Adam's Rib (9 page)

He turned around. It was Police Chief Andrea Corsi. Corsi looked at him, beaming, through his titanium-frame spectacles. “How nice to see you here.”

They shook hands.

“I know this is a celebration, but maybe at dinner you can fill me in on what's happened. That way I won't have to pursue you for the rest of the day tomorrow.”

“Certainly.” And the deputy police chief shot a furious glare at Nora, who returned a gleaming, pearly white-toothed smile. “And afterward, Rocco, we'll go to dinner in a new restaurant that's just opened in the center of town. All of us together. Happy?”

“Overjoyed, Nora,” the deputy police chief replied, grimly.

He had just realized that even the second half of Roma-Inter, the Friday night game, had gone up in smoke. The most he could hope to see was the postgame highlights.

SITTING AT A DINNER TABLE FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR
was the sort of thing that irritated him, giving him a slight intermittent shiver mixed with sudden surges of heat. Rocco had long ago cataloged restaurants with slow service as a seventh-degree pain in the ass. And this new trattoria with the highly imaginative name of “La Grolla,” after a local drinking technique, couldn't even really qualify as slow—it was dead in the water. At well past ten thirty, after a grueling two hours and fifteen minutes, they were still there, just finishing their entrées.

Anna was across the table from him, and she'd never glanced at him the whole evening. Only once, while he was having an amiable conversation with the police chief, explaining the details of the unfortunate death of poor Esther Baudo, had Rocco turned suddenly and caught her glancing at him, but she had immediately looked away, pretending to be interested in what Pietro Bucci-something something, an interior decorator, was telling her. Gotcha! Schiavone had said inwardly. They were still waiting for the espressos, and then the cake would be the final act. The waiter came over promptly to clear the table and Rocco grabbed him by the arm. “Listen, how long will it be for the coffee?”

“They're on their way now,” the waiter reassured him.

“Let's just hope they don't get lost, though,” said Rocco, releasing the waiter's arm. He couldn't hold out
much longer. He was exhausted. He felt like throwing up and his ass was starting to feel numb and at the same time, tingle with pins and needles. The police chief was already worrying about what to say to the news vendors, which is what he always called the detested creatures of the press, and he'd started off on his usual rant. “Tell me something more, Schiavone. I'm going to have tell those people something tomorrow, no?” Rocco smiled. “Dottor Corsi, those people, the reporters, you can wrap them around your little finger as and when you please.” And as his direct superior started jotting down notes for a possible press conference to be held on Saturday at police headquarters, Rocco decided that he would brave the chilly night to smoke a cigarette—he definitely needed a break. “I'm going to go have a smoke,” he said in a whisper to Nora. Then, just as he was getting to his feet, he had the stroke of genius, the idea that would get him out of that tremendous pain-in-the-ass situation once and for all and give a welcome turn to the evening. He touched his jacket pocket. His cell phone was right where it ought to be.

“Oh, by the way,” the chief of police said preemptively. “The regional governor absolutely requires our help. He's organizing an amateur bike race, for charity, at the end of April. A race that's called something like . . . I don't remember . . . like the Aosta–Saint-Vincent–Aosta. Later I'll give you all the details. We have to be available to help out.”

“Certainly, Dottore, certainly.” And with a smile and a pack of cigarettes in hand he'd left the table.

HE WALKED BACK INTO THE RESTAURANT AND, THE
minute he sat down, the lights went out. It was time for the dessert that Anna herself had chosen, Nora's favorite, a tiramisu. A chunk of mascarpone cheese, heavy cream, chocolate, and ladyfingers—rich enough to knock out a buffalo. Rocco picked at it halfheartedly, but he just didn't have room for that caloric bomb. He couldn't understand how Nora's friends, skinny, lithe, and athletic as they were, after polishing off pasta, entrée, side dishes, cheese, and fruit, could still be eager to chow down. It must be lengthy exposure to the cold and mountain conditions that shaped the stomachs of Valdostans, because they were clearly like little heat stoves, burning calories at a feverish rate. Nora blew out the candles. A round of applause and a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Then the deputy police chief's cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, while inwardly delighting at Officer Italo Pierron's perfect timing—Pierron was his favorite at headquarters, and ten minutes earlier, while being buffeted by the usual wintry wind and gulping down quick puffs of smoke from his Camel, he'd asked him to make this very call. “Italo,” he'd told him, “in ten minutes make an urgent call to me!”

