The Snack Thief

“The little boy; that’s his name.”

“He’s not Italian?”

“No, he’s Tunisian.”

“Listen, Montalbano, let’s drop it for the moment, I’m too confused. But I want you to come to my office tomorrow morning and explain everything to me.”

“I can’t, I have to go out of Vigata. It’s very important, believe me. I’m not trying to slip away.”

“Then we’ll see each other in the afternoon. I’m serious; don’t let me down. I need you to provide me with a line of defense; Chamber Deputy Pennacchio is here . . .”

“The one charged with criminal association with mafiosi?”

“The very same. He’s preparing a motion to be sent to the minister of the Interior. He wants your head.” Indeed. It was Montalbano himself who had initiated the investigation of the honorable deputy.

o o o

“Nicolo? Montalbano here. I need to ask a favor of you.”

“So what else is new? Fire away.”

“Are you going to be much longer at the Free Channel?”

“I have to do the midnight report and then I’m going home.”

“It’s ten o’clock now. If I come by the studio in half an hour and bring you a photo, do you think you could still get it on the air for the midnight report?”

“Sure. I’ll wait for you.”

o o o

He had sensed immediately, at first whiff, that the story of the Santopadre fishing boat was bad news. In fact, he’d done everything he could to steer clear of it. But now chance had grabbed him by the hair and ground his face in it, as one does with cats to teach them not to pee in certain places. Livia and Francois would have needed only to return a few moments later, and the kid would never have seen his uncle’s picture on TV, the dinner would have proceeded peacefully, and everything would have gone just fine. He cursed himself for being such an incurable cop. Anyone else in his place would have said: “Oh yeah? The kid recognized his uncle, did he? How about that!”

And he would have brought the first forkful to his mouth. But he couldn’t. He had to dive in and butt his head against it. The instinct of the hunt, it was once called by Dashiell Hammett, who understood these things well.

“Where’s the photo?” asked Nicolo as soon as Montalbano walked in.

It was the one of Karima and her son.

“Do you want me to frame the whole thing? Or just a detail?”

“As is.”

Nicolo Zito left the room, then soon returned without the photograph and sat himself comfortably down.

“Tell me everything. But most of all, tell me about the snack thief, which Pippo Ragonese thinks is bullshit but I don’t.”

“I haven’t got the time, Nicolo, believe me.”

“No, I don’t believe you. Question: was the boy stealing snacks the one in the photo you just gave me?” He was dangerously intelligent, this Nicolo. Better play along.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And who’s the mother?”

“She’s someone who was definitely involved in the murder the other day—you know, the guy found in the elevator.

But no more questions. As soon as I manage to make some sense of this, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

“Could you tell me at least what I’m supposed to say about the photo?”

“Right, of course. Your tone should be that of somebody telling a sad, sorrowful story.”

“So you’re a director now?”

“You should say that an elderly Tunisian woman came to you in tears, begging you to show that photo on TV. She’s had no news of either mother or child for three days. Their names are Karima and Francois. Anyone who’s seen them, etcetera, anonymity guaranteed, etcetera, should call Vigata police headquarters, etcetera.” “Up yours, etcetera,” said Nicolo Zito.

o o o

Back home, Livia went immediately to bed, bringing the kid along with her. Montalbano, on the other hand, stayed up, waiting for the midnight news report. Nicolo did what he was supposed to do, keeping the photo on- screen as long as possible. When the program was over, the inspector called to thank him.

“Could you do me another favor?”

“I’ve half a mind to charge you a fee. What do you want?”

“Could you run the segment again tomorrow on the one p.m. news? I don’t think too many people saw it at this hour.”