The Potter's Field

“By someone from Colombia, definitely. But some people tell another version of this story. Some people, mind you.”

“I read you, go on.”

“They say it was Don Balduccio himself who had him killed.”

“And why?”

“I dunno, there were a lot of rumors. The most commonly accepted explanation is that Filippo Alfano took advantage of the situation, expanded his operations, and started thinking more about his own business than about Don Balduccio’s, hoping to replace him.”

“And Balduccio prevented him. But he kept looking after the widow and son, according to what Dolores told us.”

“Which makes sense. It’s in keeping with Don Balduccio’s mentality.”

“So the son, Giovanni, has always kept his nose clean?”

“Chief, the guy’s been in the sights of the narcotics authorities of at least two continents his whole life! With the line of work he’s in? No, he’s never tripped up, not even once.”

“Oh, listen, take this photo of Giovanni Alfano and have ten copies of it made for me. They may come in handy. Then have the three friends come in for questioning tomorrow morning, one hour apart. Oh, and one other thing. I want to know the exact date Balduccio Sinagra went into the hospital.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes and no. I’m thinking of that anonymous letter that claimed Balduccio gave the order to have one of his couriers killed. If I’m not mistaken, Ballerini told Musante that Balduccio was hospitalized and in a coma in Palermo, and so Musante decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re not mistaken.”

“Except that Dolores showed me a photo of Balduccio in which he looked just fine. I managed to get a glimpse of the date on the back: August 28. Therefore Balduccio could have had all the time in the world to order a hit on whoever he liked before going into the hospital. Make sense?”

“Makes sense.”

The inspector had just finished eating the way God had intended and was getting up from the table when Enzo approached.

“Inspector, where are you going to spend Christmas and New Year’s this year?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to let you know that if by any chance you’re staying in Vigàta, the trattoria will be closed on the night of the thirty-first. But if you want to come to my place that night, I’d be honored and pleased to have you.”

So now the tremendous pain in the ass of the holidays was about to begin! He couldn’t stand them anymore—not so much the holidays in themselves, but the annoying rituals of best wishes, presents, lunches, dinners, invitations and return invitations. And then the greeting cards expressing the hope that the coming year would be better than the one just ended—a vain hope, since every new year in the end turned out to be slightly worse than the one before.

Enzo’s question had managed, in the end, to block his digestion like a blast of cold air. In vain he took his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. The effect was nil, his stomach still felt heavy.

As the final blow, he imagined the inevitable, imminent arguments with Livia—Will you be coming to Boccadasse? No, you come to Vigàta—on and on to the point of exhaustion or bickering.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Misser Giacchetta called! He says it wadn’t so important ’n’ so iss not so important f ’you to call’im cuz he’s gonna call back.”

Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager and new father. What might he have to say?

“When he calls back, put ’im through to me.”

“Ahh, Chief, I almos’ forgot. Fazio called an’ tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e’s goin’ inna haspitol.”

“Fazio’s going into the hospital?!” said Montalbano, alarmed.

“No, no, Chief, don’ worry, I prolly din’t say it right. So I’ll try agin, so jus’ bear wit’ me a seccun. So, Fazio tol’ me to tell yiz ’e knows when ’e—but he ain’t Fazio, ’e’s summon ellis—when ’e’s gone inna haspitol.”

At last he understood: Fazio had learned the date of Balduccio Sinagra’s admission to the hospital.

“And when was it?”

“’E says it was the turd o’ September.”

Confirmed. So Don Balduccio would have had time to give as many execution orders as he wanted. But why hadn’t the people at Antimafia reached the same conclusion as he?

Why had they taken the information given them by Narcotics as valid? Why were they so convinced the anonymous letter wasn’t true? Or had they in fact investigated but didn’t want anyone to know?

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“Hi. What’s up? Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First I have to ask you something.”

From his tone of voice, he seemed on edge. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or he’d had problems with some superior.

“Go on, ask your question.”

“Could you have a copy of a search warrant sent to me within an hour?”

“Within an hour? I can try.”

“Do it right away, I’m telling you.”

“Do you need to cover your rear?”

“Yes. I can’t not tell our prosecutor, who’s quite the formalist, that I entered the Via Gerace apartment completely illegally.”

“Why do you have to tell him?!”

“Because.”