The Dance of the Seagull im-15 Page 10
“That means you’ll have to be my guide six more times.”
“You plan to come twice a day?”
“That’s right.”
“Day after tomorrow it’ll be hard for me to come meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be on the surgery shift. So you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
“I’ll manage,” said Montalbano. Then, out of the blue: “May I invite you to dinner?”
Angela seemed neither surprised nor amazed. Beautiful as she was, she must have been used to being invited out all the time by men.
“Why?”
“To return the favor.”
Angela started laughing. Then she said:
“I’d be delighted to accept, but I already have an engagement . . . Nothing important, though. Could I give you a definite answer in a little bit? I’ll make a phone call and try to free myself up. If you don’t see me here outside the door when you come out at four-thirty, call me at this number.”
She wrote the number down on a piece of paper, which Montalbano put in his pocket. Angela chuckled again, then turned her back and started walking away. The inspector stood there for a moment, watching her from behind. It was a beautiful sight. Then he knocked on the door.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice.
The first thing he saw upon entering the room was the dwarf nurse, the Sing-Sing prison guard. Then he noticed that Fazio was not lying down, but sitting up, with some pillows behind his shoulders and head. Signora Fazio wasn’t there.
“Seven minutes,” the bulldog nurse said right off the bat.
“You can’t start counting until you’ve left the room,” Montalbano retorted. Then to Fazio, who was smiling and happy to see him, he said:
“Where’s your wife?”
“I sent her home to rest,” the bulldog cut in, just as she was opening the door to go out. “Our patient is now on the road to recovery.”
But before closing the door behind her, she repeated:
“Seven minutes!”
“Oh, fuck off,” Fazio said in a low voice.
“Speaking of which, I have some good news for you,” said Montalbano. “Telling someone to fuck off is no longer a crime. As established by the Supreme Court of Appeals. Listen, do you know anything about what happened here at the hospital?”
“They told me there was someone trying to get into the rooms of two Antimafia officials.”
“Did they tell you who they were? Frincanato and Filippone.”
“But they’re a couple of nobodies!” said Fazio, surprised.
“Exactly. So I’m not convinced.”
“Me neither.”
“Did he come to your room?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about a short, fat guy with a scar on his left cheek?”
“Holy shit!” Fazio shouted.
He turned pale as a corpse.
“Do you know him?”
“He was one of the guys who wanted to kill me.”
“Just as I thought,” the inspector commented. And as Fazio was gesturing for him to hand him the glass of water on his bedside table, Montalbano continued:
“So the man came armed to the hospital just for you, to finish what he’d started.”
“Get me out of this place!” Fazio exclaimed, handing the empty glass back to him.
“It’s unlikely the guy’ll be back. Calm down.”
“Could I at least have a gun?”
“Are you crazy? That Sing-Sing nurse’ll have you put in solitary!”
Fazio looked totally confused.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Let’s talk about what happened to you. It must have been a pretty big deal.”
“Chief, in all good conscience, I don’t know whether it’s a big or a small deal. When those two—”
“Wait. Let’s start at the beginning. We’ll break up the story in episodes, like they do on TV. Otherwise, at seven minutes a pop, I’ll never find out anything. Tell me about Manzella.”
Fazio thought about it for a moment, then began.
“Filippo Manzella and I went to elementary school together here in Vigàta, then we lost track of each other. His father worked with the railways and got transferred. But then we met up again in the military. He was attending a dance school in Palermo, wanted to do classical ballet. And in fact he landed a job with the Teatro Massimo’s ballet company. Every so often, when . . . I had to go to Palermo . . . we . . . we’d meet.”
Fazio was already tired.
“Just rest now,” said the inspector.
Fazio closed his eyes and said nothing for about half a minute. Then he was about to resume talking, but couldn’t manage.
“Then . . .”
He broke off, and was breathing heavily.
“Just wait a little longer,” said Montalbano.
“No, I can’t, the seven minutes’ll be up. Then we lost track of each other again. One day I ran into him in Montelusa. He’d changed.”
“How?”
“He was fatter. And he wouldn’t look me in the eye, not like he used to. He said he wasn’t dancing anymore, had got married, and that his wife was expecting. He said he didn’t work anymore and was living off an inheritance.”
He took another pause. But by this point his speech was labored, with gaps between each word.
“About two weeks ago I ran into him again in Montelusa. He was in a hurry. All he did was ask for my cell phone number. So I gave it to him, and then two days later, he called me.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he wanted me to look into a certain matter for him, said he thought it involved smuggling.”
“That’s all he told you?”
“That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me about it?”
“Chief, the whole thing seemed to me like some fantasy of his. Filippo used to like to make things up sometimes.”
“Go on.”
