The dogs of Rome cab-1 Page 17

“Do you have a girlfriend, Angelo?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  Blume looked again at the peanut butter. “You know what?” he said.

  “That has a bar code on it. Now that could be useful.” He picked up the jar, which had no top. It was slippery in his hand. “Mind if I borrow this?”

  “Of course I mind,” said Pernazzo.

  “You’re right, of course,” said Blume. “I have no right to deprive you of food.” He ripped the label off the jar and pocketed it.

  “You can’t do that!” Pernazzo’s voice rose to a squeak.

  “I just did,” said Blume. “I’m interested in seeing if this came from a certain supermarket. That can’t worry you, can it?”

  “Chain of evidence!” said Pernazzo. “You can’t just-you need other police in here, search warrants. You have to log evidence.”

  “You’ve been watching too much television, Pernazzo. And this is just personal curiosity on my part. I don’t see why you should be so worried.”

  Pernazzo seemed to have entered a sort of trance. “You can’t use that type of barcode for the exchange of information keyed to a unique identifier without referential integrity.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t quite following you there,” said Blume. “What I want to find out is whether this label got beeped through a checkout at a certain supermarket. If you want, you can have the label back afterwards.”

  Pernazzo opened his eyes wide, like Blume used to do when trying not to sleep in the classroom.

  “Angelo, your whole setup here. You know what it says to me? It says loser.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. You’re the loser.”

  “How much money did you lose to Alleva?”

  “Who says I even lost? Maybe I won.”

  “You said you lost. You said it yourself. You paid off a debt to Massoni last year.”

  Pernazzo brought a finger up to touch what seemed like a very faint moustache. “You always lose at the beginning. That’s how it works. Then you get better at it. You get knowledge, skills, weapons, you move up. Eventually you become the best there is.”

  “Maybe in your games. Not in real life, Angelo. You never win gambling with criminals.”

  “That’s just where you’re wrong. I have it hacked. I know how it’s done.”

  “How the dog fights are done?”

  Pernazzo touched his nose, licked his lips, scratched his crotch. “It’s valuable knowledge.”

  “I won’t tell,” said Blume. “Promise. Let’s go back into the living room, and you tell me about it.”

  Blume had been breathing shallowly while in the kitchen, which was worse than the living room. He was lusting after the idea of drawing a deep breath of air as soon as he got out of the building. When they returned to the living room, he remained standing. Christ, he needed to get out of there.

  “So tell me. How have you hacked it to make such a success of your gambling?”

  “I know their underdog trick.”

  “The underdog trick. How does that work?”

  Pernazzo moved away from Blume and stood by the shuttered window. It was dark outside now. The storm rumbled in the background.

  “It works like this,” said Pernazzo. “They get the meanest animal, some big as fuck Rottweiler, stick him in a cage with other dogs. They give the dogs water, but don’t feed them for about three days. Any longer than that, the animals lose strength permanently. Then they throw in a hunk of meat. Total frenzy. The meanest dog fights the others, wins. But every time he tries to eat, the others set on him again. Any time one of them tries to get the meat, the others go for him. You following?”

  “Yes.”

  “But sometimes there is a dog that doesn’t attack. He hangs back, lets the others do the fighting, and when the top dog is defending his place, he sneaks in and grabs a small piece of meat. A nibble, retreat, a nibble, retreat. That dog became the hidden champion. The underdog.”

  “I get it. So they create the underdog, then get people to bet against it?”

  “They build up a bit of a record for the champion big dog, the Rottweiler or what ever, get the clueless punters to lay bets on him, and he wins a few fights. Then one day, they bring out the underdog, which they’ve been training to be really fucking mean. They file his teeth, too. Make them real sharp. So now it’s mean as well as clever, pumped full of hormones, fed on raw meat, milk. No grains. Throw him in against some big dog, clean up on the fight. Except next time, I’ll have my money on the underdog.”

  “Angelo, did you just make up that bullshit?”

  “It’s not bullshit!” Pernazzo’s voice became shrill.

  “You didn’t make it up, then?”

  “No!”

  “OK, so who told you? Who explained the underdog strategy to you?”

  Pernazzo brought a pink hand up to his mouth and nibbled at a fingernail. Blume repeated his question.

  “I don’t have to tell you my sources.”

  “No, you don’t have to tell me, because I know. Only two people could have told you that. Alleva, who, by the way, was a con man before he became a dog man, or else his helper, Massoni, whose name you couldn’t remember. I wonder how much they were going to take you for? You are a loser, Angelo,” said Blume. “And you are a lousy liar, too. You have been in close contact with Massoni and Alleva. Close enough for them to feed you a line of bullshit.”

  Pernazzo hunched his back and took a step toward Blume. Pernazzo was small, but Blume’s instinct made him take a step backward.

  “Get out of this house,” he said.

  Blume ignored him. “Have you ever heard of Arturo Clemente?”

  “No.”

  “You never heard of him?”

  “Never.”

  “Even though he was the man responsible for bringing television cameras and the Carabinieri to one of Alleva’s dog fights?”

  “No.”

  “Even though you were detained that evening?”

  “No.”

