“What? Where?” asked Mimi, annoyed and obviously not keen on getting Beba mixed up in the case.
“Okay, she has to tell him that about two months ago, when she was sitting in her car in Spigonella, she saw the guy in the photo being badly beaten up by two men. At a certain point the guy managed to break free and started coming toward Beba’s car, when he was caught again by the other two and dragged away.”
“And what was Beba doing in her car?”
“Lewd things with a man.”
“Come on! Beba will never say anything like that! And I don’t like it either!”
“And yet it’s essential! You know what Tommaseo’s like, don’t you? Tommaseo lives for these sex stories. It’s just the bait we need for him, and he’ll bite, just you wait and see. In fact, if Beba can make up a few particularly sordid details—”
“Have you gone insane?”
“Just some little thing . . .”
“Salvo, you’re sick in the head!”
“Why are you getting angry? I just meant any old bullshit, like saying that they couldn’t intervene because they were both naked—”
“Okay, okay. Then what?”
“Then, when Tommaseo calls you, you say—”
“Excuse me, but why would Tommaseo call me instead of you?”
“Because I won’t be in this afternoon. I want you to tell him that we already have a lead, have got the missing-person report in hand, and we need a blank search warrant.”
“Blank?!”
“Yes indeed. Because I know where this house in Spigonella is, but I don’t know who it belongs to or if anyone’s still living there. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Mimi said sullenly.
“Ah, and one more thing. Get him to give you authorization to bug the phone line of one Gaetano Marzilla, who lives at Via Francesco Crispi 18, Montelusa. The sooner we listen in, the better.”
“What’s Marzilla got to do with any of this?”
“Mimi, Marzilla’s got nothing to do with this investigation. But he may be useful to me for something I have in mind. So I’ll answer your question with a cliche that’ll make you happy: I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone.”
“But—”
“Mimi, if you persist, I’m going to take the stone intended for those birds and—”
“Okay, okay, I get the drift.”
Fazio shuffled back to the office less than an hour later.
“It’s all taken care of. Zito’s going to broadcast the photo and the phone call on the two o’clock news. He sends regards.”
And he headed for the door.
“Wait.”
Fazio stopped, certain the inspector was going to say something else to him. But Montalbano said nothing. He only looked him up and down. Fazio, who knew him well, pulled up a chair. The inspector kept eyeing him. Fazio, however, was well aware that he wasn’t really looking at him; he had his eyes on him, yes, but probably didn’t see him because his mind was God-knows-where. And indeed, Montalbano was wondering whether he shouldn’t perhaps ask Fazio to lend him a hand. But if he were to tell him the whole story of the African boy, how would Fazio react? Might he not reply that, in his opinion, this was all a figment of the inspector’s imagination and had no basis in fact? On the other hand, by singing only half the Mass, Montalbano might be able to get some information without revealing too much.
“Listen, Fazio, do you know if there are any illegal immigrants working under the table in our area?”
Fazio didn’t seem surprised by the question.
“There certainly are a lot of them everywhere, but right here, in our area, no.”
“Where are they, then?”
“Wherever there are greenhouses, vineyards, tomato fields, orange groves . . . Up north they work in industry, but around here, where there isn’t any industry, they work in agriculture.”
The discussion was turning too general. Montalbano decided to narrow the field.
“What towns in our province would offer such possibilities for illegal workers?”
“To be honest, Chief, I couldn’t really give you a complete list. Why are you interested?”
This was the question he feared most.
“Uh . . . I was just wondering, that’s all . . .”
Fazio stood up, went to the door, closed it, and sat back down.
“Chief,” he said, “would you be so kind as to tell me everything that’s on your mind?”
