. Trotti appreciated Merenda’s firm grip.

  44: Venezuela

  IT WAS TEN past ten.

  “You have a very flexible timetable, Piero.”

  With the renovation of the Questura, they had installed a modernistic clock above the desk. “I was with Signora Scola at the hospital,” Trotti said as he stepped out of the lift.

  “The Questore’s got a new job for us.”

  “For you and me, Maiocchi?”

  Commissario Maiocchi grinned blandly. An unlit pipe was held between his teeth.

  Neither man acknowledged the blonde secretary at the desk as they headed towards Trotti’s small office.

  “I can’t wait to leave this place,” Trotti said as much to himself as to his companion. They walked along the carpetless corridor. “I had to take a day off for a funeral. But that won’t stop me from going down to Bologna at Christmas to see my granddaughter.”

  “How is Pioppi?”

  Trotti gave Commissario Maiocchi a sharp glance. “You ever meet her?”

  Maiocchi shook his head.

  “Pioppi and Nando’ve got a lovely place on the Piazza Maggiore.”

  They went into the office.

  “Are you going anywhere at Christmas, Maiocchi?”

  The battered filing cabinets, the greasy canvas armchairs and the teak desk that for some reason the cleaning lady had decided to tidy that morning. The sticky, sweet wrappings had disappeared, the wastepaper bin had been emptied.

  “It’s cold in here, Piero.”

  “Young man like you—the cold’s good for you. Just don’t take your coat off.”

  Maiocchi removed the pipe to laugh. “You ought to get a heater.”

  “I’ll be out of here soon.”

  “For your pigs and truffles in the hills?”

  “Perhaps,” Trotti replied, unamused. He did not remove his jacket—it was bulky but it kept out the chill of the office. Another present from Pioppi, but one he appreciated. “Are you going anywhere at Christmas?”

  Maiocchi ran a hand through his long hair. In his baggy trousers, he looked more like a student than a policeman. Yet there were rings under his eyes. A cracked vein beneath the skin of his nose. Telltale signs of drink. “Italy has the lowest divorce rate among advanced countries—less than eight percent—and I have to end up divorced.”

  “You should’ve given up your job here.”

  “It’s not my job Elena didn’t like, Piero. It’s me.” He shook his head. “She never liked me. Even before we were married. Things just got worse after the marriage. But I swear to God I miss the girls.”

  “You see them?”

  “Not since the divorce.”

  “They’re here in the city?”

  Maiocchi said, “In Genoa with their mother.”

  “Then go and see them, for heaven’s sake. Girls need a father.”

  “My wife’s found somebody else. He’s very good with the children, apparently. The girls don’t need me.” Maiocchi added, “What I most hate is going home to an empty house in the evening.”

  “Love is passing. Solitude is forever.”

  “Television and then bed—not much of a life. Sometimes I take something to help me sleep—but work’s better than alcohol. My job’s my home now.”

  “Your job’s your family.”

  Maiocchi had slumped down into a canvas chair. His cheeks were sunken and he looked thinner than Trotti remembered him. “I don’t have a family. Not anymore.”

  Trotti said, “Your daughters need you.”

  “You get on with your daughter, Piero?”

  “I never gave enough time to either my wife or my daughter. I lived for my job—until it was too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “About twelve years ago, Pioppi stopped eating and I didn’t realize a thing until I saw her in the hospital. Her black hair billowing out on the pillow, the light from the table lighting up her pale face. Against the white sheets she looked like a dried-up locust.”

  “And now?”

  “She’d been trying to tell me something—and I hadn’t taken the slightest bit of notice.”

  “How’s Pioppi now?”

  “I like to think she’s forgiven me.” Trotti thought for a moment. “But Pioppi no longer needs me. She needed me in those days—but not now. She has a husband and a family of her own.”

  “You see her?”

  “I saw her a couple of days ago—she came up for the funeral of her uncle. Five months pregnant and looking marvelous—looking just like her mother when Agnese was expecting.”

  A strange silence fell between the two men, each for an instant lost in private nostalgia.

  It was Maiocchi who spoke. “Women—they’re not like us, are they?”

  “Thank God.”

  “You could always marry again, Piero.”

  “So could you, Maiocchi. And we could both commit suicide.”

  “I write to the girls but they never reply.”

  Trotti leaned forward on the desk. “What job’s the Questore got for us?”

  Slowly Maiocchi marshalled his thoughts. “He’s asked me to look for Pavesi.”

  “Who?”

  “He believes it’d be good if you’d help.”

  “The Questore wants me on everything except Bassi’s murder.”

  “You know, the Questore speaks very well of you, Piero. There are times when he can behave decently.”

  “I never noticed.” A dismissive gesture. “Pavesi? You mean the shopkeeper?”

  Maiocchi nodded.

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s out of our jurisdiction, Maiocchi. That’s what I told the girl and her brother when they came to see me. Not in this province or even in Lombardy.”

  “They live in the city, at Burrone.”

  “Let the Carabinieri do it. Or Piacenza.”

  Maiocchi shook his head.

  “Why does the Questore want me involved? Normally he doesn’t like letting me loose on anybody over the age of thirteen.”

