'A truck hit us from behind/ she replied, shrugging.
'One of those yellow ones that pick up the rubbish. My trick got out to argue with the driver. And that was the last I saw of him/ 'Oh, come on!' Sabatino jeered aggressively.
There was no telling what might have happened if the other man's mobile phone had not started beeping. With an expression of annoyance he flicked up the mouthpiece and started speaking quietly, turning away so as not to be overheard. That broke their rhythm and gave her a chance to regroup, not that she had any idea what to do with it.
'Did anyone else see this?' demanded the one calling himself Sabatino, more to stop her overhearing what his partner was saying than in hope of a positive answer.
'No, I was the only one on that.. /
She broke off with a frown.
'That's odd!'
The reply was brutal: 'What's odd?'
She looked up at him. This was the moment. They would either kill her now or not. At least Daniele would be safe.
'There're two femmenielli who usually work the opposite corner. But you know what? They haven't been there, the last couple of nights. I never thought about it until now. They've disappeared, just like…'
The other man snapped his mobile phone closed and stood up.
'Let's go!'
Sabatino frowned.
'What is it?'
'De Spino. He wants us now.'
They headed for the door. There the one who was not called Sabatino turned and stared levelly at the woman.
'Not a word of this to anyone else, or we'll be back. If not for you, then for your kid.'
She sat trembling as the door closed behind them. De Spino, she was thinking. She couldn't place anyone by that name except Dario, but he was just a small-time fixer and scam artist. It was a joke to think that someone like that could get a pair of ruthless thugs like these to drop everything and come running. It must be another De Spino. The old order was breaking down, and new men she had never heard of were taking over. She was out of tune with the times, with the new Italy. Soon no one would want her, even on the street.
It was only then that she realized that the two men had said nothing about the money Lorenzo gave her for the car. A slow smile spread across her tired face. Maybe it was time to pay a call on Grandma in Avellino. She was always complaining that she never got to see Daniele.
They would be safe enough there up in the mountains for a while, by which time the whole episode would hopefully have been forgotten.
XVIII
It was not yet two when Zen left the Squillace apartment, replete with several bowls of pasta e ciceri, a celebration of making the most of what you have: chunks of chickpea bathed in oil and pasta under a dusty blanket of aged Parmesan. The sanctity of lunchtime might have been eroded farther north, where people hastily gobbled sandwiches at work just like Americans, but here in Naples the traditional three-hour ora di pranzo still commanded widespread respect. The streets outside were quiet, the corridors and stairs of the building deserted. It was therefore a surprise to Zen to find the porter already on duty.
He had already had one unnerving encounter with this Cerberus, who evidently took his responsibilities extremely seriously. When Zen had appeared on his way in, an hour or so earlier, he had leapt out of his wooden sentry box in the hall and quizzed him with an air of haughty scepticism as to his business there. As agreed, Zen explained that he was Signora Squillace's cousin from Milan, down here on business for a few days. The porter telephoned upstairs to check that Dottor Zembla was indeed known and expected, and only then, with some evident reluctance, allowed him to enter.
So the sight of the porter patrolling the hallway was not at first a welcome one. But it immediately became clear that the attitude of this functionary had changed dramatically.
Perhaps he too had had a good lunch, or perhaps a few glasses of wine had softened his mood. At all events, he greeted Zen with deference and even warmth, and escorted him in person to the street door with a variety of bland but amiable comments about the weather.
Zen had summoned Pasquale before coming down, and the familiar yellow Fiat Argenta was already waiting at the kerb. The porter hurried over to open the rear door for Zen, and made a great fuss about accepting the tip offered in return for these courtesies. Then he closed the door behind Signora Squillace's suddenly honoured guest, and looked across at two young men sitting in a red Alfa Romeo parked on the other side of the street. The driver, wearing a white sweater with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed arms, said something to his companion, in dark glasses and a Lacoste T-shirt, who put down the magazine he had been reading. Gravely, deliberately, the porter nodded once.
Inside the cab, Pasquale reached back and handed his passenger a blue plastic bag marked 'Carmignani Toys Since 1883'.
'Don't worry, duttd. It isn't a toy/ Zen opened the bag and looked at the box inside. It showed a photograph of a mobile telephone.
'Already?' he said in astonishment.
'Eh, eh! We make a sale, we deliver the product.'
Zen sighed.
'Unfortunately I can't pay you, Pasquale. My wallet got snitched outside the Questura and I can't get to the bank until tomorrow. I've already had to borrow some money from a friend to pay someone else off.'
'Gesu, Gesu! A few years ago, I could have made a few phone calls and your wallet would have been returned within the hour with every last lira intact. But that was the old days, before they locked up Don Raffaele. Nowadays everything's chaotic. There's no respect, no organization!
I'll put the word about, duttd, but I'm afraid you can kiss your money goodbye.'
'The money's not that important. The real problem is that my police identification card was in there too, and without that…'
He broke off, realising his slip.
'So you are in the police!' exclaimed Pasquale triumphantly.
'I was sure of it/
Zen gestured awkwardly.
'I didn't want to… inhibit you. Sometimes when people know you're a policemen, they feel less free to offer certain services of an irregular nature/ Pasquale put the car in gear.
'Very thoughtful, duttd. I appreciate your delicacy. So your ID was taken too. Is that all?'
'All? It'll take months to get a new one/ The taxi accelerated violently away. 'Ma quante maje?' Pasquale demanded rhetorically. 'A few days at most/ Zen laughed.
'You've obviously managed to avoid too many dealings with officialdom very successfully, Pasca. From the day I put in my application for a replacement card, it will take a minimum of…'
'Twenty-four hours, duttdl Maybe even less, depends on the workload. I'll need a photograph, of course/ A pause.
'You're offering to get me a fake?'
Pasquale took both hands off the wheel and turned around indignantly to protest.
'A fake? Do you think I'd try and fob you off with a fake? This is the real thing, duttd, indistinguishable from the original. Handmade in Aversa by some of the best artisans in the business. The printing, the paper, the stamp — all genuine! A work of art that's even more authentic than the original!'
