A Fine Line (13 page)

18

Annapaola came into my office with her usual big bag, the one from which she had taken the baseball bat, plus a plastic bag from a supermarket, full of white and brown paper packages.

“Sorry to burst in here with the food, but I didn't want to leave this stuff attached to my bike.”

“What's so precious in there?”

“Cardoncelli mushrooms, soft cheese filled with butter, and truffles from Murgia.”

“I didn't even know there were truffles in Murgia.”

“The area around Castel del Monte is full of them, but almost nobody knows that.”

“And why are you going around with truffles, cardoncelli mushrooms and soft cheese filled with butter?”

“Gifts from a friend who's also a client, to repay a kindness. I solved a problem for him. Tonight I'll have to eat them.”

“There are worse misfortunes. Cardoncelli are my favourite mushrooms, I like them more than porcini.”

“Of course, there's no comparison. They're firmer and tastier.”

She realized she was still holding the shopping bag. She put it down on the floor and also divested herself of the big bag across her shoulder. “As long as you don't get the wrong idea, I'll invite you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I'll invite you to dinner at my house and we'll eat some of this stuff. But no sex.”

“You don't beat about the bush, do you?”

“No, not really.”

I said all right, I accepted the invitation and the proviso, even though it wasn't so good for my self-esteem. I asked her where she lived – I realized at that moment that it was something I'd never known – but when I heard the address I couldn't hide my slight surprise.

“In the San Paolo district?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, it's just that I wasn't expecting—”

“You weren't expecting me to live in the Cep.”

The San Paolo district, better known as the Cep or, to its inhabitants, simply “the Neighbourhood”, has for many years been synonymous with urban decay, marginalization, organized and disorganized crime in Bari. Things have changed a little lately, but Annapaola was right. I hadn't expected her to be living there.

“If you come by car, call me when you arrive and I'll open the garage. Otherwise, come by taxi.”

“I'll come by taxi.”

“That's best. I'll expect you at nine.”

“Shall I bring wine or a dessert?”

“Don't bring anything. I have wine, and I'll make dessert. Now let's get to work.”

She took some folders from her bag and put them on my desk, one beside the other.

“I've made three dossiers, one for Marelli, one for Capodacqua and the last for Ladisa. There isn't much in the first one. A perfectly normal legal clerk, no criminal record, no secrets. I didn't find anything interesting. He
really is ill: he's in hospital, and I don't think he'll be able to appear at the hearing.”

“In that case, the judge will adjourn and we'll hear his testimony in the hospital. What can you tell me about the other two?”

Annapaola assumed a didactic tone. “Rocco Ladisa, known as Il Flippato. There's a story behind that nickname. Specializes in moneylending, an activity in which he launders money from drugs and extortion. Crazy about bodybuilding, somewhat inclined to megalomania and fits of temper. Among other things, he's suspected of having killed a young man in the Casamassima area. The cause of the quarrel that led to the murder is said to have been a question of who should give way to whom when leaving the car park of a nightclub. The case was shelved for lack of evidence. Not a very nice person at all. Everything I found out about him is in here. The sentences underlined are confidential information whose reliability I don't think I can guarantee. Then there's our Salvatore Capodacqua, known as Molletta, after the flick knife he's carried with him ever since he was a boy. Starts his career at the age of fourteen with car theft, bag snatching and robberies. Before long he steps up a notch and gets into the big time – drugs and extortion – while still a teenager. Joins the Mob and becomes one of the trusted men of Trentadue Cosimo, known as the Viceroy, undisputed boss of the Libertà district. Involved in a number of violent acts, and probably has at least three murders and a number of kneecappings on his conscience. Decides to turn state's evidence last year, after being arrested for various serious charges and spending a not very pleasant vacation in maximum security. He's considered fairly reliable as ex-Mafiosi go; among other things, he's relatively well spoken. In the dossier you'll also find a bit of information about some minor
aspects of his criminal record. Things that may have escaped the notice of the Prosecutor's Department and may help you in your cross-examination.”

“Did you find out anything about Salvagno's fatal accident?”

“A genuine accident. I talked to the inspector from the traffic police who was called to the scene. When I asked him if there was any likelihood the episode could have been criminally motivated, he almost laughed in my face. I haven't made any enquiries yet about Salvagno's financial situation because you told me it wasn't so urgent. Any questions?”

“I'll have a glance at the dossiers and tell you if everything is clear.”

“Needless to say, these documents aren't for exhibit. I must run now, I have guests for dinner.”

“See you at nine, then?”

“At nine.” After she'd put one bag over her shoulder and picked up the other bag with the food, she added: “I heard a good one today about lawyers. You'll like it. A lawyer and an engineer are on a beach in the Maldives, sipping a cocktail. The lawyer says, ‘I'm here because my house burnt down and with it all I possessed. The insurance company paid up and I've changed my life.' The engineer replies, ‘What a coincidence. I'm here because my house and all I had were destroyed by a flood. The insurance company paid up and I've also changed my life.' The lawyer looks puzzled. ‘There's something I don't understand,' he says. ‘What?' asks the engineer. ‘How the hell,' says the lawyer, ‘did you manage to start a flood?'”

“How nice to belong to a group that's the object of universal respect and admiration,” I said with a laugh.

“Bye for now, Avvocato, see you later for the cardoncelli party.”

*

When he heard the address, the taxi driver turned and looked at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It's in the middle of San Paolo.”

“I know,” I replied, in the tone of someone who prefers to drop the subject.

He hesitated for another moment or two, then shrugged and started the engine. About twenty minutes later, he dropped me outside a fairly new apartment building, in the part of the district that was closest to the airport. Outside the front door stood a boy.