  Maiocchi grinned. “How’s Signora Scola?”

  Trotti shrugged. “What can we do that hasn’t already been done by the Carabinieri?”

  “Perhaps they’re in Venezuela.”

  “Who?”

  “The Questore wants us to find Pavesi and his wife—even if it means you and me flying to Caracas.”

  45: Terrone

  “COCAINE? THE QUESTORE must be mad.”

  “It’s coming through Venezuela. The stuff’s grown in Medellin or in that other place in Colombia.”

  “Castel San Giovanni—not Palermo.” Trotti shook his head in incredulity.

  “Medellin and Cali.”

  “You’re not going to tell me the drug cartels have set up shop in some sleepy village on the via Emilia.”

  “Pavesi’s wife’s from Calabria.”

  “So what?”

  “She has close relatives who are now in prison. Has an uncle who’s a big fish in the Calabrian Ndrangheta.”

  “That doesn’t make Pavesi a drug dealer. Or even a courier. He’s a shopkeeper. Off-the-peg clothes—nothing pretentious. He doesn’t sell fur coats. Just earns enough for him and his family to survive.” Trotti shrugged his shoulders. “He’s got a franchise from one of those companies in the Veneto that like to give themselves an American name.”

  “That’s not what Customs believes.”

  Trotti crunched noisily at the rhubarb sweet. “With Mani Pulite, everybody’s suddenly doi
ng overtime. Everybody’s suddenly trying to justify their pay.”

  “What do you know about Margarita, Piero?”

  “If the Questore’s so keen on our involvement in the Pavesi case, why on earth didn’t he tell me, Maiocchi? When I last saw him, he was telling me to stay off Bassi’s murder.” Trotti shook his head. “He wants me out of the way.”

  “You don’t want to go to Caracas?”

  “I’m happy where I am. I don’t even like going up to Milan.”

  “Margarita’s in the Caribbean.”

  “The only place I want to go is out of here.”

  “There are goats and chickens in Venezuela,” Maiocchi volunteered. His smile disappeared. “A big community of Italians in Venezuela. And not all of them are criminals in hiding.”

  “So what?”

  “Somebody saw Chi l’ha visto on TV.”

  “They have that in Venezuela?”

  “Satellite TV,” Maiocchi nodded. “A program on Pavesi. And a few days later the same person bumped into Pavesi on the street. In a place called Porlamar.”

  “A lot of people look like Pavesi. A lot of people look like me and you.”

  “Really?” For a moment Commissario Maiocchi seemed genuinely distressed.

  “Go on.”

  “The person informed the embassy in Caracas and the embassy informed Customs.”

  “Then Customs can set up their own inquiry. And they can send their own people.”

  “You’re right, Piero, but the Questore wants you and me to go. Because if it’s Pavesi, we’ll have the extradition papers.”

  “You go, Maiocchi, if you’re so keen to get away. A few weeks in the tropics might do you some good. But leave your pipe here.”

  “You come with me, Piero.”

  Trotti crunched the sweet noisily. “I’m planning to spend Christmas with my daughter and my granddaughter.”

  “You know Pavesi. You’d be able to recognize him.”

  “Who told you I knew him?”

  “You used to be friends.”

  “That’s what the daughter said.” Trotti shook his head, “Pavesi and I were never friends. He used to live near us in via Milano. I saw him once or twice and perhaps we went for a meal together. But we had nothing in common.”

  “That’s not what the Questore thinks.”

  “You know what the Questore thinks?”

  “Pavesi went into politics.”

  “He tried to. Back in the late seventies he was a city councilor. You could see he was attracted by power. In those days, he was a liberal or something. One of the small parties. When he went to Castel San Giovanni he became a good Craxi man.”

  “You didn’t like him, Piero?”

  “I don’t like anybody.”

  “I think I’m beginning to notice.”

  “I don’t like anybody. Why else do you think my daughter got anorexia …” Trotti stopped speaking, his mouth still open.

  “Anorexia?”

  Trotti frowned unhappily. “Don’t use that word.”

  Maiocchi stood up. “Why didn’t you like Pavesi?”

  Trotti shrugged. “There was little to like or dislike. I found him insignificant—other than I always felt his interest in me was driven by ulterior motives.”

  “A criminal?”

  “Anybody can be a criminal in the right circumstances. But if you want to go in for money and power, you don’t set up a clothes shop in some provincial backwater.” Trotti suddenly banged his hand against the teak surface of his desk. “I know nothing about drugs. Why don’t they send Gabbiani? Or why don’t they send that Sicilian.”

  “Sciacca?”

  “Why not send him? He comes from Palermo.”

  “Precisely—and you’ve probably noticed that he never goes out of the Questura unless he’s accompanied. And wearing a bulletproof jacket.”

  “Then he needs a holiday.”

  “Sciacca’s hiding. That’s why he’s here, that’s why he left his wife and his children in the South. So that he could go underground. He was with Judge Falcone’s pool and he’s already escaped one attempt on his life.” Maiocchi had pulled a penknife from his jacket pocket and was cleaning the bowl of his pipe. The black ashes he tapped into a bin beside the cold radiator.

