by Tobias Jones
‘Did you ever get the impression he was looking for anything other than Riccardo?’
She shook her head and frowned, not sure what I was implying.
‘Is Elisabetta in?’ I asked.
‘I’m not going to allow you to slip a hand grenade like this into her life. She’s unstable enough as it is right now. She’s barely recovered from what happened yesterday.’ She tried to stare at me with anger, but it was all burned out now. ‘I think she’s mourning her grandmother and her father and her childhood all at once, and this would only confuse her further. Let her sleep.’
The phone started ringing inside and she held up a finger and went in to answer it. I followed her into her flat and whilst she was still talking on the phone I started opening the doors. I found the girl in a small bedroom with the blinds down. She was propped up on pillows and was staring at the ceiling.
‘Elisabetta?’ I said quietly. ‘It’s Castagnetti. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’
She moved her eyes rather than her head to look at me.
‘Your mother seems to think I’m to blame for upsetting you yesterday.’
‘My mother’, she said with her eyes shut, ‘will always blame anyone except herself.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘She thought I had got overexcited by the thought of … you know, the thought that you were going to find my father.’
‘I told you, I don’t think he’s still alive.’
‘Yeah,’ she said like she was high and couldn’t care less, ‘I know.’
I felt sorry for her, but I didn’t want to be accused of building up her hopes. Ricky was dead, I felt sure.
‘I don’t think he’s alive. But I’ll try to find out what happened.’ It was my standard speech. It was what the bereaved normally wanted most. If they couldn’t have their loved one back, alive and well, they wanted to know, that was all. They yearned for what they most feared. They wanted, just once, to see the kill, because it couldn’t possibly be worse than what they had imagined.
‘You need some sleep. I’ll be back again one day when you’re better and we can talk about what’s come up.’
She just nodded and followed me out with her eyes.
As I was walking down the corridor it struck me that I couldn’t understand how a man could resist contacting his granddaughter. Surely he would want to write to her, arrange to see her, try to claim her as his own whatever the consequences. It didn’t seem natural to me. Tonin appeared to be a pretty cold-blooded customer, and it was true that he had kept his distance from his son all those years. But there didn’t seem any good reason not to reach out to a granddaughter, especially since his wife knew everything anyway. It didn’t make sense to me.
I was still in the narrow corridor when the di Pietro woman came back. ‘What are you doing in here?’ She took me by my collar and dragged me to the door. She pushed me towards the stairs and waved me away. ‘Leave her alone. Can’t you understand? I’m trying to look after her.’
I waved her goodbye with over-zealous politeness and walked down the steps.
I could understand her. Protecting a girl made more sense than ignoring her, that was for sure. If it was really the girl she was protecting. My mind started going paranoid. I began to wonder why she wouldn’t want me to talk to her daughter. It hardly seemed like little Elisabetta could be a threat to anyone. A toddler can’t keep a secret. That was Tonin’s speciality.
As soon as I walked into the hotel it felt wrong. Almost all the lights were off and there was no one at the front desk. I walked through to the bar, but it was empty.
‘Lo Bue?’ I asked to the empty room. I was just reaching under my arm for the rod when I was smacked across the shoulders by a metal pole. My cheek caught the corner of a glass table as I went down.
A couple of kicks were aimed at my stomach and head. I put my hands up to protect my face and I rolled over into a ball, but the kicks kept coming against my spine.
‘Basta.’ The voice sounded mean, but it came as a relief.
I looked up through the warm blood which was dripping off my eyebrow. The fat barman from yesterday was retreating, sweating slightly after the effort of his little game of football.
The man who had called time put his face in mine. ‘Don’t ever come into my joint and wave a pistol at my staff.’ It was the Calabrian I had spoken to on the phone yesterday.
‘This the welcome you always offer your guests?’ I said, spitting out some blood.
‘The hotel is closed.’
‘I can see why.’
Fatso stepped forward wanting to go again, but the short one held out his hand and knelt down near my face. He pulled back my head by taking a fistful of hair. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Lo Bue, the manager of this shit-hole?’ I tried to sound casual.
‘Very good.’ The man smiled. His teeth appeared bright and expensive, out of keeping with the rest of his ugly face. He looked like an up-ended anvil: a thick nose on a narrow head. ‘My barman tells me you were here yesterday playing the tough guy. You were lucky he didn’t kill you.’ The man let go of my hair and my head smacked on to the floor.
‘What do you know about Ricky Salati?’ Lo Bue asked.
‘Ricky Salati?’ I repeated, trying to work out what was going on. ‘I told your heavy back there. He went missing in 1995. That’s all I know.’ I glanced up at Lo Bue. He looked more greedy than guilty.
‘Why are you interested?’ I asked him.
The man slapped me with the palm of his hand. It felt almost soft after the toe-caps I had taken already.
‘I was asking what you want. Why are you poking around now, asking questions? What’s the idea?’ The man put his face real close. I could smell whisky and mint. His skin was saggy and tired, even as he grimaced. ‘What’s it to you? What are you doing exactly?’