“Oh hell's bells, it's the office,” he said as he read the display. Nora looked at him, a dessert spoon in her mouth.

“What is it, Italo?”

But it wasn't Italo calling. It was Caterina. “Dottore, I'm so sorry to bother you during your party . . . but Deruta and D'Intino . . .”

“Now what have they done?”

“D'Intino's in the hospital. But Deruta's right here at headquarters.”

“Do you mind telling what the hell happened?”

“They were involved in a physical conflict.”

Rocco nodded and ended the call. He threw his arms wide. “I'm so sorry . . .” he said, looking at Nora, and the whole table fell silent. “I have one officer seriously injured and another in a state of extreme confusion . . .”

The chief of police looked up quickly. “What are we talking about here?”

“Two of my best officers. They were on a stakeout, part of an investigation into heroin trafficking . . . evidently there was some kind of problem.”

“But that's not fair,” said Nora in a teary voice. Corsi slapped her lightly on the thigh, as if to say buck up, as if to remind her: “Unfortunately, my dear lady, this is the policeman's hard lot.” But to a careful eye, the police chief's hand had then continued to linger on Nora's knee a little longer than was absolutely necessary for a pat of consolation.

All the other guests looked over at Rocco, shaking their heads in commiseration, though they continued to shovel dessert into their mouths. All but Anna, who maintained her half smile as if to say: “Don't try to bullshit me. I know you.” Rocco told himself that he wasn't finished with that one.

“Excuse me, I have to go.”

“Rocco, will you come to see me later?” Nora asked in a low voice.

“I don't even know what's happened. Believe me, I'll try my best.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I came to your aperitif, didn't I?”

“Call me. No matter how late. Remember, tonight my every wish is your command. I'm the queen and I must be obeyed.”

“And you remember that I'm a deputy police chief of the Italian republic and I reject all false monarchist hierarchies.” Then he said a round of good nights with a smile.

“Schiavone, don't forget,” piped up the chief of police.

“Don't forget what?”

“The race. Aosta–Saint-Vincent–Aosta. The governor really cares about this.”

“Duly noted, Dottore, you can count on me.” He turned to go and ran straight into the waiter who was finally bringing a tray full of espressos. The tray and the coffee cups went crashing to the ground.

The waiter smiled. “It's not a problem, Signore. I'll go have them make new ones.”

“Maybe you should order cappuccinos and breakfast pastries. With those, your timing might finally be perfect.”

IT WAS WELL PAST ELEVEN. ACROSS THE DESK FROM
Rocco sat a young man, maybe twenty years old, pimply-
faced, incessantly chomping on a wad of gum. This was the kid that Deruta had managed to hold on to in the disastrous aftermath of the nighttime stakeout. The other wrongdoer, this kid's accomplice, had fractured D'Intino's nasal septum and made good his escape into the labyrinth of lanes and alleys around the train station. The young man's face had a blank expression—a dead-eyed ruminant that just kept chewing. Rocco stared at him in silence. The sound of his jaws and the clicking of teeth and slurping of saliva were an assault on his nervous system, which had already been sorely put to the test by this unbelievably shitty day that simply refused to end.

Chomp-chomp slurp, chomp-chomp slurp, chomp-chomp slurp went the juvenile delinquent's powerful jaws. He had a shaven head topped by a Mohawk held in place by hair product, in keeping with the latest fashion among soccer players. The surreal silence was broken by the noise of a solitary car going by in the street outside. Rocco had lost himself in a reverie as he gazed at the boy's red lips. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists on the desk. “Be a good kid and do me a favor,” the deputy police chief said to the young man, finally breaking that silence. “Spit out that gum, or I'm going to have to make you swallow it.”

