Andrea Camilleri - The Track of Sand

“Put her on.”

“Ciao, Salvo. Sorry I didn’t say goodbye this morning, but I remembered I had an engagement.”

“No problem.”

“Listen, Rachele phoned me from Fiacca, where she spent the night last night. She’s agreed to race one of Lo Duca’s horses, and she’s going to spend the afternoon trying to win the animal’s confidence, so she’s going to stay in Fiacca. She said to me several times how happy she would be if you came along with me to see her.”

“Would you go there anyway, even if I decided not to come?”

“With a heavy heart, but yes, I would go. I always go when Rachele races.”

He weighed his options. Clearly that smart little set would send his cojones into a vertiginous spin, but, on the other hand, it was a unique opportunity to become a little more familiar with the circle of friends, and probably enemies, of Signora Esterman.

“What time is the race?”

“Tomorrow afternoon at five. If you agree to come, I’ll pick you up at your place at three.”

Which meant going for a drive right after eating, on a full stomach.

“Why, does it take you two hours to drive to Fiacca?”

“No, but we’re supposed to get there an hour before the start. It would be impolite if we didn’t show up till the starting signal.”

“All right, then.”

“Really? You see? I was right!”

“About what?”

“You did find my friend Rachele attractive.”

“It’s not that; I only accepted so I could spend a few more hours with you.”

“You’re more phony than . . . than . . .”

“Oh, listen. How should I dress?”

“Naked.You look good naked.”

Fazio, who had gone missing all morning, straggled in just before five o’clock.

“You got anything for me?”

“Enough.”

“Before you open your mouth, I want you to know that early this morning, Mimì went to Lo Duca’s stables and found out some interesting things.”

He told him what Augello had discovered. When he had finished, Fazio had a dubious look on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, Chief, but wouldn’t it be better, at this point, if we got in contact with our colleagues in Montelusa and—”

“And passed the ball to them?”

“Chief, it could be useful to them to know that one of the horses was killed here, in Marinella.”

“No.”

“Have it your way, then. But could you explain why?”

“If you insist. It’s a personal matter. I was really appalled by the stupid ferocity with which they killed that poor animal. I want to see these guys’ faces myself.”

“But you can tell our colleagues how the horse was killed! With all the gory details!”

“It’s one thing to hear tell of something, it’s another to see it with your own eyes.”

“Chief, I’m sorry to be so insistent, but—”

“Are you in cahoots with Augello?”

“Me, in cahoots . . . ?!” said Fazio, turning pale.

“Sorry, I’m a bit on edge.”

He really was. Because he just remembered he had said yes to Ingrid, and now he no longer felt like going to Fiacca to join the pack of assholes drooling after Rachele.

“Tell me about Prestia.”

Fazio was still a touch offended.

“Chief, there are certain things you shouldn’t say to me.”

“I’ll say it again: I’m sorry. Okay?”

Fazio pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket, and the inspector realized that he was going to recite all the personal particulars of Michilino Prestia and his associates. Some people collect stamps, Chinese prints, model airplanes, and seashells; Fazio collected bureaucratic information on individuals. No doubt when he went home he logged all the information he collected on the people he was investigating onto his computer. And on his days off, he amused himself reviewing it.

“May I?” said Fazio.

“Go ahead.”

At other times the inspector had threatened him with death if he read his notes out loud. But since he had offended him, he now had to pay. Fazio smiled and started reading. Peace had been made.

“Michele Prestia, known as ‘Michilino,’ born in Vigàta, March 23, 1953, to Giuseppe Prestia and Giovanna née Larosa, and living at Via Abete Meli 32. Married in 1980 to Grazia Stornello, born in Vigàta on September 3, 1960, to Giovanni Stornello and—”

“Couldn’t you skip that part?” Montalbano asked timidly, after he had started sweating.

“It’s important.”

“All right, go on,” said the inspector, resigned.

“—and Marianna née Todaro. Michele Prestia and Grazia Stornello have had one male child, Balduccio, who passed away in a motorcycle accident at the age of eighteen. After studying bookkeeping at a vocational school, Mr. Prestia began working at age twenty as a junior accountant at the firm of Cozzo and Rampello which presently owns three supermarkets.After ten years at this job, he was promoted to the rank of senior accountant. He resigned from this post in 2004, and has remained unemployed to the present day.”

He carefully refolded the sheet of paper and slipped it back into his pocket.

“That is all that’s officially known,” he said.

“And unofficially?”

“Shall I begin with the wedding?”

“Begin wherever you like.”

“Michele Prestia met Grazia Stornello at a wedding reception. From that moment on, he was always after her. They started going out together but managed to keep their relationship a secret from everyone. Until one day the girl ended up pregnant and was forced to tell her parents the whole story.At this point Michilino asked his employers for his vacation time and then disappeared.”

“He didn’t want to get married?”

“It was the furthest thing from his mind. But less than a week later, he’s back inVigàta from Palermo, where he had been hiding at a friend’s place, and he announces that he’s ready to make amends and marry the girl.”

“Why did he change his mind?”

“They made him change it.”

“Who did?”

“I’ll explain. Remember when I said who Grazia Stornello’s mother was?”

“Yes, but I don’t—”

“Marianna Todaro.”

And he cast a knowing glance at the inspector. But Montalbano disappointed him.

“And who’s she?”

“Whattya mean, who’s she? She’s one of Balduccio Sinagra’s three nieces.”

“Wait a second,” Montalbano interrupted him.“Are you telling me Balduccio is behind the clandestine horse races?”

“Please, Chief, stop jumping ahead like a kangaroo. I haven’t said anything about the clandestine races yet. We were still at the wedding.”

“All right, go on.”

“So Marianna Todaro goes to see her uncle and tells him about her daughter and so on. At this point Don Balduccio takes exactly twenty-four hours to locate Michilino in Palermo and has him brought back, to his villa, in the middle of the night.”

“Kidnapping.”

“You can imagine how frightened Don Balduccio is of being charged with kidnapping!”

“So he threatens the kid?”

“In his own special way. For two days and two nights he kept him in a totally empty room with nothing to eat or drink. Every three hours somebody came in with a pistol, cocked the hammer, looked at Michilino, pointed the gun at him, then turned around and left without saying a word. On the third day, when Don Balduccio came to see him in person, apologizing for having made him wait—you know what Don Balduccio’s like, all smiles and fuss—Michilino got down on his knees, in tears, and asked him for the honor of marrying Grazia. And when the baby was born, they named him Balduccio.”

“And how were relations between Balduccio Sinagra and Prestia after that?”