Cold for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone Read online

  ALSO BY

  MAURIZIO DE GIOVANNI

  IN THE COMMISSARIO RICCIARDI SERIES

  I Will Have Vengeance:

  The Winter of Commissario Ricciardi

  Blood Curse:

  The Springtime of Commissario Ricciardi

  Everyone in Their Place:

  The Summer of Commissario Ricciardi

  The Day of the Dead:

  The Autumn of Commissario Ricciardi

  By My Hand:

  The Christmas of Commissario Ricciardi

  Viper:

  No Resurrection for Commissario Ricciardi

  The Bottom of Your Heart:

  Inferno for Commissario Ricciardi

  Glass Souls:

  Moths for Commissario Ricciardi

  Nameless Serenade:

  Nocturne for Commissario Ricciardi

  IN THE BASTARDS OF PIZZOFALCONE SERIES

  The Bastards of Pizzofalcone

  Darkness

  for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone

  The Crocodile

  Europa Editions

  214 West 29th St.

  New York NY 10001

  [email protected]

  www.europaeditions.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2014 by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Published by arrangement with The Italian Literary Agency

  First publication 2019 by Europa Editions

  Translation by Antony Shugaar

  Original Title: Gelo per i Bastardi di Pizzofalcone

  Translation copyright © 2019 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  Cover image: ton koene/Alamy Stock Photo

  ISBN 9781609455262

  Maurizio de Giovanni

  COLD

  FOR THE BASTARDS

  OF PIZZOFALCONE

  Translated from the Italian

  by Antony Shugaar

  COLD

  FOR THE BASTARDS

  OF PIZZOFALCONE

  For Caterina, Emiliano, Delia, Ludovica.

  For the whole wonderful future they have

  in their eyes and in their hearts

  I

  And then, all of a sudden, you feel it, the cold.

  It hits you like a baseball bat, with the force of recognition.

  You feel it while you’re still on top of her, your face scant inches away from hers, as you stare into her dull, glazed eyes.

  The cold. A prickly sensation on your bare skin, powerful and determined as if there were nothing else, as if nothing else had ever existed.

  You perceive it with all five senses, the cold, you see it in the steam that billows out of your mouth, you hear it in the wheeze of your heaving breath, you inhale it like a whipcrack through your nostrils, you even taste it on your parched tongue. And you touch it on her body.

  You leap to your feet, as if you’d only now realized where you are and what you’ve done. You look around, lost, as your rage gradually subsides, giving way to your mind: a distant voice that struggles to the surface, clear reason that tries to make itself heard. Hurry. Hurry.

  Move fast, even though it might all be pointless. No noise arrives from outside. That’s the way it is, when it’s cold out. People shut themselves in their homes, where it’s nice and warm, dulling their brains until they’re dumber than ever, watching TV or gazing at their computer, exchanging comments with random strangers about the sole, incessant subject of the day: My goodness it’s cold, how cold it is, so chilly, Signo’, can you believe how cold it is? And they say the temperature is going to drop even more, I’m climbing under the covers and staying in bed till summer.

  Stupid. They’re all stupid. And they think that everyone else is as stupid as they are. But not you. You’re not stupid.

  You take one last look around. Her room. Her few scattered possessions. A doll or two, panties and undershirts. A mess. Nothing of yours, not a trace of your presence. Good. You back out of the room. The front hall, the kitchen door. The big bedroom, on your right; from where you are now, there’s no sign of him. You crane your neck, leaning forward a matter of inches, holding your breath, choking back the clouds of white vapor that spring rhythmically from your lips. For a moment you wonder whether he’s gotten up out of bed and is waiting for you right behind the doorjamb, a long knife in his hand like in one of those American movies, with the predictable plot twist that comes as no surprise to anyone.

  But no, there he is. You can just see his fingertips, sheets of paper, the screen of his laptop. A pen in one hand.

  You stop. You think to yourself that he’ll start writing again, slowly, or give some other sign of life: a cough, a sigh. The faint light of the naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling; the little electric heater on, the electric cord wrapped in insulating tape for all the times he must have tripped over it, absentminded as he is.

  Absentminded as he was.

  Suddenly, a voice from within: Get moving, every extra second could prove decisive. Hurry. Get busy.

  You heave a sigh and you step into the room. You can’t seem to keep your eyes fixed on him, his head resting on the desktop, his arm dangling in the empty air.

  I need something to drink, you think to yourself, gulping empty-mouthed. Something with a kick. Some wine. No, hard liquor. Something that burns as it slides down your throat, something that warms up your belly and makes your head spin. I wonder if they have anything to drink in here. Of course, they must have something, poor as they are, miserable wretches, to buck up their hopes of making their way in a city that doesn’t want them.

  They’re deadbeats.

  Or maybe you should just say: They’re dead.

