“Different in what sense?”
“Asciolla cited a few examples for me, but I couldn’t grasp much. He said that the load-bearing cement trusses were simply placed up against the walls but not hooked into them, creating a grave risk of instability. Asciolla figured that it wouldn’t take much to expose the defects, and he was worried that the whole thing would be blamed on them. Anyway, seeing that he got nowhere in his first meeting, he requested a second, which the engineer granted him, in his office, with no witnesses. And that was when they had the quarrel that led to his firing.”
Montalbano grimaced.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that Asciolla has nothing concrete to prove what he says.”
Gambardella smiled.
“Asciolla’s a clever man.”
“Meaning?”
“For the second meeting he’d put a recorder in his pocket. And he recorded everything.”
Montalbano gave a start in his chair.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Did he have it with him?”
“No. But he’s agreed to let me hear it at our next meeting.”
“I want to be there, too.”
“I don’t think Asciolla will accept that.”
“Just try, anyway.”
“I’ll try to persuade him.”
“And what will you do once you have the recording?”
“I’ll take it to a notary and have a sworn transcription made.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll publish it.”
“Why not turn it over to a public prosecutor?”
“Because he would steal my scoop.”
“You must give me your word that you will talk to me first before publishing it.”
“All right. You have my word.”
“And now I would like some information from you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever heard mention of a man named Emilio Rosales?”
“Of course. Rosales, in my opinion, is one of the most intelligent, imaginative, even ingenious, I would say, and unscrupulous crooks who has ever operated on this island of ours.”
16
Montalbano looked at him in shock.
“Are you serious? I don’t understand how I could never have heard of him.”
“It’s because he’s always managed to remain in the shadows. He always gets off by the skin of his teeth. He’s always been, or used to be, devilishly clever. He has some very powerful political friends. He hobnobs with high society, has been president of a few soccer teams, sports clubs, and other exclusive circles . . . Bear in mind that the only time he came out into the open was for the trial against the Primavera firm, which he was president of . . . That whole business was handled by the carabinieri, and the trial was held in Trapani. Therefore—”
“I was told he’s very sick and under house arrest in Sicudiana.”
“You were misinformed. He’s under no restrictions whatsoever.”
“So he can move about as he pleases?”
“No, he’s retired from business, and is housebound by his illness. They say he doesn’t want to see anyone and receives no visitors.”
For whatever reason, this character piqued the inspector’s curiosity.
“Tell me more about him.”
“I could go on for hours.”
“Just give me a summary. Tell me only the things you think are essential.”
“Rosales was the son of a Trapanese fisherman who, through great sacrifice, was able to put him through law school. A fine, handsome young man, he soon got a girlfriend from the university pregnant, one who was also from Trapani and the sole heir to the large Bordinaro family fortune. The shotgun wedding brought Rosales a substantial dowry. Either due to his life of luxury, or to some speculation gone wrong, he was soon broke again. And so he founded an investment bank, Bella Stagione, which promised can’t-miss deals and fleeced a few hundred gullible souls. Rosales was put on trial and acquitted. It was his partner, upon whom he’d managed, quite skillfully, to shift all the blame, who took the fall and got convicted. He then set up a cooperative firm, which he called the March 21 Company, in order to exploit an imaginary gold lode in South Africa that turned out to be another huge scam. And it ended in incredible fashion. He went into court as a defendant, and came out as an injured party.”
“Brilliant.”
“Where was I? After that, according to gossip, he becomes the clean face, so to speak, of the local crime boss Aguglia, and gets involved in construction. And his company starts to get all the best government contracts. And even though he is accused repeatedly of corruption, suborning the competition, and suchlike, he always gets off scot-free. A few years ago, however, he made a mistake.”
“What was that?”
“In the hopes of expanding his sphere of activity, he boldly pushed his way into our area, invading turf that traditionally belongs to the Cuffaros and Sinagras.”
“And winning the contract for the new water main?”
“I see you’ve understood perfectly. And Primavera’s failure, leading to the arrest of Rosales and others, was nothing more than the result of the war that the Sinagras and Cuffaros had been waging on him.”
After eating in the kitchen, he felt the need for some fresh air.
He went out onto the veranda. It was raining, but ever so lightly. The bench, however, was wet. So he brought a chair outside and set himself up with whisky and cigarettes. There was no need to turn on the light outside. The one in the dining room sufficed.
The sound of the surf not only didn’t trouble his thoughts, it actually helped them form and then cradled them.
He thought of Rosales’s failed company, called Primavera.
Which called to mind Botticelli’s Primavera.
And, after that, a very old song that went: “È primavera, svegliatevi bambine . . .”
Primavera meant “spring,” and with spring came roses.
Rosebud.
And what was this Rosebud?