  “Even though you said a few words to the television cameras. Even though just before coming here I watched you giving your opinions on bear-baiting.”

  Silence.

  “Did you not even watch the TV documentary when it aired? You must have wanted to see yourself on TV.”

  “Leave my house now or I will call the Carabinieri.”

  “No you won’t. But if you don’t want to see me again, I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me some fingerprints and saliva samples?” said Blume.

  “What for?”

  “To exclude you from our inquiries.”

  “Inquiries into what?”

  “The murder of Arturo Clemente.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Ah. There’s that phrase again. Where were you yesterday morning?”

  “Here at home.”

  “Can anyone else confirm that?”

  “No. But I was online playing Texas Hold’em poker.”

  “Really? If I remember correctly, that’s illegal in Italy. Did you win at that, at least?”

  Pernazzo shrugged.

  “A bit. The pot wasn’t big.”

  “Help me here, Angelo,” said Blume. “How can I be sure you were online like you said?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “No, Angelo. I think it’s yours.”

  “What? Because it’s illegal?”

  “Because it’s not much of an alibi.”

  “I was playing from seven in the morning until the early afternoon.”

  Blume went over to the computer. “Show me,” he said.

  Pernazzo stood up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  Blume tried not to look at the silver gleam between Pernazzo’s knuckles as he pressed the keys on his keyboard, making the fantasy landscape dissolve.

  “This is the program,” he said.

  Blume watched as the name “Full Tilt Poker” appeared on-screen. A virtual felt table appe
ared. Four avatars sat around a table. A busty woman, a frog, a dog, and a cowboy. “Which one is you?”

  “None of these. We’re just observing others. You think all of a sudden I’m playing there and talking to you? I have to sign in, join a table. You don’t get it, do you?”

  “No. I don’t,” said Blume. “So when you join, what are you? A woman, a dog, an insect, what?”

  Pernazzo closed the program. “That’s my business.”

  “And you were playing this game all Friday morning?”

  “Sure. You can get your IT department to check my IP. I know they spy on us anyhow.”

  The fantasy landscape reappeared on-screen. Blume moved the mouse to pop up the Windows taskbar, but nothing happened.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “I was trying to pop up that clock thingy, check the time.”

  “This isn’t a Windows system. The clock’s on the top.”

  “Ah, so it is.” It showed nine fifteen. He had to meet Kristin at nine thirty. He was not going to make it.

  “OK. I’m going to go away, have someone check your IP address like you said. I’m going to check that label, and I’m going to think a bit about Angelo Pernazzo the underdog, the loser. This will take me up to two days. For two days, therefore, we will be watching you. Any attempt to leave Rome will result in your immediate arrest, and then we’ll come in here and tear this rat’s nest you call home apart. So just sit there and play your computer games until I knock. Think you can do that?”

  Blume took out a card with the station number and his name and rank on it, and held it out. Pernazzo plucked the card from Blume’s large hand, skimmed it toward the computer desk. He missed and the card fluttered to the floor.

  “You might want to engage the services of a lawyer or”-Blume pointed to the computer-“enlist some elves and wizards to help you.”

  21

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 9:45 P.M.

  It was nine forty-five when Blume, hungry and beginning to suffer the exhaustion of the past thirty or so hours, reached Piazza Santa Maria. The rain, heavy as he left Pernazzo’s, had eased off. Young tourists, obediently following the instructions in their Lonely Planet guidebooks, sat huddled on the soaked steps of the fountain surrounded by pigeon shit, leering drunks, and drug addicts, and waited for something cool to happen.

  He saw Kristin immediately. She was standing slightly off-center, away from the fountain, hands by her sides. Although she was clearly American, and clean-cut and female, no one was bothering her.

  “Kristin,” said Blume, sticking his hand out, as if it were a business meeting.

  “Hi,” said Kristin, taking his outstretched hand briefly. Her hands were dry, and sturdier than he expected.

  “I am late. I’m sorry. Something came up…” said Blume. He tried to think of some non-idiotic words, but thoughts seemed to slip down from his brain into his neck, leaving his mind empty and his voice thick. “Here we are, then.”

  Kristin said, “Yes. Here we are. Glad you could make it.”

  “Me, too,” said Blume. He’d think of something clever to say in a minute.

  “Have you any particular plans?” asked Kristin. “I’m hungry.”

  “Aren’t we going to wait for your friend-your friends, I mean?” asked Blume.

  “They’re not coming. Marty called me earlier, said they couldn’t make it.”

  “Ah, no?” Blume decided not to bother feigning disappointment.

  He looked at a bar opposite where a waiter was swiping raindrops off shining tables. “Maybe a drink?”

  Kristin looked at the bar and seemed to dismiss it with a shake of her head, then said, “Do you like Roman cuisine?”

  “You mean pajata, and tripe and pigs’ trotters, horsemeat, liver, and all that stuff?” asked Blume.

  “Yes. I love that stuff.”

  “You do?” Blume had had to learn to cook for himself very quickly, and had remained unadventurous.

  “Yeah, come on.” She almost took his arm. If he had moved the right way she might have taken it. But he wasn’t quick enough.

