The Namesake (16 page)
‘Give me that,’ said Ruggiero, more bored than intimidated by Pepè’s antics.
Pepè tossed it to Salvatore behind the bar. ‘Ask him for it.’
Salvatore stepped back and allowed the phone to hit the floor in front of him. He stood there immobile, his bald head balanced like a skull on the top of his thin body. Pepè whitened and apologized, then came around the bar to retrieve the phone from the floor and put it on the counter beside Enrico’s. Then he and the other three left in silence.
Salvatore fixed Ruggiero with a stare that lasted only a few seconds, then turned his back. Ruggiero left his phone where it was.
A minute later, the silence of the piazza was ripped apart by the noise of souped-up scooters.
‘What about it, Enrico, will you buy me a beer?’ asked the forester, when the noise had died away.
‘I don’t think I have the money,’ said Enrico. ‘I would if I had it. Maybe I could borrow some from Ruggiero?’
‘
Figluolo mio
. I am joking. I am the one who buys the beers in here, isn’t that right, Salvatore?’
Salvatore draped a damp bar cloth over his shoulder and said nothing.
‘I don’t want a beer,’ said Enrico, making to stand up then deciding to sit down again.
Ruggiero puffed out his cheeks in exasperation, and went over to sit next to Enrico, who was going to need help.
‘Thanks,’ whispered Enrico.
Ruggiero shrugged. The forester came over and sat down beside them, bringing with him a smell of wood chippings, urine, sweat and tobacco.
‘Then you’re having a grappa.’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Enrico.
‘Maybe if you learned to drink, you wouldn’t eat so much, Enrico. Salvatore, no more of Basile’s ice cream for the boy.’
Salvatore, who was bent down and talking through the serving hatch to someone in the kitchen, presumably Basile, raised a hand either in acknowledgment or to tell Tommasino to be quiet. Either way, the forester lowered his voice and spoke in a furious whisper to Enrico. ‘You don’t refuse a drink from me when I generously offer you one.’
‘Sorry,’ said Enrico.
Tommasino called out, ‘Salvatore, let’s put some water in Enrico’s grappa. Make it half water half spirit, like Enrico himself.’
Salvatore nodded. Out of a satchel, Tommasino produced some dark bread and a shiny yellow cheese studded with hot chili peppers. He started paring his cheese with a wooden-handled curved knife. Salvatore arrived with a bottle of grappa and a jug of water.
Tommasino poured Enrico a glass and sat watching as he drank it, then poured him another, then another, ignoring Enrico’s burbling protests and clicking his knife open and shut.
‘What about you, young Curmaci? Want a drink?’
Ruggiero refused with a barely perceptible lift of the chin and a slow closing of his eyelids. No one should expect him to have to speak to the stinking, unlettered forester. He chose a point behind Tommasino’s head and focused on it, allowing the forester’s murderous gaze to hit the wall behind him. If they were alone, he might have returned the gaze, see what came of it. He felt calm enough.
After half an hour, Salvatore came over and said, ‘Enrico, you can go home now. Pick up your phone on the counter.’
‘What about Ruggiero?’
‘You can tell your aunt he was delayed here.’
Enrico tried to bring his eyes into focus. ‘My aunt will tell his mother. So wouldn’t it make more sense . . .’ – but he lost track of his line of argument.
‘Tell his mother, too,’ said Salvatore, ‘if you think that will help.’
Enrico reached over and grabbed the bottle and poured himself another grappa. ‘I’m not leaving without Ruggiero!’ He downed the glass in a single gulp and spent the next few minutes coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes.
Another half hour passed and now the bottle on the table was empty and the glass in front of Enrico had tumbled over. Enrico’s face was flushed, his eyes shone bright and his head was lolling from side to side. Cheese rinds lay curled on the table.
‘Salvatore?’ asked Tommasino.
From behind the bar, Salvatore nodded.
