IM10 August Heat (2008) by Andrea Camilleri Page A

H belong to the opposition party?”
    “Yes, but it’s the same thing.”
    How did Papa Dante put it?
     
    Ah, servile Italy, you are sorrow’s hostel, a ship without helmsman in terrible storms, lady not of the provinces, but of a brothel!
     
    Italy was still servile, obeying at least two masters, America and the Church, and the storms had become a daily occurrence thanks to a helmsman whom she would be better off without. Of course, the provinces of which Italy was the “lady” now numbered more than a hundred, but the brothel, for its part, had increased exponentially.
    “So, about those six masons . . .” Fazio resumed.
    “Wait. Have you got stuff to do this evening?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Would you come with me to Montelusa?”
    “What for?”
    “To have a little chat with Filiberto, the watchman. I know how to find the worksite; Dipasquale explained it to me.”
    “It seems to me, sir, that you want to do harm to this Spitaleri.”
    “You’ve hit the nail on the head.”
    “Count me in.”
    “So, you going to tell me about these masons or not?”
    Fazio gave him a dirty look.
    “Chief, I’ve been trying to tell you for the past hour.”
    He unfolded his sheet of paper.
    “The masons’ names are as follows: Antonio Dalli Cardillo, Ermete Smecca, Ignazio Butera, Antonio Passalacqua, Stefano Fiorillo, Gaspare Miccichè. Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè are the two who worked up until the end and buried the illegal ground floor.”
    “If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Did you go dig up the complete vital statistics on each of these six masons?”
    Fazio blushed slightly. He could not control his “records office mania,” as the inspector called it.
    “Yeah, Chief, I did. But I didn’t read them to you.”
    “You didn’t read them to me because you didn’t have the courage. Did you find out if they’re working now and where?”
    “Of course. They’re currently working at the four construction sites Spitaleri’s got going.”
    “Four?”
    “Yessir. And in five days another one’s opening up.With the connections he’s got between politicos and mafiosi, imagine the guy ever lacking work! Anyway, to conclude, Spitaleri told me he prefers always using the same masons.”
    “Except for the occasional Arab he can throw into the garbage can without too much fuss. Are Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè working at the Montelusa site?”
    “No.”
    “So much the better. I want you to call those two in for questioning tomorrow morning, one at ten and the other at noon, seeing that we’ll probably be up late tonight.And don’t accept any excuses.Threaten them if you need to.”
    “I’ll get on it right away.”
    “Good. I’m going home. We’ll meet back here at midnight, and then we’ll head off to Montelusa.”
    “Okay. Should I put on my uniform?”
    “You must be kidding. It’s better if the guy thinks we’re hoods.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Sitting on the veranda at Marinella, he thought he felt a hint of cool, but it was mostly a hypothesis of cool, since neither the sea nor the air was moving.
    Adelina had made pappanozza for him. Onions and potatoes boiled a long time and mashed with the back of a fork until they blend together. Seasoning: olive oil, a hint of vinegar, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. It was all he ate. He wanted to keep to light food.
    He sat outside until eleven o’clock, reading a good detective novel by two Swedish authors who were husband and wife, in which there wasn’t a page without a ferocious and justified attack on social democracy and the government. In his mind Montalbano dedicated the book to all those who did not deign to read mystery novels because, in their opinion, they were only entertaining puzzles.
    At eleven he turned on the television. Lupus in fabula: TeleVigàta featured a story showing the honorable Gerardo Catapano inaugurating the new municipal dog shelter of Montelusa.
    He turned it off,