  “You’re not going to smoke that thing in my office?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Piero. I enjoy the smell of synthetic rhubarb too much.” Maiocchi returned the pipe to between his lips. “Sciacca’s got balls. A small terrone but with balls.”

  “There’s a danger in Venezuela?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the Questore thinks that with only a few months to go before I retire, I’m going to risk my life for some sordid drip.”

  “Why do you dislike him?”

  “The Questore? Guess.”

  “What have you got against Pavesi?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You’re not a good liar, Piero.”

  “Why should I lie?”

  “Pavesi used to be your friend.”

  “He tried to use me.”

  “How?”

  Trotti shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. And anyway, it was a long time ago; just after the time Pioppi got her degree. He tried to make use of me—of my position. For political reasons.”

  “He’d done you a favor?”

  Trotti looked at his watch “I’ve got to go. I want to see the Quarenghi woman.”

  Maiocchi repeated the question. “Pavesi did you a favor, Piero?”

  “I don’t accept favors. You know that.”

  “Never?”

  “I learned a long time ago that when somebody does you a favor in Italy, you spend the rest of your life paying it back a hundredfold. I don’t want to pay that kind of interest.” He shook his head. “Mafia thinking, Southern thinking. Perhaps I’m a racist—but it’s too late for me to change my mind now.”

  46: Pretext

  “AH, COMMISSARIO.”

  The two men turned. Trotti squinted against the light.

  “I was looking for you,” Signora Scola said and gave a forced smile. She had put on a scarf and a pair of sunglasses. “Actually, I left my car here and I was about to go home for an early lunch. Perhaps you’d care to run me home.”

  “Bit early for an early lunch, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve got a headache. That woman’s cigarettes. I can’t get her to understand she should stop smoking. For Priscilla’s sake as much as her own.” Signora Scola slipped her arm through Trotti’s. “Please take me home, commissario. I couldn’t drive with this migraine.”

  “Perhaps you’re eating too much salt, signora.” Maiocchi smiled openly, his pipe clenched between regular teeth.

  She returned the smile. “Salt?”

  “Blood pressure, signora. Or you should take up a pipe. It’s as good a way as any to relax.” He tapped the bowl of his pipe knowingly. Maiocchi turned back to Trotti. “When you get back, perhaps you could drop by in my office, Piero.”

  “Why?”

  “Various reasons. Not least, I’ve got some coffee.”

  “Mafia thinking, young man.” Trotti placed his hand on Maiocchi’s sleeve, “Penetrazione mafiosa. You can’t buy Piero Trotti with favors.”

  “Moka Sirs coffee.”

  “Of course, there are exceptions.”

  With Signora Scola holding on to his arm, Trotti went through the metal detector. The policewoman on duty was talking to a foreigner, possibly an Albanian or a Yugoslav, and she failed to salute as Trotti and the young woman stepped out into Strada Nuova.

  The fog had lifted and the sun had come out. The sky was now quite clear.

  Trotti breathed deeply, taking in the morning air and the odor of Signora Scola’s fur coat.

  “I was hoping you’d stay this morning for little Priscilla.”

  Trotti said flatly, “I was called away by Merenda.”

  “I thought I was almost there.”

  �
�There?”

  “You don’t seem particularly interested in Priscilla’s case.”

  “Forgive me, signora. There are other things on my mind at the moment. And now the Questore wants me to go to Venezuela.”

  “I told you he liked you.”

  “He wants me out of the way.”

  She pulled at his arm. “Can you run me home, commissario?”

  “I’m seeing somebody, I’m afraid.”

  “You can’t take me home first?”

  “Somebody I’ve got to interview.”

  “I’ll leave my car here.”

  “A long interview.”

  “I’m going to try again with Priscilla. Tomorrow morning I can drive out to the hospital in a taxi.”

  Trotti looked up at the ancient clock above the entrance to the university. It was nearly eleven.

  The industrious northern city quietly went about its business. In Strada Nuova or along Corso Cavour there were no signs of the profound changes Italy was going through. The end of the First Republic. The biggest political upheaval since the Allies—with bombs and guns and the blood of young men—had overthrown the lost years of Fascist folly and bombast.

  With Signora Scola holding his arm, Trotti walked along Strada Nuova. It was good to be out of the Questura and Trotti was acutely sensitive to the smells emanating from the shops; from the chemists and from the cake shop. And the perfume of a young woman who passed by him.

  The things he would miss in retirement.

  “I don’t have my car,” Trotti said.

  “Then if you wish—and if you don’t mind my accompanying you—I can wait for you while you interview this person. You can run me home later. I’m in no hurry.”

  He stopped walking. He came to a halt in the middle of the pavement. He moved away slightly to look at her. “Signora Scola,” he said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “I have the impression you always get your way.”

  “Call me Simona.”

  “You always have your own way?”

  “Always.” Glumly she shrugged the collar of her ample fur coat without returning his smile. “Except when it’s really important.”

  Her car was in the Piazza Leonardo. An old Fiat Seicento, it was parked near one of the medieval towers. The Fiat was at least twenty-five years old and apparently in excellent condition.

  “Can you drive, Piero?”