Game of Mirrors (4 page)

Arnone was flummoxed. He shook his head “no.”

“What do you want from us, Signor Arnone? Protection?”

“I just came . . . to tell you . . . I made a mistake . . . Tha’ss all.”

“So you admit you have some enemies?”

Arnone threw his hands up.

“Please answer me verbally.”

“Yes.”

“So why, if you have enemies, don’t you want to ask us for protection?”

Fazio started feeling sorry for Arnone and handed him another tissue.

“W . . . ell . . . if ya wanna . . . gimme . . . this protection . . .”

“Then you’ll have to work with us.”

“Wha’? How?”

“By giving us the name of someone you think is your enemy.”

The color of Arnone’s face was now verging on green.

“But that means . . . I have to think about it a little.”

“I understand perfectly, sir. Think about it at your leisure, and then get in touch with Inspector Augello when you’re ready.”

Montalbano stood up, and they all stood up.

“I thank you for doing your duty as a citizen. Have a good day. Fazio, please see the gentleman out.”

“I don’t understand why you treated him that way!” Augello exclaimed after the others had left.

“Mimì, I think your engine is starting to misfire,” said Montalbano.

Fazio returned.

“What sons of bitches!” he said, sitting down.

He’d understood everything, like Montalbano.

“And who would these sons of bitches happen to be?” Augello asked.

“Mimì,” said the inspector, “since you, from the very start, got it into your head to believe that the bomb was intended for Arnone, you saw the anonymous letter as confirmation of that.”

“And is that somehow not the case?”

“No, it’s not. The letter would have us believe that’s the case, but neither Fazio nor I am convinced of it.”

“And why not?”

“If the letter had been genuine, do you really think Arnone would have let us see it?”

Augello didn’t answer. He looked doubtful.

“No, he certainly would not have brought it to us,” the inspector continued. “And if he did, it‘s because he was forced to do so.”

“By whom?”

“By those who planted the bomb, who are probably the same people he pays protection money to. They
probably called him up, told him they were sending him an anonymous letter, and ordered him to show it to us. And Arnone did as he was told.”

“So the bomb was intended for number twenty-six, not for twenty-eight,” Augello said, as if now convinced.

“Exactly. Anyway, have you forgotten that you made the same hypothesis yourself?”

Fazio looked at Montalbano but said nothing.

“And Fazio, in fact, is investigating the tenants in number twenty-six,” Montalbano concluded.

For the moment they had nothing more to say to each other.

Five minutes later, the inspector left the office. It had occurred to him that he should buy a present for Salvuzzo, his godson.

When he got home at seven thirty, he dashed into the shower, changed clothes, and was all ready when the doorbell rang at eight thirty.

He went to open the door, and there was Liliana. She wasn’t wearing one of her man-killing dresses, but slacks, blouse, and jacket.

“You’re early,” said Montalbano.

“I know. I decided to take advantage of the situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to see your house.”

She started looking around respectfully, stopping in front of the paintings and the bookcase.

“It certainly doesn’t seem like the home of a police inspector. And our house has one more room.”

“Why doesn’t it seem like the home of a police inspector?”

She smiled enchantingly, looked him in the eye, and didn’t answer. Then went out and sat down on the veranda.

“I don’t have any aperitifs to offer you,” said Montalbano. “But I’ve got a nice, light white wine in the fridge . . .”

“Some light white wine sounds good.”

The inspector poured himself a finger’s worth, since he had to drive, but filled her glass up three-quarters of the way.

“I found out you have a girlfriend,” Liliana said out of the blue, gazing at the sea as she said it.

“Who told you?”

She smiled.

“I asked around. Feminine curiosity. How long have you been together?”

“Forever.”

“What’s her name?”

“Livia. She lives in Genoa.”

“Does she come to see you often?”

“Not as often as I’d like.”

“Poor thing.”

The comment made Montalbano bristle. He didn’t like to talk about his own private matters, and he didn’t like other people taking pity on him. On top of that, he thought he heard a note of irony in her voice. Was she making fun of him because he was forced to remain
celibate for long periods of time? He looked at his watch visibly, so she would see. But Liliana continued to drink slowly.

Then, all at once, in a single, brusque motion, as though suddenly in a hurry, she gulped down the rest of her wine and stood up.

“We can go now.”

When they were in the car, she said:

“I don’t want to stay late. Afterwards I’d like to have a little time with you. I need to talk to you.”

“You could save some time and start now.”

“No, not in the car.”

“Tell me what it’s about, at least.”

“No. I’m sorry, but it’s sort of an unpleasant subject, and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

He didn’t insist.

Before going to Adelina’s house, the inspector pulled up in front of the Caffè Castiglione and bought a tray of fifteen cannoli.