  It’s colder inside than out, you think to yourself. Like in some damned freezer. Or a morgue. You wipe your trembling hand across your forehead. Maybe you have a fever. Maybe this is all just a nightmare, the kind that you have and, while you’re in it, you say to yourself: When am I going to wake up out of this damned nightmare? Maybe soon you’ll open your eyes and there you’ll be, under the covers, with a smile on your face as you realize that it’s over.

  That it’s all over.

  The voice, the voice in your brain: Hurry up. Look around. What can give you away? What can possibly show that you were ever here?

  You have no alternative but to start with him, reconstruct every gesture, every movement. Start over from him and his head.

  His damned head, with that strange, absurd hollow where the nape of the neck once curved out into the back of the skull, at the base of the cranium, now damp and dark as if someone had poured paint over it, over his shoulders: Ha ha, what a funny prank. And the shirt collar, soaked in black blood.

  The reddish reflection of the electric heater seems like the light of hell.

  Your eyes scan the floor and at last they glimpse what they needed to see. The little bronze statuette. You lean down and pick it up.

  You’re surprised. It had been so light, earlier, when rage was driving your arm, when the wave of destructive fury was rushing through your veins. Now it seems incredibly heavy, a solid ton of metal moulded into the foolish image of a woman with a sash over her shoulder, a trophy from who knows what insipid evening out with music from the Sixties and young men on the prowl for willing females. You look at it as if you’d never seen it before.

&nb
sp; Symbols. His head, her face.

  His head, the head you just split open, so full of ideas, of stubborn determination to study and discover, the head you lashed out at: two, three, five blows, even though the first would have done the job, with that damp sound of a cracking walnut that you heard.

  Her face, so pretty—that perfect nose, those lips so full and red, rich in promise—swollen in your grip, unrecognizable and puffy, shattered like her life.

  Symbols.

  Right, you think, as you slip the statuette into the pocket of your heavy jacket. Shattered and broken in the only hopes you ever had to escape from the shit you were born into and where it would have been better for you to remain. His head, her face. You didn’t do it intentionally, but if you’d had to choose, that’s the way you would have chosen. Those were all they had to pin their hopes on, their tickets to a better life.

  Or straight to hell.

  A frenzy washes over you. You need to get out of here.

  You go back to the front hall. Now you’re fully lucid, your mind is clear as a brisk morning with a north wind, as cold as the chill in the air. You don’t shut the door, you leave it slightly ajar: someone might hear the noise and take a look, and then all would be lost.

  Better to take the stairs than the elevator, it’s harder to figure what floor you’re coming from. You could walk pressed up against the wall, in the shadows, but after all, who’s even going to see you? It’s late, and in this cold no one’s going out unless it’s absolutely necessary.

  From a couple of apartments, as you descend the stairs quickly and silently, you can hear the sound of the TV.

  The front entrance: you’re out of the building.

  The biting cold wind slices through the air and slams into you. You pull up your lapels to cover your face, even though the alleyway is deserted. You need something to drink, you need warmth. Every step is a good step, it takes you farther away from that morgue, from those rooms full of death. You’re shaking, your hands are shaking, and so are your legs. Your back is numb and tingling with tension. The weight of the statuette in your jacket pocket reminds you that it’s all true.

  You see the sign glowing outside a bar. The great thing about this despicable city is that any time of the day or night, there’s always someone ready to welcome you in for a drink, something to eat, a smoke, as long as it’s to relieve you of some money.

  You step inside. In a corner, there are some customers playing the video poker machines. Sitting at one table, three young men and a young woman. There’s a stench of rancid food and stale sweat, but at least it’s warm in there.

  You sit down, you take off your jacket, freeing yourself of the dead weight of the bronze statuette. You lay your hands side by side on the café table, and you wait for them to stop shaking.

  You order something to drink, and a little something to eat, just to keep from sticking out like a sore thumb.

  Unnecessary precautions, you decide, because the tall, lanky waiter with a sleepy expression doesn’t even look in your direction.

  The music blares out in dialect from the stereo’s speakers. The video poker players are staring at the machines’ displays, eyes wide open. The four young people at the table are laughing loudly.

  Finally back in the normal world. Invisible again. Now everything’s all right. Everything’s fine.

  So you drink. And you drink some more.

  But the cold won’t go away.

  II

  Corporal Marco Aragona made his entrance with a sort of dancer’s vaulting leap.

  “Ladies and gentleman, a very heartfelt good day to you. Have you all seen what a lovely day we have, this fine morning?”

  His greeting dropped into a weary, resigned silence. Lieutenant Lojacono raised his almond-shaped eyes from the file that lay before him and shot his young colleague a malevolent glare. Pisanelli, the veteran deputy captain, shook his head with a sigh.

  Aragona persisted, raising his voice with an unmistakably offended attitude: “Here we go again . . . always ready to circle the wagons, aren’t you? Do you mind telling me what the hell has gotten into you all? You don’t even respond to a bright good morning around here?”

