that Adelina used for mysterious purposes, went down to the beach again, threw himself belly-down on the sand, and started cleaning up.
After fifteen minutes of this, a sharp pang seized him across the shoulders, paralyzing him. Why on earth was he undertaking such tasks at his age?
“Could I really be in such bad shape?” he wondered.
In a fit of pride, however, he went back to work, the pain be damned. When he had finished putting all the rubbish into two large garbage bags, every bone in his body ached. But he’d had an idea in the meantime, and he wanted to see it through. He went inside and wrote in block letters on a blank sheet of paper: ASSHOLE. He put this in one of the two bags, which he then picked up and put into the trunk of his car. He went back into the house, took a shower, got dressed, got into his car, and drove off.
3
Just outside a town called Rattusa, he spotted a telephone booth that miraculously worked. He pulled up, got out of the car, and dialed a number.
“Is this Pippo Ragonese, the newsman?”
“In person. Who is this?”
“The name’s Russo, Luicino Russo. I’m a hunter,” said Montalbano, changing his voice.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Russo?”
“Iss happened again,” said the inspector in a conspiratorial tone of voice.
“I’m sorry, what’s happened again?”
“That satanic stuff you talked about lass night on TV. I foun’ two more bags.”
“Really?” asked Ragonese, immediately interested. “Where did you find them?”
“Right here,” said Montalbano, playing dumb.
“Here where?”
“Right here where I am.”
“Yes, but where are you?”
“In Spiranzella district, right by the four big olive trees.”
That is, about thirty miles from the newsman’s house.
“Wha’ should I do? Call the police?” asked Montalbano.
“No, there’s no need, we can do that together. You stay put for the moment. I’ll be there straightaway. And don’t tell anyone else, please, it’s very important.”
“You comin’ alone?”
“No, I’ll bring a cameraman as well.”
“Will he take me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will he take my pitcher? Will I be on TV? So all my friends’ll see me an’ I can brag about it?”
He got back into the car, drove to Spiranzella, left the two bags under one of the four olive trees, and drove off.
Entering the station, he found Catarella at his post.
“But didn’t you have a fever?”
“I got rid of it, Chief.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Took four aspirins an’ then drunk a glass o’ hot spicy wine an’ then got in bed an’ covered m’self up. An’ now iss gone.”
“Who’s here?”
“Fazio in’t here yet, an’ Isspector Augello called sayin’ as how he still had a little fever but would come in later in the morning.”
“Any news?”
“There’s a ginnelman wants a talk to yiz who’s name is—wait, I got it writ down somewheres—iss an easy name but I forgot it, wait, here it is: Mr. Giacchetta.”
“Does that seem like a forgettable name to you?”
“It happens to me sometimes, Chief.”
“All right, then, send him into my office after I go in.”
The man who came in was a well-dressed gentleman of about forty with a distinguished air, perfectly coiffed hair, mustache, eyeglasses, and the overall look of an ideal bank clerk.
“Please sit down, Mr. Giacchetta.”
“Giacchetti. Fabio Giacchetti’s the name.”
Montalbano cursed to himself. Why did he still believe the names Catarella passed on to him?
