The Potter's Field (15 page)

The local headquarters of the national Antimafia Commission consisted of four offices on the fifth floor of the Montelusa Central Police building. As the elevator was, as usual, out of order, Montalbano started climbing the stairs. Looking up when he'd reached the third floor, he saw Dr. Lattes descending. To avoid the usual hassle of answering his idiotic questions about the family, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, heaving his shoulders as if he were weeping uncontrollably. Dr. Lattes recoiled against the wall and let him pass, not daring to say a word.

“Want some coffee?” asked Musante.

“No, thanks,” said Montalbano.

He didn't trust what passed for coffee in law enforcement offices.

“So, tell me everything.”

“Well, Musante, I believe I have a homicide on my hands that looks like the work of the Mafia.”

“Stop right there. Answer me a question. In what form are you going to say what you are about to say to me?”

“In trochaic pentameter.”

“C'mon, Montalbano, be serious.”

“Sorry, but I didn't understand your question.”

“I meant, are you telling me this officially or unofficially?”

“What difference does it make?”

“If it's official, then I have to write up a transcript; if it's unofficial, I have to have a witness present.”

“I see.”

Apparently they didn't take any chances at the Antimafia Commission. Given the ties between the Mafia and the upper echelons of business, industry, and government, it was best to cover one's ass and proceed with caution.

“Since you're a friend, I'll give you a choice of witnesses. Gullotta or Campana?”

“Gullotta.”

The inspector knew him well and liked him.

Musante went out and returned a few minutes later with Gullotta, who smiled as he shook Montalbano's hand. It was clear he was happy to see him.

“You can go on now,” said Musante.

“I'm referring to the unknown man we found dismembered in a garbage bag. Have you heard about it?”

“Yes,” said Musante and Gulotta in chorus.

“Do you know how he was killed?”

“No,” said the chorus.

“With a bullet to the base of the skull.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chorus.

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” said the chorus in chorus.

A mustachioed man of about fifty came in, looked at Montalbano, then looked at Musante and signaled to him that he wanted to tell him something. Musante stood up, the man whispered something in his ear and then left. Musante then gestured to Gullotta, who got up and went over to him. Musante whispered into Gullotta's ear, and they both turned and looked at Montalbano. Then they looked at each other and sat back down.

“If that was a mime scene, I didn't get it,” said Montalbano.

“Go on,” Musante said in a serious tone.

“The fact of the shot to the base of the skull would already be one indication,” the inspector resumed. “But there's more. Are you familiar with the Gospel according to St. Matthew?”

“What?!” said Gullotta, thrown for a loop.

Musante, for his part, bent down towards Montalbano, lay a hand on his knee, and asked him lovingly:

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Of course I'm all right.”

“You're not upset?”

“Not at all!”

“Well, then why, just a few minutes ago, were you crying uncontrollably in the stairwell?”

So that's what the man with the mustache had come in to tell him! Montalbano felt lost. How was he ever going to explain the whole complicated affair to these two, who were looking at him with a combination of concern and suspicion? He'd hoisted himself with his own petard. He gave a sort of forced smile, took on (he knew not from where) a nonchalant air, and said:

“Oh, that? It's Dr. Lattes's fault. He—”

“Did he scold you or something? Raise his voice at you?” asked Musante, bemused.

“Chew you out?” Gullotta laid it on.

Was it possible neither of them could speak for himself? No, it wasn't possible.

Oliver and Hardy. A comical duo.

“No, no, the whole thing is because, after I told him my wife had run away with an illegal immigrant, I—”

“But you're not married!” Musante reminded him, alarmed.

“Or maybe you got married and never told us?” Gullotta hypothesized.

“No, no, of course I'm not married. But, you see, since, afterwards, I told him my wife had returned for the children—”

“You have children?” Gullotta asked him, amazed.

“How old are they?” Musante followed.

“No, no...”

He lost heart. He couldn't go on. Words failed him. He buried his face in his hands.

“You're not going to start crying again in here, are you?!” Musante asked him, alarmed.

“Come on, have faith. There's a solution to everything,” said Gullotta.

How to explain? Start yelling? Break both their noses? Pull out his pistol and force them to listen? They would think him stark raving mad. He tried to remain calm, and in the effort, he started sweating.

“Could you both do me a favor and just listen to me for five minutes?”

“Of course, of course,” the chorus resumed.

“The story that I was crying is true, though I wasn't really crying.”

“Of course, of course.”

It was hopeless. By now they were convinced he was raving and were treating him gingerly, humoring him and pretending they agreed with him, the way one does with the insane so they won't go berserk.

“I swear I'm fine,” said the inspector. “I just want you to bear with me and pay attention.”

