The Potter's Field Read Free

you’re going to go into the kitchen, brew me a pot of good strong coffee, pour it all into a big mug, put in three teaspoons of sugar, and bring it to me. Then you can tell me whatever it is you have to say.”
    When Catarella returned with the steaming mug, he had to shake the inspector to wake him up. During those ten minutes he had fallen back into a deep sleep.
    What is this, anyway? he thought as he was sipping his coffee, which tasted like reheated chicory broth. Isn’t it well-known that the older you get, the less sleep you need? So why was it that in his case, the more the years went by, the more he slept?
    â€œ ’Ow’s the coffee taste, Chief?”
    â€œPerfect, Cat.”
    And he raced into the bathroom to rinse his mouth, for fear he might start vomiting.
    â€œCat, is this a pressing matter?”
    â€œRelative, Chief.”
    â€œAll right, then, give me a few minutes to shower and get dressed.”
    When all clean and dressed, he went into the kitchen and made himself a proper pot of coffee.
    Going back into the dining room, he found Catarella in front of the French doors that gave onto the veranda. He had opened the shutters.
    It was pouring. The sea had, in fact, come all the way up to the veranda, shaking it from time to time with the undertow of a particularly strong wave.
    â€œC’n I talk now, Chief ?” Catarella asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThey found a dead body.”
    Ah, what a discovery! What a find! Apparently the corpse of someone who’d died a “white death”—the shorthand used by journalists when someone suddenly disappears without so much as saying goodbye—had resurfaced somewhere. But why give death any color at all? White death! As if death could also be green, yellow, and so on . . . Actually, if one had to give death a color, there could only be one: black, black as pitch.
    â€œIs it fresh?”
    â€œThey din’t say, Chief.”
    â€œWhere’d they find it?”
    â€œOut inna country, Chief. Pizzutello districk.”
    Imagine that. A desolate, godforsaken place, all sheer drops and jagged spurs, where a corpse could feel at home and never be discovered.
    â€œHave any of our people been out to see it?”
    â€œYessir, Chief, Fazio and Isspector Augello’s at the premisses.”
    â€œSo why’d you come and bust my balls?”
    â€œChief, y’gotta unnastand, ’s was Isspector Augello ’at call me and tell me to tell yiz yer poissonal presence ’s ’ndisposable. An’ so, seein’ as how ’s was no answer when I tried a call yiz onna phone, I took the Jeep and come out here poissonally in poisson.”
    â€œWhy’d you take the Jeep?”
    â€œCuz the reggler car coun’t never make it to that place, Chief.”
    â€œAll right then, let’s go.”
    â€œChief, ’e also tol’ me to tell yiz iss bitter if y’ put on some boots an’ a raincoat, an sump’n a cover y’head.”
    The pinwheel of curses that burst from Montalbano’s mouth left Catarella trembling.

    The deluge showed no sign of letting up. They rolled along almost blindly, as the windshield wipers were unable to sweep the water away. On top of this, the last half mile before reaching the spot where the corpse had been found felt like a cross between a roller coaster and an 8.0 earthquake at its peak. The inspector’s bad mood deteriorated into a silence so heavy that it made Catarella nervous, and he began to drive in such a way as not to miss a single pothole now become a lake.
    â€œDid you remember to bring life preservers?”
    Catarella didn’t answer, wishing only that he were the corpse they were going to see. At one point Montalbano’s stomach turned upside down, bringing the nauseating taste of Catarella’s coffee back up into his throat and mouth.
    Finally, by the grace of God, they pulled up alongside the other Jeep that