The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (15 page)

Not that she'd ever even hinted that she was tired of listening to him. When her father spoke, the clocks in the house stopped, and objects and people both held their breaths, awaiting the oracle's pronouncement. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.

“
Mamma
, I'm going out after dinner. My new coworkers and I are having a get-together.”

“Good, so you're already all friends? It's a fine new initiative, isn't it?”

The second question was directed at the general, who merely grunted, not taking his eyes off the screen. Alex replied: “No, it's just that the commissario is interested in getting us to bond as a group. That's it. To get together outside the office, you know, there aren't many of us, so it's easy to arrange.”

“And are there any unmarried men?”

The general's question had come promptly; he hadn't so much as tried an indirect approach. The general always came straight to the point.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

Twenty-eight years old, and not even a boyfriend. The only topic of conversation Alex had with her father, aside from guns and shooting ranges.

Her mother tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Maybe the atmosphere will be better than it was at the other precinct, right? And you won't have the same . . . you won't have problems.”

Problems. In a very real sense, she'd
caused
the problems, she hadn't
had
them.

“I'm done eating. I'm going to go get ready.”

 

There were evenings that Alex couldn't stand to spend at home. Something would start to howl inside her, and she'd have to go out. She'd always been that way, she thought to her herself as she drove through traffic, heading out of town. There were two Alexes: one that resembled her mother, quiet and submissive, and the other one, the one she kept hidden in the room at the bottom of her soul, but that sometimes cried so hard that even she couldn't help but hear.

Two. Two natures, two people. Light and shadow. Maybe, she mused, everyone's like that. Maybe there's no real difference, between me and
Mamma
, between me and the general. We're all the same, with a dark side and a bright side.

She thought back to Romano, the colleague she'd spent the morning with, chasing down what might prove to be merely an old woman's fantasy, or perhaps something more. He, too, silent as he was, might have his good sides; maybe he was a good father, or maybe when he was with his friends, drinking a beer, he lost the dolorous expression that seemed to be stamped on his face.

Not that she was all that different, she thought to herself as the lights of the city center faded away, to be replaced by the semidarkness of the outskirts. Silence, the closed door. Perhaps the last time that the side in shadow and the side in light had fit together was at boarding school, twelve years previous. That wonderful summer when she was sixteen. So long ago. Maybe too long ago.

Alex was driving slowly; her compact car was calmly tooling along nearly deserted roads. A weekday evening, in the middle of an economic downturn. People went out less and less, these days. Certainly, they weren't as bad as the woman who'd answered through the locked door that morning; according to the old woman, she never went out at all.

Alex had detected indecision, in that voice. And also, from behind the wood of the door and the steel of the lock, a hint of fear. Fear of what? Of losing something? Of someone's anger? Fear is always the daughter of violence, thought Alex. It's just that there are so many different kinds of violence. And therefore so many different kinds of fear.

She thought about the general as she passed a half-empty bus. My fear. Or maybe I'm his fear. Now that he's old, now that he knows he'll get nothing more from his life, I've become his chief fear: fear that at my age I'm not thinking about a husband, about kids. You sneak looks at me, general. I know that you look at me. But now it's my turn to give you a blank wall, to block any attempts you might make to get to know me. Too late, general. Now it's too late.

She couldn't say why, but she thought of Palma, the commissario. A strange boss, cheerful and sociable. Perhaps it was because they were just starting out, and he wanted to motivate them. What would it have been like to have him as a father, instead of the general? Maybe it would have been exactly the same. Or maybe not. No point in thinking about it, anyway.

One thing she knew was that Palma was different from that asshole Rigoni, the commissario of Decumano Maggiore. An old man who was afraid even of his own shadow. She thought back to the look on his face when he'd emerged from his office, after hearing the shot. The expression of terror, of uncertainty. And then the anger, at her.

I didn't lose a thing, thought Alex, switching on her turn signal before pulling into the nondescript courtyard. Not a thing. One place is as good as another. The important thing is to be able to do my job.

She got out of the car after pulling into a stall that hid it from view. Discretion, she thought, feeling reassured. Discretion was the first thing about this place, which meant it had the finest clientele.

She took the elevator from the garage straight up to the coat check. From her purse she pulled a bandanna, which she used to tie back her short hair, as well as a small black mask. She handed the girl her raincoat, her jacket, and her bag; the black top and tight pants she was wearing had struck her as a perfect compromise between the one Alex and the other.

The warm, welcoming jazz enveloped her as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, which was only slightly attenuated by dim, colored lights. She went up to the bar and ordered a drink. She no longer needed to screw up her courage, the way she'd had to the first few times; but she'd grown fond of the heat of the alcohol as it sank into her body, and by now she associated it with this setting.

A man came over, no mask, salt-and-pepper hair; his eyes were confident, his smile artificial. Someone who was pretty sure of himself. He asked if he could buy her a drink, and she said no. His gaze cooled instantly, and he sank away into the darkness without a farewell. Alex hadn't come here for someone like him.

With her glass in hand she ventured further into the club. She knew exactly where to go, but she liked to take her time getting there, as if arriving by chance. She enjoyed pretending that she'd stumbled upon the place, without making any kind of specific effort. As if it hadn't been an acute, urgent drive that had impelled her to come.

She continued through several rooms, all of them immersed in the semidarkness, with music piped in discreetly, low enough that you could talk, but loud enough to guarantee that any conversation was absolutely confidential. Many were masked, as she was, but others felt no need. Alex knew that for some people, the pleasure lay precisely in displaying themselves and their identities. Not for her.

There were times when she'd fantasized about meeting someone she knew. She couldn't help laughing at the thought. She wouldn't have been recognizable, and she'd have enjoyed seeing people's true nature; maybe even the general's. She thought about how unlikely that would be; in all his life, the most reckless thing the general had ever done was smoke in the boys' bathroom at school.