  Ottavia Calabrese leaned out from behind the oversized screen of her desktop computer: “You’re absolutely right, Marco. Buongiorno! A fine good morning to you. Even though I have to say, it doesn’t seem like such a fine day to me. Last night the temperature dropped below freezing, and this morning, when I took the dog out for his morning pee, there was a layer of ice on the sidewalk.”

  Aragona smiled and rubbed his hands: “My sweet lady, good mother that you are, what on earth could be wrong with a fine, cool winter’s day? In the town where my parents live it snows every year, but everyone’s cheeful and contented all the same.”

  A man with broad shoulders and a bull neck who sat reading a newspaper at a desk off to one side grumbled: “What they have to be cheerful about in the snow and the cold, I’d honestly like to know. Cars slam headfirst into walls, old people slip and fall and break legs and arms, and you can’t stay outdoors.”

  Aragona threw his arms out in Francesco Romano’s general direction: “Well, that’s no surprise, Hulk, to hear a complaint out of you. It would be different if I’d even once seen you, I’m not even saying laugh, but so much as smile in the past few months. Why don’t you try and see a glass half full at least once. The cold stirs up your energy, makes you feel like getting moving. Maybe even like doing some work, which strikes me as a rare commodity around here.”

  Alessandra Di Nardo, who sat at the last desk at the far end of the squad room, broke off her work cleaning her regulation handgun and addressed Aragona with feigned brusqueness: “I hope you don’t mind if I point out that, like always, whether it’s hot out or cold, you’re always the last to arrive, so you don’t actually feel all this desire for hard work. Also, may I enquire, what on earth is this getup? Where did you get that sweater?”

  Aragona made a show of being offended and patted the lobster-pink turtleneck he was wearing under his jacket: “It astonishes me that you of all people, the only young woman in this old folks’ home, should fail to appreciate the beauty and style of a color that brings a little cheer to the season. What’s more, this sweater costs . . . ”

  Lojacono and Ottavia finished his sentence for him in a perfect chorus: “ . . . as much as everything the rest of us, put together, are wearing.”

  “Exactly. Because you’re all old-school cops. Old-school cops like you are something you don’t even see in the cop shows from the Seventies. The profession adjusts to go with the times, it evolves, and you’re all still clueless. That’s why . . .”

  Now it was Alex and Romano’s turn to finish his sentence for him: “ . . . I’ll be the first to get a promotion and get the hell out of this . . . ”

  Aragona, waving his hand like the conductor of a symphony orchestra, finished up: “ . . . shithole of a police station here in Pizzofalcone!”

  The door behind him swung open and Commissario Palma appeared. Everyone lowered their eyes to the work they’d been doing, except for Aragona, who hadn’t noticed a thing and therefore indulged in an exaggerated bow that displayed his hindquarters to his superior officer.

  Palma gave him a slow, ironic burst of applause: “Bravo, bravo, Aragona. My compliments for your early-morning routine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to know how we’re going to spend the day here at nursery school.”

  The corporal darted hastily to one side, grabbed his glasses with blue-tinted lenses that had slid off his forehead, and with the other hand brushed back his Elvis-style quiff—which he cultivated for its two-fold function of concealing a spreading bald spot at the top of his head and adding a useful inch or so of height to his stature—and promptly sat down at his desk.

  Palma glanced down at the sheets of paper he held in one hand, as if seek
ing comfort from them. Even first thing in the morning he had the usual weary, rumpled appearance, accentuated by the perennial five o’clock shadow of whiskers, the loosened knot in his tie, and the rolled-up shirtsleeves. His hair, too, dense and tousled, contributed to the general impression he gave of untidiness and overactivity.

  “Now then,” he began, looking back up and around the room, “I’ve put together a work order. Pisanelli can supervise this project: let’s dig through all the cold cases, the unsolved murders, in other words. Let’s figure out whether there’s anything else we can do, otherwise we’ll just archive them with a brief report.”

  Romano closed his newspaper and muttered: “Papers and files, there’s just no end of papers and files. If I’d known this was what it was going to be like, I’d have taken a job at the city recorder’s office.”

  Ottavia addressed the commissario in a worried voice: “Dottore, are these orders from headquarters? Are they trying to tell us something?”

  Lojacono, who was staring at his superior officer with an indecipherable expression, added: “Does it mean, for example, that they’re thinking about eliminating the precinct again, the way they were at first?”

  Pisanelli broke in: “No, not that again? Haven’t we shown that we know what we’re doing? Are we going to carry that burden of original sin forever?”

  He was referring to the notorious story of the Bastards of Pizzofalcone, as they were called and remembered by every policeman in the greater region: former colleagues in the precinct who had been tangled up in a very serious case of corruption when they’d set out to sell a shipment of narcotics that they’d confiscated in a raid. There had been a tremendous scandal and the small but historical police station had come very close to being shuttered once and for all. In the end the top officials had decided, on a provisional basis, to keep the precinct open and operating for a probationary period.