in a space so tight that it reminded him of a cartoon. The underdog whimpered and tried to squeeze its way out between the bars. The other two tried to stand up, but they did not have sufficient space. They crouched, legs bent outward, and bared their teeth at each other. He waited five minutes, hoping to see the two larger dogs go for each other or turn on the underdog, but the animals seemed determined only to growl. Pernazzo resolved to come back after three days to see what the result was.
A zinc sluice-trough ran lengthways through all the cages. It entered through a narrow aperture on one side of the cage and out the other side to the next, and so on down to the end. The trough sloped slightly so that the water flowed down as far as the last cage. It was done so that the dog nearest the tap got first go at the water. The water flowed just fast enough for some water to reach all the way down to the last animal. Pernazzo turned the tap off.
He made several trips back and forth to the refrigerator, gathering the gobbets and hunks of meat, which he placed outside the dogs’ cages, just out of their reach.
44
Pernazzo past the turn-off to Santa Severa when his phone started playing the Black-Eyed Peas.
“Where are you?” demanded Massoni.
“On the way. Past Santa Severa. Fifteen minutes tops.”
“I’ve turned back three taxis. The same guy came twice, can you believe it? Says Alleva raised a real stink on the phone.”
Pernazzo turned on RAI Radio 2. Francesco de Gregori and Fiorella Mannoia were singing “L’Uccisione di Babbo Natale.” He listened all the way through, but didn’t get it. Two DJs came on and cracked a series of jokes at each other and howled with laughter. He phoned Massoni. “Right. I’m near Civitavecchia, now what?”
“Wait till the divided highway runs out-have you got any water with you?”
“No. The road runs out. I can picture that. I know where you’re talking about.”
Massoni said, “I’ve just been thinking about Ferrarelle, waterfalls, icy streams, melt water, Sprite.”
“Directions, Massoni.”
“Clock exactly five-point-three kilometers, turn off to the right. Go thirty meters. You see a green gate to an abandoned house on your left, you’re on the right road. If not, go back to the main road, take the next turn to the right… Dust… Another fucking taxi!”
Pernazzo hung up. He was less than ten minutes away. He found the road as Massoni had instructed, and didn’t need to look for the gate, because as he turned into it, a taxi pulled out. He drove four kilometers over a red dust track.
Suddenly a large powdered figure emerged as if from nowhere and stood in the road in front of him. Pernazzo stopped and Massoni rapped on the driver’s window with hairy knuckles.
“You sure you’ve no water? Some Sprite maybe? A beer would be good,” said Massoni when Pernazzo rolled down the window.
“No. Let’s move. You’ll get water when we get back to the house. How far?”
“What?”
“Are you listening, Massoni?”
“Sure. It’s the heat. Can you say whatever it was again?”
“OK, but listen. We drive back towards the house, slowly so that he doesn’t hear the vehicles approach. How close can we get before they become visible from the house?”
Massoni slapped himself to get rid of insects. His mouth was open and his tongue protruded slightly.
Pernazzo said, “Picture yourself in the house. You are inside looking out. How far before we become visible?”
“About thirty meters. If he’s inside looking out, but if he’s outside the front door he’ll see us from a distance.”
Pernazzo said, “He probably won’t be outside in this heat. Unless he’s getting nervous, which he probably is. Anyhow, let’s just get on with it.”
He outlined his plan again.
Massoni got into the SUV, turned it with some difficulty, then drove slowly back toward the house. A minute later, he pulled onto the verge and Pernazzo did likewise.
Massoni got out and, ducking slightly, made his way into the fields to his left and circled around the back of the house. A small olive grove afforded him protection at the back, but it still took him a full ten minutes to arrive at the front of the house. He went down on his hands and knees to get past the front window, and then stood up right next to the front door. Then he waved to Pernazzo, who gave three short blasts of his car horn, then got out to watch.
In the distance, Pernazzo saw Massoni stiffen as the door to the house opened. He saw Massoni step out in front of the figure that had emerged and deliver a massive blow with the flat of his hand sending him sprawling on all fours to the hard-baked earth. Then Massoni delivered a series of accurate head kicks to the prostrate figure. He climbed into the van and drove toward them.
Massoni hauled his boss into the house, pulled a chair out from under the small table in front of the kitchenette, pushed him down into it, then jerked him up by the hair, told him to sit straight, put his hands on the table where he could see them. Alleva did as he was told, placing his palms down flat on the yellow polyester oilcloth like a drunk preparing to leave for the bathroom.
Even the few seconds during which the door was open had been enough to allow in a group of flies that went straight to the middle of the small room and began circling. A bluebottle shot through the room and banged off a cupboard, and a massive carpenter bee hovered on the other side of the window glass, as if planning a break- in.
Massoni sat down on the chair opposite. Pernazzo appeared in the doorway.
“I bet you’re Angelo Pernazzo,” said Alleva, a slight slur in his voice. They were the first words he had uttered since he had been brought down outside the front door.
“Very unimpressive now that I’m here,” said Pernazzo. “Maybe you should have kicked him a bit more,” he said to Massoni.
Alleva’s face was swollen on the left side. Pink blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, red blood from above his eye, and he was coated in dust that looked like paprika.
Pernazzo walked to the head of the short table and looked down at the two men seated opposite each other. “Am I the only one who finds the crackling of the grass insects hard to bear?” he said.
“It’s the heat,” replied Massoni. “I’m just going to get myself a glass of water.” He made to stand up. He lifted up his enormous hand to reveal a small stainless-steel revolver with a barrel stretching hardly any further than its trigger guard. “He had this on him. He’s not armed now.”
Pernazzo held up a hand, “You sit where you are, Massoni. I’ll get you your water.”
He came around the table, passing behind Massoni, and stepped behind the counter that separated the living space from a kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator, looked in.
“Levissima,” he said. “Melted glacier water. Tastes of nothing, but quenches the thirst just great.” He took out a clear plastic bottle with a blue label. “Where do you keep your glasses? Oh, here they are. Nice little place, this. Well-equipped. Very small. What was it, an animal house or something once?” He took out two glass tumblers, which clinked together as he clasped them between thumb and finger. He carried the bottle and the glasses over to the table, coming behind Alleva this time, and placed them on the table. Then, reaching behind into his pants, he pulled out the Glock, tilted it slightly at Alleva’s temple. Alleva flinched, started to say something, but Pernazzo tapped him on the ear with the piece, and he fell silent.
Pernazzo said, “Pour me a glass, too, Massoni. It will taste all the better for the wait.”
Massoni had wrenched the plastic cap off the bottle, and had almost been about to tilt the bottle straight into his mouth. Displaying unexpected breeding, he stopped himself in time and put water into the glass farthest from him first, and then into his own.
Massoni took the tumbler in his clumsy hand, brought it to his parched lips, and Pernazzo shot him in the