The indolent youth gazed at him with indifference, and contemptuously went on chewing, in spite of the fact that Italo Pierron had pulled out a handkerchief and was standing there, ready to take the rubbery bolus. Rocco stood up from his chair and went over to his office window. Outside, snowflakes were spinning lazily down. He touched the pane
of glass. It was ice cold. He heaved a low, hoarse sigh and then turned around to face the young drug dealer. The sound of teeth and tongue continued to fill the room. Italo opened his mouth, about to say something, but Rocco stopped him with a flutter of his hand. He took a couple of steps toward the young man. “All right, Righetti, get to your feet.”

Clueless, the kid stood up. Rocco stared him right in the eyes. “Let's see if we can't get this conversation back on the tracks of mutual respect, sound good to you?” Then, in a flash, he let fly with a powerful straight punch right to the boy's midsection, and Righetti folded neatly in half. He staggered to his chair and tried to catch his breath. His eyes were glistening with pain and anger. Fabio Righetti had swallowed his gum. “You see? How easy was that?” asked the deputy police chief, and sat back down at his desk. “Now then. Fabio Righetti, born in Aosta on July twenty-fourth, 1993 . . . you're a tough character, aren't you?” The kid said nothing. He just sat clutching his belly with both hands and doing his best to breathe. “Let's summarize what we have. My officers caught you with your friend while you were selling a few baggies. Of coke.”

Fabio Righetti didn't answer.

Rocco went on. “Your buddy smashed his forehead into Officer D'Intino's face, fracturing his nasal septum, and took off. You, on the other hand, strapping big chump that you are, let yourself get caught by Deruta, a police officer who weighs in at two hundred eighty-five pounds, with a serious onset of emphysema. Believe me, this isn't going to do much for your reputation.”

A complicit little smile began to play over Officer Pierron's lips.

“You had four more bags of stepped-on cocaine on your person. And that will send you straight into a jail cell.” No effect: the kid was tough. Not a word. “You don't feel like telling me where you got that coke and who gave it to you, do you?” Pierron went over to the kid. “Come on, Fabio, if you give the deputy police chief a little information, then we'll give you a hand, you know that.”

Finally the kid opened his mouth and spoke. “Go fuck yourself!” he said.

So the avuncular approach hadn't worked. Rocco expected that, but mentally he praised Italo's effort.

“It's okay, Italo, Righetti here is a tough kid and he's not talking. Right?”

The dealer sat there, silent as a pillar of salt. Rocco looked at the hand that had punched the kid in the belly, then he pulled open a drawer. Inside were six fat joints, ready to smoke. He needed one, and without it he was pretty sure things weren't going to trend in the right direction. “If you don't mind, Pierron?”

Italo nodded, and the deputy police chief fired one up. Fabio Righetti's eyes opened wide and he just barely smiled as Schiavone took a good hard tug on the joint, held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, and then finally exhaled and shut his eyes. “I make them at home with a rolling machine. I've never been good at rolling them by hand . . .”

The drug dealer grinned. “What, you smoke joints?”

“What's that? You forget about ‘sir'?”

“What, you smoke joints, sir?” Righetti corrected himself.

Underneath his pose as a two-bit neighborhood gangster, behind his Mohawk and the tattooed serpent peeking out from his neck, this was just a good, well-brought-up kid. And Rocco knew it.

He stuck the joint in his mouth and went back to looking at the notes he had on his desk. “So how far did you make it in school?”

Righetti didn't understand. “Sophomore year of high school . . .” he answered uncertainly, with no clear idea of what the cop across the desk from him was driving at.

“Then you wouldn't have studied Hegel. Listen, have you ever heard of him?”

“He's a center fielder, right?”

“No, that's Hagen, and he's a defender who even played on the Norwegian national team. No, I'm talking about Hegel, the philosopher. And what would you know about him? Anyway, to make a long story short, this guy said that reading the morning newspaper was the realist's morning prayer. You get the concept? If you're religious, you get up in the morning and you pray to God, but if you don't believe in God, you read the morning paper. But for me, this is my morning prayer.” He raised the joint to his lips and took another puff. “Every morning, before I start my day, unless I smoke one of these, I'm irritable, I have a hard time thinking, and I'm pissed off at the world. And smoking one at night every now and then is good for me too.”