For All the Gold in the World (13 page)

“I know everyone in town,” he blurted out, jovial and enthusiastic. “I'll be delighted to be of assistance.”

“The Patanè family,” I said under my breath.

The con man's face darkened. “All I can give you is gossip,” he muttered. “People used to talk about them more, when the tragic story of what happened to the boy was on everyone's lips, but now they lead a quiet life, see very few people; they haven't even been seen in church in quite a while.”

Max reached out a hand for one of my cigarettes. The psychic made a face, probably even considered for a moment the idea of asking us not to smoke, but then understood that that wouldn't be a very good idea.

“How are their finances?”

“People around here say that for a few years they were really struggling,” replied Zanca. “The parents were forced to go around looking for money more or less everywhere. Now, though, things are going better. I've heard other rumors to the effect that a few anonymous donors gave them the money they needed for medical care and support.”

Well, just think of that. It would be dangerous to try to reconstruct the timeline of those unhoped-for donations with a sewer rat like this psychic, but I was pretty sure they'd come sometime after the home invasion in Oddo's villa.

Max put his cigarette out on the corner of the desk, which looked expensive. Zanca turned his gaze away.

“Anything else to report?”

“A specific question might be helpful,” the con artist pointed out, impatient to see the last of us.

“We'd like to know who Patanè sees. His closest friends, of course.”

Zanca raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “I don't know and I don't even know who I'd ask,” he said. “I often run into Signor Ferdinando pushing his son's wheelchair, but they're always alone.”

It was almost dinnertime by the time we left the psychic's offices but the heat hadn't dropped by so much as a degree. We took a table at a bar just a stone's throw from the state highway, jammed with cars crawling along no faster than pedestrians.

“I hate him,” Max burst out suddenly, referring to the con man. “I'm telling you, it was all I could do to keep from wrapping my hands around his throat.”

I took the straw out of the glass. I hated to suck on my aperitifs. “He's just one of many,” I objected. “The world is full of them, and he's not even one of the more dangerous ones. Compared to the people who sell adulterated food or peddle counterfeit pharmaceuticals, our Mirko looks more or less like a dilettante. The only thing he has in common with those others is his unmitigated gall.”

The fat man changed his tack. “Why on earth are we spouting such obvious platitudes?”

“Because we're chasing our tails around a case that's only going to give us a bunch of headaches and pains in the ass if it turns out Patanè is involved.”

Max sighed and stalled for time by sipping his spritz. “Even if he's the guiltiest one of all, he's still untouchable.”

“That's exactly right. The day his parents die, Lorenzo will experience the tragedy of a life dependent on care provided by strangers, but until then, he'll rely on their presence.”

“The boy's needs take precedence over everything else,” the fat man said.

“We'll have to be very cagy in how we convince him that he's earned his impunity, otherwise he'll have no incentive to betray his accomplices.”

We weren't a bit happy to find ourselves in such a complicated situation, one that forced us to accept choices that were hard to live with. Max immediately made it clear how annoying he found it.

When I paid the check and left a more generous tip than usual for the waitress, my friend found immediate fault.

“You did it just because she's cute,” he objected.

“Very cute,” I emphasized.

“That strikes me as rude and sexist.”

“You're right, but I don't give a flying fuck.”

“Don't you see how wrong it is to behave this way?”

I saw red. “We're sitting here splitting hairs, trying to decide whether or not to gun someone down in cold blood, and you decide to bust my balls over this bullshit?”

He fell silent for a few seconds while he mulled over a response. “The fact is, I ought to have realized long ago that your political immaturity has always prevented you from acting, in your daily life, with decency,” he got out all in one breath. “That's why I think it best if I withdraw my critique and treat you to a compensatory dinner. Seafood, of course. I know a couple of restaurants around here that are to die for.”

I burst out laughing and slapped him on the back. I knew how much I annoyed him.

 

We spent the following day trying to track down Rossini and come up with a rough strategy to flush Patanè out and obtain the evidence we needed.

A complete waste of time on both counts: Beniamino must have been at sea or hiding away in some inlet along the Dalmatian coast, and putting the ex-jeweler of Dolo's back to the wall would require a brilliant idea that continued to elude our collective minds.

I left home around midnight and headed to Pico's.

Cora dedicated
All Day, All Night
to me, a song that was a hit for Carmen Lundy in 2001. During a break, while the jazz woman went to redo her makeup, the piano player told me there was something wrong with the way she was singing. An inexplicable tension that was weighing down all her songs.

“I hadn't noticed,” I said.

“Of course not. All you think about is screwing her in that smelly dressing room.”

“Watch your language.”

“You don't fucking get it; if this keeps up, sooner or later she'll go to pieces. You know what happens to an old 78 rpm record if you drop it? The same thing'll happen to her.”

I stared at him in surprise. “You're jealous. No doubt you're right about her; you know the business, you're an insider, but clearly you like her.”

He ran a hand over his head with a slow gesture. “What with all the time we spend together, she's gotten under my skin,” he said, and then he headed off to the bar.

I'd have liked to talk to Cora about her jazz stylings, but the minute I shut the door behind me she slid her tongue into my mouth and undid my belt.

Between a kiss and a glance, she slipped her hand into my briefs and started brushing my balls with her fingernails.

“Does that work?” she asked.

“Very nicely.”

Then her hands took charge of my cock, caressing it.

“Stop,” I implored her.

“No.”

“I'm begging you.”

“No.”

Later, at the usual café, I talked to her about the piano player's concerns, without letting her know that the man had a crush on her. That was none of my business, plus I was sure that she'd already noticed.

“I'm searching for the ‘center' of my jazz,” she snapped, irritated. “I need to range freely, to delve deeper in my performance.”

