5
Fazio, who had gone missing all morning, straggled
in just before five o’clock.
“You got anything for me?”
“Enough.”
“Before you open your mouth, I want you to know
that early this morning, Mimì went to Lo Duca’s stables and found
out some interesting things.”
He told him what Augello had discovered. When he
had finished, Fazio had a dubious look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, Chief, but wouldn’t it be better, at this
point, if we got in contact with our colleagues in Montelusa
and—”
“And passed the ball to them?”
“Chief, it could be useful to them to know that one
of the horses was killed here, in Marinella.”
“No.”
“Have it your way, then. But could you explain
why?”
“If you insist. It’s a personal matter. I was
really appalled by the stupid ferocity with which they killed that
poor animal. I want to see these guys’ faces myself.”
“But you can tell our colleagues how the horse was
killed! With all the gory details!”
“It’s one thing to hear tell of something, it’s
another to see it with your own eyes.”
“Chief, I’m sorry to be so insistent, but—”
“Are you in cahoots with Augello?”
“Me, in cahoots . . . ?!” said Fazio, turning
pale.
“Sorry, I’m a bit on edge.”
He really was. Because he just remembered he had
said yes to Ingrid, and now he no longer felt like going to Fiacca
to join the pack of assholes drooling after Rachele.
“Tell me about Prestia.”
Fazio was still a touch offended.
“Chief, there are certain things you shouldn’t say
to me.”
“I’ll say it again: I’m sorry. Okay?”
Fazio pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket
pocket, and the inspector realized that he was going to recite all
the personal particulars of Michilino Prestia and his associates.
Some people collect stamps, Chinese prints, model airplanes, and
seashells; Fazio collected bureaucratic information on individuals.
No doubt when he went home he logged all the information he
collected on the people he was investigating onto his computer. And
on his days off, he amused himself reviewing it.
“May I?” said Fazio.
“Go ahead.”
At other times the inspector had threatened him
with death if he read his notes out loud. But since he had offended
him, he now had to pay. Fazio smiled and started reading. Peace had
been made.
“Michele Prestia, known as ‘Michilino,’ born in
Vigàta, March 23, 1953, to Giuseppe Prestia and Giovanna née
Larosa, and living at Via Abete Meli 32. Married in 1980 to Grazia
Stornello, born in Vigàta on September 3, 1960, to Giovanni
Stornello and—”
“Couldn’t you skip that part?” Montalbano asked
timidly, after he had started sweating.
“It’s important.”
“All right, go on,” said the inspector,
resigned.
“—and Marianna née Todaro. Michele Prestia and
Grazia Stornello have had one male child, Balduccio, who passed
away in a motorcycle accident at the age of eighteen. After
studying bookkeeping at a vocational school, Mr. Prestia began
working at age twenty as a junior accountant at the firm of Cozzo
and Rampello which presently owns three supermarkets.After ten
years at this job, he was promoted to the rank of senior
accountant. He resigned from this post in 2004, and has remained
unemployed to the present day.”
He carefully refolded the sheet of paper and
slipped it back into his pocket.
“That is all that’s officially known,” he
said.
“And unofficially?”
“Shall I begin with the wedding?”
“Begin wherever you like.”
“Michele Prestia met Grazia Stornello at a wedding
reception. From that moment on, he was always after her. They
started going out together but managed to keep their relationship a
secret from everyone. Until one day the girl ended up pregnant and
was forced to tell her parents the whole story.At this point
Michilino asked his employers for his vacation time and then
disappeared.”
“He didn’t want to get married?”
“It was the furthest thing from his mind. But less
than a week later, he’s back inVigàta from Palermo, where he had
been hiding at a friend’s place, and he announces that he’s ready
to make amends and marry the girl.”
“Why did he change his mind?”
“They made him change it.”
“Who did?”
“I’ll explain. Remember when I said who Grazia
Stornello’s mother was?”
“Yes, but I don’t—”
“Marianna Todaro.”
And he cast a knowing glance at the inspector. But
Montalbano disappointed him.
“And who’s she?”
“Whattya mean, who’s she? She’s one of Balduccio
Sinagra’s three nieces.”
“Wait a second,” Montalbano interrupted him.“Are
you telling me Balduccio is behind the clandestine horse
races?”
“Please, Chief, stop jumping ahead like a kangaroo.
I haven’t said anything about the clandestine races yet. We were
still at the wedding.”
“All right, go on.”
“So Marianna Todaro goes to see her uncle and tells
him about her daughter and so on. At this point Don Balduccio takes
exactly twenty-four hours to locate Michilino in Palermo and has
him brought back, to his villa, in the middle of the night.”
“Kidnapping.”
“You can imagine how frightened Don Balduccio is of
being charged with kidnapping!”
“So he threatens the kid?”
“In his own special way. For two days and two
nights he kept him in a totally empty room with nothing to eat or
drink. Every three hours somebody came in with a pistol, cocked the
hammer, looked at Michilino, pointed the gun at him, then turned
around and left without saying a word. On the third day, when Don
Balduccio came to see him in person, apologizing for having made
him wait—you know what Don Balduccio’s like, all smiles and
fuss—Michilino got down on his knees, in tears, and asked him for
the honor of marrying Grazia. And when the baby was born, they
named him Balduccio.”