“So he kept on calling me, saying he was being watched, that maybe they’d figured out that he was on to them . . . But whenever I asked if we could meet so he could tell me the whole story, he’d become evasive and start stammering . . .”
“Did you ever call him back after he’d called looking for you?”
“Yes. I had his cell phone number.”
“Did you ever call him at a land line?”
“Yeah, but it was a bar. He likes to be mysterious . . .”
“Did he name any names?”
“Not one, he was always vague . . . And I got more and more convinced he was just bullshitting.”
“All right, we haven’t got much time left. Now just tell me why you went to the port.”
“After not phoning me for a few days, he called. He said if I went there immediately I could catch them all red-handed. So I told my wife you’d called, and then I went out.”
“He never explained what kind of smuggling it was?”
“No. He only said he’d be waiting for me at the port, over by the storage houses, at three in the morning.”
“So why did you go out shortly after eight o’clock?”
“So the whole thing would seem more plausible to my wife.”
“Did you bring your gun?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?! You’re going to meet a bunch of clearly dangerous smugglers and—”
“But I didn’t want to meet them! I only wanted to see them without being seen. Then, before making any moves, I would’ve called for reinforcements. And you know what? I still didn’t think any of it was real.”
“Time’s up!” shouted the dwarf, coming in.
“One last question. The evening that Manzella called to tell you to come to the port, are you sure it was him on the phone?”
“It certainly sounded like him, though it’s true the voice sounded far away and sort of garbled. He always called from the cell phone. He said the reception w
asn’t very good.”
“All right, goodbye. See you tomorrow morning.”
10
Montalbano went out, but one second later he was back, reopened the door, and poked his head inside.
“I just remembered that I have to go see the commissioner tomorrow morning. I’ll see you in the afternoon.”
There was no sign of Angela in the corridor. It was exactly ten past four. He waited a few minutes, then went over to the policemen standing guard and held his badge up for them to see.
“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
“One of your colleagues from the Vigàta Police is in room fourteen. He suffered a head wound during a shootout. Could you keep a close watch over his room as well? It’s not certain that the armed man who slipped into the hospital had come for the Antimafia officials. Have I made myself clear?”
“Absolutely, sir,” said one.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him,” said the other.
At the end of the corridor, he didn’t know whether to turn right or left. Then he spotted, at the back of the hallway on the right, the two cops with machine guns standing guard in front of the elevator. When he reached the ground floor, he took out the piece of paper Angela had given him. It was an internal number. He went up to the desk and asked one of the two women there to dial it for him. A moment later he was talking to Angela.
“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t able to get free. Could we postpone everything till tomorrow?”
“That’s perfectly fine with me.”
“All right then, we can decide tomorrow morning on the time and place.”
“No, Angela, I can’t come tomorrow morning.”
“Really?”
“Really. I have an engagement.”
“What about the afternoon?”
“I’ll definitely be here at four in the afternoon.”
“Okay, see you then. That way we can decide. My shift ends at six-thirty.”
“Do you know a good place to eat here in Fiacca?”
“There are so many. But . . .”
“But?”
“I don’t really want to be seen going out with . . . I mean, if somebody sees me with a stranger, there could be problems. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly.”
“It’s not a problem for you?”
“Not at the moment, no. Want to come to Vigàta?”
“Sure, why not?”
She’d answered immediately. Clearly Angela had been expecting him to ask.
“Have you got a car?”
“Yes, but if you wait for about fifteen minutes after I get off, I can change here at the hospital, and we can go directly in your car.”
What on earth was going through the girl’s head? He simply wanted to invite her out to a dinner without consequences. But he was sure that, whatever consequences there might be, he could dodge them without losing face.
The visitors’ parking lot was behind the hospital complex, a good ten-minute walk away. The inspector found Gallo asleep, head thrown back and mouth open.
“Hello!”
Gallo gave a start and opened his eyes. He looked a little disoriented.
“Sorry, Chief, I’m so behind on sleep, it’s eatin’ me alive.”
“You didn’t sleep last night?”
“No, and I didn’t the night before that, either. Soon as I lie down, I get this terrible stomachache. And now I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“Go and get yourself a coffee at the hospital bar.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Listen, let’s get something straight. I’m not going to get in the car with someone who might suddenly fall asleep along a road full of traffic. I’ll drive. You get in the back and get some sleep.”
Since he really did need to sleep, Gallo didn’t protest. In the time it took the inspector to maneuver out of the parking lot, Gallo, lying in back, was already in a deep sleep.
As might be expected, the roadblock was still up outside of Fiacca, and Montalbano’s car was stopped. Seeing a man lying on the backseat with his arm over his face, the carabiniere grew suspicious. He’d started bending down to say something through the window, but then suddenly stood back, as though changing his mind. As the carabiniere was calling a couple of his colleagues over for a look, the inspector decided to play a little trick on Gallo. The three carabinieri approached cautiously, hands over their revolvers. Montalbano leaned back and enjoyed the scene, sitting motionless with his hands clearly visible above the steering wheel.