Ah, yes, it was in that beautiful film by Orson Welles—what was the title? . . . Anybody’s guess . . . the one where the dying millionaire says “Rosebud,” and no one ever figures out that he wanted the little sled he used to play as a boy, which was called “Rosebud” . . .
How strange, this attachment people sometimes have to certain names . . . that they carry along with them their whole lives . . .
Like Rosales, for example, with Bella Stagione, March 21, Primavera . . .
Wait a second, Montalbà, wait just one second.
Weren’t Rosaspina, Albachiara, and Soledoro also the kind of names Rosales would have liked?
Of course they were.
What an idiotic idea.
If Rosales had already tried to challenge the Cuffaros and Sinagras with his Primavera site and lost everything, it was unlikely those three other worksites were his.
Still, those three names . . .
Rosaspina . . . Albachiara . . . Soledoro . . .
No, there was no point in racking his brains.
All he could do, for the time being, was wait for the results of Fazio’s search.
He went to bed, but slept poorly.
He was drinking a large mug of espresso at seven the next morning when the telephone rang.
“Is this Inspector Montalbano?” asked a voice he did not recognize at first.
“Yes. Who . . . ?”
“I got your number from your office. I’m sorry to bother you at home. This is Jacono.”
The prosecutor? What could he want at that time of day?
“What is it?”
“I was just informed by the prison management that a fight broke out in the showers this morning .
. . Pennisi was involved in it and . . . well, he died from three stab wounds.”
It was a powerful blow, and so sudden that it left the inspector speechless.
“I’m going over there now to see what happened, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Th . . . thank you,” Montalbano stuttered.
And yet he should have expected as much.
Surely that was not a chance tussle that broke out in the showers. It had been ordered from the outside, for the sole purpose of killing Pennisi.
Now, with him gone, it would be impossible to contest the lies he’d told.
And his little performance, now sealed once and for all by death, would take on the appearance of the truth.
They’d just scored a huge point in their favor. It was going to be hard to overcome the disadvantage.
But the inspector didn’t feel disheartened. On the contrary.
He felt a rage rising up inside him that hadn’t been there before, a silent, heavy rage that he would have to keep under control to avoid screwing up, but which was roaring inside him like an engine at full throttle struggling to burst free of the brakes.
He was drinking the last sips of coffee remaining in the mug when somebody rang at the door.
And who could that be?
Curiosity aroused, he went to the door and found Gambardella standing in front of him.
A Gambardella who apparently had got dressed in a hurry, with half his shirt dangling out of his trousers, no tie, hair uncombed, and terror in his eyes.
He came in without saying hello and without asking permission, and went and sat in the armchair.
“What’s going on?”
“Half an hour ago I got a phone call from Asciolla. He sounded terrified. He’s left Vigàta with his family but didn’t want to tell me where he was calling from.”
“Try to calm down and tell me everything in order.”
“Could I have some water?”
Montalbano went and got him some.
“He told me in essence that he was dropping everything and that he’d destroyed the recording.”
“Why on earth?!”
“Well, from what I was able to gather, yesterday evening, right after dinner, Asciolla’s daughter, Anita, went out to go to a friend’s house to do her homework. Her schoolfriend lives about a ten-minute walk away. Then, about half an hour after she’d left the house, her friend called asking why she hadn’t arrived yet. Asciolla had barely set the receiver down when there was another call. A man’s voice said he had Anita, and that he and his friends were going to have a little fun with her and then send her home. If he called the police they would kill her. And he ended by saying that it would be better for everyone if Asciolla had a change of scene as soon as his daughter got back. Two hours later, Anita returned in an awful state. Luckily, they hadn’t done anything to her. Two men had seized her and kept her bound and gagged inside a minivan. Asciolla took their advice, packed his bags, and fled.”
“Apparently they saw you when you met with Asciolla at the quarry, and they immediately sprang into action. I’d warned you.”
Gambardella threw up his hands in resignation.
The inspector twisted the knife in the wound.
“And now I just got a call telling me that Pennisi was murdered in jail.”
Gambardella’s eyes opened wide.
“One way or another, they’ve made a clean sweep. They’ve silenced everyone,” he said.
By this point Montalbano’s blood was boiling so hot with rage that he felt it pounding in his temples.
“Excuse me just a minute,” he said.
And he went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and put his head under the cold running water. Then he dried himself off and went back to Gambardella.
“There’s no point wasting any more time here,” he said brusquely. “I have to go to the office.”
Gambardella stood up and followed behind him. They went outside, and each got into his car. Gambardella shot off like a rocket, whereas the engine of the inspector’s car started up and then immediately stalled. He started it up again, and it stalled again. There wasn’t a drop of gas in the tank. Luckily he kept a small jerry can in the trunk.