Every arancino was as big as a large orange. For a normal person, two arancini would have constituted an already dangerous amount for dinner. Montalbano wolfed down four and a half; Liliana, two.

Before the cannoli were served, the words exchanged in conversation were limited to the bare essentials.

In fact, it was impossible to talk. The arancini tasted
and smelled so good that each person ate in a cloud of ecstasy, eyes half closed, a blissful smile on his or her face.

“These are fantastic! Pure joy! Absolutely incredible!” Liliana exclaimed when she was done.

Adelina smiled at her.

“
Signura mia
, I pu’ five o’ dem aside, so if you go to th’isspector’s house t’morrow, you can taste ’em again.”

She would do anything to harm the hated Livia.

At around eleven o’clock Montalbano said he’d promised Signora Liliana they wouldn’t stay late.

That was when Pasquale turned to him and said:

“Could I talk to you in private for five minutes?”

They went into Adelina’s bedroom. Pasquale locked the door behind him.

“D’jou know I got outta jail three days ago?”

“No. What were you in for?”

“The Montelusa carabinieri caught me. Accomplice to breakin’ an’ ennerin’.”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“There was a rumor goin’ round the jail ’at wasn’t really a rumor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Narcotics’s been workin’ on Tallarita, an’ Tallarita, at least till a few days ago, decided to cooperate with them.”

The arancini and cannolo had slowed down the inspector’s entire cerebral system.

“And who’s Tallarita?”

“He’s a big-time dealer, Inspector. An’ I’m tellin’ you this ’cuz ’is family lives on Via Pisacane.”

In a flash Montalbano’s brain kicked into high gear.

“Thanks, Pasquà,” he said.

“Still feel like talking to me?” Montalbano asked as they were getting in the car.

“Yes. If it’s not too late for you . . .”

“Not at all. My place or yours?”

“Wherever you prefer.”

“At my place we’ve got whisky to help us digest; at your place, vodka. The choice is yours.”

“I finished the vodka and forgot to buy a new bottle.”

“Then we have no choice.”

Montalbano drove slowly, weighed down by the arancini. There was little traffic. Liliana sank into her seat, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes, perhaps succumbing to sleep. She certainly had washed down her arancini with a lot of wine. To avoid waking her, he started going so slow that when he was about to turn left, onto the little road leading to their two houses, the engine stalled.

He started it up again, but then did something wrong. He couldn’t figure out what, but the fact was that the car lurched forward through the air, coming a good three or four inches off the ground. And at that same moment,
Montalbano heard a loud crack against the body of the car, but didn’t worry, imagining it was probably a stone.

“Oh my God, what was that?” asked Liliana, sitting up and opening her eyes in fright.

“It was nothing, don’t worry,” said the inspector, reassuring her.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I suddenly felt so sleepy.”

“Shall we make it another time?”

“If you don’t mind . . . Anyway, Adelina’s already decided I have to come to your place to eat the rest of the arancini.”

“Good for Adelina!”

He dropped her off outside her gate.

“Need a ride into town tomorrow?”

“I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. We’re closed for mourning. The owner’s mother died. Thank you for a lovely evening. Good night.”

While it’s true that good food is not hard to digest, if you eat a lot of it, you still need some time to digest.

He grabbed a bottle of whisky, a glass, his cigarettes and lighter, and went out on the veranda, but then thought he should call Livia first.

“I just got back,” she said.

“Did you go to the movies?”

“No, I went out to dinner with some friends. It was my coworker Marilu’s birthday. Remember her?”

He hadn’t the vaguest idea who she was. No doubt he’d met her a few times when he was in Boccadasse, but he didn’t remember anything about her.

“Of course! How could I forget Marilu? So, was the food good?”

“Certainly better than the awful slop your beloved Adelina makes for you!”

How dare she? Apparently she was spoiling for a fight, but he was in no mood for squabbling. Anyway, if he got upset, it might ruin his digestion. So he decided to give her rope . . .

“Well, I guess Adelina sometimes . . . Actually, tonight I couldn’t get anything she made past my lips.”

“You see? I’m right. So you went hungry?”

“Almost. I made do with some bread and salami.”

“Poor thing!”

Today was ladies’ commiseration day, apparently. After a little more conversation, they wished each other good night and hung up.

What happened next took Montalbano so much by surprise that he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or it was really happening.

He’d just finished his first glass of whisky when he noticed, by the dim light of a slender moon, a human figure walking slowly along the water’s edge. When opposite the veranda, the person raised a hand and waved.

Then he recognized her. It was Liliana.

Grabbing his cigarettes and lighter, he went down to the beach. She’d kept walking, but he caught up with her.

