perfectly prepared, knowing everything about the people I was talking to.”
“I imagine the work of a good detective revolves very much around identifying people’s weak points.”
“That’s right. Everyone has a weak point; you just have to discover what it is. I remember this guy from Apulia who was on the run. We knew he was in Milan, and we’d been looking for him for quite a while. We were under pressure, the Prosecutor’s Department wanted us to find him because they were convinced that once they had him he’d turn State’s evidence. Which, incidentally, turned out to be correct. We were sure he was in the area but we couldn’t locate him. Nothing from the phone wiretaps, nothing from tailing his family. But talking to one of my informants, it came out that this guy was obsessed with raw mussels.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean he really liked them. Someone from his home village near Bari owned a fishmonger’s shop in Milan, and our man had been in the habit of going there to eat mussels before he went on the run. My informant told me about it by chance, but when I heard that, a light went on in my head. So, without saying anything to anybody, apart from the colleagues on my team, I organized a stakeout of the fishmonger’s. Two days later we picked him up.”
“I should pay you for telling me these stories,” the doctor said with a smile.
Roberto shrugged, as if to downplay it. But he liked the doctor’s admiration. It was something new, and he liked it a lot.
* * *
He and Jaguar became friends. Or rather, Jaguar persuaded himself that they had become friends. They met the Colombians, and discussed prices and shipments. Roberto said he could guarantee safe passage in a couple of ports, thanks to his export company and his friendship with some customs officials who were happy to supplement their income. The export company was created for the purpose, and the roles of the corrupt customs officials were taken by two other carabinieri who had been assigned to the operation and provided with covering documents.
During one of their briefings, someone observed that Roberto couldn’t be accepted in criminal circles without having even a single tattoo. There are a few professional criminals who don’t have tattoos, but they are an exception to the rule. The absence of tattoos was the kind of thing that might attract someone’s attention. Roberto didn’t much like the idea of getting a tattoo, but he managed to convince himself, and when the moment came to choose what to have carved on him he opted for the head of a Red Indian chief on his left forearm and a spider’s web on his right shoulder blade.
“Are you sure you want the spider’s web?” asked the owner of the tattoo and piercing parlor where a colleague had taken him: the man was a former fence who’d done time. “You do know what it means, don’t you?”
“No, what does it mean?”
“The spider is a predator. In some circles, having a spider or a spider’s web on your shoulder—on your elbow it’s different—means that you’re someone … who’s spilled blood and is ready to do it again.”
Roberto thought it over and then said that the spider’s web would be fine. The tattooist shrugged.
“All right. I have to do you another one anyway.”
“Why?”
“Tattoos must always be odd numbers, otherwise they bring bad luck. If you like I can do you a nice ACAB on the knuckles.”
ACAB is an acronym for All Cops Are Bastards.
He didn’t know if the other man had meant to be witty—he knew that Roberto was a carabiniere—or if he was being serious.
Roberto laughed, although he felt he was becoming unpleasantly enmeshed in something that was already getting out of his control.
“All right, do me an ACAB. But not on the knuckles—find another place that’s less visible. And I don’t want any colors; do everything in black and white.”
It was more painful than he’d anticipated. By the time they left the
“I imagine the work of a good detective revolves very much around identifying people’s weak points.”
“That’s right. Everyone has a weak point; you just have to discover what it is. I remember this guy from Apulia who was on the run. We knew he was in Milan, and we’d been looking for him for quite a while. We were under pressure, the Prosecutor’s Department wanted us to find him because they were convinced that once they had him he’d turn State’s evidence. Which, incidentally, turned out to be correct. We were sure he was in the area but we couldn’t locate him. Nothing from the phone wiretaps, nothing from tailing his family. But talking to one of my informants, it came out that this guy was obsessed with raw mussels.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean he really liked them. Someone from his home village near Bari owned a fishmonger’s shop in Milan, and our man had been in the habit of going there to eat mussels before he went on the run. My informant told me about it by chance, but when I heard that, a light went on in my head. So, without saying anything to anybody, apart from the colleagues on my team, I organized a stakeout of the fishmonger’s. Two days later we picked him up.”
“I should pay you for telling me these stories,” the doctor said with a smile.
Roberto shrugged, as if to downplay it. But he liked the doctor’s admiration. It was something new, and he liked it a lot.
* * *
He and Jaguar became friends. Or rather, Jaguar persuaded himself that they had become friends. They met the Colombians, and discussed prices and shipments. Roberto said he could guarantee safe passage in a couple of ports, thanks to his export company and his friendship with some customs officials who were happy to supplement their income. The export company was created for the purpose, and the roles of the corrupt customs officials were taken by two other carabinieri who had been assigned to the operation and provided with covering documents.
During one of their briefings, someone observed that Roberto couldn’t be accepted in criminal circles without having even a single tattoo. There are a few professional criminals who don’t have tattoos, but they are an exception to the rule. The absence of tattoos was the kind of thing that might attract someone’s attention. Roberto didn’t much like the idea of getting a tattoo, but he managed to convince himself, and when the moment came to choose what to have carved on him he opted for the head of a Red Indian chief on his left forearm and a spider’s web on his right shoulder blade.
“Are you sure you want the spider’s web?” asked the owner of the tattoo and piercing parlor where a colleague had taken him: the man was a former fence who’d done time. “You do know what it means, don’t you?”
“No, what does it mean?”
“The spider is a predator. In some circles, having a spider or a spider’s web on your shoulder—on your elbow it’s different—means that you’re someone … who’s spilled blood and is ready to do it again.”
Roberto thought it over and then said that the spider’s web would be fine. The tattooist shrugged.
“All right. I have to do you another one anyway.”
“Why?”
“Tattoos must always be odd numbers, otherwise they bring bad luck. If you like I can do you a nice ACAB on the knuckles.”
ACAB is an acronym for All Cops Are Bastards.
He didn’t know if the other man had meant to be witty—he knew that Roberto was a carabiniere—or if he was being serious.
Roberto laughed, although he felt he was becoming unpleasantly enmeshed in something that was already getting out of his control.
“All right, do me an ACAB. But not on the knuckles—find another place that’s less visible. And I don’t want any colors; do everything in black and white.”
It was more painful than he’d anticipated. By the time they left the
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