Conor Fitzgerald - Fatal Touch

“You’re looking well,” said Blume.

“Thanks. Business is good. I should have left the force years ago.”

Blume stood behind a pot-bellied man in flip-flops who was speaking Russian on his phone. Paoloni placed himself in front of the Russian, who paused his conversation, said a few words, and hung up. A man in a porter’s uniform finished his order. Paoloni stepped up to the till, and the Russian followed and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I am in front of you.” He jerked a thumb behind him. The girl behind the counter glanced backwards in search of support from the kitchens.

Paoloni looked the Russian up and down, then gave him a light backhanded swat on the stomach, and wagged his finger.

“You’ve eaten at McDonald’s before, haven’t you?” He allowed the Russian to go in front of him, stood beside Blume, and said, “What are you having?”

“Anything that doesn’t begin with a ‘Mc,’ I think.”

Paoloni looked at the overhead menu. “Coca-Cola or Fanta?”

“Coca-Cola, please.”

As they took their seat next to a plate glass window, Paoloni said, “These people who you imagine are following you? You don’t think they want to shoot you too? Because we’re sitting like two goldfish in a lighted bowl here.” He flicked open his hamburger box, poured the French fries into the top flap, and ripped open two packets of ketchup.

Blume sipped his Coke and shook his head. “Uh-uh. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Paoloni caught a sliding disk of gray meat between his fingers and deftly reinserted it with ketchupy fingers into his bun. “OK, but first things first. Leporelli, Scariglia: it’s all arranged. I even met the two scumbags myself, and they are very keen to turn themselves in. Magistrate Gesti really annoyed the Ostia gang. Those two clowns will pay the price once they get to prison.”

“That is well beyond my scope of competence,” said Blume. “Where are they now?”

“Somewhere in Casetta Mattei.”

“They are not going to resist arrest or try to flee or anything?”

“That wouldn’t make sense.”

“What they did doesn’t make sense,” said Blume. “Why are criminals usually so stupid? Even the relatively clever ones seem to choose retards as associates.”

“It’s because they cannot advertise to get good people,” said Paoloni, with the air of a man who had spent some time considering the question. “So they have to depend on blood relations, which is no guarantee of excellence, or else on people they have always known from the neighborhood. But if they’re still living in the same neighborhood, chances are they’re not too bright.”

“Speaking of people who aren’t that bright, you hear about the hole Grattapaglia’s dug for himself?”

“I heard that. He was unlucky. Of course, it’s very funny, too. A diplomat of all people. Can you make him the solver of some big case, make him look good? It’s all I can think of.”

“The thing they care most about now is the mugger who targets tourists and foreigners,” said Blume. “And we’re not getting anywhere with that. You haven’t got anything, have you?”

Paoloni licked a dollop of ketchup off a finger, then wiped the remaining orange stain onto the Formica of the tabletop. “Nope. Zilch. The only thing I can tell you is no one, and I mean no one, knows who this mugger is.”

“An outsider of some sort?”

“That’s the impression I get,” said Paoloni. “Definitely someone without a record. Works alone, too, which is weird-more a rapist’s profile. Now, tell me about these imaginary beings who are following you and why.”

Blume began with the Treacy investigation, skipping over most of the details and focusing on his meeting with Colonel Farinelli.

“Heard the name. Never met him, though,” said Paoloni. “Go on.”

Blume told Paoloni everything he thought was important. When he came to the part about the Colonel recording the two of them discussing the sale of the paintings, Paoloni interrupted him. “Were you thinking about it? You can tell me, you know.”

“I know I can,” said Blume. He swirled the ice cubes in his cup, then looked at the window, which the darkness outside and the brightness inside had turned into a mirror. “If I could use the paintings to catch the Colonel, then somehow still sell them, get a little extra, I don’t know. How bad would that be, given the context we work in? But thanks to Treacy’s notes, now I know they are probably worth little or not enough to justify the risk. So the temptation isn’t there anymore.”

Paoloni nodded understandingly and stood up. “I think I’ll have some McNuggets and a cheeseburger,” he said.

He was back a minute later saying, “The girl behind the counter says she’ll call me when the food’s ready. You’d think she’d bring it over. Doesn’t seem like she has much else on her hands, and she could definitely do with the exercise. I got a Happy Meal. Tell me more about Treacy and his notebooks.”

“I can do better than that,” said Blume. “Here. These are the notebooks themselves.” He slid them across the table.

Paoloni sucked a finger, and gingerly opened one and peered inside.

“It’s written in…?”

“English,” said Blume. “I told you.”

“Could be Arabic. You’re not expecting me to read these?”

“No. I want to leave them with you for safekeeping.”

“You told me the Colonel already has a copy. What’s the point?”

“I don’t want to be caught with them,” said Blume.

“So don’t get caught.”

“I don’t want them. They feel unlucky.”

“Alec! I’d never have guessed you were superstitious.”

“I’m not.”

“So you think the notebooks are jinxed, and that’s why you want me to have them?”

“I don’t believe in jinxes. I just don’t want them around for a while.”

“Fine, but your dog is more likely to read them before I do. So you’d better tell me a bit about what’s in them.”

Blume started talking about Treacy’s early life.

Paoloni was called for his Happy Meal and McNuggets. When he got back, he unwrapped his hamburger, flicked open the chicken box, and waved a magnanimous hand at the shining brown lumps inside.

“No thanks,” said Blume.

Paoloni bit into his hamburger. “You could eat this food even if you had no teeth,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then the back of his hand on the underside of the table, and said, “What the fuck do I care about Treacy’s early life? What do you care about it? Why were you even reading that?” He removed two slices of pickle. “What’s the basic structure?”

“Two volumes are autobiographical. A third is full of technical stuff about painting and forgeries, fixatives, different brushes, a history of pigments, papermaking, famous painters, styles, grounds, canvases, woodwork.”

“Sounds fascinating. You say he’s from Holland?”

“Ireland.”

“Yeah, well, one of those islands. Something’s made you get lost in the story of this guy’s life. I don’t know what it is. Seeing him dead or something. But you’re not working effectively. And another thing, who’s the chick you’re supposed to be studying these notebooks with?”

“Inspector Mattiola. She came in just before you quit.”

“Yeah, I think I got her. Brown hair, straight. Nice tits. Looks at you like this.” Paoloni popped a chicken chunk in his mouth, bent his head, and then raised it to give Blume a horrible leer.

“Not like that, no.”

“You know what I mean, puts her head down a bit, then looks at you from under her eyebrows, like she’s judging you. Good legs. Getting on a bit, though. So, what’s with you and her?”