By My Hand (18 page)

“Let's drop this whole routine about what good friends we are. You give me information, and in exchange I don't throw you in jail. Do you really think a cop like me could be friends with someone like you? Come on, let's get to it; I told my wife that I was going out for a walk and I have to get back quickly.”

Bambinella shot him a sly and fetching smile.

“You just say that to keep from seeming weak and silly, but we're friends and you know it. Of course, if you ever want something more, remember, for you it would always be free of charge. If you only knew how many of my clients tell their wives that they're just going out for a walk when they come here . . .”

Maione pretended to grab a vase and throw it in the
femminiello
's direction.

“One of these days I'm going to crack your noggin, as God is my witness! Don't you dare, you hear me? And all this talk, the free this and the free that, I don't want to hear it again, is that clear?”

Bambinella shook her shoulders in annoyance.

“Well, all right then, there'll be no sentiment tonight either. It doesn't matter, besides, sooner or later . . . No, don't lose your temper. So, let's start with the guy from the port militia. How true it is that things aren't always what they seem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that behind all that respectability, that façade that said he was on the up-and-up, with no double life, no lover on the side, a man who never played cards, never did anything even remotely immoral, in reality he was
'nu bellu fetente
—a big stinker.”

Maione was perplexed.

“Are you saying he actually did have a lover and he actually did play cards?”

Bambinella laughed.

“No, when on earth? The man really had no vices, as far as that goes. He was absolutely . . . how should I put it? . . . very serious. The way he was seen, that was the way he was.”

“Then why do you say he was a
fetente
—a stinker?”

“Now let me explain: this girlfriend of mine who works at the Torretta brothel, not the Gilda you met the other time, this one is called Concetta, but she goes by Colette like that actress, the one, ah, what's her name? Oh, Madonna, I can't think of it . . .”

Maione motioned to reach for the vase again.

“Oh, all right, Brigadie', you know that I have to tell my story in my own way. So, to make a long story short, a number of this girlfriend of mine's clients are fishermen, she's always hungry so she's willing to take care of them in exchange for something to eat—when she doesn't have paying clients, that is, of course. In short, she says that this Garofalo, ever since he became the whatever it is, the commandant of the supervisors of the fishermen, he'd been threatening them.”

Maione tried to understand.

“What do you mean, he'd been threatening them?”

“In the sense that he made them give him money or else he'd confiscate their fishing boats. I don't really understand the details, but apparently, if he wanted, he could just take their boats from them. And you know, Brigadie', a fishing boat is everything to a fisherman; if someone takes your boat away, they've just killed you and your whole family. Well, that's how this Garofalo was shaking them down.”

Maione was baffled.

“But witnesses told us that he wouldn't even accept gifts of fish when they brought them to his apartment. They told me so personally.”

Bambinella let go with a brief, shrewd laugh.

“That's right, I heard the same thing from my little girlfriend. She says that the whole thing was orchestrated, that he told the fishermen himself to bring the fish to his home and then he'd send them away, to show everyone that he was above graft. You see what he did, the sly dog?”

“I can't believe it. I can't believe that someone could go that far. Just how many fishermen was he shaking down?”

Bambinella shrugged her shoulders.

“Ah, that's not something she was able to tell me, my little girlfriend. But she did say that one of them couldn't pay him anymore, because he has a sick little boy, the kid actually seems to be dying, and he's had to pay for the doctor, and this Garofalo told him that he didn't give a damn about his problems, that the man needed to find the money or he'd confiscate his boat. And that this fisherman, sobbing in front of everyone, said that before he'd let his son die, he'd make sure that Garofalo died first—that he'd cut him open with his fish-gutting knife, his exact words.”

Maione focused more intently.

“Is that what he said? With his knife? How long ago was this?”

“Three or four days ago.”

“Do you know the name of this fisherman, by chance?”

Bambinella nodded.

“Yes, Brigadie'. His name is Boccia, Aristide Boccia, and he lives in Borgo Marinari, near the Castel dell'Ovo. But she told me that there were at least three others beside him, under threat of losing their boats.”

Maione stroked his chin.

“I see. Another lead, then.
Grazie
, Bambine'. And listen, about that other matter . . .”

Bambinella smiled sadly.

“I already have that information, Brigadie'. But are you sure you want to know it, too? Don't you want to mull it over a little longer? In a few days it'll be Christmas.”

Maione felt a shiver go down his back. He felt very weak; maybe he was even running a slight fever.

“I've already thought it over, believe me. Many times. So if you have any information for me, now's the time.”

Bambinella sighed, then said:

“Biagio Candela, apprentice. He lives in Vico Santi Filippo e Giacomo, number 22. From the day that . . . from that day, the day that his brother went to prison, he seems to have broken off all his old friendships, he got married, and he had two children. And right now, just like so many other poor wretches out there, he must be getting ready for Christmas. Now if you'll excuse me, Brigadie', I have to bury this poor creature.”

And Bambinella, her kimono fluttering in the wind, went out onto the terrace to give the deceased pigeon a funeral.

I
remember when Angelina came out the door of the
basso
, and walked over to me here, by the sea.

The spray came almost to our feet, and the moored boats were riding and plunging. I looked out at the lights of the city, which seemed so close because of the clear, windswept air. It was so cold,
Madonna mia
. It was so cold.

She came to me because she knew that I'd come out here to cry. I don't want her to see it, her or the kids. Especially not Vincenzino. I know that he sees me, even if he sleeps all the time. The last time the doctor came he told me: he can see and he can hear, he's just too weak to speak.

I hadn't seen her coming, Angelina. Wrapped in her black shawl, so that it even covered her head; she frightened me. I was thinking about death, and she looked just like death, with her white face, her sunken eyes.

