The Track of Sand (8 page)

So the Mafia was behind the clandestine horse races. It could not have been otherwise.

“So was it Prestia who turned to Bellavia?”

“No, it was the other way around. Bellavia showed up one day, saying he’d heard that Prestia was in trouble and that he was ready to—”

“But Prestia should not have accepted!Taking that money was like announcing he was turning against Balduccio!”

“Didn’t I tell you right off the bat that Michilino Prestia was a nitwit? A cross between a nobody and a no-account? Don Balduccio summed it up when he said he wasn’t some two-bit hood.Then, to top it off, Prestia had to pay Bellavia back by taking on the responsibility for the illegal races. He couldn’t refuse. Which means he’s now working against Don Balduccio in business as well.”

“I somehow don’t see this Prestia aging gracefully.”

“Me neither, Chief. Sorry for asking, but do you still see a connection between the killing of the horse and the illegal races?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Fazio.You don’t see any?”

“When you first showed me the dead animal, I was the one, if you recall, who mentioned the clandestine races. But now there doesn’t seem to be anything there anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chief, every time we form a hypothesis, it immediately gets shot down. Remember you thought that they’d stolen the lady’s horse to spite Lo Duca? Then we found out that they also took one of Lo Duca’s horses. So what need was there to steal the lady’s horse?”

“I agree. But what about the races?”

“Lo Duca, as far as I’ve been able to find out, has nothing to do with the illegal races.”

“You sure about that?”

“Not a hundred percent sure. I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it. But he doesn’t really seem like the type to me.”

“Never trust appearances. For example, ten years ago, would you have thought Prestia capable of managing an illegal racing circuit?”

“No.”

“So why are you telling me Lo Duca doesn’t seem like the type? Let me tell you something else. Lo Duca goes around telling everybody that the Mafia respects him. Or at least they respected him until yesterday. Do you know why he says that? Do you know who his friends are and who protects him?”

“No, Chief, I don’t. But I’ll try to find out.”

“Do you know where these races are held?”

“They change the location practically every time, Chief. I found out that one was held on the grounds behind Villa Panseca.”

“Pippo Panseca’s house?”

“Yessir.”

“But, as far as I know, Panseca—”

“Panseca’s got nothing to do with it, in fact. Maybe you don’t know. When he had to go to Rome for a couple of weeks, the caretaker rented the grounds to Prestia for one night.They paid him so much for it, the guy went out and bought himself a new car.Another time they held it over by Crasto Mountain. Normally, there’s one every week.”

“Wait a second. Are they always held at night?”

“Of course.”

“So how do they see anything?”

“They’re very well equipped.You know how, when they shoot a film outdoors, they always bring along electrical generators? Well, the ones these guys’ve got can light everything up like it’s daytime.”

“But how do they inform their clients of the time and place?”

“The clients who matter most, the high rollers, number only about thirty or forty; the rest are just small fry who, if they come, fine, and if they don’t, even better. Too many people in cars create a lot of dangerous confusion.”

“But how are they informed?”

“With coded telephone calls.”

“And can’t we do anything about it?”

“With the means at our disposal?”

The inspector stayed another two hours or so at the station, then got in his car and went back to Marinella. Before setting the table on the veranda, he felt like taking a shower. In the dining room he emptied his pockets onto the table, and in so doing he found the piece of paper on which he had written Rachele Esterman’s cell phone number. He remembered that there was something he wanted to ask her. He could do it the following day, when he saw her in Fiacca. But would it really be possible? God only knew how many people there would be around her. Wasn’t it perhaps better to call her now, as it wasn’t yet eight-thirty? He decided that this was best.

“Hello? Signora Esterman?”

“Yes.Who is this?”

“Inspector Montalbano here.”

“Oh, no you don’t! Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind!”

“About what?”

“Ingrid told me you were coming here to Fiacca tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there, signora.”

“That makes me so, so happy. Be sure to free yourself up for the evening as well. There will be a dinner, and you are one of my guests.”

“Look, actually, tomorrow evening—”

“Don’t make up any silly excuses.”

“Will Ingrid also be at the dinner?”

“Can’t you take a single step without her?”

“No, it’s just that, since she’ll be driving me to Fiacca, I was thinking that, for the return—”

“Don’t worry, Ingrid will be there. Why did you call me?”

“Why did
I
...?”The prospect of the dinner, the people whose conversation he would have to listen to, the muck that would likely be served and that he would have to swallow even if it made him puke, had made him forget that it was he who had called her. “Oh, right, sorry. But I don’t want to take up any more of your time. If you could just give me about five minutes tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow there’s going to be pandemonium. But I do have a little time right now, before I get ready to go out to eat.”

With Guido? A candlelight dinner?

“Listen, signora—”

“Please call me Rachele.”

