Day of the Dead (30 page)

“The dog? What does the dog have to do with it, Commis­sa'? Come to think of it, which dog?”

Ricciardi tapped his forefinger on the empty wineglass

“Do you remember the dog that we found near the boy? Everyone we talked to told us that Tettè and that dog were inseparable; which means the boy must have fed the dog, no? In that case, why would the dog still be alive? The dog should have been poisoned, too, don't you think? But it wasn't, it was sitting there calmly, watching over that poor dead child.”

Maione nodded, pensively. He wasn't entirely convinced.

“Sure, that's odd, I admit. But still, don't you think it's possible, Commissa', that the child snuck into the warehouse by himself, grabbed several different things to eat, and only by chance, or misfortune, in the dark, he also grabbed one of those poisoned morsels, just one. The doctor said that just a few grains of poison would be enough to kill such a small child. Now, as for the convulsions . . . the child was already so weak, maybe he died right away of a heart attack and didn't have time to suffer. Which would be nice to think, no?”

Ricciardi nodded.

“Sure, it would be nice to think that. But until I'm certain I want to try to figure it out. I told you, there's no evidence; it's more of a feeling that I have. But you know what I'm like: if something doesn't look right to me, I want to figure it out. That's all.”

Maione smiled.

“Yes, I'm all too familiar with your hardheaded ways, how could I not be? All right, Commissa', let's proceed; also because, according to the information I got from Bambinella, and as you know she's always reliable, there's a disgusting world behind all this, and those kids are right in the middle of it. The most important piece of intelligence that she gave me, though, is something I haven't told you yet: and it has to do with what a
verdummaio
saw, a strolling fruit and vegetable vendor who's a client of hers: he told Bambinella that he saw the boy, exactly a week ago, with a strange individual.”

And he told Ricciardi about the tall, well-dressed man with a limp, and his meeting and discussion with Tettè. The commissario immediately became more attentive.

“What do you mean, discussion? Were they arguing, or talking calmly? And what did this person look like? How old, more or less? And how tall?”

Maione threw his arms open wide.

“How would I know, Commissa'? We're talking about something glimpsed in passing by a strolling vendor, a week ago, in the middle of the street. It's already a miracle we even know about it, and it's thanks to Bambinella, who seems to me to be the central clearinghouse for information in this city. If you ask me, the newspapers ought to hire her. She could write the whole paper, from the front page to the back.”

Ricciardi ran his hand over his forehead. It was burning hot.

“We have to find out who this gentleman was. Something strange, and unusual for him, the very day before he died: that's extremely important. And it strikes me that at this point it's necessary to speak directly to two people I haven't interviewed yet: the
saponaro
and the sexton. And we should also talk to Cristiano, the boy, who I know will be a tough nut to crack.”

Maione spoke decisively:

“Then we'll have to split up and work in parallel, Commissa'. Maybe you can talk to the sexton and I'll go see the junk seller and the kid, because when they see the uniform, it puts the fear of God in them; and as you know, fear loosens the tongue better than a glass of wine.”

Ricciardi objected:

“That's out of the question. You know what the atmosphere's like at headquarters. That's all we need now: for you to get charged with insubordination and thrown in jail. Let me take care of it,
grazie
.”

But when Maione made up his mind about something, there was no changing it.

“No, Commissa'. This is how we're going to do it this time. First of all, because you don't look strong enough to me to be running all around town in this weather; second, because in any case I don't trust myself to hang around at police headquarters, with that maniac Garzo on the warpath; and last of all because we'll almost certainly have to talk to Bambinella again, and as you know, she refuses to talk to anyone but me. So face the inevitable and do what I tell you for once, instead of the exact opposite.”

Ricciardi raised his hands.

“All right, I surrender. You go ahead, and I'll talk to the sexton, Nanni. Let's not waste any time: I have a feeling that the more time goes by, the less evidence we're going to come up with.”

 

 

 

 

 

Seven days earlier, Saturday, October 24

 

T
ettè is happy because he managed to successfully smuggle in the piece of pastry that he didn't finish at the pastry shop the day before; now he's outside and he's with the dog, seeking shelter from the rain in the entrance hall of an apartment building.

With his fingers he breaks the stale pastry into three small pieces. He eats one himself, and he gives two to the dog, which wolfs them down.

Suddenly something blocks the faint light, looming up between them and the front door. Tettè looks up in surprise and sees the man with the limp. He holds his breath in terror. He's very afraid of that man.

Ciao, bambino
, he says. He always speaks in a low voice, he looks around, he seems to be on the verge of taking to his heels. He's never done him any harm, and yet Tettè is still afraid of him. The man rears up in front of him like a ghost when he least expects it, and never when he's at home, at the parish.

Ciao, bambino
, he says. What are you doing, are you and the dog having something to eat?
Who gave you something to eat?

The serpent quickly slithers up and coils around his throat. Tettè doesn't even try to answer him. He shakes his head no, he doesn't even know why.

Then the man looks around, tells Tettè to get up, says let's get out of here. Tettè doesn't want to leave, because he doesn't know where the man wants to take him; so the man grabs him by the arm and yanks him to his feet.

The minute the dog sees that the man has laid his hand on Tettè, he leaps to his feet and snarls loudly. The man has a walking stick in one hand, and he uses it on the dog: one sharp rap, on the dog's back. Both Tettè and the dog whine together, almost the same sound. The animal backs away, but stands there snarling and watching the man with the limp, even as he continues to yelp in pain.

If you're good I won't hurt you, says the man with the limp. I won't hurt you, or your dog. You know that. But you have to do what I say. For example, you have to answer my questions. If you don't, you know what will happen.

