By My Hand (16 page)

Maione's face was covered with stubble and showed all the signs of a night without sleep.

“Hey, Bambine', you're finally home. But where do you go this early on a Sunday morning, if you don't mind
my
asking?”

Theirs was an odd and confidential friendship. Once, years earlier, Bambinella had been arrested with a group of prostitutes who were trolling for customers not far from the Teatro San Carlo. Her beauty and youth contrasted clearly with the appearance of the other hookers, whose advanced age kept them out of the warm, safe authorized brothels, of which there were hundreds in the city. When the reason that Bambinella couldn't have hoped for such a position either became evident, Maione let her go, prompted by an impulse that he still didn't fully understand today. Perhaps it was a simple desire for consistency, since that strange long-legged creature was so different from the other whores caught in the sweep, with her broad shoulders and her slightly horsey features.

They'd established an odd friendship; Maione soon realized Bambinella's immense potential as a source of information, and the
femminiello
, or fetching young transvestite, had become fond of the gruff policeman who was oblivious to his own weakness.

And so every time he hit a wall during an investigation into some crime, or whenever there was a sensitive piece of information that needed to be checked out, Maione endured the immensely fatiguing climb all the way up to the garret apartment behind Vicolo di San Nicola da Tolentino, with its terrace covered with pigeon guano, where Bambinella practiced her profession. The center of the spiderweb.

“Brigadie', what a romantic gesture: a suitor waiting outside the door of his lady love, early in the morning on the Sunday before Christmas. A girl comes home from Mass and who does she find? This strapping handsome man waiting for her. Not even at the moving picture house could I hope to see such a touching story!”

Maione rubbed his eyes, in an attempt to clear his head.

“And in fact you're not seeing it here either. Listen, Bambine', spare me the chitchat, this morning I have a headache you could photograph. I haven't slept a wink. I told my wife that I had something important to do for work and I went out, before she had a chance to start peppering me with questions.”

Bambinella put her hands with their long painted fingernails over her mouth, in a gesture that couldn't have been more feminine.

“Ooh,
mamma mia
, then it must be something serious! I'd better make you a cup of ersatz coffee first thing; that'll help you to get over your headache. Have you already eaten your breakfast? I have a tray of
roccocò
and
mustacciuoli
, a client of mine who works in a pastry shop in the center of town brought them for me, would you like some?”

Maione grimaced.

“For Pete's sake, that's all I need now, a tray of
roccocò
first thing in the morning, you might as well just take me directly to the Pellegrini hospital. Just an ersatz coffee, please: it's filthy stuff, but at least it'll scrub the foul taste out of my mouth.”

Bambinella snickered as she set to work at her stove.

“You're always so kind,
grazie
, Brigadie'. I know what you meant to say. ‘Bambine', the way you make ersatz coffee, with those golden hands of yours, no one else comes close.' And if you only knew what else I know how to do, with these golden hands of mine; just think that a client of mine, who's a butcher in Torretta, says that my hand could wake up a dead man, especially when—”

“Bambine', please,” Maione broke in brusquely, “I can take anything this morning, except for you confiding in me about your work. Moreover, if you make me think about what you do with your hands, then I'm going to have a hard time keeping this ersatz coffee down, so let's just drop it.”

“Whatever you say, Brigadie'. It's just that a girl likes to share certain professional accomplishments, every one in a while, at least with her friends. Well, to what do I owe the honor of your visit, so early on a Sunday morning? I don't recall us ever meeting before on this day of the week. And we're almost in the midst of the Christmas festivities. Ah, let me guess: it's about what happened in Mergellina, is that it? Husband and wife, the man from the port militia, no?”

Maione shook his head, stunned.

“Incredible. But you're illiterate, and if you don't know how to read you couldn't have read it in the papers. Do you mind telling me how you found out?”

Bambinella scratched the hairs that kept sprouting up on the backs of her hands, which she'd so carefully shaved.

