Three-Card Monte (17 page)

“Okay, let's do that. Thanks.”

Thing to Do Number One, still outstanding. Oh, well, never mind. Now what do I have to do? Oh yes, phone the Ricciardi woman, and then go to the municipal police. Or rather, wait: as I'm already out, first I'll go to the police and then I'll phone the witch.

Massimo took a cigarette from the pack, looked at it, decided he'd smoke after going to the police, and put it back. Then he walked to the crossing and started to cross the avenue. Having reached the middle, he stopped and closed his eyes.

A cyclist with a mustache, who had taken it for granted that someone crossing the street wouldn't suddenly stop, missed him by half an inch and turned without stopping to say something blasphemous but, given the circumstances, well-deserved. Massimo stood still in the middle of the roadway, with his eyes closed.

After a few seconds, he heard the sound of a car horn interspersed with curses. He opened his eyes and saw that a column of seven or eight cars had formed by his side, their drivers understandably impatient to go where they had to go and with absolutely no desire to have barmen messing them around. Massimo ran to the sidewalk and carried on walking, trying not to take any notice of the insults being hurled in his direction. As he advanced, his breath came ever quicker and he felt his face tingle with emotion.

Calm down, calm down. It may just be a coincidence. You may have it all wrong. Now go to the bar and think about it for a moment. There must be something I can do. First of all, though, I have to understand what it means. It means something, I'm sure of that. I'd bet my balls on it. Not that they're any use to me these days anyway. Right, stop bullshitting and try to concentrate for a moment.

While Massimo was trying to concentrate, the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver mechanically, and thanks entirely to his parasympathetic nervous system managed to come out with a distracted “Hello.”

“Oh, you're there, are you? I've been ready for half an hour.”

“Grandpa?” Massimo said.

“You're a dickhead, you know that?” Ampelio continued. “You've been a dickhead for more than thirty years now. I've been waiting half an hour.”

Oh, God. Today's the twenty-fifth. The post office. I forgot to take Grandpa to the post office. That's what it was.

On the twenty-fifth of every month, Ampelio went to the post office to withdraw his well-earned pension. Which, to tell the truth, he could have had paid directly into his own post office account. Unfortunately every attempt to persuade the old man to have his pension paid into his account was rejected by him on the basis of the following sequence of arguments:

1) The only money you have is what you spend, and if it's in my account I won't touch it.

2) I'm already eighty-three and could kick the bucket tomorrow morning, and when I'm in hell I can do whatever I like with my money.

3) You can all fuck off anyway.

Given the untouchability of the Ampelian
Weltanschauung
, then, on the twenty-fifth of every month the Great Architect created on this Earth, Ampelio had to be picked up and taken to withdraw his pension. Ever since he had gotten his license, this had fallen to Massimo, for the simple reason that his first car had been a gift from none other than Ampelio himself. The twenty-fifth of every month. Including today.

“Yes, Grandpa,” Massimo said, trying to navigate the uncommon situation of having to be nice to his grandfather. “You'll have to be patient. I've had a bit of a tough morning, and I forgot.”

“Oh, great! He forgot. Look, I'm the one who's eighty-something. You're fifty years younger than me. If there's anyone here who has a right to forget things, it's me, not you! The problem is, you only have a memory for the things that interest you. The bar, yes. Mathematics, yes. Soccer too. Your grandfather, no. Because you don't give a damn about your grandfather! The day I die you'll regret how you treated me. He forgot! Do me a favor . . . ”

“Grandpa, why don't you do
me
a favor for once and get someone else to take you to the post office. I'll explain later, okay? Bye.”

And he slammed the phone down.

That's it! I've got it. All it took was someone saying the right word. I'm going to have to say thank you to my grandfather. Of course, I may be wrong. There's only one way to find out.

Massimo took a deep breath, then picked up the phone again. As he was dialing the number he realized he was out of breath, and tried taking two or three deep breaths to calm down. At the third ring, a female voice answered:

“Good morning, Department of Chemistry.”

“Good morning.” Deep breath. “I'd like to speak to Carlo Pittaluga.”

“One moment.”

After a brief wait, luckily not disturbed by inane music, he heard Carlo's voice:

“Yes, hello.”

“Hi, Carlo.” Extra deep breath. “Sorry to keep bothering you, but I need a favor. It's vital that you do it immediately. Do you still have the stuff that was in the Japanese professor's computer?”

“The files? One moment, I may have deleted them but I'm not sure. I'll have a look.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the frantic clicking of the mouse.

“Yes, it's all there. What do you want me to do? Shall I send it to you?”

“No. You should try running the program.”

“What?”

“In one of the two folders there was a program in Fortran. A program for molecular dynamics. Do you remember?”

“Yes, yes. Here it is. A simple little program. Probably for educational purposes.”

“Good. Please, can you try to compile it and run it?”

“Well . . . why not?” Carlo laughed. “What's supposed to happen? Will it give us the name of the murderer?”

“It's possible. In a way. I'll explain later. Will you call me when you've done it?”

“All right. But I don't know how long it's going to take to run it.”

“It doesn't matter. Try to compile it, anyway.”

“Right away, sir. See you later.”

Massimo put the phone down. He picked up the pack of cigarettes and took one out. Now I really need one. He lit it, took a few drags, and tried to relax. Pointless. He was in such an emotional state that he was shaking. He took another few drags, then stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. At that moment the telephone rang.

Massimo picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

“I see you're still there.” It was Ampelio. “Who brought you up, King Kong? When I was young, if I'd slammed the phone down like that, you know what would have happened?”

“Grandpa, when you were young they still used smoke signals. I need to keep the phone clear. I'll pick you up in five minutes, okay? Bye.”

