The Salati Case by Tobias Jones Page B

pretty cold-blooded customer, and it was true that he had kept his distance from his son all those years. But there didn’t seem any good reason not to reach out to a granddaughter, especially since his wife knew everything anyway. It didn’t make sense to me.
    I was still in the narrow corridor when the di Pietro woman came back. ‘What are you doing in here?’ She took me by my collar and dragged me to the door. She pushed me towards the stairs and waved me away. ‘Leave her alone. Can’t you understand? I’m trying to look after her.’
    I waved her goodbye with over-zealous politeness and walked down the steps.
    I could understand her. Protecting a girl made more sense than ignoring her, that was for sure. If it was really the girl she was protecting. My mind started going paranoid. I began to wonder why she wouldn’t want me to talk to her daughter. It hardly seemed like little Elisabetta could be a threat to anyone. A toddler can’t keep a secret. That was Tonin’s speciality.
     
     
    As soon as I walked into the hotel it felt wrong. Almost all the lights were off and there was no one at the front desk. I walked through to the bar, but it was empty.
    ‘Lo Bue?’ I asked to the empty room. I was just reaching under my arm for the rod when I was smacked across the shoulders by a metal pole. My cheek caught the corner of a glass table as I went down.
    A couple of kicks were aimed at my stomach and head. I put my hands up to protect my face and I rolled over into a ball, but the kicks kept coming against my spine.
    ‘Basta.’ The voice sounded mean, but it came as a relief.
    I looked up through the warm blood which was dripping off my eyebrow. The fat barman from yesterday was retreating, sweating slightly after the effort of his little game of football.
    The man who had called time put his face in mine. ‘Don’t ever come into my joint and wave a pistol at my staff.’ It was the Calabrian I had spoken to on the phone yesterday.
    ‘This the welcome you always offer your guests?’ I said, spitting out some blood.
    ‘The hotel is closed.’
    ‘I can see why.’
    Fatso stepped forward wanting to go again, but the short one held out his hand and knelt down near my face. He pulled back my head by taking a fistful of hair. ‘You know who I am?’
    ‘Lo Bue, the manager of this shit-hole?’ I tried to sound casual.
    ‘Very good.’ The man smiled. His teeth appeared bright and expensive, out of keeping with the rest of his ugly face. He looked like an up-ended anvil: a thick nose on a narrow head. ‘My barman tells me you were here yesterday playing the tough guy. You were lucky he didn’t kill you.’ The man let go of my hair and my head smacked on to the floor.
    ‘What do you know about Ricky Salati?’ Lo Bue asked.
    ‘Ricky Salati?’ I repeated, trying to work out what was going on. ‘I told your heavy back there. He went missing in 1995. That’s all I know.’ I glanced up at Lo Bue. He looked more greedy than guilty.
    ‘Why are you interested?’ I asked him.
    The man slapped me with the palm of his hand. It felt almost soft after the toe-caps I had taken already.
    ‘I was asking what you want. Why are you poking around now, asking questions? What’s the idea?’ The man put his face real close. I could smell whisky and mint. His skin was saggy and tired, even as he grimaced. ‘What’s it to you? What are you doing exactly?’
    ‘Trying to find out what happened to the boy. No one’s seen him for fourteen years. His mother’s died. There’s an estate.’ The man nodded and I took my chance: ‘You seem almost happy I came along.’
    The man leaned forward and hit me with a backhand. I poked my tongue into a new hole on my lower lip and tasted the blood: it tasted like chestnuts.
    ‘I don’t think you know who I am,’ Lo Bue said. ‘What makes me happy is seeing debts paid and, if that’s not possible, punishing the debtors.’
    I tried to look at him, but I couldn’t focus.