The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (30 page)

It was like a constantly flowing eruption of molten chaos, like a huge cauldron where a dark foul-smelling liquid was bubbling incessantly away. Alex wondered how anyone could live in that place.

And she also wondered what the hell had come over Romano, who was even more taciturn, even grumpier than usual. Sitting next to him, she could detect a dull roar, like the sound of distant thunder, warning of a storm about to burst.

They were making their way down the street, checking the very infrequent numbers impressed into the walls of the ancient apartment buildings. It was ludicrous to think of getting there by car. Every so often, like a shaft of light cutting across the darkness, through ramshackle street doors hanging open, they could glimpse magnificent gardens and tall plants swaying in the wind.

When they finally came to what ought to have been number 22, they found themselves before a delivery van blocking the entrance to a crumbling
basso
apartment at ground level. Two men were loading the van with household belongings, boxes, and badly dinged-up furniture. A fat, middle-aged woman, her hair gathered up atop her head and fastened with a large plastic clip, was watching the work and issuing instructions in dialect in a hoarse voice.

They walked over and attracted her attention. “Excuse me, signo',” Romano asked, “is this number 22?”

The woman turned around, glaring: “That depends. Who are you looking for?”

There could be no doubt that the woman had understood at a glance exactly who she was dealing with. At those latitudes, Alex thought, people recognized cops from a distance, they could sniff them out. Though it was equally probable that a team of street kids had taken off at a dead run the minute they entered the neighborhood, shouting to all who cared to listen: look out, here come the cops.

Romano, however, was in no mood for idle chitchat: “Signo', it doesn't matter who we're looking for; either this is number 22 or it isn't. And if you ask me, this
is
number 22, and
you
are Signora Esposito.”

Alex appreciated her partner's straight talk, and as she took a closer look she realized that it was possible to discern, in the woman's porcine features, buried under the literal weight of poor nutrition and early aging, a certain resemblance to the beautiful girl they'd met in the shuttered apartment.

The woman erupted into coarse laughter. “So what, around here practically everyone's named Esposito. What would I know about who you're looking for? Anyway, yes, I'm Assunta Esposito. Who are you?”

The two men had stopped loading the truck and, though they remained at a certain distance, they were following the conversation. Two other individuals, a man and a woman, had appeared at a window across the way.

The air was growing thick with hostility. Though the pocket of her overcoat, Alex placed a hand on the bulge beneath her belt, and the touch immediately restored her confidence.

Romano hadn't taken his eyes off the woman's face. A muscle had started to twitch in his jaw, and Alex knew that promised nothing good.

“Your daughter is also named Esposito, first name Annunziata, eighteen years of age, isn't that right? If so, we need to speak with you and your husband.”

The woman's eye came to rest on the couple looking out the window.

“Come inside.”

She turned and headed indoors, displaying an enormous, swaying backside to the two policemen. Alex wondered whether the magical creature she'd admired just the day before was genetically destined to turn into this, or whether it was merely a matter of whether one took care of oneself.

Inside the ground-floor
basso
, there was all the characteristic chaos of moving house. The virago let herself flop down onto a wobbly chair that groaned beneath her weight. Romano and Di Nardo looked around for a place to sit, but found none and remained standing.

“What has my daughter done? Why are you looking for her?”

Di Nardo replied: “Who told you that we're looking for her? We're looking for you, actually. My name is Di Nardo, this is my partner Romano, and we're from the Pizzofalcone precinct.”

The woman snickered as she lit a cigarette.

“You're out of your jurisdiction, commissa'. We're in the Montecalvario precinct here.”

Romano nodded.

“My, my, aren't we well informed about police jurisdictions; well, then, you must have regular interactions with the various precincts, no?”

One of the two men loading things onto the van broke in: “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Di Nardo stepped to one side, so she could keep an eye on both the woman and the two men. The men were young, overgrown boys, and one of them clearly resembled both the woman and the girl.

