The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read Free Page A

. . . if he knew about me, about my
condition
? He’d send you straight to hell, that’s where he’d send you!”
    He shifts to get more comfortable in his chair, threading his fingers together in front of his face, his expression pensive. He needs to keep cool.
    â€œWell done. That way we’ll both lose everything. Is that what’s in your best interest? And is that in . . . well, I mean, is that in
our
best interest? Wouldn’t it be smarter to wait for the right time? Maybe we can get someone else to solve the whole problem for us. I’ll talk to her, I told you. I’ll do it. No matter what, I’ll have to do it. She’s reasonable, you know; she’s certainly no fool.”
    She watches him, unblinking, with those green eyes of hers. Her breasts heave with her still rapid breaths. He can’t help but stare at her in fascination.
    â€œYou’d better do it, and for real. Otherwise I’ll do it for you, and I’ll look her straight in the eye when I tell her. Maybe we women understand each other better, without a lot of fancy phrases. Maybe I’ll bring her a present, and then I’ll tell her: that it’s not a very good idea to try to get in the way of someone like me.”
    He knows perfectly well that she would do it. That she’s good, very good, at facing situations head-on.
    â€œIf you don’t lower your voice, goddammit, you won’t even need to go see her. Do you have any idea how many spies she has, here in this office? It wouldn’t do you a bit of good, anyway. She’d never say yes to you. She’d just decide that there’s a battle to be fought, and maybe she’d talk herself into believing that, since I wasn’t the one who came to talk to her, I don’t have the courage to leave her, and that therefore she might stand a chance of winning me back. God forbid. We’d get swallowed up in legal maneuverings that would never end. Her father is a retired judge who still has plenty of influence. No, I’m going to have to talk to her.”
    The woman walks closer to the desk, feline, like a tiger about to pounce on its prey. She places both hands flat on the desktop, long red fingernails pointing straight at him.

IV
    T he entrance to the police station of Pizzofalcone was situated in the courtyard of an old palazzo, its façade covered with flaking plaster that had been patched in more than one place. The impression Lojacono got was of decay and neglect, which was so often the case in the city’s older neighborhoods.
    After a brisk wave goodbye to his driver, who roared off, tires squealing and siren wailing, he climbed a short flight of stairs that led into a small antechamber lit by fluorescent lights: even in the middle of the day, sunlight couldn’t make its way into that room.
    Behind the counter an officer sat sprawled in a swivel chair, deep in the pages of the sports section. There was the smell of coffee in the air, clearly emanating from a vending machine where two cops stood talking and laughing. The man behind the front desk didn’t even bother to look up. Lojacono drew closer without a word and waited, staring at the uniformed officer.
    After a while, the officer looked up from his paper and assumed a quizzical expression: “Yes?”
    â€œI’m Lieutenant Lojacono. I believe the commissario is expecting me.”
    The man neither put down his paper nor shifted position.
    â€œSecond floor, room at the end of the hall.”
    Lojacono didn’t move.
    â€œOn your feet,” he murmured.
    â€œWhat?” asked the policeman.
    â€œStand up on your own two feet, asshole. Give me your last name, first name, and rank. And do it fast, or I’ll jump straight over this counter and kick your ass black and blue.”
    The lieutenant hadn’t changed his tone of voice or his expression, but it was as if he had shouted. The two men drinking coffee exchanged a