‘Trying to find out what happened to the boy. No one’s seen him for fourteen years. His mother’s died. There’s an estate.’ The man nodded and I took my chance: ‘You seem almost happy I came along.’
The man leaned forward and hit me with a backhand. I poked my tongue into a new hole on my lower lip and tasted the blood: it tasted like chestnuts.
‘I don’t think you know who I am,’ Lo Bue said. ‘What makes me happy is seeing debts paid and, if that’s not possible, punishing the debtors.’
I tried to look at him, but I couldn’t focus. Objects were blurring and swimming in front of me. I could feel the blood inside the bone above my ear throbbing and I couldn’t understand what the man was saying. But I felt on instinct that Lo Bue needed something. If he was holding a winning hand, he wouldn’t have invited me over for lunch.
I tried to figure out what was going on. Someone who had been involved in Ricky’s murder would hardly start playing the tough nut with an investigator. This felt more like Lo Bue wanted to find the boy, rather than bury him.
‘So Salati had debts with you?’ I slurred.
‘You’re quick,’ the man said. ‘The boy left a lot of debts around here. That’, he said with incongruous politeness, ‘is why I would like to know where he is. And if he isn’t alive, I would like to know what happened to our money. Clear?’
‘I don’t suppose any of you have any evidence of these debts?’
The man’s face seemed to sag further as he looked at me with tired disdain. ‘Don’t insult me.’
I flinched, expecting another blow, but nothing came. I tried to sit up, using my left arm to push myself up against the table.
‘What’s the figure?’
‘One hundred and twelve million lire.’ It sounded precise, as if the man had carried it around with him like a bad memory for years. ‘You want it in euros?’
I shook my head. I still count in lire. Always will probably. There was something about those zeros that made me feel better, like I was a wealthy man. Back in those days the lire had so many zeros we were all millionaires. Seems a long time ago now.
‘How did it happen?�
�� I slurred. My lips weren’t working properly any more.
‘What?’
‘How did he run up the debt?’
The man looked at me like he hadn’t expected to answer questions.
‘A straight game of scopa,’ he said quickly, as if he didn’t want to linger on a sore subject. ‘It happened every night. This one was the usual. The stakes were high and they were playing quick. I had nothing to do with the tables. I just served them. It was my joint. They came here to play. But I saw it all. He lost everything at one sitting.’
‘You let your staff play cards with your guests?’ I asked.
‘He was free to do what he wanted when he was off-duty. Listen,’ the man leaned close to me again, ‘don’t you worry about how I run my hotel. You just worry about finding out what happened to him, and remember that I’m interested in finding out what happened to our money.’
‘Oh that.’ I sneered. ‘I’m afraid that probably died with him.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. He was about to pay back. He had phoned me to arrange a meeting, said he was bringing round half of it that night he disappeared. He was about to settle.’ He said it again, trying to convince himself.
‘Debtors always say that.’
Lo Bue looked at me differently, with a trace of respect. ‘Yeah. But this time it was real. He said he had half of it.’
‘And why did you believe him?’
‘I knew him. He had worked here for two years. Trust me, he was on his way here to pay back. Someone got wind of it.’
‘You don’t think he found El Dorado?’
‘Ricky do a runner?’ He coughed a guffaw. ‘No. Someone got to him. Someone who knew he was flush.’
‘Like your stooge over there?’ I looked at the barman. I pulled myself to my feet, but the effort made my head throb more and I felt dizzy. It felt like we were on a ship. I didn’t want to show the pain, but closed my eyes to regain concentration.
‘You find any information’, I heard Lo Bue’s voice, ‘on what happened to him, you call me, clear?’
I nodded, and the barman stepped forward and pushed me towards the foyer so hard that I fell over.
Once I got outside the pedestrians stared at me. I caught sight of myself in a shop window and barely recognised what I saw.
I limped towards the station to get a train back to the city.
People kept looking at me all the way. One woman even asked if I wanted her to call a doctor.
When the train pulled in, I decided to head back towards Salati Fashions.
Salati’s shop was open. It was the day after the funeral, but the girl was in there serving customers.
‘Salati not around?’ I asked her.
She thumbed over her shoulder and I walked out back. Salati was sitting in a small kitchenette, staring into space.
I coughed quietly and he glanced up. ‘You again?’ He looked me over. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Perks of the job. Listen, something’s come up.’
‘What?’
‘Paternity.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Your father died in 1995, the year that Ricky went missing.’
‘I know. It meant my mother lost both husband and son in the same year.’
‘Happy marriage was it?’
Umberto looked up at me with wet eyes. ‘What?’
‘It just seems a coincidence. And in my trade coincidences don’t exist.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Just asking if you think it’s a coincidence?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’ Salati was getting angry. He didn’t like hints that he couldn’t understand. He obviously thought his mother was as pure as the driven snow.
‘Let me tell you what I know. Your mother had an affair with a man called Massimo Tonin. Your younger brother, Riccardo, was their child. For as long as your father was alive, Tonin kept his distance. But in the spring of 1995, after your father had died, they started getting close.’
