fist.”
“Whose?”
“Our friend Zizì’s, late last night.”
“Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Chief, some time after nine o’clock last night I staked out a spot near Giacomino’s tavern and waited for the crew of the
Vanna
to show up. They didn’t come by until past eleven.”
“Who was it?”
“The whole crew. Alvarez, Ricca, Digiulio, and Zizì. I went in about half an hour later. They were talking and laughing, eating and drinking. Zizì was drinking more than the others. At a certain point he got up and started walking over to my table. Digiulio tried to stop him, but the Arab shoved him out of the way. I was just looking at him. So he planted himself in front of me with his legs spread and said: ‘What the fuck you lookin’ for, fucking cop?’ He spoke pretty good Italian. He’s one of those types who’s always looking for trouble.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do, Chief? I couldn’t just pretend nothing was happening. Everyone in the tavern had heard him. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just let slide. I barely had time to stand up when the guy punched me so hard in the face I flew back against the wall. Then it was Ricca who tried to stop him, but he got punched himself. That Zizì’s a bull. But I was able to take advantage of the momentary distraction when he was busy with his friend, and I dealt him a swift kick in the balls. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and I slapped the handcuffs on him.”
“And what did you do with him?”
“I brought him here to the station and locked him up.”
“And where’s he now?”
“Still in the same cell.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“Let him be for now. When he wakes up, bring him to me. By the way, I want to show you something.”
He pulled out the passport and handed it to Fazio, who started thumbing through it.
“And who’s this Lannec?”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s the body in the dinghy.”
And he told him the whole story, starting with his visit with Pasquano, continuing with his visit to Zito, and ending with his culinary nightmare at the Pesce d’Oro.
Fazio came out with one of his rare witty remarks.
“Chief, maybe the poor guy did go to eat at the Pesce d’Oro but they deny it because they poisoned him themselves.”
“Listen, can you recall whether we’ve had any dealings with this Lannec in the past?”
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Because the name doesn’t seem entirely unfamiliar to me.”
“You could have met him anywhere, Chief, but I’m sure it wasn’t here.”
“Ahh Chief Chief! Jesus Christ, Chief! Jesus Christ and Mary and Joseph, Chief! I can’t hardly breathe, Chief!”
Catarella had knocked in his usual way, practically breaking down the door, and now he was acting like he’d been bitten by a tarantula.
“Calm down! What’s going on?”
“Iss Liutinnint Sferlazza!”
“On the phone?”
“Nah, Chief, ’e’s ’ere, poissonally in poisson!”
“What’s he want?”
“To talk t’yiz. But be careful, Chief, eyes open at all times!”
“Why?”
“’Cause ’e ain’t wearin’ a uniform, ’e’s in civvies!”
“And what does that mean, in your opinion?”
“‘When a carabiniere’s outta uniform, ’e’ll makes ya pay twice the norm!’ A’ss wha’ they say, Chief!”
“Don’t worry, show him in.”
Montalbano and the lieutenant had known each other for some time. And, though they might not admit it, they rather liked each other. After they shook hands, Montalbano had him sit down.
“Sorry to bother you,” the lieutenant began.
“Not at all! What can I do for you?”
“I was told that a certain Mr. Shaikiri, who’s one of the crew of a yacht called the
Vanna
, attacked one of your men, who then arrested him. Is that right?”
“Yes. On the other hand, I believe the carabinieri also arrested him, when he pissed on one of your cars.” The inspector paused a moment.
“Whose?”
“Our friend Zizì’s, late last night.”
“Sit down and tell me what happened.”
“Chief, some time after nine o’clock last night I staked out a spot near Giacomino’s tavern and waited for the crew of the
Vanna
to show up. They didn’t come by until past eleven.”
“Who was it?”
“The whole crew. Alvarez, Ricca, Digiulio, and Zizì. I went in about half an hour later. They were talking and laughing, eating and drinking. Zizì was drinking more than the others. At a certain point he got up and started walking over to my table. Digiulio tried to stop him, but the Arab shoved him out of the way. I was just looking at him. So he planted himself in front of me with his legs spread and said: ‘What the fuck you lookin’ for, fucking cop?’ He spoke pretty good Italian. He’s one of those types who’s always looking for trouble.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do, Chief? I couldn’t just pretend nothing was happening. Everyone in the tavern had heard him. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just let slide. I barely had time to stand up when the guy punched me so hard in the face I flew back against the wall. Then it was Ricca who tried to stop him, but he got punched himself. That Zizì’s a bull. But I was able to take advantage of the momentary distraction when he was busy with his friend, and I dealt him a swift kick in the balls. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and I slapped the handcuffs on him.”
“And what did you do with him?”
“I brought him here to the station and locked him up.”
“And where’s he now?”
“Still in the same cell.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“Let him be for now. When he wakes up, bring him to me. By the way, I want to show you something.”
He pulled out the passport and handed it to Fazio, who started thumbing through it.
“And who’s this Lannec?”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s the body in the dinghy.”
And he told him the whole story, starting with his visit with Pasquano, continuing with his visit to Zito, and ending with his culinary nightmare at the Pesce d’Oro.
Fazio came out with one of his rare witty remarks.
“Chief, maybe the poor guy did go to eat at the Pesce d’Oro but they deny it because they poisoned him themselves.”
“Listen, can you recall whether we’ve had any dealings with this Lannec in the past?”
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Because the name doesn’t seem entirely unfamiliar to me.”
“You could have met him anywhere, Chief, but I’m sure it wasn’t here.”
“Ahh Chief Chief! Jesus Christ, Chief! Jesus Christ and Mary and Joseph, Chief! I can’t hardly breathe, Chief!”
Catarella had knocked in his usual way, practically breaking down the door, and now he was acting like he’d been bitten by a tarantula.
“Calm down! What’s going on?”
“Iss Liutinnint Sferlazza!”
“On the phone?”
“Nah, Chief, ’e’s ’ere, poissonally in poisson!”
“What’s he want?”
“To talk t’yiz. But be careful, Chief, eyes open at all times!”
“Why?”
“’Cause ’e ain’t wearin’ a uniform, ’e’s in civvies!”
“And what does that mean, in your opinion?”
“‘When a carabiniere’s outta uniform, ’e’ll makes ya pay twice the norm!’ A’ss wha’ they say, Chief!”
“Don’t worry, show him in.”
Montalbano and the lieutenant had known each other for some time. And, though they might not admit it, they rather liked each other. After they shook hands, Montalbano had him sit down.
“Sorry to bother you,” the lieutenant began.
“Not at all! What can I do for you?”
“I was told that a certain Mr. Shaikiri, who’s one of the crew of a yacht called the
Vanna
, attacked one of your men, who then arrested him. Is that right?”
“Yes. On the other hand, I believe the carabinieri also arrested him, when he pissed on one of your cars.” The inspector paused a moment.
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