“There’s a young gay guy I know who sells coke in clubs and discos. Actually, he’s sort of a hybrid dealer/user: Basically, he sells coke to pay for his personal use. He told me that he does know a certain Michele who often has plenty of cocaine. He said that sometimes he bought small amounts from him, and that other times he sold coke to Michele. This is fairly normal between small-time dealers: They go back and forth-when one guy has it he’ll sell to the other, and vice versa.”
“Why do you think this could be the Michele we’re looking for?”
“You told me your Michele is handsome, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“My gay friend said this Michele was a prime hunk of meat. His exact words.”
“Let me guess: The problem is that he doesn’t know his last name.”
“No, he doesn’t, but if we could just show him a picture…”
Right. If we could just show him a picture. I had to stop wasting time and find a way to get that picture. I’d have to call Fornelli. Or maybe, I thought, maybe Caterina could get me a photograph of Michele. That reminded me that I needed to call her to arrange our departure the following day.
“Counselor?”
“Yes?”
“Can I be sure that this guy isn’t going to get in trouble because of the things he’s telling me?”
“You mean this gay friend of yours?”
“Well, he’s not actually a friend, but yes, I mean him.”
“Don’t worry, Damiano. The only thing I care about is finding out what happened to Manuela. You and I never even had this conversation, as far as I’m concerned.”
Quintavalle seemed relieved.
“Sorry to ask, but-”
I raised my hand to stop him. Of course I understood his concern perfectly. For someone in his line of work, just asking questions could be dangerous. I thanked him, told him that I’d try to find a picture of Michele and I’d call him when I did. Then we both left the bar and went back to our respective-more and less legitimate-jobs.
I called Caterina on my way back to my office. I told her that I’d reserved an 11:00 A.M. flight to Rome the next morning and that I’d come by and pick her up on my way to the airport at 9:30. I asked her if her address was still the same as the one listed in the transcripts of the interviews with the Carabinieri; she said, yes, that was the address, but to make things easier we could just meet in front of the Teatro Petruzzelli. I felt an unmistakable wave of relief at the idea that I wouldn’t have to go to her house and risk that her mother or father-who were probably more or less the same age I was-might see me, realize that their daughter was consorting with a middle-aged cradle robber, and decide to take drastic steps, possibly involving pipe wrenches or baseball bats or other instruments of dissuasion.
I remembered the picture of Michele just as I was about to hang up.
“Oh, Caterina?”
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of Michele Cantalupi, would you?”
She didn’t answer right away, and if silence can have an intonation, her silence was followed by a big question mark.
“What do you need it for?” she said at last.
“I need to show it to someone. Anyway, we’d better not talk about it on the phone. I’ll explain tomorrow. You think you can find one?”
“I’ll take a look, but I don’t think I have one.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow, then.”
“See you tomorrow.”
25.
When I got back to my office, tasks and meetings oozed around me like some kind of amoeba out of a sci-fi film. This slimy, gelatinous creature held me captive until late that evening, when it finally decided I wasn’t particularly digestible and expelled me, in the physical and moral state of a half-digested zombie. Moreover, since the trip to Rome the following day wasn’t part of my planned workflow, I had to arrange for substitutes to attend my hearings and I had to reschedule my appointments.
When I got home, I was exhausted. I took a few halfhearted jabs at Mister Bag, just to reassure him that we were still friends, but I couldn’t bring myself to do a proper workout. I wasted more water than I should have on a long hot shower, with the bathroom door wide open and Bruce Springsteen playing at full volume. At eleven o’clock I was back on the street, riding my bike. I was wearing my old black leather jacket, faded jeans, and a pair of track shoes. All in all, I looked exactly like what I was: a middle-aged man, well into his forties, dressing like a kid, as if that allowed him to thumb his nose at time.
I told myself that I knew perfectly well what I was doing, and that I didn’t care a bit. Even if I understood the mechanism behind it, it still put me in a good mood.
When I walked into the Chelsea Hotel, I recognized a number of regular customers. They recognized me, too, and a few even nodded hello. I was that strange guy who wasn’t gay but still dropped by frequently to eat, drink, and listen to music. There was a feeling of familiarity that I really liked, as if that place had somehow become partly mine. A sense of safety.
I looked around, but Nadia wasn’t there. I was disappointed. I thought of asking the bartender where she was, but her expression-as welcoming as a punch in the nose-dissuaded me.
So I sat down and ordered a plate of orecchiette with wild mushrooms and a glass of Primitivo. I managed to focus only on the food and the wine.
Nadia arrived just as I was leaving.
“Ciao, Guido,” she said cheerfully. “I was out at a friend’s birthday party. She’s a sweet girl, but she has the most amazingly dull friends you can imagine. The catering was ghastly: baked pasta in aluminum foil trays. I swear. One of your fellow lawyers, a guy with a gut and dandruff, tried to get my number. You’re not already leaving, are you?”
“Well, yes, it’s past midnight.” I realized there was a hint of resentment in my voice, as if the fact that she hadn’t been there when I arrived was a deliberate act of rudeness on her part. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice.
“Of course, I always forget that other people have jobs and have to get up in the morning.”
“Actually, I can sleep in a little bit tomorrow morning. I’m going to Rome for work, and the flight is at eleven.”
“Then stay a little longer. I still have to recover from that party. I’ll let you taste something I think you’ll like.”
“Another type of absinthe?”
“Something better. Give me a minute to see if they need my help. I doubt they do. Then I’ll come sit with you.”
Five minutes later she was at my table with two glasses and a bottle with an attractive, old-fashioned-looking label.
“You’ve eaten, right? This isn’t something you want to drink on an empty stomach.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an Irish whiskey called The Knot. Try it and tell me what you think.”
It didn’t taste like a whiskey. It had the scent of rum and it reminded me of Southern Comfort, without being sticky sweet.
“It’s good,” I said, after draining my glass. She filled it again and poured herself a generous serving as well.
“Sometimes I think I’m getting a little too fond of this stuff.”
“Sometimes I think the same thing myself.”
“Okay, we’ll hash out that problem some other evening. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So, you’re going to Rome tomorrow. I’ve got to get there one of these days. See a couple of old girlfriends and spend a little money.”
I was trying to figure out how I could bring up the topic of my investigation and the questions I wanted to ask her, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. I pretended to focus on my whiskey, admiring its pale golden hue, but I must have seemed about as authentic as Monopoly money.
“Is there something you wanted to ask me?” she inquired, sparing me at least a little effort. For a moment I wondered if I should tell her a lie, any old lie; I told myself that would be a terrible idea.
“Well, actually, yes, there is.”
“Then go ahead and ask.”