The Track of Sand im-12

by Andrea Camilleri

  “Would you go there anyway, even if I decided not to come?”

  “With a heavy heart, but yes, I would go. I always go when Rachele races.”

  He weighed his options. Clearly that smart little set would send his cojones into a vertiginous spin, but, on the other hand, it was a unique opportunity to become a little more familiar with the circle of friends, and probably enemies, of Signora Esterman.

  “What time is the race?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon at five. If you agree to come, I’ll pick you up at your place at three.”

  Which meant going for a drive right after eating, on a full stomach.

  “Why, does it take you two hours to drive to Fiacca?”

  “No, but we’re supposed to get there an hour before the start. It would be impolite if we didn’t show up till the starting signal.”

  “All right, then.”

  “Really? You see? I was right!”

  “About what?”

  “You did find my friend Rachele attractive.”

  “It’s not that; I only accepted so I could spend a few more hours with you.”

  “You’re more phony than . . . than . . .”

  “Oh, listen. How should I dress?”

  “Naked.You look good naked.”

  5

  Fazio, who had gone missing all morning, straggled in just before five o’clock.

  “You got anything for me?”

  “Enough.”

  “Before you open your mouth, I want you to know that early this morning, Mimì went to Lo Duca’s stables and found out some interesting things.”

  He told him what Augello had discovered. When he had finished, Fazio had a dubious look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry, Chief, but wouldn’t it be better, at this point, if we got in contact with our colleagues in Montelusa and—”

  “And passed the ball to them?”

  “Chief, it could be useful to them to know that one of the horses was killed here, in Marinella.”

  “No.”

  “Have it your way, then. But could you explain why?”

  “If you insist. It’s a personal matter. I was really appalled by the stupid ferocity with which they killed that poor animal. I want to see these guys’ faces myself.”

  “But you can tell our colleagues how the horse was killed! With all the gory details!”

  “It’s one thing to hear tell of something, it’s another to see it with your own eyes.”

  “Chief, I’m sorry to be so insistent, but—”

  “Are you in cahoots with Augello?”

  “Me, in cahoots . . . ?!” said Fazio, turning pale.

  “Sorry, I’m a bit on edge.”

  He really was. Because he just remembered he had said yes to Ingrid, and now he no longer felt like going to Fiacca to join the pack of assholes drooling after Rachele.

  “Tell me about Prestia.”

  Fazio was still a touch offended.

  “Chief, there are certain things you shouldn’t say to me.”

  “I’ll say it again: I’m sorry. Okay?”

  Fazio pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket, and the inspector realized that he was going to recite all the personal particulars of Michilino Prestia and his associates. Some people collect stamps, Chinese prints, model airplanes, and seashells; Fazio collected bureaucratic information on individuals. No doubt when he went home he logged all the information he collected on the people he was investigating onto his computer. And on his days off, he amused himself reviewing it.

  “May I?” said Fazio.

  “Go ahead.”

  At other times the inspector had threatened him with death if he read his notes out loud. But since he had offended him, he now had to pay. Fazio smiled and started reading. Peace had been made.

  “Michele Prestia, known as ‘Michilino,’ born in Vigàta, March 23, 1953, to Giuseppe Prestia and Giovanna née Larosa, and living at Via Abete Meli 32. Married in 1980 to Grazia Stornello, born in Vigàta on September 3, 1960, to Giovanni Stornello and—”

  “Couldn’t you skip that part?” Montalbano asked timidly, after he had started sweating.

  “It’s important.”

  “All right, go on,” said the inspector, resigned.

  “—and Marianna née Todaro. Michele Prestia and Grazia Stornello have had one male child, Balduccio, who passed away in a motorcycle accident at the age of eighteen. After studying bookkeeping at a vocational school, Mr. Prestia began working at age twenty as a junior accountant at the firm of Cozzo and Rampello which presently owns three supermarkets.After ten years at this job, he was promoted to the rank of senior accountant. He resigned from this post in 2004, and has remained unemployed to the present day.”

  He carefully refolded the sheet of paper and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “That is all that’s officially known,” he said.

  “And unofficially?”

  “Shall I begin with the wedding?”

  “Begin wherever you like.”

  “Michele Prestia met Grazia Stornello at a wedding reception. From that moment on, he was always after her. They started going out together but managed to keep their relationship a secret from everyone. Until one day the girl ended up pregnant and was forced to tell her parents the whole story.At this point Michilino asked his employers for his vacation time and then disappeared.”

  “He didn’t want to get married?”

  “It was the furthest thing from his mind. But less than a week later, he’s back inVigàta from Palermo, where he had been hiding at a friend’s place, and he announces that he’s ready to make amends and marry the girl.”

  “Why did he change his mind?”

  “They made him change it.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’ll explain. Remember when I said who Grazia Stornello’s mother was?”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “Marianna Todaro.”

  And he cast a knowing glance at the inspector. But Montalbano disappointed him.

  “And who’s she?”