Tettè knows, and how: Nanni has said it a hundred times over if he's said it once, in the week that's passed since he came to fetch him and take him outside, around the street corner, to where the man with the limp was waiting for him. If you tell someone, anyone, about this meeting, about the fact that the man with the limp comes to talk to you, I'll talk to the blonde woman. And then you'll never see her again, never ever again. I'll tell her certain things and she'll take to her heels in horror, she won't even come back to teach school. But if you go with the man with the limp and talk to him, I won't say anything to anybody. It's a secret, you fool of a
cacaglio
: just a little secret. You'll know it and I'll know it, and if no one else ever knows then everything will be fine. But if someone finds out, you're the one who'll be worse off. Just you.

The man with the limp drags him by the arm, and with his other hand braces himself against his cane. Every so often the end of the cane slips on the wet street, but the man with the limp never falls. Tettè walks fast, otherwise the man will lift him off the ground and that hurts his arm.

The dog follows at a distance, still snarling; he's walking normally. Thank goodness, the man with the limp didn't hurt him too badly, Tettè thinks.

They stop by a
vicolo
. The man with the limp gets all nice again, he smiles, he pats Tettè's head.
Bravo
, he says, you really are a good boy. Would you like a piece of candy? Look, I brought you a piece of honey candy. Tettè takes it and puts it in his pocket. He thanks him, seriously, the way his angel taught him to do. Aren't you going to eat it? asks the man with the limp. Later, he replies: I'll eat it later.

The man with the limp starts asking questions, in a relaxed tone of voice: that's how he always begins. What do you do? What do you eat? How old are you? How long have you been at the parish? And then, the way he does every time, he starts to delve into the memories that Tettè doesn't have: Don't you know who brought you here? Didn't the priest ever tell you anything? Don't you have anything, a piece of clothing, a sheet? What do you remember from when you were a tiny little boy? But how can it be that you don't remember a thing?

Even with the serpent coiled around his throat, Tettè answers. The man with the limp isn't patient, but he waits. His face is polite, but he squeezes Tettè's arm.

He starts with the questions that scare Tettè most: Who comes to see you? Is there anyone at church who looks at you with greater interest than the others? And when you go out with her, with the blonde woman, where is it you go? Where does she take you? What does she say to you? What do you talk about? And what do you answer her?

Tettè doesn't want to tell the man with the limp about the time he spends with his angel. He's afraid that the man will somehow take it away from him, that precious time. Plus, he's jealous; that's his business and he doesn't want to say anything about his angel.

And so the man with the limp realizes that Tettè doesn't want to answer, and he starts to get mad. His hand clutches the end of the cane very tight; Tettè can see creases appear in the man's white gloves. The man's lips grow thin and bloodless, and his eyes narrow to a pair of slits.

The other hand squeezes his arm hard, harder, and harder still: Tettè can't feel his hand anymore, and he whines in pain.

The dog takes a step forward, snarling again, and the man with the limp raises his cane in his direction. The dog stops where he is, but he goes on snarling, the fur on his back bristling, the tail still, the ears flat against his head. He looks as if he's about to lunge, cane or no cane.

Talk, says the man with the limp. Talk, you stuttering idiot, you ugly retard.

He squeezes too hard: Tettè cries out long and loud, just as a fruit vendor passes by with his handcart out on the street near the
vicolo
. The vendor hears the boy cry out and turns, squinting to see into the shadows.

Who's there? he shouts. What's going on?

The man with the limp turns around and immediately changes his expression. He lets go of the boy's arm and tousles his hair. Poor little children, he says to the vendor. The things they'll make up, just to get a few pennies. The vendor glares at him from under the visor of his flat cap, standing with a hand on each handle of the cart. He says nothing. He has children at home, and he doesn't like it when gentlemen come down into the
vicoli
to do strange things.

The man with the limp realizes that the vendor isn't going to go away unless he goes first. He stares hard into Tettè's eyes, gives him a grimacing smile, and then lifts his gloved forefinger to his lips, opening both eyes wide. Be careful, he whispers. Be careful.

And he limps off, with his cane slipping on the wet cobblestones.

 

 

 

A
t the end of Mass Maione hid around the corner from the parish church of Santa Maria del Soccorso. He'd reckoned the time that it would take Cristiano, after serving Mass in church, to come out and head for the streets.

Right on time, almost down to the second, the boy sauntered past, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the pavement, whistling a popular tune. The brigadier took a step and emerged from the shadows, coming to a stop right in front of him, in all his considerable size. Cristiano almost slammed into him.

The boy's first instinct was to run. Maione had expected that, and his hand shot out and grabbed the boy by the arm. Cristiano tried to twist out of his grasp, but Maione held him firm.

“If you hold still, we can be done with this in a minute and then I'll let you go. Otherwise, I'll take you down to police headquarters and we can do our talking there. Which will it be?”

This proposition, hissed into the boy's face like a slap, had the desired effect. Cristiano stopped and stared insolently into the brigadier's eyes.

“I didn't do anything wrong. What do you want with me?”

Maione glared back at him.

“Since when do you have to have done something to be brought in to police headquarters? You know how it works: I can always find an reason. I'll just ask around a little bit. But all I want now is to have a little chat, nice and easy.”

Cristiano look around circumspectly; being seen talking to a policeman wasn't an especially healthy thing in his world. Maione sensed the boy's unease and nodded his head toward the dark alley where, a week earlier, the man with a limp had dragged the terrified Tettè.

As soon as they were safe from prying eyes, Cristiano regained the arrogant confidence that he liked to put on.

“I've done nothing and I know nothing, I already told your colleague. I've got nothing to say.”

Maione grabbed the skin under the boy's chin between his fingers and squeezed hard, but Cristiano didn't blink.