Out of Season

by Antonio Manzini

  “Speaking of relations with the opposite sex, you didn’t go have sex with Caterina while she has the flu, did you?”

  “What are you thinking? Of course not. I just took her some chicken soup.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Poor thing, she’s sick as a dog. The last thing she’d want to do is have sex.”

  “The last thing she’d want, maybe, but not the last thing you would.”

  “Here you are, a couple of espressos the way they make them at Gambrinus, on Piazza Trieste e Trento,” and the Atlantic puffin set down the tray with the two demitasse cups on the table. While Italo was sugaring his espresso, Rocco looked at the man: “I’m Deputy Chief Schiavone. Can I ask what your name is?”

  “Domenico Cuntrera. They call me Mimmo!”

  “Mimmo, so does this place belong to you?”

  The man looked around with a glance of satisfaction: “Let’s say it does.”

  “Let’s say it does?”

  “Yes, it belongs to me and another friend of mine, but he just helped me out with some money at the beginning. But back in the kitchen and serving at table there’s no one but Domenico Cuntrera, known to his friends as Mimmo.” And he pounded his chest. “So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

  “Where are you from? And don’t tell me Naples, because you’re not Neapolitan.”

  The man smiled. He scratched his nose. “You’re perceptive.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “I’m from further south, Soverato, in Calabria. Ever been?”

  “No. But I’ll guess that it’s better for marketing if you pretend you’re from Naples.”

  “Yeah, a little. But there is one element of truth: I’ve been an S.S.C. Napoli fan ever since I was a guaglione.” He made a great show of using the term for “kid” from Neapolitan dialect.

  “Who the hell cares?” Rocco retorted flatly, drank half his espresso, then set the demitasse cup down in the saucer, looked Domenico right in the eye, and said: “Viorelo Midea.”

  “What has he gotten up to?”

  “Does he work here?”

  “Yes, sure he does, three times a week he waits tables. What’s he done now? Che fice?” he asked in Calabrian dialect, having abandoned his Neapolitan accent by now.

  “He’s dead.”

  Domenico’s eyes opened wide. “He’s . . . he’s dead? But how?”

  “In a crash,” Italo specified, after draining the last of his espresso. “Early this morning.”

  “But he didn’t even have a driver’s license!”

  “There was another guy behind the wheel. A certain Carlo Figus. Ever heard of him?”

  “Carlo Figus, Carlo Figus? No, never have. Where did it happen?”

  “On the road to Saint-Vincent.”

  “So, what, they went to the casino?”

  “We have no idea where they’d gone. But they had a stolen license plate.”

  Rocco lit a cigarette.

  “Actually, you know . . . there’s no smoking in here,” but the deputy chief ignored the proprietor of the pizzeria.

  “How long had he been working here?”

  “For a year. Jesus . . . I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I’ll bet you are. What can you tell us about him?”

  “Little or nothing. I know he lived near here, on Via Voison. He had roommates.”

  “Was he married? Did he have children? Family?”

  “No, not married, and no kids. A few relatives, he must have, because every penny that he earned he sent home.”

  “Please give me the exact address.”

  “Via Voison . . . where the gray apartment buildings are. I don’t remember the street number, but it’s the only one with yellow shutters on the windows. He lived there, on the third floor. With another guy. A Moroccan, I think. But I don’t know what his name is. Ahmid something. They’re all called Ahmid. But let me tell you, I don’t know if he still lives there. That Viorelo was always moving. For two months, I even let him stay in a camper I have in a garage.”

  “What a fucked-up life,” said Rocco.

  “Oh yeah. Right you are. What a fucked-up life.”

  “But do they at least make a decent pizza or is it as fake as Domenico and the espresso that he makes?” asked Rocco as soon as they were back in the car.

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Like I’m asking someone from Valle d’Aosta . . . what could you possibly know about pizza? To judge from the building and this SUV parked outside, business is going swimmingly.”

