Beastly Things

‘Bianchi was the one who told me that the average rate of rejection was about three per cent, so that’s where I stayed: some months a little more, some a little less.’ He paused to hoist himself up in his chair. ‘At least I tried to condemn the worst of them. But so many of them were sick. I don’t know what they feed them, or what medicines they pump into them, but some were disgusting.’

Ignoring the temptation to comment that this had not prevented Meucci from approving their entry into the food chain, Brunetti said, ‘Bianchi told you, but someone must have told him.’ When Meucci said nothing, Brunetti prodded him. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Of course,’ Meucci answered, snatching back the cigarettes and lighting one. ‘It was Borelli who gave him the orders: that’s obvious. And that’s what I did. Three per cent. Sometimes a little bit more, sometimes a little bit less. But always right around there.’ It sounded, this time, like a kind of incantation.

‘Did you ever speculate about who might be giving Signorina Borelli the orders?’ Brunetti asked.

Meucci shook his head quickly, then said, ‘No. That wasn’t my business.’

Brunetti let a suitable amount of time pass and then asked, ‘For how long did you do this?’

‘Two years,’ Meucci snapped, and Brunetti wondered how many kilos that represented in cancerous and diseased meat.

‘Until what?’

‘Until I went into the hospital and they had to hire someone else,’ Meucci said.

He cared nothing about the cause, but aware of how useful a display of concern would seem, Brunetti asked, ‘Why were you in the hospital, Signor Meucci?’

‘Diabetes. I collapsed at home, and when I woke up I was in Intensive Care; it took them a week to find out what was wrong with me, and then two weeks to get me stabilized, and then a week at home.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, unable to say that he was sorry.

‘At the end of the first week, they hired Nava.’ He looked at Brunetti and said, ‘You didn’t believe me, did you? When I said I never met him? Well, I didn’t. I don’t know how they found him or who recommended him.’ Meucci took visible pleasure in being able to say this.

‘But you were lying when you said you didn’t know I had been out to the macello, which means you were lying when you said you didn’t keep in touch with anyone there.’ He waited for Meucci to respond, and when he didn’t, Brunetti snapped the whip. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘She called me,’ Meucci said.

Brunetti thought it unnecessary to ask him whom he meant.

‘She said she wanted me to go and work in Verona,’ Meucci said with lowered eyes. ‘But I told her about the diabetes and told her my doctor said I couldn’t work until they had me stabilized.’

‘Is that true?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, but it got me out of having to go to Verona,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself.

‘To do the same thing?’ Brunetti asked. ‘In Verona?’

‘Yes,’ Meucci said. He opened his mouth to proclaim his virtue in having refused, but when he saw Brunetti’s expression, he said nothing.

‘Is she still in touch with you?’ Brunetti asked, keeping to himself his knowledge that Meucci had called her.

Meucci nodded, and Brunetti pointed to the tape recorder. ‘Yes.’

‘What for?’

‘She called me last week and said that Nava was gone and said I had to come back until they could find someone suitable.’

‘What do you think she meant by “suitable”?’ Brunetti asked calmly.

‘What do you think she meant?’ Meucci asked, finally using sarcasm with Brunetti.

‘I’m afraid I’m the person who does the asking, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said coldly.

Meucci sulked for a moment but then he answered. ‘She wanted someone who would maintain the three per cent.’

‘When did she tell you this?’

Meucci thought about this, then said, ‘She called me on the first – I remember the date because it was my mother’s birthday.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t have much choice, did I?’ Meucci asked with the petulance of a sixteen-year-old. And with the same moral clarity.

‘If she wanted you to go to Verona,’ Brunetti said, trying to clarify this, ‘does it mean she’s involved with other macelli?’

‘Of course,’ Meucci said, giving Brunetti a look that suggested he was the sixteen- year-old. ‘There are five or six of them. Two near here and four more, I think, out around Verona: anyway, in the province. They belong to Papetti’s father-in-law.’ Then, unable to resist the temptation to goad Brunetti by showing that he knew something the other man did not, he asked, ‘How else do you think Papetti would get a job like that?’

Ignoring Meucci’s provocation, Brunetti asked, ‘Have you ever been to any of the others?’

‘No, but I know Bianchi’s worked at two of them.’

‘How do you know that?’

Surprised, Meucci said, ‘We got on well, working together the way we did. He told me about it, said he preferred Preganziol because he knew the crew better.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said neutrally, then asked, ‘Do you know if she and Papetti are involved with them all?’

‘They visit them occasionally.’

‘Together?’ Brunetti asked.

Meucci laughed out loud. ‘You can put that idea out of your head, Commissario.’ He laughed so long it started him coughing. Panicked, he tried to get up but remained trapped in the chair, which he managed to lift from the floor in his attempt to stand. Brunetti rose to go around his desk to try to do something, but Meucci forced himself to sit back. The coughing spluttered out. He reached over and took a cigarette, lit it, and pulled life-saving smoke deep into his lungs.

Brunetti asked, ‘Why shouldn’t I think about it, Signor Meucci?’

Meucci’s eyes narrowed, and Brunetti saw the pleasure he could not disguise at having information that might be useful to Brunetti. Or to both of them. Meucci might be a coward, but he was not a fool.

Nor, it seemed, did he want to waste time. ‘What do I get in exchange?’ Meucci asked, stabbing out his cigarette.

Brunetti had known that something like this was bound to come, so he said, ‘I leave you alone at your private practice, and you don’t work in a slaughterhouse again.’

He watched Meucci calculate the offer, and he watched him accept it. ‘There’s nothing between the two of them,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘She told Bianchi.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Brunetti said.

‘Yes, Bianchi. They’re friends. Bianchi’s gay. They just like one another, and they gossip together like teenagers: who they’ve had, who they’d like to have, what they did. She told him all about Nava and how easy he was. It was like a game to her, I think. Anyway, that’s the way it sounded when Bianchi told me about it.’

Brunetti made sure he looked very interested in what the other man was saying. ‘What else did Bianchi tell you?’

‘That she tried with Papetti, but he almost wet his pants, he was so frightened.’

‘Of her?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew the answer.

‘No, of course not. Of his father-in-law. He ever screw around on his wife, the old man would probably see he never did any screwing again.’ Then, reflective and expansive, Meucci added, ‘After all, the old guy’s turned a blind eye to the way Papetti’s been screwing the company for years, so it’s obvious that it’s only his daughter he cares about. She’s in love with Papetti, so De Rivera lets him do whatever he wants. I guess it’s worth it to him.’

Brunetti made no comment and, instead, asked, ‘Why’d she bother with Nava?’