The Crocodile (6 page)

But now he’s a man, not a sobbing child who’s lost his mamma. A man who knows what he wants, who knows the importance of things and knows how to plan for the future; but also a man who wants love in his life, now that he’s found it.

He also knows his father, and he knows that many of the objections that are sure to rain down on him will have to do with his studies, the importance of concentration. And so he’s come up with a strategy: he’ll take this exam, one of the most important ones of the whole course. He’ll do better than usual:
summa cum laude
. He’ll do so well that the professor, a friend of Papa’s, will call him to offer his congratulations. Only then will he tell his father that he’s in love—it will be unequivocal that not only did his love not distract him, it actually drove him to distinguish himself, to achieve the very highest level of excellence.

He knows his father, and he knows that his supremely rational nature can overcome prejudices and stubborn convictions; for that matter, it was his father who always told him that prejudice is merely a consecration of stupidity.

He knows his father, and he feels certain that he’ll yield when confronted with an undeniable fact, that he won’t stand in the way of his dreams.

His father and her. Donato can’t imagine how they could be at odds, two people who both love the same young man so wholeheartedly. He’s optimistic, and he can’t help but think that way.

What if he were forced to make a decision tomorrow, just to imagine an unlikely situation? Donato feels a faint shiver of fear. The thought of living without her is impossible. But Papa, Papa is part of me and I’m part of him. It’d kill him if I ever turned my back on him. He always tells me that I’m his one reason for living.

Donato suddenly stands up from the bed. That’s not the way it’ll be, he tells himself. It’ll all go well, I’ll take the exam, I’ll do exceptionally well, and the three of us will go out to dinner together. And we’ll talk about the future.

So now, let’s get started with this last revision session.

Sweetheart, my darling,

What’s that phrase they use in the movies? That’s a wrap!

What a pity that I won’t be able to see you until it’s all over. I wish I could tell you in detail how things went. You would have been so proud of me. It all went according to plan, down to the tiniest detail. And even if it hadn’t, I was ready to take care of unexpected developments. I could feel my mind whirring away like a well-oiled machine. Not that I was worried I might lack the courage, for instance, or suddenly panic—none of that. Ten years is a long time to spend thinking it over every day, picturing every single aspect. If there are doubts, you’ve resolved them by the time you’re ready.

So I got there at ten o’clock. I figured that this was the perfect time, that there would be hardly anyone passing on the street at that time of night, and everyone would be watching television or eating dinner. In the previous few days I’d noticed that the last tenant to return home at night was always the same guy: he lives in a third-floor flat, and he always arrives on foot with a canvas bag. No idea what he does. Anyway, after nine-thirty no one uses the courtyard.

The boy always parks (or I should say “used to park,” shouldn’t I, my darling?) his scooter in the same place, right in the corner, where the little nook is located. I have to admit that this was a bit of good luck. But no matter what, I figured it out: if you take care, if you walk with your head down, shuffling your feet, if you act like you’re old and tired, then people look the other way. In other words, you become invisible. And invisible is what I’ve made myself, and that’s what I intend to remain until the end. Good, isn’t it?

So anyway, I wriggled into my little nook. It stank of piss and that was actually convenient too. If by some unlikely chance I was seen, I’d have pretended I was taking a leak. But no one saw me.

I stood there, waiting. It takes as long as it takes, haven’t I always told you that?

Without haste, I screwed the tube onto the barrel of the gun. Everything fit nicely into my counterfeit bag, even my packet of tissues. This eye is always weepy, but you know, I’ve grown used to it. The lady doctor back home told me, the last time I went in for a checkup, that it’s a chronic condition by now and there’s nothing that she can do. And anyway, what does it matter? I felt like laughing in her face on my way out of the clinic.

So what I did is I screwed the tube onto the gun, as I was telling you. It’s simply spectacular, I’ve tried it lots of times at home, and what you hear is a sound like someone snapping their fingers. I’ve destroyed so many cushions, you can’t even imagine. One time, towards the end, I even thought of using it on her, so that I wouldn’t have to listen to her breath rattling away anymore. But then how would I have been able to finish what I needed to do so that I could see you again?