  “I couldn’t tell you. Whenever I’ve been here, the place is always half deserted.”

  “Then maybe he’s a big winner at the casino.”

  “So where are we going?” Italo asked, putting an end to the pointless discussion.

  “Back to the office. I still need to get lunch.”

  “At this hour of the afternoon, the most you can hope for is a panino in some café.” And Italo put the car in gear.

  “Now, that’s one thing I miss, a proper Roman tramezzino. This is a perfect day for a tramezzino. But we’d have to be in Rome to get a decent tramezzino.”

  Oh God, no, thought Italo. Twice weekly he was forced to sit through Rocco Schiavone’s usual cantata for nostalgia and tenor.

  “The tramezzino is serious business, Italo. You can’t joke around with the tramezzino. White bread, strictly white bread. The fillings allowed are tuna, artichoke, tomato, chicken salad, spinach, and mozzarella. Personally, I don’t like shrimp and cheeses and, least of all, prosciutto. If you ask me, the tramezzino al prosciutto by rights belongs in the category of the panino. And the mayonnaise must be homemade, light and pale yellow. Most important of all, the tramezzino—and you need to get this into your head once and for all, Italo—the tramezzino must be kept fresh under slightly damp tea towels. If you walk into a café and you find tramezzini wrapped in cellophane, turn and leave! Those aren’t tramezzini. They’re corpses, rotting carrion! A proper tramezzino must be stored under a damp cotton cloth. Article Three of the Constitution.”

  “Article Three of the Constitution? What are you talking about?”

  “The Roman Constitution. You want me to recite the first two articles? Article One: Don’t go around busting people’s chops. Article Two: Never drive on the Lungotevere—the riverside parkway that runs along the Tiber—on a Saturday evening. And then, of course, Article Three: A proper tramezzino must be stored under a damp cotton cloth.”

  “Did you write this Constitution?”

  The African was named Zersenay Behrane. Zersenay, not Ahmid. And he wasn’t Moroccan, he was Eritrean. The building wasn’t on Via Voison and the only correct detail was that the shutters were yellow. Zersenay spoke excellent Italian and shared the apartment with two other Eritreans. But he hadn’t seen Viorelo Midea in months, didn’t know what had become of him or where he lived now. The only thing that Rocco and Italo got out of the visit was a delicious tsebhi, the renowned beef and chicken stew with lentils and teff bread. They ate it from a common plate with the other tenants. In order to return the hospitality Rocco sent Italo out to get an ice-cold six-pack of beer. When they left the building with yellow shutters, their stomachs were full and their heads were spinning slightly.

  “Don’t you think it’s wonderful that in the middle of the Alps we’ve had a typical Eritrean meal?”

  “True, Italo. It’s wonderful.”

  “The only thing is I have no idea where Eritrea is.”

  “On top of Ethiopia and underneath Sudan.”

  “Is Sharm El Sheikh anywhere around there?”

  “Jesus, Italo, go take a look at a globe.”

  “We really fucked up big time.”

  “True,” Rocco replied.

  “I’ve been trying to call Nora since this morning but her phone is turned off. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s that I ruined my friendship with her for a piece of shit like you.”

  “Will you do me a favor, Anna?” asked Ro
cco. “Just call me every day, these compliments of yours are a shot in the arm for my self-esteem.”

  “If you ask me, the two of us are never going to lay eyes on each other again.”

  “Okay, even though Aosta isn’t exactly a huge city. It could happen. We even live near each other.”

  “I swear to you I’ll turn the other way and cross the street to avoid you.”

  “Just make sure you look both ways when you cross the street. I wouldn’t want to have you on my conscience.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Rocco.”

  And Anna hung up.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Who’s busting my balls?” he shouted. There was no reply. It was quite likely that this was D’Intino. He got up and went to open the door. The officer from Abruzzo was standing at the door, waiting.

  “D’Intino, can’t you get it into your head? I ask who is it and you’re supposed to answer me. That’s what people do when they knock on a door.”