“Ah, Brigadie', by chance, purely by chance. I have a few girlfriends who ply their trade over at the Torretta brothel, you remember the place, one time you and I went over together to question one of them who happened to have some piece of information—I can't even remember what, but it was something you needed, I know that much. Well, they also work with fishermen sometimes, and with the local loan sharks. Of course, it's not like the fishermen can pay much, but they do bring them fresh fish and the girls eat them, even though the madam yells at them when they cook in their rooms because she says that a bordello ought to smell like roses, not fried fish . . .”

Maione lifted both hands in the air.

“For the love of all things holy, Bambine': just once, stick to the topic. I'm in a condition today to chase you through all the
vicoli
in the city. Let's just discuss the facts.”

Bambinella put on a fake pout, pooching out her painted lips.

“Bad, bad Brigadier, why won't you let me talk the way I want to? Anyway, I met one of those girls and she told that all anyone's been talking about is the murder of this . . . what's his name . . . Garofalo, I think. And that people are saying lots of things about him.”

“Well? What are they saying?”

Bambinella giggled coquettishly, her long fingers covering her mouth.

“Ooh, Jesus, how would I know? It's not like I took the time to ask about it, I didn't know that you and the handsome green-eyed commissario, the one who brings bad luck, were working the murder. If I had, I would have found out more, naturally.”

“If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times,” Maione snapped, “I don't like it when you say that the commissario brings bad luck! First of all, it isn't true, and besides anyone who thinks that needs to come say it to my face, that way I can knock it out of their mouth, along with their teeth, once and for all!”

Bambinella fluttered her false eyelashes.

“But I say it on purpose just to see you lose your temper.
Mamma mia
, Brigadie', you know how much it excites me to see a manly man get angry like that.”

“Bambine', you insist on kidding around but I'm here about very serious matters,” Maione replied wearily. “Now listen to me carefully, we have no time to waste and there are two things I have to ask you. First, you need to go see your girlfriends at Torretta right away and find out everything they know or have heard about this Garofalo. Above all whether anyone had it in for him or had threatened him.”

Bambinella listened, taking noisy little sips of her ersatz coffee from a Chinese-style demitasse, her right pinky extended, red fingernail protruding into the empty air.

“And the second thing, Brigadie'?”

Maione furrowed his brow. He didn't like what he was about to do, and it was something he'd never done before: use a professional tool for personal ends. He took a deep breath, then said:

“I need something else. This is highly confidential, Bambine', no one else can know, absolutely no one. I need you to find for me a certain Biagio Candela. He ought to be young, very young. I couldn't tell you what he does or where he lives, but I need you to track him down. But I can tell you that his brother, who was named . . . is named Mario, Mario Candela, is in prison, at Poggioreale.”

Bambinella listened raptly, her eyes fixed on the brigadier's, her face expressionless. Then she nodded her head and said, in a low voice, free of her usual affectations:

“I know who Mario Candela is, Brigadie'. I also know that he was killed last week, in a prison brawl. And of course I know why he was in prison, among other things.”

She paused, caressing the back of her hand against the grain of the hairs.

“You shave them, and you shave them, but they always grow back, these hairs. That's just the way nature is, no, Brigadie'? You can't keep it hidden. A girl can fight it, but nature doesn't change. Are you sure that you want to track down this Biagio Candela? Have you thought it over carefully?”

Maione wondered how much and which things in particular Bambinella knew about his son's murder. He'd never given it any thought before.

“Yes, Bambine'. I want to track him down. And if you don't want to help me, thanks all the same, I'll find him on my own, you know I can.”

Bambinella looked out the window. Curled up on the sill was a pigeon, head tucked under its wing, doing its best to find shelter from the chilly December wind.

“It'll be dead by tonight, poor little creature. And no one can do a thing about it.”

She turned back to look at Maione, with a smile.

