Conor Fitzgerald: The dogs of Rome

“When did all this happen?”

“Last night. On Via La Spezia. That’s near where you live, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re leaving us for a long holiday? It’s well for some.”

“I’ve added holiday time to sick leave. I’m going to Rye first, then on to Vermont.”

“RAI?”

“Rye,” said Blume, and spelled it. “It’s a place in upstate New York. Kristin has a dentist there. Says he’s the best there is. Thing is, it means I’ve got to get rid of a dog.”

“Get rid of it? As in put it down?” said Principe.

“It’s a Cane Corso. Stupid, quiet, possibly dangerous around children, given to bouts of salivating. Do you want to look after it for me? I’ll be gone for a month.”

“Very funny,” said Principe.

“See what I mean? No one wants a dog like that. The law says I was supposed to register it by today, ten days after taking it in. Officially, it was supposed to be put down anyhow. So, if I decide to-you know-there’s no problem, or shouldn’t be. I can’t see any difficulties with the paperwork for its…”

“Execution?”

“I see no choice,” said Blume.

“You know, Alec, I’ve known Kristin for about two years, though I can’t say I know her well. She phones up sometimes, keeps up to date, angles for inside information, is greedy for gossip, hands out invitations to seminars in the States, organizes a few short conference breaks in lakeside hotels for prosecutors, policemen-all paid for, or else at special discount rates. The sort of legal, gentle corruption that drug companies use on doctors. She is a fine-looking woman, tough and terrifyingly intelligent.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Keep the dog.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 9:30 A.M.

Flight AZ 645 bound for JFK banked suddenly over the sea above Fiumicino, sending a fairground thrill and nervous laughter down the aisles.

For a split second, Blume felt weightless. As he looked directly down at bright blue water and imagined himself falling in and slipping under, the back of his throat tightened. Then the wing of the plane came up again, and Ostia slid down the window behind it, into the shimmering dome of heat and smog that covered Rome.

Then the plane started to climb again and move north. After only ten minutes, the coastline of Tuscany was briefly visible. Blume sat bolt upright and craned his head so that he could continue to look back for as long as possible, causing the ache in his neck to return. He ran his tongue over the jagged edges of his soon-to-be-fixed back teeth.

He was chasing after a woman who did not admire him, and leaving behind two junior partners who had both abandoned him in their own ways. First D’Amico, then Paoloni. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Paoloni’s desertion had hurt most. A potential killer, an unreliable partner, a corrupt cop, and-somehow-a friend.

The plane passed over an unfamiliar group of minor islands whose names the other schoolchildren had learned before Blume arrived. Within four months the American kid had mastered the language, within six months he had the accent, too, and they forgot how alien he had once been.

Paoloni was quitting the force. Blume dropped by a few days later. He found his former partner alone in his flat, in a state of deep depression, and left him perhaps even more depressed, but no longer alone. Paoloni said he couldn’t keep a dog for a month without knowing what to call it, and Blume told him he could call it by any name he wanted.

The plane banked again, more gently this time, and leveled out in a northwest direction. Italy was now behind him. He sat forward in his seat.