“A pickle? What kind of pickle?”
“Don’t you think being implicated in premeditated murder is a pretty nasty pickle?”
Prestìa shut up.
“My colleague Montalbano,” Valente cut in, “is trying to explain to you why things went as they did.”
“And how did they go?”
“They went as follows: if you had gone directly to Spadaccia and hadn’t given us his card, he would have taken care of everything, under the table, of course. Whereas you, by giving us the card, you got the law involved. So that left Spadaccia with only one option: deny everything.” “What?!”
“Yessirree. Spadaccia’s never seen you before, never heard your name. He made a sworn statement, which we’ve added to our file.”
“The son of a bitch!” said Prestìa. Then he asked: “And how did he explain how I got his card?”
Montalbano laughed heartily to himself.
“He suckered you there, too, pal,” he said. “He brought us a photocopy of a declaration he made about ten days ago to the Trapani police. Says his wallet was stolen with everything inside, including four or five calling cards, he couldn’t remember exactly how many.” “He tossed you overboard,” said Valente.
“Where the water’s way over your head,” Montalbano added.
“How long you gonna manage to stay afloat?” Valente piled it on.
The sweat under Prestìa’s armpits formed great big blotches. The office was filled with an unpleasant odor of musk and garlic, which Montalbano saw as rot-green in color. Prestìa put his head in his hands and muttered: “They didn’t give me any choice.”
He remained awhile in that position, then apparently made up his mind:
“Can I speak with a lawyer?”
“A lawyer?” said Valente, as if greatly surprised.
“Why do you want a lawyer?” Montalbano asked in turn.
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“That we were going to arrest you?”
The duo worked perfectly together.
“You’re not going to arrest me?”
“Of course not.”
“You can go now, if you like.”
It took Prestìa five minutes before he could get his ass unstuck from the chair and run out the door, literally.
o o o
“So, what happens next?” asked Valente, who knew they had unleashed a pack of demons.
“What happens next is that Prestìa will go and pester Spadaccia. And the next move will be theirs.” Valente looked worried.
“What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.
“I don’t know . . . I’m not convinced . . . I’m afraid they’ll silence Prestìa. And we would be responsible.”
“Prestìa’s too visible at this point. Bumping him off would be like putting their signature on the entire operation.
No, I’m convinced they will silence him, but by paying him off handsomely.”
“Will you explain something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you stepping into this quicksand?”
“And why are you following behind me?”
“First of all, because I’m a cop, like you, and secondly, be cause I’m having fun.”
“And my answer is: my first reason is the same as yours.
And my second is that I’m doing it for money.”
“And what’ll you gain from it?”
“I know exactly what my gain will be. But you want to bet that you’ll gain something from it too?”
o o o
Deciding not to give in to the temptation, he sped past the restaurant where he’d stuffed himself at lunch, doing 120
kilometers an hour. A half kilometer later, however, his resolution suddenly foundered, and he slammed on the brakes, provoking a furious blast of the horn from the car behind him. The man at the wheel, while passing him, glared at him angrily and gave him the finger. Montalbano then made a U-turn, strictly prohibited on that stretch of road, went straight into the kitchen, and, without even saying hello, asked the cook: “So, exactly how do you prepare your striped mullet?” 2 3 1
0p>
17
The following morning, at eight o’clock sharp, he showed up at the commissioner’s office. His boss, as usual, had been there since seven, amid the muttered curses of the cleaning women who felt prevented from doing their jobs.
Montalbano told him about Mrs. Lapècora’s confession, explaining how the poor murder victim, as if trying to side-step his tragic end, had written anonymously to his wife and openly to his son, but both had let him stew in his own juices. He made no mention of either Fahrid or Moussa—of the larger puzzle, in other words. He didn’t want the commissioner, now at the end of his career, to find himself implicated in an affair that stank worse than a pile of shit.
And up to this point it had gone well for him; he hadn’t had to pull any wool over the commissioner’s eyes. He’d only left a few things out, told a few half-truths.
“But why did you want to hold a press conference, you who usually avoid them like the plague?”
He had anticipated this question, and the answer he had ready on his lips allowed him another at least partial omission, if not an outright lie.
“This Karima, you see, was a rather unusual sort of prostitute. She went not only with Lapècora, but with other people as well. All well on in years: retirees, businessmen, professors. By limiting the case to Lapècora, I’ve tried to prevent the poison, the insinuations, from spreading to a bunch of poor wretches who, in the end, didn’t really do anything wrong.” He was convinced it was a plausible explanation. And in fact, the commissioner’s only comment was:
“You have strange morals, Montalbano.”
And then he asked:
“But has this Karima really disappeared?”
“Apparently, yes. When she learned her lover had been killed, she ran away with her little boy, fearing she might be implicated in the homicide.”
“Listen,” said the commissioner. “What was that business with the car all about?”
“What car?”
“Come on, Montalbano. The car that turned out to belong to the secret services. They’re nasty people, you know.” Montalbano laughed. He’d practiced the laugh the night before, in front of a mirror, persisting until he got it right.
Now, however, contrary to his hopes, it rang false, too high-pitched. But if he wanted to keep his excellent superior out of this mess, he no longer had any choice. He had to tell a lie.
“Why do you laugh?” asked the commissioner, surprised.
“Out of embarrassment, believe me. The person who gave me that license number phoned me the next day and said he’d made a mistake. The letters were right, but he’d got the number wrong. It was 837, not 237. I apologize. I feel mortified.” The commissioner looked him in the eye for what seemed like an eternity. Then he spoke in a soft voice.
“If you want me to swallow that, I’ll swallow it. But be very careful, Montalbano. Those people don’t kid around.
They’re capable of anything, and whenever they slip up, they blame it on certain colleagues who went astray. Who don’t exist. They’re the ones who go astray. It’s in their nature.” Montalbano didn’t know what to say. The commissioner changed subject.
“Tonight you’ll dine at my house. I don’t want to hear any arguments. You’ll eat whatever there is. I’ve got two things I absolutely have to tell you. But I won’t say them here, in my office, because that would give them a bureaucratic flavor, which I find unpleasant.” It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and yet Montalbano had the impression that a shadow had fallen across the sun, making the room turn suddenly cold.
o o o
There was a letter addressed to him on the desk in his office.
He checked the postmark, as he always did, to try and discover its provenance, but it was illegible. He opened the envelope and read:
Inspector Montalbano,
You dont know me and I dont know what your like. My name is Arcangelo Prestifilippo and I am your fathers business partner in the vineyard which is producing very well, thank the Lord. Your father never talks about you but I found out he collects all the newspapers that talk about you and when he sees you on tv sometimes he starts crying but tries to not let other people see.