“All right, Rachele. Do you remember when you told me that it was the watchman of the stables who had informed you that your horse—”

“Yes, I remember saying that. But I must have been mistaken.”

“Why?”

“Because Chichi—I’m sorry, Lo Duca told me the poor night watchman was at the hospital. On the other hand . . .”

“Go on, Rachele.”

“On the other hand I’m almost certain he said he was the watchman. But I’d been asleep, you know, it was very early in the morning and I’d been up very late . . .”

“I understand. Did Lo Duca tell you who he had asked to call you?”

“Lo Duca didn’t ask anyone to call me. That would have been ungentlemanly. It was up to him to inform me.”

“And did he?”

“Of course! He phoned me from Rome around nine in the morning.”

“And did you tell him that someone had already called?”

“Yes.”

“Did he make any comment?”

“He said it was probably someone from the stable who had called of his own initiative.”

“Have you got another minute?”

“Listen, I’m in the bathtub at the moment and I am really enjoying it. Hearing your voice so close to my ear right now is . . . Never mind.”

She played rough, this Rachele Esterman.

“You told me you phoned the stables in the afternoon—”

“You’re not remembering correctly. Someone from the stable called to tell me the horse hadn’t been found yet.”

“Did the person identify himself ?”

“No.”

“Was it the same voice as in the morning?”

“I . . . think so.”

“Did you mention this second phone call to Lo Duca?”

“No. Should I have?”

“No, there was no need. All right, Rachele, I—”

“Wait.”

A minute of silence passed. They hadn’t been cut off, because Montalbano could hear her breathing. Then she said in a low voice:

“I get it.”

“You get what?”

“What you suspect.”

“Namely?”

“That the person who called me twice was not from the stables, but was one of the people who stole and killed my horse. Am I right?”

Shrewd, beautiful, and smart.

“You’re right.”

“Why did they do it?”

“I can’t really say at the moment.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, listen. Is there any news of Lo Duca’s horse?”

“They’ve lost all trace of it.”

“How strange.”

“Well, Rachele, that’s about all I had—”

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

“You . . . I really like you. I like talking to you, being with you.”

“Thank you,” said Montalbano, a bit confused and not knowing what else to say.

She laughed. And in his mind he saw her naked, in the bathtub, throwing her head back and laughing. A cold chill ran down his spine.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to spend any time together tomorrow, just the two of us . . .Although, maybe—”

She broke off as if she had just thought of something. Montalbano waited a bit, then went
ahem, ahem,
exactly the way they do in British novels.

She resumed speaking.

“At any rate, I’ve decided to stay another three or four days in Montelusa. I think I already mentioned that to you. I hope we’ll have a chance to meet. See you tomorrow, Salvo.”

He took a shower and went out on the veranda to eat.Adelina had made a salad of baby octopus big enough for four and some giant prawns to be dressed only with olive oil, lemon, salt, and black pepper.

He ate and drank, managing only to think of idiocies.

Then he got up and phoned Livia.

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” was the first thing she said.

How could he tell her he got drunk with Ingrid and it had completely slipped his mind?

“There was no way.”

“Why not?”

“I was busy.”

“With whom?”

Jeez, what a pain in the ass!

“What do you mean, with whom? With my men.”

“What were you doing?”

His balls were definitively broken.

“We were having a competition.”

“A competition?!”

“Yes, to see who could say the stupidest shit imaginable.”

“And you won, of course. You have no rivals in that field!”

And thus began the usual relaxing nightly squabble.

After the phone call, he no longer felt like going to bed. He went back out on the veranda and sat down. He needed to distract himself a little, to think about something that had nothing to do with either Livia or the horse case.

The night was calm but quite dark. He could barely see the slightly lighter line of the sea. Out on the water, directly in front of the veranda, was a jacklamp that in the darkness looked closer than it really was.

At once a taste of lightly fried sole came back to him, between the tongue and palate. He swallowed emptily.

He was ten years old when his uncle took him night-fishing with a jacklamp for the first and last time, after having pleaded with his wife for an entire evening.

“An’ what if the boy falls inna sea?”

“Whas got inna you’ head? If ’e falls inna sea, we fish ’im back out.There’s two of us, me ’n’ Ciccino, c’mon!”

“An’ what if ’e’s cold?”

“Gimme a sweater. If ’e’s cold, I’ll make ’im put it on.”

“An’ what if ’e feels sleepy?”

“He can sleep onna bottom o’ the boat.”

“An’ you, Salvuzzo, you wanna go?”

“Well . . .”

He wanted nothing more, every time his uncle went out to fish. At last his aunt consented, after giving him a thousand warnings.

That night, he remembered, was exactly like this one. Moonless.You could see all the lights along the coast.

At a certain point, Ciccino, the sixty-year-old seaman who was rowing the boat, had said:

“Turn it on.”

And his uncle had turned on the jacklamp. A sort of pale blue light, very powerful.