And he hung up. After a moment, the phone rang again. This time Massimo picked up cautiously.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Massimo.” It was Carlo's voice. “Listen, I tried to compile the program, but there's a problem.”

“What problem?” Massimo asked.

“It doesn't work. It's too big. In fact, it's ridiculously big. Theoretically, this program will require more than forty gigabytes.”

Massimo moved the receiver away from his ear, while the shaking in his legs receded and the tightness in his chest vanished as if someone had magicked it away. He was surprised not to hear a triumphal march.

I don't believe it. I actually got it.

After a few seconds, he heard Carlo's voice again: “What should I do, reduce the size and send it?”

“No, Carlo. It doesn't matter. It's perfect as it is.”

“Oh. All right. Will you explain sometime?”

“Of course. At least I hope so. Listen, I'll call you later. Thanks.”

 

After hanging up, Massimo was silent for about ten seconds. Of course, I'm still not one hundred percent sure. Actually, I'm not sure at all. It's a theory. But right now there's only one thing I can do.

Massimo picked up the receiver for the umpteenth time and dialed a number. At the second ring, a mild voice replied, “Pineta Police Station.”

“Good morning. This is Massimo Viviani. I'd like to speak to Inspector Fusco.”

“One moment, please.”

H
aving phoned the police station, and come to an agreement with Fusco about what to do, there remained half an hour to go pick up his grandfather and take him to get his paws on his long-awaited pension. A task which, as can be imagined, Massimo hated and feared at the same time.

Firstly, Ampelio liked to be taken to the post office early in the morning, by nine at the latest. There, he found a way of chatting with the people he knew (in other words, everybody) without somehow losing his place in the line, which he defended verbally and with distracted but intentional blows with his stick on the tibias of anyone trying to cut in front of him. After which, having pocketed the cash, he remained where he was, calmly talking to the cashier on duty, completely ignoring the counterpoint of comments—I'd happily kill people who do that, oh but the poor man's old, I'm old too though I was young when I came in here, there should be a trap door in front of the counter so that when someone wastes time the cashier just pulls a lever and hey presto—coming thick and fast behind his back. As a result, in terms of time, the operation required no less than an hour and a half, during which the bar was in the hands of Tiziana on overtime pay.

Secondly, the car ride was a genuine ordeal because Ampelio, although not himself at the wheel, always found a way to say something in his fine stentorian voice to any motorist whose driving did not satisfy his personal rules of correctness: the one who goes too fast (“Carry on, the trees seem solid enough”), the one who goes too slowly (“What are you carrying, eggs? Can you sell me a couple?”), the one who uses his horn too much (“Blow that thing when you go to see your mother, there's always a traffic jam there”) and so on. Of course, if anyone took offense, it would be Massimo they got angry with, not that nice old man in the beret.

 

Having picked up Ampelio outside his building, Massimo had just set off in the direction of the post office when Ampelio said, “Listen, Massimo, Pilade and I have been thinking.”

“I'm already shaking. Go on.”

“What do you mean, shaking, you moron? It's in your own interest. Tell me, how would you feel if we left the table under the elm free?”

“I'd feel fine. Have you found another bar that'll let you in?”

“What are you talking about? We're staying there. We'll just move to another spot.”

“And where would that be? The last time you all came inside you made me switch off the air-conditioning. And it was July, I don't know if you remember.”

“Not outside and not inside. Behind.”

“Behind?”

“Well behind. In the open space next to Toncelli's garden.”

The open space to which Ampelio was referring was a strip of ground, about three yards wide, that ran alongside the wall to the west of the bar, and which you reached through a door at the back. Shady certainly, given that it was overlooked on one side by the hedge of old Toncelli's garden, but on the other long side it was completely hemmed in by the wall of the bar. Too narrow and too oppressive, in his judgment, to put tables there. But if they liked it . . .

“Well, if it's okay for you it's certainly okay for me. I'll take a table for four and put it next to the door.”

“No, no, we don't need tables. They'll take up too much space.”

“But what else do you need the space for?”

“For the bowling green, right? If you put a table there, it'll be too short. Without a table it's almost 25 yards, it's not quite regulation, but it'll certainly do.”

“Do for whom? For you, maybe. Not for me.”

Bowls, can you imagine? I already have the four of you on my back all day long, morning and night, you're part of the furniture by now. If I put in a bowling green as well, I'm done for. I'll have all the pensioners in Pineta waiting in line inside the bar. I don't have any desire to put denture adhesive next to the soap in the bathroom. I'll stick landmines under that space. Forget about bowls.

“Listen to him! Tiziana puts those things up on the walls and he doesn't say a word, but if I suggest something, no way. What difference will it make if you put in a bowling green? Will it frighten people away?”

“Grandpa, you're changing the kind of bar this is. If we sell peanuts, our customers will be monkeys. If we put in a bowling green, our customers will be veterans of the Africa campaign. It's the law of supply and demand. At the moment, I already have my daily dose of seniors to put up with. I have no intention of increasing it for the next thirty years.”

Ampelio grunted. In the meantime, they had arrived at the post office.

“You're just being stupid, as far as I can see. All right, let me get out. Park the car, come inside, we'll talk it over, and you'll see I'm right.”

Massimo parked, let his grandfather get out, watched him walk toward the post office, then as soon as Ampelio was at a safe distance, he started the car again and set off in the direction of the police station.

That's all I need right now, to talk about bowls.

 

*

 

Massimo was sitting in the now familiar armchair without casters, looking at Inspector Fusco. Who in his turn was looking at Massimo. This had been going on, in silence, for about thirty seconds.

A few minutes earlier, Massimo had arrived at the police station and had told Fusco what had occurred to him that morning and what he had asked Carlo to do. Then he had offered Fusco his explanation.

Now he was waiting.

After a few more seconds, Fusco got up out of his armchair with casters. “It's a mess,” he said.