“And how were relations between Balduccio Sinagra
and Prestia after that?”
“Well, one year after the wedding, Don Balduccio
suggested that he leave his job at Cozzo and Rampello and come work
for him. But Michilino refused. He told Don Balduccio he was afraid
he was unworthy. So Don Balduccio let it drop.”
“And after that?”
“Well, after that—and I mean only about four years
ago—Michilino developed a gambling habit. Until the day when
Messrs. Cozzo and Rampello discovered they had a serious cash
deficit. Out of respect for Don Balduccio, they didn’t report
Prestia to the police, but forced him to resign. But Cozzo and
Rampello wanted the stolen money back. They gave him three
months.”
“Did he ask Don Balduccio for it?”
“Of course. But Don Balduccio told him to go fuck
himself, saying he wasn’t some two-bit hood.”
“And did Cozzo and Rampello report him?”
“No, they didn’t. Because when the three months
were up, Michilino came to Messrs. Cozzo and Rampello with cash in
hand. He paid it all back, down to the last cent.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“From Ciccio Bellavia.”
Now, there was a name he knew! And how! Ciccio
Bellavia had been the rising star of the “striddari,” the
new, young Mafia that wanted to stab the old generation of the
Sinagras and Cuffaros in the back. But then he betrayed his own
comrades and went to work for the Cuffaros, becoming their go-to
guy.
So the Mafia was behind the clandestine horse
races. It could not have been otherwise.
“So was it Prestia who turned to Bellavia?”
“No, it was the other way around. Bellavia showed
up one day, saying he’d heard that Prestia was in trouble and that
he was ready to—”
“But Prestia should not have accepted!Taking that
money was like announcing he was turning against Balduccio!”
“Didn’t I tell you right off the bat that Michilino
Prestia was a nitwit? A cross between a nobody and a no-account?
Don Balduccio summed it up when he said he wasn’t some two-bit
hood.Then, to top it off, Prestia had to pay Bellavia back by
taking on the responsibility for the illegal races. He couldn’t
refuse. Which means he’s now working against Don Balduccio in
business as well.”
“I somehow don’t see this Prestia aging
gracefully.”
“Me neither, Chief. Sorry for asking, but do you
still see a connection between the killing of the horse and the
illegal races?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Fazio.You don’t see
any?”
“When you first showed me the dead animal, I was
the one, if you recall, who mentioned the clandestine races. But
now there doesn’t seem to be anything there anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chief, every time we form a hypothesis, it
immediately gets shot down. Remember you thought that they’d stolen
the lady’s horse to spite Lo Duca? Then we found out that they also
took one of Lo Duca’s horses. So what need was there to steal the
lady’s horse?”
“I agree. But what about the races?”
“Lo Duca, as far as I’ve been able to find out, has
nothing to do with the illegal races.”
“You sure about that?”
“Not a hundred percent sure. I wouldn’t bet my life
savings on it. But he doesn’t really seem like the type to
me.”
“Never trust appearances. For example, ten years
ago, would you have thought Prestia capable of managing an illegal
racing circuit?”
“No.”
“So why are you telling me Lo Duca doesn’t seem
like the type? Let me tell you something else. Lo Duca goes around
telling everybody that the Mafia respects him. Or at least they
respected him until yesterday. Do you know why he says that? Do you
know who his friends are and who protects him?”
“No, Chief, I don’t. But I’ll try to find
out.”
“Do you know where these races are held?”
“They change the location practically every time,
Chief. I found out that one was held on the grounds behind Villa
Panseca.”
“Pippo Panseca’s house?”
“Yessir.”
“But, as far as I know, Panseca—”
“Panseca’s got nothing to do with it, in fact.
Maybe you don’t know. When he had to go to Rome for a couple of
weeks, the caretaker rented the grounds to Prestia for one
night.They paid him so much for it, the guy went out and bought
himself a new car.Another time they held it over by Crasto
Mountain. Normally, there’s one every week.”
“Wait a second. Are they always held at
night?”
“Of course.”
“So how do they see anything?”
“They’re very well equipped.You know how, when they
shoot a film outdoors, they always bring along electrical
generators? Well, the ones these guys’ve got can light everything
up like it’s daytime.”
“But how do they inform their clients of the time
and place?”
“The clients who matter most, the high rollers,
number only about thirty or forty; the rest are just small fry who,
if they come, fine, and if they don’t, even better. Too many people
in cars create a lot of dangerous confusion.”
“But how are they informed?”
“With coded telephone calls.”
“And can’t we do anything about it?”
“With the means at our disposal?”
The inspector stayed another two hours or so at
the station, then got in his car and went back to Marinella. Before
setting the table on the veranda, he felt like taking a shower. In
the dining room he emptied his pockets onto the table, and in so
doing he found the piece of paper on which he had written Rachele
Esterman’s cell phone number. He remembered that there was
something he wanted to ask her. He could do it the following day,
when he saw her in Fiacca. But would it really be possible? God
only knew how many people there would be around her. Wasn’t it
perhaps better to call her now, as it wasn’t yet eight-thirty? He
decided that this was best.