He brought over their phones and placed them on the table, giving Ruggiero a wink as he did so. Ruggiero remained impassive, and waited until Salvatore had withdrawn before picking up his phone, and standing up.
Enrico had begun moaning and muttering something incomprehensible.
The forester cackled as if at some private joke, then left the table and went up to the bar counter. ‘Young Megale has drunk too much,’ he said to Salvatore.
‘That’s fine. His good friend Ruggiero is here to look after him. The Curmacis are renowned for their loyalty. The Curmacis and Megales are old friends, working together in faraway hostile lands.’
‘Let’s hope the alliance lasts. It seems to me Enrico is as much a liability as a friend. Here, young Curmaci, what do you want us to do with Enrico?’
‘He’s my responsibility,’ said Ruggiero. I’ll look after him and take him home.’
Rome
‘Interesting times, Blume,’ said Massimiliani, ushering him through the visitors’ area without a pass. He lowered his voice as they walked quickly down a corridor towards a tinted window that turned the outside world dark orange.
‘I have a good friend in the German Federal Police. You’ll be meeting him later. This morning, he started talking about Curmaci, and so I pushed him a little and he said he had heard Curmaci was cooperating with the Italian authorities. I said I would have to look Curmaci up, find out who he was, but my BKA friend did not believe me. He seemed quite agitated at the idea that Curmaci might be talking to some Italian magistrate. Isn’t that good? Your lie has gone international over a single weekend.’
‘Why would they be agitated if Curmaci were cooperating with us?’
‘Good question. It makes me wonder if Curmaci might be cooperating with them. I doubt it, but even if he is not actively cooperating with the BKA, he could be partly under their protection thanks to his high-level contacts. We almost never get high-level informers from the Ndrangheta. Ten a penny in the Mafia these days, but not the Calabrians. It would be very frustrating if the Germans got there first. I just think they are worried that if Curmaci were talking to us, we’d find out about things happening in Germany of which they are unaware.’
‘And we don’t really want him talking to the BKA in case he tells them about things in Italy we know nothing about.’
‘Fear of losing face is the greatest impediment to international cooperation, but we actually get on reasonably well with the BKA. Better than you might expect. I’m going to take you down to meet him in a minute.’
He led Blume into an empty conference room with large screens.
‘This is where we show off what the DCSA does. Like the war rooms in the movies? Except when the globe lights up with red lines, they are mobile phone connections we are tracking rather than nuclear missiles. Let me check the BKA guy’s in my office. I’ll send someone down to collect you.’
Blume sat in the room alone, and looked around for something interesting to do. On the podium, he found a laser pointer, and spent some time causing the green dot to play over the DCSA emblem.
The conference room door opened and a small man in a wide brown tie and thick glasses looked around in confusion at not finding anyone within his immediate field of vision. Blume danced the laser beam at him, and the man held up his arms over his face. Blume half expected him to shout, ‘Don’t shoot,’ but all he said was, ‘I was told to fetch you.’
As he followed the man down a long, featureless corridor flanked by closed doors, his phone came to life and started pulling in missed call messages. Caterina had phoned twice.
He stopped and called her back, allowing the man in the brown tie to reach the end of the corridor before realizing Blume was no longer at his heels. He came beetling back wagging an angry finger, but Caterina had already answered.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
Blume glanced at his wrist where his watch used to be, and said, ‘It’s still Monday morning. I’ve been in bed.’
‘I mean yesterday and the day before.’
‘That was a Sunday. It was my day off. Saturday . . . stuff to do. Paperwork, mostly.’
‘You’re not allowed to do paperwork at home. Anyhow, I don’t believe that’s what you were doing.’
‘I don’t have time for a to-and-fro between us. If you want –’
‘They’ve taken the case out of our hands. They found the van in Sesto San Giovanni and,’ she paused for effect, ‘it was burned out and two bodies were found inside. I had to find this out for myself. Only now has the Milan magistrate admitted it to me.’
