Tobias Jones - The Salati Case

‘I want a word with Squarcione,’ I said.

He was watching the scene.

The other thug whispered in Lo Squarcione’s ear. Lo Squarcione pointed at a chair opposite.

I leaned over the table as the bruisers retreated.

‘Lo Squarcione?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Private investigator.’

‘I’m not hiring.’

‘I’m already hired. And you’ve come on to my radar.’

Lo Squarcione looked at me and his sneer froze. He seemed more dangerous up close. The scar made him look like a street fighter. ‘Any radar that’s got me on the screen is nearing the end of its useful life.’

I was cheered by his arrogance. It’s always a reflection of fear.

‘But, you see, you’re already on my radar. I want help getting questions answered.’

‘I’m not taking questions, the interview’s over.’

He held his hand beside his shoulder and bent his fingers forwards. The heavies behind him jumped towards me.

‘There’s a lot in it for you.’ I had to speak quickly. ‘I’m investigating something from fourteen years back. You’re not in the frame because you were still in nappies back then.’

Lo Squarcione stopped the bruisers by raising his fingers.

‘What’, he said through dark teeth, ‘is in it?’

‘Glory.’

‘Not interested.’

‘Money. There’s an inheritance involved.’

‘Whose?’

‘A man. Two men.’

Lo Squarcione looked at me with interest.

‘How much?’

‘I will have to talk to the men’s descendants. They’re in a position to approve a reward for information leading to a satisfactory resolution of the case.’

‘Hundred thousand.’

I showed him my palms as if to say I was powerless. ‘I’ll talk to them.’

‘And what do I have to do?’

‘Answer questions with whatever honesty you’ve got left. I want to know about a deal you did recently.’

He smiled, like he had gone back to being a boy.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘You know how many deals I do in a night?’ He dropped the smile.

The arrogance was beginning to try my patience now and I suddenly felt tense. ‘All I know about you is that you shovel shit to children…’

‘Don’t be rude,’ he said coolly. ‘What’s the difference between me and that drinks dispenser over there. I’m just giving them what they want.’

‘What did you give Sandro Tonin?’

‘Who?’

‘Sandro Tonin. He came your way to score on Wednesday night.’

‘Means nothing to me. Anyway, they all use nicknames.’

‘Here.’ I pulled the photograph of Sandro out of my pocket and tossed it across to him. ‘This is what he looks like. There’s a man been murdered’, I gunned, ‘and I don’t know why your name keeps coming up.’

‘Who’s been murdered?’ He was trying to follow.

I ignored the question. ‘Did you see this man on Wednesday night?’

The man shook his head. He looked at me with that arrogant look again, shaking his head to say he didn’t answer questions.

‘If Lo Squarcione was in the witness stand,’ I stared at the ceiling, trying to aim my question to the heavies behind me, ‘would people believe him?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Lo Squarcione spat.

‘Just thinking aloud. Drug-dealers don’t normally make good witnesses. People seem to think they’re rotten, and I’m inclined to agree. But in his case…’

‘You saying I’m a grass?’

‘You said that. I wouldn’t ever say that.’

An elbow hit me above the ear and the pain shot through my shoulder.

The information was worth the blow. Lo Squarcione was a squealer all right. The guilty always leap to defend their honour because it’s the only way they can make it look like they’ve got any honour left. Lo Squarcione was a grass, and that meant he would normally sing from whatever songsheet he was given. That’s what grasses were like. They said anything if it made them some money or bought some protection.

I leaned across the table and whispered. He had to lean close to hear my words. ‘I know you’re a squealer. My friends in the Questura told me all about you. Unless you set me straight about this Sandro piece of shit, I’ll tell everyone in the city that you do the uniform’s dirty work for them, you with me?’

He had gone a pleasing shade of white

‘Wednesday night,’ I said slowly, ‘did you see Sandro Tonin?’

He looked at me with disdain. ‘What am I supposed to say?’ he asked. That was typical. The idea of the truth was so alien to him that he wanted me to tell him what I wanted to hear. That’s what grasses are like.

‘This is one of your regulars. You know him well enough. Just tell me if you saw him on Wednesday night.’

He looked at me and shrugged. ‘Sure, I saw him.’

‘Do you ever tell the truth?’

Lo Squarcione shrugged again, like he didn’t know what he had done. It looked to me like he was the kind of cuckold who gave away alibis like he gave out his poisons: he probably sold them to the highest bidder.

‘You saw this boy on Wednesday night? What time?’

‘How do I know?’

‘You’re sure you’re telling this right? You saw Sandro Tonin on Wednesday night did you?’ I asked uncertain.

‘I saw him,’ he said, trying to sound convincing.

I got up to leave. ‘I’ll let you know about that reward,’ I said.

I walked out frustrated. It felt instinctively that my guesses from last night were all wrong. It might have been true that Sandro had been with his woman all evening, and had only gone out to score some substance to pickle his brain. You didn’t need to be a genius to know that a guilty man needing to set up a watertight alibi wouldn’t exactly ask Lo Squarcione for one.

In the car I took snaps of all the number plates in the Blue Camel car park just for luck. I drove off thinking about Lo Squarcione. I assumed he was simply pond life, a peddler of unpleasantries. It was possible that he was with the nice gentlemen of the south, but that seemed unlikely. Informers from that part of the world tend to be used for building foundations. Lo Squarcione’s accent was from round here. This was a local racket run by amateurs. Not that that made him any less dangerous. He would certainly have decent backup. But it meant Lo Squarcione almost certainly couldn’t count on what euphemistically used to be called political assistance.

It was yet another dead end. Sandro had seemed a likely bet and now I had lost another twenty-four hours. It didn’t seem much set against fourteen years, but it was only days since Umberto Salati had been killed. Every hour counted. As soon as normality returned and the momentum was lost, nothing would stand out any more. I needed to understand what had happened Wednesday night but nothing was connecting.

The lack of sleep was getting to me. My concentration was evaporating now the adrenalin of the chase had gone. I yawned and felt my jaw ache. I tried to think about the case, but my mind had the staying power of a leaf in autumn.

I parked on Viale Mentana and walked to my flat. There was nothing to do but sit and think.

I looked at the bee balm I had put into tiny containers last night. They were properly set now. I checked for lumps but it looked smooth and white. I unscrewed a cap and ran my finger across the top of the oily mixture. It smelt as you would expect: vanilla, coconut, the usual. I rubbed it off my finger and screwed the top back on.

I sat on the sofa and thought about old Massimo Tonin. I couldn’t believe it was him. He didn’t seem the type. There was no motive. I didn’t even think he had paid for that mourning notice, though I was sure he knew who had.