She was a girl, Angelina. Just a few months ago she was a girl, laughing all the time, filling life with happiness. Everyone knew the sound of her laughter, here in the Borgo. But she doesn't laugh anymore. She doesn't laugh anymore.

She was a girl and all at once she turned into an old woman, after Vincenzino fell ill. An old woman, who looks like death itself.

So she stands next to me, and she looks out at the city lights through the clear night air. You have to finish the nativity scene, she tells me. Christmas is coming, and you have to finish the nativity scene. Vincenzino really loves it, the nativity scene.

We don't have the money, I tell her. We don't have the money for food, or to take care of Vincenzino, much less for Christmas, for the nativity scene, for sweets and candy and all that nonsense. And it's so cold out here. But I can't go back in, because I'm still crying.

Angelina doesn't tremble, she just looks at the lights. Her voice is low and firm. But now, she says, now that we've rid ourselves of that tick, that parasite, we'll have the money. We'll be able to eat, and take care of Vincenzino the way the doctor said.

Are you sure of that? I ask her. Are you sure there won't be another to take Garofalo's place, and then another after him? And how do you know they won't demand even more, and more? I can't go on like this. You know I can't.

She turns to me and smiles. Her smile scares me; she looks like a skull, a death's head. I hadn't realized how gaunt she'd become.

Then if there's another one, the same thing can happen to him, no? He too can die choking on his own blood. Remember: he's dead, and Vincenzino is still breathing.

Someone has to die, in other words. Is that what you're saying?

She looks out at the lights again and pulls her shawl tighter.

If there's another one, then he'll die, too. If I have to save my son, he'll die, too.

By my hand.

B
efore he could call an end to his long workday that Sunday, Ricciardi had one more thing he needed to do. So he headed out at quick walk to reach the Arco Mirelli before it got to be too late. He didn't know the schedule that the convent kept on days when there was no school, but he wanted to give it a try, just to see if he could get ahead.

This time the novice recognized him with a smile. Ricciardi asked for Sister Veronica, and waited until the young sister returned and told him to follow her.

They walked through the garden, where the wind stopped its lashing because of the high limestone walls that protected it from the outside world. Only the nearby sea was betrayed by the roaring of the waves. Otherwise, this was a place out of the world and out of time.

He was accompanied to the top of a stone staircase, and left to wait near a large painting of the Virgin Mary. It was beautiful, clearly quite old but in an excellent state of preservation. Ricciardi was fascinated by it; the woman's features were delicately rendered and very fine but they also conveyed a deep well of sorrow, the eyes uplifted to a heaven from which a cold light descended. On her head was a sparkling crown, in her chest an open wound in which could be seen a naked, palpitating heart, pierced by two swords. One of the Madonna's hands was raised upward in mute, heartfelt supplication, while the other hand gestured to her own chest and her suffering heart.

To his surprise, Ricciardi heard the sounds of children's voices and clattering dishes coming from a nearby room. He had expected the silence of a convent busy with its Sunday services, and instead it seemed like a school, now more than it had on his first visit.

In the distance he saw the ridiculous rotund, prancing figure of Sister Veronica coming down the hall, and she greeted him with her characteristic trumpet-like voice.

“What a surprise, Commissario. What are you doing in this part of town, on a Sunday and at this hour?”

Ricciardi greeted the woman, once again uneasily finding the clammy little hand in his own. He made a mental note to greet her from a distance the next time.

“
Buonasera
, Sister. I'm sorry to bother you, but I wanted to ask you something. If you're busy, of course, I can come back later.”

Sister Veronica shot a glance down the hallway, which echoed with the shouts of children. A contented smile spread across her broad face.

“On Sundays we let in the poor children from the surrounding areas, for the most part children of fishermen and laborers. We give them something to eat, we keep them warm, we let them play. They aren't the same children who go to school here; this is an act of charity that the institute undertakes. And this time of the year, with Christmas on the way, many of them don't have the same kinds of treats that rich children do—candy and sweets, presents, the nativity scene. So we just do our best to make up for this disparity, as simple as that.”

Ricciardi nodded.

“That's an honorable thing to do. First of all, I wanted to ask how the little girl is doing, your niece.”

Sister Veronica heaved a sigh, and shot a fleeting glance at the painting of the Virgin Mary.

“What can I tell you, Commissario. She doesn't ask any questions, she doesn't say anything. She's a sensitive, shy child. I'm with her all the time, I watch her sleep, and she's not having bad dreams, at least for now. I think that she still hasn't realized what's happened.”

Ricciardi understood. A normal reaction.

“What about you, Sister? How are you?”

“I'm trying to cast out the anger from my heart. I'm trying not to think about my sister, how sweet she was, about the years of our childhood, how close the two of us were. I'm trying not to hate whoever did this. We can't hate, you know that? If She,” she said, tipping her head in the direction of the Virgin Mary in the painting, “didn't hate mankind, who put Her son on the cross, and even interceded with Him on our behalf, then who are we to hate one another?”

Ricciardi felt himself struggling to reconcile conflicting feelings, the way he did every time he was brought face-to-face with the inflexible logic of faith. On the one hand, he felt envy for this ability to control one's emotions, and on the other this absence of human sentiments, however negative, such as rage and the thirst for vengeance, made him uneasy.

“My sister and her husband,” Sister Veronica was saying, “have gone home to their Everlasting Father. Whoever did this must pay, and they will pay in the judgment that awaits them; and not only here on earth. What good does it do to hate?”

“I understand, Sister. But we must continue our investigation. I asked you, the last time we met, if your sister or your brother-in-law had confided in you concerning threats they'd received, or anything of that sort.”