when I call I git a busy single ’cause iss off the hook an’—”
“Did he say he’d call back?”
“Yessir, in five minutes.”
Montalbano put the receiver back in place.
The phone rang.
“Salvo?”
The inspector didn’t answer right away. He had to finish counting to a thousand to dispel the irritation he felt and not lay into Augello and start yelling at him.
“Salvo?”
“What is it, Mimì?”
“This morning I got a call, supposedly on your behalf, from—”
“I know all about it.”
It wasn’t true. He didn’t know a goddamn thing. But he didn’t want Mimì to realize Laura had kept him out of it.
“Well, that girl, aside from being what she is—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus, Salvo, haven’t you noticed what a wonder of nature she is?”
“You think so?”
A tone of indifference. With a touch of snobbery.
“Salvo, don’t tell me you don’t—”
“Oh, she’s very pretty, no doubt about that. But to say she’s a ‘wonder of nature’ is a bit of a stretch. At any rate, get to the point.”
“I’d certainly like to get to the point with her. In fact, I think . . .” And he giggled, the imbecile!
Montalbano couldn’t let him go on or he would start insulting him.
“Tell me what she’s cooked up,” he said.
“She said that since the
Vanna
refueled yesterday, I could show up on board with her and make a fuel check.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I would go as the representative of the fuel importer, saying we’ve found some irregularities in the fuel, some residues that could impede the proper functioning of the engines. That would be the excuse.”
“And what if they only let you talk to the engineer?”
“Laura rules that out. She’s sure that the moment the owner hears mention of the engines, she’ll want to handle it herself.”
“But what the hell do you know about boat fuel?”
“Before this morning, nothing. Then at lunch Laura explained a few things to me, and in the afternoon we went and talked to a guy who really knows a lot about it. Then, tonight, Laura’s coming over to my place and . . .”
Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer, slammed the receiver down, stood up, and started circling his desk, cursing like a madman.
Laura, in Mimì’s house! With nobody else present! The two of them, alone!
And he’d even told Laura that Mimì had a way with women! This must surely have been enough to whet her curiosity and make her feel tempted to find out whether . . .
No. It was better not to think about the possible consequences, or he would go insane!
Damn the moment he ever thought of having Mimì meet La Giovannini!
But why was he despairing now? He had wished this on himself! He’d sought it himself, stupid shit that he was! He’d served Laura up to Mimì on a silver platter with his own two hands!
9
He got home after a ferocious run-in with a motorist who, when passing him, had come so close to his car that he very nearly ran him off the road. And so, with his head in a fog of rage, he’d followed the guy, caught up with him, passed him, and then screeched to skidding halt, blocking the road crosswise with his car.
He’d got out of the car with his hair standing on end and eyes bulging, and, yelling like a madman, he’d gone on the attack, charging at the enemy. Who, meanwhile, the moment he’d seen the inspector get out of his car, had thrown his own into reverse, then accelerated forward, shooting past Montalbano, who tried to stop the car with his bare hands, very nearly falling down.
True, he had behaved just like the typical Italian driver, but as soon as he began to feel ashamed of this, he justified himself, thinking that, if nothing else, the episode had allowed him to vent his anger and frustration.
As he was opening the front door, he heard the telephone ringing.
He went to pick up, certain—for no reason in particular—that it was someone from the
“Did he say he’d call back?”
“Yessir, in five minutes.”
Montalbano put the receiver back in place.
The phone rang.
“Salvo?”
The inspector didn’t answer right away. He had to finish counting to a thousand to dispel the irritation he felt and not lay into Augello and start yelling at him.
“Salvo?”
“What is it, Mimì?”
“This morning I got a call, supposedly on your behalf, from—”
“I know all about it.”
It wasn’t true. He didn’t know a goddamn thing. But he didn’t want Mimì to realize Laura had kept him out of it.
“Well, that girl, aside from being what she is—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jesus, Salvo, haven’t you noticed what a wonder of nature she is?”
“You think so?”
A tone of indifference. With a touch of snobbery.
“Salvo, don’t tell me you don’t—”
“Oh, she’s very pretty, no doubt about that. But to say she’s a ‘wonder of nature’ is a bit of a stretch. At any rate, get to the point.”
“I’d certainly like to get to the point with her. In fact, I think . . .” And he giggled, the imbecile!
Montalbano couldn’t let him go on or he would start insulting him.
“Tell me what she’s cooked up,” he said.
“She said that since the
Vanna
refueled yesterday, I could show up on board with her and make a fuel check.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I would go as the representative of the fuel importer, saying we’ve found some irregularities in the fuel, some residues that could impede the proper functioning of the engines. That would be the excuse.”
“And what if they only let you talk to the engineer?”
“Laura rules that out. She’s sure that the moment the owner hears mention of the engines, she’ll want to handle it herself.”
“But what the hell do you know about boat fuel?”
“Before this morning, nothing. Then at lunch Laura explained a few things to me, and in the afternoon we went and talked to a guy who really knows a lot about it. Then, tonight, Laura’s coming over to my place and . . .”
Montalbano couldn’t stand it any longer, slammed the receiver down, stood up, and started circling his desk, cursing like a madman.
Laura, in Mimì’s house! With nobody else present! The two of them, alone!
And he’d even told Laura that Mimì had a way with women! This must surely have been enough to whet her curiosity and make her feel tempted to find out whether . . .
No. It was better not to think about the possible consequences, or he would go insane!
Damn the moment he ever thought of having Mimì meet La Giovannini!
But why was he despairing now? He had wished this on himself! He’d sought it himself, stupid shit that he was! He’d served Laura up to Mimì on a silver platter with his own two hands!
9
He got home after a ferocious run-in with a motorist who, when passing him, had come so close to his car that he very nearly ran him off the road. And so, with his head in a fog of rage, he’d followed the guy, caught up with him, passed him, and then screeched to skidding halt, blocking the road crosswise with his car.
He’d got out of the car with his hair standing on end and eyes bulging, and, yelling like a madman, he’d gone on the attack, charging at the enemy. Who, meanwhile, the moment he’d seen the inspector get out of his car, had thrown his own into reverse, then accelerated forward, shooting past Montalbano, who tried to stop the car with his bare hands, very nearly falling down.
True, he had behaved just like the typical Italian driver, but as soon as he began to feel ashamed of this, he justified himself, thinking that, if nothing else, the episode had allowed him to vent his anger and frustration.
As he was opening the front door, he heard the telephone ringing.
He went to pick up, certain—for no reason in particular—that it was someone from the
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