  Blume followed Kristin down Vicolo del Moro behind Piazza Trilussa, and from there into a narrow lane with wet black cobblestones that bulged and swelled as if barely holding down a future seismic event.

  The lane led to a two-story, ochre-colored medieval house, so small that it looked like a scale model. A wooden veranda had been attached to the front of the building, forming a porch that was fenced off by a palisade of rush mats supporting clematis and jasmine creepers. The porch area had enough room for five tables, four of which were occupied. No signage indicated that this might be a restaurant, and from a distance, the diners looked like an extended family having a private meal outside their front door. No more than thirty meters away, the quays of the Tiber boomed and raged with traffic on wet asphalt, which was here toned down to white noise.

  By a series of hand signals and gesticulations, Kristin managed to secure the one remaining table, and she and Blume sat down facing each other.

  Only now that he was seated could he see the name of the restaurant, Mattatoio Cinque, inscribed above the narrow doorway, out of which an agile waiter made a curving backward step, and emerged bearing menus, bread, and water on outstretched arms.

  Kristin ordered rigatoni alla pajata and, displaying her American impatience, directly ordered the second course as well, choosing frattaglie.

  “Frattaglie?” echoed Blume, holding up a hand to stop the efficient waiter from writing down the order in his pad. “You know what they are?”

  She shrugged happily. “Sure.”

  Blume wasn’t convinced. “It means the insides of animals,” he told her.

  “Better than the outsides, I’d say.”

  “Stomach lining and livers, kidneys, testicles, windpipes, and.. stuff?”

  The waiter smiled and addressed himself to Kristin. “Today the cook has prepared veal heart with artichoke and carrot cooked in lard with white wine and white sauce.”

  Blume glanced at the finely shaped woman in front of him. She was going to consume the heart of a calf cooked in the rendered fat of a pig?

  The waiter tossed a glance in Blume’s direction. “I’ll just have the osso buco,” he said. “And a bottle of the house red.”

  “And before that? The pasta?” asked the waiter.

  “I’ll go for the amatriciana,” said Blume.

  The waiter noted down their orders, nodded, and went indoors. Before they could strike up a conversation, he was back again bearing a three-quarter-liter carafe of dark red wine, then with two long steps withdrew to the next table, occupied by a German couple.

  “Would you like some wine?” Blume offered.

  “Sure,” she said. “Half a glass will be plenty.”

  Blume poured himself a half glass as well.

  The pasta came, and they ate in a bubble of silence, which Blume tried to pierce with an occasional jab at finding out more about Kristin’s past. But she was more interested in her veal intestines.

  Kristin started asking about him. Blume overfilled his mouth and chewed hard on the fatty bits of the diced bacon wondering how much he wanted to reveal. He limited himself to saying he had been in Italy for many years.

  She asked about his parents. He had been waiting for this question, and decided he wanted to come across as terse and uncomplaining, maybe a bit gruff.

  “Both shot dead in a bank raid on Via Cristoforo Colombo.”

  Kristin nodded, twisted a glistening strand of pasta on her fork.

  “Mmm,” she said. “Now that is good.”

  Blume gave her pasta a look of hate, and added some graphic detail. “Some stupid bank guard tried to play hero and pulled out his weapon to defend a bank’s money. Bank guards. Can there be a more pathetic job than that?”

  She looked slightly bored as he told her this. She had not even said she was sorry to hear it. The tragic death of his parents had always guaranteed at least sympathy,
if not sex.

  Kristin had a question: “Did they catch the guys?”

  “One was killed there. Not the one who shot my parents. He got away. Obviously, there was a third waiting outside, probably a fourth doing lookout.”

  “Did you have to identify the bodies?”

  “Yes. My mother had been shot through the breast.”

  “They showed you that?” Kristin’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “No. They told me. It was supposed to be a comfort. Straight to the heart. Death would have been instant. They showed me her face. My father’s face, too. The first bullet hit him in the mouth. It looked like he was grinning at me. The second and third in the abdomen. It wasn’t instantaneous for him.”

  “So you decided to become a cop and hunt them down for the rest of your life?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. And the shooter is dead anyhow.”

  “So he did get caught,” said Kristin. “In the end.”

  “No, he just died in the end. It was summer 1990, and I had just finished an exam in political economy. It was my first year on the force. I came home, there was a letter waiting for me, postmark was local. I opened it and inside was typed ‘Verano Riq. 57 no. 23-bis.’ Nothing else.

  “Verano. As in the cemetery?”

  “See? You’d make a good detective, too,” said Blume. “The cemetery is walking distance from where I live.”

  Kristin interrupted. “So you still live in the same house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your parents buried in the same cemetery?”

  “Yes. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Go on.”

  “So I went straight to the cemetery, to Section fifty-seven, found the tomb number. In our hearts forever, it said. Pietro Scognamiglio 17 October 1961 to 19 May 1990.”

  “And who was this Scognamiglio?”

  “I didn’t know. I ran the name, found out he had spent more time in Rebbibia than out of it, had a list of violent crimes attributed to him. Kept getting released, though.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So you don’t actually know this Scognamiglio is the guy who pulled the trigger.”

  “No. But someone knew, and that someone sent me a message.”