“What’s he doing, sleeping?” the first carabiniere asked the inspector.
“Yeah. Deeply.”
“Wake him up.”
“Wake him up yourself. But I should warn you: he gets upset whenever somebody startles him awake. His reactions are unpredictable. So now I’ve told you, I don’t want the responsibility.”
“So how should I wake him up?”
“I don’t know. Try saying something sweet to him, stroke his cheek . . .”
“Come on, are you joking?”
“Do I seem like someone who likes to joke around?” Montalbano replied, looking offended.
The carabiniere went to discuss matters with the other two officers, then said to the inspector:
“Please get slowly out of the car.”
“With my hands in the air?”
“There’s no need.”
Montalbano got out without making the slightest noise. The carabiniere then jerked open the back door, jumped aside, and yelled:
“You! Get out with your hands up!”
Gallo woke up with a start to find three guns pointed at him and started shouting.
“I’m a policeman! Don’t shoot!”
“Let’s see your papers.”
Gallo took them out, and the first carabiniere tore into Montalbano.
“Why didn’t you tell us he was a policeman?”
“You didn’t ask.”
The carabiniere called the marshal over. His superior wanted to see Montalbano’s papers.
“Why didn’t you identify yourself?” he asked.
“Nobody asked me to. This carabiniere simply asked me if my officer was asleep. And I said yes. Is this business going to take much longer?”
“No, Inspector. Just long enough to write you up a ticket. Is this your car?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re driving with your lights off and a broken taillight.”
Just deserts for screwing around with the carabinieri and not letting Gallo drive.
When he entered his office, he found Mimì sitting there, waiting for him.
“What can you tell me?”
“Found them all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Montalbano, who at that moment was thinking about Angela.
“It means all five gentlemen around sixty who like to have their feet pedicured answered the call. I also checked the Montelusa phone book, which Galluzzo gave me. All alive and kicking. Therefore the victim did not go to any of the pedicurists in Vigàta or Montelusa. Nor did he have anything to do with the callus specialist. Fazio tell you anything?”
“Yes.”
The inspector told him about Manzella.
“And why did they shoot at him at the port?”
“I’ll find that out in the next installment.”
“I believe I heard you say Manzella told Fazio he was married and his wife was pregnant,” said Mimì.
“You heard right. And it’s the only thing we’ve got to go on at the moment.”
Without saying a word, Augello got up, went out, and returned with the telephone book, which he started thumbing through.
“There are two Filippo Manzellas in Vigàta. And another in Montelusa,” he concluded from his search.
“Turn on the speakerphone and start with Vigàta.”
The first Filippo Manzella was a surly old man who started verbally abusing
Mimì. The second wasn’t at home, a woman calling herself his wife assured him; he’d left about an hour earlier on a fishing boat.
“So we have to rule this one out, too, since at least until an hour ago, he was still alive,” Augello concluded.
Montalbano looked at him with an expression somewhere between admiration and astonishment.
“Mimì, you sometimes arrive at staggering conclusions that would put even Monsieur Lapalisse to shame.”
“I’ve learned from you,” Augello rebutted, dialing the Montelusa number.
“Hello, who’s there?” asked a female voice.
“Police,” said Mimì.
The woman got scared.
“Ohmygod, what happened?”
“Please don’t be alarmed, signora. I’m just calling about a fine. Does Filippo Manzella live there?”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that my husband and I no longer live together. We separated five years ago.”
“I see. Do you know where he lives now?”
“Well, until about two weeks ago I knew he was living in Vigàta at 13, Via della Forcella, but the last time he called me on the phone, he said he’d moved.”
“When was the last time he called?”
“As I said, about two weeks ago.”
“And he hasn’t called back since then?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you worried that he hasn’t contacted you?”
“No, I’m used to these silences. He only calls me for news of his son. But sometimes he’ll go a whole month without calling.”
“Did he give you his new address?”
“No.”
At this point Montalbano took the phone away from him.
“Hello, signora, this is Chief Inspector Montalbano. Would you mind if I came to Montelusa to talk to you?”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Let’s say in about half an hour.”
“No, I was just about to go out. If you want, you can come tomorrow morning anytime after eleven.”
Montalbano thanked her, hung up, and rose.
“You coming with me?” he asked Augello.
“Where?”
“Wake up, Mimì! To 13, Via della Forcella!”
Via della Forcella was in one of those recently built-up areas along the road to Montereale. Number 13 was a six-story building, and beside the main entrance door was a sign that said: