The Snack Thief

Apparently the Parmesan was not enough, as he added two more spoonfuls, then ground a bit of pepper on top.

“And how did you enter the prefect’s office, on your hands and knees?”

“Knock it off, Salvo.”

“Why should I? Since you never miss a single opportu-nity to stab me in the back!”

“I? Stab you in the back? Listen, Salvo, if after working for four years with you I had really wanted to stab you in the back, you’d now be running the most godforsaken police station in the most godforsaken backwater in Sardinia, while I would be vice-commissioner at the very least. You know what you are, Salvo? You’re a colander that leaks water out of a thousand holes, and all I’m ever doing is trying to plug as many holes as possible.” He was absolutely right, and Montalbano, having let off some steam, changed his tone:

“Tell me at least what happened.”

“I wrote a report, it’s all in there. A large motor trawler from Mazara del Vallo, the Santopadre, with a crew of six including one Tunisian. It was his first time on board, poor guy.

The usual scenario, what can I say? A Tunisian patrol boat orders them to stop, the fishing boat refuses, the patrol boat fires. Except that things went a bit differently this time. This time, somebody got killed, and I’m sure the Tunisians are sorrier than anybody about it. Because all they care about is seizing the boat and squeezing a ton of money out of the owner, who then has to negotiate with the Tunisian government.” “What about ours?”

“Our what?”

“Our government. Don’t they come into the picture somewhere?”

“God forbid! They’d make everybody waste an endless amount of time trying to resolve the problem through diplomatic channels. You see, the longer the fishing boat is de-tained, the less the owner earns.” “But what do the Tunisian coast guards get out of it?”

“They get a cut, just like the municipal cops in some of our towns. Not officially, of course. The captain of the Santopadre, who’s also the owner, says it was the Rameh that attacked them.” “And what’s that?”

“That’s the name of a Tunisian motor patrol boat whose commanding officer is notorious for behaving exactly like a pirate. But since somebody got killed this time, our government will be forced to intervene. The prefect asked for a very detailed report.” “So why did they come and bust our balls instead of dealing directly with Mazara?”

“The Tunisian didn’t die immediately, and Vigata was the nearest port. At any rate, the poor bastard didn’t make it.”

“Did they radio for help?”

“Yes, they hailed the Fulmine, a patrol boat that’s always riding at anchor in our port.”

“How did you put that?”

“Why, what did I say?”

“You said: ‘riding at anchor.’ And you probably wrote that in your report to the prefect. A nitpicker like that, I can already imagine his reaction! You’re fucked, Mimi, by your very own hand.” “And what should I have written?”

“ ‘Moored,’ Mimi, or ‘docked.’ ‘Riding at anchor’ means anchored on the open sea. There’s a fundamental difference.”

“Oh, God!”

It was well known that the prefect, who went by the name of Dieterich and hailed from Bolzano, didn’t know a caique from a cruiser, but Augello had swallowed the bait and Montalbano relished his small victory.

“Don’t worry about it. So what was the upshot?”

“The Fulmine arrived at the scene in less than half an hour, but once there, they didn’t find anything. They cruised around a bit in the area, with no results. This is what the Harbor Office learned by radio. When our patrol boat comes back in we’ll know a few more details.” “Bah!” said the inspector, doubtful.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t see why it should be of any concern to us or our government if some Tunisians kill a Tunisian.” Mimi, mouth agape, just stared at him.

“You know, Salvo, I’m sure I say my share of stupid things, but when you come out with one, it’s always a whopper.”

“Bah!” repeated Montalbano, unconvinced he’d said anything stupid.

“So, what about our dead man, the one in the elevator?

What can you tell me about him?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything. That dead man’s mine. You took the Tunisian, I’m taking the guy from Vigata.”

Let’s hope the weather improves, thought Augello. Otherwise, how’s anyone going to put up with this guy?

o o o

“Hello, Inspector Montalbano? This is Marniti.”

“What can I do for you, Major?”

“I wanted to let you know that our command has decided—and I agree with them—that the fishing-boat