The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri

the beer and sandwiches, there will be consequences higher up. But cheer up, Sciacchitano, it’s not your fault. You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean that you, being a born asshole, will never be a decent, intelligent person. Now, I demand that you write a letter, addressed to me, praising my men to the skies. And I want it by tomorrow. Good-bye.”
    â€œDo you think if I write the letter, the commissioner will let it drop?”
    â€œTo be perfectly honest, I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d write that letter. And I might even date it yesterday. Got that?”
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He felt better now, having let off some steam. He called Catarella.
    â€œIs Inspector Augello in his office?”
    â€œNo sir, but he just now phoned. He said that, figuring he was about ten minutes away, he’d be here in about ten minutes.”
    Montalbano took advantage of the time to start writing the fake report. The real one he’d written at home the night before. At a certain point Augello knocked and entered.
    â€œYou were looking for me?”
    â€œIs it really so hard for you to come to work a little earlier?”
    â€œSorry, but in fact I was busy till five o’clock in the morning. Then I went home and drifted off to sleep, and that was that.”
    â€œBusy with one of those whores you like so much? The kind that pack two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh into a tight little dress?”
    â€œDidn’t Catarella tell you?”
    â€œHe told me you’d be coming in late.”
    â€œLast night, around two, there was a fatal car accident. I went to the scene myself, thinking I’d let you sleep, since the thing was of no importance to us.”
    â€œTo the people who died, it was certainly important.”
    â€œThere was only one victim. He took the downhill stretch of the Catena at high speed—apparently his brakes weren’t working—and ended up wedged under a truck that had started coming up the slope in the opposite direction. The poor guy died instantly.”
    â€œDid you know him?”
    â€œI sure did. So did you. Cavaliere Misuraca.”
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“Montalbano? I just got a call from Palermo. They want us to hold a press conference. And that’s not all: they want it to make some noise. That’s very important. It’s part of their strategy. Journalists from other cities will be there, and it will be reported on the national news. It’s going to be a big deal.
    â€œThey want to show that the new government is not letting up in the fight against the Mafia, and that, on the contrary, they will be more resolute, more relentless than ever—
    â€œIs something wrong, Montalbano?”
    â€œNo. I was just imagining the next day’s headlines.”
    â€œThe press conference is scheduled for noon tomorrow. I just wanted to give you advance warning.”
    â€œThank you, sir, but what have I got to do with any of it?”
    â€œMontalbano, I am a nice man, a kind man, but only up to a point. You have everything to do with it! Stop being so childish!”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to say?”
    â€œGood God, Montalbano! Say what you wrote in the report.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œI’m sorry, what did you say?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œJust try to speak clearly, don’t mumble, and keep your head up. And—Oh, yes, your hands. Decide once and for all where you’re going to put them and keep them there. Don’t do like last time, where the correspondent of the Corriere offered aloud to cut them off for you, to make you feel more comfortable.”
    â€œAnd what if they question me?”
    â€œOf course they’ll ‘question’ you, to use your odd phrasing. They’re journalists, aren’t they? Good day.”
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Too agitated by everything that was happening and was going to happen the following day,