  “Whattya mean, who’s she? She’s one of Balduccio Sinagra’s three nieces.”

  “Wait a second,” Montalbano interrupted him.“Are you telling me Balduccio is behind the clandestine horse races?”

  “Please, Chief, stop jumping ahead like a kangaroo. I haven’t said anything about the clandestine races yet. We were still at the wedding.”

  “All right, go on.”

  “So Marianna Todaro goes to see her uncle and tells him about her daughter and so on. At this point Don Balduccio takes exactly twenty-four hours to locate Michilino in Palermo and has him brought back, to his villa, in the middle of the night.”

  “Kidnapping.”

  “You can imagine how frightened Don Balduccio is of being charged with kidnapping!”

  “So he threatens the kid?”

  “In his own special way. For two days and two nights he kept him in a totally empty room with nothing to eat or drink. Every three hours somebody came in with a pistol, cocked the hammer, looked at Michilino, pointed the gun at him, then turned around and left without saying a word. On the third day, when Don Balduccio came to see him in person, apologizing for having made him wait—you know what Don Balduccio’s like, all smiles and fuss—Michilino got down on his knees, in tears, and asked him for the honor of marrying Grazia. And when the baby was born, they named him Balduccio.”

  “And how were relations between Balduccio Sinagra and Prestia after that?”

  “Well, one year after the wedding, Don Balduccio suggested that he leave his job at Cozzo and Rampello and come work for him. But Michilino refused. He told Don Balduccio he was afraid he was unworthy. So Don Balduccio let it drop.”

  “And after that?”

  “Well, after that—and I mean only about four years ago—Michilino developed a gambling habit. Until the day when Messrs. Cozzo and Rampello discovered they had a serious cash deficit. Out of
respect for Don Balduccio, they didn’t report Prestia to the police, but forced him to resign. But Cozzo and Rampello wanted the stolen money back. They gave him three months.”

  “Did he ask Don Balduccio for it?”

  “Of course. But Don Balduccio told him to go fuck himself, saying he wasn’t some two-bit hood.”

  “And did Cozzo and Rampello report him?”

  “No, they didn’t. Because when the three months were up, Michilino came to Messrs. Cozzo and Rampello with cash in hand. He paid it all back, down to the last cent.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “From Ciccio Bellavia.”

  Now, there was a name he knew! And how! Ciccio Bellavia had been the rising star of the “striddari,” the new, young Mafia that wanted to stab the old generation of the Sinagras and Cuffaros in the back. But then he betrayed his own comrades and went to work for the Cuffaros, becoming their go-to guy.

  So the Mafia was behind the clandestine horse races. It could not have been otherwise.

  “So was it Prestia who turned to Bellavia?”

  “No, it was the other way around. Bellavia showed up one day, saying he’d heard that Prestia was in trouble and that he was ready to—”

  “But Prestia should not have accepted!Taking that money was like announcing he was turning against Balduccio!”

  “Didn’t I tell you right off the bat that Michilino Prestia was a nitwit? A cross between a nobody and a no-account? Don Balduccio summed it up when he said he wasn’t some two-bit hood.Then, to top it off, Prestia had to pay Bellavia back by taking on the responsibility for the illegal races. He couldn’t refuse. Which means he’s now working against Don Balduccio in business as well.”

  “I somehow don’t see this Prestia aging gracefully.”

  “Me neither, Chief. Sorry for asking, but do you still see a connection between the killing of the horse and the illegal races?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Fazio.You don’t see any?”

  “When you first showed me the dead animal, I was the one, if you recall, who mentioned the clandestine races. But now there doesn’t seem to be anything there anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chief, every time we form a hypothesis, it immediately gets shot down. Remember you thought that they’d stolen the lady’s horse to spite Lo Duca? Then we found out that they also took one of Lo Duca’s horses. So what need was there to steal the lady’s horse?”

  “I agree. But what about the races?”

  “Lo Duca, as far as I’ve been able to find out, has nothing to do with the illegal races.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Not a hundred percent sure. I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it. But he doesn’t really seem like the type to me.”

  “Never trust appearances. For example, ten years ago, would you have thought Prestia capable of managing an illegal racing circuit?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you telling me Lo Duca doesn’t seem like the type? Let me tell you something else. Lo Duca goes around telling everybody that the Mafia respects him. Or at least they respected him until yesterday. Do you know why he says that? Do you know who his friends are and who protects him?”

  “No, Chief, I don’t. But I’ll try to find out.”

  “Do you know where these races are held?”

  “They change the location practically every time, Chief. I found out that one was held on the grounds behind Villa Panseca.”

  “Pippo Panseca’s house?”

  “Yessir.”

  “But, as far as I know, Panseca—”

  “Panseca’s got nothing to do with it, in fact. Maybe you don’t know. When he had to go to Rome for a couple of weeks, the caretaker rented the grounds to Prestia for one night.They paid him so much for it, the guy went out and bought himself a new car.Another time they held it over by Crasto Mountain. Normally, there’s one every week.”

