“And what did he tell you?” Prestia asked almost defi-antly.
“He said Ben Dhahab came to him the day before and asked if he was signed on with the
“Let me finish. Given this fact, Dhahab certainly didn’t sign on because he needed work. He already had money.
Therefore he must have come on your boat for another reason.”
Valente paid very close attention to the trap Montalbano was setting. The bit about this mysterious Tarif taking money from Dhahab had clearly been invented by the inspector, and Valente needed to know what he was driving at.
“Do you know who Ben Dhahab was?”
“A Tunisian looking for work.”
“No, my friend, he was one of the biggest names in nar-cotics traffic.”
While Prestia was turning pale,Valente understood that it was now his turn. He secretly smiled to himself. He and Montalbano made a formidable duo, like Toto and Peppino.
“Looks like you’re in a fix, Mr. Prestia,” Valente began in a compassionate, almost fatherly tone.
“But why?!”
“Come on, can’t you see? A drug trafficker the caliber of Ben Dhahab signs on with your fishing boat, sparing no expense. And you have the past record you do. I, therefore, have two questions. First: what is one plus one? And second: what went wrong that night?” “You’re trying to mess me up! You want to ruin me!”
“You’re doing it yourself, with your own two hands.”
“No! No! This has gone too far!” said Prestia, very upset.
“They guaranteed me that . . .”
He stopped short, wiped off his sweat.
“Guaranteed you what?” Montalbano and Valente asked at the same time.
“That I wouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Who did?”
Captain Prestia stuck his hand in his pocket, dug out his wallet, extracted a calling card, and threw it ontoValente’s desk.
o o o
Having disposed of Prestia,Valente dialed the number on the calling card. It belonged to the prefecture of Trapani.
“Hello? This is Vice-Commissioner Valente from Mazara.
I’d like to speak with Commendator Mario Spadaccia, chief of the cabinet.”
“Please hold.”
“Hello, Commissioner Valente. This is Spadaccia.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Commendatore, but I have a question concerning the killing of that Tunisian on the fishing boat—”
“Hasn’t that all been cleared up? The government in Tunis—”
“Yes, I know, Commendatore, but—”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because the crew chief of the fishing boat—”
“He gave you my name?”
“He gave us your card. He was keeping it as some sort of . . . guarantee.”
“Which indeed it was.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me explain. You see, some time ago, His Excellency . . .” (
Montalbano wondered while listening in on an extension.)
“. . . His Excellency the prefect received an urgent request.
He was asked to give his full support to a Tunisian journalist who wanted to conduct a sensitive investigation among his compatriots here, and who, for this reason, among others, also wished to sign on with one of our fishing boats. His Excellency authorized me to oversee the matter. Captain Prestia’s name was brought to my attention; I was told he was very re-liable. Prestia, however, had some worries about getting in trouble with the employment office. That’s why I gave him my card. Nothing more.” “Commendatore, I thank you very much for your thorough explanation,” said Valente. And he hung up.
They sat there in silence, eyeing each other.
“The guy’s either a fuckup or he’s putting one over on us,” said Montalbano.
