Rounding the Mark

“Fazio, those kinds of questions only piss me off. I don’t know a goddamned thing! You’re the one who’s supposed to be filling me in!”

“Marzilla learned his lesson and started coughing up the protection money. Feeling safe, he bought a warehouse adjacent to the shop and expanded and renovated everything. To make a long story short, he got covered in debt, and since business is bad, the loan sharks have him by the throat now, according to the gossip. Lately the poor guy’s so desperate he’s looking left and right for any spare change he can get his hands on.”

“I absolutely must speak with this man,” said Montalbano, after remaining silent a few moments. “And as soon as possible.”

“What are we going to do? We certainly can’t arrest the guy,” said Fazio.

“No. Who ever said anything about arresting him? On the other hand . . .”

“On the other hand?”

“If he got wind . . .”

“Of what?”

“Nothing, I just thought of something. You know the address of his shop?”

“Of course, Chief. Via Palermo 34.”

“Thanks. Now go pound the pavement some more.”

9

After Fazio left, he sat and pondered his course of action until he had it all clear in his mind. He called in Galluzzo.

“Listen, I want you to go to the Bulone printworks and have them make a bunch of calling cards for you.”

“With my name?” asked Galluzzo, perplexed.

“Come on, Gallu, are you acting like Catarella now? With my name.”

“And what should I tell them to write?”

“The essential. Salvo Montalbano and, underneath, Chief Inspector, Vigata Police. On the bottom left, have them put our telephone number. Ten or so will be enough.”

“While we’re at it, Chief—”

“You want me to order a thousand? So I can wallpaper my bathroom with ’em? Ten’ll be more than enough. And I want them on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon. No excuses. Now hurry, before they close for lunch.”

It was time to eat. Since most people were at home, he might as well try. He picked up the phone.

“Hallo? Who tokin?” said the voice of a woman who must have come from at least as far away as Burkhina Faso.

“This is Inspector Montalbano. Is Signora Ingrid there?”

“You wait.”

By now it was tradition. Whenever he called up Ingrid, a housekeeper from a country nowhere to be found on the map always answered.

“Hi, Salvo? What’s up?”

“I’m going to need a little help from you. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Yes. I have an engagement around six.”

“That should be more than enough time. Can we meet in Montelusa, in front of the Vittoria Cafe at four- thirty?”

“Sure. See you later.”

At home he found a casserole of tender, mischievous pasta ’ncasciata (he suffered from improper use of adjectives and couldn’t define it any better than this) in the oven and feasted on it. Then he changed, putting on a grey double-breasted suit, a pale blue shirt, and a red tie. He wanted to look like a cross between white-collar and shady. Afterwards, he sat out on the veranda and sipped a coffee while smoking a cigarette.

Before going out, he looked for a greenish, vaguely Tyrolean-style hat he hardly ever wore and a pair of glasses with plain lenses that he’d used once but couldn’t remember why. At four o’clock he returned to the office and found a small box with calling cards on his desk. He took three and put them in his wallet. He went back outside, opened the trunk to his car, where he kept a Humphrey Bogart-style trench coat, put this on, along with the hat and glasses, and drove off.

Seeing him appear before her in that getup, Ingrid began laughing so hard that tears started running down her cheeks and she had to dash into the cafe and lock herself in the bathroom.

When she came out, however, the giggles got the better of her again. Montalbano was stone-faced.

“Get in the car, I’ve got no time to waste.”

Ingrid obeyed, making a tremendous effort to refrain from laughing.

“Do you know that gift shop at number 34, Via Palermo?”

“No, why?”

“Because that’s where we’re going.”