Without bothering to turn around, Romano asked: “Who are these two gentlemen? Why don't you introduce us, signo'? Otherwise we're liable to think they're a couple of rude oafs.”

The one who had spoken took a step forward, but the woman raised a hand to stop him.

“These are my sons, commissa'. Pietro and Costanzo. Forgive them, they're cranky because I'm making them work and they aren't used to it. We're moving, as you can see.”

“I'm not a commissario and neither is my partner. And where exactly are you moving?”

The woman put on a ridiculously supercilious air: “We've rented a slightly superior apartment.”

Romano waved his hand to take in the surroundings.

“Hard to imagine, it's so delightful right here. And just where would that be?”

“Corso Vittorio Emanuele,” the woman replied. “A building that was recently renovated.”

“And I can just guess who owns the building and the company that renovated it,” Di Nardo commented. “Your two boys, here, do they have jobs?”

The second man, a hulking youth with a grim expression, replied: “Of course we have jobs. We work for the same building contractor that . . .”

The mother broke in brusquely: “Shut your trap, you idiot. Speak when you're spoken to, didn't you hear the commissario? Don't be an oaf.”

Romano assumed a tense expression, which resembled a grimace of disgust: “A new job, and now you're moving to a new apartment. So many new things. Just what's going on in your family, signo'? And what about your husband, if I'm not prying, where would he be?”

The woman stared at him, eyes narrowed in the cigarette smoke.

“My husband is at work. He's an executive assistant. He goes to deposit money in the bank; he takes the wife and children of a very important man around the city, as their driver. He makes good money.”

Romano lowered his voice a little: “In other words, you're making ends meet. Everyone's fine, with nice legitimate jobs, all aboveboard, you pay your taxes and everything. An apartment, plenty of money. Prosperity. And all thanks to that poor little girl. All you've had to give in exchange is your daughter.”

The young man standing behind Romano muttered: “
Omm' 'e mmerda!
You piece of shit,” and lunged at him. Di Nardo started to grab her gun, but Romano, without even turning around, jabbed backwards with his elbow, striking the man square in the solar plexus. He dropped to the floor, writhing and wretching; as the second young man, moving cautiously, stepped forward, Romano half turned and said: “I wouldn't try that if I were you.”

The man froze, uncertain what to do next. The mother hadn't moved a muscle. She started speaking softly: “My daughter is doing fine. She's doing better than she ever has before, my daughter. She lives in a fine, beautiful apartment. She has plenty to eat, nice clothes, a television. Furniture, a kitchen, a fridge full of things to eat, that's what my daughter has. And who's ever seen so much food in the fridge? My daughter's doing fine, better than fine.”

Di Nardo had pulled out her pistol, and she held it with the barrel pointing down toward the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she was watching the two young men: one was coughing and getting to his feet, rubbing his gut; the other one was standing stock-still, frozen to the spot by Romano's threat. Di Nardo had gotten the distinct impression that her partner had smiled in satisfaction after elbowing the man; she was forced to admit to herself that Romano was climbing the ranks of the very few men she respected.

He spoke to the woman, without looking in her direction: “She's doing fine, signo'? Locked in an apartment, without ever going out for a breath of fresh air, an eighteen-year-old girl? In the hands of man old enough to be her grandfather? You say she's doing fine?”

There was a moment of silence. A moped buzzed past, honking its horn in the narrow
vicolo
and drawing angry curses from a man on foot.

The woman whispered: “Well, why don't you just ask her? You'll see what my daughter has to say. It's not as if beauty lasts forever, you know. And after all, all those sluts on TV who shake their asses on command, what do you think they're doing, don't you think they date men three times their age? Children are supposed to do their bit to help out their families. Every one of them doing what they can, the best they know how. You can rest assured, my daughter is happy. And now, if you want to tell me what you need, we need to get back to moving.”