  “Deputy Chief, this came for you.” And he handed a package to Rocco.

  “What is it?”

  D’Intino leaned forward and sniffed at the deputy chief’s jacket.

  “Sir, I smell something that’s kind of sickly sweet. What is it?”

  “Mind your own fucking business. Well?”

  “The personal effects of Viorelo Midea. There’s a watch, an old cell phone, and a bunch of keys. What should we do with them?”

  Rocco turned his back and walked to his desk. “Pierron!” he shouted.

  D’Intino looked around. “He’s in the other room . . .” he replied.

  “Pierron!” Rocco shouted even louder.

  “Here I come!” he heard from the far end of the hall. Italo stepped around D’Intino and walked into his office. “D’Intino, why are you standing in the door? Come in or get out!” he said to the officer. Then he turned to Rocco: “Tell me, deputy chief. What is it?”

  “This is Viorelo Midea’s cell phone. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to know what numbers he was calling. Contacts, et cetera. But these keys look like they go to an apartment.”

  “Yeah, but who knows where it is.”

  Schiavone’s eyes lit up. “D’Intino, get Deruta and both of you report to me immediately!”

  D’Intino snapped to attention and hurried off.

  “What have you got in mind?” Italo asked Rocco.

  “Watch and learn.”

  Not even two minutes later, Deruta and D’Intino were standing facing the deputy chief, practically at attention, ready for their instructions. “All right now, friends, officers, partners,” Rocco began. “Now, you know that unfortunately Chief Inspector Rispoli isn’t well.”

  “Yes, she has the flu,” D’Intino specified with a note of satisfaction in his voice. The De Rege Brothers detested Deputy Inspector Rispoli.

  “That’s right. Very good. I have a mission I was planning to entrust her with, given her notable deductive skills as well as her steel-trap memory. But now I can’t.”

  “Eh, no, you can’t, no,” Deruta added, redundantly.

  “And so I’m going to entrust this mission to you two. It’s a very difficult assignment, and also very, very dangerous.”

  The two policemen were extremely attentive. Leaning against the bookshelf, Italo was enjoying the scene without any idea of what the deputy chief was driving at. Schiavone was holding up the bunch of keys that had belonged to Viorelo. “Do you see these?”

  “Keys!” said D’Intino, practically hypnotized.

  “Very good. Keys. They belonged to Viorelo Midea. Now I need you men to find out what door they go to.”

  The two policemen exchanged a glance.

  “How are we supposed to do that?”

  “I told you. It’s going to be difficult, arduous, virtually impossible. But I’m going to give a starting point. Write this down!”

  Deruta rushed over to the desk, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and bent over, ready to take down a note.

  “What about you, D’Intino, aren’t you going to take notes?”

  “I remember everything in my head.”

  “Maybe so . . .” Rocco heaved a dubious sigh and shot a glance at Italo. “All right then, start from a building on Via Kaolak . . . the gray apartment houses. The first ones you run into heading that way from here, with yellow shutters. Viorelo used to live on the third floor there, until four months ago. You start asking around there, talking to the neighbors.”

  “But can’t we go ask the inhabitants of that apartment where this Viorelo lived?”

  “No. In fact, if word gets back to me that you’ve gone and bothered my Eritrean friends, I’ll ship you off to Perdasdefogu. You got that?”

  “Crystal clear,” said Deruta.

  “Where’s that?” D’Intino asked Deruta, who answered: “Far, far away. . . .”

  “All right then, the two of you, go investigate. Without causing a fuss, without being noticed, check all the keyholes. Try the keys, try them, try and try and try again, and when you’re done, bring me Viorelo’s place of residence!”

  D’Intino’s eyes opened wide: “What do you mean, bring me?”

  Deruta flew into a rage: “God damn it to hell, D’Intino! Bring me is a manner of speech, he doesn’t expect you to break down the apartment and haul it over! Forgive him, Deputy Chief.” Then, still shaking his head, he finished writing his note.

