he was the only guy in police headquarters to be speaking to the man of the hour, the subject of every conversation in the station.
“Say, do you even know what they call you? The Montalbano of the booby hatch. Doesn’t seem like a good thing, letting other people make fun of you behind your back, does it? So why don’t you tell me about your phenomenal hunches, and I’ll teach them all a thing or two.”
“What hunches are you talking about, Giuffrè? Have you lost your mind? I saw a couple of tissues that weren’t wet and I picked up a shell casing. Where’s the guesswork in that? You go ahead and tell those morons that there’s no Inspector Montalbano–and by the way he doesn’t exist where I come from either–nor is there any loony bin. And tell them not to bust my balls, or I’ll be busting theirs in return, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. You know what I want to know? Who the boy was.”
Giuffrè shrugged. “Some kid named Mirko Lorusso, aged sixteen or thereabouts. Only child, no father, mother works as a homecare nurse. A two-bit delinquent; he probably stole money from some Camorrista and was duly punished.
S’hanna ’mpara’ ’a piccerille
, as we say here—a matter of teaching kids good manners.”
Lojacono had been dealt another terrible hand by his computer: a two of clubs, a three of diamonds, and a seven, a four, and a nine of hearts.
“The Camorra has nothing to do with it. Whoever killed him had some other reason.”
Giuffrè shook his head in wonderment. “Mamma mia, so you really do want to be a policeman when you grow up. Who are you now–Inspector Maigret? Come on, Sherlock, tell me how you know the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
Lojacono finally tore his eyes away from the monitor, having lost once again.
“First: the .22. It’s already an inaccurate and troublesome gun to start with, and you add the fact that he probably had a silencer on the thing because the courtyard is small and it echoes. Second: where the kid lives, with the risk of someone happening by and spoiling everything. Third: no easy escape route. A motorcycle or a car can’t get out of there without being noticed: it’s a blind alley. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to ride up to the scooter on a fast bike, in any old place, and shoot three or four times to make sure? Which is the typical procedure when it comes to settling a score. Fourth: his age. Could such a young kid have done something serious enough to deserve this kind of death sentence? And if he had, why would he come home all relaxed and let himself be killed where they knew they could find him? I’ll say it again: if you ask me, the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
The sergeant sat there openmouthed. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes looked enormous.
“And you thought all these things in the two minutes that you were there? And you didn’t say anything to anyone?”
Lojacono shrugged his shoulders. “No one asked me. They told me to get out of there as fast as I could, so I left. You know that orders are meant to be obeyed, don’t you? After all, these are my own personal considerations, nothing more. But maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. Maybe it’s the Camorra settling some accounts.”
“Whatever the case, I really like the way you think. And I’ll tell you what I’d like even more: if these dickheads would stop assuming that no one working in here has any idea what they’re doing. And then there’s Di Vincenzo, who really strikes me as the princess and the pea with all his haughtiness—I’d love to see how he cracks this case. Because, fine, I understand this is a working-class neighborhood, but up till now we haven’t seen a lot of murders here. And a kid only makes it worse; people get upset about that. You’ll see—they’ll be breathing down his neck.”
Lojacono shook his head. “It’s the mother’s tragedy. You should have seen her—she was all torn up. Now you say they were
“Say, do you even know what they call you? The Montalbano of the booby hatch. Doesn’t seem like a good thing, letting other people make fun of you behind your back, does it? So why don’t you tell me about your phenomenal hunches, and I’ll teach them all a thing or two.”
“What hunches are you talking about, Giuffrè? Have you lost your mind? I saw a couple of tissues that weren’t wet and I picked up a shell casing. Where’s the guesswork in that? You go ahead and tell those morons that there’s no Inspector Montalbano–and by the way he doesn’t exist where I come from either–nor is there any loony bin. And tell them not to bust my balls, or I’ll be busting theirs in return, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. You know what I want to know? Who the boy was.”
Giuffrè shrugged. “Some kid named Mirko Lorusso, aged sixteen or thereabouts. Only child, no father, mother works as a homecare nurse. A two-bit delinquent; he probably stole money from some Camorrista and was duly punished.
S’hanna ’mpara’ ’a piccerille
, as we say here—a matter of teaching kids good manners.”
Lojacono had been dealt another terrible hand by his computer: a two of clubs, a three of diamonds, and a seven, a four, and a nine of hearts.
“The Camorra has nothing to do with it. Whoever killed him had some other reason.”
Giuffrè shook his head in wonderment. “Mamma mia, so you really do want to be a policeman when you grow up. Who are you now–Inspector Maigret? Come on, Sherlock, tell me how you know the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
Lojacono finally tore his eyes away from the monitor, having lost once again.
“First: the .22. It’s already an inaccurate and troublesome gun to start with, and you add the fact that he probably had a silencer on the thing because the courtyard is small and it echoes. Second: where the kid lives, with the risk of someone happening by and spoiling everything. Third: no easy escape route. A motorcycle or a car can’t get out of there without being noticed: it’s a blind alley. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to ride up to the scooter on a fast bike, in any old place, and shoot three or four times to make sure? Which is the typical procedure when it comes to settling a score. Fourth: his age. Could such a young kid have done something serious enough to deserve this kind of death sentence? And if he had, why would he come home all relaxed and let himself be killed where they knew they could find him? I’ll say it again: if you ask me, the Camorra has nothing to do with this.”
The sergeant sat there openmouthed. Behind his thick lenses, his eyes looked enormous.
“And you thought all these things in the two minutes that you were there? And you didn’t say anything to anyone?”
Lojacono shrugged his shoulders. “No one asked me. They told me to get out of there as fast as I could, so I left. You know that orders are meant to be obeyed, don’t you? After all, these are my own personal considerations, nothing more. But maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. Maybe it’s the Camorra settling some accounts.”
“Whatever the case, I really like the way you think. And I’ll tell you what I’d like even more: if these dickheads would stop assuming that no one working in here has any idea what they’re doing. And then there’s Di Vincenzo, who really strikes me as the princess and the pea with all his haughtiness—I’d love to see how he cracks this case. Because, fine, I understand this is a working-class neighborhood, but up till now we haven’t seen a lot of murders here. And a kid only makes it worse; people get upset about that. You’ll see—they’ll be breathing down his neck.”
Lojacono shook his head. “It’s the mother’s tragedy. You should have seen her—she was all torn up. Now you say they were
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