The Dance of the Seagull im-15 Read online

  “All right.”

  “Tell you what. Call the commissioner. Tell him half the story. Actually, no. Don’t tell him anything about Fazio. Tell him we need to recover a weapon that fell into the water. Get him to send you two frogmen.”

  “Sorry, but what if he asks me whose weapon it is?”

  “Tell him it’s mine.”

  “And how did it end up in the water?”

  “Through a hole in the back pocket of my trousers.”

  “And what if he says not to bother? That it’s not worth going to all the trouble?”

  “Tell him it’ll be his responsibility.”

  “What’ll be his responsibility?”

  “Explain to him that when my gun fell out, there were a lot of people around. And that if one of them felt like getting wet, they might recover the weapon and use it.”

  Mimì Augello took a few steps away and started talking on his cell phone. It was a long call, then Mimì started shaking his head and walking back towards Montalbano. He held out the phone to him.

  “He wants to talk to you,” he said.

  “Montalbano! What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Commissioner, it’s all because of this hole in—”

  “This is sheer lunacy! These things only happen to you! A hole! And what if the weapon had fallen onto a crowded street and gone off?”

  “I never keep it loaded, sir.”

  “Look, Montalbano, I can’t request two frogmen for something so silly as this!”

  “If you prefer, I can jump into the sea myself. I can stay underwater for a very long time, you know.”

  “Montalbano, every time I talk to you it’s an ordeal! Give me Augello again.”

  Mimì talked for another five minutes, then signed off and said to Montalbano:

  “I managed to persuade him.”

  The inspector’s hunch turned out to be wrong.

  By the time the sun started to set, the two frogmen, who’d worked for three straight hours, hadn’t found a thing.

  Or, more precisely, they’d found everything but the kitchen sink, even a baby buggy and a suitcase full of jars of tomato sauce. Luckily, however, no dead body.

  “So much the better,” said Montalbano.

  Meanwhile, a few dozen people had gathered in the general vicinity and were craning their necks, looking on, talking, laughing, asking questions out loud that nobody answered. Montalbano felt only contempt for them.

  Then a man approached him and said he was the owner of one of the cold storage houses.

  “Sorry to bother you, Inspector. But I need to know what we’re supposed to do.”

  “What you’re supposed to do about what?”

  “About the fishing boats.”

  “But there isn’t a single one here.”

  “In about two hours they’re going to start coming in.”

  “So?”

  “With the frogmen working right in front of the warehouses, they won’t be able to dock and unload.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

  “Mind telling us what you’re looking for?” the man asked in dialect. It put them on common ground.

  “Sure. My watch. It fell in the water this morning.”

  “They said you dropped your gun in the water.”

  “I was wrong. I always get the two confused.”

  4

  When Mimì and the inspector straggled back to the station, it was almost nine P.M. Neither had found the time to eat anything. Or, more precisely, they could have taken an hour or so to eat something, had they wanted, but the truth was that neither of them had felt like it.

  “Did Fazio ever show up, by any chance?” he asked Catarella.

  “Nossir, Chief.”

  They went into Montalbano’s office.

  “Have a seat, Mimì. Let’s brainstorm for another five minutes. Shall I send for some coffee?”

  “Good idea.”

  Montalbano picked up the phone.

  “Cat, could you go get us a couple of coffees at the bar? Thanks.”

  They eyed each other.

  “You first,” said Mimì.

  “By this point it’s clear they’ve got Fazio. Whether dead or alive is another question.”

  “Well, he wasn’t in the sea, at any rate.”

  “But that still doesn’t mean we know he’s alive.”

  “Agreed. But if they got him with the second shot, the one fired around the storehouses, where’d they put him?”

  “Mimì, we’re unable to come up with an answer for one simple reason. Namely, we don’t know what happens when the trawlers come in, how much time they take to unload, at what time they leave the storehouses to go to their berths, how long the refrigerator trucks stay there before leaving with their cargoes of fish . . . To put it simply, what sort of activity is there around there at that time of the night?”

  “The Customs officer said he’d heard the shots just before four A.M., and that between three and four o’clock, everything had been quiet.”

  “Fine, but what does ‘quiet’ mean? That there wasn’t a soul around? That’s not possible; there must still be some people about, even at that hour. In fact, the Customs agent said he saw a motorcycle drive past after he’d heard the two shots. So there must still have been somebody there.”

  The door flew suddenly open and crashed against the wall. Mimì and the inspector both leapt out of their chairs. Augello cursed under his breath. Catarella appeared, holding a little tray with both hands, his right foot still in midair.

  “Sorry ’bout that, ’spectors, I kinda miscaliculated the strinth o’ my kick.”

  He set the tray down on the desk.

  “Listen, Cat, did anyone call for Fazio today?” the inspector asked him.

  Catarella thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out his little black notebook. Licking the tip of his index finger, he started skimming through it.

