Almost.
The SUV eased its way into the back of a small family car that had stopped dead in the middle of the street. The impact was negligible.
“Look at this guy!” said Massoni as the car they had just hit swerved out of sight and into a parking place to the right. “Causes a crash, then just finishes his parking.”
He opened the door and hopped out. Pernazzo waited a second, then followed suit.
Massoni walked around to the front of his car, bent his head, and examined for damage. Perhaps there was a slight dent in the fender, it was hard to tell. The other driver was arriving, white-faced. Water droplets from the large-leafed plane trees above splashed on his bald head. Massoni executed an elegant sweeping movement with his hand in the direction of his fender, like he was selling the car. A woman, presumably the wife, hurried away with two children. The woman had a fat ass. The girl had long sleek black hair that shone in the wet. Nice. Pernazzo watched them as they made for a pizzeria. The husband half- turned and followed them with his eyes, said something, then turned back to Massoni, and said in a loud voice, “If you want, we can call the police.”
Massoni said something that Pernazzo missed. He moved in closer and heard the bald man say, “Is that a threat?”
Evidently it was. Massoni grabbed the man’s lapel and yanked him in front of the car, pushed his head down, made him look at a scrape that Pernazzo couldn’t see.
The bald man said, “My car’s damaged worse. You’re at fault. Driver behind is always at fault.”
Massoni looked over at Pernazzo and gave him a can-you-believe-this-guy sort of grin.
“I need you to give me two hundred euros,” Massoni told the man.
“I don’t have two hundred euros.”
“Too bad,” said Massoni, “because that’s what the damage to my car is going to cost. You’re lucky I know a panel beater does discounts.”
“I don’t have that sort of money.”
“Listen to him. That sort of money. It’s exactly the same sort as what you have in your wallet.”
“I don’t have that much.”
“How were you going to pay for the pizzas?”
“They wouldn’t cost two hundred.”
Massoni reached out, pulled the guy toward him. “Just give me your wallet, see what’s in it.”
The man shook his shiny head, but when Massoni spun him round and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket, he did not put up much resistance. Massoni pulled out two fifties and a twenty, rubbed them between thumb and forefinger, folded them into his pocket, tossed the wallet high in the air between Pernazzo and the bald man. Pernazzo was faster, and leapt slightly to snatch it.
“Give me that,” said the man, finding his voice as Pernazzo opened it.
Pernazzo pulled out a supermarket points card, dropped it on the ground.
“There you go,” he said.
He pulled out a Visa card, a San Paolo ATM card, glanced at them, then flicked them to the ground, one by one, first to the left then to the right.
He pulled out a pink driver’s license, read out the name.
“Enrico Brocca. Pleased to meet you, Enrico.” He ripped the license in two, threw one piece leftward, the other rightward. Then he emptied the whole contents on the ground. Coins, cards scattered on the road. The man moved back and forth, almost on his knees, as he retrieved his belongings.
Massoni pulled back his leg and made as if to deliver a kick. The man covered his head with his arms, and Pernazzo laughed. “You’re lucky we’ve got places to be, Enrico,” he said.
The man walked slowly away toward the pizzeria. Just before he reached the front door, Pernazzo saw him bend, brush the wet from his pants, take a deep breath, raise his head, steady his walk.
Pernazzo and Massoni climbed back up into the car and sat there.
“You handled that pretty well,” said Pernazzo. “But there’s something missing in your method. You’re reactive only. You need to become more of a protagonist.”
Massoni spun the steering wheel and made a three-point turn, shaking a fist at the motorists coming from both directions. “I didn’t see you being much of a protagonist just now, standing there like a wet rat watching me.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you back home.”
They drove in silence for ten minutes. Then Pernazzo asked, “Where do you think Alleva is now?”
Massoni shrugged.
“Let me ask you something.”
Massoni drummed the steering wheel as he waited for a light to change.
“Have you got anything on Alleva?”
Massoni switched on Radio DeeJay, and after listening to the music a bit said, “I know that song. Robert someone. Sang it at Festivalbar. Good song.”
Pernazzo reached over and switched off the radio.
“You’re not listening to me.”
Massoni switched the radio on again. “You want me to break your fingers?”
Pernazzo left the radio on and spoke over the music. “The way I see it is this. You break fingers, hassle people a bit, but you haven’t done anything really important for Alleva. I’m not saying you’ve never killed a man, but you’ve never done it for Alleva, have you? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“So what?”
“He hasn’t let you see him do anything really bad, either. Right? That means you can’t compromise him.”
“Yeah. We’re still working together. So it’s good.”
“Not good. Bad.”
“I don’t become his enemy or a danger.”
“You are something he can walk away from. You’ve no leverage. Me, I’ve just given myself leverage on him by killing Clemente. Right now, he’s trying to figure out who I am. That’s what he’s delaying for.”
Massoni flicked on the windscreen wipers to brush away some droplets.
“I was just thinking, he might cut us out of the loop,” said Pernazzo.
“There you go with that ‘us’ again.”
“He’s excluding you, too. You’re not indispensable to him. You need to forge a bond that he can’t break even if he wants to.”
Massoni pushed his shoulders back into the seat, preparing to drive again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can show you how. Right now.”
“Show me what?”
“How to get Alleva to respect you and need you.”
“He said he’s not meeting you.”
“We don’t need to meet him. Just drive back to that pizzeria where that guy dented your car.”
“Why there?”
“You want me to show you or not?”
“No.”
Massoni turned up the music and accelerated back in the direction of Pernazzo’s house.
“Are you sure there were no police watching my house?” said Pernazzo after listening through two Carmen Consoli songs back- to-back.
“Those are great, great songs,” said Massoni. “She’s a genius. Beautiful. The police don’t have the manpower to keep watch on important operators. You’re not even below their radar. You’re… further below their radar than a… You’re like an insect to them. Know what I’m saying? Hey, this is Lig-abue, listen to this one.” He turned up the volume even higher.
“Commissioner Blume,” said Pernazzo. “He said he’d be coming back. He found stuff at my place. I think he can connect me to the killing.”