“Are you Avvocato Guerrieri?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

He opened the door, motioned me to go in, walked me to the lift, said, “Top floor,” then left without another word.

On the landing, before I could ring the bell, the door opened by itself, as if there were an invisible butler to greet me. From inside I could hear Tom Waits singing “Ol' '55”. The volume was turned down and Annapaola's voice sounded over the music.

“Come in. The door closes by itself.” Which did in fact happen, once I was inside. The place I found myself in was an open space of at least eight hundred square feet, with a large window – in front of which stood a table with a rough wooden top and metal legs – from where you could see the airport and a thousand lights in the distance. Everywhere, shelves filled with books. No overhead lighting. The illumination came from spotlights placed on the floor and the walls. A blue tapestry covered almost the whole of the right-hand wall; beneath it, an old-looking leather sofa on which an animal lay dozing, an animal that looked like a cat but was as big as a cocker spaniel.

Annapaola emerged from a door on the side opposite
that of the tapestry, the sofa and the cat. She was wearing her usual jeans and a black sleeveless top that revealed more than I'd have liked, considering the proviso I'd agreed to a few hours earlier.

“I like punctual people,” she said, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and coming closer to give me a kiss.

“Are there ghosts?”

She looked at me for a few moments before realizing that I was referring to the opening and closing of the door. “Oh, yes. I have a slight obsession with home automation. Everything here can be controlled remotely. And if anyone comes in when I'm not here, I get a video of it live on my mobile phone.”

“And that?” I said, pointing to the cat.

“Do you like him? He's a Maine Coon, an American breed. A rather large cat.”

“Rather large is an understatement. He's beautiful, but I wouldn't like to be alone with him. What's his name? Mephistopheles?”

“When he was given to me, I thought for a long time about what name to give him. In the end, I decided to call him Cat.”

“That must have taken a bit of effort.”

She laughed. “It's a kind of quotation.
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, don't you remember?”

“Right, I'm losing points, it's official. I can smell truffles.”

“Let me tell you the menu: fresh pasta with cardoncelli mushrooms and truffles; soft cheese with truffles; fig tart with cream ice cream.”

“Excellent. And what does the kitten eat? Do you leave live sheep around the apartment and let him get on with it?”

“Actually, Cat's like a dog. He even eats pasta and pizza. And drinks beer.”

“You're joking, of course.”

“Cat!”

The animal raised itself, got down off the sofa, and trotted over to its mistress.

“That's the first time in my life I've seen a feline” – I found it hard to call him a cat – “obey an order.”

“Come with me,” she said, addressing the lynx-like creature, which promptly followed her. We went into the kitchen, where Annapaola took a can of Peroni from a large bow-fronted orange refrigerator and poured a little into a bowl on the floor.

“Here's your beer, Cat.”

The animal lapped it all up with gusto. Annapaola drank what was left in the can.

“Do you want one?” she asked me.

I replied that I'd rather move straight on to the wine and, as she turned to uncork a bottle of red Castel del Monte, I noticed the tattoo – an image of Betty Boop – she had on one shoulder, which continued under the line of her top. I looked away and tried to concentrate on the kitchen. The furniture was white and orange, like the refrigerator; there was an old table with a marble top; hanging on one wall were chilli peppers, dried tomatoes and strings of garlic; next to them was a poster: Frank Lloyd Wright's house over the waterfall.

“Nice poster.”

“I took that photograph.”

“Were you there? It's a place I've always wanted to go.”

“I was taken there by a girlfriend who taught the history of architecture.” She broke off and looked at me. “Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, because of the girlfriend. Yes, it's true, I also like women. Maybe
especially
women, but let's say I haven't really clarified my ideas on the subject.
Which sometimes creates problems. You like them, too, don't you?”

“I seem to remember that I do. I'm just a little out of practice.”

“Seeing that place was one of the most emotional things that's ever happened to me. Wright was a genius. Well, enough of that. Let's eat.”

We had dinner by the window, which offered a spectacular view of the planes landing and taking off.

“You must have wondered why I live here.”

“Well, yes.”

“I couldn't have afforded an apartment like this in other parts of the city. Plus, I like the idea of being ten minutes from the airport and from the possibility, even if it's only theoretical, of flying in two hours to Paris, Berlin or London, where I lived for almost three years.”

“But you like it here?”

“The neighbours have adopted me,” she said, and I thought of the boy who had greeted me outside the front door. “I like it here, yes.”

“What were you doing in London?”

“I did all kinds of things. Personal trainer, softball coach, I collaborated with a private detective agency and wrote for a few magazines. But you know what the most interesting job was?”

I shook my head.

“Hotel porter. You learn a lot about people, and your colleagues are often really unusual characters, especially the older ones. The best psychologists I've met in my life have been waiters, police officers and hotel porters.”

We continued chatting, eating and drinking. I like women who can have a meal without counting the calories.

“The bottle's empty,” she said. “Shall I open another one?”

“Better not, or we'll feel it's our duty to drink it all.”

“You're right, especially as I'm going to make you sample a special whisky with the dessert.”

She went into the kitchen to get the tart with the ice cream and I spent the time inspecting the bookshelves. There were many volumes on art and architecture, novels by writers from the Far East, comic books, sports books, collections of poetry, lots of DVDs, manuals of psychology, manuals of photography, texts on the training of animals, old school exercise books, photograph albums: a kind of healthy lack of order. While Cat watched me without any hostility from the sofa, I immersed myself in the reading of a poem.

“What are you reading?” Annapaola asked, coming up behind me.

“Sylvia Plath, ‘Love Letter'.”

“
Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead
,” she recited from memory. “One of my favourites.”

After the dessert, she opened a bottle of Scotch whisky of a brand I'd never seen before.