I was tempted to tell her that she was spouting bullshit like a fire hose, but I zipped my lips. That lasted just a few seconds. “What's wrong?”

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

She finished her brioche and added: “It wasn't a decision not to have children.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“I don't know, I was just saying. I wanted you to know.”

“Okay. I thank you for telling me,” I said brusquely.

“But it doesn't mean a damn thing to you.”

“No. Nor do I feel like I have a right to know the reason why.”

“Right, you're the lover.”

“That's exactly right,” I retorted. “Are you looking for a fight, Cora? In that case, I should let you know I'm not at all good at that kind of thing.”

“What's that mean?”

“I'm too slow for snappy answers,” I explained. “The right thing to say occurs to me ten minutes too late.”

She burst out laughing. But slowly. The faint creases I liked so much began to smooth out and then take shape again, one after the other, without the slightest urgency.

“Go home and get some rest, tired jazz woman,” I whispered.

 

While I was waiting for the elevator, Signorina Suello, our favorite neighbor, caught up with me.

“You guys didn't come to the condo board meeting,” she said, a slight note of reproof in her voice.

“And we never will come, either,” I confided.

“Are you and your friend homosexuals?” she asked, pointblank.

“That's our business, don't you think?”

“Forgive me, it's just that everyone in the building is convinced of it. Do you want to know what they call you?”

“I'm not interested, thanks.”

“No matter what they say, you two are the most likable tenants here as far as I'm concerned.”

I thanked her and pulled out my keys. When I walked into the living room, I found Beniamino in red-and-white striped boxers reading the paper. He was in a bad mood, too. “You've peppered me with phone calls and texts and forced me to come running back to this oven of a city,” he grumbled. “I just hope there's a good reason.”

“Where's Max?” I asked, lowering the temperature of the air conditioning by a degree.

“In the shower, and anyway it won't change a thing.”

“What won't?”

“Fooling around with that remote. There's only so much cool air you can coax out of that gadget.”

I went into the kitchen to make myself an espresso and discovered that the fat man had purchased another espresso machine, one that guaranteed coffee as good as what you'd get at a café. Only I didn't know how to work it, of course.

I resigned myself: after all, pots and pans and gas flames were his domain and messing around in that devil's playground was no more than his right. I settled for a glass of cold milk that left an unmistakable stain on my whiskers. I'd been neglecting my mustache and it had thickened into an untidy mess. I discarded the idea of going to the barber. It was too hot out to let anyone wrap a towel around my neck.

Max, as part of his complete life-overhaul project, had decided to use a new cologne and he insisted on asking us to sniff it on his skin.

My opinion was neutral, while Rossini was definitely against it. “It doesn't suit you,” he decreed. “You need to veer toward patchouli-based scents. They're more appropriate for you fatties. They make you more likable.”

The fat man took offense. “Are you serious?”

“No,” Beniamino replied tersely. “But you've been harassing me with this damn smell that I don't give a shit about, while what I want is to be out on the open water.”

At last we found we were concentrated enough to take on the challenge of investigating Ferdinando Patanè. Only in movies and on TV are investigators actually capable of tailing people even in small towns.

In Dolo we'd be found out in less than half a day. There was no point in even talking about tapping phone lines or installing ambient listening devices in his car or living room. I'd have known whom to hire, but in that situation it made no sense. The former jeweler needed to be confronted face-to-face and forced to collaborate if he was guilty, and if not, our most sincere apologies.

“Have you found out anything new?” asked Rossini.

“Right now, Patanè is the only clue we have to follow,” I replied.

“If it turns out to be unfounded, then we're really in trouble,” Max explained. “The premises and the research method are doubtless valid, but they're time-intensive and require lots of checking.”

“If you ask me, he's involved,” I said, feigning confidence. “There's a picture showing Fecchio and Patanè together. They're looking at each other as if they're shaking hands to seal a pact. As if they're sharing something important. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, and now it's also clear which of us will go have a chat with this guy,” said old Rossini.

I didn't object for the simple reason that I couldn't wait.

 

The heat forced father and son to put off their usual walk till a little later. Ever since Lorenzo had come home from the hospital, Ferdinando Patanè had chosen the best time of day to push the wheelchair along a route that included both banks of the Naviglio del Brenta. In fall and winter, around midday, or even earlier if the sun was out; in the spring, in early afternoon; and in the summer a few hours later.

The previous day, we'd followed them from a distance, to ascertain their route and to choose the place in which to confront them. We'd settled on a bridge. I was planning to deliver my whole appeal in the time it took to cross it, little more than a minute. In sixty seconds, you can say a lot of things. TV taught us that lesson many years ago. The problem was how to start. It's an art practiced by call-center sales teams. If you get those first words wrong, you've lost the customer for good.

They left the building a little after 7:30 that evening. The mother accompanied them to the front gate. The building was so square, white, and nondescript that it looked as if it had been drawn by a child.

I waited for them at the agreed-upon spot. Lorenzo was wearing a light-blue baseball cap over his thinning hair and wan face. He was looking straight ahead, his gaze grim but lucid. His father never stopped talking. From his facial expression, I guessed he was telling him a funny story.

At the right moment, I came up beside them. The ex-jeweler, alarmed, swiveled his head around fast.

“Fecchio's death was a brilliant move, but it actually served no purpose,” I started off nonchalantly. “If you want to stay out of jail or the grave and go on pushing this wheelchair till the day you die, you're going to have to betray someone, Signor Patanè. Everyone, actually.”

The man stared at me, terrified, and went on walking like a robot.

“Stop, Papa,” Lorenzo ordered. With a tip of his head, he motioned me over until I was standing in front of him.