Salati stood up and stared at me with an icy look. Then he started laughing, but the chortles became shorter and more nervous. Then his face dropped and he looked furious. ‘You don’t believe that do you?’
‘I do. And it’s easy enough to check nowadays. A strand of your niece’s hair would prove it.’
He looked at me with indignation. ‘You didn’t know my mother.’
‘No, I didn’t. Maybe neither did you.’
Salati clenched his fist and threw it at me. It came so slow that I moved to the left and pulled my right as hard as I could into Salati’s soft middle. I heard Salati’s breath leave him and he fell to the floor.
‘Get up.’ I offered him a hand.
Salati was on one knee, trying to breathe slowly.
‘What,’ he gasped for breath, ‘did you do that for?’
‘You were about to do it to me. Now listen.’ I got a hand under his armpit and pulled him to his feet. ‘I didn’t know your mother, I didn’t know your father or your brother.
Chances are I never will. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. You don’t have to defend their honour because the dead don’t care. You with me?’
I dropped him into a chair.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had lent your brother money?’
‘Because you would immediately have thought it was a motive instead of an act of pity.’
‘Pity?’
‘He was pitiful, believe me. He came to me saying he could no longer support his own family. He told me he had borrowed money from people who wanted it back and he had nowhere else to go.’
‘I heard he went quite a few places.’
‘Yeah, that’s what we heard afterwards. He had borrowed from Anna, from me, from my mother.’
‘I heard you were angry he didn’t pay you back.’
‘Of course I was. Especially when I found out he was borrowing from Mamma as well. He was leeching money from anyone who had it. He was probably richer than any of us.’
‘You might have a point.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Never mind.’
He stared at me trying to work out what I meant. Suddenly he started nodding slowly like he got it. I had set something off and Umberto stood up and started pacing the little kitchen area as if something had clicked. There were long, narrow boxes piled high on a table and he took a swipe at the lot, sending cardboard and silk flying through the air. He was all charged up and had a fierce look in his eyes.
‘He always knew where to get money,’ he was muttering to himself.
‘You all right?’ I said.
He just stared at me: ‘Get out,’ he said slowly, ‘get out.’
I stood in an empty doorway and watched the shop for a few minutes. Umberto seemed alarmed by the news. If, that is, it really was news to him. It would call into question the character of his mother, just as he was mourning her. It was a hard hit to take, and Salati was the sort to hit back.
I decided to tail him. I went inside the bank opposite the shop. I punched a button for a ticket and sat down in the chairs with the other customers waiting for their number to come up. Through the window I could see Salati Fashions. Laura was in the shop folding shirts and putting them inside open boxes.
Within minutes Umberto marched out pulling on his jacket. I watched him head towards the piazza and followed him up Via Farini. He walked up as far as Solferino and turned left into Via Pestalozzi. Salati held his keys towards a black jeep and both indicators flashed.
I ran towards the cittadella and whistled for one of the taxis by the entrance. One of the white cars drove up and I jumped in.
‘You see the black jeep, follow it.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘This could be expensive.’
‘I’ve got the money. Just don’t lose the jeep.’
The taxi nestled into the traffic a couple of cars behind Salati. He pulled into Pass
o Buole and on to the Stradone. The four-laner was blocked by impatient, pushy traffic and we were already a few cars behind him by the time we passed the Petitot and the football stadium.
We followed him on to Via Mantova at the next big roundabout. By now the taxi was far behind, struggling to keep up as Salati’s car disappeared. This was the road to Tonin’s house, I thought to myself as my back was pressed into the cushioned seat.
The taxi got stuck behind some Austrian HGV and lost his chance to overtake. He pulled out to try and see Salati, but the on-coming traffic forced him back.
By now Salati must have been far ahead. I knew the left turn to the Tonin place was coming up in a kilometre or two, and took a gamble. I told the taxi to turn left by the bridge. We were outside the Tonin estate within a few minutes. I told him to slow down just beyond the gates and got out. I walked back to the gate and peered through the railings. I could see Salati’s black beast parked under the central cedar that formed an umbrella over the circular drive.
I moved away and waited. I assumed Salati was in there, spitting blood. It was strange he had chosen to come here rather than Tonin’s office in the middle of the city. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see the old man, I thought. It was possible that he was here to see someone else.
I saw Salati come out five minutes later. He was shouting something as the door closed behind him. He got into his car and revved the engine aggressively as he sped off. As the gates opened, I headed back to the taxi but by the time the driver had put out his cigarette, Salati would have been on the tangenziale.
‘Forget it,’ I said to the driver. ‘We’ll stay here.’ I walked back towards the gate. I wasn’t holding many cards, but surprise was always useful. I rang the buzzer.
A woman’s voice: ‘I told you, you’re getting nothing from us.’
‘Was Umberto Salati after money?’
There was silence.
‘Who is this?’
‘Castagnetti.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m an investigator.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I wouldn’t mind coming in.’
There was silence again.
‘What do you want?’ she said again.