“When I got home I didn’t feel sleepy anymore,” she said.

They walked in silence for about half an hour. The only talking came from the lapping surf like a continuous musical refrain.

Then she said:

“Shall we go back?”

As they were turning around, their bodies lightly touched.

Liliana took his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and did not let go of it until they were back at the veranda. Here Liliana stopped, grazed Montalbano’s lips with her own, and headed back towards her house.

Montalbano stood there watching her until her silhouette vanished in the darkness.

One thing he was sure of: if Liliana had decided not to talk to him that evening, it was not because she suddenly felt sleepy, but because what she had to tell him was not something easy to say, and she hadn’t had the courage to tell him.

At eight o’clock the following morning, as he drove past the Lombardos’ house, he noticed that the shutters over
the bedroom window were still closed. No doubt Liliana was taking advantage of her day off from work to sleep later than usual.

He parked in the station’s lot, and in the building’s entrance nearly collided with Fazio, who was coming out.

“Where you going?”

“I’m going out to see if I can gather any information on the Via Pisacane bomb.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Not really.”

“Then come with me, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Fazio followed him into the office and sat down.

“Last night I got what seems like some important information. It was Adelina’s son who told me.”

He told Fazio what Pasquale had said.

“So the bomb was supposedly intended for Tallarita?” Fazio said when he’d finished. “And it was supposed to mean: watch out, if you cooperate we’ll kill one of your family?”

“That’s right.”

Fazio made a doubtful face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just wondering why the Narcotics guys, who certainly must have learned about the bomb, haven’t put the family under protection yet.”

“Are you sure that’s the case?”

“Chief, I drove by their front door yesterday and saw nothing there. No men, no cars.”

“Yes, but we should find out whether the Tallarita family is still there; they may have been taken somewhere else.”

“No, they’re still there, Chief. I’m positive.”

Montalbano made a snap decision.

“What did you say his wife’s name was?”

“Francesca Calcedonio.”

“I’m going to go and talk to her.”

“And what should I do?”

“Try to find out from Narcotics exactly what the situation is with Tallarita.”

The young man who opened the door was quite good-looking, tall with dark curly hair, an athletic build, and sparkling ebony eyes. Though in shirtsleeves and trousers, he still looked elegant.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’m Inspector Montalbano, police.”

In an instinctive reflex, the youth made as if to shut the door in his face, then thought better of it and asked:

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to Signora Tallarita.”

Was it just his impression, or did the youth seem slightly relieved?

“My mother’s not in. She’s out shopping.”

“Are you Arturo?”

The kid looked alarmed again.

“Yes.”

“Will she be long?”

“I don’t think so.”

Since the inspector wasn’t moving, he added, somewhat reluctantly:

“If you’d like to come in and wait . . .”

He showed him into the dining room, which was modest but clean. In one corner were a small sofa, two armchairs, and the inevitable television set.

“Did something happen to my father?” Arturo asked.

“No, not as far as I know. Why, are you worried about him?”

The kid seemed truly flustered.

“No, why should I be worried about him? I just asked because I have no idea why . . .”

“Why I’m here?”

“That’s right.”

Arturo got nervous again. The inspector decided to toy with him a little. He made an enigmatic face.

“Can’t you imagine?”

Arturo turned visibly pale. It wasn’t the reaction of someone who has nothing to hide.

“No . . . I can’t . . .”

The front door opened and closed.

“Artù, I’m back,” a woman called.

“Excuse me for just a minute,” the kid said, taking advantage of the situation and rushing out of the room.

Montalbano heard them whispering animatedly in the entrance hall, and then the mother came in alone.

She looked older than her age, and was fat and panting. She sat down heavily in an armchair and heaved a long sigh of fatigue.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I have heart disease.”

“I’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”

“It’s a good thing Arturo’s store was closed today and he didn’t have to go to work, or you wouldna found nobody home ’cause my daughter Stella’s in Palermo. What can I do for you?”

“Signora, is your husband currently in Montelusa prison serving a sentence for drug dealing?”

“Yes, an’ it’s not the first time.”

“And you live here with your two children?”

“Yes, I do. But the only one who really lives here with me is Arturo, ’cause for the past two years Stella’s been going back and forth to Palermo, where she studies at the university.”

“Well, what I want to know is whether you or either of your children have recently received any threats.”

Signora Tallarita’s eyes popped open.

“Wha’d you say?!”

Montalbano patiently started again.

“I want to know whether—”

But Signora Tallarita had heard perfectly well.

“Threats? Us? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, phone calls, anonymous letters . . .”

“What do you want me to say? I swear to you, in this house I never received no threats or anything else.”

She thought about this for a second, then suddenly called out so loudly that Montalbano gave a start.