“Of course, of course.”

He told them the whole story, from the reading of the Camilleri book to his call to Dr. Pasquano. When he had finished, a thoughtful silence descended. But he had the impression that Musante and Gullotta had changed their minds and no longer considered him quite so crazy.

“Do you find there's method in my madness?” asked Montalbano.

“Well . . .” said Gullotta, not catching his Shakespearean allusion.

“In short, why did you come here and tell us all this?” asked Musante.

Montalbano looked at him, stunned.

“Because that dead body most assuredly belongs to a mafioso who was murdered by his colleagues. Or are you only interested in living mafiosi?”

Musante and Gullotta exchanged a glance.

“No,” said Gullotta. “We're always interested, dead or alive. From what I can gather, you seem to want to unload the case on us.”

“Since you're a bit overwrought, you want to wash your hands of it,” Musante said in an understanding tone.

Geez, what a pain!

“Look, I'm not trying to unload anything, and I'm not overwrought.”

“No? Then what
are
you trying to do?”

“Yes,
what
, exactly?” Gullotta chimed in, introducing a notable variant into the repertoire.

“Unless I am mistaken, all Mafia investigations in this jurisdiction belong to you, do they not?”

“Yes, of course they do,” said Musante. “But only when we are certain that the Mafia are indeed implicated.”

“One hundred percent certain,” said Gullotta.

“So I didn't convince you?”

“Yes, you did, in part, and verbally. But we can't very well go to our superiors saying that you became firmly convinced reading some silly novel like Camilleri's...”

“. . . and the Gospel according to Matthew,” Gullotta concluded.

“How old are you?” Montalbano asked them.

“I'm forty-two,” said Musante.

“And I'm forty-four,” said Gullotta.

“You're too young,” Montalbano observed.

“What do you mean?”

They were talking in chorus again.

“I mean you've become accustomed to today's Mafia and no longer understand a thing about semiology.”

“Semiology? I've never even—” Gullotta began doubtfully.

“You see, Montalbano,” Musante interrupted him, “if you had actually identified the body, and we were certain that it belonged to a mafioso, then—”

“I get it,” said the inspector. “You want your lunch served to you on fine china.”

In perfect sync, the chorus threw their hands up in the air to express their regret.

Montalbano stood up; the chorus stood up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If we can be of help...”

“As far as you know, was there any notable Mafia activity in the Vigàta area about two months ago?”

Montalbano realized that these words had got the attention of the two-man chorus. They had sort of straightened themselves up from the relaxed posture of goodbye they had assumed.

“Why?” the chorus asked warily.

Damned if he was going to tell them now that the dismembered stranger's death dated from about two months ago.

“Oh, I dunno, just wondering...”

“No, there hasn't been anything,” said Musante.

“Nothing at all,” Gullotta confirmed.

Apparently, when they had to lie, they become soloists. It was clear they had no intention whatsoever of letting a borderline madman like him in on a secret investigation.

They said goodbye.

“Take care of yourself,” Gullotta suggested.

“Take a few days off,” Musante advised.

So something had definitely happened two months earlier. Something the Antimafia Commission was keeping hidden because the investigation was still ongoing.

When he got to the station he called Fazio and told him of his talk with Musante and Gullotta. He did not tell him, of course, that they thought he was crazy.

“Have you got any friends at Antimafia?”

“Sure, Chief. Morici.”

“Is he about fifty, with a mustache?” asked Montalbano, alarmed.

“No.”

“Could you talk to him?”

“What do you want me to say to him?”

“Ask him if he knows what happened two months ago, which Musante and Gullotta didn't want to tell me.”

“I can try, Chief, but...”

“But what?”

“Morici and I may be friends, but he's a man of few words. The guy's like a statue. He doesn't even sweat.”

“Well, try to make him sweat a little. Have you started working on Pecorini?”

“Yessir. I've started and I've even finished. The response was negative.”

“Meaning?”

“He doesn't work at customs in Catania and never has. Nobody with that name has.”

“Ah, I see. Maybe the person who gave me this information didn't mean ‘customs' as in ‘customs office,' but was simply referring to that part of town. People do talk that way, sometimes.”

“So where am I supposed to find him now, this Pecorini?”

Wasn't it possible that Mimì went through some agency to rent that house?

“Listen, how many real estate agencies are there in Vigàta?”

Fazio did a quick mental tally.

“Five and a half, Chief.”

“What do you mean by ‘a half'?”

“There's one that also sells cars.”

“See if Pecorini used one of them to rent a house.”

“To rent it himself or to rent it out to others?”

“To rent it out. He owns the house. And if you have any luck, have them tell you where he works, or at least where he lives. He must have an address and phone number with the agency.”