‘When did they say the van was found?’
‘Friday. They’ve been sitting on the information, making a fool of us. Not of you, though, you backed out of this from the start, didn’t you?’
‘I was giving you breathing space.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I get all the air I need in the large empty spaces you like to leave between us.’
‘I was talking at a professional level. You don’t want me there all the time.’
‘But you knew from the start my investigation was a dead-end.’
Blume started to make a protesting noise, then decided not to bother.
‘You knew and you said nothing,’ she insisted.
‘No. Not at all,’ he said. Accurate or not in her reckoning, it was not right for her to accuse him like this. He turned his back on the man in the brown tie, who was literally hopping with impatience, like a fat chaffinch.
‘Liar,’ said Caterina, and hung up.
He swung round savagely at the bouncing functionary. ‘Next time you wag that finger you’ll be wagging it up . . .’ But he stopped. The man in front of him, who barely reached his chest, seemed on the verge of tears.
‘I have a very tight schedule,’ he squeezed his legs together and twisted his body as if he was holding his bladder. ‘Can you please hurry?’
Blume took pity, and they proceeded at a smart pace down hallways and up stairs, and then the small man popped open a door and led him into a dark, narrow room, the size of a large utility cupboard. A small hopper window near the ceiling slanted inward, allowing in dark air that reminded Blume of the smell of Line A of the Metro. The gunmetal desk spanned the narrow space between the walls, leaving the tiniest gap for the man to squeeze through, which he set about doing at once, as if anticipating that this would take some time, as indeed it did. Blume reflected that it would have been quicker to clamber over the desktop, which had nothing on it.
The man finally reached his seat behind the desk and sat down. He then looked up with a slight frown of annoyance as if he had been sitting there busily working away and Blume was an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. The pleading demeanour evident in the corridor was quite gone now, and he nodded curtly at the third object in the room, a seat, identical to his own, on Blume’s side. He pulled open a drawer, extracted a thin phone and placed it on the table.
‘This is your new phone,’ he said. ‘I need to see the one you have now.’
Blume was interested in seeing where this was leading. He took his clunky old Nokia out of his pocket and set it on the desk between them next to the sleek new Samsung.
‘I see,’ said the man, looking at the Nokia with disfavour. ‘This new one is a Samsung Smartphone – I have forgotten which model, but it will tell you its name when you turn it on. For now it has but one phone number in it, listed under “Mamma”. That’s us. If we call, please answer. We have a trace on this phone, of course, so we’ll know where you are . . . umm . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the empty desk trying to think of other features.
‘Anyhow, you can keep it afterwards. Like a perk. That’s something. Touch screen, Android operating system, built-in GPS navigator, MP3 player, Bluetooth, internet enabled, and it will connect to all four providers, TIM, Vodafone, Tre and Wind. I don’t know how they did that. Don’t use it for personal calls for the next few days. Nothing sinister, just our standard practice.’ He pointed to Blume’s old Nokia. ‘I am going to take that, OK?’
‘No,’ said Blume. ‘Not OK.’
‘Is it police issue or personal?’
‘Both,’ said Blume. ‘Police issue, but it’s the one I use for everything, You’re not having it. It’s not legal for you to have it.’
The man nodded in complete understanding, but stretched out his hand anyway. Blume grabbed his phone back. The man withdrew his hand as if bitten by a snake. The Smartphone sat on the table between them.
‘If you take the Samsung, I’ll have accomplished 50 per cent of my task. Will you at least take it?’
Blume took it and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Thanks for the gift. You realize I have no idea who you are or what this is about?’
The man relaxed. ‘That explains it. You haven’t been briefed yet. Let me check.’
He pulled out a phone, identical to the one he had just handed to Blume, and pressed its screen. ‘Yes, me . . . He came here first . . . Right. He still has his old phone by the way. Oh yes, I suppose that makes more sense . . .’