  Mimì gawked at him in astonishment.

  “Less see. Blank an’ Loccicciro called.”

  “But not the others?”

  “Sarravacchio came poissonally in poisson.”

  “So the only one who didn’t call for him was Manzella.”

  “’Ass azackly azack, Chief.”

  “I haven’t understood a fucking thing,” said Augello as Catarella was leaving.

  The coffee was good. And the inspector told him about Manzella’s phone calls.

  “So,” said Mimì, “in your opinion, Manzella didn’t call today because he knows exactly what happened to Fazio.”

  “It’s fairly likely.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “You’re going to go home to Beba and the kid.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m going to rest a little right here and then go back to the wharf to see how the fishing business operates.”

  He was leaving the room when the phone rang.

  “Chief? ’At’d be the newsman Zito onna line.”

  “Put ’im on . . . Ciao, Nicolò, how are you doing? Haven’t heard from you for a while. How’s the wife?”

  “Fine, thanks. Listen, are you going to be at the office a little longer?”

  “Actually, no, I was just about to go out.”

  “Home?”

  “No. Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason, just to make conversation.”

  “No, Nicolò, you’re not being straight with me. What is it?”

  “I just wanted to know something. Tell you what. If you’re in a hurry, put Fazio on. I’ll ask him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Did he go home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right, I’ll try calling him anyway.”

  “No!”

  Damn, he’d said it too loudly!

  When Zito replied, he seemed to falter.

  “Sorry, but what—”

  “Look, Nicolò. The fact is that his wife . . .
isn’t feeling so good and he’s really worried . . . You know?”

  “I understand. All right, good night.”

  Had Nicolò Zito actually swallowed the whopper he’d just fed him?

  Whatever the case, that phone call from his friend and Free Channel newsman had seemed a little strange to him, no doubt about it.

  When he got to the wharf, a few trawlers were already moored in front of the storehouses and unloading their hauls. The floodlights for illuminating the area of activity were all turned on. One could see, in the distance, at the mouth of the harbor, the navigation lights of the other trawlers coming in.

  A veritable babble of shouts, curses, and commands could be heard above the din of the boats’ diesel motors, the trucks’ engines, and the continual rumble of the freezers.

  In the small spaces between one storehouse and the next, which were narrow alleyways of sorts, the inspector discovered a great hubbub of makeshift fish stands, with crates of fish being sold by the crew members of the trawlers themselves. And it wasn’t the rejects they were selling, but the share due each member of each boat. The buyers, after a sort of tug-of-war of bargaining, would then load the crates onto scooters or three-wheeled Ape pickups and drive off. They must have been restaurant owners or employees, who were thus assured not only of having fresh fish, but of paying half of what they would have paid at the town market.

  Montalbano remembered the trawler owner who had come to the station. What was his name? Ah, yes, Rizzica. He had to be around there somewhere.

  He stopped a municipal police officer he saw carrying a crate of fish. It had to have been the guy’s payoff for closing an eye to the makeshift market in the alleyway.

  “I’m Inspector Montalbano, and I’d like to know—”

  The cop turned visibly pale.

  “I paid for this fish! I swear!” he said, voice quavering.

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  “So what do you want, then?”

  “I want to know where I can find Signor Rizzica.”

  “You can find Rizzica in one of his warehouses.”

  “And which ones are they?”

  “Numbers three, four, and the last one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Glad to be of service!” said the officer, clearly relieved and practically running away, terrified that Montalbano might change his mind and demand that he explain how he came by that crate of fish.

  In front of the open door of warehouse number three was the same Ford van as that morning. Montalbano went inside and immediately saw Rizzica, who was talking with an air of concern to a man in overalls.

  The moment he saw Montalbano, however, he came towards him, hand held out.

  “Let’s go outside,” he said.

  Apparently he didn’t want to talk in the presence of the man in overalls. They stopped in a sort of arch to one side of the wharf that smelled of shit and piss old and new, which was why there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity.

  “Did you come by because of my complaint?”

  “No. Did you file a formal complaint with Inspector Augello?”

  “No, sir, not formally. But it’s still a complaint.”

  “Have your boats come in?”

  “No, there’s another hour and a half to go.”

  “And the one that’s always late, the . . . what was its name?”

  “The Maria Concetta? No, today’s its day off. But tonight it would be better if they were all late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of my warehouses has been out of order since yesterday. The refrigeration system is down. You have no idea how much money it’s cost me. I had to throw all the fish back into the sea. The electrician says they’ll have to order a replacement part from Palermo. An’ just to rub it in, the two boats coming in now are full of fish; they had a really good haul today. I’m going to have to get the third warehouse up and running, the one I usually use only for—”

  “But didn’t you say you had five trawlers?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How come you’ve only got two out?”

  “I have ’em working in shifts, Inspector. Three go out, and two rest. An’ vice versa.”

