By My Hand (11 page)

“And what happened?” asked Maione, more than anything else to break the silence.

“Lomunno was found in his office with a large sum of money on his person. In cash. He wasn't able to explain where that money had come from, and he was arrested. Garofalo's testimony was decisive, and Lomunno was dishonorably discharged from the militia and served a year and a half in prison.”

Ricciardi had listened attentively.

“So what happened is that Garofalo ruined his superior officer and took his place.”

“There's more. He took the post to which Lomunno was about to be promoted, the rank of centurion. To place that in the context of ranks in the army, his promotion was the equivalent of going from second lieutenant to captain, in a single leap and without respecting the years of minimum seniority for the ranks in question. It was something unprecedented.”

Maione couldn't believe his ears.

“Excuse me, maybe I missed something. What did Lomunno say?”

“Of course, he swore he was an honest man, but he refused to reveal the provenance of that money. He said it was his, his whole life's savings, and that he was going to use it to finally buy a house of his own.”

“So, really, wasn't it just his word against Garofalo's?”

“Yes, but no one carries some ten thousand lire in cash around with them. And in any case, it takes a lot less in this corps to merit disciplinary proceedings. His wife, when questioned by several of our officers, knew nothing about the money, and that was considered further evidence against him.”

Ricciardi stared at Spasiano.

“There's more, isn't there? An epilogue.”

Spasiano looked at Criscuolo, who in turn looked down at the floor. Maione had the impression that he was clenching his fists.

“While Lomunno was in prison, his wife killed herself. She threw herself off the balcony of their apartment, the day she learned they were being evicted. She left behind two children, who stayed with a neighbor woman until their father was released.”

Wind and rain on the window, and the roar of the sea. Ricciardi thought to himself that, as usual, it was the innocents who paid the price.

“What became of them?”

Spasiano shrugged.

“These events date back three years, more or less. We don't have any more recent information, in part because, Commissario, I have to confess to you, we're not very fond of remembering it, and for more than one reason. First of all, we don't like to think that we were completely wrong in our evaluation of Lomunno, who was very well liked in the barracks. And, second, we don't like to think that one of our own officers, and one of the best, for that matter, might have been corrupt. But above all, though I would never admit this outside of this room, we don't like the way the matter ended.”

Maione broke in.

“And you did nothing for the family of this Lomunno? The wife and children, what did they live on while he was in prison?”

The raw nerve. Criscuolo jerked his head up, started to say something, and then looked back down at the floor. Spasiano replied:

“No. It was as if we were dealing with lepers. None of us had the courage to give them a hand. We're all partly to blame for what happened.”

Ricciardi brushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, with the usual quick swipe of his slender hand. Then he asked:

“Where are Lomunno and his children now?”

T
he little one was the first to notice, in spite of the rain and the wind, and the incessant roar of the waves.

“Papa, don't you hear? Someone's knocking at the door.”

The man stopped what he was doing, set down the knife and the piece of wood he was carving, and went to open the door. When he saw who it was, he turned around and went back to the table, leaving the door wide open.

The visitor closed the door behind him. He looked around.

“Do you realize it's colder in here than it is outside? Can't you feel how freezing it is?”

The man had gone back to his carving.

“It's a hovel. It's drafty, the wind cuts right through the wood; and the fire goes out quickly, of course. What do you want? If you're cold, go home, where it's nice and warm. And take your conscience with you.”

The visitor opened a bag he'd brought with him, pulled out some clothing, and gave it to the little girl.

“Here, Adelina, this red one's for you, it's a nice heavy sweater. The blue one ought to be Vittorio's size, you see if it fits him. And here are two wool hats, my wife made them, and two scarves. Make sure you bundle up, now.”

The woodcarver barely looked up from the piece of wood he was working on.

“Who asked you for anything? When their mother needed you or any of my other so-called friends, where were you? And when she decided to . . .”

The other man broke in forcefully, his eyes darting to the children.

“Anto', for the love of God! That's enough! Have you lost your mind? In front of the children!”

“Why, didn't she do it in front of them? Not even she believed me, her own husband. Not even she had the strength to help me prove that I was telling the truth.”

“Anto', listen to me. The trouble you're about to be in is serious. Today two policemen came in, a commissario and a brigadier. Smart people, very good at what they do. Spasiano got orders to tell them the whole story.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. I was right there. And they listened, and the first thing they asked when they'd heard everything was if we knew where you were.”

Antonio Lomunno slammed the knife down on the table. The little girl, who was stirring a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon, jumped at the sound.

“Damn him, damn him! This thing will never end, never!”

Criscuolo took a step toward him.

“But you can say that you were out on the water when it happened. You can say that you were on the fishing boat, you can say . . .”

“‘You can say'? But—that means you think I did it! And you don't realize that if I'd wanted to . . .”

He shot a quick glance at his son, who was staring at him openmouthed.

“. . . I'd have done it then and there, on the spot, in front of everyone. That coward, that bastard. I'd have done it then, and goodnight Irene.”

Criscuolo grabbed him by the arm, whispering with a hiss:

“Don't say that, even as a joke. You wouldn't be the man you are, if you'd done it. And we helped Maria, not enough, but we did help her, while you were locked up. We couldn't have done more than what we did; you know the way it works. If they'd seen us—and they were watching her all the time—they'd have taken us for accomplices, and we would have wound up like you. We had families, too, and we still do.”

Lomunno looked at him, grinding his teeth, his eyes brimming over with tears.

“And you still have your families . . . And look at what I have, a poor little twelve-year-old girl who has to be a mother to her eight-year-old brother, because her father's out on the water trying to earn two pennies' worth of stale flour and a scrap of pilfered fish. That's my family.”

“Yes, that's your family. And you need to care for your family, support them, because that's what they deserve, instead of going to the tavern to fry your brains and your liver with cheap wine. Most of all, you have to stay out of jail, because if you wind up behind bars again what's going to happen to these kids?”

Lomunno let himself drop back into his chair.

“All right. Tell me what you think I ought to do.”

Criscuolo told him.

When he was done, Lomunno put his hands over his face.

“Do you realize what you're asking me to do? It's the same thing that he did to me.”

Criscuolo, sitting next to him, took his hand.

“No, Anto', no. It's not the same thing at all. He was lying and you won't be. And you might not have to do it. Or maybe it wasn't even them, and they can prove it, and no one will be the worse for it. But in the meantime, you'll get them off your back.”

“I don't know if I can bring myself to do it. I just don't know.”

“You're going to have to, Antonio. You have to bring yourself to do this for them, for your children. And for Maria, who was fragile and couldn't take it.”

As he was getting ready to leave, Criscuolo looked at the piece of wood that Lomunno was carving and realized that he was building a nativity scene.

“You're making a manger, eh? Good for you, that way the children know it's Christmas. In a few days I'll come back with something good for you to eat on Christmas Eve. Ciao,
bambini
, give me a kiss goodbye.”

As he left, he heard Lomunno's voice calling him.

“Pasqua' . . .”

“What is it, Anto'? Tell me.”

His friend's eyes were glistening in the half-light of his shack. He opened his mouth, and shut it again. It's hard to say thank you to someone when you can't admit to yourself that you care about them.

At last, Lomunno spoke:

“Shave that mustache off. You look ridiculous.”

Criscuolo smiled, intentionally making his mustache quiver.

“You're wrong; it's magnificent.”

And he turned and left.

 

By the time Ricciardi and Maione found themselves outside the barracks it was nightfall. It was no longer raining, but the wind was blowing hard again, hurting their ears. They raised the lapels and collars of their overcoats.

The brigadier put on his gloves and clapped his hands together.

“
Mammama'
, there's a cold wind tonight. But then again, if it weren't cold what kind of Christmas would it be, eh, Commissa'? Well, all told, we learned a few things today about this Garofalo.”

Ricciardi, his hair tossing in the wind, replied pensively:

“And about ourselves, as far as I can tell.”

Maione nodded.

“And to think that there are some people who say that the secret police don't exist. Unbelievable.”

“And it was because of the secret police that Lomunno was ruined so easily. The militia
is
the party, and they can't afford for there to be even the suspicion of a scandal. No question, Garofalo was putting it all on a single roll of the dice; if his claims hadn't checked out, he would have been in a world of pain.”

Ricciardi had set off toward police headquarters, walking at a fast clip.

“That must mean he felt he was making a safe bet. In any case, he ruined his colleague's life, not just his career. Just think of that man's wife, jumping out the window in her despair over losing her home, her husband, and her dignity.”

Maione was puffing out clouds of steam as he walked behind Ricciardi, like a small locomotive.

“You're quite right, Commissa'. It's possible to steal someone's life, their dreams and hopes. That's the worst crime of all: the theft of hope.”

Ricciardi shot a sidelong glance at the longshoreman who'd been crushed under the last load of the day, now standing alone on the wharf: abandoned by the living, who'd all gone home.

“Hope may even be the last thing to die, but it does die sometimes. At any rate we, at the end of our first day on the case, have more than just the name of Antonio Lomunno, ex-militiaman and ex-convict, in hand.”

“Oh, we do, Commissa'? What else do we have?”

Ricciardi was looking straight ahead, walking fast because of the wind blowing against his back.

“We have Saint Joseph, and Saint Sebastian.”

“We have San Gennaro, too, if we're counting our saints . . . But what are you talking about?”

“The broken Saint Joseph: if it was broken on purpose, there must have been a reason. We need to figure out what that reason might have been. As for Saint Sebastian, that's just an idea I have, and I want to check it out. But we'll need to talk to a couple of experts, because you and I don't know much about saints.”

Maione thought it over for minute, then said:

“As far as I can remember, Commissa', the only expert on saints that we have is Don Pierino, from the Parish Church of San Ferdinando.”

“Yes, I was thinking the same thing. Maybe tomorrow I'll swing by and see him, but only for Saint Joseph. For Saint Sebastian, on the other hand, I'll need to talk to another expert: Dr. Modo.”

Maione burst out laughing into the wind.

“Commissa', that Dr. Modo knows even less about saints than we do; that is, if we leave aside his cursing and oaths, when I'd say he knows quite a few of them, considering how many of their names he calls out. Anyway, I'm always delighted to see him.”

“No,” replied Ricciardi as they were entering the courtyard of police headquarters, finally sheltered from the cutting northern wind. “I'll go, both to see Don Pierino and to see Modo. But what I'd appreciate is if you'd do me the favor of going to call on your informer, the famous Bambinella, and ask her to nose around and find out what she can about both Lomunno and Garofalo. Maybe all that integrity was nothing but a front.”

Maione stopped to think, then said:

“At your orders, Commissa'. If I want to see Bambinella I have to catch her early in the morning or late at night, otherwise she'll be out going about her business, making her rounds in the city's
vicoli
and
vicarielli
. But if you want, I'll go by her place tonight.”

“No, it's late and we've had a hard day. Come on up for a moment to sign the reports, then you head home. After all, in a few days it'll be Christmas.”

“And I still have to finish my nativity scene. What can I do, I have to do it, it's a tradition, but I never have the time. It makes me think of Luca, when he was little; he always wanted to work on it with me. Sometimes I still think I can see him, you know that? Ah well, let's not get blue about it.
Grazie
, Commissa'. Tomorrow's another day.”