on the crumbs that fell under the table of the country's wealth. Yet here was Vianello, a man who not only voted for the Lega Nord but who argued strongly that Italy should be divided in half just north of Rome - in his wilder moments, he was known to call for the building of a wall to keep out the barbarians, the Africans, for they were all Africans south of Rome - here was Vianello calling these same Africans 'poor devils ’ and apparently meaning it.
Though the remark puzzled Brunetti, he didn't want to spend time talking about it now. So he asked, instead, 'Have we got someone who can go in there at night?'
'And do what?' Vianello asked, just as glad as Brunetti to avoid the other topic.
'Have a couple of drinks. Talk to people. See who uses the phone. Or answers it'
'Someone who doesn't look like a cop, you mean?'
Brunetti nodded.
'Pucetti?' Vianello suggested. 1
Brunetti shook his head. 'Too young.'
'And probably too dean, ’ Vianello added immediately.
'You make it sound like a nice place, Pinetta's.'
it's the kind of place where I'd prefer to be wearing my gun,' Vianello said. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, too casually, 'Sounds like the place for Topa, ’ mentioning a sergeant who had retired six months before, after thirty years with the police. Topa's real name was Romano, but no one had called him that for more than five decades, not since he was a child, small and round-bodied, looking just like the little baby mouse his nickname suggested. Even after he got his full growth and became so thick-chested that his uniform jackets had to be specially made, the name remained, wildly incongruous but no less unchangeable. No one ever laughed at Topa for having a- nickname with a feminine ending. A number of people, during his thirty years of service, had tried to harm him, but no one had ever dared laugh at his nickname.
When Brunetti said nothing, Vianello glanced quickly up at him and then as quickly down, ‘I know how you feel about him, commissario.' And then, before Brunetti had time to comment, 'He wouldn't even be working, at least not officially. He'd just be doing you a favour.'
'By going into Pinetta's?'
Vianello nodded.
‘I don't like it,' Brunetti said.
Vianello continued. 'He'd just be a retired man, going into a bar for a drink, perhaps for a game of cards.' In the face of Brunetti's continuing silence, Vianello added, 'A retired policeman can go into a bar and have a game of cards if he wants to, can't he?'
'That's the thing I don't know,' Brunetti said.
'What?'
'Whether he'd want to.' Neither of them , it was clear, wanted to mention or saw any sense in bringing up the reasons for Topa's early retirement. A year ago, Topa had arrested the twenty-three-year-old son of a city councillor for molesting an eight-year-old schoolgirl. The arrest took place late at night, at the young man's home, and when the suspect arrived at the Ques tura, his left arm and his nose were broken. Topa insisted that the young man had attacked him in an attempt to escape; the young man maintained that Topa had stopped on the way to the Questura, pulled him into an alley, and beaten him.
The man at the desk when they arrived at the Questura that night tried, with no success, to describe the look that Topa gave the suspect when he began to tell this story. The young man never repeated it, and no official complaint was ever bunched. But a week later word filtered down from Vice-Questore Patta's office that it was time for the sergeant to retire, and he did, losing out on a part of his pension by doing so. The young man was sentenced to two years of house arrest. Topa, who had one grandchild, a girl of seven, was never heard to speak of the arrest, his retirement, or the events surrounding it.
Refusing to acknowledge Brunetti's glance, Vianello asked,'Should I call him?'
Brunetti hesitated for a moment and then said, with singular lack of good grace, 'All right.'
Vianello knew better than to
Though the remark puzzled Brunetti, he didn't want to spend time talking about it now. So he asked, instead, 'Have we got someone who can go in there at night?'
'And do what?' Vianello asked, just as glad as Brunetti to avoid the other topic.
'Have a couple of drinks. Talk to people. See who uses the phone. Or answers it'
'Someone who doesn't look like a cop, you mean?'
Brunetti nodded.
'Pucetti?' Vianello suggested. 1
Brunetti shook his head. 'Too young.'
'And probably too dean, ’ Vianello added immediately.
'You make it sound like a nice place, Pinetta's.'
it's the kind of place where I'd prefer to be wearing my gun,' Vianello said. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, too casually, 'Sounds like the place for Topa, ’ mentioning a sergeant who had retired six months before, after thirty years with the police. Topa's real name was Romano, but no one had called him that for more than five decades, not since he was a child, small and round-bodied, looking just like the little baby mouse his nickname suggested. Even after he got his full growth and became so thick-chested that his uniform jackets had to be specially made, the name remained, wildly incongruous but no less unchangeable. No one ever laughed at Topa for having a- nickname with a feminine ending. A number of people, during his thirty years of service, had tried to harm him, but no one had ever dared laugh at his nickname.
When Brunetti said nothing, Vianello glanced quickly up at him and then as quickly down, ‘I know how you feel about him, commissario.' And then, before Brunetti had time to comment, 'He wouldn't even be working, at least not officially. He'd just be doing you a favour.'
'By going into Pinetta's?'
Vianello nodded.
‘I don't like it,' Brunetti said.
Vianello continued. 'He'd just be a retired man, going into a bar for a drink, perhaps for a game of cards.' In the face of Brunetti's continuing silence, Vianello added, 'A retired policeman can go into a bar and have a game of cards if he wants to, can't he?'
'That's the thing I don't know,' Brunetti said.
'What?'
'Whether he'd want to.' Neither of them , it was clear, wanted to mention or saw any sense in bringing up the reasons for Topa's early retirement. A year ago, Topa had arrested the twenty-three-year-old son of a city councillor for molesting an eight-year-old schoolgirl. The arrest took place late at night, at the young man's home, and when the suspect arrived at the Ques tura, his left arm and his nose were broken. Topa insisted that the young man had attacked him in an attempt to escape; the young man maintained that Topa had stopped on the way to the Questura, pulled him into an alley, and beaten him.
The man at the desk when they arrived at the Questura that night tried, with no success, to describe the look that Topa gave the suspect when he began to tell this story. The young man never repeated it, and no official complaint was ever bunched. But a week later word filtered down from Vice-Questore Patta's office that it was time for the sergeant to retire, and he did, losing out on a part of his pension by doing so. The young man was sentenced to two years of house arrest. Topa, who had one grandchild, a girl of seven, was never heard to speak of the arrest, his retirement, or the events surrounding it.
Refusing to acknowledge Brunetti's glance, Vianello asked,'Should I call him?'
Brunetti hesitated for a moment and then said, with singular lack of good grace, 'All right.'
Vianello knew better than to
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