  “I see.”

  “Listen, I have to go back inside. But about that thing I mentioned to you, Inspector Augello knows the whole story. He can answer your questions.”

  “No problem. Listen, what did you say was the name of the captain of the Maria Concetta?”

  “Aureli. Salvatore Aureli.”

  “One more thing. Do you remember the names of the rest of the crew?”

  “I told ’em to Inspector Augello.”

  “Tell me too.”

  “Totò Albanese, Gaspano Bellavia, Peppe Dima, Gegè Fragapane, ’Ntonio Zambito, an’ two Tunisians whose names I don’ remember right now but I gave ’em to Inspector Augello.”

  No Manzella. For a brief moment, he’d been hoping.

  After three in the morning, the hustle and bustle had wound down for the most part. The trawlers were no longer moored in front of the cold storage houses. By now they were all at their berths inside the port. The refrigerator trucks had also all left. The great main doors of the storehouses were all locked, except for number three, where the electricians were still trying to repair the outage. The road, however . . .

  The road wasn’t entirely deserted. There were still five or six people mingling about, talking and arguing. Two of them had even raised their voices and were about to get into a tussle. If it was always this way at this hour of the night, someone must surely have heard or even witnessed the scene of Fazio running away as someone ran after him, firing his gun.

  Hadn’t the Customs cop said that after hearing the two shots he’d seen a high-powered motorcycle drive past? So therefore there had been at least one witness! But these were the kind of people who would never talk, Montalbano was absolutely certain of that.

  All at once he felt a crushing fatigue descend upon him, so great that for a moment his knees buckled.

  There was no point in wasting any more time. He decided he would go to the commissioner the following morning and tell him the whole story, so they could officially begin the search. He threw in the towel. The crucial thing was that the more time went by, the worse it was for Fazio, assuming he was still alive.

  “Montalbano!”

  He turned around and found himself face to face with Nicolò Zito.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Augello told me. I rang him at home after trying without success to contact you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  “Shall we go into my car?”

  He’d parked it near the slips. The early morning wind was biting hard and Montalbano, exhausted, famished, and worried as he was, began to shiver from the cold.

  Once inside the car, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

  He reopened them when he smelled coffee. Zito had shoved the cap of a hot thermos of coffee under his nose. The inspector rejoiced.

  “How long has it been since Fazio went missing?” the journalist asked.

  Montalbano choked on his coffee. Zito slapped him twice on the back to help out.

  “Who told you?”

  “I got a phone call and then you confirmed it for me.”

  “I did?!”

  “You sure did. When you shouted ‘No!’ so that I wouldn’t call Fazio’s home. That pretty much sealed it for me. I realized then and there that something wasn’t right. What was he investigating?”

  “That’s just it, Nicolò. I don’t know. He was working on his own, you see. And hadn’t told anyone. Who was it that called you?”

  “I can’t tell you. The guy called me and said he thought he’d seen Fazio in a bad situation.”

  “In what sense?”

  “His head was wrapped, as if to cover a wound.”

  “Was
he alone?”

  “No. But let me finish. Since he wasn’t sure it was actually Fazio, this gentleman wanted me to find out. Which I did, and so I called him back on his cell phone and told him I had the impression that you had confirmed his hunch, however indirectly. And so he kept telling me to call him back in two hours.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but why didn’t you contact us right away?”

  “I’ll tell you in a second. So the guy called back two hours later and gave me precise directions as to where we could find him, so that he could explain everything. Do you want to go?”

  “Of course. Where is it?”

  “Over by Rivera. An hour-and-a-half drive away.”

  “All right, let’s get moving. Would you please tell me why you didn’t call us?”

  “Because the guy’s a fugitive, Salvo.”

  So why would a fugitive from justice worry about the fate of a cop? There was no point in asking any questions, however. Zito would never divulge the informer’s name.

  There was, however, one good thing in all this: Fazio was still alive.

  “What did you tell Augello?”

  “That I urgently needed to talk to you.”

  “Did you mention that it had to do with Fazio?”

  “No.”

  Should he phone Mimì to tell him about the new development? No, it was probably best to let him sleep. And at the sound of that word in his mind, as if by sudden contagion, he closed his eyes automatically. And fell asleep.

  He was awakened by the silence.

  He was alone. It was daylight. The car was stopped along a dirt road in the open country. But all around him was not what you could really call country, only desolate, deserted land. A few stunted trees where it was impossible to tell what, if any, fruit they had ever borne, a few clumps of wild grass as tall as a man, thickets of sorghum, and a sea of white stones.

  It was a chiarchiaro, as they called it in Sicilian, a hill of stone, a godforsaken place where you couldn’t grow anything and it was dangerous even to walk, since at any moment you could find yourself sinking into a hole that would widen into a great fissure plunging deep into the ground.