She saw two masked men walk past, holding hands. Further on, a man introduced the woman he was with to another woman, who kissed her on the lips.

It was starting to warm up in there. Alex took a drink.

She reached a larger room, where people were dancing languidly to the lazy rhythm of the music. She stopped and took in the scene. At the edge of the room, she saw a woman standing alone. She was tall, with long red hair, a glittery mask covering her eyes and nose. Bare shoulders over a wide, low neckline; large breasts, just barely starting to sag, hung free beneath the fabric of her short black dress. Long legs, bare, and shoes that glittered with sequins. Aggressive clothing and a shy, awkward demeanor: typical for someone who was there for the first time.

Alex went over, her manner reassuring. She whispered a few words in her ear and the girl smiled, tense. After a short while she held out her hand and starting moving her hips in time to the music. They danced like that for a while, not touching, eyes locked through the masks, while around them everything faded and vanished, leaving room only for the saxophone and the scent of the faint sheen of sweat exuding from their bodies. After a few minutes, there was nothing and no one but the two of them: the slender, lithe girl in pants and a shirt, and the soft, feminine redhead with long, bare legs. They moved closer, imperceptibly, and the tips of their breasts brushed, sparking an electric charge that made both of them shiver.

Alex pressed her lips against the young woman's, and the redhead tasted alcohol, lipstick, and mystery. Her green eyes grew lazy, losing all awkwardness.

They kissed, tongues intertwining, as desire took shape, sweeping away every barrier until it dominated their thoughts. One song gave seamless way to the next, accompanying the movement of their bodies. Alex placed one hand behind the redhead's neck, and she in turn placed her hands on Alex's hips. Then their lips parted, leaving their eyes to gaze levelly, saying to each other what the flesh already knew.

Alex took the woman by the hand and walked her to the door that led to the private rooms, where the guests could finally be themselves.

And the side of her usually left in shadow was suddenly beaming.

T
he night before, once he was done questioning the notary's employees, Lojacono had phoned in to the precinct to update the team on their findings.

Ottavia had taken careful note: “Iolanda Russo, accountant. I'll see what I can do. Listen, the commissario said that tomorrow morning we're all supposed to be here for an operations meeting. Pisanelli is asking around about the victim, and we ought to receive a preliminary report from forensics. The notary's apartment house is thronged with reporters. Word has gotten out.”

The lieutenant thought those meetings were a waste of time, and anyway he preferred to work alone: he found Aragona's presence irritating, even if he had to admit that the corporal had served his purpose, casting, incredibly, a certain spell on Lanza.

 

He got to the office early, and was surprised to see Ottavia and Pisanelli already at their desks.

“Hey, don't either one of you ever go home?”

The woman chuckled: “Oh, we go, we go. But you know what this job is like, it worms its way into a corner of your mind and you keep chewing it over. I have some news for you. But I'll tell you about it later, in the meeting.”

Pisanelli, who was reading the paper, piped up: “I have some news for you myself. We're on the front page again, the eyes of the whole city upon on us. But what else is new?”

In the meantime, Romano had come in too, his face weary from what looked like a sleepless night. He'd had a long argument with his wife, after trying to apologize for hitting her; she'd cried the whole time, and the cop had been forced to go sleep on the couch again, for the sake of her peace of mind.

“Early birds, eh? Well, so much the better. What time does the boss come in? I need to get a warrant to enter an apartment.”

“He should be here any minute now,” Ottavia replied. “It's about the complaint that came in yesterday, that phone call, isn't it?”

Alex came in too, wearing a pair of dark glasses: “That's the one, yes. Good morning, everyone. There's something strange about that place.”

Pisanelli studied her: “Hard night, eh, partner? Well, at your age . . . In any case, I checked the archives, we don't have any previous calls from Amalia Guardascione; she's not one of those people who call 911 and invent some complaint just so they have someone to talk to.”

Romano nodded: “I don't know, at first I thought it sounded pretty fanciful. But then, in fact, the young woman wouldn't let us in.”

Alex chimed in: “And that's not all: there were strange hesitations in the way she talked. And no one we spoke to seems to have seen anyone go in or come out of that apartment.”

Palma walked into the group office and was pleased by what he saw: “That's great, you're all here first thing in the morning. Clearly, we're starting to get into gear. So, Di Nardo and Romano, you're interested in following up on the complaint from Guardascione.”

Before either of the two had a chance to answer, Aragona walked in, whistling. As soon as he noticed that everyone was already there, he abruptly broke off the tune, checked the clock on the wall and then his wristwatch to make sure they matched up, and said, bewildered: “Wait, excuse me, but it's eight . . . was there an early meeting this morning I wasn't told about?”

Palma laughed: “No, Aragona, don't you worry. It's just that evidently we're all early birds, and I think that's a good sign.”

Di Nardo did her best to bring the group's attention back to the issue of the locked apartment and the mysterious woman: “We were hoping to ask for a warrant, commissario. There's something in there we've got to figure out.”

Romano tried to chart a more cautious path, worried that if the bubble that was their operation burst, they might be seen as overzealous: “We don't have all the evidence, that's true. It's more of a . . . sensation, I guess you'd say. But yes, we both agree that this bears looking into. Just to be absolutely sure.”

Palma made a quick note: “All right, then. I trust your sensations. Ottavia, let's ask for a warrant from whatever magistrate's on duty; Di Nardo, give us all the necessary information: street address, time of the complaint, any evidence you have, etc. Let's see if we can get this taken care of this morning. Now, since we're all here, let's move on to the next topic.”

He pulled a bundle of newspapers from his bag and spread them out on Ottavia's desk.