godfather.
That would even things out, according to Livia, who, when she put her mind to it, could be just as mean as him, if not more.
o o o
It was now evening. He was about to leave the station to go home when Nicolo Zito called.
“I haven’t got any time to explain ’cause I’m about to go on the air,” he said in a rush. “Watch my newscast.” The inspector dashed down to the cafe. There were about thirty people there, and the television was tuned to the Free Channel. A message on the screen read: “In a few minutes, an important announcement on the Mistretta kidnapping.” He ordered a beer. The message disappeared, giving way to the news logo. Then Nicolo appeared, sitting behind his custom-ary glass desk. He was wearing the face he reserved for momentous occasions.
“This afternoon,” he said, “we were contacted by Francesco Luna, a lawyer who has defended the concerns of Engineer Antonio Peruzzo more than once. He asked us to allow him the airtime to make an announcement. It is not an interview.
He also stipulated we must not follow his declaration with any commentary of our own. We decided to accept his conditions, despite their restrictions, because this is a very important moment for the fate of Susanna Mistretta, and Mr. Luna’s words may go a long way towards clarifying matters and leading to a happy resolution of this delicate and dramatic case.” Cut. A typical lawyer’s office appeared. Dark wood bookcases full of unread books, collections of laws dating back to the late nineteenth century but surely still in effect, because in Italy no part of any hundred-year-old law is ever thrown away. Same as with pigs. Mr. Luna looked exactly the way his name would suggest: lunar. Round, full-moon face, obese, full-moon body. Obviously influenced by this fact, the lighting engineer bathed the whole scene in a blue, lunar light.
The lawyer was spilling out of an armchair. In his hand he held a sheet of paper, which he looked down at from time to time as he spoke.
“I speak on behalf of my client, Engineer Antonio Peruzzo, who finds himself forced to emerge from his dutiful silence to stem the rising tide of lies and iniquities that have been un-leashed against him. Mr. Peruzzo wants everyone to know that, being well aware of the difficult economic conditions of the Mistretta family, he put himself at the full disposal of Susanna Mistretta’s abductors the day after her kidnapping. Unfortunately, however, and inexplicably, Mr. Peruzzo’s readiness to cooperate has not been returned in kind by the kidnappers.
This being the case, Mr. Peruzzo can only reaffirm the commitment he has already made, not only with the abductors, but with his own conscience.”
Everyone gathered at the bar burst out laughing, drowning out the statement that followed.
“If the engineer’s made a commitment with his conscience, the girl’s screwed!” one of them shouted, saying what everyone was thinking.
Things were so bad that if Peruzzo himself went on TV
to announce to everyone that he had decided to pay the ransom, everyone would think he was paying with counterfeit bills.
The inspector went back to the office and rang Minutolo.
“The judge just called and said he’d also seen the lawyer’s statement. He wants me to go see Luna and get some clarifi-cations. What you might call an informal visit. And respectful.
In short, we need to put on kid gloves. I’ve already phoned Luna, who knows me. He said he’s available. Does he know you?”
“Dunno. He knows who I am.”
“You want to come, too?”
“Sure. Give me the address.”
o o o
Minutolo was waiting for him at the front door. He’d come in his own car, like Montalbano. A wise precaution, since many of Luna’s clients would probably have a heart attack if they saw a police car parked in front of their lawyer’s place. The house was heavily and luxuriously furnished. A housekeeper dressed like a housekeeper showed them into the same study they’d seen on television. She gestured for them to make themselves comfortable.
“Mr. Luna will be right with you.”
Minutolo and Montalbano sat down in two armchairs in a sort of sitting room that had been set up in a corner. They nearly disappeared inside their respective, enormous easy chairs, custom-made for elephants and Mr. Luna. The wall behind the desk was entirely covered by photographs of vary-ing size, all duly framed. There must have been at least fifty.
They looked like ex-votos hung to commemorate and thank some miracle-working saint. The lighting in the room made it impossible to tell who the people in the photos were. Maybe they were clients saved from the nation’s prisons by that blend of oratory, cunning, corruption, and survival instinct that was Mr. Luna. Given, however, that the host was late in arriving, the inspector couldn’t resist, and he got up and went over to look at the photos. They were all of politicians: senators, deputies of the chamber, ministers, former or current undersecretaries. All signed and dedicated to the “dear” or “dearest” Mr. Luna. Montalbano sat back down. He now understood why the commissioner had advised them to proceed with caution.
“My dear friends!” said the lawyer upon entering the room. “Please don’t get up! Can I get you anything? I have whatever you want.”
“No, thank you,” said Minutolo.
“Yes, please, I’d like a daiquiri,” said Montalbano.
The lawyer gave him a befuddled look.
“Actually, I don’t—”
“Never mind,” the inspector conceded, gesturing as if brushing away a fly.
