The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read Free

have accepted. There’s no upside.”
    Lojacono made a face: “So you volunteered me.”
    Di Vincenzo raised an eyebrow: “That’s what I would have done, if I’d been quick enough: in cases like this, you always take advantage of the opportunity to get rid of your bad apples. But Palma himself asked for you: apparently, you made quite an impression on him at that very same meeting. He’s an idiot, I guessed it at the time. Obviously, I immediately agreed to the request. So, what do you think?”
    The lieutenant sat silently for a good long time. Then he asked: “So what do I risk, if I accept? What could I be up against?”
    Di Vincenzo snorted, losing control and slamming one hand down on his desk, scattering papers, pens, pencils, and eyeglasses: “That the attempt to keep this precinct operating fails. If worst comes to worst, they liquidate the station and the staff and send you all back where you came from. Or maybe they send you somewhere else, which is what I’m hoping, because in the meantime all four precincts will be busy trying to get replacements. And, of course, you’d be joining a group made up of people who aren’t welcome where they are now, whose commanding officers are eager to get rid of them. Renegades, bastards, or screwups, every last one of them!”
    Lojacono showed no visible reaction: “Commissario, I would have accepted a transfer to Patagonia in order to get out of here. But I wanted to keep you guessing. When do I report for duty in my new precinct?”

III
    T
he woman enters, and slams the door behind her.
    Before the door slams shut, he manages to glimpse astonishment on the faces of a couple of employees, fixed as if in some hyperrealistic painting meant to depict amazement, embarrassment, and terror, all in a single expression. One of them was actually halfway out of his chair, as if he meant to try to stop the intrusion. As if that was even possible.
    The man heaves a sigh and tucks his head between his shoulders in order to absorb the loud banging of the door against the jamb; it sounds like its structural integrity is being tested.
    â€œWell, what the fuck are you planning to do? Have you made up your mind? Don’t I have a right to know?”
    Hands on her hips, long legs braced, jaw clenched tight. Her red hair glows as if it’s on fire, and so do her eyes. She’s beautiful, the man thinks to himself. Beautiful, even when she’s furious.
    Which seems to be the case more often than not these days, truth be told.
    â€œLower your voice. Have you lost your mind? What are you trying to do now, air all our dirty laundry?”
    She does lower the volume; but not by much.
    â€œI need to know what you plan to do. Because enough is enough: I refuse to become that pathetic cliché—the poor idiot duped by the older professional. I’m a girl who’ll knock you flat on your ass; that’s exactly what I’ll do, and you know it. I can’t believe it, can’t believe I’ve let this go on so long.”
    He knows perfectly well that if he starts whimpering now, she’ll just get angrier. He does his best to think quickly.
    â€œIt’s not a matter of anyone trying to dupe you. This is a complicated situation. A whole lifetime together . . . We own property together, a lot of it in her name, for tax purposes. And then it’s a moral issue, it’s not like I can just get up one morning and kick her out the door, not someone like . . . someone like her. And there are all our friends, our contacts, some of them politicians . . . It’s not a simple matter.”
    â€œFriends? Politicians? I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK about your contacts, do you get that? I will humiliate you in front of the whole world! Do you seriously think I don’t know that everything you have comes to you from the curia? What do you think His Eminence would say, if he knew that