The Potter's Field

He was about to leave his office and head home when Fazio came in. From the face he was wearing it was clear he had something big up his sleeve. He was about to open his mouth when he noticed the scratches on the inspector’s forearms and changed expression.

“Wha’?? How’d you scratch yourself like that? Have you disinfected them?”

“I didn’t scratch myself,” said Montalbano, annoyed, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “And there’s no need to disinfect them.”

“So how’d you get them, then?”

“Geez, what a pain! I’ll tell you later. Talk to me.”

“So. First of all, Pecorini didn’t use any agency to rent out his house. I called them all. However, a certain Mr. Maiorca, owner of one of the agencies, when he heard me mention Pecorini over the telephone, said, ‘Who, the butcher?’ ‘Do you know him?’ I asked. And he said, ‘Yes.’ So I went and talked to him in person.”

He pulled out a little piece of paper from which he was about to read something, but a homicidal glance from Montalbano stopped him dead.

“Okay, okay, Chief, no vital statistics. Just the bare essentials. The Pecorini of interest to us is a fifty-year-old from Vigàta, first name Arturo, who lived in Vigàta until two years ago and worked as a butcher. Then he moved to Catania, where he opened an enormous butcher shop at the port, near the customs house. Fits the bill, no?”

“Seems to. Is the summer house the only thing he kept in Vigàta?”

“No. He’s got another house, in town, that had always been his main residence, in Via Pippo Rizzo.”

“Do you know where that street is?”

“Yeah, in that same rich neighborhood I said I didn’t like. It runs parallel to Via Guttuso.”

“I see. And he only comes back here in the summer?”

“Who ever said that? He kept his butcher shop here and got his brother, named Ignazio, to look after it. And he comes here every Saturday to see how the business is going.”

Maybe—thought Montalbano—Mimì got to know the butcher from buying meat at his shop and found out, or already knew, that Pecorini had an empty house to rent. That might explain it.

“Did you also talk with your friend at the Antimafia Commission, Morici?”

“I did. We’re meeting tomorrow morning at nine in a bar in Montelusa. Now will you tell me how you got those scratches?”

“Dolores Alfano did it.”

Fazio was taken aback.

“Is she as beautiful as they say?”

“Very beautiful.”

“She came here?”

“Yes.”

“Did she come to report the person who tried to run over her?”

“The subject never even came up.”

“Then what did she want?”

Montalbano had to explain the whole matter to him, including the disappearance of Giovanni Alfano.

“And how did she scratch you?”

A little embarrassed, Montalbano explained.

“Be careful, Chief. That lady bites.”

10

He had just finished savoring the melanzane alla parmigiana when Livia called.

“I’ve been on the phone for the last half hour with Beba. She’s desperate and can’t stop crying.”

“But why?”

“Because Mimì is treating her very badly. He screams and yells and it’s not at all clear what he wants. This morning he made a terrible scene. Beba thinks these nighttime stakeouts are wearing him out.”

“Did you tell her they’ll be over soon?”

“Yes, but in the meantime . . . poor Beba . . . But, tell me something, Salvo. Has Mimì done any stakeouts like these in the past?”

“Sure, dozens.”

“And he’s never reacted this way before?”

“Never.”

“So, why is it that now . . . Bah! Couldn’t it be that something else is going on in his life?”

An alarm bell went off in the inspector’s head.

“Like what?”

“I dunno . . . maybe he’s fallen in love with someone else . . . Mimì used to fall in love so easily . . . Maybe, between the exhaustion from his stakeouts and the uneasiness he feels around Beba...”

For heaven’s sake, that idea wasn’t supposed to even graze Livia’s consciousness! It could compromise everything!

“I’m sorry, Livia, but when could he have met this other woman? He hasn’t got the time for it. Think about it. At the moment, he spends his nights on stakeouts or at home, and during the day he’s at the office...”

“You’re right. But why suddenly all these stakeouts, and all on Mimì’s shoulders?”

Shit! Livia was becoming dangerous. Guided by her feminine sense of smell, she was getting close to the truth. There were two ways to throw her off the scent: either start yelling like a madman that the rise in crime was not his fault, or else try to reason with her calmly. If he did the former, the conversation would end in a blowout, and Livia would simply harden her position; whereas, with the latter, maybe...

“Well, the situation here has practically become a state of emergency, you know . . . There’s a band of fugitives roaming the countryside . . . We’ve already caught one person, thanks to Mimì, in fact. And it’s not true that it’s all on Mimì’s shoulders. He’s been going out every other night, more or less. On his nights off, he’s replaced by someone else.”

All lies. But Livia seemed to have been convinced.