Sciacchitano, it's not your fault. You cant fit a square peg into a round hole.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that you, being a born asshole, will never be a decent, intelligent person. Now, I demand that you write a letter, addressed to me, praising my men to the skies. And I want it by tomorrow. Good-bye.'
'Do you think if I write the letter, the commissioner will let it drop?'
'To be perfectly honest, I don't know. But if I were you, I'd write that letter. And I might even date it yesterday. Got that?'
He felt better now, having let off some steam. He called Catarella.
'Is Inspector Augello in his office?'
'No sir, but he just now phoned. He said that, figuring he was about ten minutes away, he'd be here in about ten minutes.'
Montalbano took advantage of the time to start writing the fake report. The real one he'd written at home the night before. At a certain point Augello knocked and entered.
'You were looking for me?'
'Is it really so hard for you to come to work a little earlier?'
'Sorry, but in fact I was busy till five oclock in the morning. Then I went home and drifted off to sleep, and that was that.'
'Busy with one of those whores you like so much? The kind that pack two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh into a tight little dress?'
'Didn't Catarella tell you?'
'He told me you'd be coming in late.'
'Last night, around two, there was a fatal car accident. I went to the scene myself, thinking I'd let you sleep, since the thing was of no importance to us.'
'To the people who died, it was certainly important.'
'There was only one victim. He took the downhill stretch of the Catena at high speed, apparently his brakes weren't working and ended up wedged under a truck that had started coming up the slope in the opposite direction. The poor guy died instantly.'
'Did you know him?'
'I sure did. So did you. Cavaliere Misuraca.'
...
'Montalbano? I just got a call from Palermo. They want us to hold a press conference. And that's not all: they want it to make some noise. That's very important. It's part of their strategy. Journalists from other cities will be there, and it will be reported on the national news. It's going to be a big deal.'
'They want to show that the new government is not letting up in the fight against the Mafia, and that, on the contrary, they will be more resolute, more relentless than ever'
'Is something wrong, Montalbano?'
'No. I was just imagining the next days headlines.'
'The press conference is scheduled for noon tomorrow. I just wanted to give you advance warning.'
'Thank you, sir, but what have I got to do with any of it?'
'Montalbano, I am a nice man, a kind man, but only up to a point. You have everything to do with it! Stop being so childish!'
'What am I supposed to say?'
'Good God, Montalbano! Say what you wrote in the report.'
'Which one?'
'I'm sorry, what did you say?'
'Nothing.'
'Just try to speak clearly, don't mumble, and keep your head up. And...Oh, yes, your hands. Decide once and for all where youre going to put them and keep them there. Don't do like last time, where the correspondent of the Corriere offered aloud to cut them off for you, to make you feel more comfortable.'
'And what if they question me?'
'Of course they'll question you, to use your odd phrasing. They're journalists, aren't they? Good day.'
Too agitated by everything that was happening and was going to happen the following day, Montalbano had to leave the office. He went out, stopped at the usual shop, bought a small bag of caesimenza, and headed toward the jetty. When he was at the foot of the lighthouse and about to turn back, he found himself face-to-face with Ernesto Bonfiglio, the owner of a travel agency and a very good friend of the recently deceased Cavaliere Misuraca.
'Isn't there anything we can do?' Bonfiglio blurted out at him aggressively.
Montalbano, who was trying to dislodge a small fragment of peanut stuck between two teeth, merely looked at him, befuddled.
'I'm asking if theres anything we can do,' Bonfiglio repeated resentfully, giving him a hostile look in return.