I put on my reading glasses, because I reckoned that when I extended my arm he’d be about a foot away when he lowered his head to lock the chain. The night before I’d given it a try, and he didn’t even sense the air from my hand. He was whistling a tune, all pleased with himself. I wonder why. He was happy yesterday too. At that age, my darling, everyone’s happy; there’s no other way to be.

I keep wandering off topic, but it’s because I’m so happy myself. At last, I’ve begun.

I’d been ready and waiting for two hours by the time he got there. Completely ready. In fact, every so often I had to put the gun back into my bag because my arm was getting tired. I’d rehearsed every detail so many times in my head that when I did it, it was as if I was merely thinking it one more time. He dropped his keys, he had to pick them up and that gave me a little extra time, three or four seconds longer than it usually took him. I aimed, just think, right at the corner of the angle that the barber razored in to shape that ridiculous hairdo of his. Then I walked away from there, and I only came back after a small crowd had assembled to see what had happened.

Then the police came. First one car, then two more. People were elbowing each other and talking, and I was there, with my shoulder bag, listening in. You know, my darling,
everyone detests the cops. They really hate them. And I didn’t sense any pity in the crowd for the boy; all they were wondering was who he was, but everyone was happy that it hadn’t happened to them. People are surely strange.

When the first car pulled up, two men got out, and I noticed one of them in particular. He moved slowly, unhurriedly, as if he were listening to a familiar piece of music. He went over to the nook and picked up something off the ground—I imagine the shell casing. Then he followed the same trajectory I had covered, looking at the ground as he went.

Don’t you worry about me, my darling. No one was watching me, as usual. You know, I never would have thought it, but apparently this is a city that really minds its own business. And I took care to set my feet down on their sides, to scrape my shoes off thoroughly: there were no prints. Still, the policeman followed in exactly the same direction.

Then he looked up at the little crowd of people where I was standing, and luckily I didn’t move. His eyes are narrow, you know, as if he were Chinese.

Then the others arrived, including a woman; I imagine she’s the assistant DA (but are prosecutors so young nowadays?). And they sent him away. That’s good, I thought. He seemed like the only one there that could figure anything out.

So anyway, sweetheart, my darling, everything is proceeding according to plan. I’m really quite satisfied.

Now it’s time to get started on the girl.

So, you’ve decided you want to be a cop after all, eh?” said Giuffrè. “I heard you were a regular Serpico. And that you went head-to-head with none other than Di Vincenzo, himself, in person.”

Lojacono didn’t even look up from the monitor. What a miserable hand: all low numbers in different suits. This time you’re fucked, he thought to himself. This damned computer: it beat him systematically.

“I’m no Serpico. I happened to be here when a nighttime emergency call came in, so I responded. And I reported what I saw.”

Giuffrè had no intention of letting it drop; he was like a dog with a bone. For once, he was the only guy in police headquarters to be speaking to the man of the hour, the subject of every conversation in the station.

“Say, do you even know what they call you? The Montalbano of the booby hatch. Doesn’t seem like a good thing, letting other people make fun of you behind your back, does it? So why don’t you tell me about your phenomenal hunches, and I’ll teach them all a thing or two.”

“What hunches are you talking about, Giuffrè? Have you lost your mind? I saw a couple of tissues that weren’t wet and I picked up a shell casing. Where’s the guesswork in that? You go ahead and tell those morons that there’s no Inspector Montalbano–and by the way he doesn’t exist where I come from either–nor is there any loony bin. And tell them not to bust my balls, or I’ll be busting theirs in return, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. You know what I want to know? Who the boy was.”

Giuffrè shrugged. “Some kid named Mirko Lorusso, aged sixteen or thereabouts. Only child, no father, mother works as a homecare nurse. A two-bit delinquent; he probably stole money from some Camorrista and was duly punished.
S’hanna ’mpara’ ’a piccerille
, as we say here—a matter of teaching kids good manners.”

Lojacono had been dealt another terrible hand by his computer: a two of clubs, a three of diamonds, and a seven, a four, and a nine of hearts.