He opened the car door, and just as he was getting out the heavens opened and released an avalanche of water. In the twinkling of an eye, he was soaked.
As he was putting the gas in the tank, he realized he needed to change clothes. He cursed like a madman during the entire operation. Then he went back into the house, ran into the kitchen, grabbed a dish and hurled it against the wall, shattering it. Then a second, and a third.
At last he felt a little calmer.
He changed clothes and went back out.
Fazio already knew about Pennisi’s murder.
“They’ve screwed us, Chief.”
And you don’t even know that Asciolla has run away, Montalbano thought to himself.
But he said:
“No, I don’t think so. But it’ll all depend on what you tell me.”
“Where should I start?”
“With whether, among the heads of the six firms, there’s anyone who has anything to do, in one way or another, with the Cuffaros or the Sinagras.”
“That one’s easy. But I’ll have to look at my notes.”
“Then look.”
Fazio dug a sheet of paper out of his pocket and consulted it.
“The whole thing’s rather strange and complicated. Take the Rosaspina firm, for example. We have Dr. Filipepi, who is the Cuffaros’ family doctor, on the board of directors.”
“We already knew that.”
“Yeah. But I’ve discovered that Barbera has defended the Sinagras twice in lawsuits.”
“What are you saying? The Sinagras and Cuffaros, together in the same company?”
“That’s right. And the same is true with Albachiara and Soledoro.”
“Meaning there’s always a friend of the Cuffaros and a friend of the Sinagras on the boards of directors?”
“Correct.”
“So what’s the situation with the other firms?”
“The boards of Lo Schiavo, Spampinato, and Farullo haven’t got anyone representing either the Cuffaros or the Sinagras. There was one name that caught my eye, however. Ragioniere Fasolo, who works for Spampinato.”
“Why?”
“I’d heard talk of him but I couldn’t remember where. Then it came back to me.”
“Tell me.”
“Ragioniere Fasolo was on the board of directors of Primavera when it went belly-up, but he was acquitted at the trial when Rosales, the president of the firm, declined to implicate him. Now, I’d like to digress for a minute and talk about this Rosales . . .”
Damn, what a good cop Fazio was!
“You can tell me about him later. There was something else I’d asked you about.”
“You asked me whether Nicotra, when he worked for Primavera, had any assistants and, if so, where they’d ended up. Right?”
“Right.”
“You must be speaking with the dead. Nicotra had two assistant accountants, named Foderaro and Giuffrida. Both are working today, Foderaro for Lo Schiavo and Giuffrida for Farullo. And they’ve been promoted to chief accountant.”
“And do you know where the accountants for Albachiara and Soledoro come from?”
Fazio looked at him in admiration.
Damn, what a good cop his boss was!
“Yes, I do. They come—”
“Wait, don’t tell me. Let me try and guess. They come from Primavera.”
“You’re wrong, but not by much. They come from March 21, which was a firm—”
“—set up by Rosales.”
Fazio rebelled.
�
�But you’re just making me jump through hoops!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if you already know all about Rosales . . . !”
“I assure you that I didn’t know the first thing about him until yesterday evening.”
The inspector paused, got up, went over to the window, and opened it. He lit a cigarette, took three drags, threw it out, closed the window, and sat back down.
“Do you realize what we’ve discovered?” he asked.
“I’m starting to get an idea, but it’s probably better if you tell me.”
“You’ve confirmed my suspicions.”
“And what were they?”
“That these six firms represent an agreement between the Vigatese Mafia and the Trapanese Mafia. And that their mutual surveillance was assured by installing their respective representatives on each of the different boards of directors. An intersecting surveillance.”
“That doesn’t really make sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because, just to take one example, there’s no representative of Rosales on the board of Rosaspina.”
“Yes, but there was Nicotra, as chief accountant. And you should pay close attention to something you said.”
“What?”
“That everyone handling the money in those six firms are Rosales’s people.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means that if the others are all chief accountants, he, Rosales, is the big chief of all the chief accountants.”
“So, if that’s the way it is, the capital behind the six firms is all his?”
“Are you kidding? In your opinion, would the Cuffaros and Sinagras ever put themselves in a subordinate position to Rosales?”
“Never. But then I wonder: How is it that when Rosales won the contract for Primavera, they waged war on him and won, and now they’re hand in glove with him?”
“Apparently when Rosales was in jail, or just out, he had one of his typically brilliant ideas and discussed it with his enemies. And he persuaded them to come to an agreement. Which worked fine until somebody broke into Nicotra’s house. The break-in, the death of Nicotra, the kidnapping of Ingrid and her supposed uncle shattered a prior balance. And Rosales ordered his playmates in high places to impose a stoppage of everything until things get settled.”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 17