  “Get started right away. This is going to be time-consuming and difficult. Can I count on you both?”

  Deruta looked at him seriously: “Certainly, sir. After all, this week I don’t even have to put in shifts at my wife’s bakery.”

  “Very good, Deruta.”

  “Do we still need to report to Rispoli?” Deruta asked as a last detail. He seemed slightly annoyed.

  “No,” said the deputy chief. “This time, you’re reporting directly to me!”

  Deruta’s chest swelled with pride, and D’Intino smiled, his eyes glistening. They took the keys, saluted, and hurried out of the office.

  “If you ask me, they might even succeed,” Italo commented.

  “So they might. But one thing is certain. They’re going to be out on the streets, and we’ll be able to work in peace.” Just then, the phone rang. “Sure enough, there you go.” Rocco lifted the receiver. “Schiavone here.”

  “This is the chief of police!”

  It was Costa.

  “Would you tell me what’s going on with this fatal crash and this stolen cargo van?”

  “Not the cargo van, it’s the license plate that’s stolen. But it doesn’t seem to be of any importance. I’ll send up the documents right now . . .” and he gestured to Italo, who rolled his eyes, “. . . and that way you can take a good look for yourself. Excuse me, right now I need to hurry out to Frang . . . ertz scary and set off a security diode.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They’re waiting for me right now at the reinforced concrete foundations where they found the cargo van.”

  “Huh, I still didn’t get it. Anyway, you get going. And keep me posted. Ah, Schiavone, one more thing!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Nice notch in your belt. My compliments.”

  “What are you referring to, sir?”

  “You know and I know what I’m referring to. That’s a damned fine woman. Take care.”

  “Just satisfy my curiosity on this. Do you go to the same bakery, too?”

  “Exactly!” said Andrea Costa in English, and put down the receiver.

  “And I thought that up here in Aosta people basically minded their own fucking business.”

  “Wrong. One of the many clichés that you southern Italians believe about us in the north. And anyway, thanks for sticking me with having to report to the police chief.”

  “No, you’re going to have Casella do the report. What you’re going to do now is take Viorelo’s cell phone to someone in the telecommunications police and get him to extract all the numbers.”
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  “All right. Excellent. But one thing. Why are we so focused on these two losers?”

  “The license plate, my friend. You don’t go roaming around Aosta with a stolen license plate just so you can drive up to Saint-Vincent and get laid.”

  “And get laid?”

  “I’ll explain later. Think of it like this: Why would someone go around with stolen plates but on a cargo van that he actually owns? Because he’s afraid of running into a check point? I doubt that. If they stop him, he’s done for. No, he’s afraid of pictures and footage caught by close-circuit video cameras. Why? What is he planning to do? Certainly something crooked. Do you follow me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “An armed robbery, a burglary. . . .”

  “Or maybe they’re just afraid of the speed cameras.”

  “And you think they’d be willing to risk hard time behind bars to avoid a 200-euro traffic ticket?”

  Via Chateland 92, the residence of Carlo Figus, was a five-story apartment building erected at the beginning of the eighties and forgotten in the years since. What leapt to the eye of any casual observer were the stark black horizontal lines at the elevation of each floor, intersecting with other vertical lines which instead descended from the roof, giving the impression that they were many branches of climbing ivy chewed up by the passing winters and by the decades of neglect. But upon closer examination they proved to be cracks, some of them quite deep, that had carried away substantial chunks of plaster. Carlo Figus lived on the third floor. When Rocco and Italo knocked at the door, a woman in a wheelchair answered. Carlo’s mother. The face was gray and the hair yellowish with drab roots. She wore purple eyeglasses and an old cardigan with the face of Mickey Mouse stitched over the heart. Her hands were small and white, and she looked at the policemen with large dead nearsighted eyes from behind the thick lenses. “Excuse us, Signora . . . we’re from police headquarters . . . may we?” asked Rocco.