“The Camorra has nothing to do with it. Whoever killed him had some other reason.”

Giuffrè shook his head in wonderment. “Mamma mia, so you really do want to be a policeman when you grow up. Who are you now–Inspector Maigret? Come on, Sherlock, tell me how you know the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”

Lojacono finally tore his eyes away from the monitor, having lost once again.

“First: the .22. It’s already an inaccurate and troublesome gun to start with, and you add the fact that he probably had a silencer on the thing because the courtyard is small and it echoes. Second: where the kid lives, with the risk of someone happening by and spoiling everything. Third: no easy escape route. A motorcycle or a car can’t get out of there without being noticed: it’s a blind alley. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to ride up to the scooter on a fast bike, in any old place, and shoot three or four times to make sure? Which is the typical procedure when it comes to settling a score. Fourth: his age. Could such a young kid have done something serious enough to deserve this kind of death sentence? And if he had, why would he come home all relaxed and let himself be killed where they knew they could find him? I’ll say it again: if you ask me, the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”

The sergeant sat there openmouthed. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes looked enormous.

“And you thought all these things in the two minutes that you were there? And you didn’t say anything to anyone?”

Lojacono shrugged his shoulders. “No one asked me. They told me to get out of there as fast as I could, so I left. You know that orders are meant to be obeyed, don’t you? After all, these are my own personal considerations, nothing more. But maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. Maybe it’s the Camorra settling some accounts.”

“Whatever the case, I really like the way you think. And I’ll tell you what I’d like even more: if these dickheads would stop assuming that no one working in here has any idea what they’re doing. And then there’s Di Vincenzo, who really strikes me as the princess and the pea with all his haughtiness—I’d love to see how he cracks this case. Because, fine, I understand this is a working-class neighborhood, but up till now we haven’t seen a lot of murders here. And a kid only makes it worse; people get upset about that. You’ll see—they’ll be breathing down his neck.”

Lojacono shook his head. “It’s the mother’s tragedy. You should have seen her—she was all torn up. Now you say they were alone, and that helps me understand. She lost everything. Her whole life ended, in a split second, in that courtyard. She was the very picture of grief, the poor woman.”

Giuffrè went on with the thread of his thought. “Good old Di Vincenzo has a tough piece of work on his hands with this prosecutor. Piras is a feisty young fighting chicken, and he’s not going to be able to manage her.”

Lojacono remembered the attractive young woman. “Yes, I saw her. She showed up right away. Why, do you know her?”

“Sure I know her. When I was driving around that MP—he was a lawyer, you know—I met her a couple of times when we gave her a lift in the car. Dottoressa Laura Piras, from Cagliari, thirty or so. She’s small, but quite the babe. Be warned, if she catches you looking at her tits—which are remarkable, as you no doubt saw for yourself—she’s capable of ripping your eyes out of your head. She’s determined, there’s no stopping her, and she’s on a career path that’s pointing straight up. I’ll bet you she’ll have Di Vincenzo dancing a quickstep.”

“So is she married? Does she have children?”

Giuffrè started snickering. “Oh, what’s this, now you’ve got the hots for Piras? So there’s life in those trousers of yours. I’m glad to hear it! People who don’t have any weakness of the flesh frankly scare me. Anyway, the answer is no. Even though everyone gives it a try, even the Honorable MP himself. I can’t tell you what a fool she made him look, right in front of me, or I guess I should say right behind me because I was driving. She told him to keep his hand where it belonged or she’d rip it right off his wrist.”

Lojacono gave him a chilly glance. “Don’t get all excited, there’s no weakness of the flesh. It’s just that I assume that someone who has children has a better chance of understanding what it means to lose such a young boy. And I was hoping that she could understand it. That’s all.”

“You’re right about that. Even if my son’s a big provolone of a lunkhead, and I sweat blood to send him to college, I still think of him first and always. And juvenile delinquent though he might have been, this kid was only sixteen years old. Oh Mother of God, the woman is here about the cats again. Let’s see what’s happened since last time.
Prego
, Signo’. Take a seat.”