Romano took a step forward and pulled his hands out of the pockets of his overcoat. Di Nardo noticed that he was clenching and unclenching his hands as if they'd gone to sleep on him.

“Why, of course, I understand. You need to get back to moving. When are you going to get a chance like this again? In fact, I'd suggest you get as much out of this situation as you can, signo', because you're right, it's not as if beauty lasts forever. And it's hard times after that. Brutally hard times. No, we don't need anything from you. You're the one who needs to watch out. Because I swear to you, on my word of honor, signo', the minute you cross the line by so much as an inch, I'll kick your ass so hard it'll be twice the size it is now.”

He'd spoken in a voice that was little more than a whisper, but every word he'd said had carried. The young man who'd gotten up from the ground had finally caught his breath; now he roared like a wild animal. Slipping his hand into his pocket he yanked out a switchblade and lunged wildly at Romano.

Alex assumed a crouch and held her pistol out at arm's length, gripping it with both hands; she aimed at the other brother, who had moved to pick a metal bar up off the ground: “Freeze! Don't you move!”

Romano whipped around with lightning speed and grabbed the first young man's hand in midair, clenching his wrist with tremendous force. The blade fell to the ground with a clatter. The entire scene had lasted less than a second. With his other hand, the policeman grabbed the young man by the throat and started to squeeze. The mother started to moan softly, like a dog whimpering. The larger of the two young men dropped the metal bar, staring at Alex's pistol as if it were the lone eye of some animal.

Alex noticed a strange light gleaming in her partner's gaze. The young man, choking, had turned faintly blue and his breath came in rattles.

Alex said, softly: “Francesco. Francesco, that's enough. That's enough.”

As if awakening from a dream, Romano suddenly dropped the young man, who collapsed to the ground, desperately gulping mouthfuls of air. Romano took a deep breath; then he turned again to speak to the woman: “This one's on the house, signo'. This time I'm not going to run your boys in. It seems a pity to have all three children in prison. Even though, as far as your daughter's prison goes, you're the one who put her there. But you remember what I told you. Remember it, and remember it always. Because
I'll
remember.”

And he walked out of the
basso
, followed by Alex, who still had her gun in her hand, though concealed beneath her coat.

By now, there was no one looking out of the window across the way.

 

They sat in silence, until Romano started the car. Then he spoke to his partner: “Listen, I should thank you. If you hadn't stopped me, I . . . You know, times have been hard for me lately, and . . .”

Alex interrupted him: “Forget about it. I didn't see a thing. And anyway, it was self-defense, that asshole attacked you twice.”

Romano drove for a while in silence. Then he said: “There's nothing we can do, and you know it, right? Nothing at all. If the girl is there of her own free will, there's no way we can haul her out. She's an adult.”

Di Nardo nodded.

“I know that. Still, I'd like to swing by that apartment one last time. Alone, if you don't mind; with you there, the girl might not talk. With me, seeing as I'm a woman, she just might open up.”

Romano thought it over. Then he said: “Sure. Go ahead. But be careful, don't go overboard. This has to be unofficial; if the girl files a complaint, you'll be in serious trouble. Remember: you have a record, same as all of us.”

“Right. Same as all of us. But I want her to tell me to my face, that she wants to live there, locked in like that. Otherwise, I can't accept it.”

They sat a little while longer in silence, while outside the car the city and the wind howled dissonantly. Then Romano said: “Di Nardo, you're all right. It's an honor to work with you.”

Alex smiled, without turning around.

W
hen they got to the notary's office, they immediately noticed the atmosphere had changed since the last time they'd been there.

At the front door there were six or seven people lined up with various notifications in hand, awaiting their respective turns; behind a bulletproof glass teller window sat Imma Arace; she was handling promissory notes, counting money, and stamping the documents to indicate they'd been paid. Beyond the glass door a great many other customers could be seen, moving from one desk to the next, while the employees worked busily. The notary was nowhere in sight.