“We're friends, Brigadie'. Friends help each other, without asking and without limits. Don't worry, I'll find out where this Biagio Candela is and I'll let you know. Come back tonight and we'll talk. About both things.”

Maione gulped down the terrible ersatz coffee, nodded goodbye, and set off, head down, to face the rest of his Sunday.

R
icciardi had put in a call to the hospital, inviting Dr. Modo to lunch at Gambrinus at one. He'd taken a seat at his usual table, in the indoor dining room that overlooked Via Chiaia, and he'd ordered an espresso to kill time while he waited.

Gambrinus
 
was the only place in town that Ricciardi liked to spend time in; the comings and goings of customers went on all day long, with variations in the clientele depending on the moment and time of day, offering an interesting cross-section of humanity. The stucco decorations and Art Nouveau frescoes, the diffuse lights, the discreet waiters. The stale scent of an ancient capital, now mothballed.

The red velvet chairs were comfortable, the music that came from the concert grand piano at the center of the room was excellent, and the sfogliatella pastries were outstanding: for the commissario this was more than sufficient grounds for appointing the historic café his office away from the office, and his personal lunchroom.

He'd been coming here for years, and not one of the waiters, who were accustomed to seeing him sitting off to the side, at his usual corner table, had ever ventured to greet him with any special familiarity. What Ricciardi appreciated more than any other quality was the gift of discretion, so hard to find these days and virtually extinct in that city.

Through the window he saw a steady river of people coming and going, loaded down with bags and parcels, gloves and hats, their noses and cheeks pink from the cold. Mute laughter, chatter that failed to reach him through the thick plate glass. It was like a film at the movie house, but in color, though those hues were dulled by the pale winter sun.

At the corner of Via Toledo, on the sidewalk, there was an old woman bundled up in blankets, her hand outstretched, begging for pennies. Every so often a passerby would drop a coin, and the woman would rapidly snatch the money away, hiding it under her tattered covers.

Standing just inches away from her, a little boy was playing a crank organ, wearing a half smile. The reason it was a half smile was that the rest of his face, as well as the leg and arm on that side of his body, was a shapeless mass of bloody flesh. Ricciardi, who had seen the image of that child every day for the past week, remembered the accident: a car had taken the curve at high speed late at night; the little beggar boy must have been trying to chase down one last munificent passerby and had instead intercepted the speeding vehicle driven by a short-sighted motorist. These things happen, Ricciardi thought to himself.

The child with the crooked half smile was calling:
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Signo'. A couple of pennies for a song on the crank organ!
To the eyes of Ricciardi's soul, he seemed to be trying to attract customers for the old woman, since he didn't need them for himself anymore. He wished it could be the other way around, and that the little boy were still playing his crank organ with fingers deformed by chilblains. Without thinking, the commissario ran his hand over his wound, which was still healing.

“It hurts, doesn't it? That's too bad. That'll teach you to do what you're told and finish your convalescence next time, instead of hurrying out to bust the chops of honest citizens,” said Dr. Modo, letting himself drop down into the red velvet chair next to Ricciardi's. The doctor doffed his hat and gloves, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

“No, it doesn't hurt; it just itches a little, maybe. You know, I've got a really first-rate doctor, and then I was in no condition to listen at the time, so I just took the best and skipped the worst: listening to him talk, I mean.”

“But that's what you like most about me, my brilliant conversation!”

Ricciardi grimaced in pain.

“I like it so much that I can't do without it even on a Sunday, as you can see for yourself.”

As he was doing his best to catch the waiter's eye, Modo said:

“In fact I found the phone call from your lackey deeply offensive. First, because you groundlessly presumed that, even though it was Sunday, you were bound to catch me at the hospital; second, because you were right.”

“As you see, Bruno, I'm the last man in town who could serve as a model of sophisticated amusement and the proper way to spend one's free time. But you know how important the first few days after a murder are in terms of gathering the necessary evidence.”