White Shotgun by April Smith Page B

for Nicosa—the coffee king, whose son was alfiere —to be called into account on his own property by his own contrada .
    I check the door. We are still alone.
    “Is it possible Giovanni brought this on himself? Is he the type who gets into fights in school?”
    “He is liked by everyone.”
    “Does he do drugs?”
    “I would be surprised if he’s never tried them. Marijuana and cocaine are everywhere. But he is not an addict, no.”
    She brushes aside her bangs, damp from the night. “I am of Oca. I want to know who did this to Giovanni, and then I will hang that person by his balls from a tree. But I have to be careful. It is possible that the bloodstains near the car will never be on the report. My boss, Il Commissario, may not allow it.”
    “Because he is of your enemy, Torre?” I ask incredulously.
    “He doesn’t want a crime investigation. It is Palio. The city is filled with tourists—you can see how the press is stalking him—and so at this time, simple answers are best. A fight occurred between the young men of two traditional rivals. Perfetto. ”
    The door swings open and I almost have a heart attack. It is Nicosa! What the hell is he doing in the ladies’ room?
    “Ana, we have to go,” he says, matter-of-fact.
    In the Bureau, the sanctum sanctorum for female agents, the only place where two women can talk in privacy, is the ladies’ room. If two females close the office door they are accused of having a “knitting party.” Men, of course, have “meetings.” Italians don’t make that distinction, at least when it comes to personal hygiene. Their public bathrooms are gender-neutral, where men and women share the sinks.
    Nicoli Nicosa has every right to be staring at us impatiently with the door wide open.
    “I am afraid I have no more information,” Inspector Martini says, covering briskly. “Best wishes to your family.” She offers a comradely handshake. In her palm is a scrap of paper, upon which is written an address.
    On the ride back to the abbey Nicosa says little, but I can see his fingers tight on the wheel, and I imagine he must be scared to death—not only about Giovanni’s survival, but also about the motive for the attack. He must understand that since two people close to him have been targeted so far, nobody in his family is safe.
    “What do you think they want?” I ask.
    “Who?”
    “The people who attacked Giovanni.”
    “I couldn’t possibly answer that question.”
    “Do you think they are the same criminals who took your friend Lucia Vincenzo?”
    He gives me an accusatory stare.
    “Why do you bring that up?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s all over the Internet.”
    “They are not the same. One is a fight between boys. The other—we may never know.”
    We drive in silence, then finally he asks, “Do you pray?”
    “No. Do you?”
    “Of course. I will open up the chapel later.”
    If he meant that as an invitation, it is declined. That night, unable to sleep, I walk out to the corridor, breathing in the scents of pine and cold. The chapel is dark, but by the light of the electric torches in the courtyard below I see Nicosa, alone, playing with the flag, a square of silk about a meter wide attached to a pole: white and green with bands of red, emblazoned with the symbol of Oca, a crowned white goose with the Cross of Savoy flying from a blue ribbon around its neck.
    His starched shirt is open, his chest shining with sweat. His moves are worthy of an acrobat. Like a flag attached to a fencing foil, the banner of Oca follows a split-second pattern, first clockwise at Nicosa’s waist, then tightly furled and thrown straight up, high enough to float by me on the second-story balcony, and then caught on one knee, behind his back. Unbound, it makes a figure eight, a butterfly of silk opening to glory—and then, unbelievably, it becomes a flashing green-and-white knot in the air, passes close to earth, and Nicosa leaps right over it, tossing it straight up