The Potter's Field

“And what if you tell me not to do it?”

“I won’t. You can be sure of it. I only want to be informed daily on the developments of the case.”

“All right, then. Thanks.”

Mimì stood up and held out his hand to him. Montalbano took it and squeezed it rather tight. Mimì couldn’t resist any longer.

“May I embrace you?” he asked.

“Of course.”

They embraced. Mimì’s eyes were moist.

“This morning I phoned Dr. Lattes,” said the inspector. “Today is Wednesday, and this evening I’m leaving for Boccadasse to see Livia. I’ll be away until Sunday. So you have to replace me in every respect, Mimì. Fazio will now go into your office and explain to you how far we’ve got on the case. And he’ll put himself at your disposal. As soon as you can, call Tommaseo and bring him up to speed on everything. Fazio’ll be with you in three minutes.”

Mimì went out looking so happy, he seemed he might start dancing at any moment.

“He looked like he was about to kiss your hand,” Fazio said disparagingly. “And now, would you please explain to me why you had this brilliant idea?”

“Because I’m tired.”

“Come on, you can’t be that tired. I don’t believe it.”

“Well, then, it’s because I can’t stand this investigation any longer.”

“Oh, yeah? When did you reach your breaking point? Yesterday at Gioia Tauro?”

“Well, then, it’s because Mimì deserves it.”

“No, sir, Mimì does not deserve it.”

“Fazio, can we put a little distance back between the two of us? I decided to do this because I felt like it. And I don’t feel like discussing it any longer.”

“Look, Chief, that guy’s going to send the department to hell in a handbasket. He’s not right in the head. I don’t know what’s got into Inspector Augello. And this is a delicate matter, with the Mafia smack-dab in the middle. I don’t want to work with Inspector Augello.”

“Fazio, it’s not a question of what you want or don’t want. It’s an order.”

Fazio stood up, pale as a corpse and stiff as a broomstick.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait. Try to understand. It’s precisely because it’s such a delicate matter, as you said, that I want you working alongside Augello.”

“Chief, if the guy takes off like a rocket, I’m certainly not going to be able to stop him.”

“If you alert me in time, I’ll step in.”

“But you’ll be in Boccadasse!”

“I don’t think anything will happen in these next three days. In any case I’ll bring along my cell phone. And don’t you have Livia’s home phone number?”

He didn’t feel the least bit guilty leaving his cell phone at home in Marinella, actually hiding it in the drawer where he kept his clean linen. That way poor Fazio, too, at the right moment, would get his own taste of betrayal. This was the first time Montalbano had ever told him one thing while secretly intending to do another. It was, moreover, inevitable : Weren’t they all treading in the potter’s field now?

He retraced the same route as the day before, but this time he didn’t slow down to take in the landscape. At the junction, instead of turning towards the airport, he continued straight towards downtown Catania. A short while later he found himself caught in a traffic jam that slowed him down to barely five miles per hour, which was too slow even for him, to say nothing of the repeated gridlock that lasted a good ten minutes each time. During one of these stops, a traffic cop passed by his car.

“Excuse me, but what’s going on?”

“Where?”

“Here. Why is there all this traffic?”

“You call this traffic?” asked the policeman, surprised.

Which meant that this was perfectly normal. By the grace of God he came at last within view of the arcades of the port district. He asked where customs was, and as he was heading there, he drove slowly past three sparkling display windows full of meat, exhibited the way jewels used to be at Bulgari’s. A big, lit-up sign said: PECORINI—THE MEAT KING. Finding a legal parking space was, of course, a fantasy, and so he stopped the car inside a sort of great open doorway with its door unhinged and got out.

At Pecorini’s, the similarity with the former display windows at Bulgari’s was heightened by the prices accompanying the different cuts of meat.

As he entered the butcher shop he felt as if he were entering the reception room of a first-class beauty salon. Sofas, armchairs, little tables. As there was a group of people at the very elegant counter, he sat down in an armchair, and at once a girl of about eighteen appeared dressed as a chambermaid, in starched cap and apron.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“No, thank you. There are too many people. I’ll come back later.”

As he stood up, the man at the cash register looked up and eyed him.

In a flash, Montalbano was sure of two things: one, that the man was Arturo Pecorini, and two, that Pecorini had recognized him, because he had frozen in the act of giving change to a customer. Perhaps he had seen the inspector on television.