remember. I wonder how much they were going to take you for? You are a loser, Angelo,” said Blume. “And you are a lousy liar, too. You have been in close contact with Massoni and Alleva. Close enough for them to feed you a line of bullshit.”
Pernazzo hunched his back and took a step toward Blume. Pernazzo was small, but Blume’s instinct made him take a step backward.
“Get out of this house,” he said.
Blume ignored him. “Have you ever heard of Arturo Clemente?”
“No.”
“You never heard of him?”
“Never.”
“Even though he was the man responsible for bringing television cameras and the Carabinieri to one of Alleva’s dog fights?”
“No.”
“Even though you were detained that evening?”
“No.”
“Even though you said a few words to the television cameras. Even though just before coming here I watched you giving your opinions on bear-baiting.”
Silence.
“Did you not even watch the TV documentary when it aired? You must have wanted to see yourself on TV.”
“Leave my house now or I will call the Carabinieri.”
“No you won’t. But if you don’t want to see me again, I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me some fingerprints and saliva samples?” said Blume.
“What for?”
“To exclude you from our inquiries.”
“Inquiries into what?”
“The murder of Arturo Clemente.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ah. There’s that phrase again. Where were you yesterday morning?”
“Here at home.”
“Can anyone else confirm that?”
“No. But I was online playing Texas Hold’em poker.”
“Really? If I remember correctly, that’s illegal in Italy. Did you win at that, at least?”
Pernazzo shrugged.
“A bit. The pot wasn’t big.”
“Help me here, Angelo,” said Blume. “How can I be sure you were online like you said?”
“That’s your problem.”
“No, Angelo. I think it’s yours.”
“What? Because it’s illegal?”
“Because it’s not much of an alibi.”
“I was playing from seven in the morning until the early afternoon.”
Blume went over to the computer. “Show me,” he said.
Pernazzo stood up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Blume tried not to look at the silver gleam between Pernazzo’s knuckles as he pressed the keys on his keyboard, making the fantasy landscape dissolve.
“This is the program,” he said.
Blume watched as the name “Full Tilt Poker” appeared on-screen. A virtual felt table appeared. Four avatars sat around a table. A busty woman, a frog, a dog, and a cowboy. “Which one is you?”
“None of these. We’re just observing others. You think all of a sudden I’m playing there and talking to you? I have to sign in, join a table. You don’t get it, do you?”
“No. I don’t,” said Blume. “So when you join, what are you? A woman, a dog, an insect, what?”
Pernazzo closed the program. “That’s my business.”
“And you were playing this game all Friday morning?”
“Sure. You can get your IT department to check my IP. I know they spy on us anyhow.”
The fantasy landscape reappeared on-screen. Blume moved the mouse to pop up the Windows taskbar, but nothing happened.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“I was trying to pop up that clock thingy, check the time.”
“This isn’t a Windows system. The clock’s on the top.”
“Ah, so it is.” It showed nine fifteen. He had to meet Kristin at nine thirty. He was not going to make it.
“OK. I’m going to go away, have someone check your IP address like you said. I’m going to check that label, and I’m going to think a bit about Angelo Pernazzo the underdog, the loser. This will take me up to two days. For two days, therefore, we will be watching you. Any attempt to leave Rome will result in your immediate arrest, and then we’ll come in here and tear this rat’s nest you call home apart. So just sit there and play your computer games until I knock. Think you can do that?”
Blume took out a card with the station number and his name and rank on it, and held it out. Pernazzo plucked the card from Blume’s large hand, skimmed it toward the computer desk. He missed and the card fluttered to the floor.
“You might want to engage the services of a lawyer or”-Blume pointed to the computer-“enlist some elves and wizards to help you.”
21
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 9:45 P.M.
It was nine forty-five when Blume, hungry and beginning to suffer the exhaustion of the past thirty or so hours, reached Piazza Santa Maria. The rain, heavy as he left Pernazzo’s, had eased off. Young tourists, obediently following the instructions in their Lonely Planet guidebooks, sat huddled on the soaked steps of the fountain surrounded by pigeon shit, leering drunks, and drug addicts, and waited for something cool to happen.
He saw Kristin immediately. She was standing slightly off-center, away from the fountain, hands by her sides. Although she was clearly American, and clean-cut and female, no one was bothering her.
“Kristin,” said Blume, sticking his hand out, as if it were a business meeting.
“Hi,” said Kristin, taking his outstretched hand briefly. Her hands were dry, and sturdier than he expected.
“I am late. I’m sorry. Something came up…” said Blume. He tried to think of some non-idiotic words, but thoughts seemed to slip down from his brain into his neck, leaving his mind empty and his voice thick. “Here we are, then.”
Kristin said, “Yes. Here we are. Glad you could make it.”
“Me, too,” said Blume. He’d think of something clever to say in a minute.
“Have you any particular plans?” asked Kristin. “I’m hungry.”
“Aren’t we going to wait for your friend-your friends, I mean?” asked Blume.
“They’re not coming. Marty called me earlier, said they couldn’t make it.”
“Ah, no?” Blume decided not to bother feigning disappointment.
He looked at a bar opposite where a waiter was swiping raindrops off shining tables. “Maybe a drink?”
Kristin looked at the bar and seemed to dismiss it with a shake of her head, then said, “Do you like Roman cuisine?”
“You mean pajata, and tripe and pigs’ trotters, horsemeat, liver, and all that stuff?” asked Blume.
