By My Hand by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page B

what you’re talking about,” the drunk murmured. “And I’m not interested to find out. I told you before, get out of here and leave me alone.”
    The music broke off suddenly and two men started arguing furiously. The tavernkeeper moved fast, grabbing them both by the shoulders and tossing them out into the street. The guitarist resumed playing.
    â€œSo, was it you? The wife, Anto’ . . . was that necessary, the wife, too? And did it have to be done that way?”
    In the eyes of the man who had been called Antonio there was a gleam of interest.
    â€œWhat are you talking about? Speak plainly!”
    â€œI can’t tell if you’re toying with me or not. All things considered, maybe it’s better that I not know. So let’s just pretend that you don’t know anything, and I’ll go ahead and tell you. Yesterday morning Garofalo and his wife were found murdered. Stabbed to death, the pair of them. Is that clear, now? Now you know. If I were you, I’d get out of town; the first freighter for America, and it’s goodnight Irene. That’s what I came here to tell you, and now my conscience is clear. Good night, Anto’. You can finish getting drunk now.”
    He stood up and left, shoving his way through the drunken dancers.
    Antonio sat there, his gaze once again lost in the darkness. He gently shook his head and murmured:
    â€œThis, too. This, too, you stole from me. Damn your soul.”
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X
    T he week before Christmas the center of the city became one huge marketplace; and police headquarters was right in the center of the center. To reach their office Ricciardi and Maione now had to pass hundreds of beggars, lottery sellers, junkmen, water carriers, shoeshine boys, all busy trying to steal their rivals’ clients. The air was rife with odors, the smell of fried foods, pizza, macaroni, seafood, and candied almonds. You had to take care not to step on the merchandise that was laid out on filthy sheets on the ground: vases, glasses, silverware, and other utensils.
    Maione had to dance a pretty elaborate jig, on the toe tips of his boots, to keep from stepping on the open hand, resting on the pavement, of a begging gypsy girl.
    â€œDamn it, it’s becoming impossible to even get through here on foot! And then, all these wonderful smells, how is a poor devil supposed to eat only at meals, and not in continuously?”
    Ricciardi, thanks to his considerably smaller build, managed to maneuver with less difficulty.
    â€œChristmas is conspiring against us, too. This investigation is going to be no easy matter, let me tell you. We’re going to wear out a lot of shoe leather, and we’re going to have to make our way through this market more than once.”
    When they got to the office, they found, waiting for them at the foot of the staircase, none other than Ponte, assistant to the deputy chief of police Garzo, head of the mobile squad. Like almost the entire staff at police headquarters, Ponte was convinced that Ricciardi brought bad luck, that he had some obscure link to the devil or some other dark deity: because of the unorthodox way he conducted his investigations; because of his complete lack of friends, or of even rudimentary communication with any of his colleagues aside from Maione; because of his disinterest in advancing his career, in spite of his many successes.
    Strange, inexplicable things. Which for Ponte, a cowardly and superstitious little man, translated to a simple imperative: to avoid, as much as was possible, having anything to do with him. And to avoid looking into his incredible green eyes, which, as far as he could tell, were a direct portal to hell itself.
    â€œ
Buongiorno
, Commissario. Brigadier . . .”
    Maione made no effort to conceal his repulsion for that policeman who had chosen to become the deputy police chief’s butler; and, knowing the reason why the man spoke without