The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read Free Page B

quick glance and then left the room, quickly and quietly.
    The officer struggled out of the chair, displaying a jacket half unbuttoned over a prominent gut and a loosened belt. His collar was half undone, and the knot of his tie hung slack. He snapped to attention, his gaze fixed on the empty air before him.
    â€œOfficer Giovanni Guida, Pizzofalcone Police Precinct.”
    Lojacono continued to stare at him.
    â€œNow you listen to me, Giovanni Guida of the Pizzofalcone police precinct. You’re the first thing people see when they walk in here, so of course they’ll assume that we’re all filthy pigs, because you’re a filthy pig. And I don’t like it when people think that I’m a filthy pig.”
    The man said nothing, and his eyes remained expressionless. One of the two cops who had been drinking coffee stuck his head in for a moment, then vanished.
    â€œIf I see you looking like I found you just now ever again, I’ll kick your ass for one solid hour out in the courtyard. Is that clear? And then you can write me up for it.”
    Officer Guida murmured softly: “Forgive me, lieutenant. It won’t happen again. It’s just that, these days, practically no one even comes in here anymore. People prefer . . . people go to the carabinieri, when they want to report something. They seem to prefer going there since . . . for a while now.”
    â€œI don’t care about that,” Lojacono replied. “Even if they turn this place into a cloistered monastery, you still need to present yourself looking the way you’re supposed to look.”
    He went through the internal door as Guida was stuffing his shirttails into his trousers, red-faced and swearing under his breath.
    A short hallway led to the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye Lojacono took in sloppiness, disorder, and neglect. He felt distress rise within him, and he wondered if he’d ever again experience the excitement he used to feel for his profession.
    The commissario’s office was right at the top of the staircase. Behind the desk sat Palma, busy placing sheets of paper into a box file. Lojacono remembered him the minute he saw him, a man of about forty with a rumpled look, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a shadow of stubble on his face. More than sloppiness, however, the impression he gave was of someone who was constantly busy.
    Commissario Palma noticed Lojacono and beamed a broad smile: “Ah, Lojacono, at last you’re here! I was hoping to see you today. I would have called you, but the right thing to do was to let that old geezer Di Vincenzo talk to you first. Come right in, make yourself comfortable.”
    The lieutenant took a step forward. The window was closed, but through the panes of glass, wet from the gusts of rain, it was possible to see the stormy sea, engaged in its thousand-year effort to demolish the tufa-stone castle perched over the waves. That city never ceased to surprise him, treating him to sudden spectacular glimpses of deceptive beauty.
    â€œNice, eh? A magnificent view, but let’s not let ourselves get distracted: we have work to do. Go ahead, have a seat. You want a coffee?”
    â€œNo, thanks, commissario. How’s everything going, sir?”
    Palma threw open his arms: “No, no, that’s no way to get started, Loja’! We need to be on a first-name basis here. It’s just the four of us here and we all need to be rowing in the same direction. And after all, we’re practically all new; I got here last Monday, the others have come in over the past three days, you’re the last. In fact, now that you’re here we can have our first meeting, what do you say? Or would you prefer to get settled in instead?”
    The lieutenant was overwhelmed by the commissario’s enthusiasm.
    â€œNo, that’s not a problem, if you’d like, sir . . . I mean if you want, sure, right away . . .”
    â€œPerfect,