The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page A

woman, short, pudgy, and wearing glasses, came toward them; her manner was businesslike: “Hi there. Can I help you?”
    Lojacono saluted and said: “Perhaps.
Buongiorno
, signorina. My name is Lojacono and this is Officer Aragona, from the Pizzofalcone police station. We’d like to speak with the notary Arturo Festa.”
    The young woman seemed unsurprised. It couldn’t have been unusual for the police to show up at this office.
    â€œI’m sorry, the notary isn’t in just now. Could you tell me what this is about? Did you have an appointment, have you spoken to him directly?”
    â€œWhen do you think that we could talk with him? This is a confidential matter, and it’s quite urgent. You are . . .”
    â€œI’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Imma, Imma Arace. I’m in charge of bills of exchange and promissory notes, the only part of the office that is open for business at this hour. The other employees come in later on; now it’s only me and the preparer, Rino. I’m sorry, but I really wouldn’t know how to help you.”
    â€œHow many other people work in this office, signorina? And what time do they come in?”
    â€œThere are two other employees, both women, and they get here by 10:30. We leave earlier, so their shift is staggered with respect to ours. You’d just have to wait . . .” she glanced at the clock, “half an hour, more or less, for the entire staff.”
    Lojacono and Aragona exchanged a glance.
    â€œPerhaps we could speak with the two of you, in that case. While we wait for the other office employees to come in, and for the notary himself. And, signorina, you really ought to tell me where the notary is.”
    Signorina Arace noticed the change in Lojacono’s tone of voice, now more emphatic and urgent. And she realized that these two police officers weren’t here to handle some confidential bureaucratic procedure: this must be something far more serious.
    â€œPlease, come right this way.”
    She led them into a large room with wood-paneled walls, which contained six desks. Only one desk was occupied, by a stout bespectacled man with thick lenses who was sorting an array of promissory notes into separate little piles.
    The man narrowed his eyes when he heard the trio enter the room. The woman spoke to him in a worried voice.
    â€œRino, these two gentleman are from the police and they’d like to talk with us. They were looking for the notary.”
    The man put down the promissory notes he was still holding and walked around the desk, coming to stand next to Imma. Side by side like that, they seemed like relatives: both of them tubby, both bespectacled, both frightened and surprised.
    â€œThey were looking for the notary. The notary isn’t here, he’s out of town. Did you tell them that?”
    The young woman nodded, looking insulted: “Of course I told them, what kind of fool do you take me for? But they still want to talk with us.”
    â€œStill want to talk with us. But what can we tell them, if the notary isn’t here? They’ll just have to come back, is what they’ll have to do.”
    The girl had lost her patience. Clearly, Rino wasn’t the brightest bulb.
    â€œThen you try talking to them. I already told them, and I’ll tell you again. They said that they would wait.”
    â€œThey would wait.”
    Aragona glanced at Lojacono: it seemed like a farce. The man’s habit of repeating the last few words that the young woman said was like an old-fashioned comedy routine straight out of the commedia dell’arte.
    The lieutenant broke the spell: “We need to speak with the notary, whom you certainly know how to get in touch with. We need to speak to him now.”
    The man ran a trembling hand over the comb-over that spread what little hair remained to him across the top of an otherwise bald head, as if checking to make