  “Wait a second. Are they always held at night?”

  “Of course.”

  “So how do they see anything?”

  “They’re very well equipped.You know how, when they shoot a film outdoors, they always bring along electrical generators? Well, the ones these guys’ve got can light everything up like it’s daytime.”

  “But how do they inform their clients of the time and place?”

  “The clients who matter most, the high rollers, number only about thirty or forty; the rest are just small fry who, if they come, fine, and if they don’t, even better. Too many people in cars create a lot of dangerous confusion.”

  “But how are they informed?”

  “With coded telephone calls.”

  “And can’t we do anything about it?”

  “With the means at our disposal?”

  * * *

  The inspector stayed another two hours or so at the station, then got in his car and went back to Marinella. Before setting the table on the veranda, he felt like taking a shower. In the dining room he emptied his pockets onto the table, and in so doing he found the piece of paper on which he had written Rachele Esterman’s cell phone number. He remembered that there was something he wanted to ask her. He could do it the following day, when he saw her in Fiacca. But would it really be possible? God only knew how many people there would be around her. Wasn’t it perhaps better to call her now, as it wasn’t yet eight-thirty? He decided that this was best.

  “Hello? Signora Esterman?”

  “Yes.Who is this?”

  “Inspector Montalbano here.”

  “Oh, no you don’t! Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind!”

  “About what?”

  “Ingrid told me you were coming here to Fiacca tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there, signora.”

  “That makes me so, so happy. Be sure to free yourself up for the evening as well. There will be a dinner, and you are one of my guests.”

  Matre santa! Not a dinner!

  “Look, actually, tomorrow evening—”

  “Don’t make up any silly excuses.”

  “Will Ingrid also be at the dinner?”

  “Can’t you take a single step without her?”

  “No, it’s just that, since she’ll be driving me to Fiacca, I was thinking that, for the return—”

  “Don’t worry, Ingrid will be there. Why did you call me?”

  “Why did I ...?”The prospect of the dinner, the people whose conversation he would have to listen to, the muck that would likely be served and that he would have to swallow even if it made him puke, had made him forget that it was he who had called her. “Oh, right, sorry. But I don’t want to take up any more of your time. If you could just give me about five minutes tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow there’s going to be pandemonium. But I do have a little time right now, before I get ready to go out to eat.”

  With Guido? A candlelight dinner?

  “Listen, signora—”

  “Please call me Rachele.”

  “All right, Rachele. Do you remember when you told me that it was the watchman of the stables who had informed you that your horse—”

  “Yes, I remember saying that. But I must have been mistaken.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Chichi—I’m sorry, Lo Duca told me the poor night watchman was at the hospital. On the other hand . . .”

  “Go on, Rachele.”

  “On the other hand I’m almost certain he said he was the watchman. But I’d been asleep, you know, it was very early in the morning and I’d been up very late . . .”

  “I understand. Did Lo Duca tell you who he had asked to call you?”

  “Lo Duca didn’t ask anyone to call me. That would have been ungentlemanly. It was up to him to inform me.”

  “And did he?”

  “Of course! He phoned me from Rome around nine in the morning.”

  “And did you tell him that someone had already called?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he make a
ny comment?”

  “He said it was probably someone from the stable who had called of his own initiative.”

  “Have you got another minute?”

  “Listen, I’m in the bathtub at the moment and I am really enjoying it. Hearing your voice so close to my ear right now is . . . Never mind.”

  She played rough, this Rachele Esterman.

  “You told me you phoned the stables in the afternoon—”

  “You’re not remembering correctly. Someone from the stable called to tell me the horse hadn’t been found yet.”

  “Did the person identify himself ?”

  “No.”

  “Was it the same voice as in the morning?”

  “I . . . think so.”

  “Did you mention this second phone call to Lo Duca?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “No, there was no need. All right, Rachele, I—”

  “Wait.”

  A minute of silence passed. They hadn’t been cut off, because Montalbano could hear her breathing. Then she said in a low voice:

  “I get it.”

  “You get what?”

  “What you suspect.”

  “Namely?”

  “That the person who called me twice was not from the stables, but was one of the people who stole and killed my horse. Am I right?”

  Shrewd, beautiful, and smart.

  “You’re right.”

  “Why did they do it?”

  “I can’t really say at the moment.”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh, listen. Is there any news of Lo Duca’s horse?”

  “They’ve lost all trace of it.”

  “How strange.”

  “Well, Rachele, that’s about all I had—”

  “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You . . . I really like you. I like talking to you, being with you.”

  “Thank you,” said Montalbano, a bit confused and not knowing what else to say.

  She laughed. And in his mind he saw her naked, in the bathtub, throwing her head back and laughing. A cold chill ran down his spine.

  “I don’t think we’re going to be able to spend any time together tomorrow, just the two of us . . .Although, maybe—”

  She broke off as if she had just thought of something. Montalbano waited a bit, then went ahem, ahem, exactly the way they do in British novels.