“Hello? Signora Esterman?”
“Yes.Who is this?”
“Inspector Montalbano here.”
“Oh, no you don’t! Don’t tell me you’ve changed
your mind!”
“About what?”
“Ingrid told me you were coming here to Fiacca
tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there, signora.”
“That makes me so, so happy. Be sure to free
yourself up for the evening as well. There will be a dinner, and
you are one of my guests.”
Matre santa! Not a dinner!
“Look, actually, tomorrow evening—”
“Don’t make up any silly excuses.”
“Will Ingrid also be at the dinner?”
“Can’t you take a single step without her?”
“No, it’s just that, since she’ll be driving me to
Fiacca, I was thinking that, for the return—”
“Don’t worry, Ingrid will be there. Why did you
call me?”
“Why did I ...?”The prospect of the dinner,
the people whose conversation he would have to listen to, the muck
that would likely be served and that he would have to swallow even
if it made him puke, had made him forget that it was he who had
called her. “Oh, right, sorry. But I don’t want to take up any more
of your time. If you could just give me about five minutes
tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow there’s going to be pandemonium. But I do
have a little time right now, before I get ready to go out to
eat.”
With Guido? A candlelight dinner?
“Listen, signora—”
“Please call me Rachele.”
“All right, Rachele. Do you remember when you told
me that it was the watchman of the stables who had informed you
that your horse—”
“Yes, I remember saying that. But I must have been
mistaken.”
“Why?”
“Because Chichi—I’m sorry, Lo Duca told me the poor
night watchman was at the hospital. On the other hand . . .”
“Go on, Rachele.”
“On the other hand I’m almost certain he said he
was the watchman. But I’d been asleep, you know, it was very early
in the morning and I’d been up very late . . .”
“I understand. Did Lo Duca tell you who he had
asked to call you?”
“Lo Duca didn’t ask anyone to call me. That would
have been ungentlemanly. It was up to him to inform me.”
“And did he?”
“Of course! He phoned me from Rome around nine in
the morning.”
“And did you tell him that someone had already
called?”
“Yes.”
“Did he make any comment?”
“He said it was probably someone from the stable
who had called of his own initiative.”
“Have you got another minute?”
“Listen, I’m in the bathtub at the moment and I am
really enjoying it. Hearing your voice so close to my ear right now
is . . . Never mind.”
She played rough, this Rachele Esterman.
“You told me you phoned the stables in the
afternoon—”
“You’re not remembering correctly. Someone from the
stable called to tell me the horse hadn’t been found yet.”
“Did the person identify himself ?”
“No.”
“Was it the same voice as in the morning?”
“I . . . think so.”
“Did you mention this second phone call to Lo
Duca?”
“No. Should I have?”
“No, there was no need. All right, Rachele,
I—”
“Wait.”
A minute of silence passed. They hadn’t been cut
off, because Montalbano could hear her breathing. Then she said in
a low voice:
“I get it.”
“You get what?”
“What you suspect.”
“Namely?”
“That the person who called me twice was not from
the stables, but was one of the people who stole and killed my
horse. Am I right?”
Shrewd, beautiful, and smart.
“You’re right.”
“Why did they do it?”
“I can’t really say at the moment.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, listen. Is there any news of Lo Duca’s
horse?”
“They’ve lost all trace of it.”
“How strange.”
“Well, Rachele, that’s about all I had—”
“I wanted to tell you something.”
“Tell me.”
“You . . . I really like you. I like talking to
you, being with you.”
“Thank you,” said Montalbano, a bit confused and
not knowing what else to say.
She laughed. And in his mind he saw her naked, in
the bathtub, throwing her head back and laughing. A cold chill ran
down his spine.
“I don’t think we’re going to be able to spend any
time together tomorrow, just the two of us . . .Although,
maybe—”
She broke off as if she had just thought of
something. Montalbano waited a bit, then went ahem, ahem,
exactly the way they do in British novels.
She resumed speaking.
“At any rate, I’ve decided to stay another three or
four days in Montelusa. I think I already mentioned that to you. I
hope we’ll have a chance to meet. See you tomorrow, Salvo.”
He took a shower and went out on the veranda to
eat.Adelina had made a salad of baby octopus big enough for four
and some giant prawns to be dressed only with olive oil, lemon,
salt, and black pepper.
He ate and drank, managing only to think of
idiocies.
Then he got up and phoned Livia.
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” was the first
thing she said.
How could he tell her he got drunk with Ingrid and
it had completely slipped his mind?
“There was no way.”
“Why not?”
“I was busy.”
“With whom?”
Jeez, what a pain in the ass!
“What do you mean, with whom? With my men.”
“What were you doing?”
His balls were definitively broken.
“We were having a competition.”
“A competition?!”
“Yes, to see who could say the stupidest shit
imaginable.”
“And you won, of course. You have no rivals in that
field!”
And thus began the usual relaxing nightly
squabble.